by Joe Weber
And in the end? Brad thought to himself But he knew better than to ask. The end of any operation in war is unpredictable. Like in life
"If you come aboard, you'll be reporting to me in San Diego, California." Spencer paused a long moment. "You'll have a thorough briefing as soon as you check in."
Brad still wondered why Spencer had traveled all the way to Bangkok to recruit him to be a test pilot. The Marine Corps certainly had hundreds of highly qualified pilots, some with extensive backgrounds as test pilots. He decided to try one more approach.
"Sir, can you tell me what I'll be flying?"
"I'm afraid not." Spencer chuckled. "If you volunteer, I can tell you when you arrive in California."
"What's the alternative," Brad tentatively asked, "if I don't volunteer?"
Placing his forearms on the table, Spencer cast a look around. "You'll be reassigned to a different squadron at Da Nang . . . and we will never have had this conversation."
Austin smiled and shook his head. It sounded intriguing. And if it meant going stateside for a while and not getting shot at every day, he would be stupid not to volunteer.
Brad slowly reached for his beer and gave Spencer a long look. "Count me in."
"Good. " Spencer smiled. "I don't think you'll find it boring, to say the least."
The afternoon heat had slowly dissipated after the sun had dropped below the horizon.
Brad watched the delicate Thai dancers perform their traditional rituals on the lawn adjacent to his hotel. The blazing torches around the perimeter of the courtyard cast a cheerful glow on the evening river traffic.
"Would you care for another drink?" the slender young man asked Brad.
"Oh, I don't think so," Brad answered, swirling his tall scotch and soda. "I'll go ahead and order."
When the waiter had gone, Brad tried again to unravel the puzzling situation posed by Hollis Spencer. The Marine Corps did not function in riddles like this. He felt as if he were a character in a spy novel, or an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Brad reached for the vinyl packet Spencer had given him. It contained all manner of instructions and an indication that at some point Brad would be assuming another identity. He was to send his uniforms and identification papers to Hollis Spencer at the Miramar Naval Air Station's Personal Property Shipping Office.
There were four hundred dollars in cash and a travel voucher to fly on an airliner leased to the Department of Defense. He was to wear civilian clothes, return to Da Nang Air Base in three days, and board a World Airways jetliner bound for Travis Air Force Base, California. Brad's meal arrived, and he absently dabbled with a few bites of the Panang red curry with chicken and prawns. Losing interest in the meal, he looked at the packet as if it were a snake. What am I getting into?
The essence of the most significant memorandum in the packet--something Hollis Spencer had only hinted at in their last moments of conversation--was that though Brad was still in the Marine Corps, he would not be so recognized until the project was terminated. His service record, which Spencer had taken with him, would be in a secure place. Brad would be paid in cash, and, if he was killed, he would be listed as missing in action en route to Bangkok.
Hollis Spencer had explained that Brad's name had been deleted from the passenger manifest of the cargo plane that had flown him to Bangkok. He would return to Da Nang using a fictitious identity. The whereabouts of marine Captain Brad Austin, from the time he had checked out of his fighter squadron at Da Nang, would remain unknown.
Brad had been instructed to rent an automobile after his arrival at Travis, drive to San Diego, check into a prearranged room at the Miramar Bachelor Officers' Quarters, and wait to be contacted.
Spencer had also made it clear that Brad would not be restricted to the base. However, he was not to communicate with his family, or let friends or acquaintances know that he had returned to the United States.
Lifting his glass, Brad tossed back the last of his drink. He realized that it had been assumed that he had no close attachments, but he was determined to find a way to see Leigh Ann.
Chapter FIVE
A high-pitched shriek and accompanying sonic boom announced the arrival of Lieutenant Commander Grady Stanfield. Hollis Spencer flinched from the explosive sound, then casually raised his arm from a wingtip and walked out to the aircraft ramp.
Spencer shielded his eye from the dazzling glare of the early-morning sunshine. He smiled inwardly as the sleek F-8 Crusader snapped upright from knife-edge flight. The large speed brake protruding from the belly rapidly slowed the aircraft while Stanfield lowered the landing gear and raised the wing-incidence handle.
Every time Spencer watched a jet blast over the runway and snap into a ninety-degree break, he longed to be at the controls of a fighter plane again.
Spencer caught a glance of Hank Murray as he walked out of the hangar. The chubby navy captain had a scowl on his face.
"Quite an arrival." Spencer smiled.
"I ought to ream that sonuvabitch's ass out," Murray growled. An engineer by profession, he had never appreciated the mind-set of fighter pilots. "I almost dropped the goddamned altimeter on the cockpit floor."
"Well," Spencer calmly said, "you know the old cliche."
"I sure as hell do." Murray shook his head in disgust. "You can always tell a fighter pilot, but you can't tell him much."
"I'll talk to him," Spencer replied in an attempt to placate Murray, then. turned and walked back to the hangar. Although Hank Murray outranked the Crusader pilot, Hollis Spencer had jurisdiction over everyone at the secret base.
Spencer paused in the shade near the hangar entrance and watched Stanfield land and taxi to the ramp. After the engine spooled down, Spencer walked out to greet the senior aviator assigned to the operation.
Grady Stanfield was a small man with a perpetual smile and a gleam in his brown eyes. Young for his rank, Stanfield had finished college in three years. Highly motivated, he had learned to fly in high school and had obtained his commercial pilot's license in college.
Five weeks after graduating from Notre Dame, Stanfield had reported to Pensacola Naval Air Station for flight training. Graduating with honors, he spent a tour of duty as a fleet fighter pilot, attended graduate school, then reported to the Naval Test Pilot School.
After completing the rigorous course at Patuxent River, Stanfield had been sent to a squadron preparing to deploy for a cruise to Southeast Asia. Four and a half months later, flying an F-8E Crusader, Grady Stanfield had shot down his first and only MiG.
"Welcome aboard," Spencer greeted while Stanfield climbed down from the cockpit.
"Thank you, sir," the pilot replied, beaming, and then reached for Spencer's outstretched hand. "It's a privilege to be here."
Unlike the other three pilots who had been selected for the highly classified project, Stanfield had known from their first meeting that Hollis Spencer was a senior CIA agent. Grady Stanfield, the ranking officer among the four pilots, would be the officer-in-charge of the aviators.
"Come on in," Spencer motioned as he grasped the pilot's helmet bag, "and I'll show you where the flight-gear locker is located." "Great," Stanfield said, spotting the almost assembled airplane.
"Sir, may I take a look . . . ? I can't believe it's actually here." "Sure." Spencer chuckled. "I can't believe it either."
They slowly walked around the aircraft, stopping occasionally to inspect the wings and fuselage. Stanfield looked at the leading edge of the wing, pausing at the point where it attached to the fuselage. He ran his hand along the top and bottom of the metal wing, frowning at the wrinkles in the skin. "It looks like this was manufactured in a machine shop."
"That's probably right," Spencer replied dryly, "but I don't have any complaints."
"Amazing," Stanfield said as he approached the nose of the airplane. He examined the split air intake and gun camera opening before dropping to one knee to study the gun pods and blast-protection panel. He noticed that
two rivets were missing from under the engine air intake. "When will the Mark-12s be installed?"
Spencer knelt down and looked at the gun pods. "I expect it will take three or four days to install the cannons."
Spencer's right knee popped when he rose. "We want to complete the aerial gunnery testing as soon as possible."
Stanfield nodded and removed his sunglasses. "Is it okay if I look in the cockpit?"
"Be my guest," Spencer answered as the test pilot mounted the narrow steps on the makeshift platform next to the smooth fuselage.
Hank Murray stood on an elevated bench on the opposite side of the canopy. Attired in work khakis, Murray grudgingly shook hands when Grady Stanfield introduced himself.
A technician sat in the pilot's seat, adjusting the flight instruments and checking the controls. He leaned back to allow the test pilot to have a better view.
Stanfield thoroughly inspected the cramped cockpit and glanced at . Spencer. "It looks like they stuffed things wherever they could find a spot."
"Yeah," Cap Spencer chuckled, "but it sure goes like a bat out of hell."
Grady smiled and looked at the navy captain. "Do you have any manuals or technical info I could borrow?"
Unsmiling, Murray gave Hollis Spencer a hasty look before addressing Stanfield. "Briefing folders are being prepared, to include the aircraft performance and systems operations manual. The information should be available Monday morning."
Noticing Murray's quiet restraint, Stanfield decided not to ask any more questions, at least until his relationship with the crusty captain warmed. "Thank you, sir," Stanfield said as he backed down the wooden steps.
"You're welcome," the engineer acknowledged, returning to his conversation with the instrumentation specialist.
"Let's stow your gear," Spencer suggested with a smile, "and we'll go over the program we've outlined."
"Yes, sir," the fresh-faced pilot replied, shaking his head. "This is really incredible. The cockpit looks like it was designed by a committee where no one talked with each other."
The wind whipped across the top of Brad's hair as he wheeled the Mustang convertible through the turn leading to the Miramar Naval Air Station. Brad had spent the night in Santa Ana, but he had followed his orders and had not contacted any of his friends at the El Toro Marine Corps Air Station. He had started to call Leigh Ann, then decided to wait until he was situated in his new quarters.
After a hearty breakfast, Brad had checked on his stored Corvette before departing for San Diego. He longed to drive the 427-cubic-inch Stingray, but he had been explicitly instructed to use a rental car without a base sticker.
Approaching the gate to the air station, Brad slowed and brought the car to a smooth stop. The guard scrutinized Brad's government identification card, scanned the wrinkled sheet on his clipboard, then gave Brad permission to enter the base.
The bar in the officers' club was unusually quiet for a weekend afternoon. Brad selected a stool near the end of the counter, ordered a beer, and let his mind drift to more pleasant things. He pictured sailing with Leigh Ann across San Diego Bay.
"Brad Austin!" a voice exclaimed from across the room.
Startled, Brad turned to see Nick Palmer walking toward him. "You son of a bitch," Palmer said, thrusting his hand toward his friend, "it's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too," Brad replied as the two pilots shook hands enthusiastically. "What the hell are you doing in this part of the world?"
"I'm in the navy, remember?" Palmer laughed aloud. "And this is a naval air station."
Cautiously, Brad glanced around the room. "Let's grab a table, and I'll buy you a cold one."
"Fair enough." Palmer grinned and grasped Brad on the shoulder. "We've missed you."
The two men had become close friends when Brad was serving as an exchange pilot with a carrier-based navy fighter squadron. They had flown together on a number of combat missions, alternating between flight leader and wingman.
Considered the two best aviators in the F-4 Phantom squadron, each had an "official" MiG kill to his credit. Austin had destroyed two additional MiGs at Phuc Yen, but they had not been disclosed in the ensuing bureaucratic cover-up.
An inch short of six feet, Nick Palmer had an athletic physique and movie-idol looks. His light-brown hair and easy smile never failed to attract women. A graduate of Princeton University, "Nick the Stick" Palmer was the oldest son of a wealthy manufacturing mogul.
The bar was almost empty, and Brad relaxed. He ordered two beers and followed Nick to a table.
"Seriously," Palmer asked as they sat down, "what is a jarhead doing at Miramar?"
Feeling a pang of trepidation, Brad hesitated a moment. He did not want to lie to his friend. "Actually, Nick, it's a crazy story. One that I'm not at liberty to discuss . . . even with close friends."
The look of surprise was clearly evident on Palmer's face. He took a quick swig of his beer. "You've been recruited--actually you volunteered--to become a test pilot, right?"
Austin blanched, then leaned closer to Palmer. "Nick, what the hell are you talking about?"
Palmer inhaled deeply while he cast a quick look at the bar. No one was paying any attention to them.
"Brad, I have been invited to become a test pilot. Only thing is, the job is not at Pax River."
"Jesus H. Christ," Brad whispered through his unmoving lips. "I'm in the same shit."
Palmer tilted his glass up, swallowing the remaining contents in three gulps. "What were you told?"
"I was offered the assignment by a civilian--some kind of adviser to the military."
"What'd he say?"
"Basically," Brad softly chuckled, "he said his project--or whatever the hell it is--is so secret that the Marine Corps would have to forget about me while I'm assigned to the operation."
Palmer signaled for the cocktail waitress. "That's the same spiel that I heard. I was also informed that the fastest way to a court-martial is to even mention the project."
"The craziest thing," Brad shook his head, "is the fact that the Marine Corps sent me all the way to Bangkok to meet this guy with an eye patch--"
"Goddamn," Palmer interrupted in shock. "It sounds to me like the same fellow . . ."
Brad sat back and looked at Nick intently. "Do you feel like we're in the Twilight Zone?"
Palmer nodded and looked up at the waitress. "I'll have a double scotch and soda."
The sun had just dipped below the horizon when Austin and Palmer drove into the parking lot of the Snug Harbor Lounge. They had chosen the nondescript lounge after deciding to leave the officers' club. Both men had agreed that, sooner or later, someone they knew would walk in and discover them.
They locked the convertible and took in the sights and sounds of San Diego Bay. The natural harbor was the home of a vast armada of navy warships and their support vessels.
Brad became absorbed in watching a sloop preparing to dock at a marina below them. "If we're going to be here for any length of time, let's get an apartment close to the water."
"If they'll let us," Nick responded, giving his attention to a destroyer entering the mouth of the harbor. "What do you think this test-pilot deal is about?"
"I don't know," Brad answered, turning toward the door of the cocktail lounge. "Since we've both shot down MiGs, they may have some new top-secret tactics that they want us to try. That, or some 'gee whiz' type of experimental gun pod . . . to augment our missiles."
Palmer stopped short, prompting Austin to hesitate and face him. "Brad, why would anyone--the military in particular--go to such trouble to sign us up for some off-the-wall scheme . . . like being test pilots when we aren't test pilots?"
Brad's eyes followed a shapely blonde as she got out of a white Mercedes roadster and entered the club. "Nick, I'm not sure what the guy sporting the eye patch was about, but he definitely has the horsepower to make things happen."
A worried look crossed Palmer's face while both pilots thought about th
e situation.
"We are no longer in the military," Brad remarked at last. The guy had the authority to give us travel vouchers, orders, money, and when we got here, we had BOQ rooms . . . but he isn't in the military."
Palmer stated the obvious conclusion for them both. "He's with the spooks--the cloak-and-dagger crew."
Unsmiling, Brad darted a look at two couples approaching the entrance to the lounge. "Like in the trench coats and wide-brimmed hats?"
"That's right."
"Nick," Austin laughed aloud, "why in the world would the CIA be screwing around with a couple of guys like us?"
"Level with me, Brad." Palmer eyed him with suspicion. "Don't bullshit me. If you know what's going on, and you're giving me a runaround, I'm going to--"
"How would I know what this is about?" Austin interrupted, feeling a sudden sense of foreboding. "Nick, I don't have the foggiest idea why we're here."
A hint of a smile creased Palmer's face. "Doesn't it seem coincidental to you that we are together again--from the same squadron on the same carrier--on some kind of harebrained 'I led three lives' type of operation?"
Brad raised his hands, palms up, and shrugged. "Look, we both have MiG kills to our credit. That's all I know, except that we can't take for granted that we're the only ones involved in this test-pilot crock of shit." He shook his head. "Besides, we'll probably find out what's going on tomorrow."
"I hope you're right," Palmer said curtly.
Brad turned and walked through the door of the smoke-filled lounge. He spied two empty bar stools, and they sat down and ordered drinks.
"Have you let anyone," Nick quietly asked, "know that you're in the States?"
Brad caught the eye of the attractive blonde who had walked in while they were in the parking lot. Embarrassed, he looked at Nick. "No, I haven't. I started to call Leigh Ann, but the more I think about it, the more paranoid I become."
Palmer nodded, eyeing the stylishly dressed blonde. The woman glanced at Nick and extracted a cigarette from a holder that matched her handbag. She definitely looked out of place in the small lounge.