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                                               An adventure novel by
                                                                   Philip Fredericks

    Air Force Captain Al Masters, dressed in full flight gear, walked around his F-15C Eagle, doing a careful pre-flight.  He nodded at his crew chief.  "Looks okay, Sarge," he said, grinning.  "How much you put in the tanks?"
    "Half, like you wanted, Captain."
    Masters nodded.  "Should get me there and back.  Unless I have to mix it up with the Russkies."
    "Better not," the sergeant said.  "No ammo, no Aim-7's, nothing.  You wanted minimum weight, you got minimum weight."
    Masters grinned, slapping the sergeant on his broad back.  "Good job," he said. "Should get another 100 knots out of her with this load."
    "Two hundred," the sergeant said.  "I did a weight check.  There ain't a MiG or Sukhoi on Sakhalin that can catch you today."
    Masters nodded again.  "Great," he said, grinning. "Well, time to go."  He checked his watch.  "Hope everybody on base is awake.  Especially the radar boys."
    "They're supposed to be."
    Masters was just short of six feet in height, trim, with short, wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes.  He grinned, walked to the cockpit, climbed up the ladder and stepped inside.  The crew chief followed him, helping him strap in.  Masters saluted the sergeant, put on his helmet and started the twin engines, listening to them spool up, checking his gauges.  His instruments confirmed half tanks and no weapons.  He quickly called the tower for permission to taxi, and the Eagle began to bob across the taxiway toward the twin north-south runways.
His radio crackled, and the ground controller gave him a quick weather check.  Winds calm, light overcast at 12,000 feet, pressure 29.92 and steady.  He set his altimeter, quickly went through his pre-flight checklist as he rolled toward the end of the runway, facing north.  Toward Sakhalin.  Toward Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, where the Sukhoi interceptors were stationed.  And where, he remembered hearing, a squadron of MiG- 23's had been ferried less than a month ago.  He grinned, eyes bright with anticipation, and pressed his mike button.
    "Tower, Able Flight ready for departure," he said, all business now.
    "Able Flight, cleared for immediate departure Three-six right."  There was a pause.  "Go get 'em," the controller added.
     Masters laughed.  "Will do.  Able Flight rolling."  He swung the fighter onto runway 36R, his left hand already moving the throttles forward.  He could feel the aircraft move more quickly with its light weight and nodded with satisfaction.  Centered in the runway, he smoothly moved the throttles into full afterburner position, and with a blast, the Eagle rocketed down the runway.  Masters checked the gauges.  Everything was running smoothly.  No sign of trouble.   When he felt the fighter lighten, he pulled the nose up and the Eagle lifted off.  He retracted the gear, checked his chart, set his altitude at 600 feet, cut his speed slightly to conserve fuel and watched the northern end of Honshu disappear beneath him.  He could see Japanese men and women working in the fields beneath him as he watched carefully for obstructions.
    "Feet wet, Able Flight," he called as he rushed over the water separating Honshu from Hokkaido.  He grinned.  His airspeed was still increasing.  He was doing better than 1200 knots, but at such minimum altitude, he was burning fuel at a tremendous rate.  He knew the Russians were already seeing a blip on their radar, but he also knew that he was so close to the ground that the radar operators couldn't be sure what they were seeing.
    "Two minutes to the fence," he called.
    "Roger, Able Flight.  No sign of a scramble."
    Masters clicked his mike button.  In two minutes he passed over Hokkaido and into Soviet air space, crossing the southern tip of Sakhalin.  He checked outside, but there was no sign of other airborne traffic.  He frowned and wondered why the tower hadn't called about a scramble yet.  The Russians should have ordered an intercept by now.
    "Misawa, Able Flight," he called.  "Are the radar guys asleep down there?"
    "Nothing from radar."  There was a pause.  "Able Flight, Misawa.  Lingo advises airborne traffic."  The radio operator's voice was tense now.
    Masters looked around.  "Lingo" was the code word for the radio intercept operators at the 6980th Radio Squadron Mobile (RSM) just north of the tactical air base flight line.  Suddenly his radio came alive.
    "Able flight, Misawa," the controller called again.  "Radar reports four bogies at your three o'clock position, angels nine-zero and descending."
    Masters looked to his right, squinted directly into the sun, and knew he was in a lot of trouble.  His radar showed the aircraft closing rapidly.  He knew the Russians had speed and position on him, and he had to change that.  His hand rested on the throttles as he counted out loud:  "eight, seven, six, five, four, three," and when he estimated the Russian aircraft were only about a thousand feet above him, he slammed the throttles forward to the full detente position and pulled the stick back into his chest.  The F-15 went ballistic, crushing him against the seat as the afterburners blasted him into the sky like a rocket.
Masters couldn't resist rolling as he climbed, and when he saw the Russians pass beneath him, trying to claw their way back up to get into position behind him, he inverted, headed due south, rolled back level, and pointed the nose down to pick up more airspeed.  He watched the southern coast of Sakhalin appear beneath him just as he felt his aircraft shudder.  He checked his instruments, but all seemed in order.  His radio crackled once again.
    "Able Flight, Delta Flight is one minute your position.  We're here to see if the Russkies want to mix it up this morning."
    Masters grinned.  Four F-15's were inbound to intercept the Russian pilots.  Somebody had finally realized he was in trouble.  He looked ahead.  The sun flashed on the friendly aircraft passing above him, and he grinned.
    "Surprise, you Russkie bastards," he said.
    Hokkaido appeared in his windscreen, and he knew he was out of Russian airspace.  He checked his fuel, nodding.  Just enough to safely get back on the runway.  Maybe enough for a go-around if he had to.
    "Able Flight, you're over the fence," the controller informed him.
Masters clicked his mike button twice, acknowledging the call and reached for the throttles, reducing thrust.  The Eagle slowed rapidly.  He raised the nose slightly to compensate for lost airspeed.
    "Misawa, Able flight.  Five miles.  Request straight in on One-eight Right (18R).  Fuel critical."
    "Roger, Able," the tower operator called back.  "Cleared for One-eight right.  Winds calm, altimeter two-niner-niner-two, visibility ten miles.  Negative traffic.  Cleared to land."
    Masters descended to 1,500 feet, reducing power and raising the nose, watching for the twin runways to appear ahead of him.  He hit the gear lever and the Eagle shuddered and slowed from the added drag, wallowing slightly as Masters' airspeed dropped to 150 knots.  He added power and lifted the nose slightly once again, lining up on the runway.
    In moments he was on the ground.  Once off the runway, he raised his canopy, took off his helmet, breathing the fresh, crisp morning air, and taxied back to where the other F-15's were parked.  He slid expertly into his slot and turned off the engines, listening to them wind down.
    His crew chief was standing next to the cockpit, hanging the ladder for him.  He climbed up, helping Masters release his harnesses.
    "Nice flight, boss?" he said.
    Masters climbed out and made his way down the ladder, his helmet dangling from one hand.  He grinned.  "A few seconds of anxiety," he said, "followed by several minutes of panic, Sergeant."
    "Always the joker.  Glad you got back all right, Captain.  I was listening in."
    Masters nodded.  "Hairy for a minute there."
    "That's why they give you flight pay."
    "I always wondered about that."  Masters started to walk away when the sergeant called his name.  He walked back.  His crew chief was standing near the twin tails of the Eagle, looking up.  Masters joined him.
    "What's the problem, Sarge?" he said.
     "Captain, either this Eagle has been parked here so long before you flew it this morning that the moths got at it, or you've had a pretty exciting morning."  He pointed at the left vertical stabilizer.  Masters could see daylight through a line of holes.
    "Looks like .23 mm moth holes to me," the crew chief said dryly.
    Masters nodded.  He understood now why the Eagle had shuddered as he had rolled out from his inverted position to head for home.  He shook his head.  One of the Russian pilots had obviously gotten a tad close.
    "Guess I better report it," Masters said, waving goodbye.  He walked across the oil-stained tarmac to the operations building for debriefing.
    When he was finished, he stepped back outside, then paused a moment, his eyes narrowing as he remembered getting no warning about the airborne MiG's.  His fists clenched, he jogged quickly over to the radar shack and yanked open the door.  Three airmen inside jumped up, obviously surprised to see the pilot.  They saluted.
    "Which one of you geniuses missed the airborne traffic this morning over Sakhalin?" Masters said.
    The three operators looked at each other, wary.
    Masters stepped up close to the biggest of the men, his face only inches away from the airman's face.      "My Eagle's sitting out there with half a dozen .23 mm machine gun holes in the left vertical stabilizer.  In case you don't know what that is, it's the tail.  Without one, the aircraft doesn't fly worth a shit.  Next time watch what the hell you're doing in here.  There were four airborne MiG's up there, and you assholes never reported them.  Your fucking job is to watch for any traffic, not just scrambles."
He looked around.  There was a Playboy magazine lying on the counter between two of the radar positions.  It was opened to the centerfold.  He looked back at the three airmen, who appeared very frightened.
    "If you guys want to jerk off, do it on your own time.  Next time watch your screens.  If I get shot at again because you guys aren't paying attention, we're gonna have another talk, and you're not gonna like it.  Fuck rank," he said angrily.  "I promise you it'll be up close and real personal."  He reached for the magazine and ripped it in half and threw it on the floor.
    "Fuckin' jerk-offs," he said as he walked back outside, slamming the door closed behind him.

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