Targets of Opportunity (1993) Read Free Page A

yawed as the turbulence increased.
    "Jesus Christ!" Wyatt swore as he darted looks out of both sides of the cockpit.
    "What?" Brad asked, feeling a constriction in his chest.
    "We're almost in the trees!" Wyatt snapped his head to the other side of the canopy, then glanced at the altimeter. "We're letting down over a mountain. We gotta climb!" .
    "Oh!" Brad cried out, yanking the stick back at the instant a bright flash blinded him. His heart pounded as he slammed the throttles into afterburner and waited for the impact.
    Wyatt's voice reflected panic. "What happened? Where's--"
    "They went in--hit something!" Brad was fighting his own overpowering fear. "Keep broadcasting on guard. We're nordo and declaring an emergency.''
    "What are you going to do?"
    The Phantom shot out of the clouds while Brad rapidly considered their choices. He pulled the throttles back to conserve fuel, then headed for the coastline. "If we can find Casper, he can lead us down."
    Feeling a surge of adrenaline, Wyatt searched for any aircraft. "What if we can't? We're almost out of fuel . . . and we can't fly back north."
    "Then we'll drop down and follow the coast--see if we can locate the runway."
    "I can't believe it," Wyatt said anxiously. "Are you sure they hit something?"
    "Positive. They exploded right in front of us." Brad's pulse was racing. "They midaired, or hit the ground."
    Wyatt remained quiet a moment, then spoke in a hesitant voice. "Maybe we should think about jumping out."
    Brad scanned the empty sky. "Goddamnit, we aren't getting out while we still have gas."
    They remained silent while Brad descended to 200 feet above the water. Slowing the F-4 to 180 knots, he hugged the shoreline under the thick clouds and stared at the coastline. If they did locate the runway, Brad planned to land in the opposite direction from their takeoff. He could not risk a dual flameout while he maneuvered to the other end of the airfield.
    Brad checked his fuel quantity and thought about a controlled ejection. Minutes seemed to turn into hours as the Phantom gulped fuel and the rain increased.
    "Randy," Brad ordered in a calm voice, "keep talking on guard. Someone may hear-- There it is!"
    "You see the runway?"
    "No," Brad shot back, "but there's Hai Van . . . and that little island off the tip."
    "Hon Son Tra?"
    "Yes," Brad answered while he pointed at the islet. "Right below us. See it?"
    "I've got it!"
    Banking steeply over the small island, Brad lowered the landing gear and flaps. "That's it. We just need to turn south--be lined up for a straight in."
    "I hope," Wyatt replied, straining to see the base, "that they're painting us on radar."
    "We're probably too low."
    Slowing to approach speed as they crossed the bay, Austin went through his landing checklist and looked at the gear indicators. Satisfied, he glanced out at the runway. Brad was startled to see two F-4s accelerating toward them. The dull-gray fighters were almost obscure against the rain clouds.
    Snapping into a tight turn, Brad shoved the throttles forward as the two Phantoms roared past. He could feel his heart pound.
    "Get this thing on the ground," Wyatt uttered in shock.
    Brad continued in a complete circle, yanking the power back as he rolled on final. Stabilizing at 130 knots, he touched down in a spray of water, popped his drag chute, then rolled to the end of the runway.
    After entering the dearming area, Austin noticed a vehicle racing toward their Phantom. The unannounced landing would certainly cause a major flap.
    Brad also noticed that his hands were shaking.

    Chapter TWO

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
    Hollis Spencer, CIA agent, tugged his utility cap over his forehead as the navy helicopter flared over the darkened hangar. He checked his watch when the wheels touched the moonlit ramp, then grasped his briefcase and jumped to the pavement. The Southern Air Transport C-130 Hercules, operating under government contract, was expected to land in twelve minutes.
    Spencer, a former naval