But he saw him. And instead of opening the engine gates and running like hell— his briefed routine, his orders, the prudent thing to do, what he absolutely would have done in ninety-nine out of one hundred other chances— he tucked his wing, pushing the stick as he began a ballet maneuver that suckered the MiG into following into a dive-and-scissors roll. He saw it all in his head a split-second before it happened: the second of danger as the enemy sighted him; the spin around instead of breaking off; behind the enemy now; the 20mm M61A1 cannon rotating slowly at first, then gaining momentum as he caught the MiG just behind his right wing, and stayed with him as the plane jinked, and stayed with him until he realized the commie bastard was out of it; seeing the wing breaking off even as he fought his own stick to level off; and finally getting the hell out of here, straight on course for home.
It turned out another F-105 pilot had seen the whole thing, raved like hell, and Knowlington had earned the first of his long series of “good” nicknames, “Killer Kid,” and notched an improbable air-to-air victory in a plane not known as much of a dogfighter. His victory was due as much to surprise and probably inexperience on the MiG pilot’s part as his own skill, but that was the sort of thing that got glossed over in the first rush of victory. In any event he had plenty of chances later to show it wasn’t just luck that kept his wings in the air.
So long ago now, though the surprise in his chest when he realized he’d nailed that son of a bitch still felt fresh.
More than twenty years. Shit, twenty-five. He should be long-since retired.
Or made a general, though everyone knew why that didn’t happen.
Skull blinked his eyes and turned away from the runway, hoping to wipe his mind clean. Replaying old glories was something you did when you were sitting down for dinner at the old age home.
Or when you were drinking. He headed back toward his office. Maybe he’d reread the Devil’s frag— the portion of the air tasking order that pertained to them. The next-day’s to-do list had ten of the squadron’s twelve planes committed to battle. It was a tight schedule, with one left in the repair shop and only one other as a spare. Even so, if the crew got the damaged plane back together in time, the backups might be tasked for their own mission.
Knowlington was dying to lead a mission himself. He’d been told not to, and there were good reasons for him to follow orders— starting with the fact that they were orders— but still. What good was a squadron commander who didn’t fly?
He put his head down, pushing the question and its inevitable answer from his mind as he walked back toward his office.
He was a few steps from the door to Hog Heaven when he was caught by the bear-like voice of Chief Master Sergeant Alan Clyston, his “capo di capo”. Clyston not only headed the squadron’s enlisted contingent but oversaw the squadron’s maintenance efforts personally, arranged for all manner of off-line items to appear with paperwork signed (or lost), and knew more than the World Book Encyclopedia on any subject anyone could quiz him on.
In short, a typical chief.
“There you are, Colonel,” said the Chief in his most respectful public voice. Clyston’s grin, though, betrayed the fact that he had known Knowlington well before he’d achieved that rank. He had, in fact, been a member of the crew that took care of the Thunderchief Knowlington had just been thinking about.
The chief’s memory of the plane would undoubtedly be a great deal different than the colonel’s. The Thunderchiefs were notoriously difficult to maintain.
“What’s up, Alan?”
“Got a little bit of a hitch. Need a check pilot, and Captain Rogers is down with that flu or whatever the hell he’s got. Still puking his guts out.”
“Three’s back together?”
“My guys got it buffed and shined, Colonel. Shit, you give them any more time and they’re going to put a sunroof in.”
“I’ll take it up,” snapped Knowlington.
“Sir?”
The ‘sir’— with its attached tone of surprise— hurt. Knowlington endeavored to turn it into a joke. “Afraid I’m going to break your plane?”
“No, sir, Colonel. Not at all. I just thought maybe you’d borrow somebody from one of the other units.”
Though he commanded the squadron, Knowlington had come to his post through a round-about series of events. He actually had barely a hundred hours in the A-10 cockpit, by far the lowest of the squadron’s pilots. The inspection flight called for a prescribed set of maneuvers designed to stress its systems in different regimes; it was far from a picnic, and ordinarily handled by a functional test pilot, someone who had considerable experience with the plane.
Still, it was no reason for the concern evident on his chief’s face.
“You’re thinking I can’t do a milk run?”
“No way, sir. You’ll do fine.”
“Good. When do you need me?”
“As soon as you can, Colonel.”
“Good. I’ll be right over.”
Clyston held eye contact for just a second longer than necessary. Knowlington chucked his old crew chief a sharp punch to the shoulder. “Meet you out back, Chief,” he said, heading away before his old friend could decide what words ought to go with that look.
CHAPTER 6
In normal times, Lieutenant Col. Fred Parsons flew a commercial 747 for American Airlines. The big Boeing was a handsome plane, predictable, steady and recently upgraded with every bell and whistle the Seattle wizards could stuff into the cockpit. She was everything the FAA and a travel agent could want in an airliner.
Which meant she was boring as hell.
The G model F-4 Phantom he was hot-sticking had more miles on her than a fleet of Greyhound buses. Smoke poured out of her tail thicker than a wet barbecue, making her easy to spot at a distance. In full-afterburner go-for-it mode she could top the sound barrier, but the Vietnam-era mainstay couldn’t come close to matching the top end of an Eagle or even the Grumman Tomcat, her Navy successor. This particular plane also had a tendency to drag her left wing— not so much that the maintenance crew could figure out what the hell it was, but enough so the pilot felt it on a hard-butt turn.
He loved it.
Never very good as a twisty-turny hot rod, the Phantom hailed from an era when designers first realized missiles and beyond-visual range tactics were the way to go in a dogfight. They got so excited about the future that they forgot about the present. Her real value was as a sled for every imaginable weapon and fantasy the air force and navy could load under her wings. The Phantom was still flying now, nearly forty years after being conceived, because the two-seater could accommodate all manner of equipment without completely compromising performance. Just over fifty radar antennas were currently feeding data to Parson’s backseat wizard, who in the great tradition of weapons officers or backseaters went by the name of “Bear.” The Phantom could carry nearly her weight in arms and fuel— and at 29,000 pounds soaking wet, that was a very full load of groceries. The fact that she had a backseat allowed Parson to concentrate on flying while Bear studied the dials and maybe the latest copy of Playboy.
Equipped with extra fuel tanks, the Phantom could also stay aloft for an incredibly long time, an asset that Parsons was putting to good use at the moment, just entering his third hour in Indian country. He and another Weasel had started the afternoon with a bombing package, looking to suppress integrated SAM defenses deep in Iraq. The other Weasel had launched a pair of missiles at one of the sites, but otherwise the mission had been so quiet Parsons had gladly brushed aside his fatigue when the request came to assist the Hogs on their Scud-hunting gig.