Excerpts
_ He was afraid his emotions would get the best of him. It was a problem – this
sentimental feeling – that would not have bothered him as a young man in his
former life, a predicament that comes only with age, experience, perspective and
memory. His mind raced. For chrissakes, I’m in front of fans in Fenway
again. When he turned around, the crowd, still thundering, thought he
might raise his cap. But something stopped him, something inexplicable. Those
old un-exorcised demons? The defiant remnants of his past? Or perhaps he
didn’t deserve it. Not yet, anyway. He had not swung a bat in a real game.
They couldn’t be applauding him for being reanimated; he had nothing to do with
it. Even as the raucous cheering wore on he resisted, hoping that they would
somehow understand, and that he would soon earn the applause—truly earn it.
These strange new fans, they knew only the legend.
The flight to the two targets was once again short. There was some conventional flak but SAM batteries didn’t paint them. Again, no enemy planes. One by one the Slammers hit the targets.
A huge black cloud emerged over the burning fuel dump when Ted radioed his wingman.
“‘Caveman 2,’ ‘Caveman 1.’ Alpha check.”
“‘Caveman 2.’ Angels 15. Home plate is in L-O-S.”
“Big Hat” may have had a line of sight for home, but what he didn’t see was a group of bogeys that, due to jamming, malfunction or both, did not pop on the Slammers’ radar scopes.
Ted radioed first. “‘Caveman 1.’ Gorilla contact.”
One of the squadron mates, who in his excitement did not ID himself, responded. “Tally, right two, two miles, low!”
Ted thought to himself, Shit, they’re already on us; what’d they do, just take off?
He responded with a directive for the squadron, “S-Eight, bandits, engage!”
Almost simultaneously all of the F-35s jettisoned any remaining outboard air-to-ground ordinance hanging on their pylons for better speed and flight characteristics.
Jerry radioed his flight leader, “‘Caveman 1, tally, press!”
Knowing Jerry had his six, Ted and the rest of the squadron, winged over and firewalled their throttles to engage the enemy. There appeared to be an equal number – at least eight – of enemy planes barreling right into the Slammers. A Mexican standoff it wasn’t.
Attacking the enemy from above under normal circumstances would have been an advantageous firing position. The short distance, angle of attack and closing speed were so severe, however, that none of the F-35s could fire a laser or missile shot. Some of the Slammers did a quarter-roll and passed the enemy canopy-to-canopy, all at close to the speed of sound. The best that the F-35s could do was get off a few canon rounds to little affect.
It was clear they were engaging Pakistanis driving Dragons. As the F-35s roared past, they split into two groups to come around.
The dogfight was on.
A huge black cloud emerged over the burning fuel dump when Ted radioed his wingman.
“‘Caveman 2,’ ‘Caveman 1.’ Alpha check.”
“‘Caveman 2.’ Angels 15. Home plate is in L-O-S.”
“Big Hat” may have had a line of sight for home, but what he didn’t see was a group of bogeys that, due to jamming, malfunction or both, did not pop on the Slammers’ radar scopes.
Ted radioed first. “‘Caveman 1.’ Gorilla contact.”
One of the squadron mates, who in his excitement did not ID himself, responded. “Tally, right two, two miles, low!”
Ted thought to himself, Shit, they’re already on us; what’d they do, just take off?
He responded with a directive for the squadron, “S-Eight, bandits, engage!”
Almost simultaneously all of the F-35s jettisoned any remaining outboard air-to-ground ordinance hanging on their pylons for better speed and flight characteristics.
Jerry radioed his flight leader, “‘Caveman 1, tally, press!”
Knowing Jerry had his six, Ted and the rest of the squadron, winged over and firewalled their throttles to engage the enemy. There appeared to be an equal number – at least eight – of enemy planes barreling right into the Slammers. A Mexican standoff it wasn’t.
Attacking the enemy from above under normal circumstances would have been an advantageous firing position. The short distance, angle of attack and closing speed were so severe, however, that none of the F-35s could fire a laser or missile shot. Some of the Slammers did a quarter-roll and passed the enemy canopy-to-canopy, all at close to the speed of sound. The best that the F-35s could do was get off a few canon rounds to little affect.
It was clear they were engaging Pakistanis driving Dragons. As the F-35s roared past, they split into two groups to come around.
The dogfight was on.
Ted leaned on the end of the railing, his back to the staircase as he continued people watching. The fine architectural detail and dramatic upward sweep of the staircase were lost observations to him.
But someone was observing him. On the upper left staircase a striking woman in a long evening gown had stopped at the first angle in which she could see him standing at the base of the railing at the bottom of the Y-shaped stairs.
It was Amanda.
She wore a vintage 1940s black sequined tulle ball gown. The long straps spread from her delicate shoulders to a plunging v-neck that highlighted her décolletage. An elegant single strand of pearls complimented her luminescent smile. Cascading downward and cinching at the waist, the gown thereafter descended graciously to end with an inverted-v hemline just above the floor. The affect allowed flawlessly matched black platform high heels, completing the 1940s look with bows in the front, to peek out for a teasing view. This was a woman comfortable in her own shoes—even if the style was 150 years old. She made it timeless.
She moved down to the last step before the central landing above him. He was still oblivious. That is, until she called out to him.
“Hey there, Lobster Man.”
He immediately recognized the voice. His head swiveled and he looked up.
“Amanda,” was all he could say.
As she made her way gracefully down the dramatic staircase, he was transfixed at the vision before him.
She, too, was more than enamored with the dashing figure in front of her. It was obviously more than the man-in-uniform thing, though that didn’t hurt. The two were former lovers. She flushed, hoping that it would not reveal itself.
She seemed to Ted not to walk but to somehow glide down the staircase, rather like his hover jet, but with no noise and bathed in sweet perfume. He shook off the silly thought.
At the bottom she reached out to him with extended hand. He kissed it and then pulled her close in a not-entirely-appropriate embrace, as if they were dancing, their faces but an inch apart. One might have called it a Tango embrace. The expression on his face was not dreamy as much as it was cocky and playful.
Recognizing that they were neither alone nor dancing, he released her, yet still held one of her hands. She was taken aback by the dramatic dalliance, but hardly perturbed.
Now, standing a respectful distance apart, he said, “How are you?”
“I am just divine,” she said.
“Yes, you are,” he said. “Yes, you are.”
But someone was observing him. On the upper left staircase a striking woman in a long evening gown had stopped at the first angle in which she could see him standing at the base of the railing at the bottom of the Y-shaped stairs.
It was Amanda.
She wore a vintage 1940s black sequined tulle ball gown. The long straps spread from her delicate shoulders to a plunging v-neck that highlighted her décolletage. An elegant single strand of pearls complimented her luminescent smile. Cascading downward and cinching at the waist, the gown thereafter descended graciously to end with an inverted-v hemline just above the floor. The affect allowed flawlessly matched black platform high heels, completing the 1940s look with bows in the front, to peek out for a teasing view. This was a woman comfortable in her own shoes—even if the style was 150 years old. She made it timeless.
She moved down to the last step before the central landing above him. He was still oblivious. That is, until she called out to him.
“Hey there, Lobster Man.”
He immediately recognized the voice. His head swiveled and he looked up.
“Amanda,” was all he could say.
As she made her way gracefully down the dramatic staircase, he was transfixed at the vision before him.
She, too, was more than enamored with the dashing figure in front of her. It was obviously more than the man-in-uniform thing, though that didn’t hurt. The two were former lovers. She flushed, hoping that it would not reveal itself.
She seemed to Ted not to walk but to somehow glide down the staircase, rather like his hover jet, but with no noise and bathed in sweet perfume. He shook off the silly thought.
At the bottom she reached out to him with extended hand. He kissed it and then pulled her close in a not-entirely-appropriate embrace, as if they were dancing, their faces but an inch apart. One might have called it a Tango embrace. The expression on his face was not dreamy as much as it was cocky and playful.
Recognizing that they were neither alone nor dancing, he released her, yet still held one of her hands. She was taken aback by the dramatic dalliance, but hardly perturbed.
Now, standing a respectful distance apart, he said, “How are you?”
“I am just divine,” she said.
“Yes, you are,” he said. “Yes, you are.”