by Ward, Steve
The two safety pilots for their mission walked in laughing loudly like one had just whispered a sleazy joke. They were slamming down Big Macs and fries as they approached the conference room. Christina couldn’t help but notice the good looking fighter pilots. They finally realized customers were aboard when they shucked the food and introduced themselves.
“Hi, I’m Lazer, and this here’s Frog.”
The ex-military flyers, fully decked out in gear, were in their mid-twenties. They invited Christina and Furgeson to sit down as they began the briefing. It all sounded very serious and very military.
Carefully looking over the two young men with the keen eyes of a twenty-one-year-old female, Christina was struck by the stature of the one called Lazer. He was at least six-four, dark hair and blue eyes, strong jaw and quite impressive in his blue flight suit. No doubt, a certified jock and a jet driver to boot, she drooled. Unlike Frog, Lazer wasn’t wearing a ring. Completely out of character, she tried to conjure up some flirtatious gestures without being too obvious. She batted her big brownies and teased, “Hey fighter jock, what’s your real name, anyway? Surely your mother doesn’t call you Laser.”
“Well Ma’rm,” he said in a heavy southern drawl, “my mama calls me Mike, but everbody else calls me Lazer. That’s Lazer. . .with a Z?” He wrote his call name on the white board.
“So, let me guess,” she flirted. “You majored in electrical engineering with a minor in electro-optics, and you’re a laser expert? That’s why they call you Lazer, right?”
“Hell no! I majored in girls and minored in raisin’ hell. Call me Lazer ‘cuz I tend to zap folk outta the sky,” he responded with a roar.
Christina cringed at his southern slang but liked the sound of his laughter. “Well then, if I may be so bold, is there a Mrs. Lazer?”
“Negatron, ain’t no Mrs. Clark neither, ‘ceptin for my ma that is. Why?” He grinned from ear to ear.
“Just curious. So, would you mind if I asked about your flying credentials?”
“Not at all, sweetheart. I love to brag. An uncle of mine taught me to fly when I was about twelve, just big enough to reach the rudders. Got my private when I’s sixteen. Had five-hunert hours and an IFR ratin’ before I finished college. Then I went an joint the Air Farce. Just now getting out with over two-thousand hours in an F-18. Last year at Nellis, they give me the Risner Award.”
“My God!” she gasped. “Can’t be. . .So you’re a Top Gun?”
“Naah, that’s what they call them sissy li’l navy pilots.”
“I can’t believe that.” Sounds more like he got the Li’l Abner award, she snickered.
“It’s the God’s truth. Hey gal, wanna come up to my room and see my trophy?” he teased with a chuckle.
“So, what’s an ace like you doing in a piss-ant operation like this?” She was immediately embarrassed by her own impudence. “Err. . .I mean no disrespect, but why get out of the military?”
“Naah, real question is why wud anybody in their right haid stay in the military? Outside a flying, it sucks sompin’ fierce. Air Farce treated me like a turd in a swimmin’ pool. Anyway, they wanted to put me behind a desk. Reckoned it was a good time to bail out and try an get on with Delta. Just having some fun here at the Sky Warriors while I’m a waitin’. Hey, cain ya believe it? They pay me ta do this.”
“Well, I guess that makes a great deal of sense then. I wish you the best of luck.” She gave him her warmest smile. Now there’s a real man, she thought, a little redneck, but he’s got a cute butt. An unfamiliar but cozy feeling warmed her to the core.
Lazer took control of the briefing and said, “Now you two listen up. I’m gonna tell ya what yer in for.”
Waving two toy airplanes mounted on the end of sticks to demonstrate the various maneuvers, he explained the fundamentals of air warfare. Although his grammar and enunciation were on the borderline of horrid, he spoke with a great deal of passion.
Here’s a man who truly loves to fly, her mind wandered.
“Secret to success in air combat is the management of yore kinetic energy. Gotta larn two things if you wanna keep from getting your ass shot off. Gotta keep yer head on a swivel see, stay on the high ground. The trick is to always know the where ‘bouts a yore opponent and conserve the potential energy. Potential energy, yore altitude that is, can be converted to kinetic energy when you dive down fer the kill. The first man that runs outta kinetic energy or loses sight of his opponent usually gets his nuts busted. Oh. . .er. . .scuse me Ma’rm. . .I mean, he usually gets kilt. You gotta larn how to fly by the seat a yore pants.” He looked at Christina and snickered, “Heh, heh, in yore case, sweetheart, that’d be by the seat a yore panties.”
All the men in the room railed heartily at Christina’s expense. She thought, What a pig! Bet he loves the idea of women fighter pilots in the military.
“Very funny,” she said. “Mind keeping the panty jokes to yourself?”
He looked at her and grinned, then went on, “Point is, ain’t no time to look at yer instruments when yer in a dogfight. Gotta keep yer eye on the enemy.” He paused, took a long drink of coffee and continued, “Now, today we’re gonna concentrate on the High Yo Yo, one of the most fundamental combat maneuvers ever invented. You see, when the enemy’s in front and sees you attacking, his only defense is to roll on his side and pull like hell right ‘cross yore path to cover his tail.” He showed the two planes turning and closing head on. “If he can pull more G’s, yore never gonna get behind. Yore only counter-strategy in this case is to work in the third dimension. That’s the vertical. When you see you can’t get thar, take yore plane straight up, roll ‘er over one-eighty on ‘er back, and pull like a demon in his direction. If yore still not on his tail, do another High YoYo and so on ‘til you get lined up fer the shot. Long as you don’t run out of kinetic energy, and you can stand the G’s, you’re gonna win ever time.” He demonstrated the repeated maneuver with one toy airplane pulling up, over and in behind the other.
“So Lazer, why is it called a High Yo Yo?” Christina asked, trying to drum up a little conversation.
“Gist full a questions ain’t ya, sweetheart? Not sure, but I do know one thing, you’ll feel like a friggin’ Yo Yo when yer done.”
Christina thought, Gee, they must not teach English in air combat school. When she tried to picture the actual maneuvers, she had a chill. What the hell am I getting into here? Can’t believe we’re actually gonna do this shit with two planes close together. Can’t be legal.
“Looks pretty wild Lazer. Just how safe is this?” she asked.
“Don’t worry none, sweetheart. Why it’s safer ‘an driving down I 85,” Lazer roared. “That’s why we sit in the back. Frog and I are up there to make sure ‘n git yore little fanny back alive. When I say, ‘my airplane’ or wiggle the stick, you just let go the controls, and ole Lazer’ll save yore ass.”
Christina had to laugh. What a joke! By the time he says ‘myyyyy aaairplaaane’ we’ll all be dead! She couldn’t help herself, she just had to fire back at this hot shot. “So what you’re saying is, we’re paying big bucks for the opportunity to trust our lives to two guys named Frog and Lazer?”
Furgeson gave her a stern look that said, Would you please shut the hell up? She decided to back off.
“No, sweetheart,” Lazer replied. “Yore payin’ to get up thar and have the time a yore life.”
Frog jumped in to explain that after both Christina and Furgeson practiced a few High Yo Yos, they’d go out and make a couple of combat runs, where anything goes. It would be as real as it gets without hard bullets.
Trying to sound calm, Christina quipped, “Will we actually be flying these airplanes, or are we just along for the ballast?”
Lazer chortled aloud, “Ho ho, you are a pistol. . .ain’t bad looking neither.”
Frog seemed the more collegiate type. He explained articulately, “Our insurance requires that we safety pilots take off and land the T-34s, but in between, it’s
all up to you. We’re in the backseat for safety only. Of course, we’re only happy to offer some basic instruction and helpful hints. But unless you do something really stupid like trying to ram each other or pass out cold, you’ll be flying the entire mission. Trust me, you’ll find these planes very powerful and easy to maneuver.”
“So, what’s the worst thing we could do then?” asked Christina with a serious face. “What do customers do that pisses you guys off?”
“Negative Geee’s,” Lazer replied with a twang. “We hate them negative Geee’s. They the ones that makes yore guts try to come outta yore mouth. Don’t be trying no outside loops or nothin’. Always try to roll the wings around so you can pull through positive Geee’s. Just keep our asses planted hard in that seat, and we’ll be happy as a couple a slugs.”
Furgeson looked at Christina and grinned.
Strolling out to the two airplanes, she tried not to look like the worried female daring to venture into a man’s world. Here she was, a flying novice with ten hours in her logbook, sauntering into combat with three professional fighter pilots. She knew that women, with their smaller frames and ability to stand high G stress had done quite well in air combat. She just hoped she’d be able to represent her gender with some sense of pride.
While the two safety pilots were busy with the airplanes, Christina pulled Furgeson to one side and said, “Make sure I get paired with Lazer,” she whispered.
“Now, why would you want that jackass? He’s obviously what you women call a Chauvinist. Besides, he’s got the fat head.”
Christina was surprised. Furgeson actually sounded jealous. “Look at his left hand.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“No, silly, he’s single,” she whispered aloud.
“So, that just means he’s got nothin’ to lose.”
“Come on, John, how about a little cooperation?”
Their hosts walked up, and Frog asked, “So, who’s flying with whom?”
“It really doesn’t matter to me,” answered Furgeson, “but whoever flies with this girl had better have the Right Stuff. She’s not what I’d call your timid flyer.”
They chuckled.
“Well, how ‘bout I volunteer to fly with this young gal?” Lazer jumped in putting one arm around her shoulders. Giving Frog a threatening look he said, “We’ll kick yore hard asses right out of the sky?” It was obviously part of the act, but she thought he sounded quite convincing.
The green, camouflage-painted aircraft were spectacular, parked side by side on the tarmac, luminous in the midday sun. Those planes, which looked like something out of WWII, were immaculately maintained and absolutely gorgeous. She walked around with Lazer on the preflight.
“That roll-back canopy is just too cool,” she said, “feels like climbing up on the wings of a fighter jet.”
She stepped into the front seat and clumsily plopped down, struggling with the complicated safety harnesses. Lazer kneeled down to help. She felt a definite rush as he reached around her waist to pull out the latches. She gasped as he snugged the straps across her breasts. He gave her a big smile, “Just wanna make sure yore secure, that’s all.” His hands lingered on her harness.
“Why, thank you, Lazer, but I do think I can take it from here,” she smiled back. She thought, He might be a Chauvinist pig, but right now he’s my Chauvinist pig, and I’m gonna need him when the shit hits the fan.
Finally, Lazer and Frog fired up the powerful engines with a roar. With the canopy pulled back, Christina felt the rush full force as propwash blew her hair. What a feeling! Finishing all the preflight checks, they taxied onto the runway. She couldn’t believe the civilian tower cleared them to take off in formation only a few feet apart. Frog, in the lead, nodded to give the signal, and they both hit full throttle. Just as his gear left the runway, Lazer pulled up and called, “Gears up.” They were climbing in perfect formation. When she saw how close they were, her sphincter knotted. Holy crap! Lazer tucked his left wing no more than two feet under the end of Frog’s. Even though they were bouncing around in light chop, it appeared the two planes were connected with invisible glue.
Pulling out of formation, Lazer spoke to her over the intercom, “Okay sweetheart, yore airplane.”
Grasping the stick firmly, Christina moved it around to get used to the controls. She loved the feel of the stick protruding up between her legs. The controls were so much more sensitive than the yoke of the 150. She looked through the gun sight, put her finger on the trigger and waved the wings back and forth. The plane handled just like a video flight simulator with a joystick.
“Too good to be true!” she yelled.
“Don’t worry none, sweetheart; yore gonna get plenty a yankin’ and bankin’.”
“Can we do some aerobatics to warm up?” she asked boldly.
“Damn good idie.” Lazer got on the radio, “Frog give us a minute. We’re gonna rock and roll over here a bit, so Christina the Sky Warrior can get the feel of ‘er plane.”
“Roger that, Lazer. We’ll do the same. Have fun.”
Over the practice area, maneuvering in a safety zone between 5,000 and 10,000 feet, Lazer coached her through some loops and aileron rolls. She was thrilled with the maneuverability of the T-34. Lifting the nose just above the horizon and banging the stick hard left rolled the aircraft all the way around its longitudinal axis in just a couple of seconds. It was a thrill to watch the far horizon spin 360 degrees, then level the wings for a perfect aileron roll. A loop in the Mentor was even more impressive.
“You’ll wanna ease that nose down and git yore airspeed up ta 175. Then give the stick just enough back pressure fer a constant force holding your ass in the seat all the way over the top,” Lazer advised.
Christina eased the stick forward, accelerating and then pulled back smoothly, holding the wings level. The nose came up and the far horizon disappeared as the cockpit filled with blue sky. The airplane pointed straight up like a rocket. Up and over the top, the back horizon rolled into view, inverted. She continued the pull as the nose pointed straight down then leveled, bumping through her own wake. With positive G’s all the way, the maneuver was quite comfy.
“Not bad, girl. How many hours did you say you had?”
“Only ten hours in my log, but I’ve done some aerobatics in a Citaborea. This is a lot easier.”
Next, the combatants took turns chasing each other just to make sure the equipment was working.
“Hey Frog, we’re rolling in behind ya,” Lazer reported in. “Y’all do some maneuvering, and we’ll see if this gal can stay on yore tail.”
Furgeson hauled his plane around like a roller-coaster, and Christina stuck to him like a bad reputation. “Can I give him a shot and see if our laser gun works?” she asked.
“Sho ‘nough, sweetie. Give ‘er a try.” Lazer rolled the gun sight camera.
She swept in no more than fifty yards behind and pointed her nose to center the crosshairs on Furgeson’s cockpit. Squeezing the trigger, white smoke puffed out of his plane.
“Wow, that’s cool. Works great!” she said.
“’At’sa ’nough foolin’ around,” Lazer said over the radio. “Let’s get to work on some Yo Yo training. You guys get down on the perch, and we’ll be first to attack.”
“Roger,” Frog replied.
Just as Lazer had described, the YoYo maneuvers were quite effective at getting behind the enemy for a shot. The only surprise was the intensity of the Gs at the bottom of the pull, where Christina had to strain to maintain consciousness. At four to five G’s she was shoved hard into the seat and noticed her entire peripheral vision went black until the pressure was released. On her third attempt, she was seized by nausea and came very close to throwing up. She shuddered at the thought of getting sick before the greatest adventure of her life.
“I think I got it,” she told Lazer as her stomach tried to settle. “Let’s get on with the combat.”
Lazer got back on the radio, “This li
ttle gal’s tired of practicing this crap. She’d like to move right on to the real thing. Y’all ready?”
“Right on,” Frog replied. “Let’s go!”
The gladiators were coached to maneuver their T-34s for a separation of about five miles. They would charge head-on and begin the fight as the wings passed on the left side, the standard set up for air combat practice. The two T-34s approached at a relative airspeed of 330 knots. Christina saw her opponent first as a small dot, then the image grew like an approaching missile. The planes passed in a flash of green, and the instructors both yelled over the radio, “Fight’s on!”
Pumped with adrenaline, she rolled ninety degrees into a climbing left turn, pulling hard on the stick seeking advantage. Furgeson did the same. Up, up and up in a spiraling corkscrew, neither gained ground. Furgeson was first to run out of energy, and he stalled into a spin. With the skill of an old combat pilot, he quickly arrested the spin and went straight down as she trailed after him. Pulling out at 6,000 feet, she saw a chance for a shot and was just lining up her crosshairs when Furgeson’s plane disappeared. Looking back over her right shoulder she saw he had pulled up in a sweeping barrel roll that slowed his forward motion just enough to fall in behind. Before she could mount a defense, she heard the “pickle.” Smoke went barreling out of her plane, and both Furgeson and Frog screamed with delight, “Knock it off suckers. You’re dead!”