Strike Eagle by Doug Beason

run—the adrenaline still pounded through his veins, making him feel as if he had to burn off energy. He went to intercom only.
    “Foggy, any traffic around?”
    Charlie sounded skeptical. “You’re clear, Assassin. What you up to?”
    “Let’s get in a little sightseeing, then hit the blower to catch up.” Bruce nosed the F-15 back down. They descended, moving down in altitude until they approached two hundred feet. The ground below them whizzed past as Bruce kept the throttles steady at five hundred knots.
    He nosed the craft down until they were just at one hundred fifty feet. The tree tops looked like solid ground at this speed. Bruce hit the speed brakes and pulled back on the throttles, slowing the craft. They broke over the clearing; the next patch was at least three miles away. Bruce forced the fighter even lower, until they were a mere twenty-five feet above the ground.
    “Yeowww!” An old song roared through his mind: “I Go to Extremes.”
    “Fantail, Assassin. You’ve got a nice one.”
    Bruce looked over his shoulder. Dirt swirled in two “fantails” as the F-15’s exhaust hit the ground. He turned back to the front. Flying so close to the ground was as exhilarating as diving toward it. They had about another mile until the jungle—time to pull up.
    That’s when he spotted the people on the ground.
    Two hundred yards in front of him three people, all wearing coolie hats, looked up at the oncoming jet. They must have been working in the field; one of them carrying a bucket pointed at the fighter.
    “Oh crap!” Bruce slammed the stick back; as the nose lifted, the aircraft was moving slowly enough that it felt like they were going to stall. An alarm shrieked throughout the craft, warning of an excessively high angle of attack.
    “Stall, stall!” screamed Charlie.
    Bruce shoved the throttles forward, hitting his afterburners. The fighter seemed to vault forward as they accelerated straight up. He swiveled his head around. Through the dust, he saw hats and buckets flying everywhere; there was no sign of the people. He must have pulled the fighter up right over the poor farmers.
    He punched off the afterburners and arched the craft over in a loop, flying back over the field but at a thousand feet higher than before.
    Charlie came over the intercom quietly. “What the hell was that, Assassin? You trying to kill us?”
    Bruce banked the F-15 toward the rendezvous point. He could barely make out three people down below, shaking their fists at the fighter.
    “Just seeing what this baby can do,” answered Bruce, trying to sound flippant. Inside he felt like crap.
    And that was before the debrief, where, just like years ago at the Academy with Cadet First Class Ping, he knew he was going to eat shit.
    Clark AB
    Located on the north side of the base, the Officers’ Club sat between the senior and junior officers’ housing. Dyess Highway looped around the north side, past the Officers’ Club and down to the flight line. More than once, flight crews dining at the “O’Club” had to sprint up from their tables when an alert broke out.
    Young and old alike used the club extensively. The younger, and mostly unmarried, pilots frequented the Rathskeller; the married officers tended to congregate in the formal bar and dining rooms.
    The pool was a middle ground for both, and as such was a “demilitarized zone” between stuffy formality and wild parties.
    Captain Charlie Fargassa relaxed in the sun. A thick book lay open on his chest. His eyes were closed, and the water from a plunge into the pool some minutes before had evaporated from his body. As he drifted in and out of sleep, for the first time since arriving in the P.I. he felt that he was in paradise.
    The early afternoon sun purged this morning’s flight from his mind. He normally had the utmost confidence in Bruce’s flying ability. The guy was good; his problem was that he knew it.
    Charlie dismissed the observation—there he was, letting