“He’s doing it again?” the controller asked with mischievous eyes barely showing from behind one of the largest cups of coffee known to man.
“Yup,” Zombie replied grumpily.
“What is it this time? His zipper won’t close, or something? Did he get stuck with his dick hanging out?”
Zombie chuckled. “Nah… just a combat dump taking too long, I guess.”
Just as Voodoo trotted in, making more noise than an elephant and not even bothering to apologize, the speakers above their heads crackled and came alive.
“Scramble! Scramble! Cub One, Cub Two, cleared for takeoff. Cub Three, Cub Four, line up on the ready. Incoming bogeys approaching ADIZ, no transponder, possible hostile, not a drill. Vector 115, inbound from Russian mainland. NORAD tracking. Move to intercept. Scramble! Scramble!”
“Ahh… fuck it!” Zombie snapped. “This time we’ll get busted. We should acknowledge from the fucking cockpit, engines roaring.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Voodoo asked, already ahead of Zombie, trotting hastily on the flight deck toward his plane.
Before running out to catch up with him, Zombie caught a glimpse of the controller laughing out loud.
“Glad to provide entertainment,” Zombie muttered, running as fast as he could toward his Raptor, his suit and helmet clattering like a truckload of loosely packaged household items.
Zombie climbed up, hopped in the Raptor, and connected his helmet just in time to hear Voodoo’s communication with Control, calm, professional, not even panting.
“Grizzly One, this is Cub Two, ready for takeoff.”
“Grizzly, this is Cub One, ready for takeoff,” Zombie added, painfully aware his voice gave him up. He was still panting from the run, and very annoyed with being late again, compliments of Voodoo.
Zombie needed method in his day; he was calculated and rigorous in nature and liked well-planned, well-executed things. Voodoo was a risk taker, always cutting it close, always one step behind in planning, but two steps ahead when results were measured, driving Zombie crazy. Zombie did everything by the book and always ended up second. His wingman, on the other hand, had adrenaline instead of blood coursing through his veins, and everything he touched, everything he did, ended up on the fucking merit board. Well, annoying or not, Voodoo was his wingman, and that meant something, including that Zombie would never leave Voodoo behind — not in the briefing room, on the flight deck, or in the air.
They took off in tight formation, throttle to the max. Zombie enjoyed the soaring of the F22 Raptor’s takeoff maneuver more than any other part of flying those jets. It made him feel all-powerful and unstoppable and fueled his spirit every time.
“Grizzly One, we’re airborne,” Zombie called in. “Moving to intercept bogey. I have bogey on radar, vector 265 to intercept.”
“Cub One, Cub Two, this is Grizzly. Unidentified aircraft unresponsive. Attempt redirect.”
“Grizzly, Cub Two. I have four bogeys onscreen, repeat four bogeys.”
“Grizzly, Cub One. Confirm four bogeys.”
“Cub Three, Cub Four, cleared for takeoff. Move to intercept bogeys.”
“Excellent, that’s more like it,” Zombie added. “I love a fair fight.”
“Zombie, Voodoo, put eyes on that bogey and confirm, stat!” The commander’s voice thundered in his helmet.
“Yes, sir!”
“I have bogey at 500 miles and closing fast. I have the sun in my eyes; the bastards knew when to come calling.”
“Grizzly, Cub One. I have six bogeys on screen, six bogeys. This could be a major Charlie Foxtrot,” Zombie said, a little tension seeping in his voice. “Motherfuckers,” he muttered to himself.
“Copy that, Cub One. Ready, Cub Five, Six, and Seven aircraft. Ready tanker. Hang tight, help’s on the way.” Grizzly’s voice remained unperturbed; their commander had stones the size of tanks.
“Here they are, dead ahead,” Voodoo yelled.
“Where? Goddamned sun’s in my eyes!” Zombie blinked a few times, then said, “I see them! I see them! I’ll break left, go check them out.”
He turned and slowed a little, preparing to observe the incoming aircraft.
“I see two Backfires, and two Fulcrums,” Zombie said, identifying the aircraft by NATO’s designated reporting names. Backfire stood for the Russian Tupolev TU-22M supersonic, variable-sweep wing, strategic long-range bomber, and missile platform, able to fly almost 4,000 miles without refueling. The Backfires were capable of launching long-range nuclear missiles that could reach San Francisco from right where they were. Fulcrum stood for the dreaded, highly maneuverable MiG 29. The MiG could fly Mach 2.25, but had a very limited range.
“Two more bogeys farther out,” Zombie added, “I’m guessing refuelers. Driving by to put eyes on them,” he said, pushing ahead.
A few seconds later, he had eyes on the tankers and was able to confirm.
“I have two Candids here, two Candids,” he said, then started maneuvering to return near Voodoo.
Candid was NATO’s designated reporting name for Ilyushin-Il76 strategic airlifter and airborne refueling tanker. The Candid could also serve as an airborne command center.
A familiar alert started beeping.
“I have missile lock on me,” Zombie said, “Grizzly One, advise!”
He checked the radar, then turned to look behind him and saw one of the MiGs approaching fast, while the alarm continued to make the beeping sound that all pilots dreaded the most. He felt sweat beads form on his forehead and at the roots of his hair.
“Cub One, do not engage unless fired on. Acknowledge!”
“Acknowledged,” Zombie said. It was standard protocol. Rules of engagement stipulated that under no circumstances was an American pilot allowed to open fire, if not fired on first.
He understood the value of the rule; it was meant to avoid starting a war. But it also meant he could become the first victim in that future war, even if his country wasn’t the one that started it.
Sweat pooled and formed a drop that started rolling down his nose. He took his oxygen mask off and wiped it with a quick swipe of his sleeve. “Damn, if I’m gonna die here today,” he muttered.
Every time he got up in the air, he knew he was risking his life. Yet situations like these were prone to end in disaster. Nerves taut and decisions made in split seconds as they flew through the air at Mach 2 were bound to cause disaster at some point. He just hoped it wasn’t going to be today.
He started evasive maneuvers, and Voodoo caught up with him shortly.
“Eagle, Lance, how far behind are you?” Voodoo asked.
“Under two minutes,” Lance answered. “Hang in there, guys.”
“In two minutes World War III could be over,” Zombie commented.
The beeping persisted, and the second MiG was on their tail, as they swerved and turned through the air, trying to keep their distance from the relentless MiGs.
“They’ve got missile lock on me,” Voodoo said. “Readying ECM.”
“Where the hell are those Backfires?” Zombie asked. “Breaking left and low to follow the Backfires.”
He turned abruptly, the MiG on his tail. Voodoo came right after him, with his own MiG in tow.
“The bastards are keeping us busy here, while their Backfires have other plans. They’re under sixty seconds from being within missile range distance from Seattle.”
“Cub One, Cub Two, keep your eyes on those Backfires. Cub Three and Four, how much longer?”
“Sixty seconds,” Eagle said.
“I wanna lock a missile on a MiG, partner,” Zombie said.
“Godspeed,” Voodoo replied. “But they’re behind us, and we’re targeted.”
“Watch this and learn,” Zombie added cryptically.