Targets of Opportunity (1993)

by Joe Weber

  When the jeep cleared the runway, Grady keyed his mike. "You ready, Lex?"

  "On the roll," Blackwell replied at the same moment he released the brakes and shoved the throttle forward.

  The F-8 leaped ahead, then rapidly accelerated when Blackwell selected afterburner. The Crusader's Pratt & Whitney turbojet left a trail of white-hot flames as the sleek fighter blasted down the field. Lifting off the runway, Lex snapped the landing gear up and pulled the aircraft into a steep, climbing turn.

  Stanfield taxied into position, said a silent prayer, then eased forward on the MiG's throttle and selected afterburner. He frantically thumbed the steering valve until he was going fast enough to use the rudder pedals. Once enough air flowed past the vertical stabilizer, Grady could control the MiG without the awkward switch.

  Holding his breath, Stanfield eased back on the control stick. The nose rose slightly, but the aircraft was not ready to fly. Feeling a moment of indecision, Grady thought about aborting the takeoff. He darted a look at the engine instruments and pulled the stick into his lap.

  The MiG vibrated before it lifted from the runway. He waited until the airspeed exceeded 140 knots before deselecting the afterburner. As per agreement with Spencer, Grady left the landing gear down for the duration of the test flight.

  Brad watched the chase plane smoothly rendezvous with the MiG as Stanfield banked to circle the field. The first flight was designed to check all the controls and switches, except the landing gear. Stanfield wanted to remain over the field at an altitude high enough to make the runway if he had a flameout.

  "Everything is still cooking," Grady radioed, "and the engine parameters are within limits."

  "Copy," Spencer replied with visible relief

  Brad shielded his eyes and observed the F-8 slide under the MiG, stabilize for a few seconds, then move out to the other side of the fighter.

  "You look clean," Blackwell said, checking for leaks.

  "Roger."

  Stanfield flew around the field for twenty-five minutes before he entered the landing pattern. After two touch-and-goes, he made a full-stop landing and taxied to the hangar. Blackwell buzzed the field, landed, and followed Stanfield to the hangar.

  The jubilant crowd congratulated Grady while the MiG was thoroughly inspected and refueled. Forty-five minutes later, he and Blackwell were again airborne to explore the high-speed handling qualities of the compact fighter.

  Climbing to 15,000 feet, the test pilot performed a series of aerobatic maneuvers, including aileron rolls, barrel rolls, and steep turns. Blackwell followed the MiG at a distance of 200 feet.

  Lowering the MiG's nose, Grady let the airspeed build to 380 knots and pulled up into a loop. Coming down the backside, he let the airspeed build. Accelerating through 420 knots, Stanfield felt the controls begin to stiffen. 425 . . . 430 . . . 435 . . . the MiG trembled.

  The aircraft suddenly rolled to the left as Stanfield attempted to force the stick to the right.

  "Trouble!" Blackwell radioed as he watched the MiG continue to the inverted position. The nose tucked down, pointing at the earth as the MiG rotated to the left.

  "Get off the power!" Lek said while everyone raced out to the ramp area. "Do you copy?"

  Transfixed, Hollis Spencer held the mike at his side. The wall-mounted speaker remained silent.

  Brad searched the morning sky, spotting the corkscrewing MiG as it hurtled toward the ground. The sunlight glinted off the revolving wings, adding a dimension of surrealism to the situation.

  "Oh, Jesus," Brad said to himself while Blackwell popped his speed brake and performed a split-S to follow the MiG. "Come on, Grady .. . get it together."

  The spiraling fighter slowly stopped turning and started a highspeed recovery. Austin watched the MiG's nose rise in a punishing, high-g pullout. Almost level, the fighter disappeared behind a line of hills.

  Unaware that he was holding his breath, Brad sharply exhaled when the MiG rocketed above the hilltops.

  "Okay," Stanfield radioed in a tight voice, "I've got it collected. I'm turning final for a full stop."

  "Sonuvabitch," Palmer exclaimed, and removed his sunglasses.

  "Lesson number one," Brad remarked, trying to slow his breathing. "You have to believe the man who has flown the machine . . . when he says it locks up at 440 knots."

  Nick let his head sag, then slowly shook it. "That was a close one, my friend."

  Brad glanced at the MiG. "Say hallelujah. . . ."

  Chapter EIGHT

  The men on the parking ramp and in the hangar were subdued and quiet when Stanfield brought the MiG to a halt. He raised the highly polished canopy, shut down the engine, secured the systems and controls, then sat quietly in the cockpit, slowly recovering from his brush with death. Grady had had close calls before, but none that had been decided by a matter of thirty feet. He still felt the effects of the adrenaline racing through his body.

  Two technicians placed the pilot's boarding ladder against the fuselage while Lex Blackwell brought the Crusader to a halt behind the MiG. Spencer walked to the ladder when Grady unstrapped and removed his helmet. Stanfield's hair was damp and his face was ashen.

  Pilots often had a more extreme reaction after a traumatic incident was over. During the crisis, their minds went into a basic survival mode and often blanked out all other sensory inputs.

  Spencer waited patiently for Grady to climb out of the cockpit. Brad and Nick joined the project officer as Stanfield stepped over the edge of the canopy railing and deftly backed down the ladder.

  The usual twinkle in Grady's brown eyes was gone, along with the perpetual smile. The small pilot looked wilted, but steady on his feet.

  Lex Blackwell hurried over to the group while Stanfield wiped his face with the sleeve of his flight suit.

  "You okay, partner?" Lex asked with genuine concern. No one else said a word while Stanfield composed himself.

  Grady inhaled. -Yeah . . . and I've got a recommendation."

  The remark, delivered with a hint of a smile, broke the tension in the air.

  "We had better not," Stanfield emphasized, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the MiG, "fly that goddamn anvil over four hundred knots."

  "Count on it," Spencer said, making the limitation an order. "What happened . . . exactly?"

  "The beast--as a matter of fact--does go out of control above four hundred twenty to four hundred thirty knots.- Grady pulled off one of his sweat-soaked flight gloves. "It just tucked under and started a left-wing roll. I couldn't talk to you," he glanced at Blackwell, "because I had both hands on the stick, trying to counter the roll and get that gomer-engineered stick extender to work.

  "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 the day 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 without looking 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 airst
rip, 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.