Strike of the Falcon

By Bob Grey and Pete Bonanni

Mike Lewis, a San Francisco DA and one of the 28,000 hard-core fans of the F-16 flight simulation game, Falcon, will do anything to find that next great fight. When he and his old college buddy, Hap, hack into a defense network in search of the ultimate flight sim challenge—a fight against real fighter pilots—Steve’s twin brother, an F-16 fighter pilot, winds up dead. To get their lives back and justice for Steve’s brother, the two are forced to flee across the country as they slowly pull together the clues of an international conspiracy and try to stop an attack in the Middle East. Chased by the FBI and hired killers from McKnight Industries, enlisting the help of rogue CIA agents and renegade Hells Angels, from cyberspace to the airspace, Strike of the Falcon is a military spy-thriller with an irreverent bent.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Pete Bonanni and Bob Grey have, combined, over 7,000 flight hours in F-15, F-16 and F-22 fighter jets, including combat experience in Iraq, Afghanistan and Bosnia. In addition, they can recount harrowing experiences while flying on September 11, 2001. Pete was the subject matter expert for the design of the flight simulation games Falcon 3.0 and Falcon 4.0. He is the founder and CEO of the software company Intific. Bob is still serving and actively flying F-22s in the Air Force.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Grey
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311662330

Bob Grey

Bob graduated from the Air Force Academy and has flown multiple aircraft, including the F-15, F-16 and F-22 on Active Duty and the Air National Guard. He has been a part of combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan, both on the ground and in the air. He is currently a Colonel actively serving as a Wing Commander.

Book preview

Prologue

Colorado Springs, Colorado

Mike Lewis stood in front of the thick, bullet-proof glass. The desk on the other side was empty. So he waited. He stood alone in a room with cheap plastic chairs, blue of course, and a very polished floor of white linoleum tiles that reflected the fluorescent lighting. No outdated magazines, plastic plants or landscape paintings. It had a very industrial feel, as if it could be hosed out nightly without any concern. Maybe it was. The sea of beige on the walls was broken only by the words USAFA SF Bldg 386 labeling the door next to the window and an analog clock that was numbered to 24 instead of 12. With the little hand on the 22 Mike knew it was way too late to be here. But, there was no good time to be here.

A door leading to the empty clerk’s office opened and Mike heard a flurry of activity on the other side. A big man, wearing a camouflage uniform, paused in the doorway obviously engrossed in the events behind him. This couldn’t be good. Mike figured that for military installations the Air Force Academy had to be about the sleepiest base there was, especially after ten o’clock on a Saturday night. Cadets and their professors. Officers and gentlemen. At least that was the theory.

Mike could hear someone approaching. A woman? It sounded like she was struggling. She certainly was pissed off. Looking around the man in the door he saw two bodies flash by. A woman in black robes, fighting against another big man carrying her down the hall. Was that a nun? Like a bad joke—what was black-and-white and green-and-brown-and-black all over? A nun being carried by an Air Force cop in camouflage. Only this wasn’t funny. Somewhere between her curses were threats of God’s wrath. Right behind her was another cop, this one escorting a man much more subdued in action if not appearance.

Oh, crap.

Mike started to back away slowly. But his cell phone rang almost immediately and the man in the doorway turned his way. The cop did a quick double-take. Mike wasn’t dressed to make a good first impression. Muddy, bloody and probably still a little drunk from the post-game keg he was dressed identically to the suspect who had just walked by. Both wore black and gold rugby jerseys, and black shorts, the colors of Colorado College. Torn and dirty, that was their only similarity. But it was enough. Even someone with a room temperature IQ could connect those dots.

Hap had called him less than an hour ago, somewhat panicked, but he didn’t say why. And Mike had no idea why, either. No specific idea at least. When it came to Hap Krieger and the cops he could always conjure up a generic one. So he came to his friend’s rescue. Again. Maybe Hap had been arrested, that was always possible. Arrested with a nun? Well, that was a lot less likely—but not entirely out of the realm.

You! Get in here!

The cop was pointing at him through the glass and scrambling for the door to the waiting area. Mike’s phone was ringing insistently. Turn and run or answer it. It was his brother for sure, sitting out in the car in the parking lot, wondering what was going on. Mike could probably make it out to the car before the cop got to him. But then what? Where do you run on an Air Force base? The Academy had only two gates leading off base, the closest one over ten miles away. They’d have this place locked down in no time. And his brother, his twin brother, was a cadet. That would be an easy next dot in a very short line connected back to whatever trouble Hap had gotten himself into. Mike answered his phone.

You and Jim need to drive away from here right now. Don’t come in. Don’t ask why. I’ll call when I can.

He hung up abruptly. If the cop saw him talking on the phone he didn’t act like it and Mike kept the cell palmed in his hand. He grabbed Mike by the upper arm and led him into the back.

****

What’ve you got?

You’re gonna love this, Chief. Handing him a report and a cup of coffee, Seems we had a little ‘incident’ at the base hospital.

Oh, yeah? What’s the story?

Depends on who you ask.

Always does.

We picked these two up on base, motioning to Hap and the nun sitting behind the one-way glass, each in their own room. Near the cadet area. About a half-hour after the disturbance in the hospital, sitting in a car with the windows all fogged up.

The Chief raised an eyebrow. A nun?

If she’s a nun, then I’m a rabbi. She’s got a mouth on her like a sailor.

What kind of car?

Seventy-three Corvette.

Convertible?

No. It’s a piece of shit.

How the hell does he fit? Hap was a big man. Not tall, but wide. Barrel-chested, broad shouldered with a big gut and skinny legs. Like a snowman turned upside down. Some might call him portly. They’d be wrong. His mass was solid and didn’t roll when he moved. So, she make the complaint? motioning toward the nun.

"Oh, she’s been complainin’. But no, the hospital did. The big guy in there talks the front desk nurse into letting him in with the nun after hours to visit his brother. Well, seems a nurse walked in on the good sister praying with the patient. Only this prayer I never heard about in church. Maybe I would have gone more." There was a laugh from one of the other men in the hall.

So this guy sneaks a chick in so his brother can get a piece of ass in the hospital. Why’d you call me in?

It’s more complicated than that. First of all, the patient is a major named Jim Welde. He’s an AOC for one of the cadet squadrons. Not too well liked from what I understand. They call him the Preacher. Real religious type.

The Chief rubbed his eyes. How come I see where this is going.

Yeah. Seems the Preacher was rock climbing and zigged when he should have zagged. He’s in a body cast from his bellybutton up to his chin. His jaw is wired shut and he’s got one leg in traction.

And let me guess, the preacher and the big guy aren’t brothers. The big guy is one of his cadets.

Half right. They’re not related, but he’s not a cadet either. No ID on the nun, but he shows up as a civilian. Couple of priors, but just minor stuff. Bunch of speeding tickets.

What’s the deal with the other guy? Was he at the hospital? I know all three of them wouldn’t fit in a Vette.

The other guy walked in on his own. We grabbed him because they’re dressed alike. He paused to look at his notes. His name is Mike Lewis. Also a civilian. Clean sheet, but when we ran his ID through DEERS we found another Lewis on base. This one a cadet, with the same birthday but a different social. Name is Neil Lewis. Pulled his picture. Here, he said, handing the Chief the picture.

Our guy’s got longer hair, but otherwise they’re identical.

Yeah. We figure he’s got a twin brother here at the Academy.

Alright, I’ve got enough to work from. They been sittin’ long?

’Bout a half-hour.

Let ’em sweat a little longer. Put them all in the same room. I’ll talk to them when I’m ready.

Man, look at her. Makes me want to convert to Catholic.

Mazel tov.

****

Mike was the last to be put in the room. The three were put in chairs and sat shoulder-to-shoulder barely fitting in the width of the narrow room. Hap was in the middle, his girth forcing the sister and Mike to lean outward.

Mike twisted slowly, exaggerating the motion, to stare at Hap. Then he leaned forward and forced a smile. Nodding at the nun he forced a pleasant tone.

Sister, I’m sorry for my friend, here. She giggled in a very un-nunlike manner and Mike felt a pain in his stomach.

Sorry, man, Hap said sheepishly. It was a well-practiced response. Mike, this is Mary. Mary, this is Mike. He’s the smartest guy I know.

She brushed a lock of red hair that had escaped from under her habit back behind her ear and then extended a small hand with slender fingers and bright red painted nails. Hi.

Mike stared at the nails as he shook her hand and then looked back at his friend. In a calm, quiet voice, What the hell have you gotten me into?

A deep breath and then the dam broke. After the game at the drink-up when you, me, your brother and Jim were talking I got this idea …

Mike nudged him and casually put his finger to his lips as his eyes made a quick glance at the reflective glass in front of them. It took him a minute, but Hap caught on. He leaned in and started whispering, filling Mike in about the last three hours.

Hap had heard Neil and Jim bitching about their commanding officer at the bar. When they told him their AOC had ended up in a body cast at the hospital he knew a way he could help lighten the guy up a little. A little divine inspiration, Hap said. Mary was a stripper Hap knew who was always up for some fun. The two of them went to the hospital, conned their way past the nurse and found the Preacher half asleep in his room. So the good sister marched right in and started praying next to him and Hap and the nurse decided to leave them alone.

She was kneeling beside the bed when she added a new step to saying the rosary by reaching one hand up under the sheets.

Mike’s eyes grew wider and Hap said, Yeah, you gotta love her.

The Preacher was all tied up in the body cast and traction, just as stunned because a nun who was praying right next to him was now massaging his manhood. He quickly came out of his Demorol stupor, but his mind wasn’t the only thing waking up. He had the age-old battle between theology and physiology raging between his ears and under the bed sheets.

It didn’t take long for the bed sheets to rise in a stiff salute to the triumph of human physiology. Then Sister Mary rose, bent over the Major and starting performing an act definitely not taught in convent. That last bit hadn’t been part of Hap’s plan. Mary had added that on her own, God bless her.

The Preacher was groaning even louder, a mix of pain and pleasure, as his resistance crumbled. Unfortunately, the noise alerted the nurse who was hanging outside the door with Hap—she had always been a little suspicious. She burst into the room and interrupted the ceremony at precisely the same time the Major was relieved of all his worldly stress. The nurse was standing there speechless as Sister Mary stood up, wiped her hand across her mouth and said, Good God, he really needed that. She even made the sign of the cross as she left the room. The Preacher was practically coding on the bed, wild-eyed and almost roaring, so the nurse ran to his side giving Hap and Mary their chance to escape.

Mike watched Hap, an enormous shit-eating grin on his face the whole time he told the story. Why are we all here if you got away? And Hap had to explain that he was busy talking Mary into giving him a reenactment when they were caught.

You couldn’t even wait until you got off base?

The door opened and their whispering stopped abruptly, like kids at the office when the principal walked in. I’m Chief Master Sergeant Nick DiCristo, with the Office of Special Investigations. His tone was flat, maybe even a little friendly. Looking at the nun he said, And you are …?

Sister Mary. There was a pause as DiCristo waited for more. Clearly, Mary was finished.

Which order?

Mary gave him a deer-in-the-headlights stare.

Sister Mary Theresa of the Immaculate Conception, Hap added quickly.

Yeah, that one, Mary said.

Immaculate conception. Uh huh. And you are, looking down at his notes, Herbert Krieger.

Everybody calls me Hap. Hap couldn’t help being a smart-ass.

Really? Why is that?

Not really sure. Nobody was. He’d been called Hap longer than Mike could remember. Most people assumed it was short for happy, which he was most of the time.

You’re a rugby player, right Hap? Very congenial, like two guys in a bar. What position?

Hooker.

DiCristo let out a short laugh. Hooker, of course. So, Hap. What team do you play for?

Colorado College.

You had a game here today, right? Against the Academy? How’d you do?

We lost. But it was close.

DiCristo was smiling. His first two questions answered with his third. This was too easy. Yeah, I’ll bet. They’re a good team.

Mike could see Hap starting to relax. Chief DiCristo had slipped effortlessly into a Columbo type act and Hap was buying it. Pretty soon Hap would be spilling the whole story. He was just dying to tell people anyway. He’d probably ask for a beer. Somebody needed to take control here and, unfortunately, that somebody was him. Two years of pre-law at CC wasn’t going to amount to the square root of jack-shit with an experienced investigator. But it was going to have to do.

Excuse me, Chief DiCristo.

Ahh, Mr. Lewis, isn’t it. Still friendly, but with an edge. Like, how dare you interrupt me.

He didn’t answer the question, didn’t want to let DiCristo change the rhythm of the conversation.

Are we being charged with something? Because we’ve been here a long time, it’s late and I’m sure we all have things to do tomorrow. I know Sister Mary does. So, if you’re not going to charge us with something, not that there’s even reasonable evidence for you to do so, then you don’t have the authority to hold us. And if you are considering charging us with something, then you need to read us our rights and move this along because we have a right to a reasonable due process. Mike was standing as he finished.

Amen, Hap added.

"Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, you know. Seeing as how the good sister will be busy on Sunday morning and all. But before I can let you go there are a few things I’ve got to tell you. See, what you fail to realize is that you are on a military installation. You may have forgotten that, but when you drove past that guy in the uniform at the gate who stopped you and checked your ID’s, well, there was a sign next to him. The sign says ‘You have entered a military installation.’ For people who are not particularly observant, I guess. But there’s more. See, all the good stuff’s below that. Stuff like: ‘All persons who enter this installation are subject to search and detainment.’ There’s a long list of the things you can’t do or bring, I won’t bore you with them, but there’s a catch-all phrase for those things you just can’t predict, like tonight’s little incident, that says ‘those persons whose conduct jeopardize the safety and good order of the base, by order of the Commander.’

"And this stuff about rights and due process. Like I said before, this is a military installation. We’re not subject to civilian laws. We have our own. As for rights, well, we give a lot of them up. So I don’t care how many episodes of Law and Order you’ve seen, but you can save that crap for somebody who cares. And seeing as how I am the designated representative of the Commander for making determinations about the safety and good order of this base you’ll just sit your ass down and answer every one of my goddamn questions until I’m happy. If I decide to, I’ll lock all of your civilian asses up on Federal charges and you’ll get your due process faster than you could ever imagine. Nice Columbo was gone now, a twinkle in his crossed eyes as he added, If you want, I’ll bring your twin brother in here and he can explain how things work."

There was a tense silence as Mike stared DiCristo down, debating what to do. If he sat down it was over and DiCristo won. It would just be damage control after that, but there would be damage. It probably wouldn’t be that bad for him, but Hap was in a lot deeper. Mike didn’t want to leave Hap hanging. Worse, the threat to Neil wasn’t very subtle and Mike didn’t want to bring him into this either.

But the thing about bull-shitting was it depended on the shittee not knowing what the shitter was talking about. Mike had driven through that gate every weekend for the past three years to visit his brother. There was a statement about it being a military installation, but he didn’t remember anything like that other stuff being there. This place was a huge tourist destination, for crying out loud. There was no way they’d put that on a sign with tens of thousands of tourists driving through that gate. Somebody would have a cow. There were ACLU lawyers begging for that.

Mike kept standing.

"Let me explain something to you, Chief DiCristo. As you have been so gracious to point out we’re not in the military. We are civilians and we don’t give up those rights when we step on any piece of property anywhere in the United States. My dad fought and died in a war to protect those rights. And that sign you’re imagining doesn’t even hint at any of the crap you’re implying. We’ll get our lawyers. We’ll get our public trial. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it. I can see the headlines now, ‘Air Force officer solicits sex from nun’."

Mary suddenly spoke, I want to press charges. Sexual assault, battery, police brutality. She was ticking off her fingers as she ranted.

You want to press charges?

Yes.

Sexual assault?

Yes!

"You were assaulted? By a man in traction and a full body cast?"

Yes! And I don’t appreciate your tone. I was the victim here …

I’m a witness, Hap said, it went down just the way she said, uh, so to speak.

Mike jumped in quickly. You can call it whatever you want, Chief DiCristo, but by Monday there’s going to be a story. There will be pictures of a nun, there will be all kinds of accusations about sexual assault and consent, there’s all kind of conflicting eye-witness reports. And one of your key witnesses won’t be able to talk for four weeks. Imagine what this story is going to sound like a month from now. Is it worth it?

****

A tired and exasperated Chief Master Sergeant DiCristo decided to let them go. He even gave Mike a ride off base, as Hap’s Corvette was full. Neil and his roommate Jim were not involved at all but Welde, who had nothing much to do with his time other than think, became convinced they did it. He came down on them both with an Old Testament fury that only the Preacher could summon. Fortunately, Welde’s attempt to get them thrown out of the Academy failed because they had an alibi and the Academy wanted to avoid the publicity of a Cadet Disciplinary Board.

Hap, of course, was unfazed by the anger directed toward him by Mike and his two cadet friends. The way he looked at it, everybody won. Neil and Jim—when word of the Sister Mary affair got out, they became instant heroes at the Academy. Everyone just assumed they masterminded the whole thing. Hap—he had a great time pulling it off, and got to know Sister Mary even better in the months that followed. Hell, even the Major won. He had an extramarital affair he truly could not be blamed for.

Of course not everybody looked at it Hap’s way. Welde’s wife, for one, never did appreciate humor of the incident. Life became quite miserable around the Welde house, especially when the story swept through the Officers’ Wives Club. The Major might have gotten a little on the side, but it wasn’t free. He paid for it by being on the receiving end of snickers that usually broke into outright raucous laughter whenever he appeared. This wasn’t just from cadets. He was equally disliked by his fellow officers who used the incident to needle him constantly. Finally Welde resigned from the Air Force and, according to cadet legend, wound up selling lawn mowers at a Sears somewhere in Iowa. The guy who replaced him as AOC had heard about the Sister Mary affair and steered a very wide berth around Neil and Jim who, through no action of their own, graduated from the Air Force Academy with the stature of war heroes.

Chapter 1

Great Falls, Virginia

Scott Berry took the keys from the valet. The tag on the key ring had the number 22. Good. The subjects had started their meeting and everyone was in position. As he slid behind the wheel familiar sensations crept into the edges of his consciousness. Thirty years of experience had served to hone his nerves, not eliminate them.

Wearing a dark suit tonight, cut just a little loose, Berry looked like a picture out of the Brooks Brother’s catalog. Just another mid-level bureaucrat in the upscale suburb of Washington D.C. He knew how to move unnoticed through the ebb and flow of humanity, a chameleon in whatever environment he was in. It was a good skill to have in his business. Halfway through his fifties, Berry had spent all of his adult life with the State Department. It was, of course, just a cover for his career in the CIA.

Berry had joined the Clandestine Service branch of the CIA when he was twenty-five. After college he’d drifted around the country on a 1975 BMW R75 making it as far north as Alaska and as far south as Belize. He’d done everything from SCUBA instructor to surveyor until finding his calling. It happened on an Indian reservation in Arizona. He was working for room and board at a hunting ranch, doing odd jobs and, when he was lucky, assisting the guides when he met a retired agent on holiday. A few stories around the fire and Berry was hooked.

Most of his time as an operations officer had been focused on the Middle East, and all of it in the field. He was fluent in Arabic and could even get by in Farsi in a pinch. Despite that, Berry had never been on the fast track to promotion. During the Cold War, the fast movers all came from the European theater. When the Middle East got hot he never made it on anyone’s short list. He had to admit that was partly his own fault. Too outspoken. Too old school.

But for a man used to being on the outside looking in, recently his career had taken a noticeable turn for the worse. A new CIA Director meant new priorities. This one preferred technocrats to human intelligence operatives and Berry was an easy target when change swept through the Company.

He could read the writing on the wall. He was an old spy, about to be put out to pasture. Marginalized, and maybe even a little bitter. His career was at a crossroads. These were uncharted waters for him.

Berry pulled into the parking lot of L’Auberge Chez Francais and opened a manila envelope stashed under the seat. It had photos of the three men meeting tonight. He flipped through the dossier and reviewed each man’s 201 file.

A photo of Colonel Jem Ala Razmara was on the top. Not much was known about him. Razmara was a highly decorated officer in the Turkish Air Force. His parents died when he was barely a teenager and he grew up on his own. No other known family. Not a good option in Turkish culture, without family ties to help open doors. But he was smart and driven, and he managed to get into the military as an officer where he came up through the ranks the hard way. Trained in America, he flew combat missions against Greece as young pilot and then later with NATO in Bosnia. He was still active as an aviator and instructor. But, despite his accomplishments, Razmara had never been accepted by the Turkish elite and he never moved into any real positions of power in their military. Berry could relate.

The next photo was of Ed Halley. This guy wouldn’t win any beauty pageants. Halley was a McKnight hatchet man with the meaningless title Director of Special Projects. Just looking at his picture made Berry’s skin crawl. It was the eyes. He had seen eyes like these before in men and women all over the world; eyes that looked at humans as if they were prey. This short, stocky man was really a killer—no doubt about it. What made him even more dangerous was that he was a McKnight Industries killer.

So why were they meeting? The Turks were a longtime ally of the U.S. and their air force was loaded with U.S. equipment. If they wanted something from an American defense contractor all they needed was money and to ask. And usually the U.S. would give them the money. But those deals were always officially sanctioned. And never between guys like these. Whatever was going on here was off the books. Why? Both sides would lose a lot if caught. Especially McKnight. Berry didn’t like dealing with defense contractors. Too unpredictable. He’d long ago learned the danger of trying to separate the defense-industrial complex from its money.

Complicating this situation was Sheik Benassa Abdul Issa, the third photo in the dossier. He was a Saudi, but not a part of the Saudi Air Force. In fact, he had no official government position. But, as the patriarch of one of the richest families in Saudi Arabia, he was powerful. He had a reputation as a recluse. That alone made his presence here odd. He’d only been to the U.S. twice before, and both times had been a pilgrimage to Las Vegas. It seemed like Vegas was the American version of Mecca to Saudi sheiks. The fact that he was here without an entourage made it even odder. Sheiks and princes never traveled alone. Officially, Issa was subservient to the royal Saudi family, but in reality he was perhaps second only to the king himself. That fact made the situation change from odd to dangerous. Recluse or not, Issa was a powerful man of unknown intentions.

What brought these three together? As for Razmara and Issa, their countries didn’t have much in common. One was a secular democracy and the other a conservative Islamic monarchy. But they weren’t enemies either. And they had a common threat: Iran. Iran was steadily becoming the dominant regional power and no country in the Middle East wanted to see that. Particularly two close-by neighbors. That could explain the link. But it didn’t explain the clandestine nature of the meeting. The U.S. would support almost any regional effort to shift the balance of power away from Iran.

What was Halley’s role in this? Maybe it was straight forward—boy meets foreign military, boy sells defense secrets to foreign military. That was bad. But, what if Halley wasn’t acting on his own? That was worse.

McKnight was the second largest aerospace firm in the U.S., a position it was barely clinging to. It wasn’t a company you wanted in your 401k. The last decade had been difficult for McKnight. They’d lost every contract involving fighter aircraft, starting with the contract for building the Advanced Tactical Fighter, the program that led to the F-22. They followed that up with a loss in the Joint Strike Fighter competition, essentially eliminating them from the fighter business. It was make or break time for McKnight. Desperation was a powerful motivator and this man represented very desperate interests.

Berry kept flipping through the dossier as if the collection of photos and facts could somehow shed light on these questions. Maybe he was overreacting. One thing he knew—whatever was going on was not officially sanctioned. In fact it was so far under the radar that no one even had any suspicions. Sometimes that was a sign that people in high places had given it their blessing. It was hard to tell. Jumping into this situation could save his career—or end it. He would have to be careful how he played it.

Berry put the dossier back under the seat and walked into Chez Francais. Nice. This place was definitely Issa’s style. He spotted a few security operatives scattered throughout the restaurant. Either Issa’s or Halley’s. Possibly both. Berry had his own people in position, too. One group spread throughout the restaurant, another group outside in an unmarked van. He knew it was overkill but he liked overkill. Crack a walnut with a sledgehammer, if you’ve got one. Berry was strictly off the books on this op, and an uninvited guest to boot. He was way off script and shooting from the hip, which wasn’t something he was used to. So, he didn’t want any surprises.

The maitre d’ led him to a table in the back of the main dining room and he sat down abruptly.

Good evening, gentlemen.

Chapter 2

San Francisco, California

Straining against the darkness Mike could see nothing. His breathing echoed in his headset, marking the rhythm of his heartbeat. Then, Hap’s voice.

We’re in!

Mike tensed as the black void became a narrow tunnel of light that rapidly expanded. He could see again! Beyond his Heads Up Display the world returned in extraordinary detail.

Blade, check. Hap’s voice again on comm.

Two, Mike responded instinctively. Hap, where the hell are you?

Blade, come right to zero four five degrees, the rest of the flight will be on your nose for a mile, Hap said. Then, Stick to tactical call signs to the max extent possible.

Mike snapped the jet around to a north-east heading and soon picked up sight of the other F-16s. Blade’s visual with the flight. He pushed the throttle up over the hump to full afterburner. A muffled roar followed as the burner kicked in, helping him quickly rejoin with the flight heading north into the crystal-clear blue sky.

"Blade, rejoin as my number three man. We’ll ingress in a four-ship tactical formation. The number two man, flying on my wing, is Hank ‘Pigpen’ Clements. On your wing is John ‘Tonto’ Youngblood. He’s our squadron’s token Indian and he’s just about the best Falcon jock in the country."

Hap sounded nervous and excited. He must have money riding on this.

ID criteria? Mike asked.

Anything that’s flying. If you find it on radar or visually, and it ain’t one us, shoot it!

The flight drove for almost two minutes in perfect formation maintaining radio silence before Mike heard the number four man, his wingman, Tonto, speak. Radar contact, BRA zero two five, thirty, thirty-five thousand, hot.

Mike stopped searching for low altitude aircraft and adjusted the coverage of his radar to look for the target Tonto had picked up at 35,000 feet. Within a few sweeps of the radar he found it.

Three’s same, he called.

With the target 30 miles away, Mike turned his head to check his position with Hap. The VR goggles made the action seamless. Looking forward again he scanned beneath him. To his surprise, he picked up sight of a jet about 10,000 feet below him and heading south, in the opposite direction. Why hadn’t he seen this target on the radar during the last fifteen miles? He keyed the mike.

Blades got a single unknown, low and fast, directly below the flight heading south.

Hap immediately rolled his aircraft ninety degrees left, then right, in an effort to see the target below them.

Lead is no joy on that target. Blade, take your element and engage. We’ll keep heading north and find the other target.

Mike immediately rolled his aircraft inverted and executed a Split-S maneuver to pursue the target that had passed beneath them at high speed. Completing the maneuver 10,000 feet lower in altitude, the jet now upright and heading the opposite direction, he selected afterburner again and descended another 5,000 feet. As his airspeed raced past 750 knots, Mike quickly looked around for Tonto expecting to find him well behind. Instead, Tonto was in perfect line-abreast position, as if they had started out that way. Impressive. Not many people could do that.

Mike switched his attention back to the target. He thumbed forward on the radar auto acquisition switch on the stick to get a boresight radar lock. It should have locked anything on his nose at close range, but instead remained in search mode. Still, he could tell that he was slowly closing the distance and he kept his throttle parked in full military power. He made another radio call.

Tonto, can you make out what kind of jet that is?

It kinda looks like a MiG-29 on steroids. I’ve never seen anything like it before.

Me neither. Luckily, I don’t think this guy sees us.

Mike’s Aim-9 Sidewinder missile was growling loudly, indicating it was tracking the engine heat signature of the enemy aircraft, but he held his fire.

Tonto, when we get about 6,000 feet behind the target, hang back and cover me. I’m going in real close and personal. I want to see if I can figure out what kind of jet that is. If he starts to maneuver defensively or if I get in trouble, hose him!

As Mike closed on the unknown jet, he could tell that it was indeed the same size and general shape as a MiG-29 Fulcrum. It had the twin tails and two engines of a MiG-29, and it was about the same length, but the lines were somehow different. The canopy wasn’t curved but flat with sharp angles and had a jagged edge where it joined with the fuselage. The body was wider and more angular, particularly on the sides, and the tails were canted outward. The wings also looked strange—there weren’t any stores, pylons or visible missiles for that matter. Still, its Fulcrum lineage was evident.

Mike was a thousand feet out, slightly aft and to the right of the jet when the MiG driver saw him. He knew immediately because the target bobbled as if startled. The pilot recovered, quickly rolling into ninety degrees of bank and pulled straight towards him. Mike reacted fast and avoided a mid-air collision by only a few feet as he screamed for Tonto to shoot. But the targets were wrapped too close together for Tonto to risk a missile shot. Mike was in a classic rolling fur-ball with a MiG-29.

The MiG had pulled directly into Mike who, in response, had zoomed straight up and out of the way. As he cleared the MiG, Mike rolled back, struggling to keep sight, expecting to see the enemy diving away. What he got instead was a face full of airplane as the MiG driver aggressively rolled and pulled straight up into him in an effort to force him out front. They were in