Captain Matthew Hunter took a look down the length of the C-17 and wondered what twist of fate had brought him here. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he was an Engineer working on penetrating stealth for Texas Instruments in Austin, Texas. In addition to that, however, he has also been a member of the Texas Air National Guard for the last four years, flying F-16s out of San Antonio, Texas. One weekend a month, he would make the hour trip down to San Antonio, cruise around playfully in the South Texas sun for a while, and go home the next day. That was until he was federalized by Presidential Order. Now, here he sits with several hundred infantrymen, bound for Europe. Well, at least I'm not going to be looking down the barrel of some idiots AKM, he thought.

Matt arrived at NATO Headquarters and strode in purposefully. This should be a quite easy assignment, just help plan NATO air operations. No problem, GI. He strode over to the

Personnel office and found the receptionist.

"Hallo. Ich bin Captain Matthew Hunter, United States Air Force. Sprecht du English?"

"Your accent is horrendous," She laughed, "What can I do for you?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Hi, my CO back in the States said I should report here for my orders. Something about staff duty," Matt groaned.

"All right, let me look . . . May I see your ID? Thanks . . . Captain Matthew Hunter, Serial Number 561-16-9805?"

"That's me."

"This says you're to be an air liaison officer with the U.S. 160th Mechanized Brigade in Norway."

"That . . . That can't be right. My CO said specifically that I was to be working Air Operations . . . "

"Well, you know Personnel officers. Let me check with one of the guys. I'll be back." With that she swept away.

Hmm . . . She's not bad looking. Hey . . . Stop That! You're a thirty three year old man. . . . You've got to have at least six years on her. Oh, oh . . . Here she comes . . . she

"OK, I talked to one of the guys. They said that the officer who was supposed to be the liaison officer just put into the hospital for an ulcer. I'm afraid you're it."

An HMMWV appeared before Matt. An Army colonel popped out. "Welcome to the 160th Mech Brigade, Captain Hunter. I'm Colonel Chad Roberts, Brigade XO." Chad beamed brightly.

"Thank you, sir. It's a pleasure to be here." Hunter returned the smile.

"Cut the crap, Captain. I don't think either of us want to be here." Roberts chuckled loudly.

Matt laughed. I think I like this guy, "You got that one right. I'm a Guardsman. I just play with computers in real life." Matt lied.

"Really? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Frankly, sir, I have no idea."

"Well, let me introduce you to your troops, give you your APC, and let you get to work."

They arrived shortly thereafter at the brigade headquarters in the field. From Colonel Roberts' descriptions, Matt had discovered that the 160th was the prepositioned brigade in Norway. The equipment was already in country, so the only thing that had to arrive to get the unit operational was the men. They had arrived a week ago, but not all of the positions had been

filled.

"Hello, I'm Lt Col. Patricia Mermelson, Brigade Assistant S-3. The S-3 hasn't arrived yet, so for now I'm running operations. I assume that you are Captain Hunter, Air Force

Reserves."

"Close, ma'am. National Guard." Matt smiled.

She ignored it. "Well, Captain, you've worked in a liaison position before, right?"

"No, ma'am. First time."

Her eyes grew by orders of magnitude. Wow, those are really blue. Cut that out Matt! Hitting on one of your superiors isn't in the book. ANYBODY'S book. "What? We're going to war tomorrow, and I've got a wing-wiper who probably has never seen a howitzer. You're going to have to learn fast."

"Yes, ma'am."

For the rest of the day, Matt took a tour and get-acquainted run from US Army Staff Sergeant Thomas Jackson, his NCO. Matt had learned long ago to listen to a good sergeant, and Sergeant Jackson was as good as they come.

"Well, Tom, I spent most of my active life in the F-15E," Matt didn't mention the F-117, "and the Guard in the -16. Come to think of it, I pretty much specialized in air-to-mud warfare.

But I've flown everything else, at least in the simulators."

"That's really good, sir, then you should know the capabilities of the aircraft you're calling for. A lot of the officers we see have never flown in their lives and don't know a damn thing about them." He paused. "Out at NTC" he referred to the National Training Center, an Army playground "I saw a wing-weenie order an A-10 to take on a flight of Fulcrums. One of the fastest shoot downs in history. Good thing it was just training. The damnedest thing was, the 'Hog actually got two of the Migs."

"No doubt. But what a thing to see." Captain Hunter, smiled brightly. He didn't reveal the fact that he heard that one before, and knew the Hog driver. Who am I to betray a confidence? And the A-10 squadron commander throwing a party? The best pilots from the former East German Air Force. Simply disgraceful, . . . Such as life, though. "I only wish I

could have been there."

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am Colonel Montgomery, Brigade S-2." Intelligence Officer. What a weenie. "Last night was a busy one for the enemy troops. The whole opposing Army Group has moved into offensive positions. We expect the attack in the next six to twenty-four hours. By now," He checked his watch, "the scouts have probably started moving. Front-line, in our sector, is the 39th Guards Shock Army, in standard two abreast, one behind formation. Even more ominous, however, is that all of the Air Assault Brigades attached to each Army, has been regrouped in their rear. This gives them a full five air assault brigades that they have merged into one huge Unified Air Assault Corps. In addition to that is the 96th Guards Airborne Division out of Kursk. These troops are not here for show, people, and I can tell you for certain that they're not after our autograph." He waited until the laughter subsided.

"Seriously, though, that's almost the strength of a full Corps that they can put just about anywhere in-theater, at just about anytime. Think of that next time you hear rustling in the leaves, people." With that, he sat.

Lt. Col. Mermelson took his place. "Since the S-3 still has not returned, I will deliver this morning's brief. All right, everybody, nothing has changed since yesterday. All Battalions are in place, and, once this thing starts, there should be no shortage of targets. I believe our newfound Texan would call this a target-rich environment." She nodded to Hunter, who grinned. There was a general smatter of nervous laughter. "However, in a quick summary, the Scout company should be the brigade element closest to the action, sitting just west of the crest on Hill 979. 1st and 2nd battalions are atop Plateau 960, with the 3rd battalion sitting on the left flank atop Hill 967.

Brigade Arty and HQ are sitting behind 2nd battalion."

She frowned, wrinkling her otherwise perfect Melanie Griffith nose. "Operationally, however, things are changing a little bit. The Norwegian Government has decided that they don't want to trade space for time unless absolutely necessary." A general groan went up from the audience. "Understandable, if not particularly palatable. If they were invading New Jersey, would we retreat to Pennsylvania?" She used a line that she had read somewhere.

"So, what is going to happen now? The Scout company is going to pretend that they are a rearguard. As soon as the main body is at the edge of range, they will open fire. We expect that they will slow to go to attack formation and reorient on the Scout company. We should also expect artillery barrages on the hill. Once the Sov," she stopped herself, "once the Russo- Japanese Coalition's fire becomes effective, the Scout company will execute a maximum-velocity withdrawal through the pass just south of Plateau 960. Once the enemy division gets to effective

range from the 1st and 2nd battalions, they will open fire. And finally, when the enemy is fully engaged, the 3rd battalion's tanks open fire into their right flank." She looked out into the crowd. "Well, that's the idea anyway."

Col Forrest, 3rd battalion commander, called back with not just a little testosterone, "If that Scout company of ours can get out of the way fast enough, me and my tankers can kick those

commie's asses all the way back to Tokyo!" He never bothered to correct himself.

After a little laughter and several audible complaints from the scout company commander, the XO put the briefing back on track, "Alright, that's enough people. Please continue, Mermelson."

Sergeant Jackson was wide awake by the time Captain Hunter returned. "Morning, sir, thought the no-good-niks came and picked you up last night." He flashed a big toothy grin.

"No prob., Sarge. Just had to explain the concepts of up and down to the battalion commanders this morning. All in a day's work. I do have a request for you though. Any chance you

can find me something bigger than my service revolver?"

"Oh, no problem, Cap'n. Anything particular?"

"How about an M16 with a 203 attached? I think I'll feel safer with a GL. on my back."

"Sure thing, sir."

"No joy on finding a Bradley to replace this M113, though, huh?"

"Sorry, sir. I don't think we will find any takers in the battalions."

"Oh, well, such as life. Do find me the rifle, though, please."

Sgt. Jackson was as good as his word. By 0930, his captain had a fresh-from-the-factory M16A2 rifle with an M203 grenade launcher slung underneath. Won't do a damn bit of good against

As his watch hit 1000 hours local time, the Regimental Commander dropped a red starburst into his 82 mm Mortar sitting next to him. He and his zampolit political officer watched it

shoot into the air, then drift slowly back to earth, as the force of hundreds of 152 mm howitzers shattered the morning silence.

Sgt. Mackay shifted in his seat. Since the metal rain started falling, he had been closed up in his tank, awaiting what must follow. Minutes later, he saw the turret of the BMP-2 on the hill to his front. Well, I'll give them this: They do follow their doctrine. C'mon, guys, hurry this up. I'm ready to start kicking some Russkie Ass. He didn't think it unusual to be excited about the prospect of the killing of men.

The 6 M1A2 Abrams MBTs and 6 M3 Bradley CFVs crouched silently in wait for the lead elements of the Soviet advance. The BMPs and BRDMs making up the Soviet scout unit, slowly

approached the crest of their hill, and then quickly crossed it, anticipating fire at any time.

The Soviet Scout leader was quite surprised when his force was able to pass the hill without any fire. In fact, he was feeling downright cocky. He ordered his driver to speed up. The rest of the scout section, noticing their leader's higher speed quickly followed.

In truth, this served only to hasten their doom. They added more separation between themselves and the main body of the formation. It had already been decided that the M1s would

engage the scouts, where their 120 mm Rheinmetall smoothbore cannons would have devastating effect, and the Bradleys would engage the command vehicles the ones with antennae first.

Once you decapitate the dragon, it is much easier to tame.

Just as the Soviet Divisional Command section reached optimum firing position, the signal was given. The Abrams and Bradleys fired simultaneously, giving rise to the stench of burned Cordite. The tank rounds reached their targets first. Of the 6 HEAT (High-Explosive Anti-Tank) rounds fired, 5 hit their mark with telling effect. Four catastrophic explosions with the turret flying off the vehicle ensued. None in those vehicles knew what hit them. The "Tongue Of Flame" shot a full six feet in front of the shaped charge on the HEAT round. The flame instantly melted the armor of the target, allowing the rest of the flame to penetrate the vehicle unimpeded, with the added

advantage of molten metal. In these four vehicles, the on-board ammunition went off, causing hundreds of secondary explosions, ripping shredding the vehicle and all inside.

It was these explosions that alerted the rest of the 273rd Motor Rifle Division to the presence of Americans.

Before they could take offensive action, however, the U.S. TOW anti-tank missiles were already airborne and en route. Seeing the missiles, most of the ex-Soviet tank commanders fired a barrage of smoke grenades, hoping to get lost in the dark fog.

While that may have stopped missileers twenty years ago, modern guidance systems are equipped with infrared capabilities, allowing the person to continue guiding the missile on its

kamikaze flight.

The first barrage slaughtered the command staff of the southernmost regiment.

The Russians then began to remember their training. Massed calls for an artillery barrage, which the arty boys were happy to provide. The regiments began to change to combat formations,

and headed up towards Hill 979.

The Americans were firing their third rounds before the Russian fire came back. One of the Bradleys took a direct hit. The ammunition went off quickly, mercifully killing the crew. Once the Russian artillery started to land, the scout company commander gave the order to retreat. The scout company had killed almost two companies of Russian troops while only losing one of their own. Remarkable results.

Unfortunately, it was too good to last.

They came like a thief in the night, ready to steal the blood of the unprepared. The flight of four Russian Su-25 Sturmoviks hugged the ground for safety while searching for the American troops. High atop Plateau 960 they found the Americans, not expecting enemy activity to the southwest. Sergeant Jackson saw them first. Alright, the cavalry! Hey. . . wait a minute. . . Oh Shit!

"Hey Cap'n, we got company."

"Holy Shit! Where the hell did they come from?" Hunter exclaimed, then went for his radio.

It was too late. The Sturmoviks were in attack position by the time the rest of the brigade knew about it. The Russian 30 mm cannons went down the line, tearing up American armored vehicles all the way down the line. They were able to wreck almost a fourth of the brigade before they were brought down by Stingers and arriving Falcons.

The Sukhoi fighter-bombers were able to radio the Russian Division the American positions, also. Artillery began to fall on the American positions. The Russians reoriented on the American 3rd Battalion.

While the Russians were busy taking the 3rd Battalion apart, piece by piece, the brigade commander quickly organized a counterattack, using the 1st and 2nd Battalions into the Russian left flank. In the depth of battle, no one noticed the Russian Air Assault brigade slipping in behind them.

Before anyone saw them, the Russians were inside the headquarters perimeter. Captain Hunter was intensely studying a map and giving directions over the radio when Sgt. Jackson

screamed. Matt turned around in time to see Jackson gunned down by a Russian with a PKM light machine gun. "Fuck!!!" Matt grabbed his rifle and rolled over, just in time to miss the incoming fire. He lined up on the Russian machine gunner and let loose with his grenade launcher. It worked as advertised, and had a noticeable effect on the volume of incoming fire.

Matt continued firing, retreating as quickly as possible back to his M113, hidden among the trees. When he finally entered the tree line, he quickly spotted an enemy patrol coming up the escape route. Matt leaped for cover. Evidently he was a little too loud, as the Russian point man hit the ground, the rest of the squad very shortly thereafter.

Luck was truly with Matt that day, as a retreating M2 Bradley came down the trail, saw the Russians and fired. Matt sprinted the rest of the way to the M113.

Less than 20 feet to go, Matt tripped. He hit the ground hard, hard enough to cause bleeding.

When he looked up, the Russian point man was standing there, an AKM leveled at Matt's chest. The man smiled and BANG!

When Matt looked up and realized he wasn't dead, Cpl. Lewis, his driver stood there. "Sorry for startl'n you there, Cap'n, but I couldn't let the Russkies get you, could I?"

"Well, God damn it, let's get the Hell out of Dodge."

Yoshi started up the van, and headed for the front gate. The gate guard motioned for him to stop, but seeing his ID card, waved him through. He parked it outside the 7th Fighter Squadron building. Yoshi then promptly got into his rented car, already waiting for him there. Major Yoshi Tsaki, United States Air Force, then left the base and headed due south.

The morning briefing began a preciously two minutes late this morning, and was promptly silent as Col Little, squadron commander announced the immediate deployment orders. Before any

had time to speak, a shaped charge of 1500 pounds of Semtex went off outside the building. The fifteen-foot long flame punctured the building easily, and killed most of the pilots within.

Almost ten kilometers west of where they were yesterday, the former members of the 160th Mechanized Brigade reformed, they found that about one-half of the brigade survived the battle of

the day before. Both the brigade commander and XO were killed. Lt Col. Mermelson was then in charge.

"Okay, people, political news first. Good news and very bad news. Good news: NATO has convinced the Norwegian leadership that the casualty rate requires that we trade space for time. Finnish leaders announced this morning that their nonaggression pact with the former Soviet Union is not only in full force, but they are in negotiations with the current leaders of Russia on a mutual

defense pact. This has immediate impact on our friends in the air, as that means that they can't make emergency landings within Finland. The bad news for us comes soon, though. One of two things is going to happen: Finnish forces could hit our right flank at any time, or, more likely, the Finns will allow the Russians to pass through our country to hit our right flank. Either way, it's going to get real exciting real fast." She paused a few seconds to let the news sink in.

"As many of you are probably aware, we were hit in the rear by elements of the Russian 413th Air Assault Brigade. We should feel lucky. They hit the Norwegians pretty hard. Anyway, the

brigade has been pulled out of the line. We're now the reserves for this front." The sound of an engine distracted Matt. GM 6.5 liter turbo diesel, he thought, Humvee. He glanced around until he spotted the vehicle approaching from the west. The humvee pulled up and parked. A USAF Captain stepped out and waited outside the makeshift tent for the briefing to end.

It ended in due course.

Afterward Matt wandered over to the officer an introduced himself. "Greetings and salutations, I'm Captain Matthew Hunter. What's up?"

He grasped Hunter's outstretched hand. "Pleased to meet you. Montgomery Parker -- Just call me Monty. You're just the man I'm looking for."

"Oh?"

"I'm here to replace you. You're wanted back at Holloman."

"Captain Matthew Hunter, reporting as ordered, sir." He stood at attention.

"At ease, Captain." He pulled out a pack of Camel no-filters, and offered one. Matt declined.

"Wife's always telling me to quit. Not gonna happen anytime soon, though." He pulled one out and began searching for his lighter. "I'm gonna get right to the point, Captain. How would you like to be back in the air?"

"Excuse me, sir?" Just as I hoped.

"Did you hear of the bombing yet?"

"Excuse me, sir?" God, this is getting repetitive.

After he lit up his cigarette, he continued. "One of our pilots -- ex-pilots -- caught us napping. Parked a damn van of Semtex right next to one of his squadron building during the morning briefing a couple of days ago. Bastard got us good. Tamped the explosive on five sides, and even shaped it into a crude cone. End result: lotta airplanes, no pilots. They found the weak spot in stealth: pilots on the ground."

Quietly: "Fuck."

"Damn straight, Captain. Best case scenario to train some replacements: 6 months. And that would take our best stealth pilots -- the instructors -- out of the combat game. So the only thing left was to go through the personnel records to find ex-stealth pilots and see if we can get them back. This is where you enter the picture."

"Ah. Yes, sir."

"So?"

"Runway still where I left it, sir?"

Hunter fidgeted nervously. Damnit, one of these days I gotta cut this out. He looked at his shoulder, still bearing the patch of his Guard unit. Gotta pick up a new one soon. He glanced at the wall of the hanger. A sign in large letters hung lifelessly: "49th Fighter Wing. Tutor Et Ultor. 'I protect and avenge.'" Well, we're going to be doing a lot of both soon. Very soon.

"Captain Hunter, Major Rob Stewart. I'm the new squadron operations officer. Ready for your check ride?"

"When you are, sir."

His eyes quickly scanned the RWR -- radar warning receiver, a device that detects and identifies radar emitters -- and took note of the most dangerous. An E-3C Sentry 70 miles due north. A thoroughly non-dangerous-looking aircraft, it is built from a Boeing 707 passenger airliner. Unlike it's appearance, however, it is the most dangerous aircraft ever built. Sitting atop

the aircraft is a large spinning disk, known as a rotodome. It is in truth the transmitter of a radar known as an AN/APY-2. With the Sentry high above the Earth, this radar can track hundreds of targets within a 350 nautical mile range. It takes but three of these aircraft to watch the entire border between Europe and the Former Soviet Union -- from Odessa on the Black Sea to Kaliningrad on the Baltic. The sixteen controllers within the aircraft can direct entire air battles. It has been said that the most dangerous man is one with a radio -- and this rule is in full force.

This is not to suggest that the other transmitters are safe. Indeed, the four F-15C Eagle air superiority aircraft are among the best in the world. Most aircraft at this distance from a

Sentry and her Eagle escort would have been long dead, and this would also be true if it weren't for this particular kind of aircraft -- an F-117A Nighthawk, known by Saddam Hussein as the

Stealth fighter. In fact, this particular airframe was the veteran of forty-seven trips to downtown Baghdad. This night was like many of those -- dark, clear, bright moonlight, with nothing but desert for miles around. Nighthawk weather. But then again, what isn't?

His fingers manipulated the controls like a virtuoso -- as if this was an instrument of beautiful music, instead of the destruction of men; as if the two one-ton laser guided bombs

resting in the bomb bay were merely strings on a viola. But all must come to an end -- including the tents sent up on the ground five miles beneath the Sentry.

Matt forced himself to concentrate on the target before him. Nothin' fancy, Matt, just stick to the ground, and watch the world fly by. With a slight forward pressure on the stick for a

moment, then a quick release, he willed the aircraft from a conservative one hundred and fifty feet above the ground to an astonishing fifty feet above the ground. And the vaunted Luftwaffe needs a computer and terrain following radar to do this. Hmmph. Check out how American flyers do it. With his other hand, he slowed the aircraft to a mere one hundred eighty miles an hour, just over the landing speed of one hundred seventy two. Ok, guys, I'm just a hole in the sky. Nothing here to see, do, investigate, or down.

After what seemed like an eternity, there was but seven miles remaining between the Nighthawk and the target, with the Sentry overhead. Matt hit the switch to extend the laser designator and DLIR -- Downward-Looking Infrared Radar camera, the modern equivalent of a "bombsight" from the days of World War II. At five miles to the target, Matt pushed the throttle to full power, and with the same fluid motion, pulled back on the stick, bringing the F-117A into a 60 degree climb. If it weren't for the 21,600 pounds of thrust now pouring out the tail end of the aircraft, it would have fallen straight back into the ground. As he passed two hundred fifty feet above the ground, he caught the first glimpse of his target in the DLIR. Using another joystick, he put the crosshairs on the center of the target and pressed the lock button. A invisible beam of laser energy struck the target, and the on-board computer maintained the beam on the target. He flipped the switch for the bomb bay doors to open, and when they did, he armed the bombs. After waiting for the green light on the console to turn on, Matt hit the pickle button twice. The plane shook to be finally free of it's load. Hunter rapidly closed the bomb bay, banked the airplane to the left twenty degrees, and leveled out the airplane.

The bombs continued on their ballistic trajectory, finally reaching apogee a mile and a half from the target. They rapidly pitched downward, finally seeing the reflections from the laser, still stubbornly pointed on the target. The bombs rotated their vanes in an attempt to fly at the reflections. They each struck the target less than six inches from where the laser pointed.

And then all hell broke loose.

The resulting fireball shot high into the air, signaling Matt's presence to all. The Eagles immediately began to dive towards the flames still high in the air. After they dissipated, the Eagle pilots put on their secret weapon -- night vision goggles. With these, they easily spot the Nighthawk frantically trying to escape across the desert floor.

The buzzing noise didn't stop. "Shit!" Matt's eyes shifted to the RWR and noted that one of the Eagles had a radar lock. He rolled the aircraft toward the ground, diving for the ground and safety. Up ahead lay the San Andres Mountains, less than forty miles distant. At over 500 knots, it would take about four minutes to reach them, where the Eagles could be appropriately diverted.

Then again, four minutes was an eternity away.

"Griffin Flight, this is Lead. Tallyho! Radar contact, west 6 miles. Gawd, this guy likes it low. Follow me into the intercept." With that, he dropped the angle 35 degrees down, and

applied full military power -- the most amount of thrust without engaging afterburners.

"Everyone check to insure full safety is engaged. We don't need any accidents."

It was about then that luck -- the ever-present mistress -- presented herself.

Just as Matt was reaching his minimum altitude, he dropped off the scopes of the -15 pilot. Praying that this was the case, he slammed the Nighthawk to the right to head north. At the same time, however, Griffin 4 -- a new kid right out of flight school -- hadn't paying close enough attention when they were discussing their plans before launch. Rather than apply full military

power, he went to full afterburner -- launching himself in front of his comrades, and blinding their view of Matt's escape to the north.

"What the --" The unexpected movement to the right startled the pilot of Griffin 3, who shoved his plane into a climb, to escape whatever was happening. In that minute and a half that it took to regroup, the Nighthawk was almost twenty miles to the northwest, heading for the relative safety of the mountains.

Griffin Lead: "Pancake," -- The E-3 Sentry -- "did you see where he went?"

Pancake: "Uh . . . that's a big negative."

Captain Hunter snapped to attention and saluted as he entered the room. "Captain Matthew Hunter reporting as ordered, sir."

The wing commander continued reading the paper before him, fully aware that Hunter was waiting for the salute to be returned. After a stressful pause: "At ease, Captain." He finished reading the document before continuing. "Quick quiz: Minimum altitude for a practice mission in a Nighthawk."

"Fifty feet, sir."

"Fifty feet . . . THEN WHY THE HELL WERE YOU AT TWENTY?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I was attempting to evade the interceptors, sir."

"Hunter, do you know what the odds of surviving an ejection at that speed and altitude?"

"Approximately zero, sir."

"Approximately zero? Precisely zero. You would have hit the ground long before you got near the ejection lever. The rules are set for a reason. Remember, during the flight testing there were two crashes."

"Yes, sir. I know. They were friends, sir."

The CO avoided the potentially dangerous subject. "Well, Captain, in the future, I would suggest following the rules. Consider yourself chewed out."

"Yes, sir. May I go, sir?"

"No. I've got one more thing."

"Yes, sir."

"You've got a for-real assignment."

Yes! "Very good, sir."

"Son, I pity you. You're going to the Navy."

"The Navy?" There was quite a bit of dejection in his voice.

"Yeah, the got you assigned to Detachment B, VQ-5. Recon detachment assigned to the USS Kitty Hawk. Your bird is coming in this afternoon. Ever land on a carrier before?"

"Yes, sir. I did the initial work-up on carrier landing a stealth in the early 80s, sir."

"Good. The Lockheed representative is flying in with your bird around 1400. Meet him in the squadron office. Dismissed."

They took care of the introductions and quickly made their way to the point of the discussion: the recently upgraded F-117B behind the Lockheed test pilot. "Okay, now, Captain. There are

several differences between this unit and the unmodified. Lockheed suggested this upgrade package in 1992, after the data from the Gulf War was analyzed. First, you will note the most obvious change: bubble canopy. We found it was a little difficult to find the MiGs on the way to find you."

Yeah, right. I'm sure this kid was bounced by bunches of MiGs. Hell, he was probably still in college back then. "Okay, I follow."

"Next, we redesigned the engine inlets and the exhaust system. Should get a slightly reduced RCS," He referred to the Radar Cross Section -- a measure of just how stealthy the plane really was. "and the exhaust should lower the infrared signature, quite a bit, actually."

"So are ya'll gonna guarantee that the infrared system on the MiGs aren't gonna find me?"

"Sorry, bud, but I wouldn't make that bet."

"Great. What else?"

"Well, the original had a arresting hook, but the panel covering it was removed from the vehicle explosively, while we have changed that to a panel on hinges. One thing, though. We didn't have time to put the actuator on. Therefore, once you drop the hook, it's down for good -- or at least until you land and it can be brought back into place."

"Anything else that you didn't do?"

"Actually, yes. It's part of the plan to put a LPI radar with one of those 'smart skin' conformal antennae. But, as the radar hasn't been selected yet, it wasn't installed."

"Great. World War III breaks out, and I'm the only one in the world flying a lemon."

"Foxtrot, this is Talisman, call the ball."

"Roger, Talisman, Nighthawk's ball."

After a nearly perfect approach, the Nighthawk caught a wind and, consequently, Matt hit the number four wire, as opposed to the optimal number three wire.

In less than three seconds, it slowed from 150 down to zero. Matt pointed the aircraft to the elevator, and never noticed the moderate sized crowd near the superstructure. Once in the hangar, Matt got out of the aircraft and was accosted by two young men, uniforms bearing the insignia of the last carrier-based A-6 squadron in the Navy.

"I told you he was getting rusty in his old age. You know, a little flying from Kelly," -- Kelly AFB is the location of the ANG squadron in San Antonio, and the strip is so long that it was

an alternate landing strip for the Space Shuttle -- ", and those Air Faeries get lazy."

When Matt finally reached the ground level, he sized up the two ahead of him. "True, but then again, I never lost one of the U.S. Government's multi-million dollar strike aircraft."

"No. It was Lockheed's." USN Lt. Scott Barrister grabbed Matt's outstretched hand.

"Ummmph. Low blow. That's not fair. You know the laser altimeter was out. How am I to help it if the trees decide to reach up for me?"

It was Eric Wayne's turn next. "Trees in Nevada?"