Stephen Coonts - Combat

Liz had expected an abrupt move, but the suddenness caught her off guard. She lost a hundred fifty yards before she rolled over and followed Ozzie downward. It was much as she expected: On the ground, Michael Ostrewski was a complete gentleman. Up here, man to man, he was a mongoose. No quarter asked or given.

And damn sure no preferential treatment for girls.

Wizard One pulled through the bottom of the split-ess, and as the nose reached the horizon Ozzie rolled into a ninety-degree bank, still pulling hard. He sensed the Skyhawk approaching the onset of buffet, but a minute adjustment sustained his rate of turn. He felt he was getting maximum performance out of the bird.

From experience and conditioning, Ostrewski was comfortable at four Gs. He looked back over his right shoulder, in the direction of his turn. Vespa’s Wizard Two had lost some of its original dead-six aspect, but the contest was far from over.

Ostrewski’s testosterone-rich brain was convinced that no woman could stay with him in a sustained high-G contest. He determined to make Sir Isaac Newton his chief ally, wearing down Vespa by the unrelenting pressure of gravity. Besides, it was an accepted fact in squadron ready rooms: Girls can fly, but they can’t hack the G.

With her throttle two-blocked, Liz focused her powerful concentration not only on Wizard One, but on its projected path. She knew that Ozzie was unlikely to telegraph his punches, and he could be trusted to do the unexpected, but the laws of physics permitted no amendments; they were enforced equally upon all contenders.

As both jets came around the circle, completing their first 360, Liz perceived that the relative separation had stabilized. Ozzie’s initial move had netted him perhaps fifteen degrees. By common consent, the fight would end one of two ways: reaching the artificial “hard deck” of ten thousand feet, or when one of them could track the other in the gunsight for at least three seconds.

Passing through magnetic north, Ostrewski nudged bottom rudder, sliding the TA-4 downward to the right. Liz saw the motion and, momentarily perplexed, jockeyed stick and rudder to follow. She was suspicious; Delight had confided that Ozzie seldom made an error of technique.

As Liz slid down toward Ozzie’s six o’clock, he abruptly half rolled to the left, pausing almost inverted. Liz could either try to match the move or risk closing to dangerous range. She followed, smoothly coordinating her controls. The G had abated a little, but the oppressive load still pressed on her body.

Ostrewski smiled to himself as he completed an elegant slow roll, stopped the motion, then stomped left rudder and continued around the circle, sliding outside Vespa’s field of view in a lopsided barrel roll. When he rolled wings level he looked up to his left — about 9:30—and was gratified with a view of Two’s belly. He retarded the throttle and hit the button. His speed brakes extended into the slipstream, incurring welcome drag that slowed him further.

With airspeed and G relatively undiminished, Wizard Two edged ahead of One. Liz sensed more than knew what had happened — there was only one way to explain Ozzie’s disappearance — and she knew it was seconds before his triumphant “Guns” call ruined her day.

Her mind raced. He’s behind my trailing edge, slowing and expecting me to overshoot. But I’ve got more energy.

Liz began a hard left turn, realizing that Ozzie would be cleaning up his speed brakes and adding power before putting his gunsight pipper on her tailpipe. But instead of continuing the turn, she forced the Skyhawk three-quarters of the way around, completing 270 degrees of roll. She stopped the wings nearly vertical to the horizon, then pulled right. She surprised herself with her calmness. Gosh, I hope we don’t collide .

Ostrewski gaped at the plain view of Wizard Two crossing his nose two hundred feet ahead. With Liz’s superior momentum at that point, he realized she would continue the turn into his rear hemisphere before he could regain comparable energy. Smooth move, Scooter! He had no chance to make a “Guns” call.

“Hard deck. Knock it off!” Liz Vespa knew the contest was a draw, but her voice carried the ring of triumph.

Ninety minutes later, following the debrief, Ozzie Ostrewski and Scooter Vespa regarded one another across the bar in the Skyhawk Lounge. He clinked his root beer against her Coors Light. “Here’s to good times.” Clearly the frost had melted.

“Long may they wave.” She clinked back.

Ozzie looked at her. “You seem pretty darn pleased with yourself, Miss Vespa.”

Feeling flirtatious, she cocked her head. “Why not, Mr. O? I just outflew The Only Polish-American Tomcat Ace.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

He grinned back at her. “Okay, you made a righteous move after I was kicking your butt. Where’d it come from?”

She set down her beer. “Well, because I made a human being of you, I’ll tell you.” She pretended to ignore his feigned indignation. “Daddy’s best friend flew F-86s in Korea. When I got my wings, he told me about his fights in MiG Alley.”

Ozzie nodded vacantly, staring at the mural above the bar. “You know, it’s odd. I’ve seen that move before, too.”

“Really? Where?”

His eyes returned to her face. He shrugged.

“Oh.” She thought. They still won’t talk about the Langley cruise .

“Well,” he said, “it was a great hop, Scooter. You can be my wingman anytime — in Wizard Flight.”

She giggled more than she intended. “And like Maverick said to Iceman: ‘Bullshit. You can be my wingman — in Scooter Flight.’”

Ostrewski gave a noncommittal grunt as he finished his root beer. Two minutes passed before he worked up enough nerve to ask Liz to go dancing.

Orbiting at sixteen thousand feet, Liz Vespa relished being alone in a jet. Hawk Twelve was one of four A-4Fs owned or leased by ATA, and the powerful little single-seater was a joy to fly — as Zack said, “Pure delight.” Lighter than the two-seat trainers with almost thirty percent more thrust, it was the sports car of Skyhawks.

Nearing the end of the two-week air-to-ground phase, the instructors anticipated live ordnance for qualification. Vespa smiled beneath her molded gray oxygen mask — the feds had gone spastic at the mere suggestion of five-hundred-pound bombs being loaded on civilian aircraft. But ATA’s certification with State and DOD, plus some high-level arm twisting on behalf of the Chinese, had resulted in issuance of approval for “owning” and proper storage of destructive devices. Vespa marveled at Terry Peters’s patience with fearful, overbearing federal inspectors.

Vespa switched channels on her VHF radio and checked in with the Gila Bend controller. She was advised to watch for two F-16s outbound — Fighting Falcons of the Fifty-sixth Tactical Fighter Wing based at nearby Luke Air Force Base. Moments later she caught them, swift darts rocketing above her to the southwest. For a moment Liz envied the Falcon pilots their high-performance fighters, then mentally berated herself. I’ve already got one of the best flying jobs on earth . She keyed the mike. “Gila, this is Hawk Twelve. I see them. Are we clear?”

“Roger, Hawk. Your range time begins in three minutes.”

She acknowledged and switched to ATA’s common frequency. “Hawk Lead from Hawk Twelve. Zack, do you read?”

The carrier wave crackled in her earphones as Delight’s New Mexico drawl came to her from twenty miles astern. “Twelve from Lead. I gotcha, Scooter. I’m inbound with four good birds. Will proceed as briefed. Out.”