dozen others. She smiled at him as she walked past on her way to the service elevator in
the rear of the first class compartment.
Berry turned and watched as she stepped inside. The narrow elevator was barely big enough for both her and the trays. In a
few seconds she had disappeared behind the sliding door, on her way down to the below-decks galley beneath the first-class
compartment.
John Berry sat alone for a minute and collected his scattered thoughts. He got out of his seat and stretched his arms. He
looked around the spacious first-class section. Then he looked out the window at the two giant engines mounted beneath the
Straton’s right wing.
They could swallow the Skymaster. One gulp
, he thought.
His company, Taylor Metals, owned a four-seat Cessna Twin Skymaster for the sales staff, and if Berry had any real interest
left, flying was it. He supposed that flying was mixed up somehow with his other problems. If he found the earth more tolerable,
he might not grab every opportunity to fly above it.
Berry turned toward the rear of the first-class cabin. He saw that the lavatories were vacant. He looked at his wristwatch.
He had time to wash up and comb his hair before Sharon returned.
On his way to the rear of the cabin, Berry glanced out the window again. He marveled at the enormous size and power of the
giant airliner’s engines. He marveled, too, at the solitude of space. What he failed to notice was that they were not alone.
He did not see the tiny dot against the horizon that was rapidly approaching the Straton airliner.
Lieutenant Peter Matos held the F-18’s control stick with his right hand. He inched the power levers slightly forward. The
two General Electric engines spooled up to a higher setting. Matos continued to fly his Navy fighter in wide, lazy circles
at 54,000 feet. He held the craft’s airspeed constant at slightly less than Mach 1. He was loitering, flying nondescript patterns
inside a chunk of international airspace known to his country’s military as Operations Area R-23. He was waiting for a call
from Home. It was overdue and he was just beginning to wonder about it when his earphones crackled with the beginning of a
message. It was the voice of Petty Officer Kyle Loomis, whom Matos vaguely knew.
“Navy three-four-seven, this is Homeplate, over.” Matos pressed a button on the top of his control stick “Roger, Homeplate.
Three-four-seven. Go ahead, over.” He began another turn through the tranquil Pacific sky.
The voice of the electronics mate in Room E-334 carried loud and clear. “The target has been released. We estimate an initial
in-range penetration of your operational area within two minutes. Operation status is now changed to Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey.
I say again, Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey.”
“Roger, Homeplate. I read Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey.” Matos released the transmit button and simultaneously pulled back on the
control stick. Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey. Fire-at-will. He would never see the target, the hit, or the destruction except on his
radar, yet the predator’s stimuli were there and his heart beat faster. The F-18 tightened its turn, and Matos felt the increase
in G forces as he accelerated around the remainder of the circle he had been flying. He leveled the fighter on a northeasterly
heading and spooled up the engines again. He felt like a knight charging into the field to do battle.
Peter Matos, like most military men who were not born in the continental United States, was more loyal, more patriotic, more
enthusiastic than the native-born Americans. He had noticed this right from the beginning. Wherever the flags of the American
military had flown—Germany, Guam, the Canal Zone, the Philippines—young men had rallied to those flags. There was also the
Cuban officer subculture, the Mexicans, the Canadians, and others who saw the American armed forces as more than a military
organization, more than a necessary
the rear of the first class compartment.
Berry turned and watched as she stepped inside. The narrow elevator was barely big enough for both her and the trays. In a
few seconds she had disappeared behind the sliding door, on her way down to the below-decks galley beneath the first-class
compartment.
John Berry sat alone for a minute and collected his scattered thoughts. He got out of his seat and stretched his arms. He
looked around the spacious first-class section. Then he looked out the window at the two giant engines mounted beneath the
Straton’s right wing.
They could swallow the Skymaster. One gulp
, he thought.
His company, Taylor Metals, owned a four-seat Cessna Twin Skymaster for the sales staff, and if Berry had any real interest
left, flying was it. He supposed that flying was mixed up somehow with his other problems. If he found the earth more tolerable,
he might not grab every opportunity to fly above it.
Berry turned toward the rear of the first-class cabin. He saw that the lavatories were vacant. He looked at his wristwatch.
He had time to wash up and comb his hair before Sharon returned.
On his way to the rear of the cabin, Berry glanced out the window again. He marveled at the enormous size and power of the
giant airliner’s engines. He marveled, too, at the solitude of space. What he failed to notice was that they were not alone.
He did not see the tiny dot against the horizon that was rapidly approaching the Straton airliner.
Lieutenant Peter Matos held the F-18’s control stick with his right hand. He inched the power levers slightly forward. The
two General Electric engines spooled up to a higher setting. Matos continued to fly his Navy fighter in wide, lazy circles
at 54,000 feet. He held the craft’s airspeed constant at slightly less than Mach 1. He was loitering, flying nondescript patterns
inside a chunk of international airspace known to his country’s military as Operations Area R-23. He was waiting for a call
from Home. It was overdue and he was just beginning to wonder about it when his earphones crackled with the beginning of a
message. It was the voice of Petty Officer Kyle Loomis, whom Matos vaguely knew.
“Navy three-four-seven, this is Homeplate, over.” Matos pressed a button on the top of his control stick “Roger, Homeplate.
Three-four-seven. Go ahead, over.” He began another turn through the tranquil Pacific sky.
The voice of the electronics mate in Room E-334 carried loud and clear. “The target has been released. We estimate an initial
in-range penetration of your operational area within two minutes. Operation status is now changed to Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey.
I say again, Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey.”
“Roger, Homeplate. I read Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey.” Matos released the transmit button and simultaneously pulled back on the
control stick. Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey. Fire-at-will. He would never see the target, the hit, or the destruction except on his
radar, yet the predator’s stimuli were there and his heart beat faster. The F-18 tightened its turn, and Matos felt the increase
in G forces as he accelerated around the remainder of the circle he had been flying. He leveled the fighter on a northeasterly
heading and spooled up the engines again. He felt like a knight charging into the field to do battle.
Peter Matos, like most military men who were not born in the continental United States, was more loyal, more patriotic, more
enthusiastic than the native-born Americans. He had noticed this right from the beginning. Wherever the flags of the American
military had flown—Germany, Guam, the Canal Zone, the Philippines—young men had rallied to those flags. There was also the
Cuban officer subculture, the Mexicans, the Canadians, and others who saw the American armed forces as more than a military
organization, more than a necessary
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