Free Strike Eagle by Doug Beason Page B

Charlie.
    “You got the 781?” interrupted Bruce.
    “Yeah.” Mooselips wiped a sweaty hand on his fatigues and handed Bruce the maintenance log for the fighter.
    Bruce took the notebook and nodded to the waiting craft. “All right. Let’s rock and roll. We’ve got seventeen minutes.”
    Charlie picked up his flight bag and headed for the fighter. Once up the stairs, he placed his gear into the cockpit and climbed in. After stowing his flight bag, he began to go over the instruments.
    Bruce turned his attention to the maintenance log. He flipped through the pages. “Trouble, or anything I need to be aware of?”
    “No, sir.” Mooselips hesitated at Bruce’s raised eyebrows. “Sorry, Assassin.” Bruce went back to reading the log. “I mean, no. There was some preventive maintenance done on the avionics, and engine two leaked some oil during the pressure check, but I’ve been on top of things.”
    “Great.” Bruce shut the book and picked up his flight bag. Mooselips took off for the auxiliary power unit while Bruce stowed his gear. Switches checked, he made his way back down the ladder and around the craft, tugging on an aileron, checking fluid levels for himself, before he finally settled into the cockpit for good.
    Mooselips hovered over him, clucking like a mother hen, as the enlisted man strapped him in. “That ought to do you, Assassin. Have fun up there for me.”
    Bruce pulled on his helmet. “That’s a rog. Catch you in two hours.”
    Mooselips scrambled down the ladder. Bruce flexed his gloved hands and pulled back a Nomex sleeve, exposing his watch. One minute to check in. He clicked on intercom and went “hot-mike.”
    “How’s it going, Foggy?”
    “GPS up. All screens go.”
    Bruce clicked his mike twice, informing Charlie that he understood. He quickly surveyed the instruments. All lights glowed a soft green, visible even in the direct sunlight. Directly in front of him, at eye level, rose a Plexiglas screen—the heads-up display, or HUD. Once on, the HUD would display critical flight and targeting information directly in front of his field of view, allowing Bruce to keep his head up.
    “Okay, Foggy.” This time Charlie clicked his mike twice.
    Bruce listened over the radio, waiting, popping his gum. He glanced at his watch. Ten seconds.
    Just as the seconds clicked to zero, Skipper’s voice came over the radio.
    “Maddog check.”
    “Two.”
    “Three.” Catman.
    Bruce said, “Four.”
    “Button one.”
    Bruce switched to the pre-assigned squadron frequency. The rest of the flight was already checking in.
    “Check two.”
    “Three.”
    “Four.”
    “Start ’em up.”
    On Skipper’s command, Bruce pointed out of the cockpit at Mooselips. Now wearing a set of headphones to muffle the sound, Mooselips punched the auxiliary power unit; black smoke rolled from the unit.
    When Mooselips pointed back at him, Bruce kicked on the right engine. A growing white noise rolled in from the back of the craft. Bruce worked overtime on his gum.
    Once both engines caught, Bruce checked over the instruments. Oil pressure, fuel, hydraulics, idle RPM—everything looked good.
    When Skipper’s command came to pull out, Bruce nodded at Mooselips and gave him a thumbs-up. With their canopies still up, the flight of four F-15Es—eight young officers strapped to their howling metal machines—crept down the taxiway.
    And as much as he despised military bullshit, Bruce felt a thrill as Mooselips popped to attention and threw him a salute.
    Kadena AFB, Okinawa
    The flight times were all classified.
    No more than twenty people in the world knew about their quantum key encryption, the destination, fight plan, or even time of day that the Lockheed SR-73 “Blackbird III” flew its mission. Even the pilots were kept in the dark, notified at the last possible minute so that they could work out their flight plans, coordinate their refueling, and keep their destination secret. The spy plane was a manned