User Guide

“I agree. The Maxima Card is immoral.
You could feed all of Latin America with
one of those rich man’s toys.”
All the pilots are placed on final
standby. Launch is at 0800.
0754 Hours
All the Wildcats are lined up beside
their planes when Mr. Petrie is escorted
onto the strip. He glances around
nervously, flashing strained smiles in all
directions, turning his helmet over and
over in his hands, looking like a man on
the way to the dentist, although certainly
this particular extraction will be much
more painful. He is shaking so badly as
he climbs into the Falcon trainer (a two-
seater), several Wildcats stand beneath
him ready to catch him if he slips.
Schraeder buckles him in, then climbs
into the front cockpit. Petrie’s sweating
face is engulfed by the helmet as he slips
it on. I imagine he’s grateful to have the
helmet hide his anxiety from the world. I
know I am.
I’m sitting in a second trainer, going up
with “Prime Time” Parker. They permit me
to tag along as an observer because I’ve
had experience in offensive ground ops,
and also because SUDDEN DEATH paid
dearly for the privilege. I’m damn scared.
I’m not a pilot, and I’ve never flown in a
jet before.
“Gonna be a bumpy ride,” says Prime
Time, smiling cheerfully as he climbs into
the cockpit in front of me. “But I’ll try not
to pull more than six Gs.”
“I appreciate that.” I’m going to black
out. I’m going to throw up in my mask
and drown in my own vomit. I know it.
Prime Time knows it. That’s why he’s so
damn cheerful, the sadistic bastard. Of
course, assuming I hold on to conscious-
ness, I’ll be expected to hold my own
against Guillaume’s ground troops once
we land. And then there’s the flight out.
Yes indeed. It’s beginning to look like
one of those days.
0930 Hours
It’s been a smooth ride until now.
Parker, following his wingleader’s
example, descends until it seems we’re
just barely skimming the waves of the
Aegean. In this way, the Wildcats hope to
avoid Guillaume’s radar as long as
possible.
0943 Hours
About 75 miles out from the island,
we encounter the first wave of enemy
resistance. Prime Time initiates a rapid
climb, the tone that warns of a positive
missile lock piercing the white noise of
the cockpit. I can’t even see the damned
thing that’s trying to kill me. I’d feel better
if I could. At least, I think so.
0946 Hours
I see it coming. I don’t feel any better.
The chatter over the radio is calm. I am
anything but. The thing is radar-guided.
Prime Time waits until the proper
moment, releases chaff and veers off,
hitting the afterburners. I see the missile
explode harmlessly behind us —
1010 Hours
Dogfighting, close and personal. Long-
range missiles are too expensive for most
private squadrons, so the majority of
dogfights on the mercenary level consist
of guns, Sidewinders and other short-
range missiles. The battle around me
seems abstract, a jockeying for position;
the soothing, even drone of white noise
punctuated now and then by a message,
or a control tone, or the faint rattle of
gunfire. Every once in a while, an enemy
SUDDEN DEATH •
July 2011
19
War at sea “Wildcat style”