Noticing Murray's quiet restraint, Stanfield decided not to ask any more questions, at least until his relationship with the crusty captain warmed. "Thank you, sir," Stanfield said as he backed down the wooden steps.
"You're welcome," the engineer acknowledged, returning to his conversation with the instrumentation specialist.
"Let's stow your gear," Spencer suggested with a smile, "and we'll go over the program we've outlined."
"Yes, sir," the fresh-faced pilot replied, shaking his head. "This is really incredible. The cockpit looks like it was designed by a committee where no one talked with each other."
The wind whipped across the top of Brad's hair as he wheeled the Mustang convertible through the turn leading to the Miramar Naval Air Station. Brad had spent the night in Santa Ana, but he had followed his orders and had not contacted any of his friends at the El Toro Marine Corps Air Station. He had started to call Leigh Ann, then decided to wait until he was situated in his new quarters.
After a hearty breakfast, Brad had checked on his stored Corvette before departing for San Diego. He longed to drive the 427-cubic-inch Stingray, but he had been explicitly instructed to use a rental car without a base sticker.
Approaching the gate to the air station, Brad slowed and brought the car to a smooth stop. The guard scrutinized Brad's government identification card, scanned the wrinkled sheet on his clipboard, then gave Brad permission to enter the base.
The bar in the officers' club was unusually quiet for a weekend afternoon. Brad selected a stool near the end of the counter, ordered a beer, and let his mind drift to more pleasant things. He pictured sailing with Leigh Ann across San Diego Bay.
"Brad Austin!" a voice exclaimed from across the room.
Startled, Brad turned to see Nick Palmer walking toward him. "You son of a bitch," Palmer said, thrusting his hand toward his friend, "it's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too," Brad replied as the two pilots shook hands enthusiastically. "What the hell are you doing in this part of the world?"
"I'm in the navy, remember?" Palmer laughed aloud. "And this is a naval air station."
Cautiously, Brad glanced around the room. "Let's grab a table, and I'll buy you a cold one."
"Fair enough." Palmer grinned and grasped Brad on the shoulder. "We've missed you."
The two men had become close friends when Brad was serving as an exchange pilot with a carrier-based navy fighter squadron. They had flown together on a number of combat missions, alternating between flight leader and wingman.
Considered the two best aviators in the F-4 Phantom squadron, each had an "official" MiG kill to his credit. Austin had destroyed two additional MiGs at Phuc Yen, but they had not been disclosed in the ensuing bureaucratic cover-up.
An inch short of six feet, Nick Palmer had an athletic physique and movie-idol looks. His light-brown hair and easy smile never failed to attract women. A graduate of Princeton University, "Nick the Stick" Palmer was the oldest son of a wealthy manufacturing mogul.
The bar was almost empty, and Brad relaxed. He ordered two beers and followed Nick to a table.
"Seriously," Palmer asked as they sat down, "what is a jarhead doing at Miramar?"
Feeling a pang of trepidation, Brad hesitated a moment. He did not want to lie to his friend. "Actually, Nick, it's a crazy story. One that I'm not at liberty to discuss… even with close friends."
The look of surprise was clearly evident on Palmer's face. He took a quick swig of his beer. "You've been recruited — actually you volunteered — to become a test pilot, right?"
Austin blanched, then leaned closer to Palmer. "Nick, what the hell are you talking about?"
Palmer inhaled deeply while he cast a quick look at the bar. No one was paying any attention to them.
"Brad, I have been invited to become a test pilot. Only thing is, the job is not at Pax River."
"Jesus H. Christ," Brad whispered through his unmoving lips. "I'm in the same shit."
Palmer tilted his glass up, swallowing the remaining contents in three gulps. "What were you told?"
"I was offered the assignment by a civilian — some kind of adviser to the military."
"What'd he say?"
"Basically," Brad softly chuckled, "he said his project — or whatever the hell it is — is so secret that the Marine Corps would have to forget about me while I'm assigned to the operation."
Palmer signaled for the cocktail waitress. "That's the same spiel that I heard. I was also informed that the fastest way to a court-martial is to even mention the project."
"The craziest thing," Brad shook his head, "is the fact that the Marine Corps sent me all the way to Bangkok to meet this guy with an eye patch—"
"Goddamn," Palmer interrupted in shock. "It sounds to me like the same fellow…"
Brad sat back and looked at Nick intently. "Do you feel like we're in the Twilight Zone?"
Palmer nodded and looked up at the waitress. "I'll have a double scotch and soda."
The sun had just dipped below the horizon when Austin and Palmer drove into the parking lot of the Snug Harbor Lounge. They had chosen the nondescript lounge after deciding to leave the officers' club. Both men had agreed that, sooner or later, someone they knew would walk in and discover them.
They locked the convertible and took in the sights and sounds of San Diego Bay. The natural harbor was the home of a vast armada of navy warships and their support vessels.
Brad became absorbed in watching a sloop preparing to dock at a marina below them. "If we're going to be here for any length of time, let's get an apartment close to the water."
"If they'll let us," Nick responded, giving his attention to a destroyer entering the mouth of the harbor. "What do you think this test-pilot deal is about?"
"I don't know," Brad answered, turning toward the door of the cocktail lounge. "Since we've both shot down MiGs, they may have some new top-secret tactics that they want us to try. That, or some 'gee whiz' type of experimental gun pod… to augment our missiles."
Palmer stopped short, prompting Austin to hesitate and face him. "Brad, why would anyone — the military in particular — go to such trouble to sign us up for some off-the-wall scheme… like being test pilots when we aren't test pilots?"
Brad's eyes followed a shapely blonde as she got out of a white Mercedes roadster and entered the club. "Nick, I'm not sure what the guy sporting the eye patch was about, but he definitely has the horsepower to make things happen."
A worried look crossed Palmer's face while both pilots thought about the situation.
"We are no longer in the military," Brad remarked at last. The guy had the authority to give us travel vouchers, orders, money, and when we got here, we had BOQ rooms… but he isn't in the military."
Palmer stated the obvious conclusion for them both. "He's with the spooks — the cloak-and-dagger crew."
Unsmiling, Brad darted a look at two couples approaching the entrance to the lounge. "Like in the trench coats and wide-brimmed hats?"
"That's right."
"Nick," Austin laughed aloud, "why in the world would the CIA be screwing around with a couple of guys like us?"
"Level with me, Brad." Palmer eyed him with suspicion. "Don't bullshit me. If you know what's going on, and you're giving me a runaround, I'm going to—"
"How would I know what this is about?" Austin interrupted, feeling a sudden sense of foreboding. "Nick, I don't have the foggiest idea why we're here."
A hint of a smile creased Palmer's face. "Doesn't it seem coincidental to you that we are together again — from the same squadron on the same carrier — on some kind of harebrained 'I led three lives' type of operation?"