“I have the aircraft. I’ll do the rejoin, check over the leader, then let you try some formation. It’ll get you warmed up for the air refueling.”
“You got the aircraft,” Daren said. His palms felt clammy inside his gloves. Damn, things happened
It did not take long to catch up to the leader, and soon Zane maneuvered his bomber into route formation, five hundred meters to the right, a hundred meters behind, and a hundred meters above the leader. He got on the interplane radio frequency to the other aircraft. “Lead, this is Two, clear me in to fingertip,” he radioed.
“You’re cleared in to fingertip,” the leader radioed.
Grey performed an initial join-up, closing in to about a half mile away from the leader’s right wingtip. “That’s a pretty good combat spread position,” he said. He then made an imperceptible stick movement, and slowly they slid toward the leader until the two planes were less than a hundred feet apart. They looked the leader’s aircraft over; then Grey ducked underneath and repositioned himself on the other side. “Want to give it a try, sir?”
“Think I’m ready, Zane?”
“We’ll shortly find out, sir.”
“What’s the trick to fingertip in the Vampire, Zane?”
“The mission-adaptive computers dampen out most of the bow wave but accentuate the wingtip vortices, so we set up a little farther out than normal. We can’t really tuck it in as tight as a T-38 Talon or T-1 Jayhawk. Nice and easy is the key. I know you have formation experience in the F-111s and various trainer aircraft. With mission- adaptive technology, controlling the Vampire in close is easier than on any other aircraft. All it takes is a light touch on the controls.”
Daren flexed his neck muscles, shifted slightly in his seat, and looked as if he was taking a deep, nervous breath — but they hadn’t moved an inch yet. “Anytime you’re ready, sir,” Grey prompted him. He was just about to give Mace a few more basic pointers on how to close in to fingertip position when, before Grey or anyone else realized what happened, they were flying within just a few feet of each other, wingtips overlapping.
“No,” Daren said calmly. “Hands off.”
“Two, you guys are a little close,” the lead mission commander radioed.
“We’re fine,” Daren responded. Grey quickly realized that Mace hadn’t overcorrected or made a mistake — he was purposely tucked in close, the leader’s left wing casting a shadow on the second Vampire. But Mace was in there so close and so tight that it felt as if they were one aircraft.
“I see what you mean about the wingtip vortices. The trick would be to keep the vortices away from the flight-control surfaces. Look — I’ll move out a few feet. Put your hand on the stick.” When Grey put his hand lightly on the control stick, Daren moved the bomber an imperceptible amount away from the leader. “See that?”
“No.”
“Turn off the mission-adaptive computer for a sec.”
“What?”
“I said, turn off the MA computer, Zane.”
“You want to move away first?”
“No.” To Grey’s horror, Daren keyed his voice-control button: “MAT to standby.” There was a slight burble that caused a thrill of panic to shoot up and down Grey’s spine, but their position did not change one bit. “See it now? The mission-adaptive system masks it out quite a bit. Look — it’ll go away.” He slid in four feet closer, so close that Grey could see the whites in the lead AC’s eyes. “See? It’s gone. You really got to get it in there tight, but the vortices just spill out over the top of our fuselage and overboard along our slipstream.” Daren keyed the interplane channel mike button: “Lead, give me a standard rate turn,” he radioed. “Either direction.”
There was a
The lead Vampire made an ultracautious, much less than standard-rate turn, and the second Vampire turned with him. “See this, Zane?” Daren said. “Once you’re in tight enough to let the vortices spill over the fuselage instead of the wings, the vortices actually help keep you in place.” He moved his hand until he had just one finger and one thumb on the controls. “She’s practically flying herself. I wouldn’t unzip and take a pee, but this gives you enough of a breather to refocus your eyes, check a caution message, or get a kink out.” They turned right to get back on course, and Mace’s Vampire stuck with the leader as if it were welded to him. “Let’s see what it’s like on the other side.” On interplane he radioed, “Lead, Two’s crossing under to the other wing.”
“Is that you flying, Zane?”
“Negative. It’s the new guy.”
“Say again?”
“It’s the new MC flying,” Zane said proudly. “He’s got liquid nitrogen for blood.”
Still in the turn, Daren crossed under the lead EB-1, close enough so that they could see seams in the composite fibersteel skin. “Wow. Feel this, Zane — I’m dead in between both wingtip vortices, and it’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom here.” All Zane could think about was smacking into the underside of the lead plane — they were closer than precontact position from an aerial-refueling tanker. But he took the controls and found it incredibly steady. No sign of turbulence or cross-controlling at all. Daren tried it with the mission-adaptive system on, and it was even smoother.
He backed away to a more reasonable position. “Nice job in the groove, Nitro,” the pilot of the lead bomber remarked.
“I think you’ve just been named, sir,” Grey said.
“ ‘Nitro,’ huh? It’s a helluva lot better than ‘Pappy,’ “ Daren said. He moved away to route-formation position and gave control back to the flight-control computer.
“Shit-hot job, sir,” Grey said. “I got the impression you didn’t like flying.”
“Nah,” Daren said. “Just because I don’t think mission commanders need to be experts in flying the jet, or because I think I shouldn’t be wasting time learning flight characteristics, doesn’t mean I
Daren had to struggle to keep up with the squadron as they headed down the aircraft-parking ramp for the finish line. His newest squadron joint activity: letting everyone off at 4:00 p.m. on Friday afternoon and doing a five-kilometer run around the runway, followed by a tailgate beer and soda party hosted by one of the squadron’s duty flights, rotated each week. He was heartened to see everyone who was not on critical duty, and even a few others who had a quick-response responsibility, out for the run. He was also pleasantly surprised when Patrick McLanahan, David Luger, and a bunch of other Air Battle Force types joined in the run with Rebecca Furness, John Long, and a few other wing personnel he hadn’t even met yet.
The afternoon air was cold and dry, much different from the humid air in the District of Columbia and Alabama, but his body was finally getting accustomed to the dryness and altitude, and Daren felt he acquitted himself well despite obviously being the old man in the group. He felt that more than just a few folks had to slow up so they wouldn’t completely wax their squadron commander, and there was a big clump of squadron personnel who finished beside Daren and Rebecca. John Long, a three-per-day cigar smoker, dropped out after three kilometers, the minimum distance for the twice-annual Air Force aerobics test; almost no one else dropped out, although a few had to stop and take some deep breaths and rest aching legs.
Daren first chose a large bottle of icy-cold water after the run, but then he took one look at the disappointed faces of his squadron, put it back, and pulled out a bottle of beer instead, then handed one to Rebecca. This gave the go-ahead for everyone else, and the partying started in earnest. “Good move, Colonel,” Rebecca said as they walked along the dirt beside the Security Forces building. “You saw that everyone wanted a beer, but no one was going to partake unless you did first. Very heads-up of you to switch.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve seen a lot of that lately. You seem very in tune with your troops. I see you playing basketball and having chow with the enlisted people, playing cards with the NCOs, turning wrenches with the maintenance guys, and shooting rifles and pistols on the range with the Security Forces. I know it means a lot to them to see you around.” She paused, then said, “But
