Stamp nodded. “If it’s defanged. Can’t have guns and shit.”
“But we could put those back on with ease,” Vlad said, smiling, looking around at the Russian mechanics who were studying the plane with a glazed look.
“Yeah.” Stamp laughed. “Second Amendment! The right to bear arms! I need my damned airborne thirty-millimeter gun in my MiG for home defense! Shit, Vlad! Why didn’t I think of that?” He laughed again. “Actually, Vlad,” Stamp said, “I was thinking of asking you guys if you could take over the maintenance. The guys I have doing it in San Jose are good, but if you can do it cheaper or better…”
“Could I fly it?” Vlad asked, his voice full of hope.
“Got any hours?”
“Five hundred. All my early time was in MiG-17s, as you call them.”
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
Vlad was amazed at the life this pilot had carved out for himself. “We can make deal. I will put together proposal. MAPS can get all the parts for MiG-17. We can keep it in top condition. And I will take part payment in flight hours for me. I would like that. Maybe I can show you some things.”
“So, Stamp, what do you do with this thing?” Sluf asked.
“Flight of two MiGs, formation go, high-speed passes, Cuban eights—all kinds of cool stuff the crowds like, but mostly it’s just the uniqueness of seeing two MiGs streaking through the sky, burners going. There’s something forbidden about it.” Stamp took off his gloves and put them inside his helmet.
“What’s up with the vodka?” Thud asked, pointing to smirnoff written in large script on the side of the airplane.
“They’re the ones who make all this possible. They pay for the whole show, plus whatever fees we get out of it. But with my new job, here at the greatest place to fly in the entire free world, I can use the profits of the air show gig to commute in my MiG and live off my new salary. And Captain Luke here,” he said, pointing to Luke, “says I’m okay to do the air show thing on the weekends.”
“Got any room for a third?” Thud asked. “I want my own MiG-17. How much does it cost to get one?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Ninety-five thou. But it’s getting the thing completely up and flying and keeping it there that will cost you.”
“Can you get a MiG-21?”
“Sure. I know where you can get a couple of those right now.”
“Truly?” Vlad asked. He looked at Luke. “Maybe you should get some 21s and 17s for your school. It would give your students a different look. They wouldn’t ever know what was coming. And the MiG-17’s slow-flight performance is better even than the MiG-29.”
Luke thought about it. He’d never even considered it. It was a fabulous idea. “Maybe one day. Right now we’ve got a big enough sandwich to chew. One thing at a time.”
Luke thought about Vlad’s comment as he watched the pilots walk around the MiG-17. Stamp stood next to him and smiled as he watched the insatiable interest over his airplane. “So, Stamp…”
“Yeah?”
“What if we had you plan on flying your hot little MiG for a couple of guest appearances as the mystery fighter in our syllabus?”
Stamp glanced at him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You mean,” Stamp said to those around him, “my big issue when I get up every day will be whether to fly my own MiG-17 or your MiG-29 in aerial combat?”
Luke grinned. “That about sums it up.”
Stamp laughed. “Hurt me.”
Hayes grabbed Luke as he walked down the passageway on the second deck of the Nevada Fighter Weapons School. “Luke. When do our foreign students arrive?”
“Canadians arrived yesterday. You met them. The F-18s are right out there,” he said with a mischievous smile.
Hayes did not return the smile. “You know who I mean.”
“They’ve checked in with approach and should be entering the break in a few minutes. We’re going to go down and greet them on the flight line when they taxi up. You should come.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“You worried about them?”
“I just wanted to meet them.”
“You still doing research on this guy?”
“Not as much as I’d like. I’ve been busy.”
“I’ll say. You’ve got us sold out through February.”
“That didn’t take any skill on my part. Once word got out to the fighter squadrons, it was all over. It’ll be a pipeline. If we do a good job with the first classes through, it’ll take care of itself.”
“That’s the idea.”
“How’s Katherine?”
“Morning sickness is gone, thankfully. She’s doing great. I think she likes the idea of working for herself. If I could only teach her how to drive the bulldozer, I’d get my airstrip finished faster.”
“Airstrip?”
“Sure. That’s why I bought fifty acres. I want my own airstrip where I can fly my own biplane from home and do aero over my house and run out of gas and dead-stick down for dinner.”
Hayes smiled. He could only imagine the joy of owning his own airstrip, his own airplane, and commuting to work to his own private TOPGUN. “I’ll see you down at the flight line. Thirty minutes?”
Luke glanced at his watch. “Maybe sooner than that. They’ll probably be coming into the break in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
Hayes was not the only one who wanted to see the last four Nevada Fighter Weapons School students of the first-ever class. All the other students were there. All the instructors were there. All the maintenance operators from MAPS and the enlisted sailors and Marines who had come with the fleet airplanes to work on those airplanes during the school month were there.
The men stood around in small groups waiting. Luke had had speakers rigged all along the front of the hangar so that those on the flight line and inside the hangar could hear the radio communications with the tower at Tonopah. They could monitor the comings and goings of all the airplanes. The loudspeaker crackled to life with a voice that was deep and heavily accented: “Tonopah tower, this is Gulf Echo 334, a flight of four for the break.”
A calm, highly experienced voice replied, “Roger, 334. You’re cleared for a left-hand break at the numbers.”
All eyes were over the airfield as the four F-16s came over the runway in tight formation. The beautiful silhouettes with the aggressive air intakes under the noses of the small airplanes were beautiful against the crisp blue sky. They were painted a light gray with large block-lettered cang on the tail, for the California Air National Guard. The lead F-16 rolled into a gentle left-hand turn, followed by his wingman, then number three and number four. They all rolled gently in an arc and followed their lead onto the downwind leg, beautifully spaced. The pilots on the ground watched with a critical eye for any signs of incompetence or impressive precision. So far they were impressed. Most of the students—and, if the truth were known, all the instructors—expected the Pakistanis to be hacks, pilots with few hours in the aircraft and virtually incompetent.
The lead Pakistani F-16 turned onto the base leg of his approach and rolled into the groove precisely. His rate of descent was steady, and there was virtually no correction in the approach. Just before hitting the runway, the F-16 flared and touched down quietly. The pilot reduced throttle, and the F-16 coasted. The radio came alive again: “Gulf Echo 334, turn off at the next taxiway.”