Stephen Coonts - Combat

Peters sat silently, astonished at Wei’s candor.

“Now, there is a reason for our pilots’ success here,” Wei continued. “You know that most of our aviators only fly about one hundred hours a year — roughly half of what most Americans do. But once we selected our people for this program, they were given that extra hundred hours, much of it under Russian instruction. Therefore, some of our people flew far less than one hundred hours. Additionally, the prospective carrier fliers were exempted from most political requirements. Each year the army is mobilized to help bring in the crops when necessary, but none of these men did so.” He paused, looking directly into Peters’s eyes. “You realize what that meant?”

Peters waved a hand. “Certainly, sir. It meant they were expected to succeed here.”

“Precisely. And thanks to your staff, the large majority have done so.” Wei stood up, preparing to leave. Peters leapt to his feet as well, ruefully thinking that he had mistaken the man’s intentions with the cigarette gambit.

“One final thing, Mr. Peters. You must suspect that I have some aviation background. Therefore, I wish to ask one thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“At a convenient time, may I ask the favor of making a carrier landing in the backseat of your Skyhawk?”

Peters did not even try to conceal his pleasure. He extended a hand, which Wei solemnly grasped. “It’s a deal, sir.”

Wei bowed slightly and walked out the door as Delight looked in. “Any problems, Hook?”

Peters shook his head. “Just that I’m afraid Wei is starting to act human.” He looked at his friend. “And that scares me.”

From seven thousand five hundred feet on a crystalline night, the Phoenix Valley was a splash of multihued color from millions of lights strewn across the black carpet of the Sonoran Desert.

Returning to Williams Gateway after a series of instrument approaches to Sky Harbor, Hawk Six descended through the night sky, running lights strobing from wingtips and fuselage. In the front seat, Liz Vespa concentrated on her approach plate. She knew that she had done well on the instrument-check ride, though not quite as well as she would have liked for this particular check airman. Ozzie Ostrewski rode in the back, keeping notes for the debriefing.

Northwest of the field, Ozzie unexpectedly waggled the stick. “I got it, Liz.”

Vespa raised her hands, speaking into the hot mike. “You have it.” She wondered if she had missed something, committed a mental error.

“Let’s take a look out desert way,” Ozzie offered. “I always like to see the desert at night, away from the lights.”

“Okay,” she replied. Something’s on his mind , she told herself as the TA-4J banked more to the east. Ozzie’s usually all business once he’s strapped into the jet .

The Skyhawk settled on course 090, south of the Superstition Freeway. Apache Junction and then Gold Canyon slid past the port wingtip before her scan returned to the cockpit, where her practiced gaze registered normal indications in the red night lighting.

Minutes passed without further conversation. Vespa was becoming slightly concerned when Ostrewski was back in her ears. “Maria and I have set a date: two months from now.”

Though it was physically impossible, Liz tried to turn her head to look at Ozzie. The fittings on her torso harness prevented her from shifting her shoulders more than a few inches. “Wow. That’s great, Ozzie.” He’s really going to do it . “Congratulations.” Her voice was flat.

“Thanks. We want to have a church wedding, you know? It’ll take a while for my family to make travel arrangements out from Chicago.”

Liz’s pulse was back under seventy. As seconds passed, she reminded herself to scan the instruments again: fuel flow, engine RPM, tailpipe temperature, the TA-4’s own vital signs.

“Michael.”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you wait until now to tell me? I mean, why not before we launched? Or after the debrief?”

“Hell, Liz … I guess I don’t really know. Maybe it just seemed important that we have a little time … you know, without anybody else around.”

She almost laughed. “Well, this is as private as it gets.”

“Ah, I just thought that maybe you’d sort of like some time to, you know, maybe, talk.”

She forced her feminine fangs back; she would not coyly ask, Gosh, Ozzie, talk about what? “That’s sweet of you, Michael.”

Liz mentally cataloged everything she did and did not want to say — and everything that she could never again discuss with her friend and rival. In two months there would be no going back.

“I’m going to miss you, Michael.”

He knew exactly what she meant. “Thank you, Liz. But Ozzie will still be here. And you’ll still be Wizard Two.”

“Does Maria understand that?”

He thought for several seconds. “Maybe not quite. But she will. It’s part of my job as her husband.”

“Roger. Break-break.”

Again, Michael Ostrewski perfectly read the intent of Elizabeth Vespa. Ozzie waggled the stick and said to Scooter, “You have it. Come right to two four zero. Descend and maintain four thousand five hundred feet.”

Hawk Six banked into a thirty-degree turn in the night sky, leaving something more than jet exhaust in its wake.

Four Skyhawks were announced by the Pratt and Whitney whine that once was an ordinary sound at Marine Corps Air Station El Toro, south of Los Angeles. Peters looked up from the flight line, where ATA and the Sukhoi delegations were quartered. “Well, that’s the last of them.”

The TA-4Js broke up for landing interval, gear and flaps coming visible during the 360-degree overhead break. In a descending spiral, line astern, each pilot allowed sufficient distance behind the plane ahead.

“Lookin’ good,” Peters commented.

“Damn straight,” added Robbins.

Peters shielded his eyes with one hand. “I guess Zack had his division up for practice before they left Williams.” He looked back toward the parking lot adjacent to the flight line.

“Expecting somebody, boss?”

“Yeah, Rob. I told Jane about Zack’s ETA. She and Carol were going to be here for for his arrival.”

Robbins worked his eyebrows. “I thought there was some doubt if Carol would even come.”

“There was, up until a couple days ago. I guess it took some begging on a pretty thick rug, but Zack convinced her she’d be better off here with us than waiting back home.”

“Roger that.” Robbins did not need to elaborate. He had persuaded his own wife to accompany him rather than stay alone in their condo — too many people did not want the program to proceed.

As Hawk Ten taxied into the chocks, Delight waved from the cockpit, his rear seat occupied by one of Chief Dan Wilger’s maintenance men. The other three A-4s parked beside Delight’s, their noses gently bobbing on the long nose-gear oleos.

The boarding ladder was barely in place before a car horn sounded behind Peters and his entourage. Jane Peters and Carol Delight alit from the rented Ford, waving to the crowd as two security men emerged from the front seat. Delight scrambled down the yellow ladder, tugging off his helmet. He met his wife halfway across the ramp, scooped her up in both arms, and carried her back to their friends. “You fool, put me down!” Carol’s demand lacked conviction.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Zack cooed. He kissed her warmly, then turned to face Jane Peters. “You too, honey.” He leaned forward to touch lips with her.

“Pure, what the hell are you doing?” Hook Peters knew perfectly well what his partner was up to.