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 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.