11 January 2024 – Spangdahlem Air Base, Spangdahlem, West Germany

Sabrina looked out across the airfield as maintenance crews worked hard to clear it. A two-day snowstorm deposited nearly six inches – fifteen centimeters in local parlance – of the cold white stuff across the landscape. January was the coldest month in Rhineland-Palatinate, West Germany, and it was living up to its reputation.

Sabrina wasn’t surprised by the letter before Christmas telling her she’d been wait-listed at Test Pilot School for the January 2024 class. She felt that being accepted was a long shot from Day One. Her online Master of Aerospace Engineering classes were going well, and she was halfway to her degree. Tom’s Master of Accounting would wrap up by June regardless of where they were stationed.

She glanced to her right to see Griffin Hebert standing at the entrance of his aircraft shelter, checking the airfield like her. Pilots would rather be in the air over anything else. Not stare at piles of training records as she’d done for the past two days. It would be another six to ten hours before anyone from the squadron got airborne.

The mechanics could at least perform the job they were trained for. All twenty of the squadron’s fighters – eighteen front line fighters and two spares – would be in service by the end of the day. Parts had been standing by before the storm even appeared on the radar. Operations tempo hadn’t allowed for extra maintenance activity.

The Soviets and their puppets had calmed down during the past months. After the Pleckensteiner Wald Incident, as it became known, NATO flooded the border from Austria to the Baltic Sea with fighters and reconnaissance aircraft. They lashed anything that moved with radar. More than one Warsaw Pact pilot had ear damage from missile lock warnings sounding.

Technical Sergeant Hawthorne caught Sabrina’s attention.

“She’s all set, Ma’am,” the sergeant said, waving at Sabrina’s plane as she walked over. “New tires, full checks on all flight controls and systems, and the canopy’s been freshly polished. Not a blemish on her!”

“I’ll try to keep her that way for you, Sarge. Catch you tomorrow. I’ve got training records for an entire squadron of pilots waiting on my desk.”

“Rank hath its privileges, Ma’am!”

“Privileges like locking up insolent grease monkeys?”

Susan Hawthorne knew Sabrina’s grandfather had been an auto mechanic for five decades before retiring. She smiled back at Sabrina.

“Truthful grease monkeys, Ma’am!”

Sabrina gave an irritated wave over her shoulder as she walked away. She wore a smile, however. She had the best crew chief in the squadron, maybe in the wing.

The smile lasted until Sabrina saw her desk. Eighteen thick folders containing training documentation on all pilots in the 22nd covered the surface. Sabrina moved half before she could use the keyboard or see the monitor for her computer. The folder needing the most attention belonged to her flight leader, Major Dawson. Re-certification in many areas was required.

How had Dawson slipped through the cracks for so long? Any of the issues identified were enough to raise an eyebrow, but so many? Sabrina got another headache just thinking about it. Did she bring it to someone else’s attention? Did she speak to Dawson himself about this? Speak to Colonel Doherty as the squadron commander? Both Colonel Doherty and Colonel Newcombe?

She couldn’t see any other way around it …

“Sir? Do you have a minute?”

Tim Doherty looked up from his desk.

“Hey, Raikou! What’s up?”

“I’ve got something here that I need some guidance on, Sir.”

Sabrina approached the colonel’s desk and placed Major Dawson’s training documentation on its surface. Tim Doherty raised an eyebrow in question before opening the folder. The other joined the first when he saw the top document.

“Are you serious?”

“There’s more, Sir.”

Raised eyebrows turned progressively downward-sloping as Doherty went through the paperwork.

“Who the hell signed off on all this bullshit? These dates are all wrong!”

“Those signatures look funny to me, Sir. Not smooth. I’m willing to bet they’re forged, and the dates don’t match the ones in the computer.”

“Who entered the info into the computer, then?”

“Someone with a stack of other folders to go through?” Sabrina replied with a shrug.

“Dawson’s off the flight line, that’s for sure!” Doherty picked up his phone and punched a number. “Trevor? Tim Doherty at Spangdahlem … Yeah, later, buddy. I got an issue … Not that one, dumb-ass! An issue that requires one of your teams … No, I’m not bullshitting you! … When? … Okay, sounds good. Thanks, Trevor … Huh? … Yeah, probably next month … I’ll call you next week … Bye.”

Sabrina raised an eyebrow herself.

“Trevor Dunbarton,” Doherty explained. “He’s one of the bosses for the Air Force Office of Special Investigations teams at SHAPE. We were in the same AFROTC detachment together.” He fixed her with a gaze. “Don’t look down on me now, you high-and-mighty academy graduate. Some of us worked for our commissions!” Doherty laughed when Sabrina scratched her nose with a middle finger.

“Trevor’s sending one of his OSI teams tomorrow. Weather should clear tonight.”

“So, ‘fly casual’ until then, Sir?”

“You got it, Chewie. Leave that folder with me, though. I’ll lock it in my safe.”

The drama started slowly. A nondescript C-12K Huron transport landed shortly after 0900. Officers and airmen from Spangdahlem’s 52nd Security Forces Squadron met the plane and its passengers at the hangar. A serious-looking bunch in that hangar before they moved out. Dawson was summoned to squadron headquarters at 1000 and arrested by 1020. It ended before most on base knew it started.

“That’s it?” Sabrina asked Major Ingersoll, commander of Bravo Flight.

“Well, that’s all we’ll see,” he replied. “We won’t know anything else unless we see it on the news.”

“So, who’s in charge of Charlie now? Kian Wells as the senior officer?”

“Temporarily, yes,” Colonel Newcombe agreed as he walked up. “Interim, acting, or temporary commander … whichever phrase you’re supposed to use until someone is permanently assigned.”

“Grease is gonna be thrilled.”

“A seven-year captain will welcome the chance,” Jack Newcombe replied. “An acting command position above his pay grade will look good to the promotion board when he goes for major in three years. We’ll have someone to fill the billet before Grease transfers out this summer.”

“And me?”

“You get the reputation of being detail-oriented regarding administrative things, over and above the one you have for flight,” Bill ‘Ingrid’ Ingersoll said.

“So, ‘anal-retentive bitch?’”

Colonel Newcombe shared a look with Major Ingersoll.

“Do you want to point out to our best pilot that she has a reputation for calling down the thunder to punish those who dare defy the rules, or should I?”

“You should, Colonel, as the senior officer present.”

“Thank you, Major.” Colonel Newcombe turned back to Sabrina and slowly cuffed the side of her head. “Consider it pointed out.”

“Well, Jack,” Tim Doherty spoke from behind Sabrina, “Raikou hasn’t struck you dead yet, but you might want to ask how long you have to get your affairs in order.”

“She likes me, Tim,” Newcombe said with a dismissive wave. “I’ve got at least a week. Anyway, what’s the fallout?”

“Nothing OSI would tell me,” Doherty shrugged. “They might go after the people who helped fudge his records if they’re still in the service. With everything else going on, that might be a stretch.”

“What did OSI hook him with?”

“What he did falls under the glorious catchall of ‘any other illegal activity that undermines the mission of the Air Force, Space Force, or the DoD,’” Colonel Doherty said. “Forging your training records when you’re a pilot kinda fits. Especially if you don’t measure up when the time comes to do your job.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sabrina said.

“Oh, please!” Major Ingersoll laughed. “You could fly your Raptor in the middle of G-LOC! Tell us another one!”

“He’s right, Raikou,” Colonel Doherty confirmed. “There’s no question on that one. There’s also no question Grease will need a deputy flight commander until someone new is assigned to lead Charlie Flight. Care to guess who I’m appointing to that role?”

“Well, that didn’t take long! Congratulations!”

“Sabrina, it’s the end of March! It’s been eight months since our wedding!” Anna Rosado Knox cried. “It has taken too long!”

“I’m so happy for you, Anna. But I’m sorry you have to raise a baby and deal with my big brother. When are you due?”

“December sometime.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay in the Midwest for Christmas?”

“Yes. Mom and Dad will come to spend the holidays with us too.”

“I’m hoping to take leave around that time. It’ll be my first Christmas home since I graduated from the academy.”

“I hope it won’t be long before you meet your niece or nephew.”

“Me, too. What’s next for you, professionally?”

“Honestly, Sabrina, I might stay home and be ‘Mom.’ Alex is working hard on his doctorate, and he has the potential to break some real ground with his findings.”

“Like, ‘Neptune’s Forge’ kind of breaking ground?”

“Possibly.”

“My big bro is wicked smaht!”

“That he is!” Anna laughed.

“Let me talk to that blockhead!”

“I understand I have been summoned by a goddess?”

“You’re gonna get smacked by one, Alex!”

“You’d have to come home first.”

“Blah, blah, blah. I understand you’re working on some hotshit stuff for your doctorate?”

“We think it will be, but I can’t say much about it until we publish.”

“I understand.”

Sabrina did understand. She hadn’t even been able to tell Tom the story about last January or October yet. She might never be able to, either.

“Do you think you’ll get the leave you mentioned to Anna?”

“We’ll see. I’m not as junior as I was last year, and I’ll make captain before then. The chances are better this year.”

“Anna will probably give birth just before Christmas, so we won’t be able to get to Lancaster or Enfield.”

“Timing, Alex. It’s all about timing. Ours won’t line up this year. It is what it is. I likely won’t have enough leave to get to Chicago, either.”

“We’ll get together again soon, Sabrina. I can feel it.” Alex paused. “Have you heard from the other one at all?”

“Ryan? No. Haven’t even thought about him in a while. Been kinda busy over here.”

“With the Russians acting the way they have? I’m not surprised. Mom and Dad haven’t heard from him, either.”

“That’s gotta be hard on them. Ryan’s still their little boy, regardless of how we think of him.”

“You can hear it in Mom’s voice when she talks or asks about him. Dad’s Dad.” That meant how their father felt wasn’t evident from the sound of his voice.

“Not that you have to tell me, but are you and Anna already talking about names?”

“Yes, but nothing we’ve settled on.”

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you had.”

“Exactly!”

Spring returned to West Germany during early-to-mid April, late compared to the rest of Western Europe. Colors exploded across the landscape, which looked spectacular from the air.

The Soviets and the rest of the Warsaw Pact didn’t seem interested in restarting the games they played last year. Their forces stayed well back from the border unless they were actual border troops. NATO’s operational tempo returned to what Sabrina remembered from her first year on the continent.

Skirmishes in other parts of the globe quieted also. Sabrina and her compatriots worried the Soviets and their allies were saving themselves for something big in the future. The intelligence community had nothing to say, of course. Sabrina made sure the 22nd’s training scenarios were as realistic as she could make them.

The Air Force changed the helmets used in the F-22 Raptors to upgraded F-35 helmets in May. The Collins Helmet Mounted Display System used to be too heavy for female pilots, but the Mark V cut the weight in half. The 22nd TFS spent hours in the simulators at Spangdahlem adjusting to the weight and enhanced capabilities.

The rumored holographic heads-up display in the F-22B was now irrelevant. The HMDS projected needed aircraft information directly into the pilot’s eyes. Turning your head to track an enemy aircraft didn’t remove data from your field of view because you weren’t looking through your HUD. The helmet had integrated day and night cameras and projected aircraft camera feeds when requested. Rockwell Collins was poised to have its planned Mark VI HMDS adopted as the helmet for US military aviation.

Sabrina noticed her initial Mark V HMDS had been swapped with a new one the week following being issued. The new helmet was wrapped in the demon image her old one sported and included a custom leather visor cover. Two angry blue eyes rimmed in red stared back from the visor’s protection. Below the eyes were the squadron patch, her wings, and her Raikou call sign. While her fellow pilots had covers and designs on their helmets, hers was the boldest.

“Guys, who do I pay for the work on the helmet?”

“No one,” Zeke ‘ZeeBee’ Bradley said without looking up. He kept staring at his phone.

“That has to be a thousand dollars worth of work, fellas. Are you sure? You each paid for yours and paid for a portion of mine?”

“It just showed up like that,” Griff Hebert said, lying through his teeth.

Sabrina stood with her hands on her hips and an exasperated look in the middle of the squadron duty lounge. She bit her bottom lip and whistled loud enough to make everyone wince. Everyone turned to her, and more than a few people stuck their heads in the doorways.

“The pilots of this squadron will tell me how much I owe and who I owe it to before the end of the hour. Otherwise, I promise you three of the worst training days you’ve ever experienced.”

“You can pay Griff,” Zeke Bradley said before the echo died. “Eleven hundred dollars.”

Griff grimaced under the weight of Sabrina’s glare.

“Since when do you have eleven hundred extra dollars, Griff? You asked me for gas money last week!“

“So my budgeting needs work.”

Sabrina shook her fist at him.

“Your brain needs work, buddy!” She walked over. “You’ll have an eleven hundred dollar gift card as soon as I can go to the Base Exchange. Thanks, Griff.”

If the Raptor had appeared to be an extension of Sabrina’s body before, the Mark V HMDS made that a reality. The ability to lock on an opponent’s plane and fire a missile without looking through a rigid-mount HUD, markedly increased the aircraft’s lethality. Radar contacts showed in the helmet system, not just on the flat cockpit panel, making them come alive.

Before you killed them, that is.

Ramstein Air Base’s 95th Tactical Fighter Squadron strutted into an airborne practice area near Saarland in their spiffy F-35A fighters. They thought they were the cock of the walk and king of the mountain for this exercise at the end of May against the 22nd TFS. They’d used the HMDS for years and would eat the 22nd newcomers to the system for breakfast.

Coupled with continuous avionics software upgrades to their F-22s, the Mark V helped the 22nd make short work of their counterparts from the 95th. The 95th’s flight lead was out of the fight moments after it started. His deputy followed minutes later. The exercise was over before the 95th pulled itself back together. The 22nd TFS lost one fighter. Noob Jose Tejada would hear about that for a while!

Both squadrons landed at nearby Zweibrüken Air Base for a debrief. The 95th entered the large briefing room in an angry and distracted mood. The 22nd walked in without a care in the world. The two squadrons stayed well apart. The 95th because they didn’t care for the upstarts across the aisle. The 22nd because they didn’t care. They’d already proven themselves.

The 95th’s squadron commander and his operations officer inferred near the end of the briefing that the 22nd had cheated somehow. The exercise commander – from a third, separate squadron – took issue with that. Colonel Doherty and the 22nd’s new operations officer, Lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Matos, looked at each other serenely. Doherty looked over at his counterpart.

“You’re pissed that you didn’t get the outcome you expected. That’s because you didn’t prepare for this exercise.” The 95th’s commander looked like his head would explode. “You thought you’d come in here and kick our asses all over the sky. My people spent hours and days in the simulators after we got the Mark V to learn its capabilities. We learned to integrate them with our F-22s and make the Raptors the deadliest fighters in the sky. Get in your P-38s, fly back to Ramstein, and learn enough to make them F-35s again.”

Lieutenant Colonel Gregory, the 95th’s commander, held his look of disgust. He scanned the room and fixed his eyes on the one person he shouldn’t have. Lieutenant Colonel Doherty caught the glare.

“You’re really gonna do it, huh? Not a good idea.” Gregory pointed to the officer in question. Doherty sighed and shook his head. Looking at his officer, he asked, “You game?”

“Time and place, Sir.”

“Here and now. Mount up, Captain.” Doherty looked back to the challenger. “Ground rules: Hard deck at Angels ten and simulated guns only. No missiles. Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Gregory growled.

Doherty looked at Colonel Peladeau of the 50th Tactical Fighter Wing.

“Acceptable, Sir?”

“Yes. One dogfight, that’s it.”

Gregory stomped away to prepare his aircraft. The 95th filed out without a word. Doherty looked at his officer again and then back at the exit door.

“And may God have mercy on your soul. Because Raikou won’t.”

She didn’t.

Colonel Peladeau repeated the rules once both fighters were in the practice area. He made sure they were clearly understood.

The fighters started at opposite ends of the practice area and flew toward each other when given the signal. They closed on each other at almost Mach 3. Sabrina saw Gregory’s F-35 flash by her and turned hard left. The G-forces made her vision close in as she ‘hicked’ her way through the turn.

Gregory also turned hard left after her, so Sabrina reversed her turn. Hicking again, she kept her eyes on the Lightning as it appeared.

“Come on …” she whispered. “Just a little closer, you bastard.”

Gregory flipped his aircraft away again, drawing a growl from Sabrina.

‘One missile. One missile and I could smoke this fucker right now.’

The furball wandered over the reserved area while both squadrons watched from different briefing rooms. There may have been illegal gambling. Sabrina had to pull up sharply to avoid the deck but turned that into a snap attack on the opposition. Gregory spun away, not quite in control. Sabrina saw her chance.

She came up under the F-35 at six o’clock. Anticipating moves, Sabrina stayed in the fighter’s blind spot and drew closer.

“What’s the matter? Scared, little girl?” Gregory taunted. Sabrina said nothing and acted.

<BEEEEEEEEP!> <BEEEEEEEEP!> <BEEEEEEEEP!> 

“Kill! Demon One is credited with a kill! Both fighters will stand down and return to Zweibrüken immediately.”

“Demon One acknowledges. En route Zweibrüken.”

“Bones One, Roger,” her opponent said in a tight, unhappy voice.

“Suck it, Boner One …” Sabrina whispered once headed back toward Zweibrüken Air Base … and after making sure she wasn’t transmitting.

Sabrina didn’t pause to allow Gregory to call Zweibrüken Tower first. She claimed the right to land first as the victor. Her squadron stood on the apron of their guest hangars, waiting for her. Sabrina popped her canopy once stationary, and everyone dropped to their knees.

“WE’RE NOT WORTHY! WE’RE NOT WORTHY!” they chanted over and over as she climbed down from the cockpit. Colonel Doherty rose as she walked up and signaled everyone to rise.

“Those boneheads are gonna be pissed if they hear you, Sir.”

The 95th TFS’s nickname was ‘The Boneheads.’

“Let ‘em be pissed. They fucked around and found out!” The rest of the pilots cheered again.

“Well done, Captain,” Foster Peladeau said as he approached. “That was some of the slickest flying I’ve seen in quite some time!”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Do you need time to rest before your squadron returns to Spangdahlem?”

“No, Sir,” Sabrina asked with a raised eyebrow. “Will there be a debriefing, Sir?”

“The 22nd TFS kicked the 95th’s ass out of the sky. Then Colonel Gregory challenged you and lost. End of debriefing. You will be refueled before the 95th, Tim. You can get out of here well before they do.”

“Sounds like a grand idea to me, Sir. With your permission?”

“Kick the tires and light the fires, Colonel!”

“Twenty-second! Gather ‘round!” The other pilots drew closer. “We will return to Spangdahlem immediately as Demon Flight. Raikou will lead us home as Demon One!”

With another loud cheer, everyone walked to their planes to begin preflight. The first two 22nd TFS planes climbed into the sky twenty minutes later. Sixteen others followed in pairs. Sabrina sighted Spangdahlem thirty minutes later.

“Spangdahlem Tower, Demon Flight. Eighteen aircraft for landing.”

“Welcome home, Demon Flight, and well done. Clear for landing, Runway 05.”

Sabrina rolled onto her shelter’s apron five minutes later. Sarah Hawthorne placed the ladder on the Raptor once the canopy opened. Sarah climbed up and held up a hand for a high-five.

“Way to kick ass, Ma’am! Serves him right!”

“I agree, Sarah, but be careful. Don’t let the wrong person hear you gloating.”

“Roger, Ma’am. I copy.”

“And thanks, Sarah. Having you as my crew chief is a privilege, especially since you let me borrow the plane so much!”

“Aw, shucks, Ma’am! T’wernt nothin’!”

“Away, peasant! Away from my carriage!”

Sarah climbed down with laughter following her. Laughter greeted Sabrina when she entered the squadron building carrying her helmet bag. The cheering rose to new levels when they saw her. Her fellow pilots wanted to hoist her onto their shoulders in triumph, but low ceilings wouldn’t allow that, thankfully.

“Heard you had an interesting day.”

“Since when do they let you in here?”

“They let you in all the time!”

“I’m the one in the Air Force, remember?”

“Whatever.” Tom took a sip of his soda. “I heard you got wait-listed at TFS again. I thought you were getting in?”

“I thought so, too. I guess not.”

“So what’s next, Babe?”

“I’ll have the Aerospace masters wrapped up in two weeks. After that, I’ll probably sign up for the online Squadron Officer School course. I’ll have to go to Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama for an in-residence version at some point.”

“Why both?”

“It’s on the list to make major,” Sabrina said with a shrug. “Doesn’t make sense to me either, but it’s on there.”

“How long are they?”

“The in-residence class is five and a half weeks, and the online one is six months.”

“Looking to bang out the online one and hope you’re selected for TPS next year?”

“Yep. I’ll go to Maxwell at some point.”

“Why does Test Pilot School have you so interested?”

“It’s much more about precision than you think. You fly exact routes at exact speeds for predetermined times to help with data collection. It’s a different approach than balls-to-the-wall fighter pilot stuff. Plus, it fits my two degrees. It’s the practical application of both. The flight test engineering master’s degree will complement them both also.”

“Now, tell me about your interesting day, Badass.”