SECTOR 64: Ambush

by Dean M. Cole

  "That's two less Surface-to-Air Missile launchers to dodge. I wish the Pakistani's would stop this crap from crossing the—" Captain Allison's radio transmission cut out mid-sentence as a stream of tracers sliced through the darkness directly in front of the two aircraft.

  "Break left!" Jake screamed.

  With the bright orange tracers slicing between the two fighters, Jake banked his fighter hard right, narrowly avoiding the wall of lead.

  "Crap! That was close," Jake said. "Must have been a Zeus." It was the common nickname for Russia's deadly four-barreled ZSU 23-4 anti-aircraft gun. Good thing he missed. That rate of fire with high explosive shells… The thought sent an involuntary shudder down Jake's spine.

  "I'm hit, I'm hit!" Richard screamed over the radio.

  "Oh shit!" Jake said. He toggled his radio. "Gunslinger Two-Six, how bad are you hit? Is it flyable, over?"

  No reply.

  "Gunslinger Two-Six, Richard, what is your situa—" a bright explosion flashed from the direction Richard had turned. To his relief, Jake saw the silhouette of a parachute canopy briefly outlined by the light of the exploding fighter jet.

  Rolling his aircraft to bring weapons on the ZSU, Jake jumped into the job of protecting his wingman.

  Another burst of fire shredded the night. Like flaming orange basketballs, a new volley of explosive twenty-three millimeter shells rose from the desert floor, blindly seeking out his aircraft. Apparently, the weapon's operator knew not to turn on his radar. That mistake would attract Jake's HARM radar seeking missile. Still, his initial success against Richard's aircraft had made the enemy gunner overconfident. His odds of repeating the original feat were nil. Firing again into the screaming darkness merely supplied Jake with a bright orange dotted line pointing to the source of his friend's demise.

  His last Maverick missile locked onto the anti-aircraft gun's infrared silhouette. Lifting the guard, Jake fingered the missile launch trigger. "Bye, bye." With a pull, he launched the missile. It rapidly accelerated toward, and then destroyed the ZSU in a brilliant explosion, briefly bringing daylight to another small patch of desert.

  "Good shooting, Gunslinger One-Three," Jake heard over the emergency frequency.

  He breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of his downed wingman's voice. "Keep your transmissions to a minimum, Two-Six. After all my hard work, I don't want a load of artillery raining down on you. What's your condition?"

  "I'll live, but this is Indian country, so hurry with the cavalry already," Richard said. Apprehension seeped through his humorous façade.

  ***

  Jake heard an electronic click as the inane hold music ended. "How the hell are you, buddy?" Richard asked.

  Leaning against the bar top separating the apartment's kitchen from its dining room, Jake looked at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I've been better. Sorry I haven't called, things have been … crazy here. How's the leg?"

  "It's better. As a matter of fact, I just returned to flight status."

  "Listen, Richard, I've got—"

  Not pausing to let Jake finish, Richard kept speaking. "In the meantime, I've been assigned to a special unit in the Pentagon. Actually, that's why I'm calling."

  "I'm sorry, Richard, I have something going on here. As much as I'd love to catch up—"

  "I understand," he interrupted again. "I've been watching your situation develop. We need to talk."

  "Richard … wait, what do you mean? What do you know?" Jake asked, confused.

  "I'd rather not discuss it over the—"

  Jake's frustration boiled over. "Damn it, Richard, nobody wants to discuss this thing. Every time I try to bring up details, they cut me off. I haven't been able to tell anyone what really happened!" Lowering his voice, he looked toward the bedroom. "I haven't even told Sandy."

  Richard ignored Jake's rant. "You're meeting me in DC tonight."

  What the hell? How can Richard be involved in this? After an extended pause, Jake said, "Okay."

  "I'll tell you more tonight. You're booked on a noon flight out of McCarran. An e-ticket is waiting for you at the United counter."

  "Okay, Richard," Jake said. His mind reeled. "I'll … see you tonight."

  "Good, tell the lovely and talented Captain Fitzpatrick hello for me. And, tell her she's still the second best fighter pilot I know."

  "You bet," Jake said. He grinned in spite of the confusion. "It's quite chivalrous of you to place yourself third."

  "In your dreams, buddy," Richard said through a laugh.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sandy woke to the sound of Jake's voice in the living room. Heard from across the apartment and spoken in subdued tones, the words were indecipherable. Near the end, his voice rose, and she even heard laughter. The conversation had ended before she deduced Richard, their flight school classmate, had been on the other end of the line.

  Jake was so distracted when he returned to the room, he didn't notice she was awake.

  Sandy studied his face. Gone were last night's uncharacteristic stress-lines and baggy eyes. Either a night's rest or news from Richard had washed it away. However, she saw something new in his face, an underlying look of confusion.

  He climbed back under the covers.

  "Who was that?" she asked.

  Jake twitched as her voice broke through his apparent trance. "Richard," he answered after a brief pause. His tone was distracted. Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling.

  His change in demeanor concerned her. "Is everything all right? How's his leg?"

  "He's … fine. His leg is better." Jake raised his eyebrows. "Actually, he's back on flight status."

  "That's great!" Sandy said. Her head on his left shoulder, she rested her left arm across his chest. "What's wrong?"

  Jake fell into an uncomfortable silence. After a while, he planted a kiss on her forehead. "I need another hour of sleep."

  Still lying on her right side, she lifted her head and touched his cheek with her left hand. "Okay, baby."

  The questions running through Sandy's mind must've paraded across her face. Jake smiled, a resolved expression chasing away his distracted look. "I'm sorry I've been so mysterious. Let's get some more sleep, then I'll tell you all about it."

  Sandy stared into his eyes. After a moment, she pinched his nose. "You better, mister." She kissed his cheek and rolled onto her back. "Now, get some sleep."

  He smiled. "Yes, ma'am." After setting an alarm on his phone, he placed it on the nightstand. Laying his head back on the pillow, Jake closed his eyes.

  After a few moments, rhythmic breathing told Sandy he'd fallen back to sleep. He'd always been able to do that. Jake fell asleep with ease, a fact that often annoyed her. Sandy regularly took an hour or more to find it.

  Being careful not to wake him, she rolled back on her right side to study his face. Even asleep, the underlying confusion she'd glimpsed earlier still furrowed his brow. Looking at him, she remembered the first time they'd met.

  She'd thought Jake was an asshole. He and his best friend Richard were cocky to the point of annoyance. While Richard had, in fact, proven to be an arrogant, impatient asshole, she'd grown to love them both.

  While Jake and Richard had attended the Air Force Academy together, Sandy, a Stanford grad, had recently completed officer candidate school. All three were freshly commissioned second-lieutenants, the Air Force's entry-level officer rank.

  The first time she saw them was at Air Force flight school indoctrination. The two were loud and obnoxious, so involved in their antics, they scarcely noticed nor acknowledged their fellow classmates.

  While Jake's short dark hair and angular features attracted her attention, she quickly tired of their antics.

  Later that evening, she saw them again, this time in the officers' club. Seeing Sandy in civilian clothes and not having recognized her, they had assumed she was an officers' club waitress.

  While Richard was slightly taller than Jake, his abrasive impatient de
meanor left Sandy unimpressed. He immediately began flirting, bragging about being in flight school and how he was "certain to go straight into fighters."

  Sandy had played along, to a point.

  After a moment of boasting, Richard asked her to be a good "bar wench" and get them a couple of beers.

  She went to the bar. On Jake and Richard's tab, Sandy bought herself the most expensive drink listed. Placing it and their two beers on a round cork-lined plastic tray, she walked back to their table. Sandy handed Jake his beer and set hers on the table. As they stared in confusion at the expensive umbrella-clad cocktail, she allowed the unbalanced tray, and the single beer it held, to fall into Richard's lap.

  Richard scrambled and cussed.

  In mock horror, Sandy placed a hand over her mouth. "Oops, I guess my center of gravity calculation was off, but what's a lowly bar wench know about calculating weight, arm, and moment anyway?"

  Hearing her appropriate use of arcane aviation vernacular, both men stared mouths agape. While Richard's face only showed surprise and a particular level of distrust, Jake's flashed with recognition. He grinned and said, "Sandra Fitzpatrick."

  Sandy decided she might like this one.

  After the initial friction, they had spent the rest of the night drinking, laughing, and swapping life stories.

  Inseparable throughout flight training, they maintained their friendship in spite of the fierce competition created when the trio shot to the top of their class. Week by week they exchanged places, each occupied the number one position for varying lengths of time. In the end, Sandy was the Distinguished Honor Graduate. Jake and Richard had finished second and third respectively—a fact Sandy believed still offended Richard's self-important inner asshole.

  All three went directly into fighters. It was during their F-16 fighter transition training that her and Jake's relationship had grown beyond the bounds of mere friendship.

  ***

  The hurt in Sandy's eyes tore at Jake's heart.

  "Why didn't you tell me about this last night?" she said.

  After catching another hour of sleep, he'd thrown an overnight bag on the bed and jumped into the shower. When she asked what he was packing for, he'd struggled with what to say. Finally, with no other outlet for his pain, misery, and confusion, he had told Sandy the whole story.

  Instead of the expected look of disbelief, her face was a mixture of hurt, confusion, and sympathy.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" she repeated. "You shouldn't be going through this alone. I'm no wallflower, Captain Giard. I'd like to think I'm more than a girlfriend." She stepped to him. Placing her left hand on his arm, Sandy caressed the back of his neck with her right. Her deep blue eyes gazed into his. "I'm supposed to be the shoulder you can lean on."

  "Sorry, baby," Jake said. He crowned his eyebrows in his best puppy dog face. "I just wanted to keep my left nut … and our first born," he said, jokingly referring to the confidentiality agreement he'd signed. He over emphasized the last part hoping to make her laugh.

  To his relief, a coy expression replaced the hurt look. "Don't start making assumptions, Captain Giard—on either account. I believe I own said property, regardless of the bachelor machinations manifest in your interior design, or lack thereof," she said casting a meaningful look at the apartment's sparse decorations and scattered sporting equipment. "And, as to part two of your assertion, you'll need to append a hyphen to my name long before I'll allow said property to facilitate such outcomes."

  Jake stared into her eyes for a moment. Knowing Sandy was giving him a pass, he fell another day deeper in love with her. Squeezing the hand she'd placed on his arm he stepped to the overnight bag. "Captain Fitzpatrick, I believe you missed your calling, you most certainly should have been a lawyer."

  "Pshaw," she scoffed. "I'm the best fighter pilot you know." Laying out his formal dark blue uniform, she adjusted the rows of combat ribbons crowding the area between his aviator wings and the jacket's top left breast pocket. Finishing she stood and faced him with a knowing look. "Nice diversion, by the way."

  Jake nodded, a sheepish grin on his face. Kicking off his shoes and hopping on one foot, he none-to-gracefully changed pants. "Guess I didn't want you to think I'd lost it," he said catching his balance and looking into her beautiful eyes.

  Smiling, she playfully slugged him on the shoulder. "Next time you run into an alien ship you better let me know, mister."

  He hugged her. "Yes, ma'am, but I didn't say it was alien. It could be some top-secret technology. For all I know, it could've been an Air Force ship. Hopefully, Richard has some answers for me."

  "If he doesn't, you're going to have to elevate this, Jake."

  Surprised to hear her echoing the thought hovering in the back of his mind since waking, he gave her a questioning look.

  She shrugged her shoulders. "They can't ask you to cover up an Air Force pilot's death. I don't care what they had you sign. It's not a lawful order. It'll be your duty, hell, it'll be my duty as well, to report this to the Judge Advocate General."

  Jake nodded. "I've been thinking the same thing. I'll be damned if I'm going to let them bury this, but I trust Richard. So, I'll give them two days to make it right. If they haven't done anything about it by the time I get back, I'll go to the JAG myself."

  She nodded. "If it comes to that, I'll go with you."

  Jake placed a finger under Sandy's chin. Tilting her face up, he kissed her.

  She leaned back, looking at him with her left eyebrow cocked. "You'll be back in two days, right?"

  "Two days," Jake promised. "There's not much under the sun that could keep me away even that long."

  Running fingers through his short brown hair, Sandy looked at him, her penetrating blue eyes peering into his soul. After a long stare, she pushed him away. "Come on, Captain, you have a plane to catch."

  She picked up his packed overnight bag and moved it to the front door.

  Jake finished dressing. Inspecting his uniform in the mirror, he locked eyes with Sandy's reflection. "I love you, lady."

  "I love you more," she said with a smile.

  They headed toward the front door. Sandy bent over to pick up the overnight bag.

  Admiring her form, Jake grinned. He loved the way the flightsuit conformed to her perfect contours. "You keep doing that, and we'll never get out of here."

  "Well then, by all means," Sandy said. She bent again, casting a devilish grin over her shoulder.

  Jake laughed. She always knew how to make him smile. He spanked her playfully and took the bag. "That's my job."

  "Yessir!" Giving a playful salute, she opened the door for him. "Age before beauty."

  Chuckling, he stepped outside. Seeing the unmarked dark government sedan still in the parking lot, ominous with its black windows and matching plain black rims, Jake stopped laughing. Shaking his head, he gestured toward the Crown Vic as he walked to the back of his red Corvette. "I'm really over all this cloak and dagger bullshit."

  Sandy cast a wary glance at the car. "They'll probably follow us to the airport," she said.

  "Probably," Jake agreed. Popping the rear hatch, he threw in the overnight bag.

  Opening the driver's door, Sandy grabbed the key FOB from him. "I'll drop you off."

  He stopped, mouth agape in mock exasperation. "First you try to carry my bag, then you open the door for me, and now you want to drive. You're killing my chivalry, you know."

  "Told you I'll never be a wall flower, baby. You better keep up," Sandy said as she slid into the Vette's seat and started the engine.

  Jake shook his head in feigned exasperation. Walking to the passenger side, he watched the sedan's occupant watching him.

  ***

  Pulling the Corvette to the terminal's curb, Sandy looked at Jake with a smile. "Tell our old flight school buddy hello for me. He's still the third best fighter pilot I know."

  "You two!" Jake laughed and shook his head.

  "Be careful, Jake. I love you."
/>   "I will. You be careful too. I'll call you when I get settled in DC. If anything comes up, call me."

  "Yessir," Sandy said with a smile and another salute.

  Walking around to her side of the car, he grabbed the bags from behind the seat. Pausing next to her, he ran a hand across the car's gleaming surface, then patted the top of the driver's door. "Take care of my baby while I'm gone," he said with a wink.

  "I will, and I'll take good care of your car too," she said with a smile.

  "See you in a couple of days, beautiful." After a passionate kiss, he turned and walked toward the doorway. Crossing the curb, he saw the government sedan pull into the drop-off zone a few car lengths behind the Vette.

  Jake pointed to the unwelcome visitor. "You were right."

  Sandy studied the Corvette's rearview mirror. Spotting the dark Crown Vic, she grinned. In typical Sandy fashion, she raised her arm through the car's open roof and extended her middle finger, giving their unwelcome visitor the bird.

  "Have I told you lately how much I love you?" he said, laughing.

  The one-finger salute shifted toward Jake and then morphed into a beauty-pageant hand wave. Sandy winked at him. "Hurry home, Captain Giard."

  ***

  Northbound on Interstate Fifteen, Sandy headed back into town. Apparently only interested in the comings and goings of Jake, the government tail had not followed her beyond the airport.

  She passed the iconic black pyramid of the Luxor Hotel and Casino. Behind it, heat waves shimmered above the main east-west runway of McCarran Airport. In the bright blue sky over the dark triangular building, a single-engine Cessna 150 lumbered into the atmosphere. Having just departed, the airplane probably had a student pilot behind the controls.

  That reminded Sandy of her father. She'd been a daddy's girl from day one. He always professed to want a son. However, she'd been such a tomboy—more interested in frogs and mud pies than Barbies and unicorns—her parents had never tried to have a second child, boy or girl.

  Growing up as an only child, Sandy was fiercely independent. In military flight school, she'd learned greater than sixty percent of all Air Force pilot trainees were either an only child or first born. Less than a fifth were their family's youngest sibling. But, Sandy credited her love of aviation to her father more than her birth status.