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Authors: Stephen Coonts
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kill.
Jiro Kimura knew all of that because he knew the other pilot. His name was Sasai. He was just twenty-four, rarely smiled, and never made the same mistake twice. This was only Sasaiâs third one-on-one flight, but he was learning quickly.
Just now, Kimura wanted to make Sasai think that he had an opening when he really didnât.
Kimura rocked his wings violently from side to side, first one way and then the other. He was also feeding in forward stick, unloading the plane and accelerating, but Sasai couldnât see that from two miles above. All he could see were the wings rocking, as if Kimura had momentarily lost sight and was futilely trying to find his opponent.
Sasai turned to arc in behind Kimura and put his nose down, committing himself.
Kimura waited for several seconds, maybe four, then lit the afterburner and pulled his nose up. The G felt good, solid, as the horizon fell away. Jiro Kimura loved to fly, and this morning he acknowledged that fact to himself, again, for the thousandth time. To fly a state-of-the-art fighter plane in an endless blue sky, to have someone to yank and bank with and try to outwit, then to go home and think about how it had been while planning to do it again tomorrowâwhat had life to offer that could possibly be sweeter?
When he was vertical, Kimura spun around his longitudinal axisuntil his wings were perpendicular to Sasaiâs flight path; then he pulled his nose over to lead Sasai, who was now frantically trying to evade the trap. Because he was slower, Kimura could turn more quickly than the descending plane, could bring his gun to bear first.
Jiro Kimura pulled the trigger on the stick.
âYouâre dead, Sasai,â Kimura said on the radio, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. âLetâs break it off and go home.â
Sasai rendezvoused on Kimura, who consulted his GPS display, then set a course for base. They were over the Sea of Japan above a broken layer of low clouds. Kimura checked his fuel, verified his course on the wet compass, then stretched. The silver airplanes, the sun high in the blue vault overhead, the sea below, the clouds and distant hazeâif heaven was like this, he was ready.
If Shizuko could go, too, of course.
He felt guilty that he was contemplating paradise without Shizuko. Then he felt silly that he was even thinking these thoughts.
Well, maybe it wasnât silly. Real combat seemed to be coming, almost like a terrible storm just over the horizon that no one wanted to acknowledge. We make plans, for next week, next month, next year, while refusing to acknowledge that our safe, secure little world is about to disintegrate.
Jiro looked across the invisible river of air flowing between the planes and saw Sasai in his cockpit. He was looking Jiroâs way. They stared at each otherâs helmeted figures for a moment; then Jiro looked away.
Kimura was the senior officer, and leader, of his flight. Then came Ota, Miura, and Sasai. They would fly together as a unit whenever possible.
Alas, Sasai was green, inexperienced. He knew how to use the new Zero fighter as an interceptor, utilizing the radar, GPS, computer, and all the rest of it, but he didnât know how to dogfight, to fight another aircraft when it was out of the interception parameters.
Neither Ota nor Miura was particularly skilled at the craft, either. The colonels and generals insisted that Zero pilots be well trained in the use of the state-of-the-art weapons system, that they know it cold and practice constantly, so all their training had been in using the aircraftâs system to acquire the target, then fire missiles when the target came within range.
âWhat will you do,â Kimura asked the three pilots on his team, âif the enemy attacks you as you are taking off?â
His junior wingmen looked slightly stunned, as if the possibility had never occurred to them. Their superior officers, none of whom were combat
Jiro Kimura knew all of that because he knew the other pilot. His name was Sasai. He was just twenty-four, rarely smiled, and never made the same mistake twice. This was only Sasaiâs third one-on-one flight, but he was learning quickly.
Just now, Kimura wanted to make Sasai think that he had an opening when he really didnât.
Kimura rocked his wings violently from side to side, first one way and then the other. He was also feeding in forward stick, unloading the plane and accelerating, but Sasai couldnât see that from two miles above. All he could see were the wings rocking, as if Kimura had momentarily lost sight and was futilely trying to find his opponent.
Sasai turned to arc in behind Kimura and put his nose down, committing himself.
Kimura waited for several seconds, maybe four, then lit the afterburner and pulled his nose up. The G felt good, solid, as the horizon fell away. Jiro Kimura loved to fly, and this morning he acknowledged that fact to himself, again, for the thousandth time. To fly a state-of-the-art fighter plane in an endless blue sky, to have someone to yank and bank with and try to outwit, then to go home and think about how it had been while planning to do it again tomorrowâwhat had life to offer that could possibly be sweeter?
When he was vertical, Kimura spun around his longitudinal axisuntil his wings were perpendicular to Sasaiâs flight path; then he pulled his nose over to lead Sasai, who was now frantically trying to evade the trap. Because he was slower, Kimura could turn more quickly than the descending plane, could bring his gun to bear first.
Jiro Kimura pulled the trigger on the stick.
âYouâre dead, Sasai,â Kimura said on the radio, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. âLetâs break it off and go home.â
Sasai rendezvoused on Kimura, who consulted his GPS display, then set a course for base. They were over the Sea of Japan above a broken layer of low clouds. Kimura checked his fuel, verified his course on the wet compass, then stretched. The silver airplanes, the sun high in the blue vault overhead, the sea below, the clouds and distant hazeâif heaven was like this, he was ready.
If Shizuko could go, too, of course.
He felt guilty that he was contemplating paradise without Shizuko. Then he felt silly that he was even thinking these thoughts.
Well, maybe it wasnât silly. Real combat seemed to be coming, almost like a terrible storm just over the horizon that no one wanted to acknowledge. We make plans, for next week, next month, next year, while refusing to acknowledge that our safe, secure little world is about to disintegrate.
Jiro looked across the invisible river of air flowing between the planes and saw Sasai in his cockpit. He was looking Jiroâs way. They stared at each otherâs helmeted figures for a moment; then Jiro looked away.
Kimura was the senior officer, and leader, of his flight. Then came Ota, Miura, and Sasai. They would fly together as a unit whenever possible.
Alas, Sasai was green, inexperienced. He knew how to use the new Zero fighter as an interceptor, utilizing the radar, GPS, computer, and all the rest of it, but he didnât know how to dogfight, to fight another aircraft when it was out of the interception parameters.
Neither Ota nor Miura was particularly skilled at the craft, either. The colonels and generals insisted that Zero pilots be well trained in the use of the state-of-the-art weapons system, that they know it cold and practice constantly, so all their training had been in using the aircraftâs system to acquire the target, then fire missiles when the target came within range.
âWhat will you do,â Kimura asked the three pilots on his team, âif the enemy attacks you as you are taking off?â
His junior wingmen looked slightly stunned, as if the possibility had never occurred to them. Their superior officers, none of whom were combat
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