"Grady," Brad comforted, "you've probably got some cracked ribs." Brad knew Stanfield's injuries were much more severe than broken ribs. "We've got a medevac on the way, so keep the faith."
Austin gently unhooked the parachute release fittings from Stan-field's torso harness. "Grady, we're going to use your chute to protect you from the sun."
Stanfield moved his lips, but no sound emerged.
Brad handed the fittings to the crash crewman, who gathered the parachute. He and Blackwell worked together to shelter Stanfield from the blazing sun.
"Brad… " Grady burbled in excruciating pain, "what… did I I… what hit…"
"Don't try to talk," Brad said soothingly, and squeezed Stanfield's hand. "Just breathe easy and try to relax." Easy words for me to say.
Austin felt a slight pressure from Grady's fingers. "I'm going to stick with you," he consoled, then said a silent prayer.
Chapter FOURTEEN
Brad paced the long hallway adjacent to the emergency room. Grady Stanfield had been undergoing surgery for over three hours. Brad finally sat in a chair and let the back of his head sag against the wall. He felt exhausted from the shock and stress of the past few hours.
He thought about Leigh Ann and their future relationship. Would she trust him after the Allison incident? He had called the hotel when Grady went into surgery, but Leigh Ann had already checked out.
The memory of Allison van Ingen's tanned body crept into his mind. He wanted to confront Hollis Spencer and find out how he had known about Leigh Ann. It had to be Allison, he reasoned. She must be some type of security specialist.
Austin rubbed his temples to erase Allison's image. She had managed to entice Lex Blackwell into telling her the entire story about the MiG. Lex had been in the wrong, but she had definitely set the trap to snare him.
Grady had been admitted to the hospital without anyone's having to reveal the exact circumstances surrounding the accident. In order not to jeopardize the secret operation, Stanfield's unavoidable mishap would be investigated as part of a routine training-flight exercise.
Spencer had arranged to borrow a Phantom from VF-121. He had instructed Brad to fly the F-4 back to the test site after someone arrived to be with Grady.
Brad's thoughts were interrupted when two navy surgeons walked out of the operating room.
He rose to greet them.
"Is he going to be all right?" he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"We have done everything we can," the taller of the two doctors assured him, "but the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be decisive."
"Lieutenant Commander Stanfield," the other doctor reluctantly offered, "is currently in critical and unstable condition. If he survives, he will be facing a long and arduous healing process."
Brad's heart sank. "Thank you. I know you did the best you could." The taller surgeon patted Brad on the shoulder. "Get some rest. He's getting the best possible care we can provide."
"Yes, sir," Brad replied solemnly. After I fly an F-4 back to the base.
As soon as the doctors left, Brad went to the cafeteria and ate a sandwich. He ignored the stares at his flight suit as he methodically chewed his meal. Like a newsreel being played over and over, Grady's crash kept flashing through his mind. It had happened so quickly that the time sequence seemed to have been compressed.
After eating, Brad walked back to the waiting area. Bending over a water fountain, he was startled when an elderly couple burst through the double hospital doors. They went to the counter and announced themselves as the Stanfields.
Grateful that someone had arrived to be with Grady, Brad quietly slipped out of the hallway. He felt uneasy about not talking with Stanfield's parents, but he did not want to lie to them about the covert operation, or what had really happened to their son. The doctors would provide all the information the Stanfields needed.
The searing heat from the afternoon sun baked Brad Austin while he taxied the borrowed Phantom to the runway. VF-121, the Pacific Fleet replacement training squadron for navy F-4 crews, had hurriedly prepared the Phantom for departure. When Hollis Spencer made a request, he got results.
Although he could not erase Grady Stanfield from his thoughts, Brad was relaxed. It felt good to be in the cockpit of a Phantom again. The crash helmet the squadron executive officer had loaned him felt a little loose, but it would suffice for the short trip.
Closing the forward canopy, Brad switched from ground control to the Miramar control tower.
"Miramar, navy one-one-four is ready."
"Navy one-one-four," the terse voice responded, "cleared on course. Contact departure out of three thousand."
"On the roll," Brad replied, swinging the F-4 onto the runway. He shoved the throttles forward and felt the first chill from the air-conditioning system.
A moment later, Brad selected afterburner and watched the airspeed indicator. He gave his instruments and gauges a last peek before the Phantom clawed its way into the hot afternoon sky. He snapped the landing-gear lever up and glanced at the annunciator panel. Everything was functioning properly.
Passing 3,000 feet, Brad pulled the throttles out of afterburner and switched to departure control. A minute later he was switched to the Los Angeles air route traffic-control center.
Looking toward the Vallecito Mountains, Brad made a firm decision. He would talk with Hollis Spencer about the operation and get some straight answers. As much as Brad respected Spencer, he was disturbed about being deceived. Prior to Stanfield's disastrous crash, Brad had been debating whether to discuss Allison van Ingen with the project officer. Now he was positive that he would discuss her.
Spencer was certainly a driven man. While he had waited for the medevac helicopter to arrive at the crash site, Spencer had requested the F-4 from VF-121 at Miramar. The confirmation that a Phantom would be provided to Spencer had been received before the helicopter was on the scene.
Brad had been adamant about escorting Grady to the hospital, prompting Spencer to ask him to deliver the F-4.
Approaching 15,000 feet, Brad flicked the microphone switch and eased back further on the throttles.
"Los Angeles Center, navy one-one-four."
"Navy one-one-four, Los Angeles."
Brad glanced out at the area surrounding their secret base. "Navy one-fourteen will cancel and go VFR." He was changing his instrument flight plan, with the associated radar coverage, to a visual flight plan.
"Roger," the clipped voice acknowledged. "Squawk one two zero zero, and have a good day."
"Thanks," Brad radioed, switching the IFF to 1200. "One-fourteen is squawking twelve hundred."
Lowering the Phantom's nose, Brad adjusted the throttles and settled into a slow descent. Watching for air traffic, Brad analyzed his situation. If they did fly the MiG over North Vietnam, what were the chances that he might get shot down by an American fighter? Probably fifty-fifty, if he flew enough missions over an extended period of time.
Brad altered course a few degrees to pass behind a corporate jet. What if the North Vietnamese discovered what he was doing? That would double his chances of getting blown out of the sky.
The surface-to-air missiles were another factor to consider. The North Vietnamese regularly fired their SAM missiles right through any melee, often downing their own pilots.
There were a lot of ifs, but the most frightening aspect of the operation was the idea of being shot down and forgotten. The part about the White House disavowing his existence, if tragedy struck, particularly bothered Brad. At least, he thought cynically, the Marine Corps would make every effort to save him if he was downed while flying for them.
It was time for a frank discussion with Hollis Spencer. Surely, Brad thought with a gnawing anger, there must be some type of contingency plans for rescuing the pilots. The CIA damn sure could not expect them to become kamikaze pilots. Brad did not subscribe to the Divine Wind philosophy.