PROLOGUE

Shaw Air Force Base

Sumter, SC

The first cold front of the fall was always my favorite time of year. The oppressive heat and humidity of the South Carolina summers gave way to mild temperatures with a cool breeze. It made stepping to the F-16 with all of the gear—G-suit, harness, life preserver unit, pubs kit, and helmet bag—enjoyable for the first time in months.

“Hey John,” I said as I returned my crew chief’s sharp salute and walked with him to his toolbox. I unzipped the forms and started thumbing through the various pages, checking for appropriate sign-offs and closeouts of write-ups.

“She’s a good jet, sir,” John said proudly. “Been flying code 1 all month.”

“I’ll try to keep it that way,” I said as I zipped up the binder. “How are Ella and the kids?”

“Good, sir. Keeping me busy as always. We got our next set of orders. Looks like we’re heading to Misawa.”

“No kidding? Is that good news or bad news?”

“It’s great news. Ella loves Japan. She can’t wait.”

“Awesome news. We’ll miss you here though.”

“What about you, Major? You should be coming up on a PCS soon too, aren’t you?”

I smiled and looked over at the F-16 two sunshades down the line. It was the D-model I was flying with that day. The pilot, First Lieutenant Bill “Bongo” Wick was starting his preflight as Captain Alexis “Barbie” Dahl got settled into the back seat. As one of the squadron’s flight docs, she was riding shotgun with the lieutenant as part of required currency.

“I guess it depends on what the boss decides,” I said with a grin. “We’re both at the end of our initial commitments. If she decides to punch for civilian life, I may find a job flying at a reserve unit somewhere and be a stay-at-home house husband.”

John laughed. “That’s right. You two got engaged. Congrats, sir. When’s the wedding?”

“Next month. You coming?”

“Am I invited?”

“Are you kidding? My favorite crew chief? Of course you are! You didn’t get the invitation?”

“I did, but my wife said you were just being polite.”

I put my hand on John’s shoulder. “John, I want you there.”

“Then we’ll be there, sir.”

“Excellent,” I said, and then looked back at my fiancée’s jet. “Well, I guess I better get moving or I’ll be late for check-in.”

“What are y’all doing today, sir?”

“BFM—dogfighting. It’s just continuation training with the lieutenant. We’re going to fight and then hit the tanker and then fight some more. Should be back in about two hours.”

“Sounds good, sir.”

I quickly completed the walk around and then climbed the ladder into the jet. John helped me connect my G-suit hose and parachute risers on the harness and then shook my hand. He quickly descended the ladder and removed it as I put my helmet on and flicked on the battery switch.

“Hey, John, how do you hear me?” I said over the intercom.

“All clear down here, sir. Clear forward, clear aft, fireguard is posted, ready for start two,” he replied.

I finished the cockpit preflight checks and then moved the Jet Fuel Starter switch to JFS Start 2. The JFS accumulator discharged, and the jet fuel starter whirred to life.

John and I worked through our various tasks as the F-16 came to life. I had done it so many times in my ten years flying the airplane, I was basically on autopilot. I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was.

Six months earlier, Barbie and I had gotten engaged. Our first time meeting two years earlier had been on her first flight in the squadron. She had shown up at brief time, exasperated and nervous, looking for the right room so she didn’t miss her flight.

“Sorry, I got caught up getting my gear ready,” she said as she walked in. “Are you MAKO?”

The moment I saw her, I knew. And it made me nervous.

“Clint . . . Lee . . . Yeah, MAKO,” I stumbled through nervously as I shook her hand. “Are you in my trunk?”

“If you don’t mind, yes,” she said. “I’m the new flight surgeon.”

“Of course, have a seat,” I finally managed.

As if ordained by the sky gods themselves, that flight had been the start of our relationship. The flight lead and bandit both had maintenance problems and ground aborted, leaving us to fly solo in our two-seat F-16.

We went out to the airspace, did a few loops, laughed, and got to know each other. I even let her fly us around for a little while before we came back and landed. From that moment, I knew she was the one.

Of course, once the squadron found out about our relationship, we were no longer allowed to fly together in the same aircraft, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t sandbag in the flight with me. I knew those days would soon be coming to an end.

We were both at decision points in our careers. As a senior major, I was at the end of my active-duty service commitment and had to decide whether I wanted to make it a full twenty, or punch for the reserves, guard, or even straight civilian life.

Despite being younger, Barbie was in the same boat. Except her decision was whether to keep flying or move on to the civilian world. She wanted to be an OB/GYN and start her own practice in her hometown in Tennessee. That was perfectly all right with me. I just wanted her to be happy, even if that meant giving up fast-jet flying for me.

“Ground, Dealer One-One, taxi flight of two with Uniform,” I said after completing the preflight checks and establishing comms with my wingman on primary and auxiliary radios.

Ground replied with the standard taxi clearance, and we both pulled out of our sunshades, Bongo and Barbie following 150 feet behind me in perfect taxi spacing. Bongo was young and fresh out of mission qualification training, but he was a sharp kid. I trusted him with her.

I led the formation to the end-of-runway arming area and our jets were armed expeditiously. My jet was completely clean except for captive carry AIM-120 missiles on the wingtip and a captive carry AIM-9 on station 8. Bongo’s D-model had a centerline fuel tank in addition to the captive carry missile loadout. We were both also carrying chaff and flares.

Once the final checkers finished, I pushed the formation to tower frequency. It being fast-jet Friday with us being the only jets flying that afternoon, we were cleared for the unrestricted climb to fifteen thousand feet.

Normally, a clean jet would’ve taken off under full military power, but for an unrestricted climb, we used full afterburner.

Without external tanks, bombs, a targeting pod, or anything else to weigh it down and create drag, the F-16 was a rocketship. I barely had enough time to retract the landing gear before the three-hundred-knot limit, hitting just under 450 knots by the end of the runway.

My G-suit inflated as I pulled back on the sidestick and pulled six Gs to go pure vertical. With nearly thirty-thousand pounds of thrust in full grunt, the jet had more than a one-to-one thrust to weight ratio and accelerated as it screamed toward the heavens.

At twelve thousand feet, I rolled inverted and started my pull back down toward level flight, rolling out at fifteen thousand feet as the departure controller cleared us directly to the military operating area. There was no better feeling on a Friday afternoon. Superpower coming through.

Bongo rejoined on my left wing at a mile line abreast, and we checked into the airspace. We did a series of 180-degree turns for a G-awareness exercise, the first turn to check that our G-suits were inflating and systems were ready, and the second to make sure our bodies could handle the expected g-forces of dogfighting in the F-16.

“Next set will be a high-aspect butterfly set for number two,” I said over the radio as we completed the maneuver and did an ops check.

“Two!” Bongo replied sharply.

I looked over my right shoulder and saw Bongo get into perfect formation position a mile and a half away.

“One is ready,” I said.

“Two’s ready!”

“Check away.”

We both turned away 45 degrees from our initial heading. I looked over and watched his aircraft become a tiny dot before calling, “Turn in, fight’s on!”

I initiated an energy-sustaining hard turn back toward him to set up the neutral engagement. As the training aid, I was limited to military power while he had full use of afterburner. My job was to simulate an underpowered adversary, but I had no intention of making it easy on him.

We squared up, nose-to-nose, and I parked the throttle in military power. I flipped the dogfight switch outboard on the throttle and locked him with my radar. My radar warning receiver (RWR) gave an audible tone to alert me that he had done the same. We were closing at nearly 1,000 knots.

My speed was just over 500 knots when we merged—too fast if I had full use of afterburner, but enough energy to go vertical with military power. We both turned left across each other’s tails and I went vertical, floating the turn at six and a half Gs while Bongo pulled nine to max perform his jet.

Reaching the apex over the top, I saw that Bongo had gone nose low. He was using God’s G to increase his turn rate, but his higher speed would cause higher G forces and make it harder for him to get his nose around on me.

I decided to take advantage of this, and cashed in my energy over the top. I pulled the stick full aft and squared the corner, trading airspeed for angles as Bongo and Barbie smoothly tracked into my heads-up display.

“Fox Two!” I called as I uncaged the AIM-9 and hit the pickle button to simulate a missile shot.

Flares shot out from the other F-16. A little late, but he had the right idea.

“Knock . . . knock it off!” Bongo suddenly called out over the radio.

The knock-it-off call was typically a flight lead call for reaching desired learning objectives, but anyone could call it for safety of flight reasons. Something was wrong.

“Dealer knock it off, Dealer One-One knock it off,” I said calmly.

“Dealer One-Two knock it off,” Bongo said. There was a weird strain to his voice. Something was going on inside his jet.

“Reference three-six-zero,” I said, giving him a heading to fly to get the formation back together. “Say reason for knock it off.”

“Flight controls,” Bongo replied, still straining. “I think I’ve got asymmetric leading-edge flaps. It keeps wanting to roll right on me.”

“Copy, you’ve got the lead on the right,” I replied. “I’ll rejoin on you. Can you get it wings level?”

“I think so,” Bongo grunted.

“Roger.”

My heart was racing. A leading-edge flap malfunction wasn’t the worst emergency, but I didn’t like any emergency with Alexis in the back seat. I tried to compartmentalize it, because all I could do was be a good flight lead. Bongo was a qualified aviator who could handle himself and the emergency.

I set my jet up on a good rejoin vector and pulled my pocket emergency checklist from my G-suit pocket. My job would be to help Bongo run through the checklist, talk on the radios for him as required, and then chase him back to the field for a safe landing—assuming it was something that we couldn’t get to clear. The first priority was obviously to establish safe flight parameters and see if we couldn’t get the malfunction to go away so we could get back to fighting.

As I got closer, I could see the jet listing slightly to the right. The left leading-edge flap was partially extended while the right was retracted. We were at 300 knots in level flight, which meant that both should’ve been retracted. There was definitely an asymmetry problem.

“Okay, I’m in the checklist. What indications do you have?” I asked calmly over the auxiliary radio.

Bongo keyed the mic and grunted as he said, “Nothing. No PFLs or FLCS warning lights. It tried to roll on me when I got slow and we nearly departed. It’s taking some work to keep it level. It looks like the left leading-edge flap is dug in and the right one retracted.”

“I’m moving in for a battle damage check to confirm, then we’ll run the checklist. Barbie, how are you doing back there?” I asked Alexis.

“Bongo is getting his workout for today. I’m here to help if needed. We’re going to be fine, Clint.” She looked up and waved. With her mask up, visor down, and gloved hand, she looked like any other fighter pilot sitting in the back seat, except I knew she was the love of my life sitting in that jet.

“Copy, hang in there,” I said. I moved in closer and performed the battle damage check, starting with the left wing. I looked it over for any leaks or obvious damage, climbed up a bit to get a view of the top of the jet, then slid down and under to the opposite side where I checked the right wing and fuselage over. Bongo was right; the left leading-edge flap was almost completely extended, while the right was as expected for the airspeed we were flying.

I moved my jet away from his and referenced the checklist. “Okay, I’m on the LEF Malfunction (Asymmetric) checklist. Let me know when you’re ready to start working it.”

“Ready,” Bongo said. “I’m going to give the aircraft to Barbie for a bit so I can deal with it.”

“Copy.”

The jet bobbled and then tried to roll before they recovered it and put it back in a slightly crooked flight path. I could tell she was also struggling to keep it level.

“We’re good,” Bongo said. “Do you want to read or do you want me to?”

“I read, you do,” I said. “Step one, if LEF asymmetry occurs, AOA 6 to 10 degrees. I’m showing us at 8 degrees, 304 knots.”

“Concur,” Bongo said.

I continued reading, “Warning, exceeding ten degrees AOA may result in insufficient roll authority. Limit rolling maneuvers to gentle roll in with a maximum bank angle of 30 degrees.”

“No problem.”

“Another warning, flying a fast approach—defined as lower than 6 degrees—presents additional control difficulties caused by a change in the path of the disturbed airflow coming off the failed LEF.”

“Don’t get slow and don’t get fast, got it.”

“Step two, lateral stick/roll trim—as required.”

“I’ve got it trimmed out as far as it will go; Barbie is holding lateral stick for me right now.”

“Copy,” I said. “Next warning says minimize rudder inputs. Use rudder as required to reduce sideslip when jettisoning stores or to aid in maintaining desired ground track during the final part of landing approach. Do not use rudder trim.”

“Not a problem.”

“Okay, step three is to move the Le Flaps switch to Lock. It says to lock operating LEF as near symmetrical as possible. Can you get slower to extend the good LEF and then lock it?”

“I can try,” Bongo said. “But she wants to roll over on me.”

“Give it a shot.”

Bongo took control of the jet and started slowing. I maintained position above and behind him, watching the right leading-edge flap (LEF) extend on schedule until the aircraft started to roll again. Bongo lit the afterburner and accelerated as he lowered the nose.

“Okay, I managed to lock it there,” he said, breathing heavily over the radio. “But that’s as far as it would go. It’s a little better now. They’re locked.”

“Copy,” I said. “Let me know when you’re good to go for the rest of the checklist.”

“Ready,” Bongo replied.

“Step four, stores jettison if required. You’ve got a centerline bag, so no need to jettison.”

“Roger.”

“Step five, fuel weight—reduce if feasible or required. It says to reduce fuel weight if fatigue is not a factor. How are you feeling?”

“The centerline is dry, I’m at five point two. I don’t know.”

I could hear it in his voice. Even with Alexis’s help, he was getting tired. “All right, let’s move on to step six: controllability check. We’re at fifteen thousand feet. Go ahead and lower the landing gear and see how she flies at 6 to 9 degrees AOA.”

“We’re below 300 knots. Gear’s coming down.”

I lowered my landing gear as well to match, and we slowed to 108 knots.

“How’s it feeling?” I asked.

“Good so far,” he said. I noticed he kept slowing. Suddenly, the aircraft rolled nearly inverted before he unloaded the angle of attack (AOA), accelerated, and rolled upright.

“This jet isn’t controllable,” I said.

“It’s good. That was my fault. Got too slow and the AOA went to the horn. I can land it.”

“Don’t do that again,” I said. “Let’s get it cleaned up and RTB” (return to base). “The rest of the checklist just says land as soon as practical and lower the nose immediately after touchdown when you land. Be ready for a departure-end arrestment. Push the SOF frequency on AUX.”

I switched the number 2 radio to the supervisor of flying (SOF) frequency. He was a qualified pilot sitting in the tower who could help with emergencies and other issues as the operations group commander’s designated representative.

“Dealer One-One, check AUX.”

“Two!” Bongo replied sharply.

“SOF, Dealer One-One flight is with you. Dealer One-Two has a leading-edge flap asymmetry. We’ve run the checklist and locked it, but it’s still difficult to control above 10 degrees AOA.”

“SOF copies, standby,” the SOF said. It was Bill “Moose” Johnson, an experienced lieutenant colonel and commander of the Operations Support Squadron.

“Okay, I’m with you in the checklist. Just confirm it’s flyable at six to nine AOA?”

“Affirm, sir,” Bongo replied.

“And you could not get them to lock symmetrically?”

“That’s correct,” I said. “The left one is full down and the right one is about half.”

“Okay, it says prior to landing with a significant asymmetric LEF condition, consider aircraft configuration, pilot experience level, pilot arm fatigue, etc. If it’s not favorable, a controlled ejection is recommended. Who’s got the problem? Dash two? How are you feeling?”

“I’m good, sir!” Bongo replied.

What worried me was that he might be doing the standard “I can do anything!” lieutenant act versus making an accurate assessment of his capabilities.

“All right, there’s another warning about winds, but winds here are currently right down the runway at fifteen gust twenty-five. Make sure you fly a shallow straight-in approach at 8 degrees, but no lower than 6 degrees. Minimum roundout, so accept the firm landing. Then you can use rudder to keep you lined up and lower the nose immediately after touchdown. There’s another caution about forward stick pressure in excess of two pounds before weight on wheels can result in full trailing-edge down deflection, so don’t do that. And be prepared to take a departure end cable. Any questions?”

“I think we should consider the controlled ejection option,” I said as I looked over at Alexis. It was selfish, but my gut was telling me we were missing something.

“I can fly it, sir,” Bongo reiterated over the radio.

“SOF recommends you try the landing,” Moose replied. “If it’s controllable in the landing configuration, there’s no reason to eject. Winds are right down the runway, and worst case, he can go around and take an arrested landing. I’ll have fire and rescue standing by here.”

“Okay,” I replied reluctantly. “We’ll monitor your freq, we’re RTB from the Gamecock MOA and will be inbound shortly.”

“SOF copies. You guys are the last ones back. Pattern is yours.”

I directed a radio change to approach and let them know we were a flight of two with an emergency returning to base for the straight in. They cleared us direct to a ten-mile final for Runway 4L at Shaw. I maintained a chase position on Bongo’s jet as we descended toward the field. Thankfully, there were no clouds and visibility was unlimited, making it easy to spot the airfield.

“Dealer flight has the field in sight,” I said.

“Dealer One-One and flight, roger, you can contact tower on local channel four.”

“Dealer One-One, push four,” I replied.

I switched the primary radio to channel four. “Dealer One-One, check.”

“Two!” Bongo replied. He was tired, but he still sounded good on the radio.

“Tower, Dealer One-One, flight of two with an emergency aircraft. Dash two is in the lead, full stop. Dash one will be low approach.”

“Dealer One-Two, cleared to land, Runway Four Left. Fire and rescue equipment standing by. Dealer One-One, you’re cleared low approach and closed to Runway Four Right.”

“Cleared to land, Four Left,” Bongo replied.

“Dealer One-One copies all,” I added.

We set up on a long final for the inner runway. It was two thousand feet longer than Runway 4R, and I could see the fire trucks with their red lights flashing next to the end of the runway. Bongo gave the hand signal for lowering the gear, and then made an exaggerated head-nod motion before putting the gear handle down.

I followed suit, lowering my gear to match his configuration.

“Dealer One-Two, five miles, gear down, full stop,” Bongo said over the primary radio.

“Departure end cable indicates up, fire and rescue standing by, Dealer One-Two, cleared to land. Winds are zero four zero at fifteen, gust twenty.”

“Cleared to land,” Bongo said.

“How’s it flying?” I asked over the aux radio.

“So far, so good,” Bongo said. “It likes about eight AOA.”

“Remember, shallow flare, get the nose down as soon as you can.”

“Wilco.”

“Relax, Clint. We’re fine,” Alexis said reassuringly.

I double-clicked the radio to acknowledge, but said nothing. I wanted Bongo to focus on the landing and not get distracted by our jibber-jabber.

Bongo started his descent for the runway. He was flying a good jet and his approach was smooth, giving me a chance to relax slightly as I realized he had it under control.

There was a momentary deviation of his angle of attack, but he caught it immediately as the aircraft rolled slightly to the right and then recovered.

“Easy with it,” I said. “You’ve got this, Bongo.”

I maintained my chase position as we came in over the overrun. A wind gust caused Bongo to make an adjustment at the last second, causing him to raise the nose and float.

“Plenty of runway, you’ve got it,” I said.

But a second gust of wind caused the jet to roll right. Bongo lit the afterburner and climbed.

“Going around,” he said over the radio.

“Watch your AOA,” I said as he picked the nose up.

It was too late. The increased AOA caused the jet to roll faster than it had before. As if in slow motion, I watched it roll inverted and then the canopy jettisoned, followed by the aft ejection seat and then the front.

“No!” I screamed into my mask. “Please! No!”

But I had no time to process what was happening, as the jet completed the roll and then headed for me. I pulled the nose straight up and lit the afterburner as I narrowly missed it. The jet passed me and then turned, crashing nose first into the ramp next to a pair of parked F-16s.

As I rolled to find the parachutes, my heart sank.

I saw only one of the occupants swinging in the chute before landing in the grass next to the runway. I suddenly felt trapped and wanted to get on the ground more than anything. I knew exactly who it was as I frantically searched for another chute.

There wouldn’t be another chute.

I had just lost everything.