801 T.T.S. Airbats Fan Fiction ❯ Japanese Bat, American Eagle, North Korean Dragon ❯ The Calm before the Storm ( Chapter 1 )

GROOM LAKE RANGE

ELLIOT AIR FORCE BASE, NV

13 APRIL 2005, 0800EDT

 

Major Christopher Marx was dozing in a folding chaise lounge next to the plane he was to be flying that day, one of the two F-15Fs that had been put into storage after the Kenneth James scandal. It had been dusted off, and virtually rebuilt. Unfortunately, one of the consequences of that scandal was that the Air Force cancelled all of Cheetah the contracts with McDonnell-Douglas just before the aircraft was going into production, pushing them even closer into the merger with Boeing.

The cops around the area looked at the Major dozing in the lounge chair. Regardless of how long the cops had been there, they always found it interesting that Marx left that chair in the hangar, and when he showed up, pulled it out and went to sleep, regardless of the hour. But they appreciated that when he showed up at the hangar, he brought with him bagels, coffee, and donuts for the Security Forces on duty. For him and his backseater, the cops would ensure that their rest would not be disturbed by back office types until necessary for the mission.

The sun was just peeking over the Groom Mountain range, lighting up the dry lake runway. Marx's backseater, Captain Bryan Cobb lifted his head up from the tech order he was reading. “Major,” he yawned, “is it time to get paid yet?”

Marx opened his eyes and squinted into the rising sun. A cloud of dust could be seen rising from the dry lakebed. “Any moment, Doctor. Looks like the Boss is coming.” An Air Force blue Suburban pulled up in front of the satellite bluff hangar. The back door opened, and the deputy commander of the Operational Test and Evaluation Detachment 1 stepped out of the vehicle. Marx got up out of his chair, as Doctor stood and dusted his flightsuit off. “What's the word, Colonel?”

Colonel James Monroe looked at the prime flight crew for the Cheetah and shook his head. “Major, we'll be launching in a few minutes. Standard evaluation flight for the brass, Generals Samson and McLanahan don't really want you to tangle with any birds out of Nellis or China Lake, however a few QF-4s will be over Range 3. Basically, we're rebuilding data lost from Kenneth James scandal. When the witch-hunt came through, everything was taken and disappeared.

“By the way, there are a pair of Navy F-14 Tomcats playing on Range 2 as well as the pair of Marine Hornets in Range 4A, so no tangling with them.”

Monroe opened the manila envelope he had in his hand. “We've also gotten a request from JASDF, through Washington. They want the Air Force's hottest new fighter there, possibly as a replacement of their aging F-4Es and F-15EJs. And since the Raptor is just barely entering service in limited numbers, the Chief of Staff doesn't want to let them out of the nation. So General Samson has decided to task us with assignment. We'll have more information, as it comes down from Washington.

“Any further questions, Major?”

Marx looked at his boss. “None sir. Doctor, looks like its time to go to work.”

Cobb looked at his pilot. “Yep. Let's go flying,” he said as he started climbing into the cockpit of the futuristic fighter. He slipped into the back seat, and began powering up his MFDs.

Marx climbed into his own cockpit, and began running his own preflight checks. “HUD and flight computer power up. Weapons connectivity checks, datalink checks with AWACs over Tonopah.” The crew chief, MSgt. Jose Reyes, assisted with the control surface checks, after the engines spooled up. “Control, Genesis Four Zero Fox ready for taxi.”

“Roger, Genesis Four Zero Fox. You are cleared for taxi. Stand-by for takeoff clearance.”

Marx advanced the throttles and the F-15F taxied out of the hangar. The radio crackled in the crew's headsets. “Genesis Four Zero Fox, you are cleared for take off. Winds 5 out of 320 degrees, CAVU. No need to acknowledge this transmission.”

“Alright. Max performance and weight, short-field take off,” Marx informed his backseater. He hit a button on the throttle, activating the voice-activated flight computer. “Short field departure, max performance and weight.”

“Warning: Short field departure, maximum performance and weight. Warning: Aircraft does not meet weight specifications. Say override to proceed; `Abort' to change launch options,” the computer replied. Of course some joker thought the calm female voice would be more soothing. Unfortunately after the second flight the novelty wore off really quick.

Marx shook his head. “Override, and continue configuration.” Outside the cockpit, the canards, slats, flaperons and elevators configured themselves. Louvers on the top of the vectored-thrust nozzles opened, compressing the main gear struts. He pushed the throttles to full power, then into max afterburner. Releasing the brakes, Cheetah shot forward, already in rotate attitude. At 500 feet, the fighter left the lakebed. Marx reactivated the computer mike. “Retract gear, combat cruise configuration.”

“Gear locked…Warning, gear unsafe… Gear retracted. Combat configuration selected.” The computer repeated what Marx had said. “Datalink with AWACS Sentry-37 activated. Datalink with NirtSAT constellation activated.”

Doctor looked at his MFDs. “Datalinks confirmed. I'm showing our targets already over Range 3. AWACs reports four QF-4s, a pair of QF-106s, and a pair of QB-52s within the range boundaries. We've also got a pair of F-14s near China Lake.”

Marx smiled into his mask. “Alright Doctor, give me a heading bug to the nearest drone.” Marx banked the fighter on the new heading, and accelerated.

“Combat mode, all weapons.”

“Combat mode selected. Choose any option to deselect. Warning: Missile stations unsafe, 4 Sidewinders, 4 Scorpions, 2 Phoenixes. Warning: Cannon unsafe, 620 rounds remaining.”

“Doctor, range to first target?”

“Coming up on 150 miles and 200 miles at nine and two o'clock. Looks like the two 52's.”

“Lock'em up,” Marx ordered. He maneuvered Cheetah in towards the first QB-52, lit the burners, and closed to within 125 miles of the drone. The drone's onboard flight computer began evasive maneuvers, which Marx and Cheetah followed closely.

“Good lock, sweet telemetry lock.”

“Genesis Four Zero Fox, Fox 4.” Marx hit the trigger on his stick, and a Phoenix dropped off the port pylon, and tracked cleanly to drone. A flash of smoke and fireball later, one drone dropped off the radar.

“Roger that, Four Zero Fox. Good kill.”

“Scooter, next target is now at six o'clock, 250 miles, and closing to intercept.”

“Roger. Standby to get a Phoenix lock on.” Marx said, as he pulled back on the throttle, and racked the fighter around into an Immelman turn. He rolled level, and accelerated to cruise.

“Target coming into range… Missile away!” Doctor called over the radio, as he pushed the launch button. The second Phoenix missile dropped off the starboard pylon and streaked towards its target.

“Good kill, Four Zero Fox. Clear to engage next targets. Two QF-106s are at your three o'clock, range 100 miles.”

“Roger Sierra 24.” Marx replied over the radio. “Coming right, Doctor. Keep an eye out for anything unusual.”

“Gotcha, Scoot. Nothing showing on the datalinks except what we've already got. Just like driving in Paterson.” Marx banked around and goosed the throttles a little more. Cheetah slid effortlessly past Mach one, behind the power of a pair of General Electric F-404 turbofans.

“Range, 30 miles and closing, Scooter. Getting tone on a Scorpion.”

“Lock'em both up, Doctor. We're gonna do the war shot.” Marx said from the front seat.

“Both drones locked in. Good tone.”

In quick succession, Marx squeezed the trigger and called Fox 2 over the radio. Both AIM-120s dropped of the CFTs and streaked to individual targets. Fireballs blossomed to either side of the fighter's line of flight.

“Good kills Four Zero Fox. Clear to engage next targets. Two QF-4s at your 10 o'clock range seven-five miles.” Cheetah banked away, and moved to intercept their targets.

Aboard Sierra 24, the remote pilot of the drones smiled. “Ok, General, watch this.” She said to no one, as she maneuvered the second pair of Phantoms on to an intercept course with Cheetah.

As the two fighters closed on the Cheetah, Cobb called out a warning. “Scoot, two drones at our three o'clock, closing fast.”

“Warning, missile launch detection. Warning, missile launch detection.” The computer cried. Marx racked the fighter into a tight right turn, and got a quick gun pass on one of the Phantoms, shredding the cockpit. The second drone passed within spitting distance of Cheetah.

“Computer, Pugachev's Cobra; Sidewinder snapshot.” Marx hauled back on the stick, and his fighter stood on its tail, dorsal thrust vectors opening, and the canards keeping the fighter controllable. He kicked the left rudders over and recovered. “Fox One,” he called, as the growl of the Sidewinder filled his headset. The missile streaked off the rail and into the tailpipe of the Phantom.

By this time, the other two drones had closed on Cheetah. Marx recovered, and following cues from Doctor, locked in on the third Phantom, and launched another Sidewinder. It blew the tail off the fighter, which tumbled out of control, before exploding. The fourth fighter was shredded from cockpit to belly, and fell from the sky like a grand piano.

“Good kills, Four Zero Fox. You are cleared to return to Echo Base.”

“Roger that Sierra 24. Returning to Echo Base.” Marx pulled his fighter back around. “Computer, cruise configuration. Auto-throttle, autopilot engaged.”

“Cruise configuration. All weapons safe,” the computer replied. “Auto-throttle, autopilot engaged; say abort or move controls to override.” The computer slowed the fighter down to a leisurely 350 knots, indicated, and locked onto the ILS frequency from Elliot.

“Doctor, watch the radios for a minute,” Marx said as he pulled his hard hat off. Doctor listened in, anticipating any calls that they may get, as multiple cracks could be heard coming from the front cockpit. Marx pulled his helmet back on and reconnected his facemask just in time to hear “What's the matter Air Farce, don't want to play?” come over the radios. He turned and looked over his shoulder. The pair of Tomcats from Fallon that had been playing in range 7 were now on either side of Cheetah.

“Shit,” he muttered as both crewmembers saw two of the Navy fighters fall back and assume positions near Cheetah's six o'clock. “They want to play, we'll oblige them. Combat configuration, weapons safe.”

“Combat configuration, weapons safe.”

Marx keyed the radio. “Alright, gentlemen, we'll play. Standard rules?”

“Of course, Air Force. The Navy always fights fair.” Marx snorted. “Shall we begin?” Marx started the engagement by dropping out of formation, and hitting the speedbrake.

“What the???” Cheetah did a nice slow roll around the Navy fighters, stopping in the inverted over the wingleader, in the full color paint scheme. “Hey guys,” Marx called over the radio, “have a nice day!” Cobb flipped them the bird, and Marx hit the afterburners, rocketing away from the formation. “Two Niner Two, Two Niner Zero. Let's teach this bastard some respect.”

“Two Niner Two, roger.”

“Sierra 24, this is Genesis Four Zero Fox, over.” Marx called over the exercise channel.

“Genesis Four Zero Fox, Sierra 24. Go with traffic.”

“Sierra, be advised we are currently being engaged in an impromptu exercise with Navy elements. Requesting reactivation of data-link on secured channel 7.”

“Genesis Four Zero Fox, Sierra 24. Stand by one.” Marx continued his dive for the deck, hoping to hide from the Navy fighters in the ground clutter. “Datalink reestablished, Genesis. You have two F-14s at your nine o'clock, 75 miles and extending.”

“Roger Sierra 24.” Marx took the right fork of the canyon. “Cobb, what's it look like back there?”

“Nothing, Scooter. Our tail is clear.”

“Sierra 24, Genesis Four Zero Fox. Location of our bandits?”

“Genesis Four Zero Fox, two Tomcats at your seven o'clock, range 150 miles. Recommend you remain at low altitude. Action of Navy fighters indicates possible long range missile attack.”

“Roger that, Sentry.” Marx released the radio mike.

“Genesis Four Zero Fox, Sierra 24. Two Tomcats now at your six o'clock, 200 miles out.”

“Hang on, Doctor.” Marx pulled Cheetah into a tight Immelman turn, canards and thrust vectoring making it possible. “Computer high speed, low altitude configuration.” He rolled upright, and slammed the throttles into the stops. Fuel dumped into the exhaust and ignited, creating raw energy. With 32 thousand pounds of thrust coming out of each engine, and the canards flexing to keep her stable, Cheetah rapidly accelerated past 600 miles an hour.

Cobb keyed up his mike. “Sierra 24, Genesis Four Zero Fox. Range to target?”

“Genesis Four Zero Fox, Sierra 24. Range to target now 150 miles and closing.”

“Roger that Sierra 24.” Cobb clicked off. “They're within Phoenix range, Scooter. Want to lock'em up?”

“Lock'em up.” Marx keyed his radio, as he hauled back on the stick. Cheetah climbed like a rocket, with the altimeter winding in tens of thousands of feet. “Sierra 24, Genesis Four Zero Fox. Fox four, Navy One, Navy Two.”

“Warning, missile lock. Warning, missile lock.” Marx threw Cheetah into a sharp, 90 degree right bank. “Missile lock broken.”

“Genesis Four Zero Fox, Sierra 24. Negative hit on Navy. Repeat, negative hit on Navy.”

“Scooter, this is not a good thing.” Cobb called from the backseat. “I've got those two Navy fighters closing on us rapidly. 40 miles out, and closing.”

“Shit.” Marx threw Cheetah back into a steep dive to get near the protective ground clutter. “Doctor, keep an eye on those two Tomcats.”

“Gotcha, Scooter.”

“Warning, missile lock. Warning, missile lock.” Marx wracked Cheetah into a series of fibresteel screaming evasive maneuvers. Chaff and flares spewed from the launchers.

“We broke their lock, Scooter,” Cobb called from the backseat. “They're trying to get behind us.”

“Let them,” Marx growled. “Its time to play.”

“Genesis Four Zero Fox, Sierra 24. Your two Navy targets are now at your six o'clock, ten miles back and closing.”

“Roger, Sierra Two Four. Stand by.” Marx thumbed the gun switch on. The HUD changed symbology.

Cobb twisted his head and looked aft. “Scooter, they're behind us. Looks like four miles back, and closing awfully fast.”

“Pugachev's Cobra. Gun snapshot.” Marx hauled back on the stick, and his fighter stood on its tail, dorsal thrust vectors opening, and the canards keeping the fighter controllable. The Tomcats evaded as they saw his fighter stand on its tail and start to fall on its back. One broke left, the other right. Marx kicked the left rudders over and recovered, switching back to Sidewinders. “Genesis Four Zero Fox; Fox One, Fox One!”

“Roger, Four Zero Fox. Fox One. Navy Two Niner Two, Sierra Two Four. Copy Fox One. You are dead.”

“Scooter!” Cobb shouted from the backseat, “the other one's on our tail!”

“Gotcha.” Marx hauled back on the stick, pulling the fighter into the vertical, and punched the afterburners. The Tomcat followed, and Marx chopped the throttles and hit the speed brake. The fighter screamed in protest as it decelerated rapidly. The other Tomcat passed Cheetah, burners still lit. Marx closed the speed brake and threw the throttle back into the burners. “Guns, guns, guns!”

“Roger, guns, guns, guns, Genesis. Navy, you dead. Air Force 2, Navy 0.”

“Hey guys,” Marx called over the radio, “Top Gun is only a movie. Read the script next time.”

 

Elliot Air Force Base

Operations Briefing Room

 

General McLanahan looked at Maj. Marx and Captain Cobb. “Marx, what is it with you? I gave you specific instructions not to get tangled in an unauthorized ACM exercise with the Navy out of Fallon, using Ranges 2 and 4. I've got Captain Mills screaming for your oak leaves and ready to cashier two of his flight crews, since you interrupted a combined Marine/Navy exercise. And he says your backseater showed less than professional courtesy to him. And you pirated Sierra 24 for your tangling. What do you have to say for yourself, Major? Consider very carefully what you say. Remember, you've been written up before for this sort of thing. And little things like this can end a career, fast.”

Marx looked at his boss. “General, we complied with your instructions, but the Navy pressed the exercise. We were all set to return to base and upchannel our after action report. Check our radio intercepts from Sierra 24. We engaged the enemy and zapped a pair of Tomcats. Again sir, the Navy started the engagement, not us.” Oh shit, Marx thought, we waxed a squadron commander. That'll not look good at all.

“Good,” McLanahan said. “I'll upchannel that to General Samson, so that he can deal with the Navy's complaint.” Muck opened a plain manila envelope, something of an anachronism in this age of PDA's and email. “I've got your next assignment, gentlemen. How soon can Cheetah be ready for a long-range self deployment?”

Marx looked at his backseater and asked, “How soon can you be packed, Doctor?”

Bryan looked at his pilot. “I'm ready to go anytime, Scooter.”

Marx looked back at his boss. “General, give us twenty four hours to configure Cheetah with long-range fuel tanks and a pair of cargo pods, and we'll be ready to go.”

“Excellent.” Muck pulled out the packet in the envelope. “Cheetah has cost the government and Boeing/McDonnell-Douglas a lot of money to develop. We're going to Japan for the Air Self Defense Force's birthday airshow. We're going to try and sell Cheetah to the Japanese as a replacement for their aging F-4s and a supplement to the F-2 and F-15s.

“We'll be deploying to Iruma Air Base, just outside of Tokyo. Parking spaces will be assigned when we get to the base. Refueling support will be coming from Elmendorf and Eielson Air Force Bases. I'll be along side with several representatives from Boeing in a VC-32. We'll also be bringing along our security and maintenance assets in a pair of C-17s.

“Go get some sleep, and get your bird ready in the morning. We go wheels up at 1600. Dismissed.”

 

Iruma Air Base

Central Air Defense Command

 

“Major Kengamine, the upcoming airshow is of major importance to the Air Self Defense Force. Not only does it show the world that we have an air force second to none, but the United States Air Force is sending its latest advanced fighter to see if the JDA is willing to buy it,” General Tskumoto said, his fingers tapping on a thick manila folder on his desk.

“They're sending an F-22?” Kengamine's eyes lit up at the prospect of making the USAF's stay better than the last time, when the Thunderbirds visited Iruma, which might possibly get him out of commanding the 801st.

Tskumoto looked at Kengamine. “No, they are not. They are sending an advanced F-15 Strike Eagle variant, called `Cheetah', along with representatives from Boeing/McDonnell-Douglas. The Cheetah and its pilot will be performing in the airshow, and I do not want another incident involving Sgt. Mitaka. I know of a few fighter squadrons that are looking for a new flight commander.

“Am I clear on this, Major?”

“Yes sir, yes sir.” Kengamine replied as he made his way out of General Tskumoto's office. As the door closed, Kengamine's eyes lit up. Soon, I'll be able to leave babysitting to Konishi and move on to a real assignment! Promotion! Promotion! PROMOTION!

Tskumoto picked up the dossier that the Air Force had sent him via courier, on the chief test pilot and of the F-15F Advanced Tactical Fighter program. “Hmm, insubordinate, unorthodox, and unprofessional. Been discharged once from the Air Force, did a number of years in the Army, commissioned captain while in the Army, reentered the Air Force as an F-15 pilot. Became an F-15 instructor pilot at Luke, promoted to Major 2 years ago, and assigned to Elliot Air Force Base.” Tskumoto read out loud. “Let's see what else is here. Letters of reprimand for unauthorized ACM; letters of counseling for the same thing, derogatory OER since arriving at Elliot for `hot dogging' with the F-15F. General's evaluation of flying status because he's hot-headed in the air.” Tskumoto smiled. “This Major Marx will make an excellent opponent for our Sgt. Mitaka. I'm quite glad I pulled strings for that Eagle.”

 

* * *

 

“Iruma Air Base is hosting the JASDF's birthday airshow this weekend, and the 801st will be hosting a contingent from the United States Air Force, including an advanced prototype fighter. The General does not want a repeat of the Thunderbirds' visit. That means not getting into an ACM situation. Is that clear?” Although Kengamine stated it to the assembled 801st around the conference table, he was looking directly at Mitaka.

“I can say, with confidence, Major, that the 801st will not disappoint either the General or JASDF,” Captain Konishi said, as the rest of the squadron nodded.

“Good, then dismissed.” Kengamine left the conference room. There was a general discussion started between the pilots.

“Mitaka,” Konishi said over the din, “I'd like to speak to you in my office.”

 

A few minutes later, with Konishi settled in behind his desk, Mitaka was standing before him. “Sgt. Mitaka, I know you had a problem with the Lt Yeager and the Thunderbirds when they were here. I also know the two of you worked out your problems after the airshow. I do not want any repeats of the last time that the United States had aircraft here for an airshow. This time, the entire squadron will be on display, not just the American Air Force.

“Do you really think you can keep your temper this time?”

Mitaka stood there impassive. “Of course, sir. You can count on me, Captain.”

“Alright Mitaka. I'm holding you accountable on this. And if you do screw up, I don't think our savior, the General, will be able to save your butt. Go get something to eat and get some sleep.”

 

Somewhere east of Hokkaido

The Next Morning

 

“Good morning General. For breakfast this morning we have a choice of scrambled eggs with bacon and toast or French toast,” the galley steward said, as General McLanahan left his inflight cabin.

“Thank you. I'll have the eggs, no bacon and dry toast,” he replied on his way to the flight deck.

“Thank you sir,” the steward replied to the General's back.

Muck looked out the viewport by the hatch and shook his head. He could see Marx's helmet leaning against the canopy. Cobb's mask was resting against he chest. He entered the cockpit moments later. “Major, hand me a headset. Patch me into Cheetah's intercom, and slow up so that they can look over at us.”

“Yes sir.” A headset was passed back to McLanahan. “You're on, General.”

Snoring could be heard coming through the speakers. “This is your six a.m. wake up call, gentlemen.” Both helmets swiveled towards the Air Force 757. “We have a refueling to do in an hour. I'd like the prime crew for my one of a kind fighter alert and ready.”

“We're A-Ok here, General. All set to go.” Marx gave the cockpit of the VC-32 a thumbs up.

 

USS Theodore Roosevelt

 

“Victory 207, you are cleared to taxi to Cat 1. Victory 205, you are cleared to Cat 2,” squawked the radio on one of the F-14A Tomcats idling behind the lowering blast deflectors. “Roger, Victory 207 taxiing, Cat 1.” The 40-ton fighter moved towards the launch shuttle, guided by a yellow shirted taxi director. With the launch bar was locked into the shuttle, the fighter rocked as the pilot shoved the throttles to afterburner.

“Hey Stalker,” Punisher said as he saluted the cat officer, “I ever tell you how much I like white women?”

“All the…Fuuuck!” Stalker's response was cut short as the steam driven catapult literally threw the fighter into the air. Victory 205 followed a moment later and the two fighters streaked airborne, climbing towards their CAP station.

“Genesis flight of four, this is Rough Rider. We have you at Angels 30, 200 miles north of Iruma AB. Shamu flight of two, five-zero miles dead ahead, your angels. Contact on channel 3.” The controller on the TR reported to Genesis flight, giving them bearing and direction information to their next refueling point.

“Roger that, Rough Rider. Switching to channel 3. Thank you, Genesis out.”

“Stalker, you have any idea who Genesis is?” Punisher asked, the boredom of CAP settling in.

“None. I wouldn't be surprised if it were some thing beyond our clearances, Punisher.” Stalker keyed his radio mike. “Rough Rider, this is Victory 3. Position at Point Alpha, one-five-zero miles south of the group.”

“Roger Victory 3.”

As Victory 3 Flight banked on its turn, there was a loud bang. Lights and alarms began going off inside the cockpit of Victory 207. “We've got a compressor stall and engine failure, engine one!” Stalker keyed his mike, as the fighter began slewing and started rolling into a dive. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Rough Rider, Rough Rider, this is Victory 207, declaring an emergency, two-five miles north of Point Alpha. Engine one compressor stall and failure! Repeat this is Victory 207, declaring an emergency!”

Victory 205 called over the radio. “Punisher, you've got flames coming out of engine one. Looks like an engine fire.”

Stalker keyed the intercom. “Shutting down fuel flow and pulling bottle one, number one engine.”

“Throttle chopped, Stalker.” Punisher replied, as he slammed throttle one against the rear stops. “Damnit this bird's getting bitchy.” Punisher fought with the controls, and the good engine, trying to level out the fighter as the altimeter wound down. With skill and tenacity, Punisher recovered the fighter at 7000 feet.

“Victory 207, Rough Rider copies your Mayday and emergency. You are cleared for emergency landing at Bingo Base India. Victory 205, remain on 207's wing until landing. Rough Rider out.”

“Punisher, this is Playboy. I'm moving to inspect. Stand by.” As Playboy moved his fighter closer and under 207, Punisher fought with his bird to keep it level at 7000 ft. “Punisher, I see no fluid streaks on the underside. Negative fluid on underside. You've still got some flame coming out the back… Jesus Christ!

”Punisher, we can't hang in the back. There's debris coming from exhaust. Also looks like part of the nozzle melted off. Let's see if you can still land.”

“Pulling bottle two,” Stalker said over the intercom, activating the last extinguisher bottle on engine one. “Let's hope this works,” he muttered.

“Roger that. Cycling gear and hook.”

“Looks good. Fire's out.”

Stalker dialed up GUARD on his radio. “Tokyo Control, this is US Navy Victory 3 Flight of two Fox One Fours on GUARD, declaring an emergency. Five-zero miles out of Tokyo, heading 360.”

“Victory 3 Flight, Tokyo Control, we have you on radar. You are cleared direct to Iruma Airbase, runway 10. Winds light and variable. Crash and rescue personnel will be standing by.

“Iruma Tower to all aircraft in the pattern. Inbound IFE, all aircraft depart the pattern. Repeat all aircraft are to clear the pattern. We have an inbound IFE. This is not an exercise.” Alarm klaxons sounded throughout the base, as crash/rescue, fire trucks, ambulances and the MPs pulled out of their stations and headed for the end of runway 10, lights flashing and sirens screaming.

 

A tense thirty minutes passed, as Punisher limped the stricken F-14 towards Iruma. At the inner beacon, the gear was deployed, and moments later the fighter was down and taxiing, with a fleet of emergency vehicles behind it. Playboy broke off, as soon as he saw Punisher and Stalker down safe and taxiing.

The Navy crew taxied towards the nearest hangars, those belonging to the 801st and Yoko guided them into a parking spot. Punisher overswept the wings on the Tomcat, and ran up the surviving engine. As soon as the wheels were chocked and the surviving engine shut down, the canopy came up and Punisher and Stalker deplaned. Stalker removed his helmet, and ran the washcloth he carried in his flightsuit over his head. He looked around, and his eyes locked on the person who guided their fighter in. Stalker didn't seem deterred by the creepy little bat on Yoko's shoulder, wearing a flight deck hard hat.

When she saw Stalker, their eyes locked, and sparks seemed to fly between them. All they could see was each other. Fate, of course, would deal dirty.

“Sergeant Yoko! Why are these Americans being held up from contacting their ship? Why haven't you offered them the hospitality of Japan yet? What's wrong with you Sergeant?!!” Major Kengamine screamed in Yoko's face.

“Well, I…” She started, but Kengamine interrupted. “You're a sorry excuse for a pilot. I'm surprised you even got out of flight school…” Yoko seemed to be on the edge of tears, as Kengamine tore into her.

Kengamine got very quiet all of a sudden as Stalker's shadow covered little Yoko. “Major,” Stalker growled, “what is your problem? This sergeant guided our aircraft in to the parking area, and made sure we were chocked and secured. I don't think that your yelling at her will make her move any faster, do you?” His hand balled into a fist.

“No sir, I don't really think so.” He squeaked. “Thank you for pointing this out, sir.” Stalker released his gripped fist as Kengamine retreated, bowing the whole way.

“Pork-smoker,” Stalker muttered. He turned to Yoko and was about to say something when Punisher chimed up. “Hey Stalker? Where the white women at? You know I just love white women.”

“Thank you Punisher,” Stalker said. “Just as I'm about to say something potentially romantic.”

“Hey, as long as there are no Turks here, you'll be fine man. You know I can't stand those filthy, smelly pigs. Hey Stalker, was that major a Turk? If he is, then I will take care of him. Only a Turk would act that way to a woman.”

“Yeah, Punisher, I know. The only good Turk is a dead Turk.” Stalker shook his head. “And no, he's not a Turk. He's just an officer with a swelled opinion of himself. You saw how quickly he deflated.”

“No man, even then a dead Turk is still a filthy smelly pig.”

Stalker turned from his pilot shaking his head, and headed towards Yoko. “Oh, thank you, sir.”

“Sergeant, why was that major yelling at you?”

“Oh, its nothing really. He's been doing that since I won a ramen eating contest a few months ago.”

“So why is he still after you?”

“I don't know.”

 

* * *

 

“Iruma Control, Genesis flight of four aircraft, with you at 10 thousand and descending; requesting clearance to land.” The pilot's voice from the VC-32 came over the radio, calling in position and location to Iruma Air Base.

Marx's backseater keyed his intercom. “Its about time we got here. How many hours have we spent stuck in this cockpit?”

“At least 14 hours, Doctor,” Marx yawned. “Four inflight refuelings, two box nasties and a cold cup of tea later, we can finally get out and stretch.”

“Don't I know it, Scooter. Reminds me of when we were riding for Lifestar.”

“Yeah, except even the worst of the trucks had more space than this bird.”

“Genesis Flight, Iruma Air Base. You are cleared for final approach, Runaway 10. Contact tower on ground frequency, channel 1. Iruma Control out.”

General McLanahan's voice came over the headsets in the fighter. “Genesis One to Genesis Flight. We're going to do this just as we briefed. The cargo birds with the security detachment will land first, followed by my transport with Cheetah landing last. Genesis Four-Zero Fox, state fuel.”

Doctor looked over the gas gauges in the back cockpit of Cheetah. “We're barely sipping on fuel, sir. Outboard tanks at 50%, centerline at 100%, mains and FAST packs at 100%.”

“Roger that, Four-Zero Fox. Orbit at outer beacon until we're down. Understood?”

“Affirmative sir.” Marx changed frequencies. “Iruma Control, this is Genesis Four-Zero Fox. Be advised we'll be detaching from Genesis Flight, and orbiting at outer beacon until Genesis Flight is secured.”

“Genesis Four-Zero Fox, Iruma Control. We copy. Be advised; traffic in the aerobatic box, your three o'clock, two miles out. Contact Control for final clearances.”

“Genesis Four-Zero Fox copies all.” Marx closed the channel. “More waiting, Cobb. Just like the military, hurry up and wait.”

“But this time, Scooter, just think in half an hour, we'll be sacked out on real beds, instead of a Martin-Baker ejection seat.”

 

* * *

 

Punisher and Stalker finished their walk around of Victory 207, assessing the damage. Number one engine was fragged. Hot metal fragments had shot out the back of the exhaust; fortunately the turbine blades hadn't shot out the sides of the nacelles. “Man, we were lucky. We better talk to CAG. We're definitely going to need an engine change.”

“But how are we going to talk to the ship, Stalker? I don't think we can just pick up the phone and call.”

“Punisher, we've got our phone in the plane. We just get shore power and call. Isurugi, we need a power cart over here.”

Isurugi, the senior, and only, mechanic for the 801st, looked out of the cockpit of the Tomcat. “Oh, sure Commander. I'll get on it right away. Man, this is such a cool plane!” Isurugi climbed out and ran over to the AGE shop.

Punisher and Stalker looked over towards Runway 02. McLanahan's VC-32 followed by one of the two C-17s were just touching down. “Wonder who's showing up?” Punisher asked.

“Probably some high ranking politician. The cargo bird's probably carrying his entourage,” Stalker snorted.

Yoko waved to Stalker from the air operations building. “What's gotten in her, man?”

“I don't know, Punisher. But isn't she cute?” Punisher just shook his head.

 

The three USAF transports taxied towards the main terminal. General Tskumoto and Colonel Yumioki were before the mobile stairway. The Air Force 757 came to a stop and the stairway moved into position as a senior airman opened the door. General McLanahan exited the aircraft and walked down the stairway, saluting General Tskumoto. “General McLanahan, welcome to Iruma Air Base and Japan,” the senior General said, greeting the American general.

“Thank you General Tskumoto. On behalf of Det 1, High Technology Aircraft and Weapons Center, we thank you for this opportunity to show the F-15F to an ally. And may I introduce Major General James Breed, Commander, Luke Air Force Base.”

“General Breed, a pleasure. You're quite welcome, General McLanahan. Tell me, where is this advanced fighter?”

“My primary test crew should be on final approach now.”

 

* * *

 

“Mitaka, there's inbound traffic on Runway 02. Major Kengamine has reiterated not to buzz them.” Captain Konishi said over the radio.

“Roger, sir, I heard,” Mitaka growled into her mask. Since the recent marriage of Sgt. Isurugi to Sgt. Haneda, Mitaka's aggravation with the rest of the world has steadily increased. Added to the fact that Kengamine practically singled her out during the briefing the other day, Mitaka was about ready to erupt.

“Genesis Four-Zero Fox to Iruma Control, making our descent for Runway 10.”

“Roger Genesis Four-Zero Fox. Contact Tower for ground controller on channel 1, after rollout. Control out.”

 

“Autoland sequence- short runway.” Marx ordered, after activating the voice controlled computer.

“Caution, autoland sequence engaged. Short runway approach and touch down. Move stick or say `Abort' to abort.” As Cheetah approached the runway, slats and flaps deployed, the canards moved to a high lift setting, and the landing gear deployed. Marx took his hands away from the controls to prevent an accidental hit from disengaging the sequence, but kept them close enough in case he needed to override.

I can wax these Americans. That Lieutenant Yeager wasn't so tough, and she was the best the Air Force had, Mitaka thought as she found her outlet for her anger, and advanced her throttles. Besides, this F-15 doesn't look so advanced. The view of Cheetah presented in Mitaka's windscreen prevented her from seeing the advanced demonstrator's canards, which were angled down, and the thrust vectoring system. She rocketed past the fighter at five hundred miles an hour, and climbed away.

“Oh no,” Konishi muttered, as he watched Mitaka buzz Cheetah, “she's at it again!” He picked up the mike. “Mitaka, break off! Don't do it!” Konishi shouted, and ran from the control tower, jumping into a jeep. Sgt. Sakura got in after him.

“A hundred bucks says Mitaka looses her temper on the ground.” Sakura said, with an innocence usually given children.

“Done.” Konishi replied, just to shut Sakura up, as he roared over towards the Airbats' hangars.

“Jesus Christ!” Marx shouted, as he grabbed the stick and throttle Cheetah wobbled in Mitaka's jet wash, almost losing control. “Combat configuration, air to air. Cobb, hang on!” Marx advanced the throttles as the gear was sucked back up into the wells, the flaps were retracted and he began maneuvering. “Doc, get me a lock on that bird. If JASDF wants to play early, then so be it.”

“Air to Air combat mode selected. Warning, no missiles on aircraft, no ammunition in drum.”

The T-4 immediately began maneuvering when the pilot passed Cheetah. With thrust vectoring, flaperons and canards, Marx was able to keep up with pilot's jinking, even as she went through maneuver after maneuver that the trainer was more than capable of.

 

* * *

 

Isurugi looked up from power cart's control panel. The generator was running stable. The young sergeant's jaw dropped. “Oh no. Mitaka's at it again. The last time she did this, the Thunderbirds lost a fighter!”

Punisher, Stalker, and Yoko looked at the highly modified Air Force fighter as it pulled its gear in and cleaned up. “What happened the last time,” Stalker asked.

“She lost her temper when the Thunderbirds were here for an airshow. She and Lt. Yeager collided while practicing, and although the Lieutenant was able to land, the fighter was completely lost. We had to borrow one from the 14th Fighter Squadron at Misawa.”

Stalker looked at the experimental fighter, as it started to maneuver. His taxpayer's brain attempting to calculate how much the unique fighter cost the American taxpayer to develop and build. “He better be able to get the bird on the ground in one piece,” he growled.

 

* * *

 

Damnit, I can't shake him, Mitaka thought, as she heard in her helmet “Guns, Guns, Guns. That's one, JASDF. I'll even make the next one easy for you.” Cheetah passed Mitaka's T-4 on knife-edge, presenting the full planform to her. That's when she saw all the high-lift devices, the canards and the different nozzles on the exhaust. Marx rolled out to level flight at a nice range and profile for Sidewinders, with the engine exhausts pointing right at the T-4. Mitaka maneuvered as though she was trying to get a lock on.

“Computer, Pugachev's Cobra.” Marx ordered the computer.

“Warning, Cobra initiated. Warning.” The Cheetah suddenly pitched up to 120 degrees of normal flight attitude. With the distance closing very rapidly, Mitaka was forced to bank to the right, away from the aircraft waggling its control surfaces at the Japanese pilot. Marx smashed the right rudder pedal down, kicking the aircraft into a 90-degree right bank, and rolled level.

“I've got a sweet song on my Sidewinders, JASDF. That's two.” Cobb was doing a fairly good imitation of a Sidewinder's growl.

“They're going vertical,” Cobb called, as he looked out the back of the canopy, with Cheetah passed the T-4.

“Are they now?” Marx pulled Cheetah into a climb, and rolled inverted. He matched canopies with the T-4 and waved. Mitaka pushed the stick over, beginning an outside loop. Marx followed, still inverted and canopy to canopy. “Anything you can do, I can do better.” Marx called over the radio.

“Oh no you can't,” Mitaka replied over the radio, as she dove for the deck. Marx rolled upright and followed her T-4, as she bobbed and weaved through the trees and ducking under high-tension wires. “Guns, guns, guns,” Marx called over the radio. “There's number three, JASDF. I'm on my way to becoming an ace today. Thanks. By the way, yes I can.”

“Iruma Control to both aircraft. Knock it off, and land immediately. Repeat, knock it off, and land now!” Both pilots ignored the order, and continued to play tag.

Mitaka rolled left, and accelerated to 450 knots. Marx followed, pulling Cheetah into a tight left bank. She cut right, halfway through her turn, her airframe protesting. Marx overshot, racking his fighter into a hard right bank. Fibresteel screamed in protest as the fighter pulled a tight high-G turn. The dorsal vents opened and thrust pushed the fighter around into its turn, making the turn tighter, as the canards helped guide the gun and nonexistent missiles on target. “Fox Two, JASDF. That's four.” Marx grunted, as his G-suit squeezed to keep the blood in his brain. Doctor was looking rather pale in the backseat.

This guy is good. There's only one thing left to do. Mitaka reached down and hit the smoke controls. Marx activated his night TFR mode on the 3D holographic HUD and saw what Mitaka was doing. He rolled out of the smoke and disengaged her tail. Climbing like a rocket, he maneuvered to dive on the T-4.

As the smoke ran out, Mitaka looked around for Marx's fighter. “Where is he?” She asked; not realizing her mike was keyed.

“Check six, kid. Guns, guns, guns. That's five, JASDF, I just made ace today. Do you want to make it +1, or call it a day?” Mitaka looked in her mirror and saw Cheetah barreling down at her from 6 o'clock high. She rolled to avoid a collision. But in her mind's eye she saw the twinkling of the 20mm cannon in Cheetah's wingroot and felt the 20mm slugs punching through her airframe.

“Both aircraft, this is Iruma Control. Knock it off, repeat knock it off and land immediately.” A rough, gravelly voice ordered over the radio. Mitaka recognized the voice and complied immediately

Marx, not recognizing the voice but taking Mitaka's cue, disengaged and took up a position on Mitaka's wing. The formation began their final approach, with Cheetah backing off, waiting for the T-4 to land first. Mitaka's main wheels touched down, and she rolled out in 600 yards. Marx reconfigured Cheetah back to short field configuration. The main wheels kissed the tarmac and the speedbrake popped up, as the nozzles opened on the top and bottom. With the combination of reverse thrust and speedbrake, Cheetah slowed to her taxi speed in less than 500 yards. Mitaka glared at the modified F-15 as it taxied off the main runway towards the parking area, behind a “Follow Me” truck. During the taxi off the runway, Cobb pulled a grease pencil out from his flight suit and wrote on the inside of the canopy: “Home- 0, Visitors- 5”.

Marx reached his assigned parking spot, and began shutdown procedures, as MSgt Reyes, Cheetah's crew chief, inserted the safety pins into the landing gear. Isurugi placed a boarding ladder against the cockpit as the canopy came up. Cobb pulled his helmet off and climbed out of the back cockpit. Isurugi stepped back for a minute and looked at the fighter. “Wow, what a cool airplane! And I can't believe it out performed a T-4. Wow! Canards, vectored thrust, leading edge devices. Oh man, this is such a cool plane!”

Mitaka jumped out of the cockpit of her T-4, helmet in hand, and stalked over to Cheetah, a scowl on her face. When she saw what had been written on the canopy, her shark face went into place. Marx looked around, and after taking the final sip of his cold tea from the travel mug velcroed to the glareshield of the cockpit, removed his helmet and gloves. As Marx climbed out of his fighter, Mitaka hurled her helmet, hitting him square in the back. Marx grimaced when the helmet knocked him off the ladder on to his back. He got up and turned around. “Alright, what the hell was that for?” He asked glaring at Mitaka.

“If I can't beat you in the air, I'll beat you on the ground, hot dog,” she shot back, shark face still in place, and assumed a self-defense stance. Marx countered, by bringing his fists up.

As Mitaka started to swing, a jeep pulled up as Captain Konishi and Major Kengamine came running over to the planes. “MITAKA! DON'T DO IT!!!” As Mitaka started her swing, she tried to stop but over balanced and faltered. Marx reached over and caught her, as she started to fall. An almost electric tingle went up Marx's arm, before some shouted “Ten-Hut.”

Everyone snapped to attention as Generals Tskumoto and McLanahan got out of the jeep. “Major Kengamine, what's going on here?” General Tskumoto asked, as he returned everyone's salute. He looked over at Cheetah, and his eyebrow climbed. It dropped when he saw what was on the canopy. McLanahan stood behind the diminutive general, letting the Central Division Commander deal with his troops. Muck was going to deal with his chief test pilot later.

“Ah, just a little informal hand to hand training after an impromptu combat exercise, General, sir.”

“I thought I told you that I did not want another incident with the US Air Force, Major. Did you not inform the 801st? As well as Sgt. Mitaka?”

“Ah, yes sir, I did, sir. I believe that all sides agreed to these exercises prior to their landing via radio, General.”

“I'm sure the radar tapes and radio intercepts will bear this out. Sgt. Mitaka, I want to see you in my office as soon as possible.” Tskumoto turned to General McLanahan. “I'd like to discuss this incident with your pilot. I'm sure it'd be most enlightening.”

“Of course, General. I'll bring him over after he's done the post-flight on his aircraft.”

Sakura walked over to Konishi, and held out her hands. “What's this for?” He asked.

“You owe me a hundred bucks,” she smiled sweetly.

As Marx began a quick postflight inspection of his fighter, General Breed walked over, looking immaculate. His blues were freshly pressed; his low quarters had a high shine on them. He looked for all the world like he stepped of an Air Force recruiting poster. “Hey General,” Marx said, “long time no see, sir.”

“Marx,” he replied. “I thought I made sure your career was in the dumpster when I sent you to Elliot. What are you doing here?”

“Well, sir, I flew the testing schedule by the book. Sure, I got in trouble a few times as well, but I'm the only trained test pilot for this particular airframe.” Marx replied, a sappy smile on his face.

Sgt. Haneda stopped her jeep next to Cheetah. She saluted the two officers, who returned her salute. “Major, I'm here to take you to General Tskumoto's office.”

“Have a nice day, General,” Marx said as he got into the jeep.

 

General Tskumoto's Office

 

Marx and McLanahan walked into the Central Division Commander's outer office. Sitting on chairs next to the General's door where Major Kengamine and Captain Konishi, although Sgt. Mitaka was standing. Reminds me of the principal's office, Marx thought to himself. He stifled a chuckle and smiled at Mitaka. She's a most worthy adversary, I'd hate to be on the receiving end of her guns though. She returned the smile with a scowl.

McLanahan looked at his program manager for the Cheetah. “Marx, why are you still wearing your flightsuit?”

“General, sir, you told me to get my butt over here as soon as I was finished with the post flight. And General Breed decided to ask why I was here, and not some hovel in the middle of the Nevada desert. That's why I'm still in green.”

McLanahan shook his head, and caught a hint of something. Hmm, kerosene, cockpit odors, and unshowered pilot, lovely. He shook his head some more and muttered “Why me?”

The secretary interrupted Muck's train of thought. “General, the General will see you and your pilot now.” She stood and opened the door to Tskumoto's office.

 

“Sit, gentlemen. Major, could you please elaborate on the events that happened this morning.” The General asked. He set the file he was reading down, and looked over the Air Force officers. Marx was unshaven, unshowered, and still wearing his flightsuit, with what looked like a ketchup stain on the front. Not exactly the spit and polish of the Thunderbirds, but more like an alert pilot who hasn't been off alert in a month. General McLanahan, however, looked as fresh as when he got off the transport.

When Marx stifled a yawn, McLanahan gave him a dirty look. “Yes sir. My apologies on my appearance. You said as soon as possible, and I followed your order to the letter. We were on final approach to Runway 10, when Sgt. Mitaka buzzed our plane. Mind you, General; I'd been cooped up in that cockpit since yesterday. So I accelerated out of my final approach, and engaged Sgt. Mitaka in an informal air-to-air combat training session. This allowed myself and my backseater to wake up and practice tactics we'd created for the F-15F at Elliot AFB against someone who hadn't fought against us in exercises.

“We proceeded to shoot down Sgt. Mitaka five times, almost six, before the Tower told us to knock it off, sir. Gun camera footage will prove me correct. I might want to add a dogfight in the airshow, however, sir.” General McLanahan gave Marx a dirty look while shaking his head.

“Yes, I'm well aware of your simulated kills, Major. I saw the whole thing from my office. A most impressive aircraft and most impressive flying. Sgt. Mitaka is one of the best pilots in my command. And was happened on the ground?”

“We still had some energy we needed to burn off, sir. We were about to conduct an informal hand to hand training session when you and General McLanahan showed up, sir.”

“Thank you Major. Go get some thing to eat and some rest. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, General.” Marx stood, and headed for the door.

“What do you intend to do about this Sgt. Mitaka, General?” McLanahan asked.

“I think a formal reprimand is in order, General McLanahan. I hate to do it, since she's one of the best pilots in the 801st, but I'll have her written up and have her give your pilots a formal, public apology tonight.”

“No restriction on flight status, General?”

“No. As I said, she's one of our best pilots.” General Tskumoto leaned forward. “I want to make your stay in Japan as enjoyable and productive as possible.”

 

“Kengamine, get in here and bring Sgt. Mitaka and Captain Konishi!” The General bellowed. Kengamine, Konishi, and Mitaka filed in and stood at attention in front of the General's desk. Tskumoto sat drumming his fingers on the file folder, looking at the model of the F-104J Starfighter on his desk, letting the three pilots stew in silence.

He looked over his reading glasses, and broke the silence. “Sergeant Mitaka, I would like to know just what you were thinking when you almost had a midair collision with an aircraft from the US Air Force? This is the second time that Americans have come to this field, and the second time you've had an incident with them. Does the sight of the Stars and Bars set you foaming at the mouth? What do you have to say for your self?”

Mitaka had an almost meek look on her face. “I do not know sir. Perhaps I was upset and needed to find a method to release my anger.”

“Sergeant, you are one of the best pilots in this unit. You saved my granddaughter and convinced me to authorize the 801st as a combat unit, but you are too combative. I'll have to place a formal written reprimand in your file, and I want you to apologize Major Marx and Captain Cobb tonight. Be warned, Sergeant, that this will be your last chance. One more incident, no matter how minor, and you will be dismissed from the service.

“Now General McLanahan wanted to suspend your flying status, but I managed to persuade him otherwise. Do you understand, Sergeant, what kind of report that might get back to the United States if you had caused Cheetah to crash?”

“I think so sir.”

“You are dismissed, Sergeant. Major, Captain please remain.” Tskumoto returned to his paperwork, as Mitaka left his office. “Why is this happening, gentlemen?” The diminutive general stood. “Back when I was Sgt. Mitaka's age, I would have had this fighting spirit forcibly redirected by a petty officer.

“Make no mistakes, gentlemen, if Sergeant Mitaka has one more error in judgment, I will end her career. Major Kengamine, you are dismissed. Captain Konishi, please stay.” Tskumoto waited until Kengamine had closed the door. “Captain, Sgt. Mitaka reminds me a lot of myself when I was her age. But then, Japan had just finished fighting a war with the West. Since the incident happened this morning, I felt that Major Marx would be an excellent foil in a little game of tag at the airshow this weekend.”

“What makes you say that, sir,” Konishi asked. Even though he saw the game of aerial tag, he still felt that Marx had been lucky.

“Well, Captain, Major Marx advised me that he would appreciate the opportunity of testing the sergeant's skill in front of an audience. Perhaps Sgt. Mitaka will prevail, or perhaps the US Air Force will once again take the day, and defeat the air force of Japan.

“I took it upon myself to request one of the aggressor F-15s when I found out that this base would be hosting one of the airshows. I had planned from the beginning to have Sgt. Mitaka go up against the best the US Air Force sent us. Of course, Sgt. Mitaka's actions today still won't go unpunished.”

 

Outside the Central Division headquarters, McLanahan laid into Marx. “Alright, what the hell is going on, Major? You get into a scrap with the Navy over Range 7, one that General Samson has to defuse. And now you've got a four star general about ready to cashier their best pilot because you couldn't be man enough and just land and walk away?

“Just what is it that's going through your mind?

“And where the hell is Cobb?

Marx looked down at his scuffed, unshined boots. “Shit, General, I'm a fighter puke. You know as well as I do, that we get paid to kill people. Hell, sir, you were in SAC for Chrissake. If we don't keep our edge, we lose it, sir. Besides, I like showing off Cheetah to the unsuspecting. It gives us the edge. Especially when this bird finally goes back into production.

“My backseater is finishing the post-flight of the aircraft, and ensuring that the training munitions are loaded correctly. After that, he was going to head over to the VOQ and sack out.”

McLanahan looked at Marx. “I know that, Major. But that does not give you the excuse for engaging unauthorized air combat. When we get back to Nevada, this incident is going into your file. You can consider yourself lucky you impressed the four star in that office, but, for your sake, you'd better hope that something comes up that will make me forget this. For both your backseater's career as well as yours.

“Get out of my face, and take a shower.”

 

When she got back to the 801st's headquarters, Mitaka climbed up on to the roof of the building. Damnit, I always do this. I get reprimanded for that incident with Lieutenant Yeager; I love Isurugi, but I can't express it so Isurugi goes and marries Haneda, and now this had to happen. Maybe Haneda's right. I'm a menace to the unit; maybe I should have stayed with the F-15 unit. Why can't I keep from screwing up all the time? Mitaka looked down at the flightline, flexing the arm that Major Marx caught. She saw Yoko with that American Navy lieutenant commander and Chii-chon flying behind them. Yoko seems to be happy. So why can't I? But there's something about that American Major. I think there was a twinkle or spark in his eye when he caught me. But why would I be falling in love with a round eyed, squared jawed gaijin? Or how could I be doing this? Besides, he seems to be impertinent to his senior officer.

 

Marx was awakened by someone pounding on his door, after a few hours of sleep. “Yeah, who is it,” he asked, sleepily. Two hours of sleep after 9 hours in the ejection seat of my fighter is not enough, he thought as he looked at his watch. I'm getting too old for this crap.

“It's Sergeant Sakura, Major. Captain Konishi would like to know if you and Captain Cobb would care to join the squadron for dinner downtown this evening.”

“That would be fine, Sergeant. What time?”

“At 2000 hours, Major. That should give you enough time to catch up on sleep, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Marx laid back down on his cot. He lay there with his hands laced behind his head thinking. More specifically thinking about his opponent this morning, Sgt. Mitaka. What is it that drives her to be so aggressive? Something from her childhood, perhaps. Or is it something else. Marx's reverie was interrupted by another knocking at the door. Marx got out of bed and pulled on an old pair of sweats.

“Hold on a moment.” Marx walked over to the door. “Who is it?”

“It's Sgt. Isurugi, Major. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, come in kid.” Marx opened the door and let Isurugi in. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?” Marx motioned to the chair and sat on the bed.

“Major, I'd hope you won't be too hard on Mitaka,” Isurugi said, as he sat in the chair.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, the way you two almost got into a fight on the ground today. Mitaka's a good person with a pure heart. She's just a little rough around the edges sometimes. And besides, she likes airplanes.”

 

USS Theodore Roosevelt

Air Operations

Same Time

 

“Rough Rider, this is Victory 207, on channel 4.”

“Victory 207, this is Rough Rider. What's your status?”

“Rough Rider, Victory 207 is on the ground at Bingo Base India, with a fragged engine. We're going to need a new engine and crew to replace it.”

“Roger that, Victory 207, one milk truck with new engine and maintenance crew to Bingo Base Iruma. Y'all enjoy your stay on the beach. Rough Rider out.”

CAG looked at the Air Boss. “Great. Next Greyhound that comes in gets diverted. Contact COMNAVAIRPAC and see if we can get an empty milk truck from the West Coast or Pearl out here, and an Air Force cargo bird to haul away the bad engine from Iruma.

“This is just flipping great. Now I get to tell the flag that one of his irreplaceable Tomcats is stuck on the beach with a fragged TF-30. I thought Pratt had fixed that problem. Of course I want to know why the Jolly's still have A-model airframes in their squadron with those engines.”

 

Flag Quarters

USS Theodore Roosevelt

 

“Sir, Captain Fratacelli is outside. He has information about the Tomcat that declared the emergency earlier.”

“Send him in,” the task force commander said. He set down his coffee cup and moved behind his desk.

Captain Fratacelli walked in, and the Marine guard closed the door. “Admiral, I have a status report on Victory 207. Number one engine is fragged. They're going to be needing a new engine and a crew to replace it before they can return to the boat.”

Admiral Cunningham shook his head. “What type of engines were in that bird, Captain?”

“Ah… TF-30s, sir. VF-103 still had a couple of old A-frames that never got the engine upgrade. Why, I'm not sure.”

“Do you know if the crew was hot-dogging, Captain?”

“I doubt it sir, it was Commander Celentano's bird that got fragged. When we send out the replacement engine, I'll go out and investigate myself. Sir.”

“Very good Captain, I'll see what I can do from my end. Carry on.”

 

Nekohanten #2

Downtown Iruma

That evening

 

“So, Major, how are you enjoying your stay in Japan?” Captain Konishi asked Marx, seated across from each other at a low table. At another table, Punisher was seated with Cobb, discussing women and the Phoenix missile and its best employment. The Isurugis were at another table, far removed from the rest of the patrons. Commander Celentano and Yoko, however, were nowhere to be seen.

“Fine so far, Captain.” Marx replied. “I actually appreciated Sgt. Mitaka's aggressive flying style. Is she normally like that?” He took a mouthful of ramen.

Konishi coughed, as Sakura answered. “She's a little hot under the collar, sometimes, Major, but we keep her around.”

The door slid open; rain could be heard outside, followed by footsteps. All eyes were attracted to the person coming in. Mitaka walked over to Major Marx's table and dropped to her knees, eyes downcast. “Major Marx, I would like to apologize for the incident that occurred over Iruma this afternoon. I did not realize that your aircraft was a prototype, and the ramifications that would happen if you were forced to eject or crash. I hope that this won't affect our working relationship.”

The room went deathly quiet. A pin could be heard dropping. The Airbats couldn't believe what they just heard; not only Mitaka being meek, but actually apologizing in public. Marx sat looking Mitaka, but before he could answer, she got up and ran out of the bar. Cobb looked confused at what had happened, since he hadn't been called into the meeting.

“Excuse me.” Marx stood. “Sergeant Mitaka, wait,” he called as followed her out in the rain. He caught up to her a block down. “Mitaka, what's wrong?” Marx asked, as he grabbed her arm.

Mitaka turned and looked into Marx's eyes. “I've been under a lot of stress recently, Major. It's nothing.” It may have been nothing, but Marx noticed tears mixing in with the rain. “Major…”

“Please, call me Chris,” Marx interrupted.

“Major,” she said, not granting his request. “The past few months have been really hard on me. And my stunt today has placed my career in jeopardy. If I make one more mistake, I'm out. And the 801st is the only real family I have. My father wanted a son to carry on with the family business. So you can imagine his disappointment when I arrived.” They moved down the road towards a different bar. Konishi's screams of agony as Sakura recovered from her shock and began singing karaoke could be heard coming from the Nekohanten.

Entering the new bar, which didn't have a karaoke machine, Marx ordered mineral water for the two of them. This was only because they were now in the eight hour window before flying. “Mitaka, why don't you tell me about it.” He smiled. “I'm all ears.”

Mitaka swirled her mineral water. “Major, I really appreciate this. My squadron mates would never have the patience to sit here, and listen to me vent my spleen.”

“No problem, Mitaka. I've always been the `Father Confessor' figure.” Marx smiled. “You should hear some of the things I get from my squadron mates. Oh, the problems they have. Especially when they go downtown.”

Mitaka smiled back, and took a sip of her mineral water. “My problem, `Father,' is that everything I've ever done is get my father to recognize the fact that I exist. I joined JASDF for his recognition; I went to flight school and passed with flying colors. All through my career, it's been nothing but the cold shoulder from my father. The rest of my family's been thrilled with what I've done, my grandfathers especially.

“But that's why I'm such a hard ass. I've been trying hard to be my father's son.”

“Mitaka,” Marx said quietly, “perhaps you've been trying too hard. And that, in turn, has alienated you from the rest of your squadron.

“Have you ever thought about not being confrontational? About avoiding getting into fights over the littlest thing or finding another outlet for your anger.”

“Not really, Major. Its just that I've always been sort of a shy person, but the only way for me to get recognized is to act the bully.”

“I see.” Marx took a sip of his mineral water.

“What about you, Major? Why is someone as quiet and understanding like you are in the business of flying fighters.”

Marx took off his glasses, and wiped the lenses. “Well ma'am, I've always wanted to be a pilot. Ever since I was a young boy I wanted to fly. When I enlisted in the Air Force, the first time, I tried to be aircrew on something, either AWACS or transport or tanker. But they assigned me to Security Police. And that's where I fell in love with the Eagle. And that made me want to be drive the bird even more.

“When I got out, I went and joined the Army Guard since the Air Force wouldn't take me back. I finished my degree and got a direct commission from my battalion commander. When I finished my career in the reserves, the Air Force Reserves finally took me back, and I was able to pass my flight physical and got assigned doing something I loved—flying the F-15. I started out in single seat Eagles, but was able to transition to Strike Eagles.

“While I was at Luke, they decided to keep me as an instructor, until I managed to piss off both the base commander and my squadron commander with my unorthodox training methods. He sent me into the wasteland of the Air Force known as Elliot Air Force Base. And that's where I've been for the past two years, flying a proven airframe, but one that has had refinements made to it. And I like showing it off. It's given me the proof that I'm not a fuck up, like my one squadron commander thought when I first enlisted in the Air Force.”

 

USS Teddy Roosevelt

Same time

 

CAG walked out onto the catwalk and glanced down at the deck. Sitting off in the limited parking area was a Greyhound finishing an offload. He ran into Pri-Fly shouting, “Don't let that milk truck get away! I'm canceling any orders that they have now. And get that flight crew in here.”

The speaker box on the bulkhead squawked. “Rough Rider, this is Pave Hammer Zero-One, requesting landing clearance.”

CAG picked up the mike. “Pave Hammer Zero-One; identify type of aircraft and souls onboard.”

“Rough Rider, this is Pave Hammer Zero-One. We are one Air Force MV-22 Pave Hammer search and rescue bird out of Kadena AB; three souls on board.”

The controller smiled. “Pave Hammer Zero-One, you are cleared to land. Have the aircraft commander report to the CAG upon landing.”

“Roger that, Pave Hammer Zero-One, out.”

What the hell is the Air Force doing, sending one of their Pave Hammers out here? Couldn't be because of a long duration ferry flight… CAG mused, as he headed down to the deck.

 

The whine of turbines could barely be heard over the usual flight deck roar, but some junior crewmembers looked over to the portside of the ship as this thing approached the ship at two hundred knots, then transitioned into a hovering helicopter, and translated the few remaining yards to the flight deck.

The wheels touched down, and the Pave Hammer taxied over to a parking area, guided by a yellow shirt. The deck crew swarmed around the bird as the rotors slowed to a stop and the wings stowed into their storage configuration. Only when the aircraft was chocked and tied down, did the pilot deplane, and walk over to CAG. “Captain? Captain Michaels, 77th RQS commander. My pilot, Chief Warrant Officer Smythe. We understand you have a little problem.”

“Captain Fratacelli, Captain. We do. Besides, what's an Air Force rescue bird doing out here, anyway?”

“We got a message from CINCPACAF and COMNAVAIRPAC. Apparently, they couldn't get another C-2 out here for the next few weeks. So, they called us up to help you boys out with a problem.”

“At this point, I don't care if you guys are the Tooth Fairy and the Seven Dwarves. I've got a bent Tomcat on the beach, and it's doing me no good over there. We'll be starting the briefing in a few minutes, so if you and your crew would like to follow me to the briefing room, we can take care of this problem.” The CAG shouted back over the din of the flight deck.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a problem. We have a Tomcat on the beach at Bingo Base India with a fragged engine. We need to resolve this situation. And in doing so, we've requested and received the C-2 that was grabbed earlier, and assistance from the Air Force, through COMNAVAIRPAC and CINCPACAF.

“We need to bring out to Bingo Base India tools, engine stands, diagnostic tools and, last but certainly not least, a new TF-30 engine. What we'll be doing is loading the engine and equipment on to the Greyhound and personnel on to the Air Force's Pave Hammer. Any additional equipment will be provided by Bingo Base India.”

CAG looked at the expression on the faces of the milk truck crew. “Yes, that's right, kids. You'll be taking off with a full load in the cargo bay. That means your T-56s'll be screaming in agony.

“I'll be going along in the Pave Hammer, so I can begin the investigation on why this happened. Any questions?” Fortunately there were none. “Good, then mount up. We leave as soon as the gear is on the Greyhound.”

 

801st TTS

Visiting Officer's Quarters

 

Marx stood outside the VOQ, in the rain. He looked at Mitaka. “Well, I guess its time to say good night,” he said.

She looked back at him. “Major,” she said quietly, “I'd appreciate it if you really didn't go. I don't feel like being alone tonight.”

“Well, considering we're just standing here getting soaked, you might as well come in,” Marx said, offering his arm.

She took it and they went into the building. The USAF Security Policeman securing the VOQ looked at Marx and Mitaka, but let them in anyway. The SP knew Marx from Elliot and knew that he was one of the few pilots that treated the cops there like people, not like scum. He did annotate the fact that Marx entered the VOQ with a Japanese military member, however, in the security log.

 

USS Theodore Roosevelt

Much later that night (or earlier the next morning)…

 

The C-2 taxied towards Cat 1 slowly and carefully. Secured inside the cargo bay were a new TF-30 engine and all the necessary tools and equipment to replace the engine. The launch arm was snapped into the shuttle, and the copilot held up a weight estimate to the cat. One of the cat crewmen shook her head when she saw it. “Full power to the engines, standby for launch,” the pilot said, putting her hands on the throttle and advanced them to the stops. The plane quivered from the power being applied, as the pilot nodded to the launch officer. The catapult flung the cargo plane off the bow of the ship, and its nav lights dipped out of sight. It was seen a few moments later, struggling to get into the air, engines screaming over the din. The deck crew were hoping that the COD would get enough air under the wings to clear the ship.

On the aft flight deck, the Pave Hammer was towed out, as the APU started up, and the wings and nacelles moved from their stowed positions locked into flight configuration. The engines spooled up as the rotors began spinning. Within moments, the rotors were spinning at idle speed and Capt. Michaels applied power. The hybrid aircraft got light on its gear, and with guidance translated left and transitioned into aircraft mode and sped into the predawn darkness after the Greyhound.

 

801st SQUADRON HQ

Later that morning

 

“Good morning everyone. Today, we start practicing for…” Konishi paused, as he scanned the briefing room. “Wait a minute, where are Sgts. Mitaka?”

Haneda spoke up. “I haven't seen Yoko since yesterday when that American F-14 landed. As for Mitaka, I saw her leaving the bar with Major Marx last night.” She looked around the room. Captain Cobb was present, nursing a sake hangover, however, his pilot wasn't. “And where's Major Marx….” Haneda's voice trailed off as she turned beet red, putting two and two together. “Oh…”

Yoko put her two cents in. “Oh my. The Major's a pervert!”

Kengamine stood, as he began to loose his temper. “Those two are supposed to be here, because they've got an act to choreograph and practice! This is unbelievable!” Smoke began to seep from his ears. “When they show up, I'll… I'll…”

“You'll what, Major?” Marx asked as he walked into the briefing room. Beside him was Sgt. Mitaka who; for once in her life didn't have her permanent scowl, and something resembling a smile. They took their seats at the briefing table.

“Well, I'll… humbly apologize for any rude and annoying comments I might have made prior to your arrival.” Cobb coughed, and started making odd gestures in his mouth.

“Well, Major that's got to be the worst suck up job I've ever heard. Besides, this airshow is as much for your air force as it is for the United States to find another buyer for the Cheetah. Of course, Israel is looking at Cheetah to supplement the IDF, but as we all know, the Israelis are really the fifty-first state. The Defense Department practically gives away weapons to Israel.

“But that's not why we're here. We were invited by your government to show what good old Yankee know-how can do. And to see if you'd be interested in purchasing this bird.”

Isurugi chimed in. “It's such a cool airplane too, sir. With the canards, high-lift devices in the wings and the thrust vectoring, this fighter is much more maneuverable than the F-2 or F-16 or F/A-18. And Master Sergeant Reyes has been showing me the maintenance interface. It's really user friendly. All you need is a commercial laptop or PDA and plug it into the fighter's main computer, and it'll give you a graphical representation of the airframe and pinpoint exactly where servicing needs to be done.

“Plus there are access panels all over the airframe and swapping out one of the F-404 engines is much easier with the removable lower engine cowling. No more tall engine racks. With built-in hoists, this aircraft is almost rough field capable. And the engines are a line replaceable unit. We can change the engine, afterburners and nozzles in a single shot. Man, this is such a cool plane.”

Marx smirked as Isurugi sang praises for the Cheetah. “Isurugi! Enough. The F-15F may not fit into the JASDF's plans to prevent mean people from attacking!” Kengamine roared. “Especially since it could be considered an `offensive' weapon by certain political parties.”

“I doubt it Major. I mean you all have added F-16/F-2 fighters into service. They could be considered offensive weapons. Anyway, Sgt. Mitaka and I have already developed our display for the show.” Marx pulled out a laptop and portable projector from his valise. As he set up the display, he motioned for Cobb to lower the lights as he began his PowerPoint presentation. “But, it will be in two parts; first a solo flyby by Cheetah, as indicated in this slide. Then Sgts. Sakura, Haneda, and Yoko will start an aerobatic routine as I land. Finally, we'll have a repeat of yesterday with Sgt. Mitaka in the aggressor F-15 coming in for the attack as I'm landing. The T-4s will scatter, and we'll dogfight in the aerobatic box.”

The whine of turboprops could be heard outside on the flightline. Isurugi looked out the window. Taxiing into the parking areas were a C-2 and MV-22. “Oh cool, an Osprey! Man, we are so lucky. A Tomcat, an Osprey, a Greyhound and an advanced Strike Eagle all on our flightline. Oh man, this is so cool!”

“There he goes again, all goo-goo eyed over airplanes,” Mitaka muttered.

Haneda concurred. “I love him dearly, but when he's got the satellite dish on one of the American channels, and they're showing planes, I could be dancing around in next to nothing, and he's in his own little world.”

Mitaka could resist the opening that Haneda provided. “I told you not to marry him, Haneda. But you went and did it anyway. Of course you too are so perfect for each other.

“Little babies,” she scoffed.

“You told me not to marry him? I don't remember that. But I do remember you being Miss Bitch at our wedding, Arisa. And after, at our reception, when you got into the sake, I was surprised that Colonel Yumioki chose to ignore your behavior, and not call the MPs in and bring you back to the barracks. And I was also surprised that Captain Konishi didn't press any charges after you punched him in the eye when he tried to restrain you.”

“I never did any of that, Myuki. And you know I hate sake.” Mitaka looked around. The members of the 801st, which weren't involved in this “discussion,” looked at Mitaka and shook their heads. They all remembered what happened at the wedding.

Kengamine looked at Mitaka. “None of this would have happened, Sergeant Mitaka, if you weren't such a hot-headed, honorless gaijin.”

Mitaka looked at Marx, who hadn't understood a word Kengamine said. He merely shrugged his shoulders. She stormed out of the briefing room, sparks in her eyes. “Stupid little babies,” she muttered.

“Is she…” Marx started.

“She's a little hot under the collar right now, Major,” Konishi answered. “She'll probably be in the hangar cooling off. She'll normally explode, then go there to relax.”
“I see,” Marx replied, a little hesitation in his voice.

“Can we get on with planning this airshow?” Kengamine asked, irritation in his voice. All I want to do is get promoted and away from that half-breed bitch.

“If you will excuse me, Major, but I need to go locate my partner for this act.” Marx headed out of the briefing room. “Doctor, finish the briefing, as according to the outline in the computer.”

 

Out on the flightline, CAG and the maintenance crew from the Jolly Rogers climbed out of the Pave Hammer. CAG headed over to Punisher and Stalker, while the EMs unloaded the milk truck. “Celentano, what the hell happened yesterday? Were you and your pilot hot dogging?”

“Hell no, CAG. We had just started made our first turn at our patrol station when the engine crapped out. And crapped out big.” Stalker pointed to the melted remains of afterburner. “We were lucky we caught it in time, and it didn't blow on us. Besides, do you think that I, one of the maintenance officers, would hot dog?”

“Just had to ask, Commander. You and Punisher did good saving this bird,” CAG said. “Get this bird fixed, and get back to the ship.” CAG looked around, and noticed Cheetah in a partially open hangar. “What the hell's that?”

Stalker answered, “That is the Air Farce's latest toy. It beat one of JASDF's light trainers 5-0 yesterday. We haven't been able to get near the damn thing for a closer look.” Stalker was referring to all the Air Force and JASDF Police around the bird, and two armored Humvees sitting just off to the side of the hangar, one mounting a machine gun on the roof.

 

Marx quietly entered the T-4 hangar, and ducked under the wing of 611. He listened for Mitaka's sobbing. “Mitaka,” he called quietly. He continued to walk over to 612. The sounds of crying grew louder. “Mitaka, what's wrong?”

She wiped the tears away. “Nothing, Major. It's nothing.”

Marx shook his head. “Something's gotten you riled Mitaka. I'd like to know what it is. Remember, I'm the Father Confessor. And please, call me Chris.”

“Major, it's just that I tend to react more than think. Part of it has to do with my parents. Remember what I said last night my father wanted a son to carry on the family business.”
“I remember. And what about your mother?” Marx asked.

Mitaka half-smiled. “My mother. She was a wonderful person, so full of life, but she never really managed to fit into Japanese society, but she tried. She was English, the daughter of the British ambassador, and had these wonderful blue eyes that could just capture your heart. And she did with my father.

“But she died when I was young. The apartment we lived in was shoddy post-war construction and collapsed during a minor 3.5 earthquake. I was at school and my father was off on a business trip. She was home watching my little sister when the quake hit. The building came down in a pile of broken concrete and twisted metal. My sister survived, but got knocked around, since her crib was metal. But my mother…” Mitaka's voice trailed off. “My mother tried so hard to fit in and be liked by our neighbors. Around Christmas, we'd go around and visit all our neighbors and give small presents to them. She'd welcome anyone new into the neighborhood with a home cooked dinner.

“My father flew home the next day from Germany. He was devastated. We moved away from that district of Chiba to the other side, near the bay. He took it as an affront to anyone who thought my sister and I were foreigners. But he also began ignoring me, and treating me more like I wasn't around, since I reminded him of my mother. I began spending more time with my grandfathers than I spent with my father.

“It was in fact my father's father that encouraged my joining the Self Defense forces. He felt that joining the Air Self Defense Forces would give me the best opportunities for flying and to prove myself to my father. And just like you I've always wanted to fly the Eagle. And I got my chance, but I blew it. Not once, but twice. The first time for fighting with someone in my squadron. He insulted me, and I was furious. I pounded him until he dropped to the ground, unconscious. I was still pounding on him until the MPs pulled me off him and threw me into the stockade. My squadron commander had orders cut for me the next day to report to the 801st.

“The second time was a few years ago, when Colonel Yumioki had orders for me to fly the Eagle out of Hanamatsu Base. But I gave that up because I felt like I belong here.”

Marx looked at Mitaka, sitting in the cockpit of the T-4. There was an overwhelming desire to just pull her out of the cockpit and hold her while she was in this vulnerable state; to let her cry on his shoulder, and tell her that everything would be alright. He reached into the cockpit and placed a hand on Mitaka's shoulder. “Arisa,” he said quietly, “it will be alright. Nothing is going to happen to you, or your career.”

Mitaka reached up and placed her hand on Marx's. She looked at the American officer who didn't jump to conclusions, who'd been calm and patient with her. “Chris,” she said, “thank you. But I'm already treading on thin ice. General Tskumoto has threatened to end my career; Major Kengamine despises me and would love to see me out the service. I…I don't know where I'd be with out flying. And a cashiered pilot isn't offered too many opportunities in a cockpit.”

Marx adjusted his position, to lean on the cockpit sill of the trainer. “I know what you mean. I'm also treading on thin ice. General Breed is the commander of Luke, where all Strike Eagle training takes place, and by extension, all Cheetah training will occur. He's the one that sent me and Captain Cobb to Elliot after an F-15 went down. I guess it was indirectly my fault because I had filed a plan that included significant low level portions.” Marx chuckled. “I was known around the base for rattling the natives with my low level training flights. 50 feet at 5 hundred knots will do that.

“And just the day before, a Tomcat squadron commander and his wingman tried to challenge us, even after we had orders not to. They lost, but their wing commander called General McLanahan and was apparently screaming holy murder at my boss.

“Then there was yesterday, where we both screwed up.” Mitaka started to interrupt, but Marx shushed her. “No, it wasn't your fault, it wasn't my fault. It was our fault. We were both to blame for that little incident.”

Mitaka stood, and wrapped her arms around the Major. She looked up into his hazel eyes with her big blue eyes; the kind of eyes that someone could get lost in quite easily. “Christopher, thank you, again. For not jumping to any conclusions, to listening with patience and understanding.” And for the longest time, she kissed him.

From the main doors of the hangar, in her sweet dulcet voice, First Sergeant Sakura said: “Pay up. 500 American dollars, Captain.”

“So much for spending money while I'm here,” Marx's backseater grumbled as he reached into flightsuit to extract the cash.