Targets of Opportunity (1993) (20 page)

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." She eyed him for a moment. "This afternoon, according to the doctor I spoke with, Grady was doing extremely well."

Brad sipped his drink. "That's good."

Allison lighted a cigarette. "Yes, it is," she inhaled, "and I have another bit of news for you."

"I can hardly wait," Brad teased.

Allison looked at Brad out of the corner of her eye. "Cap has decided that you will be the primary pilot, and Nick will be your alternate."

Brad stared at the ice in his glass before he looked at Allison. "Am I going to fly all the missions?"

"No," she assured him. "Nick will fly some of the time, but Cap wants you to become intimately knowledgeable with the area . . . and how the MiGs operate."

"What about Lex?"

"He will be the backup," she admitted, "if anything happens to you or Nick."

"Thanks for letting me know."

"Cap will talk to you later, but I thought you would like to know." Brad sat quietly, aware of Allison's gaze.

"I had hoped," she began tentatively, "that you would be the reserve pilot."

Brad slowly turned to Allison. "Why?"

"Because I care about you," she confided with a warm smile, then shrugged her shoulders. "At least I'm honest about my feelings for you."

He met Allison's eyes, but kept his real thoughts about her to himself "You should have been a fighter pilot, as tenacious as you are."

"Women would be," she replied with a touch of sarcasm, "if you chauvinistic hot dogs weren't afraid of the competition."

"Ouch," Brad said, and winced. "I believe I hit a nerve."

"Think about it, hot shot." Allison forced a smile. "Women could fl
y f
ighters . . . if we were given an opportunity to prove ourselves." "We just hit the hard deck." Brad laughed pleasantly. "Could we cal l o ff the fight?"

Allison cocked her head to one side and gave him a beguiling smile. "Whatever you say, Captain:"

Brad heard the sound of the jets taxiing toward the hangar. "I guess we better go to the debrief "

Allison extinguished her cigarette. "Yes, I suppose so."

Chapter
EIGHTEEN

The morning was warm and dry when Brad and Lex Blackwell walked across the hot ramp to the waiting fighter planes. A lone hawk circled high overhead, prompting Austin to look at the blackened wreckage of the F-8 Crusader. He forced himself to concentrate on the present and not dwell on the crash.

"Hey, Lex," Brad said with a serious look, "Aviatsiya protivovozdushnoi oborony strany."

Blackwell laughed aloud. "What the hell was that? 'Let's kick the tires, and light the fires' in Russian?"

"Something about the Soviet Air Force for home defense, I think." Brad observed Nick Palmer speak to Hollis Spencer, then walk toward them. "Anyway, I thought it sounded good when I listened to the tape.
"

When Nick reached the Phantom, Brad smartly saluted him. "Zdrastvuytye, comrade. Kak pozhivayete?"

Palmer gave him a flashy smile and slung his helmet bag over the cockpit boarding steps. "I am fine, comrade . . . and good morning. You must be a fighter pilot in the Voenno Vozdushniye Sily."

"Nyet." Brad squinted into the sun. "Aviatsiya voenno morskovo flota."

"Oh," Nick replied, remembering the words on the language tape. "You're a fleet pilot in the naval air force."

"Da, comrade." Brad grinned confidently. "Aviatsiya osobovo naznacheniya." Special-purpose air arm.

"You guys are killing me," Blackwell protested. "I'm sick of hearing your butchered Russian."

"Partner," Nick mimicked Lex, "ya dang sure better learn your Russian, 'cause your Hopalong Cassidy act ain't gonna whack it."

"Let's get on with this," Brad said impatiently, "so we can get the hell out of here."

"I've got an idea," Lex suddenly blurted. "How about an off-to-Laos blowout this evening . . . at the apartment?"

Palmer had started preflighting the Phantom. "Sounds good to me, since we're basically confined to quarters."

"Brad?" Lex asked.

"Sure," Brad declared with a mischievous grin.

"We'll invite Allison," Blackwell suggested, "and throw her ass in the pool."

"I'm not sure she's ready for our animal act," Brad replied with reluctance in his voice.

"I'll invite her." Nick smiled, and looked at Lex. "And we aren't going to throw her in the pool."

Lex started up the side of the F-4, pausing by the rear cockpit. "Brad," he grinned, "are you going to tell your 'lady friend' that Allison is going to Laos with us?"

Brad looked up at Blackwell. "Yes," he laughed, "when the time is right."

Lex belly-laughed. "You mean when you muster up enough courage to tell her."

"You're right," Brad admitted. "It's going to be dicey, to say the least."

Blackwell set his helmet on the canopy rail. "Like spraying a wasps' nest with a garden hose."

Brad nodded his head and walked to the MiG. He placed his helmet on the wing and carefully checked the drop tanks, smoke canister, and cannons. After a thorough preflight of the MiG, Brad mounted the ladder propped against the fuselage and settled into the now familiar cockpit.

The plane captain climbed the ladder, then assisted Brad with his harness straps, g suit, and helmet.

"Have a good flight, Captain," the man said as he backed down the ladder.

"Thanks."

Brad studied the blue sky and puffy clouds leisurely floating overhead. The hawk was still making lazy circles high above the hangar. I'm going to call Leigh Ann on Saturday and tell her that Allison is a member of this project, and will be going overseas with us.

The sound of Palmer bringing the Phantom to life brought Austin back to the moment. He ran through the prestart checklist and looked at the plane captain. Holding a fire extinguisher, the man gave Brad a thumbs-up signal.

Austin energized the starter. His adrenaline was as high as it had been prior to his first carrier qualification at night. It was time to become a real test pilot.

Leveling off at 15,000 feet, Brad glanced over his shoulder at Palmer and Blackwell. Their Phantom was stabilized in a standard loose-deuce formation off the MiG's right wing.

Austin meticulously checked his cockpit instruments and switches, paying special attention to the release actuator for the drop tanks. After examining the smoke-canister toggle switch, Brad verified that the armament panel for the cannons was in the off position.

Brad scanned the empty sky, looking for any stray aircraft that might have wandered into the confined airspace. He looked out at the fuel-laden drop tanks. The extra weight of the jet fuel had made his takeoff run much longer than usual. He checked his airspeed at 380 knots.

"Nick," Brad radioed, "drop back in trail, and we'll see if the tanks will stay with me."

"Wilco. "

"Here we go," Brad announced, and pulled the nose up fifteen degrees. He executed an aileron roll, followed by a barrel roll, leveled the wings momentarily, then snapped into a knife-edge 360-degree turn. He held 4 g's, increasing the pull to 5 g's during the last quarter of the turn.

"They feel solid," Brad advised Hollis Spencer and the F-4 crew on his tail.

"Copy," Spencer acknowledged. "Put it in a dive and pull out at four hundred knots.
"

"Roger," Brad replied as he eased the nose up slightly, rolled inverted, then pulled the nose down in a split-S.

"You still with me?" Austin asked Palmer.

"Glued to your ass."

Watching the airspeed indicator spin toward 400 knots, Brad bega
n e
asing back on the stick. "Coming up," he groaned. Five g's, then 6 g's registered on the g meter.

Austin leveled out and checked the tip tanks. "They'll take at least six g's."

"Okay, Brad," Spencer broadcast, "try the smoke, and then make a couple of firing passes."

"Wilco," Austin answered, and reached for the safety cover over the smoke toggle switch. "Lex, you ready to time this?"

"Go for it," Blackwell shot back.

Brad rolled the MiG and toggled the switch. He let the nose fall through the horizon and continued the spiral. The bleak desert spun around and around in front of his canopy.

"That's it," Blackwell informed everyone when the grayish-black smoke stopped spewing from the tail-mounted canister.

"Eleven seconds flat," Lex reported with a note of disappointment.

"The smoke really pours out, but we need to make it darker." "Copy," Spencer responded, tossing a glance at Hank Murray. Brad eased back the throttle and turned toward the airfield. "I'
m i nbound for the firing runs."

"The range is clear," Spencer announced, looking across the runway at the fifteen-foot-high mound of sand.

Murray's men had bulldozed another two feet of sand and dirt on the firing range. The target was over 3,000 feet from the hangar, which afforded a margin of safety for the curious onlookers.

Watching the target sleeve grow larger in his windshield, Brad selected the armed position for the cannons. They would fire simultaneously, causing the shells to appear to converge in the distance.

Brad glanced at the hangar. "I'm in hot."

"Roger," Spencer drawled.

Waiting until the colorful sleeve filled his gun sight, Brad gently squeezed the trigger. The MiG vibrated while a three-second burst of fiery shells erupted from the twin cannons.

"Jesus," Brad said to himself as the tracers ripped across the sand and tore through the middle of the large white and red sleeve.

He yanked the stick back and shoved the throttle to the stop. "They're firing as straight as an arrow, but a little low on the pipper."

"Copy that," Spencer radioed curtly. "Make three passes--all the same airspeed and angle=to see if it changes."

"Wilco:"

Brad flew the second pass with the same results. He wished they ha
d a
n aircraft to tow a sleeve for actual air-to-air gunnery practice, but they were restricted by time. Spencer had vetoed the idea of using the Phantom as a tow aircraft.

"Still low," Brad informed the group on the ground. "I'm going to try something else."

On the third strafing run, he raised the pipper slightly above the target and squeezed the trigger. A stream of fire shot straight at the sleeve, ripping it to shreds as the MiG blasted overhead.

"I think the problem is solved," Brad reported with satisfaction. He disarmed his cannons and made a mental note of where the pipper was when he fired the burst. If he had to, Brad would draw a cross hair with a grease pencil to mark the aiming point.

"That's good to hear," Spencer answered with an audible sigh. "Make a level pass over the firing range, and punch off your drop tanks."

Brad clicked his mike twice and slowed the MiG to 240 knots. He leveled at 1,200 feet above the ground and lined up with the firing range.

"Nick," Brad transmitted, "are you clear?"

"We're at your four o'clock--clear."

Austin craned his neck and looked back over his right shoulder. "Roger that."

Brad glanced at the small group of bystanders on the hangar ramp. "Here they go," he calmly announced as he approached midfield.

A second later, Brad flicked the drop-tank switch. All at once, his worst nightmare flashed through his mind as the control stick violently jerked to the left.

"Son of a bitch," Brad swore as he yanked the stick to the right and snapped the throttle to idle. The left wing continued to drop.

"Your left tank didn't jettison!" Palmer radioed.

Brad fought the controls as the heavy left wing rotated the MiG around its longitudinal axis. The nose fell through the horizon, filling the windshield with a view of the rapidly approaching ground.

Terrified, Brad started to eject, hesitated a split second, then again flipped the drop-tank switch.

The fuel tank popped loose and tumbled away as Brad desperately wrestled the MiG's controls.

"Pull up!" Spencer shouted. "Get the nose up!"

Brad rolled wings level and snatched the stick back. "Oh, God . . . ," he muttered through clenched teeth as the MiG bottomed out at less than a hundred feet.

"Close," Palmer radioed in a hollow voice.

Brad climbed steeply and fumbled through the process of lowering the landing gear. He could feel the adrenaline shock to his heart.

"I think," Blackwell dryly suggested, "we better just weld the sonuvabitches onto the wing."

Brad concentrated on airspeed and lineup as he approached the runway. Against his training as a carrier pilot, Austin flared the MiG prior to touching down. He rolled to the end of the strip and stopped in the turnaround area.

"Do you need any assistance?" Spencer asked, relieved that he did not have to witness another crash.