Free Strike Eagle by Doug Beason Page A

bus, Catman crowded down the aisle after Bruce. “Sleep well tonight, boys and girls. Your Air Force is here to protect you.”
    Bruce threw his flight bag on the floor and flopped into the seat directly behind Charlie. “Man, oh man. What do you think Dubois uses on his head—floor wax?”
    “Hey, don’t make fun of older men,” protested Catman. “Foggy will get a complex.” He leaned over and pretended to buff the top of Charlie’s head with his knuckles.
    “Knock it off, you clowns.”
    Bruce found himself popping his gum. The discovery brought back memories of a few nights back—the young Filipino girl and the rush he had felt when he saw her.
    He shook off the feeling. He was probably just getting excited about the flight, the first they’d had since coming in. And the girl was just an icon of his freedom. It could have been any girl, any stranger that looked his way, and he probably would have felt the same elation. It was just his subconscious clearing his mind for him.
    He chewed his gum faster. So much for self-psychoanalysis, he thought. Let’s get down to business.
    Skipper appeared at the front of the bus; he grasped the metal railing with both hands as the bus started off. “Quick change to the radio frequencies, ladies and gents. Listen up. Button 1 is now the squadron frequency, Button 2 is ground control, 3 tower, 4 is first departure and Button 5 is for the bomb run at Crow. That’s just backwards from what we briefed. Any questions?”
    “Any reason why they changed it, Skipper?”
    “Not enough work for the Colonels—something’s got to keep them busy.”
    Bruce reached into his flight bag and pulled out his iPad. He lightly touched the screen and brought up various maps and a list of the radio frequencies. He quickly tapped in the change.
    Catman and Robin chattered away. “Hey, what about that Major Dubois? Anybody know if he can talk?”
    “Nope. Probably got a command lobotomy once he made field grade, so the wing has put him out to pasture.”
    “All right, you clowns,” cautioned Skipper. “Try to pull one over on Dubois and he’ll ream you. Remember he’s the flight scheduler. How’d you like to be flying Christmas Day?”
    “Do they have Christmas over here, Skipper? I’d have thought they’d cancel it because of the heat.”
    The bus moved onto the taxiway and slowed. They passed by a row of black C-130 transports. The low-slung lifters were the quintessential workhorse of the 1st Special Operations Squadron.
    They pulled up the ramp to a line of F-15s; a flight of F-22s lay beyond them. The bus slowed to a stop.
    “Twenty minutes,” reminded Skipper.
    Bruce spotted his aircraft’s tail number. In the distance, palm trees just off the runway added to the feeling of stifling humidity. He and Charlie approached the fighter, each quiet, each going over what was needed to prepare for the flight.
    An older man approached them, dressed in battle fatigue pants and a v-neck T-shirt. Sweat spotted most of the man’s T-shirt, especially around the armpits; he looked to be in his early forties, nearly twice as old as Bruce. The man held out a hand. He nodded to Charlie but spoke to Bruce.
    “Lieutenant Steele? I’m Tech Sergeant Noresteader, your crew chief. Welcome to Clark.”
    Bruce stopped, dropping his flight bag. “Glad to know you. Call me ‘Assassin’ when the brass isn’t around.”
    The man cracked a grin as they shook hands. “My friends call me ‘Mooselips’”
    “Okay, Mooselips. Captain Fargassa goes by ‘Foggy’”
    “That’s some call sign, Captain.”
    “It’s not for the name, it’s—”
    Bruce interrupted Charlie’s explanation. “We call him Foggy because no one can understand what the hell he’s talking about.” Bruce tapped his head with a finger. “Professor type. We’d call him ‘Prof,’ but call signs have to be at least two syllables.”
    “I think I’m going to enjoy working with you, Captain.”
    “Foggy,” corrected