by Joe Weber
After a short conversation, Brad opened two beers and walked out to the balcony.
"Who was it?" Nick asked as he clutched one of the cold bottles. "None other than your debutante friend."
Nick looked up with a broad smile. "You're kidding. I gave her our telephone number after we got our apartment, but I figured she had written us off since we haven't heard from her."
"Well, that is obviously not the case," Brad replied, leaning against the railing. "She invited us to a cocktail buffet on her daddy's yacht. She gave me the directions."
"No shit?"
"This evening." Brad grinned. "She apologized for the short notice, but remembered that we would be gone for a week, starting tomorrow
Nick tossed his folder into his flight bag. "I'll give her a call and see if Lex can join us."
"I already asked. He's invited too."
"I wonder," Palmer tilted his head, "how old she is."
"Since when did age make a difference? I've seen you stalk them from sixteen to sixty."
Nick formed a crooked smile. "She's gotta be late twenties, early thirties, wouldn't you say?"
"At least," Brad responded, then grew serious. "I think I'll pass on the invitation. Leigh Ann is going to be here a week from Saturday, and I want to avoid any further familiarity with Allison. She strikes me as the type who could get an innocent guy in a hell of a lot of trouble."
Nick gave Brad an inquisitive look. "Have you cleared Leigh Ann's visit with Spencer?" There was a hint of apprehension in his voice.
"Grady didn't say we couldn't have dates." Brad smiled, then added, "And who will tell? Leigh Ann is an old friend from Memphis. Coincidence."
"Well," Palmer awkwardly replied, "I'm not going to say anything, but you better keep her sequestered somewhere so she won't find out about the project."
"You're right." Brad rolled his eyes. "If Leigh Ann knows you're in town, she'll want to see you." She had met Nick when he and Brad had been stationed together on an aircraft carrier. "And she'll want to know what we're doing together."
"How long is she going to be here?"
Brad gazed thoughtfully across the bay. "Just for the weekend. I think she has finals a week later."
Palmer laughed quietly. "I'm sure she'll get a lot of studying done." Brad gave him a sly smile, then finished his beer and stared at two sleek sailboats crossing the bay.
"Come on," Nick enthusiastically urged. "Let's get Lex," he jerked a thumb toward Blackwell's apartment, "and go see Allison's yacht." Brad gave him a questioning look.
"It will do you good . . . take your mind off things."
Stretching his arms over his head, Brad laughed good-naturedly. "Yeah, I doubt if anyone on a yacht would recognize us."
With Palmer in the lead, Brad and Lex walked down the pier toward the 114-foot Feadship. The graceful vessel was gaily decorated and brightly lighted. Two crew members were taking in the colorful nautical flags as the horizon split the orange glow of the sun. Although Bellwether was impressive, she did appear to be in need of cosmetic repairs.
Nick was attired in a navy-blue sports coat adorned with a Larchmont Yacht Club crest. His white slacks and deck shoes completed the nautical theme.
Brad had selected a conservative gray suit, while Lex had dressed in dark slacks, polished cowboy boots, and a western shirt with pearl snaps.
Lex Blackwell was intrigued by all of the yachts, and the accompanying trappings of wealth. "Hey, Nick. Do you really belong to a yacht club?"
"Sure. Doesn't everyone?" he kidded. "It's de rigueur where my parents live. They have been members for years."
"Yeah," Lex drawled, "it was a tough decision."
"What was tough?" Brad asked while he looked at two other yachts that were nestled against the pier.
"Deciding which Waxahachie yacht club to join. "
Blackwell heard laughter from a party on a gleaming Hatteras that was docked across from Bellwether. "How'd you guys stumble into this deal?" His nasal twang belied his intelligence.
"I'll tell you later," Brad answered as they caught sight of a group of people chatting on Bellwether's open fantail.
Boarding the opulent yacht, Nick and Brad spotted Allison conversing with another woman in the saloon. Allison politely excused herself and walked toward them.
"Welcome aboard," she greeted with a warm smile, then introduced herself to Blackwell.
Wearing a red silk and satin cocktail dress that accentuated her curvaceous figure, Allison van Ingen commanded the attention of everyone in attendance. She summoned a steward who took their drink orders, then suggested the three men mingle among the other guests and introduce themselves.
After twenty minutes of small talk, the pilots became bored and gathered near the bow.
"So," Lex said with a mischievous grin, "which one of you is sleepin' with the little darlin'?"
Brad stifled a laugh when he saw Allison step from the companionway ladder to the deck. "Nick has her in his gun sight, but I think she's more than he can handle."
"Right," Palmer sarcastically replied, turning to Blackwell, "and this is the guy who is so p-w'ed by his girlfriend that he didn't want to come here this evening."
"Well, what have you two been doing," Allison asked Brad and Nick as she joined the men, "since our exciting tour of the hot spots of San Diego?"
"You mean," Brad smiled innocently, "after we got out of the intensive care unit?"
Allison gave Blackwell a coy look. "These two really know how to show a woman a good time."
"I'll bet they do," Lex replied, attempting to keep his eyes above the plunging neckline of Allison's dress. "This is a mighty fine boat you've got here."
"Thank you," she replied, and gave Brad a sly look. "I have your phone number, but you didn't tell me where you live."
A pregnant pause followed. "Actually," Brad finally said, "we live in an apartment complex."
"The three of you live in the same apartment?"
"No." Nick hesitated. "We have two apartments . . . with a nice view of the ocean."
Allison waved at a guest. "Does your complex have a swimming pool?"
"Yes," Palmer and Blackwell replied.
"My pool was a complete mess," Allison grinned, "so the pool people are in the process of draining the water and cleaning the bottom."
Nick was exuberant. "Would you like to join us for a swim and cookout when we get back next Friday?"
"Sure." She laughed with a rush of enthusiasm, then winked at Palmer. "You wouldn't turn down two more women, would you?"
"Heck no," Blackwell exclaimed. "We'll slap on some barbecue--Texas style. I think you'll like it."
"I'm sure I will," Allison purred, then turned to Brad.
"Let me show you what the interior decorators have done in the master stateroom."
Chapter SEVEN
Brad felt the aircraft yaw as the twin-engine C-1A Trader climbed through the turbulent clouds. He yawned and looked at his watch. It read 3:10 A. m .
The navy carrier on-board delivery plane, known as COD, had been loaned to the Central Intelligence Agency for an indefinite period of time. During the first phase of Operation Achilles, the aircraft would be used to ferry personnel, cargo, and mail between Miramar and the secret air base.
Brad listened to the radial engines change pitch as the command pilot reduced power after reaching their cruising altitude. The cockpit crew, dressed in navy-issue flight suits and helmets, were Agency pilots who had been handpicked by Hollis Spencer.
Leaning closer to Palmer, Austin had to speak loudly to be heard over the roar of the engines. "I can't wait to fly the MiG and find out what it will do."
"I agree," Nick responded as the Trader lurched and yawed. "It'll be interesting to see if the seventeen flies like we've been led to believe."
Brad remembered a previous conversation with Nick. "Are you talking about the wing warp that you told us about on the boat?" He was referring to a discussion they had had on the carrier prio
r to their first flight together.
"That's what I've been thinking about," Palmer continued as Lex Blackwell and Grady Stanfield moved within earshot in the dimly lighted cabin. "Apparently, the seventeen is flight-control limited. Th e i nformation, we were told, came from a defector who had a lot of hours in the plane. The reason we didn't get his plane is because some jerk panicked and blew his machine out from under him."
"Welcome to your new country," Brad deadpanned.
Blackwell tilted his ear toward Nick. "Explain flight-control limited."
"The aircraft," Palmer said loudly, "as you have seen in the manual, is pretty elementary by our standards. We were informed that the seventeen goes left wing down if you push it to around 430 knots. Anything over 430 to 440, the pilot reverts to passenger status."
Stanfield whistled. "From what I deduce, you'll have to go to idle and throw out the anchor to recover the machine."
"If," Brad emphatically stated, "you have enough altitude to recover from whatever attitude you're in."
"That's right," Stanfield agreed. "You know you're in trouble when you run out of airspeed, altitude, and ideas at the same time."
"The MiG-17 drivers," Palmer said, "like to fight slow and tight, because of the lack of high-speed control authority. That, or slashing attacks and run like hell."
Brad cocked his head. "It seems like the thing to do is to get the gomer into a turning engagement, then keep adding power until the seventeen goes wing-rolling out of control."
"It works," Lex replied with a laugh. "That's exactly what I saw one of those little varmints do. Heck, I thought it was a trick maneuver.. . till the bastard hit the ground."
That brought a chorus of laughter.
"The way I figure it," Brad arched his eyebrows, "you keep your kinetic energy up around 500 to 550 knots. If the gomers go for a turning fight, pretty soon you're driving up their asses."
Palmer nodded in amusement. "If they don't lose control first. Did you notice the stick extender?"
Brad bounced against the side of the fuselage. "Yes. You have to engage a button to get the extender to slide out of the top of the stick." He laughed. "I wonder how many they've broken off . . . after they've gone out of control."
Palmer gave Austin a knowing look. "The defector, who apparently sang like a magpie, said they actually place their feet on the instrument panel and pull with both hands."
The Trader slewed from side to side, then suddenly flew out of the clouds and into smooth air.
"Thank God," Brad said as he loosened his seat belt. "Grady, what can you tell us about the project, if anything?"
Stanfield shrugged. "Not much, actually. Hollis doesn't discuss the big picture with me. I'm here because I have a test-pilot background and I've knocked down a MiG . . . same as you three."
"We're not test-pilot qualified, however," Blackwell stated matter-of-factly.
"I'm aware of that," Stanfield replied. "The three of you are here because you have demonstrated the intelligence and primal instincts to be 'fangs out' killers . . . if called upon to use your extraordinary skills."
"What's the plan of action?" Austin asked.
Pausing to collect his thoughts, Stanfield decided to be very candid. "Since Lex and I have F-8 backgrounds--I flew a Crusader to our test site--he will fly chase for me while I evaluate the MiG.
"Brad," Grady continued in a nonchalant manner, "when you and Nick fly the MiG, I will fly chase, or Lex will escort you around the patch."
Stanfield stopped for a moment, considering whether or not he should divulge another item of interest. "That's about it, except there is a lot more to this project than any of us can imagine."
Blackwell squinted his eyes. "You mean you're not gonna tell us why we have to be such experts in flying the MiG?"
Stanfield ignored the direct question. "There is apparently a tug-of-war going on between the CIA and the navy." Stanfield darted a look at the Agency pilots. "Spencer is eager to get on with this program, before VX-4 at Point Mugu gets his MiG." VX-4 was a special projects squadron.
"As I understand it," Stanfield continued, "the air force and navy will eventually receive seventeens and MiG-21s." Grady eyed the three. "Also, an item gleaned from a couple. of conversations with Hollis. The navy is chapped off about the CIA grabbing three of their pilots--I don't know what the marines think."
"They're probably glad to get rid of Austin." Palmer chuckled, thinking about Brad's attack at Phuc Yen.
Austin gave Nick a cold, do not say anything else look.
"At any rate," Stanfield said, "this project, which is apparently centered around getting the MiG information out to fleet pilots ASAP, originated in the White House."
"What about our fictitious identities?" Brad asked. "When, where, and why are we going to need them? I know we are dealing with the CIA, but are we going to be taken prisoner by our own military?"
Stanfield glanced down at his flight boots, then back to Austin, and sighed. "Hollis assured me that we would understand . . . at the appropriate time."
That ended the conversation and left them as perplexed and uncertain about the future as before.
Brad had made reservations for Leigh Ann at the Hotel del Coronado on the peninsula across the bay from San Diego. He wondered about the wisdom of having her here under these circumstances, and with Allison in the picture.
When the C-1A began its descent, Palmer gave Austin a curious look. "Brad, why do you suppose Allison has been so friendly to us?"
"Probably because you charmed the hell out of her," Brad answered without cracking a smile.
"No, really."
Austin contemplated the question. "It was her first day in town, and we turned out to be nice guys. She doesn't seem concerned that we aren't in her social or economic stratum."
Palmer remained quiet until the landing gear was lowered. "You know, I think Allison has the hots for you."
"That's not going to be on the program," Brad replied, giving Palmer the safe sign like a baseball umpire. "Allison is your type, not mine."
The Trader touched down with a bark from the tires and turned off the runway at midfield. The pilots taxied to the hangar, then shut down one engine while the passengers exited the aircraft. After Spencer greeted the foursome and led them to the hangar's light trap, the CIA pilots started the engine and rolled toward the runway. They would return to Miramar before sunrise.
When the group of men entered the brightly illuminated hangar, they stopped and stared at the dazzling silver plane. Stanfield, who had seen the MiG before it had been completely assembled, took the lead.
"Go on, look it over," he encouraged, "because I'm going to be flying it in less than two hours."
The first rays of daylight were beginning to dim the stars when Grady Stanfield climbed into the cockpit of the MiG-17. Since the barren airfield was not equipped with landing lights, Grady would slowly taxi up and down the strip until the sun crept above the mountains.
Having previously spent several hours sitting in the MiG, Stanfield was familiar with every switch, control knob, and gauge in the fighter. He settled into the cramped ejection seat, connected his restraints, then double-checked the fasteners.
The armament crew was having difficulty fitting the American cannons into the MiG, so they had temporarily replaced the original guns with lead ballast. Stanfield had the men check the security of the lead retainers while he donned his helmet. Spencer and Hank Murray climbed the short ladders on each side of the cockpit to offer last-minute advice to the pilot.
Clutching a cup of steaming-hot tea, Brad stood next to Nick and a small group of technicians who had assembled the airplane. Lex Blackwell walked out of the flight-gear equipment room and leisurely strolled out to the F-8 Crusader parked next to the MiG-17.
"It seems incongruous," Brad mentioned to Palmer, "to see the two fighters on the same ramp."
"You're right," Nick replied while he compared the two airplanes. "I was trying to envision a Fox-4
sitting on the tarmac at Kep, or Phuc Yen."
While Blackwell preflighted the chase plane, Spencer and Murray climbed down from the edge of the MiG's cockpit. They stepped away from the fighter while Stanfield started the afterburning Klimov turbojet. After the engine had stabilized at idle, the makeshift power cart was unplugged and towed to the edge of the ramp.
Brad and Nick followed Spencer and Murray to an aircraft radio that was mounted in the hangar. The landing strip did not have a control tower. A speaker on the wall allowed everyone to hear the conversations between Stanfield, Blackwell, and the project officer.
Grady added power and the stubby-looking fighter moved straight ahead, then shifted from one course of direction to another. A moment later the MiG came to an abrupt halt as Stanfield's laughter reverberated from the speaker.
"This is like stuffing a marshmallow into a piggy bank."
The American fighter planes had hydraulically operated control systems, while the MiG-17 had pneumatically actuated controls for taxiing. The Communist pilots had to continuously thumb a switch to activate the compressed air to maneuver on the ground.
Spencer raised his microphone. "You look like you need a sobriety test."
"I think," Grady responded while he nudged the power up, "the hardest part of flying this sled . . . will be keeping it going straight until we reach the speed to rotate."
Brad and Nick laughed quietly to themselves, prompting a remark from Hank Murray.
"I wouldn't laugh too hard." He curled his lip. "We'll be watching you soon."
Palmer caught Brad's eye as Murray walked out to the ramp. "I wonder if the captain is always that pleasant, or if this is just one of his happier days."
"Don't worry about him," Brad responded, watching the paunchy engineer. "We've got our jobs to do, and that doesn't include placating him."
Stanfield made a number of high-speed taxi runs while the sun peeked above the distant mountains. The day promised to be clear and warm.
Blackwell followed a jeep to the runway, then taxied to the end and swung into position for takeoff. Returning from the opposite end of the strip, Grady brought the MiG to a stop on the right side of the Crusader. He and Lex talked with Spencer while the jeep driver and his observer drove the length of the runway. They stopped twice to allow the spotter to pick up debris that might be sucked into the inlets of the jet engines.