MISSILETOE
Vapor streams off the wingtips of the little gray jet as it rolls into a hard left turn, slashing through a half circle of sky with the easy power of a top marine predator. Viewed head-on it exudes carnivorous intent, an illusion only reinforced by the gaping mouth of its air intake, slung below and behind a sharp steel snout. Sleek metal skin flows over an underlying musculature that leaves no doubt as to its rightful place in the food chain.
This, is an F-16 Falcon: $40 millions dollars worth of carbon fiber fun and titanium mayhem. And it’s currently on the prowl, hunting for prey in a staggered two-ship formation under the watchful eye of its occupants: a pair of faceless twins decked out in matching green nomex. Two mirrored black visors swivel with a machine-like cadence, scanning the skies for threats—their shiny slick surfaces reflecting and distorting the green slow of weapons systems metrics scrolling across a heads-up display. The occasional chirp signals a data link update from an AWACS surveillance aircraft loitering somewhere over the horizon, scanning the sky for hundreds of miles in every direction with its massive rotating rotodome. Stenciled on the side of the lead fighter in bold black lettering is the name of its pilot: Capt. Craig ‘Soup’ Campbell. Soup and his wingman, Lt. Mike ‘Slush’ Davies, are just coming up on the halfway point for this evening’s sortie. They’re not over Kosovo, or patrolling a no-fly zone in Iraq, this mission—and the sixty before it—has them flying combat air patrol over downtown Manhattan—a direct result of the terrorist actions of September 11th.
Campbell looks out over the city lights, watches traffic on a bridge. Three months of these patrols have done little to temper the sense of awe this view evokes. He spends his days playing tourist, passing the hours by watching the city’s various landmarks slide by. He finds Liberty Island particularly unsettling. Normally it swarms with tourists; now there are none. Their absence somehow changes the statue, lends it an aura now more post-apocalyptic relic than tourist attraction.
Some days he finds himself daydreaming, imagining what it would be like to roll into a long strafing run on the endless rows of shiny BMW’s that line Wall Street; feeling the staccato thrum of the jet’s M61 rotary cannon reverberate throughout the airframe as it spews forth six thousand 20mm shells a minute—rapidly transforming German luxury automobile into burning metal shreds. He suspects these thoughts are somehow related to his recent tech stock losses, but he’s no psychologist.
Come nightfall the cityscape transforms into a living lightshow, takes on a kind of cosmic other-worldliness that often leaves him feeling more astronaut than aviator. Day or night, this all seems vaguely surreal. Never in his wildest dreams would he have ever expected to be flying CAP (Combat Air Patrol) over New York City.
Normally, if you made it through four grueling years of the academy, endured a phonebook’s worth of medical tests and then somehow managed to survive the interview and selection process, you’d graduate to flying fighters in the middle of nowhere: Nevada, maybe, or South Carolina. Someplace big—big and empty.
The kind of place where everybody was a fighter pilot, save the odd toothless local. Now here he was flying fighters over the very city he’d grown up in; where his wife and six year old son had returned after the divorce. The same city paying the salary of that fucking cop she was now living with.
A cop? She claims my job’s too dangerous and then shacks up with the NYPD. Go figure. Not even a detective, just some brain-dead patrolman. Your boyfriend gets to drive a police cruiser and carry a gun? Wow, you must feel really safe at night. I could take out your entire neighborhood and be over the horizon before the shockwave hit. He’d almost said as much when they last spoke, but had managed to bite his tongue long enough to make arrangements to see Mikey over the Christmas holda....Jesus! That’s what he’d forgotten: a gift for his mother.
“Aw…God damn it!”
“What?” asks Slush.
“I completely forgot to get my mother a Christmas present. I’m a dead man”
“Maybe you can get her something when we get off work,” suggests Slush, somehow still managing to sound amused though an oxygen mask and an encrypted radio link.
“At 2am? Where the hell am I going to find her a present at 2am on Christmas morning?”
“Well…some of the gas stations will still be open”
“Oh great, I’ll get her an ice scraper and a handful of pine-scented air fresheners. I’m sure she’ll just love that.”
“Hey, at least your family lives in New York. Mine are way the hell up in Idaho.”
“And you’re not going home to the compound for Christmas?” says Campbell, “Just going to mail everybody their Christmas ammo?”
“Yup, you got it. I’ll be out drinking and chasing women with Spider, while you’re home handing out travel mugs and anti-freeze to the family.”
“Bastard,” snorts Campbell, head down in the cockpit checking fuel levels, “Say, how you doing for gas?”
“Sec…at our present burn rate, I’d say maybe thirty minutes worth,” Slush says, cycling though the various displays, “enough to make it to our next waypoint, at which point we’d better start thinking of hooking up with the tanker.”
“Roger that. Say Slush, ask you a question?”
“Well it’s not like I have anybody else to talk to up here. Those guys in the AWACS are no fun; always telling me to go here—go there—do this—do that. Jesus, you’d think we were married or something.”
“I take that as a yes. Ok, why ‘Slush’? I mean my call sign was a no-brainer, but naming you ‘Slush’?”
“If I tell you, you can’t spread it around. I’ve been getting enough ribbing about the glove incident as it is.”
“Glove incident?” asks Campbell.
“Don’t ask and maybe I’ll tell you about that one later. Ok, when I was growing up I saw ‘Top Gun’, right. It’s one of the things that made me want to fly. So when I finally get to the academy I’m asking—actually pleading is more like it—that my call sign be ‘Ice’.”
“Like in the movie?”
“Yeah, like in the movie. Only my so-called ‘friends’ didn’t think I was cool enough to be called Ice. So I end up getting ‘Slush’.
“Ouch.” offers Campbell.
“Yeah, well, coulda been worse. I went to school with a ‘Mongo’” says Slush.
“Jesus. Hey, you ever think you’d wind up flying CAP over a US city?”
“Hell no, but that’s not to say I’m not loving it anyway,”
“Yeah? Why’s that?” asks Campbell
“Well for one thing it’s nice to see something other than sagebush and desert. And then there’s the women. I mean, man, this is like getting to fly at an air show, but the air show is everyday. No ticket required. Chicks dig pilots.”
“So I hear.”
“I’m serious. You would not believe the women. You should come out with us sometime; I mean you’re divorced not dead, right? And you gotta stop spending so much time on that computer. It can’t be healthy,”
“Hey…I’m trying to write a novel. You know, not everything is like your sex life. Some things actually take longer than five minutes to finish”
“That’s cruel, so very cruel. Just for that you can be the first one to tank.”
“Fine by me,” bluffs Campbell, reluctantly thumbing through waypoints on his nav. display as he plots out the quickest route to the big KC-135 tanker.
If there’s one thing Campbell hates, it’s aerial refueling: a process that requires him to constantly mirror the tanker’s exact altitude, course, and airspeed. All while being bounced all over the sky by wake turbulence rolling off the huge lumbering craft and while having to constantly compensate for his own aircraft’s rapidly changing weight as it takes on fuel. And if all this seems unpleasant by day, its sheer torture by night. At night you had a chance at vertigo: that horrible, stomach churning spatial disorientation that leaves it’s victims chasing the horizon like a recent graduate of the John Denver School of Flight, literally no longer able to tell which way up was—a very bad thing in a high performance jet fighter. His stomach does a slow roll, limbering up in anticipation of the event.
“I’ve got a visual on the tanker,” says Slush, watching the massive aircraft loom from the darkness like a man-made mountain, “After you…ladies first.”
Ignoring the jibe, Campbell concentrates instead on holding his airspeed and staying level, glancing up every so often to keep an eye on the Air National Guardsman—who looks to be all of about seventeen—operating the flying boom now working its way towards his face. He holds his breath as the boom slowly traverses the length of his canopy; watches unblinking as it bucks and twitches like a skittishly colt each time its operator makes a control input. And then it’s behind him, giving Campbell a chance to resume breathing—at least for a second—then he’s jarred back into apnea by the tanker’s boom docking into the fueling receptacle. As sounds go, this one is horrible: metal grinding metal followed by a resounding thud that reverberates throughout the aircraft, making the fighter shimmy and bounce and setting his teeth on edge.
One of these days that thing is gonna keep on going and punch right though the jet, he thinks, feeling his gloved palms grow damp.
The full moon makes for great visibility and refueling ends up going surprisingly smoothly. Soon they’re both topped up and ready to continue the mission. With a wave from Campbell and a one-finger salute from Slush, they peel away from the tanker.
“Say what you will about the guys driving that thing, I envy the hell out of their bathroom,” Slush says.
“One too many lattes?” needles Campbell
Slush’s retort is cut short by a radar intercept officer onboard the orbiting AWACS, “We’ve got a bogey. Unknown radar contact inbound. Approximately 100 nautical miles out. Bearing 175 degrees. Angels 11. Contact is not responding to radio contract. I repeat. Contact is not responding.”
“Roger. Will intercept and eyeball,” says Campbell, “You got that Slush?”
“Yup. Probably just another weekend flyer—some Cessna driving doctor that’s forgotten how his radio works,” he says, tightening his shoulder straps with a sharp downward tug.
“Probably, but we can always use the intercept practice, and I was getting kinda tired of flying in circles. What say we go in low and come up under him.”
“You got it.”
Campbell rolls the fighter inverted and pulls back on the stick, executing a U shaped half-loop known as an immelman. The maneuver leaves him nose down and in a shallow dive, heading in the direction of the radar contact. Slush follows after a three count, watching the pitch ladder roll by on his HUD as the world around him turns upside down.
“Hey Slush,” says Campbell.
“Yeah?”
“First one to get a visual buys the beer”
“You’re on!”
“Still got nothing on the radar. Lets see if we can’t do something about our rate of closure—going to afterburner,” says Campbell, sliding the throttle all the way forward. He’s rewarded with a solid kick in the back as the engine’s afterburners ignite with an impressive thump of displaced air, causing the jet to leap forward like a goosed geisha. Behind him, night turns to day as a twenty foot long tongue of flame blossoms out the jet’s exhaust. It’s accompanied by a vision-blurring roar worthy of a shuttle launch. Acceleration shoves him back into his seat, narrows his field of vision, and starts to flattening out his face. Under his oxygen mask Campbell is grinning, all the while fighting a strong urge to let loose a rebel yell.
They drop out of afterburner just short of the speed of the sound, thundering along at just under five hundred knots. New York City flashes beneath them like something out of a video game for the hyperactive: billboards, skyscrapers, freeway onramps, the snow-dusted trees of a park, an outdoor skating rink—all of it blurring into a rolling carpet of textures.
“I’ve got radar contact on the bogey!” yells Slush.
“Likewise, we’re about five minutes out at our current rate of closure. Looks like he’s heading away from us,” radios Campbell.
Slush does the math, “You know, that’s kind of quick for a Cessna. Hell, that’s fast for most airliners.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Fighter?” asks Campbell.
“Maybe. But one fighter? What…we’re being attacked by Canada?”
“Maybe they’re still pissed about us stealing all the good hockey players? Better bring up your ECM (electronic counter measures) just in case it ends up being something with teeth.”
“Done. Maybe it’s a business jet. Some of the newer ones haul ass,” suggests Slush.
“Could be, either way, let’s try and get a good look at whatever it is before we start throwing missiles around. I’d hate to be responsible for shooting down The Backstreet Boys”
“Really?”
“Ok. Bad example, but you get the idea. Make sure it’s hostile before doing anyway, unless you want us to end up on CNN.”
“Roger that. You know, given the choice, I’d rather it turn out to be a hostile vs. an airliner. I sure as hell don’t need to be painting a 747 on the side of my jet.”
“Took the words right outta my head,” says Campbell.
They continue to work the intercept in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. Campbell stays busy by reviewing the rules of engagement—going through the motions of checking and re-checking the various avionics and weapons systems around him—tightening straps—adjusting oxygen flow rates—doing anything but letting himself focus on the series of images running though the back of his head. They’re that of a missile—one of theirs—tearing into the side of a hijacked airliner. Exploding. Sending the mortally wounded aircraft pin wheeling out of the sky, trailing behind it a spiraling stream of burning luggage, debris, passengers…
Campbell watches as the blip on the radar grows slowly closer. He decides to break the silence, “Jesus. My stomach is doing calisthenics. So…tell me about the glove thing,”
“Now?”
“What. You’d rather be thinking?
“Good point. Ok, I’ll give the short version. My last stationing before this one was with 147th Fighter Wing.”
“Out in Texas?” asks Campbell
“Yeah. Anyway, a bunch of us got invited to go up north to participate in Maple Flag—Canada’s version of our Red Flag. Well, it’s not exactly a short commute from Houston to Cold Lake, so I get bored and started doodling on the back of my glove to pass the time. It’s not like they were new gloves anyway.”
“Ok, I’m with you so far.”
“Well, we get their and the Canadian press is there in force, looking to interview us. I end up talking to this hot little blonde from the CBC. They’re broadcasting live and halfway though the interview she asks me ‘Lieutenant, what’s that on the back of your glove?’ So I showed her; it was a picture of two arrows: one pointing up, the other down and a house in the middle—with some text at the bottom.”
“And what did the text say?” asks Campbell, already half-guessing the answer. “It said ‘push forward on stick: houses get bigger’ and ‘pull back on stick: houses get smaller’. I thought it was hilarious; my commanding officer did not. I ended up catching holy hell for it--something about ‘not presenting America’s military in a positive and professional manner’ or some such thing.
“You know, I think I actually heard about that. Gee Slush, you’re famous—or at least infamous.”
“Lucky me. Hey, I’m getting a pretty good radar return off the bogey. I’m going to lock him up—and yes, my weapons are still on safe,” says Slush as he checks the range—it’s a little over ten miles—then designates their contact as a target, watching as the targeting pipper chases after the bogey and begins encircling it. A full circle and a solid tone means a successful weapons lock. He’s just on the verge of getting both when his intended target lurches violently to the right, nearly going right off his HUD and ruining any chance of a successful lockup in the process. He watches, slack-jawed as his radar screen shows the bogey standing still for a second, then suddenly gaining almost two thousand feet of altitude in a heartbeat.
“Umm…what the hell was that?!” yells Slush.
“Damned if I know, but it’s definitely no airliner. Going weapons hot. Bogey is bandit. Repeat bogey is bandit, “radios Campbell, doing his best to sound calm.
“Roger that. Holy shit, it’s turned around and is headed our way fast Estimate rate of closure at twenty-eight hundred knots!”
“There isn’t an aircraft in the world that can accelerate like that,” replies Campbell.
“Not this world, anyway. Oh man, we’re going to end up on the front of the National Enquirer.”
“Look on the bright side. Maybe they’ll pay for the story. Ok, here’s the plan, I want you to do a chandelle, get some altitude and circle back towards me. I’m gonna stay level and blow right on though. He’s only going to be able to engage one of us, so whoever doesn’t get asked to dance can circle around on his six—and fast. Got it?”
“Affirmative. Roger. Oh fuck….” says Slush, as he breaks formation and pulls up into the vertical.
Looking down at his infrared display, Campbell gets a blurry monochrome preview of the object screaming his way. What he sees is long, thin and apparently wingless. Stranger still, it moves with an undulating shimmy—which for some reason reminds him of horses. He’s unable to get a better look at it, as something on the front of the craft is radiating massive amounts of thermal energy, causing the image on his screen to resemble an overexposed photo of a floodlight. And then it’s on top of him, scorching by his wingtip like a red-hot meteor, accompanied by a shockwave that smashes into him hard, violently buffeting his aircraft and leaving Campbell blinking repeatedly in an attempt to dislodge the lingering red swath now painted across his retinas. Cursing, he slams the engine into afterburner and pulls back hard on the stick, sending the fighter screaming skyward. Struggling against the mounting g-forces, he looks back over his shoulder, scanning the sky to reacquire the target. He finds it. It’s now headed directly towards Slush. He radios a warning, “Slush! Heads up. Your UFO is at your 12 o’clock low. Headed your way and moving like a bat out of hell.”
“Roger. Fights on.”
Campbell continues his climb. When he rolls the fighter inverted at 20,000 feet, he’s treated to a birds-eye view of the battle. Slush is pulling out all the stops, working the vertical and pulling some serious G’s, but it’s soon apparent that he’s entirely outmatched. Whatever it is that they’re fighting is maneuverable as hell and despite Slush’s best efforts the dogfight rapidly degrades into a classic flat scissors: with Slush frantically reversing and re-reversing his turns and the bandit stuck on his six, matching him easily move for move.
“Campbell. I can’t shake him. Get this guy off me!!”
“Hang in there. I’m on my way,” radios Campbell. He pulls the fighter into a steep dive—watching as the hands of his altimeter begins to unwind like a broken alarm clock, he thumbs off the safety and selects a sidewinder, listening to the missile’s familiar growl as it begins seeking a heat source. The growling grows louder, growing in pitch and intensity until it becomes an angry wail—indicating a sold lock on target. The question is, is it locked on the bandit or locked on Slush? There’s no sure way to tell.
“Slush, I think I’ve got a lock on it. I’m going to count to three and then I want you to roll inverted and head for the deck.”
“Got it. Hey, what do you mean you think you have a lock on it”
“Three. Two. One. Firing!”
There’s a half second of silence after Campbell pulls the trigger, then the missile screams away, corkscrewing wildly as it streaks towards its target. At first it looks like it’s going after Slush, but at the last second it cuts hard to the inside, carving an almost ninety degree turn before slamming into the bandit and detonating; resulting in a fireball that lights up the night sky and rattles windows for miles. The bandit explodes into a thousand small pieces, sending flaming debris tumbling toward the city.
“Scratch one bandit, yesss! Let’s see you out maneuver that you Alien motherfucker,” roars Campbell, throwing his jet into an air-ripping victory roll.
Slush tears off his oxygen mask and wipes the sweat from his eyes. He’s surprised to find he’s hyperventilating. His flight suit is soaked in sweat, legs are trembling and the feeling in his stomach reminds him of shoes tumbling in a dryer. Once he gets his breathing back under control and is relatively sure he’s not going to throw up, he keys his mike and congratulates Campbell, “Nice one. I was starting to think you had chickened out and gone home—guess I owe you a beer.”
“A beer? Come on, that was worth at least worth a steak dinner,” says Campbell. “I radioed for a hazmat team to check out the debris while you were changing your pants.”
“Great. Maybe somebody will be able to tell us what the hell that thing was.”
“Hope so. Let’s return to base, we've got some serious paperwork ahead of us.”
The pair are in high spirits as they break towards home: Campbell is thrilled to have finally had a chance to perform the job he’s spent the majority of his adult life training for and Slush is just happy to still be in one piece. They carry with them the knowledge that they’ve made a difference--it’s because of their actions this evening that New York City is safe once again. America has won this round in the fight against terrorism and those that would do evil have been brought to justice. And as the sound of their engines fades off into the distance and silence settles back over the city, a gentle snow begins to fall, drifting down past streetlights standing sentry on a decrepit apartment building before settling on an assortment of beaten-up cars that litter the curbside.
But snow is not the only thing falling from the night sky: something big and meaty arcs earthward, tumbling end over end with a lopsided spin before smashing through the roof of a late model Honda Civic hatchback; hitting with a force that sends its poorly-tinted windows geysering out in a flashing fountain of shattered glass shards. Smoking presents begin raining from the sky set to a rising chorus of car alarms. Inside the Honda a leg with a cloven-hoof kicks and then spasms, sending a small brass tag plinking to the ground. Engraved in the tag is a single world: Blitzen.
The leg kicks again then falls still.
America is safe once more.
The End
