by Jeff Miller
A groan rippled through the room.
“What do you mean? You’re not taking anybody?” Trevor growled. “You promised we’d have a chance!”
“Easy there, Grunsten. I didn’t say that,” Jones reassured him. “Actually, it’s the opposite.”
Neil was intrigued. Opposite?
“Next to all our trained pilots who attempted the simulator, you twelve had the best scores—by nearly double. And these are Navy and Air Force pilots with thousands of hours of logged flying,” Jones said. “Needless to say, we were impressed. And to be frank, surprised.”
“Excuse me, Frank?” asked Biggs, raising his hand. “Does this mean—” But Jones cut him off.
“So instead of just taking one Chameleon, we’ll be taking the three that we have. This mission is going to be more intense than we anticipated and we could use the extra manpower. My right- and left-hand men here will be joining us,” he said, pointing to Wells and Lopez.
“You’ll receive the full mission briefing in one hour, but for now, I’d like to announce the three of you who will be flying as lead pilots on the mission.
“First, Trevor Grunsten, who tied for the best score in the simulation as well as winning his heat on the Decider.”
Neil rolled his eyes as Trevor stood up, applauding himself loudly.
“Jo-yung Phe.” JP nodded in acknowledgment. “And finally . . .”
Neil leaned forward, anxious to hear his name.
“Corinne Adams.”
Neil felt the blood rush down to his knees. He wouldn’t be piloting one of the Chameleons after all. He dropped his head, doing his best to hide his disappointment.
“I’ll announce copilots and auxiliary seats after the briefing. See you in an hour, recruits,” the major concluded. He paused, as if weighing his next words, then sighed heavily.
“Welcome to the Air Force, kids. We’re counting on you.”
AN HOUR LATER, NEIL STEPPED INTO THE HANGAR NOW abuzz with preflight preparations. Cables for fuel and diagnostics snaked their way across the concrete floor to three sleek fighter jets. The giant room echoed with noise as orders were clarified and lists were double-checked.
Three flight technicians were working double time to have the jets ready for takeoff within the hour. Neil and his new friends did their best to skirt the frantic engineers, not wanting to get in the way of any vital preparation. Neil was fascinated by the speed and precision with which they handled such important machinery. Since everything was so top secret, only these three mechanics knew what needed to be done, and none of them wasted a single movement. The sounds of hydraulic pumps, like the tools used in race-car pits, rang out from all directions.
Neil didn’t want to peel his eyes away for one minute, but he snapped to attention when he heard Jones’s gruff voice behind him. He watched the major wait to address his new recruits, his lower right lip bulging with sunflower seeds. Jones was wearing the same camouflage flight jumpsuit as the recruits, but while they looked scrawny, the major seemed somehow bigger than Neil remembered.
“Well, this looks like everyone,” Jones remarked as he glanced past Neil. Neil pivoted around to see Biggs and the remaining recruits scurrying into the cavernous metal hangar.
Jones brought his thumb and forefinger up to his mouth and whistled, loudly. It was the kind of up, then down, and back up again whistle that Neil had heard fathers do at Janey’s karate tournaments.
Neil thought back to a few months ago, when he’d stared into a mirror for fifty-seven straight minutes in an attempt to re-create such a whistle. His only success had been to produce an alarming amount of slobber.
“Okay, recruits, this is it,” Jones began. “In addition to the lead pilots and the copilots, who I will announce momentarily, there will be two more of you flying in each Chameleon as auxiliary, err, backup pilots. Listen up for your name.” He took out his list. “Andertol”—Neil was surprised to hear his own name called first—“you’ll be copilot supporting . . . Grunsten.”
You’ve got to be kidding me, Neil thought as he turned his head away from the weaselly smile spreading across Trevor’s face. It almost wasn’t worth being a copilot if he had to fly with Trevor. Sam patted him on the shoulder, and he took a deep breath.
As Jones went on reading the list of the rest of the copilots, and the auxiliaries who would be helping with the invisibility and radar technology, Neil brightened up when he heard he’d be flying with Biggs. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He wanted to whisper a joke, but he worried that Jones might hear. And he doubted Jones would think it was funny.
“Okay, everybody,” Jones said, folding the list and placing it in his pocket. “Know which plane you’re in? Good. I’ll keep this short and sweet. This is a simple recovery mission for a missing Chameleon fighter and the two soldiers flying it.”
Neil kept an eye on the sunflower seeds still curled away in Jones’s lip. So far, he hadn’t seen him spit out any shells. He wondered if Jones was swallowing them, and if they had some kind of years-long digestion process, like chewing gum.
“From here on out, the three of us are in charge,” Jones barked, gesturing to Lopez and Wells. “While these things normally only fit four, we’ll be riding in the emergency jump seat. We wanted to bring an extra recruit in each craft to serve as pilot for the return if our soldiers are unable to operate the missing fighter. Once the missing Chameleon is recovered, we’ll have one of the copilots on standby to fly it home, if necessary.”
Neil knew right away that he wanted to be that pilot.
“You will each report to your assigned soldier, and they will both report to me. Now, before we set out for the missing plane, we will be making a stop at the USS Martin Van Buren. It’s an aircraft carrier in the Pacific about ninety clicks west and a few more south,” Jones continued. “That will give you a chance to get a feel for the aircraft, and maybe even let our copilots take a spin at it. From there, our mission starts.
“Corinne, your team is with Lopez. JP, you’re with Wells. Grunsten, you’re with me. That means you’re flying lead in formation.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Trevor said with an excited nod. Neil felt his heart start beating at double speed. He was flying in the lead plane—which might just mean he had the best chance of piloting the missing plane once they’d found it.
“Now, cadets, I want to make one thing clear. While you all learned these skills from a game . . . this,” Jones said, pointing to the nearest Chameleon, “this is not a game. There are no more restarts. Game over means game over. But if you’re like me, that’s the way you like it. So, you ready?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” everyone yelled, somewhat together this time.
Neil grabbed his in-flight jumpsuit out of a pile and pulled it over his regulation canvas pants and plain gray shirt. It was like an ill-fitting beige cocoon—but a very official-looking one. Tying his shoes, Neil looked up at the metal staircase firmly planted in front of the jet he’d be copiloting. It was a long way up.
All at once, the cockpit on each jet slid open, and Neil and the others warily climbed up into their fighters.
The interior looked exactly as it did in Chameleon. Unlike in standard military jets, the cockpit seated the pilots next to each other rather than in front of each other. A console of controls was situated between the pilot and the copilot, and the seats were facing a sprawling dashboard of HD displays and various buttons. The backs of the seats were pressed to the backs of those for the two auxiliary pilots, causing them to face in the other direction out the rear of the jet.
Neil shimmied past Trevor’s pilot seat and sank into his own. He put his hands up as the flight technician fastened him into his seat, firmly securing a safety harness that covered both shoulders. A helmet with a sliding shaded visor was handed to him, with a mouthpiece to be snapped on during flight for communication and oxygen flow.
“So how’s this invisibility stuff work, anyway?” Neil asked.
“Scales,” said the flight
technician. He wore a jumpsuit similar to Neil’s, a pencil haphazardly shoved into his thick, springy hair.
“Scales?” Neil asked.
“Like a chameleon. An actual chameleon,” replied the soldier, making sure Neil’s in-flight mask was working properly. Seeing Neil’s confusion, he went on. “In nature, chameleons have scales made up of chromatophores, things that kind of store colors in little vesicles. These change color when signaled to do so. Our invisibility works the same way. There are millions of microscopic scales that cover the aircraft, and they all help bend the light hitting the entirety of the plane, even on the glass of the cockpit. From any angle, you can see only a perfect re-creation of the ship’s outer environment.”
“Whoa, cool,” Neil said.
“Future is now, kid.” In his grip, the flight technician held a shiny white tablet. He whisked through pages of electronic information until he found the one he was after.
“If you could, press your hand here,” he said, tilting the cool glass rectangle toward Neil. Neil touched the screen and watched as a line scrolled from top to bottom, tracing every detail of his hand.
“Now whenever you need to get in, just place your hand on any part of the craft. The cockpit will slide right open, even if it’s invisible,” the soldier explained. “This works for any of the Chameleons. Once you’re in the system, any of them will open for you.”
He patted Neil on the top of his helmet and the side of the fighter twice before he disappeared out of sight. Neil secured his helmet and radioed to Sam.
“ManofNeil to ShooterSam . . . Samantha. Miss Shooter Samantha,” Neil fumbled.
“Neil, it’s just me, Sam.”
As Neil searched for something to say to Sam, Trevor labored into his seat, his eyes focusing on the controls in front of him.
“What’s up, compadres?” chirped Biggs, who was stepping on board. He slapped Neil and Trevor on the back and settled into his seat behind Trevor. “This thing got cup holders?”
“My lords,” said Riley, following Biggs onto the plane.
As Biggs and the others proceeded with safety checks and the palm scan, Jones walked up the stairs and poked his head into the doorway of the aircraft. In the cramped space, he moved with the finesse and grace of a recently injured rhinoceros.
“Recruits,” he grunted.
“We look forward to soaring in this iron-forged, bird-less carriage with you, Our Jones,” said Riley. Jones craned his neck and cupped his hand around his right ear.
“What was that? You all should speak toward my left side. Have a bit of trouble hearing outta this ear,” Jones explained.
“’Tis nothing of import,” Riley said sheepishly.
Trevor, Neil, Riley, and Biggs all watched as Jones struggled to squeeze into his emergency jump seat at the back of the plane. Neil felt suddenly grateful that he wasn’t in Biggs’s or Riley’s seat. They would have to spend the entire flight looking directly at Jones.
“Okay,” Jones said into his radio mouthpiece after the cockpit door was sealed shut. “Let’s fly.”
Neil couldn’t have agreed more.
As the towering metal doors of the hangars clanked open, the three fighter jets rolled out onto the runway. Neil’s eyes followed the painted directional lines on the runway below. Soldiers directed traffic with illuminated orange wands, their arms rhythmically turning like human windmills.
Chameleons were designed not to need a long runway for a smooth takeoff. The directional thrusters below the cockpit let the fighters hover almost straight up, allowing for quick and nearly silent ascents and descents. Even though Neil knew they didn’t need the room, he still felt his stomach twisting in knots as they approached the beginning of the tarmac.
“This is Chameleon Alpha, requesting permission for takeoff,” Jones said over his communication system.
“You are cleared for takeoff, Alpha team,” replied a voice from the flight deck.
Without needing any more encouragement, Trevor fired the thrusters below, and the jet rose with a surge into the air. They had liftoff.
THE JET TORE THROUGH THE CLOUDS AS IF THEY WERE THE computer-simulated clouds Neil was used to facing, leaving only a blue frontier in all directions.
As Neil eyed his jet’s rapidly rising altimeter, the blood in his temples pounded and he thought back to a night, months earlier, when he’d suddenly grown frustrated with online gaming. He’d stayed up into the wee hours of the morning researching the actual experience of flight so he could know what it felt like to pilot a real fighter jet. That night, Neil spent hours watching online videos, studying flight maps, and reading blog posts of former pilots. The next day, he’d gone back to gaming, feeling more like an actual pilot, having a better idea of the reality of the game he was playing.
How wrong he’d been. Nothing, none of those videos or blog entries, really prepared him for how cool the real thing felt. It was better than he could have ever imagined.
Suddenly, the jet fighter shot up at a steeper angle than Neil thought possible.
“Whoa.” Neil held on to the controls in front of him, his stomach dropping to his knees. Maybe having a barf bag around would have been a good idea.
“Increase the thrust, copilot,” instructed Trevor. “We’ll climb up in altitude and look to roll right.”
“I know,” Neil said, catching his breath. Neil wasn’t thrilled to be taking orders from Trevor, but he felt like he had no choice. He grabbed the grooved metallic control in the thin console between the pilots.
Their jet leveled while capping hundreds of miles per hour, and Neil was surprised to feel nearly motionless. And yet he sensed, too, that the plane could go faster still. It was being held back, like a boat engine stuck in seaweed, its propellers lurching to break free. It was time to put the pedal to the metal. Or a joystick to the sky.
“Recruits,” Jones said over the radio to everyone, “I want to run through terms quickly, just so you’re familiar. To fly up, it’s—”
“Pitch. We know,” Trevor said.
“And yaw. What I mean by yaw is—”
“Left, right,” said the duo of Dale and Waffles over the radio.
“Side to side,” added JP.
“We have the internet. You’d be shocked at how much we know,” said Neil. The group laughed.
“Well, can the internet teach you what the battlefield really looks like? How it feels to fly a jet engine? Or break the sound barrier? The smell of freedom from a hard-fought victory?”
“Wait, you’ve got that scent? Are you sandbaggin’ me on that smell, Mr. Jones?” Biggs barged in.
“Hurbigg, it’s Major Jones. Were you raised by wolves or something?”
“It was only a week, and I’d rather not talk about it.”
Meanwhile, Trevor straightened his back and tightened his grip on the controls.
“So you don’t think we can fly, Jonesy? Copilot, ready the afterburners,” Trevor said.
Trevor kept the fighter aimed forward but suddenly had Neil throttle back.
“What are you doing?” Neil asked as he eased on the speed of their craft. In the same motion, Trevor rolled right and aimed the nose of the plane down. The fighter dived toward the brown rocky landscape dead ahead.
From hours of virtual piloting, Neil now realized Trevor was trying a split S. It was tricky—the plane dived down and turned, then turned again to accelerate in another direction. When the move was performed correctly, the plane made a swooping S shape, exiting the maneuver going either directly left, right, or opposite from where it started.
“Grunsten, watch your—” Jones began, but stopped as the g-force suddenly pushed down on everyone. Neil felt as if a huge person, a sumo wrestler maybe, was sitting right on top of him. But even as he gritted his teeth at the feeling of being smushed, he couldn’t help noticing how flawless and precise Trevor was. As the plane moved smoothly out of the roll, Neil punched the throttle.
“Woo!” Trevor yelled, and even Neil joined in
.
“That was awesome,” Neil agreed, unleashing the afterburners as their craft rocketed forward, like being fired from a slingshot.
“In my three decades of service, I’ve never seen a pilot do that without hundreds or thousands of flight hours logged,” an impressed Jones said over his headset. “I’d be furious if you hadn’t done it perfectly.” Trevor smiled. “But let’s hand the controls over to copilots, quickly. They need to get a feel for the planes, too, just in case.”
Trevor’s smirk faded as his hands reluctantly moved from the controls to the throttle.
Neil confidently reached for the joystick in front of his seat. It felt like second nature, like riding a bike after a long winter spent indoors. Except this bike doesn’t have giant orange safety flags attached to the back. Neil’s mother was aggressive about bike safety.
“You need to try to feel your aircraft,” Jones encouraged. “You need to become a part of it.”
This stuck with Neil. As he effortlessly cut through the air, he felt as if the fighter jet was an extension of himself, as if he simply had to think what he wanted it to do and then it would happen.
On the interactive visors on everyone’s helmets, coordinates of the aircraft carrier began to flash in vivid detail. The distance to the carrier was calculated and shown beneath. The Chameleons had sped past the coastline and were now out over the churning currents of endless sea.
“Copilots, we’ll be approaching our first destination, the USS Martin Van Buren,” said Jones. A three-dimensional satellite image of a massive aircraft carrier came into the center of each display. Planes and complicated weaponry dotted the floating runway. It turned slowly, tiny soldiers moving around on its deck.
“What’s on all their faces?” asked Biggs. Neil toggled the controls on the joystick in front of him to zoom in. He saw what Biggs was talking about. On either side of the soldiers’ faces, it looked as if some kind of furry wildlife had recently died there.
“Oh, the chops.” Jones groaned, as if the question came up frequently. “Well, as per military rules, soldiers aren’t allowed facial hair. But there’s the name loophole.”
