"Cap, I don't have any doubt. I know I can make it work." He hesitated, listening to Allison's faint voice as she talked on the radio. "I want to create an atmosphere of pure pandemonium… and let them think about it every time they crawl into their cockpits."
Spencer gazed thoughtfully at Brad, his eye questioning what the pilot was really thinking. There was an intense determination in Austin's stare.
"Okay, Brad," Spencer said at last, "we'll go over the details in the morning." He glanced at the other men. "Get some rest."
When the pilots had left, Spencer poured a coffee mug full of bourbon and sat in silence. He quietly prayed that the director for operations would arrive in the morning and call off the operation, before it was exposed, or someone died.
The air force Special Air Missions. Jet cruised serenely at 39,000 feet over the tranquil Pacific Ocean. Dennis Tipton sat quietly, gazing vacantly out the window at the tops of the moonlit clouds. He had made an agonizing decision over the past few hours.
To hell with McCormick, Tipton thought bitterly, and to hell with the internal politics of the Agency, and his precious retirement. He had a documented medical problem; a peptic ulcer that could easily lead to perforation and peritonitis of his abdominal cavity.
"May I get you anything, sir?" the male air-force flight steward asked.
Startled, Tipton looked up at the smiling staff sergeant. "Sure. I'll have a Bloody Mary, and make it extra hot."
"A rocket Bloody Mary it is," the soft-spoken man replied, then added, "We'll be on the ground at Hickam in an hour and twenty minutes."
"Thank you," Tipton replied with a calming sense of relief
Having made his decision, Dennis Tipton looked forward to his first drink in weeks. The spicy concoction would certainly inflame his ulcer and exacerbate his already delicate medical condition. No one could possibly deny the seriousness of his stomach problem.
When the steward returned with his drink, Tipton took a small sip and finalized his plan. He would ask the pilot to contact Hickam Air Force Base and demand that a physician be standing by when the VIP transport landed.
Tipton would explain his condition to the doctor and request immediate hospitalization. Someone else could deal with Operation Achilles while he was undergoing treatment for his ulcer.
Tipton raised his glass and drank half the contents in three quick swallows. He would cover his ass, and no one could question his actions. Especially after the doctors documented his condition.
Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT
Brad examined the wall chart and jotted notes while Allison prepared the detailed mission brief for him. The final instructions for the massive air strike had arrived only minutes before.
Working at a feverish pace, Allison neatly printed call signs and radio frequencies on Brad's kneeboard cards. The weather, both en route and over the targets, looked good and was steadily improving.
Hollis Spencer and Lex Blackwell had walked to the hangar to inspect the MiG and talk with Hank Murray. The project officer wanted to make sure that the MiG was in perfect flying condition before Austin stepped into the cockpit.
Allison had maintained an air of casual friendliness with Brad, but there was an easily recognized aloofness about her. She was cautious in his presence and measured her words when they conversed.
"Can you spare a minute?" Austin finally asked when she paused to light a cigarette.
"Sure."
"What do you think Cap is going to recommend when the director for ops arrives?"
The expression on Allison's face abruptly hardened. "He's under a lot of pressure. I think he'll recommend that we cancel the operation."
Austin started to respond, but held his thoughts when Palmer entered the building.
"Nick," Brad said with a quick smile, "you're just the guy I wanted to see."
Palmer gave him one of his slanted grins. "Don't tell me — you need a loan?"
"Thanks, Allison," Brad said briskly and caught Nick by the arm. "111 be back as soon as I get into my zoom-bag."
She nodded and returned to her work.
"Nick," Austin said as they stepped out of the Quonset but and turned toward their tent, "I've got a favor to ask."
Palmer became suspicious when he noted Brad's sober tone. "Should I brace myself, or open my wallet?"
Brad slowed to a stop and lowered his voice. "I asked Leigh Ann to come over here."
Palmer cocked his head. "To Vientiane?"
"Yes," he replied, casting a glance at the MiG hangar. "I haven't told anyone, and I was—"
"Brad, are you sure you want to do that? We don't know what we're going to be doing from one day to the next."
A tense smile creased Austin's face. "That's my point, and she's on her way here as we speak." Brad thought about the number of days that had passed since he had sent the letter to Leigh Ann. "In fact, she may have already arrived at the Constellation. At any rate, who knows what is going to happen day by day, or if they're going to halt the operation and ship us back to fighter squadrons."
Palmer rolled his eyes, but remained quiet for the moment. "Leigh Ann wanted to come to Vientiane," Austin continued evenly, and she has every right to be here. It's safe in the city, and she'll have plenty of American wives to visit with."
Brad paused when Blackwell and Spencer emerged from the hangar. "Let's go to the tent."
Palmer and Austin exchanged greetings with the two men and entered their open shelter.
"If she's here, or on her way," Brad reached for his Soviet-style flight suit, "and I get knocked down — or can't get back right away — will you make sure that she's okay?"
Nick observed the rigid look on his friend's face and swallowed a sarcastic remark. "You're going to be fine… but if something goes wrong, I'll take care of things, so don't worry about it."
"Thanks, Nick," he said while he slipped into his flight suit, then saw Blackwell saunter out of the Quonset hut. Lex gave them a thumbs-down indication.
Brad glanced at Nick, then let his eyes follow Lex. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Beats me." Palmer laughed quietly and then turned serious. "Maybe the mission has been scrubbed."
"Naw, couldn't be." Brad responded uncomfortably. "That would make things too easy."
Blackwell approached them with a grim look on his face.
Palmer nudged Austin. "Your request to fly for the Blue Angels," he said out of the corner of his mouth, "must have been turned down." Brad reached for his holster. "Right."
"Cap is fit to be tied," Lex announced dryly. "From what I could gather — he's still goin' over the message — the Agency's chief bureaucrat what's-in-charge has mysteriously gone medically down in Hawaii.
"Tipton?" Brad inquired while he checked the rounds in his service revolver.
"Yeah, the op's heavy," Blackwell replied with a shrug. "Convenient place to drop anchor… 'specially if this shit hole is your ultimate destination."
Palmer shook his head in resignation. "I guess we continue to march," he said curtly, "until someone makes a decision about our future."
"Or until we bust up the MiG," Lex solemnly observed.
Leigh Ann, tired and frayed by the series of grueling flights, hailed a taxi to the Constellation Hotel. After her luggage had been loaded into the rusting cab, she slid across the backseat and thought about what Brad had suggested in his letter. She would ask the general manager of the hotel to give her some assistance in getting settled in Vientiane.
The happy-go-lucky taxi driver kept up a running commentary in broken English as he made his way through the sparse traffic. His nonsensical rambling was occasionally punctuated by a turn of his head and a smile at Leigh Ann.