aviator, lowered his head and held a firm hand on his cap. He quickly walked away from the beating rotor blades as the pilot added power to begin his return trip to Miramar Naval Air Station.
Hollis Spencer, known as "Cap" to his colleagues in the Agency, had been selected as the project officer for Operation Achilles. The months of delicate negotiations and in-depth logistical planning were over. The United States Navy was about to add a unique asset to its airplane inventory.
The project officer, a lanky man in his early forties, approached the sentry at the entrance to the blacked-out hangar. After Spencer presented his identification badge, the guard switched off his flashlight and stepped aside. The young sentry knew the affable CIA officer well, as did the rest of the security specialists, but the identification routine was not taken for granted.
Entering the light trap, Spencer strode into the huge building an d w alked toward his office. The red-tinted floodlights cast soft shadow s o n the faces of the technicians and engineers who were waiting for th e p rized airplane to arrive. Each had been handpicked for the operation.
"Morning, Cap," the senior military adviser said, stirring his steaming coffee.
"Good morning," Spencer replied, thinking about how many days had commenced at two o'clock in the morning. "This is going to be a special day. "
"You bet," the portly naval officer replied. "I haven't been able to sleep for three nights. My wife thinks I'm seeing another woman."
Spencer chuckled as he reached for the doorknob, then paused. "Hank, give me a holler when the Herc is on final."
"I'll do that." Captain Henry Murray raised his mug. "They should be on time."
Spencer flipped the light switch, opened his leather briefcase, then tossed four file folders onto his cluttered desk. He sat down and opened the top personnel record. Three navy pilots, along with one marine aviator, had been selected to participate in the first step of Operation Achilles.
Each of the four fighter pilots had distinguished himself in aerial combat. Two of the navy pilots, with one MiG kill each, had already been approached. Each had enthusiastically accepted the offer without knowing any of the specifics.
Now Spencer had to interview the last two aviators and offer them the chance to volunteer.
He studied the material in the folder, noting that marine Captain Bradley Carlyle Austin was an alumnus of the Naval Academy. He had been a member of the swimming team, and competed as a diver. Graduating with honors, Austin had selected a commission in the Marine Corps. After a tour of duty at Quantico, Virginia, he had reported for flight training at Pensacola, Florida.
He looked carefully at the black-and-white photograph and read the brief description in the file. At five feet ten and 165 pounds, Austin appeared to be trim and athletic. Spencer noted the tanned face, the direct look in the hazel eyes, the modest, faint smile. Like the other three pilots, Brad Austin was a bachelor.
Spencer remembered his own first visit to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. That eventful trip had changed the course of his life.
It was after his F9F Cougar had been struck by flak during the Korean War that Lieutenant (junior grade) Hollis Spencer had crash-landed the jet near Seoul.
The accident had cost him his right eye and left a long, jagged scar across the top of his head. From that time forward, Spencer had worn a patch over his blind eye and a hat to cover the wide gap of wrinkled skin The navy had medically retired him at the age of twenty-six. Afterward, Spencer had traveled to Washington, D . C ., hoping to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Turned down because of the lost eye, he had driven to Quantico to visit his brother, a second lieutenant who was going through Basic School.
His brother had consoled him, suggesting that he apply to the Central Intelligence Agency. He was especially qualified since he had a degree in
Hollis Spencer, known as "Cap" to his colleagues in the Agency, had been selected as the project officer for Operation Achilles. The months of delicate negotiations and in-depth logistical planning were over. The United States Navy was about to add a unique asset to its airplane inventory.
The project officer, a lanky man in his early forties, approached the sentry at the entrance to the blacked-out hangar. After Spencer presented his identification badge, the guard switched off his flashlight and stepped aside. The young sentry knew the affable CIA officer well, as did the rest of the security specialists, but the identification routine was not taken for granted.
Entering the light trap, Spencer strode into the huge building an d w alked toward his office. The red-tinted floodlights cast soft shadow s o n the faces of the technicians and engineers who were waiting for th e p rized airplane to arrive. Each had been handpicked for the operation.
"Morning, Cap," the senior military adviser said, stirring his steaming coffee.
"Good morning," Spencer replied, thinking about how many days had commenced at two o'clock in the morning. "This is going to be a special day. "
"You bet," the portly naval officer replied. "I haven't been able to sleep for three nights. My wife thinks I'm seeing another woman."
Spencer chuckled as he reached for the doorknob, then paused. "Hank, give me a holler when the Herc is on final."
"I'll do that." Captain Henry Murray raised his mug. "They should be on time."
Spencer flipped the light switch, opened his leather briefcase, then tossed four file folders onto his cluttered desk. He sat down and opened the top personnel record. Three navy pilots, along with one marine aviator, had been selected to participate in the first step of Operation Achilles.
Each of the four fighter pilots had distinguished himself in aerial combat. Two of the navy pilots, with one MiG kill each, had already been approached. Each had enthusiastically accepted the offer without knowing any of the specifics.
Now Spencer had to interview the last two aviators and offer them the chance to volunteer.
He studied the material in the folder, noting that marine Captain Bradley Carlyle Austin was an alumnus of the Naval Academy. He had been a member of the swimming team, and competed as a diver. Graduating with honors, Austin had selected a commission in the Marine Corps. After a tour of duty at Quantico, Virginia, he had reported for flight training at Pensacola, Florida.
He looked carefully at the black-and-white photograph and read the brief description in the file. At five feet ten and 165 pounds, Austin appeared to be trim and athletic. Spencer noted the tanned face, the direct look in the hazel eyes, the modest, faint smile. Like the other three pilots, Brad Austin was a bachelor.
Spencer remembered his own first visit to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. That eventful trip had changed the course of his life.
It was after his F9F Cougar had been struck by flak during the Korean War that Lieutenant (junior grade) Hollis Spencer had crash-landed the jet near Seoul.
The accident had cost him his right eye and left a long, jagged scar across the top of his head. From that time forward, Spencer had worn a patch over his blind eye and a hat to cover the wide gap of wrinkled skin The navy had medically retired him at the age of twenty-six. Afterward, Spencer had traveled to Washington, D . C ., hoping to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Turned down because of the lost eye, he had driven to Quantico to visit his brother, a second lieutenant who was going through Basic School.
His brother had consoled him, suggesting that he apply to the Central Intelligence Agency. He was especially qualified since he had a degree in
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