Tiger's Claw: A Novel

and then he had Brad do a few practice disconnects and reconnects, including contacts while in a turn, as if they were doing a refueling anchor pattern—a racetrack pattern designed to keep the aircraft in a particular geographic location—instead of a long straight refueling track. Just before Brad made it to precontact position on the fifth practice try, Hoffman keyed the microphone button and said, “Breakaway, breakaway, breakaway!” Brad immediately chopped the throttles to idle and started a brisk but not too rapid descent, while the tanker pilot gunned his throttles and started a fast climb and the boom operator yanked the refueling boom up and back to its maximum retracted position on the tanker’s tail.

“Thanks for the work, Two-One,” Hoffman radioed. “You had a newbie doing those contacts and the breakaway from the right seat.”

“Nice job, copilot,” the boomer radioed. “Catch you on the flip side, guys. Cajun Two-One is clear.”

“Great job on your first contact, Brad,” Hoffman said. “I think you’re going to have the Excalibur nailed.”

“Like you said, sir,” Brad said, “the lighter the touch on the stick and throttles, the easier it is.”

“Kinda seems like I’ve done this a few times before, eh, Brad?” Hoffman deadpanned. He patted the top of the instrument panel. “It may seem like the B-1 is a big muscular roaring monster, Brad, but she’s really more like a sweet intelligent woman: you be respectful and aware and don’t try to muscle her around, and she’ll respond just as sweetly. Try to push her around and she’ll bite back.” He turned over his right shoulder. “Sondra, I’m going to clear off for relief, grab a protein bar, and then I’m going to take a nap for a half hour. Sound good?”

“Yes, sir,” Sondra replied. She took off and stowed her parachute, folded up her jump seat, let Hoffman squeeze past, then pulled herself up into the pilot’s seat and strapped in. “Pilot’s up on intercom,” she reported. She put her hand on the control stick and gave it a quick shake. “I’ve got the aircraft.”

Brad shook his control stick and felt Sondra’s resistance on it, and he knew she had control. “You’ve got the airplane.”

“I’ve got it.” She disconnected the autopilot and made some gentle turns, getting the feel for the aircraft— Brad knew she almost never used the autopilot. “How’s it going, Brad?” she asked.

“Great, Sondra.”

“Sounded like you got a little nervous there during the first hookup, but you worked your way through it. Nice job.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m really impressed by how fast you’ve moved through the colonel’s flight training program,” Sondra said. “I thought I did it quick, but you blew me away.”

“I wasn’t doing a full load of credits at UNR while doing flight training,” Brad said.

“No, but I felt a little sorry for you—having to put up with the boss while you trained full-time,” Sondra said. “But you did good.” She paused for a few moments, then said, “So what’s next, Brad? You’re a multi- and instrument flight instructor and commercial pilot; you’re checked out in a few warbirds; and now you’re getting checked out in an XB-1 bomber. What else?”

He looked over at Sondra and gave her a smile. “To be honest, Sondra: I want to do what you’re doing,” he said. “My dad suggested this way back before I started the program, and now I’ve met someone who’s done it: commercial, CFI, CFI-I, and you have a degree in business and a master’s in aviation maintenance management. He said all that plus maybe an A and P license would make me competitive for working at Sky Masters, plus the fact that I’ve worked there and the bosses know me.”

“Pretty good advice,” Sondra said. “But to tell you the truth, I did all that stuff for one thing: to meet guys.”

“Say what?”

“To meet pilots.” Brad gave her a skeptical expression. “Pilots are hot. You probably don’t think so, but I do. All the pilots I’ve ever met know they have a skill that less than one percent of the people in the country possess. The jerk pilots have this cocky swaggering deal going on that turns me off, but the cool pilots keep the swaggering to a minimum, fly the plane, and complete the mission.” She looked over at him. “I haven’t figured out which you are yet,” she said, a slight smile just visible behind her microphone. “When you first arrived at Warbirds Forever, I thought you were the biggest jerk I’ve ever seen. You’re starting to come around.”

“Thank you . . . I think,” Brad said.

Sondra gave him a big smile. “That was a compliment,” she said. “So, tell me: What’s it like being General Patrick McLanahan’s son?”

Brad shrugged. “A mixed bag, I guess,” he said. “All I really know about my dad are the stories or opinions other people tell. He never talks about what he did in the Air Force. Every now and then I see him get this look, like he’s remembering something bad that happened a long time ago. He’ll hear a heavy jet fly nearby or see a warbird taxi out, and he’ll stop what he’s doing and get that faraway look. It’s not sadness or post-traumatic stress disorder or anything like that—at least I don’t think it is—but it happens, and I ask him later to talk about it, and he won’t.”

“I think your dad is quite hot,” Sondra said.

Brad’s head snapped around in surprise. “What?”

Sondra smiled, looking straight ahead. All the time they were talking, the Excalibur bomber didn’t wander one iota in altitude or heading—it was as if she had engaged the autopilot. “The strong silent type,” she said dreamily. “In a room full of pilots you’d never know he’d be the guy in charge . . . until it was time to get to work or until he spoke, and then you’d get it.”

“But he’s twice your age!” Brad exclaimed, probably too vociferously.

After a few long moments, she shrugged. “Not a complete disqualifier,” she said finally. She looked over and smiled at Brad’s shocked expression. “I see where you get it from.”

“Get what from?”

“You got the skills and the cocky attitude, Brad,” she said, “but you don’t show it—in fact, you work hard to hide it.” She gave him a smile, then added: “Not a complete disqualifier.”

“Disqualifier for what?” But she never answered him, only wore that slight little smile and steered the Excalibur as if it was on rails until Hoffman came up a half hour later and switched with Brad so he could take a break.

A few hours later they were painting the island of Guam on radar. “Guam Center, Masters One-Four,” Brad McLanahan radioed, back in the copilot’s seat but flying the Excalibur, “level at one-four thousand, forty miles east of BAGBE intersection, information Romeo for landing.”

“Masters One-Four, Guam Center, welcome,” the controller responded. “Descend and maintain eight thousand eight hundred, cleared for the GPS Zulu runway two-four left approach. Winds three-zero-zero at ten gusting to seventeen.”

After doing aerial refueling contacts, flying a GPS approach with the Excalibur seemed like child’s play to Brad. He used the same techniques as during air refueling: light touch on the stick and throttles, remain relaxed, and maintain the sight picture while keeping the needles centered and the airspeed under control. Hoffman made sure the checklists were done, and they rode the ILS beam nice and steady. The satisfying SQUEAK! SQUEAK! of the main landing gear touching the pavement was almost a surprise.

“Welcome to Guam, son,” Patrick McLanahan said as Brad, Tom Hoffman, and Sondra Eddington climbed down the Excalibur’s long entry ladder after parking the Excalibur outside of its tent. He gave Brad a big hug. “How was the flight?”

“Great!” Brad exclaimed, “except my butt thinks my legs have been cut off.” He unzipped his flight suit to his waist. “Whew! Is it humid out here!”

“We should be getting our usual three P.M. thunderstorm any time now, so it’ll feel better,” Patrick said. He handed each of them a bottle of water, then asked Hoffman, “How did he do, Tom?”

“Chip off the ol’ block, sir,” Hoffman said. He added with a smile, “But don’t worry: we’ll make him better.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Patrick said. They headed to maintenance debrief, all chugging cold water. By the time they reached the maintenance hangar, the skies had darkened, and moments later the clouds that had appeared as if out of nowhere disgorged sheets of rain. “You can almost set your watch by the afternoon thunderstorm,” he said.

“And the same for the power outage,” Colonel Warner “Cutlass” Cuthbert said, trotting into the maintenance hangar. “Blackout, usually caused by a tripped breaker at the municipal power station or transformer farm from a lightning strike or surge. Our backups should be kicking in any minute. The computers are all on uninterruptable