"How are you feeling?" a soft voice said from somewhere off to the side.
His eyes blinked open and he turned his head in the direction of the sound.
"Allison?" Brad uttered, searching through half-closed eyelids. His mouth seemed as dry as a barren desert and his tongue felt swollen.
"Yes," she replied quietly as Hollis Spencer stirred from his nap. "Would you like some water?"
Brad attempted a smile. "Yes… thank you."
be right back."
Cap Spencer stretched and walked to Brad's side when Allison went outside to the water cistern. He looked haggard when he sat down in the chair next to Austin.
Spencer placed his hand on Brad's left shoulder. "Things are looking up. Our ace corpsman says you're going to be as good as new in a week or two."
Austin gave him a feeble grin. "This is the worst hangover I've ever had." He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. "How bad is it?"
"You've got a couple of deep cuts," Spencer explained warmly, "and a small hole where the doc removed a piece of metal. He cleaned and sutured your wounds, but we need to medevac you to Vientiane in the morning to have a real doctor check you over."
Before Brad could respond, Allison returned, followed by Lex and Nick. She poured a cupful of water while Palmer and Blackwell stepped next to the table.
"Ah, yes," Nick said with a haughty smirk, "now we have two goldbricks in the outfit."
Brad thanked Allison and thirstily sipped the cool water. He handed the cup back to her and gazed at Spencer.
"Cap, I don't want to go to Vientiane and lie around on my ass." The challenge was underscored by the determined look in Brad's eyes. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Blackwell, who had not wanted to return to Vientiane and be viewed as a shirker, jumped to Austin's defense. "He's right, Cap. Hell, I've seen the clodhopper hurt himself worse fallin' off a bar stool."
Brad smothered a laugh. Lex Blackwell, the garrulous fighter pilot from Texas, would never change.
"Have it your way." Spencer chuckled, then rose from the chair. He clearly understood the guiding principles of a naval aviator. "But you've got to rest and have the dressing changed every morning. That," he said emphatically, "is an order, Brad."
"Yes, sir," Austin replied, and again accepted the cup of water from Allison.
"Yeah," Palmer smiled at Brad, "all of us can rest, since you thoroughly trashed the airplane."
"Okay, everyone out except Allison," Spencer insisted. "We'll get together in the morning."
Nick turned serious and clutched Brad's left arm. "Glad you're okay."
"Thanks."
When the pilots left and Spencer returned to his cubicle, Allison sat down next to Brad. There was a pronounced awkwardness until she initiated the conversation.
"Nurse van Ingen," she said offhandedly, "at your service."
Tension hung in the air while Brad tried to assess her mood. Still dulled from the anesthetic, Brad was having a difficult time formulating a reasonable response.
"Allison, I really appreciate your consideration," he said somewhat indistinctly, "but I'll be okay as soon as my head clears."
She nodded somberly and crossed her arms. "Nick brought your cot in, if you feel like moving to it."
"That's okay," he replied, and raised his left hand to plump the pillow under his head. "I'll just stay here for a while… until the grogginess wears off. "
"Suit yourself," she countered, and rose from the chair. After a few steps, Allison paused and turned, then walked back to his side.
"Brad," she began in a hushed voice, and gently gripped his left hand, "I apologize for what I said to you."
He rolled his head to look at her gloomy face. She blinked back the tears that filled her eyes.
"You don't need to apologize. I deserved it."
"Brad," her voice shook from pain and frustration, "I will always love you."
He had never felt such deep moral anguish in his life. He squeezed her hand. "Allison, I—"
"Please," she said emotionally, and pulled her hand away, "don't make it more difficult than it is."
Allison silently accepted for the first time that all the promise of their future would never be.
Dennis Tipton stared blankly through the smudged windshield of his car as he turned into the basement parking garage. His stomach felt as if he were on a pitching and rolling fishing schooner in a North Atlantic storm. The deputy director of the CIA had been unusually agitated when he called to rouse Tipton out of bed.
He parked in his designated spot and quickly walked to the entrance. The early-morning dampness made him shiver as he greeted the security guard.
When Tipton reached the top floor of the building, he hurried to Drexel McCormick's office. He slowed when he saw the open door. McCormick, who was loudly berating someone on the telephone, abruptly hung up when he spotted the director for operations.
"Dennis, have a seat."
Tipton nodded silently while he unbuttoned his topcoat and slipped into one of the chairs facing McCormick's desk. He could feel his neck muscles stiffen while he mentally prepared himself for one of McCormick's verbal onslaughts.
"The President called The Man on the carpet a few hours ago," he growled, and furrowed his brow. "Our MiG was almost shot down and the pilot was wounded."
Dennis Tipton looked confused. "This is the first that I've heard about it. "
"That's because Cap Spencer didn't tell us about it, goddamnit!" McCormick was beet-red.
Tipton cast his eyes down and remained silent. He knew from experience that it was not in his best interest to say anything until his boss had vented his initial anger.
"Damnit, the White House had the information before we knew anything about it," McCormick snorted. "Do you know what that makes us look like?"
"Yes, sir." Tipton inwardly cringed, wishing that he had never placed his stamp of approval on the operation.
"It makes us look like a bunch of half-witted, knuckle-dragging amateurs," the deputy director bellowed. "The Man didn't like that," he snarled in a harsh whisper, "and he knocked fire from my ass!"
"What's the current situation?" Tipton ventured, concealing his growing contempt for McCormick.
"The situation is this," he said while he lighted a cigar. "The White House wants us to get a handle on this Chinese fire drill, or get the hell out and make everything vanish."
The red-faced deputy director, for the first time Dennis Tipton could remember, looked genuinely scared. The White House was rolling the dice, trying to get an edge in the air war while they maintained an appearance of unwavering integrity.
Tipton was aware of the devastating Communist attack on Alpha-29, but the news of the narrow escape of the wounded pilot was a major blow. He decided to change the subject slightly. "Have we got the damage assessment — what the pilot destroyed, if anything?"
McCormick squinted and chewed on his cigar. "Reconnaissance photographs have confirmed that five enemy fighter planes have either been destroyed or damaged at Bai Thuong, but we came close to losing the MiG… and that goddamned Spencer didn't even inform us!"
Tipton was afraid that the North Vietnamese were setting up an ambush for the lone MiG, and was deeply concerned that the pilot might be captured alive and tortured to the point of making a confession.
The operation, he decided after thinking about the miraculous escape by the pilot, was becoming more of a liability than an asset for the Agency — one that was exposing their own Achilles' heel. "In my estimation," he said cautiously but with resolve, "it's time to cancel the operation."
McCormick tapped his cigar on the edge of an ashtray and fixed Tipton in his stare. "That's what The Man thinks, too. But he wants some straight answers before he makes the decision to pull the plug, because the White House wants to get everything they can out of the MiG operation."