At the same time, the plane remained an easy aircraft to fly. She just loved being in the air.
Sitting at the end of the runway, Turk got clearance and ramped the engine. The Hog galloped forward, gently rising off the concrete after he had gone only 1,200 feet — a better rollout than most other aircraft he’d flown.
He cleaned his landing gear, then following the controller’s directions, flew north over the Mediterranean to an airspace cleared of traffic.
Turk’s A–10E helmet duplicated the glass cockpit a pilot saw in an A–1 °C, and though it didn’t have quite the customization he was used to, it was nonetheless easy to deal with. The center of the board had the familiar attitude indicator, a large floating ball that told the pilot where his wings were in relation to the world — not always something that came intuitively, especially in battle. The heading indicator just below showed where the nose was going — again, an all-important check for the senses. To their right and slightly above, the climb indicator and altimeter did the obvious; a row of clock-style gauges at the lower right showed the aircraft’s vitals.
Ironically, the least familiar parts of the pseudocockpit for Turk were the most modern. The multiuse displays had a number of different modes, which he stumbled through slowly as he made sure he was familiar with the aircraft. The data transfer system, the embedded GPS navigation, and even the status page — a computer screen detailing system problems — were far different than what he was used to in the Tigershark. He had only to say a few words to get a response in the sleek F–40; here, he had to punch buttons and think about what he was doing.
But even hitting those buttons and occasionally pausing over the screens couldn’t detract from the solid feel of the aircraft around him.
Planes had a definite soul, basic flight characteristics that they seemed to come back to no matter the circumstances. The Tigershark moved quickly. She turned quickly, and she went forward quickly. Given her head, she accelerated. This could certainly get her in trouble — a quick flick of the wrist on the stick, and the plane could pull more g’s than Turk could stand.
The Hog’s nature was completely different. She was more a solid middle linebacker than a fleet receiver. Not to say she wasn’t nimble: she could dance back and forth, even sideways, as a few minutes of experimentation with her rudder pedals showed him. But her true nature was stability. Beat her into a turn, abuse her into a dive, jab her into a sharp climb — she came back gentle and solid.
The original A–10s were designed to be reliable, predictable weapons platforms, and the changes had left that completely alone. Try as Turk did to abuse it, the plane kept coming back for more. It went exactly where he pointed it, never overreacting to his control inputs.
In fact, Turk had so much fun putting the aircraft through its basic paces that he felt almost disappointed when it was time to land. The only consolation was that another Hog was sitting on the tarmac near the hangar waiting for him.
“All your controls solid, Captain?” asked Ginella, who walked over to the plane as he descended the ladder.
“They were kick-ass,” he told her, hopping down.
“Good. Don’t break this next one. They had a little trouble with the indicators on the starboard engine,” she added, her voice instantly serious. “Be gentle, all right? We don’t want to give the SAR people too much work this afternoon.”
“Gentle is my middle name,” he told her.
“I’ll bet you say that to all the women,” bellowed Beast, who walked over from behind the plane.
“Play nice now,” said Ginella. “Captain Mako, Beast is going to check out Shooter Four while you’re in Six. Don’t let him trip you up.”
“I’ll try to stay out of his way,” said Turk.
A few hours later Turk tested the engines on the ramp, his brakes set to hold him in place. If there had been an actual problem with the jet, there was no sign of it now. The instruments said the power plants were smooth and ready, and his gut agreed.
With Beast following in his trail, Turk took the aircraft skyward. All of the indicators were pegged at showroom stats, systems as green as green could be.
When they reached their testing area, Turk took a long circle around his airspace. He told Beast to stand by, then spooled the starboard engine down. The Hog didn’t entirely welcome flying on one engine, but she complied, reacting like a calm, indulgent workhorse. The plane jumped a bit when he brought the engine back on line, but there was no drama, no emergency. Nor did anything untoward happen when he flew on only the starboard motor.
“I think we’re good,” he told Beast.
“Hey yeah, roger that,” replied the other pilot. “How do you like the Hog?”
“It’s nice. I like it a lot.”
“As good as that little go-cart you fly?”
“The Tigershark is a special plane,” said Turk.
Beast laughed. “Fly with us enough and you’ll think the Hog is, too.”
“Shooter Four, Shooter Six, be advised you have two aircraft heading toward Box Area Three,” said the controller, alerting them to an approaching flight. “Call sign is Provence.”
A few seconds later Provence leader checked in. The planes were a pair of Rafale C multirole fighters. The Frenchmen had just arrived in Sicily.
“What are you up to, Provence leader?” asked Beast.
“Just getting some flight time and checking our systems,” responded the flight leader.
Turk saw the two planes approaching from the southwest. The Rafales were delta-wing fighters, developed by France in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Originally conceived as air superiority fighters, they had retained those genes as they matured to handle a variety of other roles. While the aircraft might not match American F–22s, they were nonetheless extremely capable dogfighters. In fact, in a close-range knife fight against a Raptor, the smart money would be on the Frenchmen; much smaller than the F–22, they could turn tighter and fly extremely slow: a little appreciated value in an old-fashioned fur ball.
Of course, any Raptor pilot worth his salt would have shot them down at beyond-visual range, but where was the fun in that?
“You boys looking for a little practice?” asked Beast.
“Pardon? Excusez?” said the French leader. “What is it you are asking?”
“Let’s see what you can do,” said Beast. He pushed his throttle and pointed the nose of the A–10E upward, in effect daring the Rafale to follow.
An “ordinary” Hog would have more than a little difficulty going nose up in the sky, but the enhanced power plants in Shooter Four brought her into a ninety degree climb almost instantly. Turk watched as the Rafales swung over to follow. Though caught a little flat-footed — a challenge from the ungainly Hogs must have been the last thing they expected — the two French fighters soon began to catch up, angling toward the A–10’s path. Then, just as it looked as if they would complete an intercept and put themselves in a position to wax Beast’s fanny, the Hog fell off hard to the right, diving down toward the purple-blue of the ocean.
Again the Frenchmen were caught off-guard. By the time they started to react, cutting off the climb and circling to the east, Beast had recovered and was looping underneath them.
From where Turk was flying, it was hard for him to see if Beast ended up on one of the Frenchman’s tails, but Beast’s laughter over the radio sure made it seem as if he had.
“Ya gotta watch out,” he told the Frenchman. “This is not your daddy’s Warthog.”
Turk turned his plane toward the others, waiting as the Rafales broke away. There was no way Beast could keep up, and so he didn’t, climbing merrily and then circling back to the south as they spun away.