"What kind of answers?"
"The entire complexion of Achilles has changed," McCormick said curtly, "and The Man wants you to assess the viability of continuing the operation… or shutting it down before the lid blows of "
"Me?" Tipton's color faded.
McCormick glared at him and absently flicked ashes from his cigar. "You're the goddamn director for ops," McCormick snapped, then continued very slowly. "It's that simple, Dennis… or would you rather tender your resignation?"
The question stunned Tipton, and it was obvious. He felt his stomach twist into a knot while he contemplated his answer. Were they — the director and McCormick — using this crisis to force him out of the Agency before he reached his normal retirement date? After all the years of politically savvy moves and fostering the right connections, was he being shoved out of the CIA?
Throwing caution to the wind, Tipton gritted his teeth and gathered his strength. "What is it — precisely — that I am expected to do?"
"Get your ass over there," McCormick insisted impatiently, "and eyeball the operation — make a goddamned decision to continue the ops or slam the lid."
Tipton's mouth sagged open. "You want me to go to Alpha-29?"
"That's right," the deputy director glowered. "There's a jet, which the President authorized, standing by at Andrews. They'll take you to Honolulu, then you'll catch a commercial flight to Hong Kong. From there, our people will fly you to the site."
They remained silent for a long moment.
"I'll need to pack some things," Tipton protested in vain. "I can't just race off to—"
"Everything you'll need, including work khakis, is being loaded on the plane." McCormick shoved himself up from his wide chair and handed Tipton a sealed manila envelope. "There's a car waiting for you at the main entrance."
Tipton silently reached for the thick packet. In all the years he had been with the Agency, no one at his level had ever been dispatched to a field operation. A premonition of bad fortune crossed his mind.
"Dennis, I expect to hear from you," McCormick declared in an openly belligerent manner, "as soon as you step foot on Alpha-29."
Tipton turned and walked out of the office. Everything was going too fast, and he was caught in what he considered to be a no-win situation. Operation Achilles was spinning out of control, and no one seemed to have the guts to end the operation before it exploded in their faces. If he recommended that Achilles be canceled, what type of repercussions could he expect? He had to find a way to distance himself from the approaching debacle.
When Tipton reached the main entrance, he paused to look at the spectacular yellow-orange and pink glow on the horizon. The pale light filtered evenly into the dark-blue and purple sky. The striking sunrise marked the beginning of a day that Dennis Tipton would never forget.
Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
The time had passed slowly while Hank Murray's team repaired the severely damaged MiG. When the holes in the fuselage had been patched, the men painstakingly inspected the turbojet engine and stripped off the camouflage paint. After restoring the airplane to a dull-silver finish, Murray completed an engine run-up, checked all the systems and controls, then pronounced the MiG airworthy.
Nick Palmer had flown the refurbished airplane on a mission to coincide with a strike by Task Force 77 aircraft from Yankee Station. The targets had been a series of truck convoys traveling between Phu Ly and Ninh Binh. The "truck busting" operation had been canceled at the last minute because of low ceilings and limited visibility in the target area.
The flight leader, who temporarily ignored the targeting restrictions, had led the sixteen aircraft along the coastline in search of targets of opportunity. After expending their ordnance, the navy pilots and their fighter escorts had returned unscathed to the aircraft carrier.
Nick had followed the action over the radio while he tried to find a hole in the clouds near the airfield at Bai Thuong. He never found an opening in the swollen clouds, or saw any MiGs above the overcast, so he returned to Alpha-29 and made an uneventful landing.
It was a quiet group that sat around the foxhole in front of the tent that Austin and Palmer shared. Brad mechanically curled his rifle to strengthen his right arm while Nick swapped stories with Lex Blackwell and Rudy Jimenez. Chase Mitchell was in the helicopter, ready to start the engine at the first sign of another Pathet Lao assault. Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez had viewed the dead bodies from the previous attack and identified them as Pathet Lao.
Jimenez, Mitchell, and Elvin Crowder were sharing the responsibility of having at least one crew member in the U H-34 twenty-four hours a day. The cumulative effects of the fatigue and strain were beginning to weaken their camaraderie.
The sun was slipping below the mountaintops when a loud boom echoed across the valley.
"Sonuvabitch!" Blackwell exclaimed while he and Jimenez scrambled into their foxhole.
Nick and Brad collided when they rolled into their shelter. They raised their eyes above the dirt embankment a second before a mortar round exploded next to the Quonset hut. They ducked as the concussion blasted over their heads.
The entire compound security force opened fire in the general direction of the initial booming sound. People were yelling back and forth while everyone tried to pinpoint the location of the Communist mortar team.
Brad leaped out of his fighting hole at the same time Jimenez raced for the helicopter.
"What are you doing?" Palmer shouted as Austin ran toward the Quonset hut.
The helicopter engine was revving to full power when Brad reached the entrance to the building. He abruptly stopped when Allison stumbled through the open door in a daze. Spencer was close behind her. Wide-eyed and deafened by the explosion, they followed Brad back to the foxholes. Spencer dove into Blackwell's shelter while Brad pulled Allison into his.
The steady rain of rifle and machine-gun fire slowly subsided when Gunny Rodriguez passed the word to cease fire.
Moments later, as the UH-34 became airborne, another loud bang announced a second incoming mortar round.
"Get down!" Austin shouted as he huddled in the corner with Allison and Nick.
The ground shook from the explosion next to the MiG hangar. A tremendous volume of machine-gun fire erupted as dirt and debris shot over the tents and foxholes.
"Come on, Crowder," Brad encouraged as he cautiously. Peeked over the dirt mound. He saw a steady stream of muzzle flashes coming from the open hatch of the helicopter. "Pour it on 'em!"
The crew chief raked the trees on the hillside with a devastating volume of fire. After three passes, Mitchell maneuvered the UH-34 to a position over the end of the runway and waited for the mortar to fire again.
Alpha-29 had come under intermittent sniper fire for days, but this was the first time a mortar attack had been launched at the compound.
The temporary lull in the action was shattered by a sudden burst of automatic-weapons fire halfway up the hill. Two explosions reverberated across the narrow valley as the security forces fired M-79 grenade launchers at the mortar position. The seasoned men, led by a former platoon sergeant, had worked their way to a forward position in hopes of catching the Pathet Lao off guard.
After four minutes passed without any further shelling, Chase Mitchell gently sat the helicopter down and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief
"Allison," Spencer said as he crawled out of his shelter, "you stay there until it's completely dark."
"No argument from me," she responded boldly.