Free Strike Eagle by Doug Beason

laying down their weapons.
    Before they flew their F-15s “hot”—loaded down with weapons—Maddog Flight would have to undergo Jungle Survival School. The thought was in the back of Bruce’s mind, but he didn’t let it worry him. Getting back from today’s flight was his first priority. That and staying awake.
    “Time hack on my count,” Skipper’s voice broke in. “Five, four, three, two, one— hack.”
    Bruce zeroed his watch to coincide with the time Skipper had announced. The entire flight was now calibrated to the Flight Commander’s clock.
    The hour-long flight brief was over. The crews headed out to take a final leak before suiting up. Charlie loitered in the briefing room, making sure he was the last to empty his bladder.
    Light banter filled the personal equipment room—PE room, as the pilots called it—as the men and women struggled into their equipment. Webbed netting made up survival vests, parachute harness, and jungle gear. Lockers and wooden benches packed the PE room. Posters on the wall displayed Chinese and North Korean aircraft.
    Bruce finished snapping on his survival vest and slammed his locker shut. Patting his pockets, he pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. He stuffed his helmet into his flight bag. “Foggy, you ready?”
    “Yo.”
    They pushed through the locker room and down the hall to the Squadron Duty Desk. Just outside the door and to the right, a dark blue crew bus waited to take the officers to their jets. Charlie peeled off for the bathroom. “Meet you on the bus.”
    Bruce grunted, then turned left into the Squadron Duty Area.
    At the end of the hall, Major Brad Dubois sat behind an empty desk. Built like a fireplug but not quite as pretty, the major was completely bald. A long whiteboard, filled with grease-penciled names, times, and dates, took up the wall behind him; the board matched aircraft numbers with pilots’ names, dates, and scheduled times of flights. Major Dubois read a paperback book, something with a scantily dressed female and a man in a spacesuit on the cover. Bruce thought he saw the major moving his lips when he read.
    “Good morning, Major.”
    Dubois looked up. He blinked, but otherwise remained expressionless.
    Uh-oh, thought Bruce, I wonder if Neanderthal man speaks English. “Hello, sir, I’m Lieutenant Steele. I’ve just been assigned here. Uh, I’ve come to sign my aircraft out.”
    Dubois reached under the desk and pulled out a battered green notebook. The log was dog-eared and covered with markings. “Here.” He shoved it toward Bruce and turned back to his book.
    Popping his gum, Bruce waited for the man to look up, say something, or just show some sign that he was alive. When nothing happened, Bruce shrugged and picked up a pen. As he copied down the information about his aircraft from the whiteboard onto the log, Catman came up and joggled his elbow. Bruce rolled his eyes toward Major Dubois, then returned to signing out his plane.
    Catman wisely stayed quiet until his turn; Bruce decided not to wait for his friend and instead headed for the bus. As he walked down the hallway, he glanced at some of the murals that covered the walls. An array of fighter aircraft, starting with the old P-51 Mustang, was depicted in various shooting scenes. Bullets flew from the aircraft, usually impacting some hazily drawn enemy plane. Other scenes in the mural showed jets dropping bombs, bridges exploding, and black smoke billowing up from oil tanks.
    The planes evolved into other models—an F-4 Phantom, the F-15E, then at the end of the hall, the F-22 and F-35. The aircraft of PACOM. The F-15 may not be the newest fighter on the block, but it would be the best way for delivering air-to-ground munitions for decades to come.
    Bruce noted that there was no room for other planes.
    The door opened into the early morning air. It was already muggy outside. Filipino weather never varied more than a few degrees, even from night to day.
    On the