While Nick and Brad absorbed the English version of the aircraft performance and systems operations manual, the MiG technicians were busy converting the airspeed readings from kilometers to nautical miles per hour. They had also changed the instructions and placards in the cockpit to English.
The MiG-17, manufactured by State Industries in the Soviet Union, had been obtained from Czechoslovakia in a complex exchange of military technology. The information that the United States had provided was outdated and essentially useless, but served the purpose.
While Operation Achilles was getting underway, diplomatic efforts to acquire the highly touted MiG-21 were continuing.
With their lawn chairs tilted back and their feet propped on the railing, Brad and Nick had a commanding view of Mission Bay and the Pacific Ocean.
Grady Stanfield, who had opted to remain in his BOQ, had granted his three charges permission to live off base. Lex Blackwell had elected to rent an apartment in the same complex. The three men had studied the MiG information together during the previous three days, then confined themselves to their apartment grounds during the evenings.
"Can you believe," Palmer asked with a grin, "that we're actually going to blast off in a Russian-manufactured flying machine?"
"After I've got it up and down in one piece," Brad looked over the top of his sunglasses, "I'll believe it."
Brad dropped his feet to the deck and closed his systems manual. "This is a jerry-built Spam can… something like Spanky and Alfalfa would have designed."
"That's true," Nick replied, marking his place in the MiG folder, "but it's a very effective fighter if it's flown by a competent pilot."
Acknowledging the remark, Brad opened his manual and leaned toward Nick. "Look at this Mickey Mouse pump. It activates the flaps and landing gear?"
Palmer suppressed a laugh. "Hell, I've seen washing machines that were more sophisticated than this bag of trash."
"According to my calculations," Austin grumbled, "it's going to take about a minute to lower the landing gear. You have to lift a toggle switch, flip the pump on, wait until the pressure comes up, then lower the gear. If you're fortunate enough to have the rollers lock in place, you turn the pump off and cover the toggle switch." Brad looked at the blue sea and watched the swells roll toward shore. "Nothing but the best."
"That," Nick chuckled to himself, "is what you get when you pull Ivan off the tractor assembly line and tell him to go build a jet airplane."
Brad shook his head. "It's amazing that something built so crudely, at least by our standards, performs so well."
"Here's an item," Palmer exclaimed, "from the bad news — good news department. They've got an air cylinder mounted on the front of the engine. If you have a flameout, which I'd guess is likely to happe n a bove forty thousand feet, you pull this switch, and presto — the Klimov gets a gulp of pressurized air… and you're off and motoring again." Nick leaned back and closed his eyes. "Why didn't our aero engineers think of that?"
"Too simple."
The telephone rang in the middle of the MiG discussion. Brad was pleasantly surprised when he lifted the receiver and heard Allison van Ingen's distinct voice. It had been four days since their adventure on the town.
After a short conversation, Brad opened two beers and walked out to the balcony.
"Who was it?" Nick asked as he clutched one of the cold bottles. "None other than your debutante friend."
Nick looked up with a broad smile. "You're kidding. I gave her our telephone number after we got our apartment, but I figured she had written us off since we haven't heard from her."
"Well, that is obviously not the case," Brad replied, leaning against the railing. "She invited us to a cocktail buffet on her daddy's yacht. She gave me the directions."
"No shit?"
"This evening." Brad grinned. "She apologized for the short notice, but remembered that we would be gone for a week, starting tomorrow
Nick tossed his folder into his flight bag. "I'll give her a call and see if Lex can join us."
"I already asked. He's invited too."
"I wonder," Palmer tilted his head, "how old she is."
"Since when did age make a difference? I've seen you stalk them from sixteen to sixty."
Nick formed a crooked smile. "She's gotta be late twenties, early thirties, wouldn't you say?"
"At least," Brad responded, then grew serious. "I think I'll pass on the invitation. Leigh Ann is going to be here a week from Saturday, and I want to avoid any further familiarity with Allison. She strikes me as the type who could get an innocent guy in a hell of a lot of trouble."
Nick gave Brad an inquisitive look. "Have you cleared Leigh Ann's visit with Spencer?" There was a hint of apprehension in his voice.
"Grady didn't say we couldn't have dates." Brad smiled, then added, "And who will tell? Leigh Ann is an old friend from Memphis. Coincidence."
"Well," Palmer awkwardly replied, "I'm not going to say anything, but you better keep her sequestered somewhere so she won't find out about the project."
"You're right." Brad rolled his eyes. "If Leigh Ann knows you're in town, she'll want to see you." She had met Nick when he and Brad had been stationed together on an aircraft carrier. "And she'll want to know what we're doing together."
"How long is she going to be here?"
Brad gazed thoughtfully across the bay. "Just for the weekend. I think she has finals a week later."
Palmer laughed quietly. "I'm sure she'll get a lot of studying done." Brad gave him a sly smile, then finished his beer and stared at two sleek sailboats crossing the bay.
"Come on," Nick enthusiastically urged. "Let's get Lex," he jerked a thumb toward Blackwell's apartment, "and go see Allison's yacht." Brad gave him a questioning look.
"It will do you good… take your mind off things."
Stretching his arms over his head, Brad laughed good-naturedly. "Yeah, I doubt if anyone on a yacht would recognize us."
With Palmer in the lead, Brad and Lex walked down the pier toward the 114-foot Feadship. The graceful vessel was gaily decorated and brightly lighted. Two crew members were taking in the colorful nautical flags as the horizon split the orange glow of the sun. Although Bellwether was impressive, she did appear to be in need of cosmetic repairs.
Nick was attired in a navy-blue sports coat adorned with a Larchmont Yacht Club crest. His white slacks and deck shoes completed the nautical theme.
Brad had selected a conservative gray suit, while Lex had dressed in dark slacks, polished cowboy boots, and a western shirt with pearl snaps.
Lex Blackwell was intrigued by all of the yachts, and the accompanying trappings of wealth. "Hey, Nick. Do you really belong to a yacht club?"
"Sure. Doesn't everyone?" he kidded. "It's de rigueur where my parents live. They have been members for years."
"Yeah," Lex drawled, "it was a tough decision."
"What was tough?" Brad asked while he looked at two other yachts that were nestled against the pier.
"Deciding which Waxahachie yacht club to join. "
Blackwell heard laughter from a party on a gleaming Hatteras that was docked across from Bellwether. "How'd you guys stumble into this deal?" His nasal twang belied his intelligence.
"I'll tell you later," Brad answered as they caught sight of a group of people chatting on Bellwether's open fantail.
Boarding the opulent yacht, Nick and Brad spotted Allison conversing with another woman in the saloon. Allison politely excused herself and walked toward them.