Free Star Girl by Alan VanMeter Page A

a radar lock on warning just as I turned my ECM on, and it broke the lock on right away. We were closing too fast for me to line up a shot, so I planned our next maneuver. The Mig pilot must have got frustrated, because he fired off a heat seeker way too close as we were about to pass. It went ballistic right away. I broke left hard again as we passed, and they split; one right, and one left. I fell right behind the left one and the sidewinder was just about to hum itself right off the rail, so I let it fly; right up his tail pipe. Just then Major Hoyt had the second Mig coming around on his six, so I called him to break hard left, and I broke right rolling into an Immelman. As I came around I saw that Fulcrum right on Hoyt’s six, who was dropping flares like there’s no tomorrow, and jinxing all over the place. The Mig launched a heat seeker at him, but it went for a flare. Then I set my radar to bore sight acquisition and pointed right at the Mig as I backed off the throttle to get some distance. The instant I had lock on, I fired off an AMRAM at him. There was nothing left of that Fulcrum hardly at all.” He shakes his head.
    Major Hoyt nods.
    “Romero.” The Colonel barks. “Why did I use an AMRAM instead of a sidewinder?”
    I think about just for a second. “So there was no chance you might shoot down Major Hoyt by the sidewinder mistaking his heat signature for the Mig’s.” I remember that they did cover this in training.
    “Outstanding Romero.” He smiles.
     
     
     
              I can’t believe how quickly the first three months of our deployment have passed, but the days do seem to be getting longer, slowing down. I have sent and received numerous letters to mom and dad, and a couple to my grandparents too. Debbie finally sent me a letter, and gave me her address to her permanent duty station; Langley Air Force base in Virginia. She is flying a Raptor as well, for the three hundred twenty fifty Fighter Weapons Wing. It is a domestic air defense squadron, and I am glad for her that she doesn’t have to kill people.
              Many of the pilots in my squadron have taken to building models as a hobby, and the Colonel even got a glass counter display case that he put in the rec lounge for us to display our works in. My big Raptor is proudly on the top shelf painted and numbered as my real bird is. Now I am working on a very detailed and intricate kit of the space shuttle. Boy wouldn’t I love to fly one of them. Now that would be a ride. I just turned twenty one last week, and the squadron threw a party for me. They all bought me model kits for presents, and strangely enough all of them were ones I had looked at in the PX, with interest. I love all the guys, and Captain Hanford especially well. To them I really am their kid sister, yet they all say that I’m just as good of a pilot as any of them. I don’t know about that, but I do appreciate the compliment.
              On all the missions that I have performed strikes, I have only once known what my target was. The GPS coordinates are simply sent by Cent Com, and I merely upload them to the bombs. Then when we are in range, I touch the button, and someone dies. I’m just a damn grocery clerk…no, not even the clerk, just the delivery girl. I could be blowing up babies as far as I know. Oh who am I kidding, I know there have had to have been collateral damage from some of my bombs. What gives us the right to come here to these people’s country and blow them to pieces? Just because we have the might? So if you cannot fight someone else’s might, you have no right to live. That’s the law of the jungle there. But just what kind of animal uses Mach two capable fighter bombers to drop precision guided, high explosive munitions on each other? I have to get a grip, these thoughts are not helping me.
              Something loud wakes me up cold, and then the alarm sirens go off. I grab my side arm and run for the bunker