Once past the valley, Skipper clicked back over the radio. “Bring it back up to five thousand. We’ll go in for a strafing run — keep above two-fifty feet when you bottom out.”
Charlie clicked back over the radio as Bruce pulled back on the stick. “I thought this was only going to be a look-see.”
Bruce switched over to intercom. “Skipper’s getting nervous. He knows we aren’t going to get any flying in the next two weeks, and wants us to practice.”
They reached five thousand feet and circled Crow Valley in a broad, loitering pattern. There was a hint of clouds forming over the mountains, and off to the west Bruce could barely make out a line of wispy features, delineating a weather front. Skipper confirmed that they were still cleared for the airspace.
Skipper’s voice came over the radio. “One’s in dry.”
The range officer came back, “Clear dry, One.”
Bruce craned his neck to the left and made out Skipper’s bomb run. The F-15 tore down toward the ground, breaking from the loose formation. Dropping from nearly a mile above the ground, Skipper’s jet grew smaller and smaller, making it difficult to pick out in the surrounding jungle. Even the F-15’s paint scheme didn’t give that much contrast against the mottled greenery.
Seconds later Skipper’s voice came again. “One’s off, to the right.”
“Two’s in, dry.”
“Clear dry, Two.”
Revlon’s fighter broke from formation and followed suit. Bruce continued to follow Catman in a sweeping turn.
“Maddog, rejoin straight ahead, altitude five thousand.”
“Two’s off, to the right.”
“Three’s in, dry,” said Catman.
“Clear dry, Three.”
“You got that, Assassin?” Charlie was looking after them again.
“Roger that. Just point me in the right direction after we pull out, Foggy.” He grew excited with anticipation. Even though the strafing run was “dry”—without ammunition — screaming down nearly a mile toward the ground kicked Bruce’s metabolism into high gear. It was like preparing for a game, right before he ran out of the locker room and onto the field. The crowd cheering, slapping a teammate’s shoulder pads, butting heads against another defensive back — the excitement fed on itself.
This is why he had joined the Air Force … to fly and get that rollercoaster-like thrill that came with an adrenaline rush: It was as if he were part of the aircraft, strapped onto a thirty-one-thousand-pound bronco that outperformed any other air-to-ground platform in the world.
“Three’s off, to the right.”
Bruce clicked his mike. “Four’s in, dry.”
The range officer came on in a clipped tone, “Clear dry, Four.”
Bruce slammed the stick forward, as far as it would go to the right. The F-15E rolled instantly to the right and pitched its nose down. The horizon circled crazily around the cockpit. They accelerated down, still spinning. Bruce pulled the stick back to the middle after three rolls and concentrated on a blasted tank that sat in a clearing. His vision seemed to tunnel in onto the vehicle, wiping out any other sight as they descended.
“Passing three thousand.” Charlie’s voice came coolly over the intercom.
Numbers rolled past his vision, projected on the heads-up display. Flipping the protective cover off the button for the machine gun, Bruce’s thumb lightly tapped the red button. A crosshair appeared on the heads-up display, indicating that the machine gun, although devoid of bullets, was armed.
The triangle jumped around the screen, following the projected path of the bullets.
“Two thousand.”
They were traveling at a fifteen-degree angle. The seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. His mind raced ahead, thinking at unbelievable speeds. He flicked his eyes down to his instruments, rapidly checking for red lights. Back up to the heads-up display.…
“One thousand.”
His finger caressed the trigger. To lay down hot killing metal.
Bruce pulled the trigger. A red blinking light on the heads-up display showed that he was out of bullets, but he kept the crosshair fixed on the tank.
“Five hundred, approaching altitude. Pull up!”
Bruce pulled back on the stick. The fighter responded instantly, pulling its nose up. He immediately felt the g-forces grow.
“Two-fifty feet. Bottom out.”
“Four’s off, to the right,” said Bruce. As they clawed back up, the g-forces mounted. The g-indicator quickly rose past five, then slowed as it hit six.
Six times the force of gravity squashed him deep into his seat. It felt as if he were being covered by a load of cement. His vision grew hazy, like he was looking down a long tunnel. He grunted loudly as the g-suit constricted, preventing blood from pooling in the lower parts of his body.
Bruce forced his head to the side and looked out the cockpit window. The tank was far below; he imagined it smoking from the hit and decided not to climb up to altitude yet.
He pushed forward on the stick, bringing the fighter’s nose down and cutting back on the g-forces. At two thousand feet he leveled off. He clicked the mike, keeping it on intercom. He couldn’t find the flight.
“Four’s off wind.”
“Heading two-seven. I’ve got them on screen,” said Charlie, referring to his color radar. “At this rate, we’ll have an hour to kill before that appointment at the housing office.”
Lead came over the radio. “We’re at your right, three o’clock, Four, five miles.” He sounded pissed that Assassin had lost Maddog Flight.
“Four.”
The rest of the flight was still too far off for him to see. Below them, the valley fanned out to a patchwork of level rice paddies, broken up by dense clumps of jungle. He really needed another strafing run — the adrenaline still pounded through his veins, making him feel as if he had to burn off energy. He went to intercom only.
“Foggy, any traffic around?”
Charlie sounded skeptical. “You’re clear, Assassin. What you up to?”
“Let’s get in a little sightseeing, then hit the blower to catch up.” Bruce nosed the F-15 back down. They descended, moving down in altitude until they approached two hundred feet. The ground below them whizzed past as Bruce kept the throttles steady at five hundred knots.
He nosed the craft down until they were just at one hundred fifty feet. The tree tops looked like solid ground at this speed. Bruce hit the speed brakes and pulled back on the throttles, slowing the craft. They broke over the clearing; the next patch was at least three miles away. Bruce forced the fighter even lower, until they were a mere twenty-five feet above the ground.
“Yeowww!” An old song roared through his mind: “I Go to Extremes.”
“Fantail, Assassin. You’ve got a nice one.”
Bruce looked over his shoulder. Dirt swirled in two “fantails” as the F-15’s exhaust hit the ground. He turned back to the front. Flying so close to the ground was as exhilarating as diving toward it. They had about another mile until the jungle — time to pull up.
That’s when he spotted the people on the ground.
Two hundred yards in front of him three people, all wearing coolie hats, looked up at the oncoming jet. They must have been working in the field; one of them carrying a bucket pointed at the fighter.
“Oh crap!” Bruce slammed the stick back; as the nose lifted, the aircraft was moving slowly enough that it felt like they were going to stall. An alarm shrieked throughout the craft, warning of an excessively high angle of attack.
“Stall, stall!” screamed Charlie.
Bruce shoved the throttles forward, hitting his afterburners. The fighter seemed to vault forward as they accelerated straight up. He swiveled his head around. Through the dust, he saw hats and buckets flying everywhere; there was no sign of the people. He must have pulled the fighter up right over the poor farmers.