by Paul Byers
Madison couldn’t help the smile that filled his face under his oxygen mask at his wingman’s less than enthusiastic reply. Poor kid. But the girls would wait for their flyboy, and he would get at least another ten minutes in the cockpit, which meant ten minutes less time he’d be flying his desk.
Less than five minutes later, the disappointment that had been in Packard’s voice was now replaced with astonishment. “I was kidding earlier about the UFO, but is that what I think it is sir?”
The pair of F-15 Eagles had come up low and slightly under their target, amazement filling both pilots’ eyes.
“Are we in the twilight zone sir?” Packard added.
“No Lieutenant, that’s the real deal there, an F-86 Sabre, the great Granddaddy of us all.”
The wings and fuselage of the Saber were polished aluminum. Bold, yellow stripes, bordered with black, sat on each wingtip and a matching yellow diagonal band wrapped around the rear fuselage, halfway between the cockpit and the tail. The vertical stabilizer tail section also sported the wide yellow band with a black lightning bolt coursing through it.
“That thing must be, what, 60 years old?” Packard said.
“Haven’t you learned yet Lieutenant to never guess a lady’s age?” An unfamiliar voice said over the radio. “She’s 57 to be exact. Gabriel Pike gentlemen, a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise Mr. Pike, Colonel Douglas Madison. You sure have a beautiful bird there.”
“Thank you sir, she is my pride and joy, the Yankee Clipper.”
“Mr. Pike, Lieutenant Packard here, I don’t recognize your marking there.”
Just behind the cockpit was a logo of a top hat, the kind like Uncle Sam would wear, sitting inside a ring.
“That’s the 94th Pursuit Squadron isn’t it?” Madison said.
“Yes it is, you know your history Colonel.” Pike answered.” It’s my small way of paying tribute to our heroes of the past.
“The 94th?” Packard asked.
“Eddie Rickenbacker flew with the 94th in WWI. You do know who Eddie Rickenbacker was don’t you Lieutenant?” Madison ribbed.
“Yes sir, Eddie Rickenbacker was the top American ace of the War to end all Wars with 26 victories; we were required to read ancient history at the academy.” Packard jabbed back.
The 94th, also known as the famous “Hat in the Ring” squadron, was the first operational American fighter squadron in WWI, stationed at Gengault Aerodrome near Toul, France in April of 1918, and being the first, they were allowed to come up with their own insignia. Taking the boxing phrase, throwing your hat in the ring, which meant you were willing fight, they choose the symbol of throwing Uncle Sam’s hat into a ring, signifying that America was ready and willing to fight.
“Your bird may have been “hip” in its day Mr. Pike, but it can’t hold a candle to what we fly now.” Packard said, ending with a smug tone in his voice.
A smile began to stretch across Pike’s face and a twinkle of anticipation flashed in his green eyes; he did love a challenge. “Just because something is old, doesn’t make it useless, Lieutenant.” Pike snapped on his oxygen mask, took a deep breath then blew it out slowly. He lowered the flaps a notch, yanked the stick to the right and did a barrel roll up and over the pair of F-15s and in less than three seconds had settled in right behind Packard’s aircraft in perfect firing position.
“Colonel?” Packard said.
Madison could hear the surprise and irritation in his wingman’s voice. “I thought you said you were getting low on fuel.” Madison replied.
“I have enough sir.”
Now he could hear his teeth gnashing, chomping at the bit. “Well I believe the gauntlet has been thrown down, Mr. Pike?”
“Fine by me Colonel.” Pike replied, then thought for a moment and couldn’t resist. “If the Lieutenant thinks he can handle it.”
“Colonel!” Anger now clearly replaced the irritation in the young lieutenant’s voice. “Hang on Lieutenant, let me get out of the way first. Standard rules of engagement apply.” Madison pulled back on his stick as his Eagle leapt above the two combatants. He had the best seat in the house and he wasn’t about to miss this show.
Pike edged up beside Packard, the two aircraft now flying in formation, looking like a fly-by for a local air show.
“On my mark.” Madison called out.
“Roger.” Both men replied in unison.
“On three…two…” but before Madison had said ‘one’ Packard broke hard left and fired his afterburners, streaking up and away like a shooting star. Pike turned in toward Packard to follow, although he knew he could never match the speed of his opponent. He knew his only chance was to stay close and use his only real advantage of being able to out turn his bigger and faster foe. He hoped that Packard wouldn’t pull straight out a couple of miles and just turn and fire a missile, he had to keep him close.
“Giving up already Lieutenant.” Pike taunted. “I didn’t think you’d turn tail and run quite so quickly. Maybe you’re good with missiles, but how long would you last in a knife fight?” Pike jeered.
The radio remained silent, but the message had its desired effect as the F-15 pulled straight up and over in a tight loop and came straight back at him. Pike smiled, with that sharp of a yank on the controls, he knew Packard was pushing it for all it was worth, he was mad. Self-confidence, a supreme belief in one’s own abilities, and an ego to match were all qualities of a good fighter pilot, but there was one other quality that Packard was missing right now, patience; and Pike was going to exploit it as much as he possibly could.
The two aircraft were two miles apart but closing at a combined speed of over 900 knots. Both pilots had just seconds to react. Pike put his plane in a shallow dive, gaining speed and keeping just enough angle that Packard couldn’t get a good firing solution. Pike kept pushing the stick forward, forcing Packard into a steeper angle, putting him into negative g-forces, making it very difficult to maneuver and very, very uncomfortable, even with modern g-suits.
A smart pilot, a patient pilot, would continue on in the pass and extend out for another run, Pike was betting everything he had that Packard wouldn’t do that, but a little extra insurance never hurt. “Your Eagle can fly fast in a straight line, but can she turn?” Pike said with a measured tone of sarcasm in it. Pike thought he heard the Colonel snicker, which meant that Packard could hear it too, a broad smile filled Pike’s face, that was the icing on the cake he needed.
A split second before they merged, Pike pulled back on the stick and shoved it to the right. Looking over his shoulder he saw that Packard was doing the same thing, only he was moving way to fast to make the turn. Pike began losing color in his vision and felt a little light-headed as the pressure of g-forces drained the blood from his head. He hated the odd sensation but he didn’t have the luxury of a g-suit. With the pressure, he was beginning to feel every second of his age and he knew his body would give him hell to pay in the morning, but if he could just pull this off….he gritted his teeth and continued to pull back on the stick. Pike came up and over the top of his loop and caught Packard half way through his. Had this been a real fight, Pike would have raked the length of Packard’s fuselage with gunfire, shooting straight into his canopy. As he was “shooting,” Pike called out “guns, guns, guns, over the radio, simulating his firing. Pike then rolled the Yankee Clipper over and locked into a good firing position on the Lieutenant’s six and again called out guns. He stayed within range for a solid three to four seconds, which is an eternity in aerial combat before the F-15s superior speed took over and he pulled out of gun range.
“I’m calling bingo fuel.” Colonel Madison interrupted. “Fights over.”
“But Colonel.” Packard protested.
“Negative Lieutenant, it’s time to return to base. If I’m getting low on fuel from just watching, you’ve got to be pushing it. My butt will be in a sling if anybody back at base finds out what we’re doing out here, let alone if we run out of gas.”
>
“Roger sir, forming up.” Packard replied reluctantly.
Pike let out a sigh of relief as he joined up next to the Colonel’s plane. At forty-one, he was nowhere near being what you would call old, but pulling six-g turns in aerial combat was definitely a younger man’s sport. “Thank you gentlemen, I thoroughly enjoyed myself, though I think I’ll be paying for it in the morning.”
“Our pleasure Mr. Pike, it’s not often we get to fly in the same skies with a legendary warbird like yours.” Madison replied.
“Mr. Pike…?” Packard began.
Oh no, here it comes Pike thought, Packard’s going to make all sorts of excuses for losing...“…I just wanted to say thank you sir. You’ve taught me some valuable lessons today.” Pike smiled and nodded his head slightly, humility he thought, an even rarer commodity for a fighter pilot, this kid might just go places.
“You’re welcome Lieutenant.”
“Keep’em flying! Mr. Pike.” Madison said. “Tower this is Blackjack Flight, we’ve identified the bogie as a private aircraft, we’re coming home.” Colonel Madison’s plane banked smartly to the left followed by Packard’s a split second later. Pike watched for a moment as the two F-15s pulled away, then he banked to the right.
Chapter Four
“Don’t forget your lunch.”
“Yes dear.” Albert Jenkins dutifully replied as he picked up the brown paper bag off the counter.
“And don’t doddle tonight. Remember, the grandkids are coming over for dinner,”
“Yes dear.”
“Oh, and would you please take the garbage out with you? I forgot it last night.”
“Yes dear.”
Martha Jenkins, Albert’s wife of 41 years, stopped wiping off the kitchen table and looked at her husband. “Are you listening to what I’m saying?” putting her hands on her hips, “And if you answer ‘yes dear’ one more time you’ll be so far in the doghouse you’ll be in the basement.”
Jenkins walked over and gave his wife a hug and a peck on the cheek, then reached down and squeezed her lower cheek. Martha giggled and slapped him on the shoulder. “Dirty old man.” Jenkins just smiled and cocked his head to one side and nodded slightly then said, “Yes dear,” and grabbed the sack of garbage as he went out the door.
“Morning Albert.”
“Morning Steve.” Jenkins greeted the branch manager as he let him in the front door. “Looks like it’s going to be another hot one today.”
“Not too hot I hope.” Steve Hertz replied, “My son’s going up north for a football game today and you know those school busses don’t have air conditioners. I wanted to go but somebody has to hold down the fort.”
“No rest for the wicked, or for bank managers.” Jenkins smiled. He turned to lock the door when he heard his name called. He looked up to see Mary Thomas running up the walk.
“Hey Al.” Mary called out cheerfully. She was about the only one at the bank that called him Al, but he didn’t mind.
“Hi Mary, come on in.” Jenkins smiled and swung the door open, bowing as he waved her in. Mary was his favorite teller. He’d never seen her down, always wearing a smile and the way she looked at life was so refreshing, especially from a young lady whose hair was blond today but could change by the end of the week and who occasionally forgot to take out her nose ring. But his fondness for her was more than just her outlook on life. There was a personal side to it: she reminded him of his daughter. His Amanda would have been about three years older than Mary, if her life hadn’t been taken from her.
“There’s a new sushi bar that just opened down the street.” Mary said cheerfully. “A bunch of us are going there for lunch, you wanna come?”
“No thanks.” he said, shaking his head and chuckling a little. “I prefer my food cooked.”
“Okay,” she replied and got her cash drawer from the vault and prepared to open her window.
Jenkins opened the doors to the bank, then went to the back to bring out some coffee and cookies for the customers. When he returned, two men in old, torn green army jackets and tattered jeans were standing at the center island filling out deposit slips. One had dark, greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail and the other had a shaved head with four or five earrings each running from his earlobe up through the cartilage. Neither looked like they had bathed in days.
He slowed a step as he approached, not liking what he was seeing. Nonchalantly, he put the coffee and cookies on the counter next to the men and sized them up the best he could without staring. He greeted them with a cheery “Good Morning.” One ignored him completely while the other raised his head briefly and just grunted a sour “’mornin.”
When he lifted his head, Jenkins noticed tiny beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. It was warm outside, but not that warm. Jenkins felt his stomach twisting into a tangled mess of knots; he knew they were in serious trouble. Jenkins smiled and slowly turned around. “Mary, I forgot the napkins, I’ll be back in a few.” He called out. He hoped that by telling these two guys why he was leaving it would keep them from panicking and give him time to trip the silent alarm.
He had taken three steps when he heard the front doors slam open. He turned to see two men come storming in the bank. One pulled out a handgun and the other carried a sawed off shotgun. They were shouting for everyone to get down. Jenkins quickly turned around, he had to get to the teller windows to send the alarm. He turned but stopped dead in his tracks, finding himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Going somewhere old man?” The bald headed man said snickering. He spun Jenkins around and shoved him toward the teller windows.
“For all you geniuses out there, this is a robbery.” The man with the shotgun yelled. He was wearing a long, black trench coat and had his hair oiled back, playing a very poor Neo wannabe from the movie Matrix. He took out pillowcases and tossed them to the man with the ponytail.
Ponytail man went down the line and threw a pillowcase at the first two tellers but stopped when he got to Mary. He threw the last pillowcase to the end teller then turned to Mary and held it open. “Trick or Treat.” He said with a slick smile.
Neo stood in front of the tellers and shouted. “Dump your cash drawers into the bags. Be smart and don’t do anything stupid like give us any of your specially marked bills or be a hero and trip any silent alarms. Be smart and nobody gets hurts.”
Jenkins was at the end of the counter and noticed that Ponytail was paying particular attention to Mary. He kept reaching across the counter and touching her hands as she emptied the drawer and each time she would swat them away like an annoying fly. Good for you he thought; don’t let the creep intimidate you.
“You sure are pretty. Maybe you and I could party a little huh?” Ponytail said as he reached up and tried to touch Mary’s hair. She hit it away hard. “Buzz off jerk.”
Suddenly he reached out and grabbed her by the hair and nearly pulled her halfway across the counter top. She let out an involuntary yelp, just as much from surprise as from the pain. “Me and you is definitely going to do some partying.” He shoved her back and turned, wearing a big, sadistic smile then he yelled to the man with the shotgun. “Hey boss, I like this one, can we keep her? I think she wants to play.”
It was a defining moment for Albert Jenkins as he watched the drama unfolding before him. It opened up a floodgate of memories that swirled in his head like a cyclone. Thoughts of Martha, of Amanda when she was growing up, the fun they had…the last time he saw her alive. He bit his lip, fighting to contain the swelling emotions. He hadn’t been there to save his Amanda, but he was here now and he would not let anything happen to Mary.
He knew it wouldn’t bring his little girl back or even if it would help to relieve any of the pain. He also knew that he was projecting all those memories of Amanda onto Mary. The guilt and anguish came charging back like a wild animal, threatening to trample his heart again. But it also didn’t change the fact that it was simply the right thing to do.
“Leave
her alone.” Jenkins said in a voice he couldn’t believe was his own.
The smile faded from Ponytail’s face as he looked at Jenkins, then stomped over and shoved his gun under his chin. “What did you say old man?”
“I said, leave her alone.”
The gunman stared long and hard at Jenkins then burst out laughing. “Look at him boss, the old man has the thousand yard stare. You tough guy old man? Huh? You some kind of Rambo?” He laughed. “I think we’re going to take her with us, you know, a ‘sweet’ hostage.” He winked at Jenkins.
“You don’t want to take a hostage.” Jenkins said, amazed at himself for sounding so calm and cool. “She’ll only slow you down and get in the way. Bank robbery is one thing but if you take a hostage the police are going to take it real personal. They won’t stop until you’re all caught… or dead”
Ponytail laughed again. “What is she, your little girlfriend?” Then his face turned cold again and shoved the gun harder into Jenkins’ chin. “You want to die old man? I said we’re taking her. Keep it up and I’ll send you straight to hell.”
“I don’t want to die and I’m not going to hell when I do die. Can you say the same? And you’re still not taking her.” Before Ponytail could reply, Jenkins turned to the man holding the shotgun. “Hey boss man! Does this guy speak for everybody? Is he calling the shots here? Think about it, do you really want to make it personal and have the cops hound you to the ends of the earth over a girl?”
The gunman hit Jenkins across the face with the gun. “Oh don’t you worry old man, I intend to make it real personal.” Jenkins staggered back with his lip bleeding but managed to stay on his feet.
“Enough talking now.” Ponytail said, looking at Mary. “Get your sweet little butt over here and let’s go. Do it quick and I might let your boyfriend here live.”
“Leave her.” Neo said.
“What?” No way!”
“I said leave her!” Neo shouted back. “The old man is right; we don’t need her to slow us down. Besides, with as much money as we have, you can buy any woman you want.”