Targets of Opportunity (1993) (10 page)

"What a bucket of shit.- Stanfield snorted in disgust. "If any of you get in that position, power to idle--as Lex was calling for--full right rudder and stick, wait until the speed bleeds off, stop the rotation, then pull out."

Grady hesitated a moment while he removed his other glove. "It's imperative that you stop the rotation before you stress the aircraft with a high-g load. I think if you make a rolling pullout, you could yank the wings off this bulldozer."

Spencer glanced at the radio speaker in the hangar. "How do the new radios work?"

"Number one is fine," Stanfield answered, stuffing his gloves into his helmet. "The squelch on number two isn't working, but I could hear okay.
"

Spencer nodded and gave the MiG a cursory look. "Grady, shall we call it a day?"

Stanfield finally smiled. "With all due respect, sir, I believe we should continue to march. It's better if I get back in that Spam can, rather than sit around and think about what almost happened."

The three junior pilots looked at Stanfield, then at Hollis Spencer. Would the project officer overrule the senior pilot?

"You're the test pilot," Spencer said, "so I'll go with your recommendation.
"

Brad watched as the MiG was towed into the hangar. The heat of th
e d
ay was beginning to dissipate as Spencer and the four pilots gathered in a small room at the corner of the hangar. The rest of the men, regardless of rank or position, convened at the compact, unpretentious galley. The technicians had nicknamed it "the scarf and barf."

"Help yourself," Spencer encouraged as he opened the door of a well-worn refrigerator. The interior was filled to capacity with cold beer, soft drinks, and snacks. "The initial stock is on me, but it's your responsibility," he gestured to the pilots, "to keep it refilled."

"Will do." Stanfield replied, feeling the tension ebb as he plopped into a chair.

Brad opened a can of Budweiser and rested his elbows on the metal table. He, too, felt drained, even though he had not yet flown the MiG.

The debrief was short, but thorough. Stanfield had accomplished a great deal in one day. "We know one thing for sure," Grady said with a straight face. "Do not fly over four hundred knots in the MiG-17 . . . to give yourself a cushion."

Stanfield accepted a beer from Palmer before continuing. "The aircraft, other than the wing-warp tendency, is fairly straightforward in nature. The systems are simple and reliable, with no real surprises. As long as you remain inside the aircraft's operating envelope, the plane is stable and predictable."

Sipping his beer, Stanfield glanced through the door at the MiG. "We still have a nosewheel shimmy prior to lift-off, but I'm confident that we can move to the next stage. Tomorrow, the three of you will fly the MiG, with Lex and myself alternating in the chase position."

After a second beer, the tired group ate in the small galley and went to their bunk room. The four pilots would share the three sinks and two showers with the rest of the men assigned to Operation Achilles.

Palmer surveyed the cramped, simple surroundings. "They certainly didn't spare any expense on our living quarters."

"It beats foxholes." Brad laughed, remembering his experiences in the Basic School at Quantico. "I could sleep for three days."

His neck ached and he felt drowsy, but Brad swung one leg over the side of the bed, then the other. He had not slept well, even though he had been exhausted when he collapsed on the bunk.

Like his fellow pilots, Austin showered and shaved, slipped into his flight suit, and went to breakfast.

"You ready to go?" Nick asked as he sat down next to Brad.

"As soon as I get something in my stomach," Brad answered withou
t l
ooking up from his cereal bowl. "I didn't sleep worth a damn." Stanfield waited until Lex Blackwell had filled his tray and joined them. The cowboy from Texas looked tired, too.

"Nick, you're going to fly first," Grady explained, blowing gently on his steaming coffee, "and Lex will fly chase for you."

"Sounds good," Palmer acknowledged in an attempt to keep any emotion from showing. Inside, the butterflies were beginning to take flight.

"We're going to use a higher rotation speed," Stanfield said, "because it's sluggish at the recommended takeoff speed cited in the manual."

Blackwell, who was forking his breakfast down like a man possessed, listened intently.

"Christ, Lex," Palmer uttered with mock disdain, "they're going to feed us again before Friday."

Blackwell gave him a scowl.

"What's on the agenda?" Palmer asked as he slid his bowl and orange juice away.

"Basic air work," Grady replied, looking at the list of items to be accomplished on each flight. "After you wring it out, you'll come back to the field for three or four touch-and-goes, depending on your fuel state."

Stanfield looked at Blackwell. "Don't let me slow you down," he teased, "but you'll fly second--same routine--and I'll man the chase plane for you and Brad."

Grady glanced around the table. "Any questions?"

"Yeah," Blackwell mumbled as the last remnant of his breakfast disappeared. "Do I have time for seconds?"

Along with Hollis Spencer, Brad and Grady watched Lex, followed by Nick, take off and climb to altitude. Stanfield stood next to the radio, giving instructions and providing suggestions to Palmer and Blackwell. After a couple of minutes, Nick's voice returned to its normal level.

Returning to the briefing room, Brad opened his battered MiG folder to refresh his memory. He reread all the pertinent information, then closed the manual and mentally checked off the "need to know"

items. Fighter pilots filed all data into one of three categories: need to know, want to know, or who gives a shit.

He stared vacantly across the empty hangar, thinking about his future. What was Operation Achilles? Where was the one spot of vulnerability--the Achilles' heel--that could destroy them all?

Brad's head drooped. He looked at his watch, deciding to lie down and rest until Blackwell landed. He definitely wanted to hear the debrief.

The engine instruments looked stabilized as Brad hurtled down the runway. He felt a great sense of relief when the MiG responded to his inputs on the rudder pedals.

He had absorbed every detail of the previous flights, which gave him a degree of comfort on his first flight in the foreign fighter. Palmer and Blackwell had been elated by their flights, and had eagerly shared every detail with him.

Grady Stanfield, flying with the Crusader's gear and flaps down, joined on Brad's right wing as the MiG lifted from the long runway.

Continuing straight ahead, Austin pulled the throttle out of afterburner and went through the process of raising the landing gear. Flying next to him, Grady cleaned up the F-8 and reported that the MiG appeared to be free of leaks.

"Let's climb to twenty thousand," Stanfield suggested, "and you can put it through its paces."

"Roger, twenty thou," Brad radioed, feeling more comfortable with each foot of altitude he gained. He noticed the clouds and a rainbow over the mountains. Brad blocked out the war and the senseless killing that went with it as the exhilaration of flying returned.

Reaching 20,000 feet, Austin left the power at one hundred percent and accelerated to 380 knots. He rolled ninety degrees to the left and pulled 4 g's while completing a 360-degree turn. Stanfield remained close behind the MiG, vigilant for any signs of trouble.

Out of the turn, Brad raised the nose and executed an aileron roll. He noticed the attitude gyro tumble as the MiG passed through the inverted position.

"I wouldn't want to fly this thing in instrument conditions," Brad said to Stanfield as he pulled back on the throttle.

"That makes two of us," Grady replied, deploying the Crusader's speed brake to maintain his separation from the MiG.

Austin allowed the fighter to decelerate, exploring its slow-speed handling characteristics. Holding back-pressure on the stick, Brad leveled the wings and waited to feel the buffet prior to a full stall.

When the MiG began to tremble, Brad advanced the throttle to full power and tweaked the nose down. When the fighter reached 270 knots, he wrapped the aircraft into a tight turn to see how it responded to an accelerated stall.

Pulling 5 g's, the MiG completed a 180-degree course reversal before Brad felt the aircraft buck. Rolling wings level, he pulled the throttle to idle.

"Oh, shit!" Austin blurted, feeling his heart beat like a trip-hammer. The turbojet was developing full power while the throttle remained at idle. "Chase, I've got a runaway engine!"

"Stay with it!" Stanfield encouraged, adding power to stay close to the MiG. "We'll work it out."

Brad quickly analyzed his options while the MiG accelerated. He could not allow the fighter to exceed 420 knots, or his only option would be to make a high-speed ejection.

"If you can't save it," Hollis Spencer's voice came over the radio, "don't hesitate to get out."

"I'm okay for the moment," Brad replied as he scanned the instrument panel. The engine gauges were pegged at full power.

"Grady, I'm going to have to get enough g's on to slow it to flap and gear speed."

"Brad," Stanfield radioed with forced calmness, "keep your three-sixties tight, but work your way over the field."

"I'm trying," Austin replied, bending the MiG around in a gut-wrenching turn. Pointed toward the airstrip, he let the aircraft accelerate to 400 knots before he yanked it into another tight circle. "I'm going to cut off the fuel . . ." he grunted under the g forces, "and make a flameout approach."

"Don't chop the engine before you get the gear and flaps down . . . Grady paused, "or you're going to be out of options.

"I won't," Brad labored, then released the back-pressure when the airfield came into view. After accelerating again, he banked into another hard turn and waited until the airspeed decayed to flap-deployment speed.

Austin's arm muscles ached from the constant pull on the control stick. He lowered the flaps and switched arms, grabbing the stick with his left hand. "What's the engine-out glide speed?"

A moment of silence followed.

"There's no mention of glide speed in the manual," Stanfield replied, "but keep it fast--at least one-fifty--until you've got the runway made."

"Okay," Brad acknowledged, and switched hands again. He reefed the nose skyward in a modified chandelle, watched the airspeed drop, then went through the laborious process of lowering the landing gear.

"You're doing great," Stanfield encouraged, then spoke to Spencer. "We'll need the crash truck at midfield."

"It's already in place," Spencer shot back, then talked to Austin. "Brad, if you get out of shape, I want you to jump out. Do you copy?"

"Roger," Austin managed while he completed the gear-lowering procedure. "I'm coming around one more time . . . before I shut down the engine."

Stanfield and Spencer answered at the same time, blocking out the radio transmission.

Brad checked his ejection-seat fittings before reaching for the fuel-cutoff valve. A half turn later he was at the high-key position over the runway.

Firmly grasping the fuel system actuator, he attempted to turn it to the off position, but the valve would not budge. "Sonuvabitch!" he grunted, grabbing the recalcitrant valve with both hands.

The MiG's nose dropped precariously low as Brad twisted with all his might. The valve snapped closed, and he frantically grabbed the stick. A moment later, the cockpit became deathly quiet as the Klimov turbojet spooled down.

"You okay?" Stanfield asked, breathing rapidly as he watched the MiG plummet toward the runway.

"Think so," Brad managed while he banked steeply toward the runway. He aimed for the first third of the airstrip. The lone crash truck came into view as he passed the ninety-degree position from the end of the runway.

A seat-of-the-pants aviator, Austin kept the airspeed above 150 knots, but realized he was not going to stretch the glide to the runway by completing the sweeping turn.

Brad sharply banked the MiG, angling toward the airstrip. The aircraft was sinking at a frightening rate when Brad approached the extended centerline of the runway.

Racking the MiG into a steep bank, Brad centered the aircraft in line with the pavement. Rolling wings level a moment before touchdown, Brad fought the stick as the MiG quit flying and thudded onto the runway.

Chapter
NINE

Brad Austin sank into a chair in the briefing room and rested the back of his head against the wall. He could see the technicians and Hank Murray swarming over the MiG. Some of the men were removing access panels from the fuselage of the fighter, while others congregated around the cockpit.

The shrill whine of the Crusader's turbojet grew louder as Stanfield approached the hangar ramp. A minute later the engine spun to a stop, allowing Brad to hear the voices in the hangar.

Spencer entered the quiet room and laughed nervously. "How are you feeling?"

Brad gave him a blank look and shook his head.