"Brad, we've been through this before. I have a job to do, just like you."
"I'm telling you," he insisted with a look of exasperation, "this is no place for a woman. Do you have any idea what they would do to you if we were overrun?"
Allison shoved the C-ration carton aside. "I can hold my own.. and I can fire a rifle about as well as most of the men around here."
Brad exhaled sharply. "I suppose, with proper training, you could fly the MiG, too?"
"That's right," she asserted, "and you could probably type as well as I can, with proper training."
In frustration, Brad grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into the foxhole. "Allison, if you really do care about me, then you'll—"
"I'll leave," she smiled and cupped his face in her hands, "if you'll go with me."
Brad slowly pulled away from her. "I can't leave… and you know that." He remained silent for a moment, preparing himself for what he had to tell her about Leigh Ann. "The whole operation revolves around the MiG."
Allison studied his eyes in the pale moonlight. "It's your decision, but I'm not going to leave without you."
He looked away for a moment, then stared into her eyes. "Allison, I had a letter from Leigh Ann."
Sensing a threat, she tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look. "When?"
"The hotel manager gave it to me when we checked out." Brad maintained eye contact with her and steeled himself "He had been saving it for me, and I didn't know it was there when I checked in."
Allison concealed the sudden pain and anger that welled inside of her. She had convinced herself that she and Brad had a future together. "What are you telling me — where does that leave us?"
"I'm going to ask Leigh Ann to marry me," Brad answered more calmly than he felt, "and I want to be honest with you… so there are no surprises."
They locked glances while an awkward silence settled over them. The message was clear to both of them.
"You bastard!" Allison hissed, and slapped him across the mouth, splitting the inside of his lower lip.
She scrambled out of the foxhole while Brad recoiled from the blow. He tasted the warm, salty blood on his tongue and wiped a trickle off his chin.
"Allison," he said steadily, "will you sit down and talk with me for a minute?"
She kicked the C-ration carton at Brad, showering him with dirt and food. "There's nothing to talk about, you son of a bitch!" Allison leaned over and yanked her M-16 off the ground, then angrily walked away.
After spitting a mouthful of blood in the dirt, Brad slumped against the edge of the foxhole and closed his eyes. "You're doing just great.…"
Lex Blackwell, who had commandeered his own tent, was busy setting up his shelter when Brad awakened with a groan. Nick Palmer was supplying the raw muscle, while Lex steadied the sagging tent.
Brad touched his tender lip and stiffly sat up on his cot. Allison's rage rushed back to linger in his mind. It was his own fault for letting himself get into the embarrassing position in the first place.
Feeling groggy from his restless sleep, Austin grabbed a clean flight suit and his dopp kit, mumbled "Good morning" to Lex and Nick, then walked to the shower stall.
Fifteen minutes later, Brad returned freshly shaved and showered. Using the water from his canteen, he gently brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth.
All activity on the field came to an abrupt halt when the sound of the C-123 reverberated across the valley. Brad shielded his eyes and searched the sky above the morning haze layer. He spotted the Provider as the pilot commenced a steep approach to Alpha-29.
Nick and Lex joined Brad, and they watched the transport plane briefly flare, then smoothly touch down with a chirp from the tires.
"Not bad for a 'trash hauler,' " Blackwell said lightly, then caught a glimpse of Austin's swollen lip.
"What happened to you?"
Uneasy with his sense of guilt, Brad hid his feelings with a careless smile. "I forgot to duck."
When the C-123 taxied to a stop, twenty-three CIA employees in fresh jungle utilities leaped out and reported to Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez. The second-to-last man out of the aircraft sported a new uniform that was at least three sizes too large.
"Well," Blackwell ventured dryly, "they must've shanghaied the mess cook."
Brad gave Lex a sidelong glance. "At least we've got more firepower," he observed, then walked over to inspect the MiG.
Chapter THIRTY-FIVE
Brad felt the perspiration on his forehead as he preflighted the venerable fighter that he had come to respect. The mission briefing, with Allison sitting across from him, had been difficult for both of them. He was certain that everyone in attendance was aware of the strained relationship between the two of them.
The aircraft technicians had repainted the airplane in a standard terrain camouflage of black, white, and gray with North Vietnamese national markings on the fuselage and outboard on the wings. They had also repaired a small fuel leak in the left drop tank and tightened the bolts that held the right tank to the wing.
Reaching the tail pipe, Brad inspected the smoke canister and paused. Thoughts of Allison entered his mind. The last thing he had wanted to do was hurt anyone, but he had had to be straightforward with her. Brad hoped that after the flight she would give him a chance to talk with her. At the moment, though, he had to concentrate on the immediate future.
The navy strike force would launch from the carriers at 1600. Accompanied by F-4 Phantom and F-8 Crusader fighter aircraft, the A-6 Intruders and A-4 Skyhawks would strike the Thanh Hoa Bridge and the supporting antiaircraft sites at approximately 1635.
Although Operation Achilles was ancillary to the air-force and navy strike forces, Austin felt confident that he could contribute to the air-war effort in a meaningful way.
Climbing into the cockpit, Brad started the engine and ran through his pretakeoff checklist, then taxied to the runway. He avoided looking at Allison and the other spectators near the Quonset hut, but noticed that Nick and Lex had positioned themselves near the middle of the airstrip.
After a quick radio check with Cap Spencer, Brad made a maximum-performance takeoff and headed for his holding point south of Bai Thuong.
The weather was partly cloudy with good visibility underneath the clouds. The extended forecast had indicated no change in the next twelve hours. When the airborne radio check had been completed, Brad tuned one radio to the strike-group frequency and the other to Sleepy Two Five.
Austin glanced at his watch when he passed his first checkpoint. It was time for Mitchell and Jimenez to lift off the ramp. The rescue helicopter would be over the border between Laos and North Vietnam five minutes before Brad was expected to strafe the MiG base.
Bright sunshine filled the MiG's cockpit, causing the temperature to climb in the cramped space. Brad looked out along the forty-five-degree swept wings and checked both slipper-type drop tanks. They appeared to be secure and showed no signs of fuel leakage.
Austin carefully followed his progress on his operational navigation chart. He had cut the map down to a fraction of its normal size, eliminating everything more than twenty-five nautical miles on either side of his route.
Passing Ban Na Mang, Brad hugged the tops of the rugged mountains and slipped into North Vietnamese airspace. He had another sixty miles to travel before he would be on station south of Bai Thuong.
Brad continued to monitor his speed, time, and fuel as the sun gradually disappeared above the clouds, leaving only faint holes in the overcast. The MiG's pale camouflage would blend perfectly into the grayish clouds.
Waiting for the fighter activity call from the UH-34, Brad tightened his chest harness and seat strap. He decided to arm his cannons early so he would not forget the important step in the heat of battle.