"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."