Top Gun (14 page)

“It might be too much to hope for,” Buzz replied. “But maybe the big shots are ready to come back to the KISS principal in
fighter technology.”

Greene smiled. KISS was the acronym for Keep It Simple, Stupid. Like most fighter jocks, he and Buzz believed that what the
Air Force needed were not multicrew, black-boxladen dodo birds masquerading as fighters, but stripped-down birds of prey that
would allow the pilot to see the enemy, kill him, and get away.

Birds like the Stiletto, for example,
Greene thought with pleasure as he tooled the prototype into a vertical reverse, flying straight up until all forward speed
was lost and the jet was in danger of stalling, and then ruddering the bird around into a sharp dive, regaining speed as he
plummeted toward the earth.

Atta boy, Grandpa, you did good,
Greene smiled to himself as he pulled out of the dive, resuming steady flight.
This is how they ought to be built.

The Stiletto had remained controllable throughout the low-speed phases of the vertical reverse, passing the difficult maneuver
with flying colors. Grandpa had definitely known what he was doing when he stitched this one together. It made Greene feel
good inside to think that at the very end of Herman Gold’s career the old man had returned to the fold by building an airplane
any fighter jock would feel proud to fly.

Greene’s headset crackled. “It looks like you had no trouble in that stall turn,” Buzz remarked.

“None at all,” Greene replied. “A baby could have done it. This is the first bird I’ve flown—besides the Tiger II— that can
execute a vertical reverse without threatening to fall out of the sky. She’s really something, Buzz. This bird can do anything
your Tiger can do, and do it better.”

“You sure about that?” Buzz drawled.

Greene smiled. His friend was sounding playful.

“Consider the simplicity of my Tiger II,” Buzz continued. “She’s got just enough juice and agility to make for a steady gun
platform for Sidewinders and twin 20
MM
cannons.” He paused. “Which, if this airplane of mine happened to have any, would be drilling your ass at this very moment,
since I am locked onto your six o’clock.”

Greene checked his six and saw Buzz sitting on his tail. “Locks are made to be picked, Snowbird.”

“This lock is burglar-proof.”

“Do I hear a challenge, Lieutenant?”

“What you hear is the truth, Captain.” Buzz laughed. I’ve got you where I want you.”

“That’ll be the day.” Greene zoomed up and away, thinking Buzz would back off, but instead, the nimble little Tiger II went
to afterburn, rising up on twin fiery-orange cones and rolling over as it duplicated the Stiletto’s climb, so that the two
jets were flying canopy to canopy. Greene saw Buzz giving him the finger.

Greene mashed his radio transmit button. “Well, if that’s how you want to play, you Sunday driver, you….” He closed the lateral
separation gap between his and Buzz’s parallel climbs, until the two planes were so close together that their canopies were
almost touching. The two pilots flew like that for ten long seconds, mirror images of each other, exaulting in their respective
control over their machines, close enough to read each other’s lips if they weren’t both wearing oxygen masks.

Greene offered Buzz a jaunty wave, and then abruptly pitched over into a high-G turn. Greene’s G-suit squeezed him tight as
he winced from the stress. He was at full after-burn, and the Stiletto was rocketing toward the earth. The altimeter was unwinding
so fast it was starting to sizzle. The airspeed indicator read 350 knots, 400 knots, 500…

“Son of a bitch…” Greene heard Buzz wince as the Tiger II followed the Stiletto over the top. “You crazy son of a bitch!”
Buzz moaned as the G force flattened him.

Hey, sonny,
Greene thought, as his own G stress eased off now that he was in a dive.
You want to play, you’ve got to pay.

Greene looked out to see Buzz following him down on his eight o’clock. He maintained his 500-knot speed, holding top rudder,
gritting his teeth, trying not to think about burying his Stiletto like her dagger namesake deep into the heart of suburban
Dayton. The ground reached up for him as he waited for Buzz to draw a bit closer.

“Ice Pick, this is ground control. Are you in distress? Ice Pick! Come in.

Greene ignored the radio transmission, watching and waiting as he lured in the Tiger II angled off his tail.
Just a little closer. Buzz…

“Ice Pick, this is ground.” The controller was starting to sound a little perturbed, Greene thought absently. “Ice Pick, what’s
your status?”

Now!
Greene thought, continuing to ignore the radio transmission as he rolled out of his dive with wings level and then went to
afterburn, pulling into a vertical. He grinned savagely, both from the renewed G-stress pain he was enduring and the satisfaction
of seeing Buzz’s Tiger II continuing its dive, overshooting the Stiletto.

“Ice Pick, come in!” ground control shrilly commanded, breaking into Greene’s concentration. “Cease air-combat maneuvers.
Do you read? You will cease ACM!”

Ground, I can’t let you spoil my fun,
Greene thought.
Not when I’m about to show Buzz who’s top dog around here.

Greene pressed his radio transmit button. “Ground, Ice Pick. Come again. Ground…?” He purposely repeatedly clicked his talk
switch to break up his transmission, mimicking radio trouble. “You’re coming in broken up,” he informed ground, stalling for
time. “I’m not reading you.”

Meanwhile, Buzz was still committed to his dive, so Greene worked stick and rudder to abruptly skid over the top of his climb,
whipping the Stiletto back into an accelerating dive of its own. Now he was 3,000 feet behind and above the Tiger II, angled
in on Buzz’s six o’clock.

Don’t look now, Lieutenant,
Greene thought.
But somebody’s about to send an imaginary Sidewinder up your tail pipes.

“Ice Pick, ground. You are ordered to cease air-combat maneuvers immediately! Cease ACM and return to base. Ice Pick. Do you
read? Return to base!”

Somebody down there is awfully pissed. Green thought idly. Then again, high-speed, high-risk ACM was forbidden over populated
areas.

Guess, I’d better be a good boy, or somebody will sprinkle salt on my tail,
Greene decided. He was about to radio an acknowledgment to ground control that he was returning to base when Buzz suddenly
rolled his Tiger II’s wings level, pulling a vertical climb that forced Greene to overshoot.

“Guess who’s back,” Buzz chuckled as he dropped down onto Greene’s tail.

“Can’t let you have the last word, Buzz boy,” Greene radioed. He forgot his good intentions toward ground control as he rolled
level, pulling into a vertical climb of his own that forced Buzz to overshoot, and then again slid his Stiletto over the top,
dropping her nose back onto Buzz’s six.

“Gotcha now!” Greene couldn’t resist transmitting to Buzz.

“Not for long,” Buzz replied, countering by repeating his own level-off/vertical climb/up-and-over three-step.

We’ve stalemated each other,
Greene realized, the horizon spinning like an old-fashioned airplane prop as he repeated his own version of the three-step.
Neither one of us can get more than a split-second advantage on the other.

Meanwhile, the ground was getting closer all the time as the two descending jet fighters remained locked in their vertical
rolling-scissors ballet, one of the most spectacular and dangerous duets two airplanes can attempt. They were down around
10,000 feet when Greene’s radio literally shook with angry force.

“This is ground control! Ice Pick! Snowbird! You two
will
cease what you’re doing and return to base!”

Again, Greene ignored the transmission. He was a fighter jock, dammit! Buzz had challenged him, and he was going to win! He
guessed that Buzz was feeling the same sense of urgency to decisively finish their game as Greene repeated the leveling-off/climbing
maneuver. As he’d hoped, this time Buzz was ready for him. The Tiger II almost exactly followed the Stiletto’s maneuver, pulling
into Greene, who let his counterpart have a little taste of his six o’clock, just enough to keep Buzz interested, while remaining
just out of the Tiger II’s firing envelope. As the two jets banked shrieking through the sky at 7,000 feet, Greene suddenly
unloaded in a fullafterburn shallow dive, leaving the less powerful, panting Tiger II far behind. Once Greene was safely out
of range, he made a low turn back toward the Tiger II. Buzz was using the respite to climb, intent upon regaining the altitude
necessary to maneuver in a renewed tussle. Greene angled the Stiletto’s needle nose up toward the other jet’s ghost-gray belly
and streaked forward, intent upon a kill.

Greene was not surprised that now neither man was breaking his concentration through banter. This was a game, but one that
was deadly serious. Fighter jocks played to win.

As Greene closed the gap, he pulled back on the stick to approximately equal Buzz’s climbing trajectory, then popped his speed
brakes to avoid overshooting the Tiger II, hopefully making Buzz think that he intended to repeat their initial parallel climb.
Greene then suddenly rolled the Stiletto hard to the right, skidding across Buzz’s six o’clock and out of his line of sight.
Gotcha again, old buddy,
Greene thought as he watched Buzz’s Tiger II desperately barrel-roll in an attempt to find Greene.

“Lose sight, lose the fight,”
Greene thought savagely. Having experienced air combat over Vietnam, he knew how heartstopping it was during a furball mix-up
to suddenly lose sight of your adversary. Just now, under the circumstances, Buzz was doing the intelligent thing by breaking
off the engagement in order to come around into a more advantageous position where he would again have tallyho with Greene.
As Buzz broke right, Greene followed, dropping down into a six-o’clock low position, shadowing Buzz but still keeping out
of his line of sight. The Tiger II went to afterburn as Buzz tried to beeline it out of weapons range. Greene used the Stiletto’s
superior speed to control the situation, carefully working the throttle to maintain optimum missile-firing range as he angled
toward the Tiger II, gradually closing the lateral separation between the two warbirds until the Tiger II was enclosed in
the Stiletto’s firing envelope. Greene was relaxed now. It was over. He knew it, and he guessed Buzz knew it as well.

Greene’s finger rested lightly on his radio transmit button as if it were his missile-firing control. When he was ten to twenty
degrees off the Tiger’s right wing, following his prey down toward the earth in an almost genteel dive, Greene mashed the
transmit button and said, “Snowbird, I’m 3,000 feet behind you, on your six.
Wooosh!
is the sound of the heat-seeker I’ve just launched, old buddy.”

“Taking evasive action,” Buzz growled as he just about cartwheeled his doomed gray bird through the blue in his attempt to
get away.

Greene watched grimly, thinking about how it felt to know that in your desperate, last-ditch attempt to lose the Sidewinder
homing in, you were dissipating the precious speed and altitude essential if you were going to shake your adversary.

“Snowbird, I’m firing a second heat-seeker,” Greene began.

“Save it,” Buzz chuckled ruefully. “I concede I either have been or am about to be french fried—”

“When I get through with you two, you’re going to
wish
you’d shot each other down!” the radio suddenly erupted in fury. “This is ground control. Colonel Dougan speaking. You two
hotshots get yourself back to base. And I mean
right now,
misters!”

He sounds mad, Greene thought. He listened to Buzz transmit, “Ground, this is Snowbird. I copy. Am coming home.”

Greene saw the Tiger II disengage in a split-S turn, coming around and heading back to base.

“Ground, this is Ice Pick,” Greene radioed. “I’m on my way back.”

As Greene brought his own bird around, flying at 5,000 feet, he noticed that along both sides of U.S. 40 leading into Dayton
the traffic had stopped dead. Clumps of people were out of their cars and looking up at him.

Guess we put on quite a show,
Greene thought nervously. He remembered how angry Colonel Dougan had sounded.
Well, Buzz and I had our fun. Guess now it’s time to pay the piper.

(Two)

Pilots Equipment Room

Wright-Patterson AFB

“Who do you guys think you are?” Dougan thundered.

I, for one, think we are extremely positively fucked,
Greene thought in reply. He and Buzz Blaisdale were standing at attention beside the row of pea-green enameled personal-gear
lockers in the equipment room. The two pilots were still in their sage-colored flight overalls, parachute harnesses, and G-Suits.
Their orange-and-white-swirled flight helmets and attached oxygen masks were lying on the long bench where they’d hastily
dropped them. Colonel Wyatt Dougan had been here when Greene and Buzz had entered the equipment room, coming directly from
the flight line. The colonel had immediately ordered them to attention.

Out of Greene’s range of vision, he could hear Buzz Blaisdale’s rapid, shallow breathing.
Poor guy was probably shaking in his boots,
Greene thought, but then, his own legs were feeling a bit rubbery.

“Maybe you guys think you’re the Lone Ranger and Tonto?” Dougan demanded. He was a short, broad-shouldered man in his forties,
with a shaved head and a thick reddish-gray mustache. Some twenty odd years ago, before Dougan had joined the Air Force, he’d
had a short career as a professional boxer during which his nose had been flattened so many times it now resembled an eagle’s
curved bill.

“Maybe you think you’re Batman and Robin?” Dougan was scowling. He paced back and forth in front of the two pilots like an
enraged tiger prodded one too many times through the bars of its cage.