05 March 2023 – Spangdahlem Air Base, Spangdahlem, West Germany

February is usually the coldest winter month in the Northern Hemisphere. February 2023 was no exception, especially for those interacting with Sabrina Marie Knox-Jones. Cold fury rolled off Sabrina during Arne Thorvoldson’s memorial service. The only person to receive warmth from Sabrina was Cheryl Thorvoldson, Arne’s widow.

Friends at Spangdahlem marveled at Tom Jones and his ability to seemingly shrug off his wife’s anger. Sabrina was curt, brittle, and withdrawn during the year’s shortest month. That ended abruptly tonight.

“Why is the living room couch made up like a bed?” Sabrina demanded when she returned from a patrol flight.

“That’s where you’re sleeping, tonight,” Tom answered from the kitchen with his back to her. It was as if he’d punched her. “I gave you a month, Sabrina. The headquarters building flag is at full staff this morning, so it’s time to move on. I get that you can’t tell me everything. I know the ‘training accident’ line is bullshit, but I won’t ask you about it.”

He turned around and said, “Unfuck yourself! You’re driving away every friend you’ve made here! You’re driving away the few people we hang out with when you’re off-duty! Channel this anger! Use it! Don’t let it use you.”

Tom walked away and gently closed the bedroom door. Sabrina stared at the door for minutes before she turned for the couch.

‘Again, the shit I don’t want to hear …’ she thought as she lay in the living room instead of her bedroom. ‘But need to hear …’ Her thoughts kept her awake until well after midnight.

Tom woke her with a gentle kiss in the morning. Sabrina gave him a weak smile when she opened her eyes.

“Babe, I’m sorry,” he said as he knelt by the couch. “I didn’t mean for you to sleep out here. I only wanted you to think about how you’ve been acting.”

“That took until about two o’clock, and I fell asleep while thinking.” She stretched her neck with an audible <POP!> “It wasn’t good sleep, either.”

“It’s almost 6:30. Are you on flight duty today or ground?”

“Ground. As in: ‘I need to ground this attitude of mine …’”

Tom took her hand.

“Sabrina, I know there will be times when you can’t tell me the whole story about something duty-related. And times when you can’t tell me anything. Your reaction to an event still speaks volumes. Watch out for that. Not only because it impacts our marriage, but because it could impact your career.”

Sabrina squeezed Tom’s hand.

“Which is less important than we are.”

“Honor above all else, in all things. Don’t compromise one because of the other, Sabrina. I’m with you for life, regardless of how turbulent the ride.”

She didn’t deserve a husband like Tommy.

Sabrina walked into the 22nd TFS building a different person, or maybe the original person. A polite greeting for everyone, regardless of rank. Subtile direction instead of outright orders, when applicable and appropriate. Bringing down thunder when necessary.

She reserved the thunder for training and patrol flights whenever possible. Sabrina was an absolute artist in the cockpit, precision personified. She anticipated an opponent’s actions during training and was always ahead of them.

A patrol was another matter. Where an opponent in training became a colleague afterward, there was no quarter for those opponents on patrol. Sabrina skirted the limits of the rules of engagement but never broke them. She lit up Soviet, East German, or Czech fighters as soon as they crossed a line, talked trash in their language over Guard when they tried the same, and generally harassed them when able.

Sabrina’s flight helmet bore the call sign ‘Raikou.’ It sported a version of Katsushika Hokusai’s Raijin painting – a red-skinned demon behind dark clouds. The helmet beast had long black hair and blue eyes, like Sabrina. She was ‘the Goddess of the Shitstorm.’ The other pilots loved it.

Their commanders? Not so much.

Colonel Doherty couldn’t argue with Sabrina’s job performance. She was a damn fine mentor to pilots fresh from training, even after only a year of active service. Her paperwork was as exact as her flying. He never had to ask her flight lead about it because it was late. It never was. Doherty didn’t hesitate to name her training officer for the 22nd TFS.

Major Caleb Bryson called Sabrina into his office as he packed one day in August.

“Hey, Goddess. How was your brother’s wedding?”

Sabrina and Tom had flown to Hawaii for Anna and Alex’s wedding in early July. Frankfurt to New York, to Los Angeles, to Honolulu. And then back. A week was barely long enough, and the jet lag had been brutal. Sabrina also hated not being in control of the planes.

“Sir …”

“Christ, Sabrina, relax!” Tank snapped with a smile. “There’s no one else the rest of us appreciate seeing in our group more, when we fly lead.” The smile grew when he saw her frown deepen. “Listen, I know you’re only a year in, but have you thought about what’s next for you?”

“Not really,” Sabrina shrugged. “Not yet, anyway. Overseas assignments are usually three years, and I’ve only been here one. I’ve got time.”

Tank tossed a printed sheet of paper across his desk. Sabrina glanced down.

“Tank, shouldn’t I concentrate on being a good squadron pilot before delusions of grandeur fill my head?”

“I think you’ve got the ‘good squadron pilot’ thing sewn up, Raikou.”

“I’ll think about it, Tank.” Sabrina waved at the two boxes of personal items. “When do you have to report to Langley?” Tank would be the new operations officer for the 94th Tactical Fighter Squadron at Langley Air Force Base, Virginia, and a new lieutenant colonel.

“02 October.”

“A month off. Not bad.”

“Darcy and I will take it. We can visit both sets of parents before I report.”

Sabrina picked up the other box and followed Tank when he left with the first one in his hands.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Never know when I’ll need a favor.”

Tank’s personal items went into the back seat of his car. He turned to Sabrina and offered his hand.

“Thanks, Sabrina. Get ahold of me if you ever need anything. It’s been a pleasure serving with you.”

“Best of luck in Virginia, Sir.”

The pair exchanged salutes before separating.

Tom noticed Sabrina’s distraction when she returned home.

“What’s up, Babe?”

“Tank Bryson suggested a possible career path to me as he packed up his office today.”

“A good path? One that gets you where you want to go?”

“I think it could.”

“So, what’s the path?”

“Air Force Test Pilot School.”

Tom whistled. “Shades of ‘The Right Stuff!’ You gonna do it?”

“Maybe?” she said, looking conflicted. “I’ll have to think about it some more, and we’ll have to talk about it. That’d be a year in the middle of a desert for you. Most of the test squadrons are based on dry lake beds, too. Few green-and-lush bases like here. You might be staring at the sand for years.”

“Do I get to stare at you while I’m there?” Sabrina stared at him here. “Do I need to say it, Sabrina?”

“‘I knew what I signed up for …’”

“Exactly. Look, I went to school for accounting. I currently work in accounting. Plus, I get to tell people where I work in accounting. It’s cool to tell people I work at Spangdahlem Air Base in Germany. I’m not even in the military!”

“You mean after they recover from hearing you’re an accountant?”

“Shaddup, kid.”

Sabrina continued to research Test Pilot School. Being accepted would be cool. Being chosen and sent on an exchange to the Naval Test Pilot School at NAS Pax River or even the UK’s Empire Test Pilots’ School would be phenomenal. But did she want to leave a line squadron? Or the possibility of serving in one for some time?

She put the test pilot school choice aside for another month and settled back into the line-squadron routine. The end of summer and the start of autumn brought more joint NATO training missions. Sabrina caught up with many of her foreign ENJJPT classmates and some American classmates stationed in Europe.

Major Harrison Dawson replaced Caleb Bryson as Charlie Flight’s commander in mid-September. He was … okay. Bryson was a more dynamic leader, more likely to jump in and help out, more apt to give you a task and let you sink or swim while completing it. He wasn’t going to stand over your shoulder and watch. Harry Dawson, however, was a micromanager. He wanted frequent progress reports and exact completion dates. He gave you the Glare of Death if you forgot or missed something.

Dawson even tried pushing a new call sign for Sabrina: ‘China Girl.’

“Never mind that my mother’s parents are Japanese, not Chinese,” Sabrina growled while she and others sat in a pub on base. “What movie was that when a character points out the difference?”

“No idea,” Zander Soto muttered around his drink. “Is it bad to say I’m glad I’ll be out of here in six months, though?”

Sabrina threw a pretzel at Zander while others did the same. The staff here would be pissed if they saw the mess.

“That’s a ‘yes,’ Zander,” Kian Wells added.

“Says ‘Mister Out-of-Here-in-Nine-Months’ …” countered Walker Manning. Like Sabrina, Walker had close to two years remaining at Spangdahlem.

“Don’t worry, Sabrina, no one’s taking ‘Raikou’ away from you,” Griffin Hebert, a nine-month member of the 22nd, said. “Doherty will scalp Harry with a dull butter knife if he keeps pushing this.”

“‘This too shall pass …’”

“Your lips to God’s ears, girl.”

“Oh, shit …” groused Kian Wells.

“Grease?” Walker Manning asked before following Kian’s gaze. A blank mask settled onto everyone’s face when they saw their flight commander.

“Da fuck is he doing here?” Zander Soto asked in a quiet hiss.

“A Fun Sponge that one is,” Sabrina added as they all tried to remain unseen.

A Fun Sponge either soaks up fun feelings to share them later or, like their approaching boss, removes them from the area permanently.

“Manning, what’s the update on the plan for our next training flight?”

“Same as I told you when I went off-duty, Sir,” Walker replied. “Because I’m now off-duty, Sir.”

“You should show more dedication to your job, Manning.”

“I do, Sir. When I’m on duty.”

It was a wonder the others at the table kept a straight face. A welcome voice came from the opposite side of the table.

“You should let your pilots enjoy their time off-duty, Major,” Lieutenant Colonel Travers, the 22nd’s operations officer, said. He took a sip of his beer while staring at Dawson.

“Yes, Sir!” Dawson barked from attention. He turned on his heel and left.

“Let me or someone in the squadron office know if he does that again, lady and gentlemen,” Colonel Travers muttered. He nodded at them and turned away also.

“It’s gonna be a long two years,” Griffin Hebert said.

“How high’s the cloud deck supposed to be?” Griffin Hebert asked while looking up one October morning.

“That’s something the weather squadron will cover in the briefing, Griff,” Sabrina replied.

“Looks crappy.”

“It’ll probably fly crappy until we get above it. ‘All-weather air-superiority fighter,’ remember? We got this.”

“Did the maintenance squadron get the avionics upgrades finished?”

“Yessir. Gotta love software upgrades. Each aircraft took about ten minutes.”

“They say the F-22B will have a holographic heads-up display.”

“Supposedly,” Sabrina shrugged. “I’m more interested in the shenanigans the Soviets and their lapdogs are involved in. They’ve stepped up the aggressiveness again.”

“Once they hear your call sign, they’ll settle down.”

“I doubt it’ll be that easy, Griff.”

Sabrina peeled off from her younger colleague and walked into her aircraft shelter. Her crew chief informed her of the avionics software upgrades installed and their features. They discussed maintenance work since the aircraft’s last flight, fuel, and armament status, and flight hours remaining until the next major overhaul. She thanked the technical sergeant and walked to the aircraft.

She inspected the exterior of the sleek fighter in a precise manner. Attention to detail always had been Hamish’s recurring mantra during flight training. It applied to all phases of flight: preflight, in the air, and after you returned. Find the problem before it becomes a problem.

Sabrina climbed into the cockpit, strapped herself in, and began her checklists. The new avionics started up much faster, the display was slightly refined, and everything was where she expected. The colors were subtly different and more ‘natural’ in appearance, though how anything about a $360 million stealth aircraft could be considered ‘natural,’ was open to debate.

The ground handler saw Sabrina’s nod of readiness. She held up one finger and signaled Sabrina to start the left engine. Sabrina taxied off her shelter’s pad a few minutes later and toward the taxiway. Griff took position behind her.

“Spangdahlem Tower, Tempest Three, flight of two, permission to taxi.”

Tower cleared Sabrina’s flight element to take position behind Tempest One and Two and take off when able. Soon, four F-22A fighters rocketed into the dreary German skies and angled east toward the border. They punched through the cloud deck at eight thousand feet and continued to climb. Sabrina pulled down her dark visor against the bright sunlight above.

“Little different than downstairs, huh, Griff?”

“Know-it-all …”

“Tempest One to Tempest Flight, keep the chatter down today. The Sovs are still strutting about Thor’s demise, even though they deny anything happened. Eyes open, weapons tight, and be ready for anything.”

“Roger, One,” was Sabrina’s reply. Her fellows answered the same way. ‘In Omnia Paratus …’ came her next thought. Latin sounded so cool at times. Sometimes.

Tempest Flight retraced the same fateful route as that day in January. Sabrina had to remind herself to breathe as they continued southeast over Schönbrunner Wald. Over Pleckensteiner Wald, just before Tempest’s turn at the Austrian border, the Warsaw Pact rattled their sword again. An antiaircraft radar lit up from behind a forty-four-thousand-foot peak on the Czech side of the Iron Curtain. The Raptor’s newly-enhanced radar pinpointed it.

“One from Three, Feeler from across the border, behind the hilltop to our ten o’clock,” Sabrina reported the radar to Tempest One, Kian Wells.

“I have the same, Three. One to Flight, FENCE in. Arm weapons, but keep them tight. Do not fire.”

The Tempest pilots set switches to prepare for possible combat. They circled into a right hand turn north of the Austrian border and angled back toward Czechoslovakia.

‘We won’t have much time-on-station after flying down here from Luxembourg,’ Sabrina thought. ‘I hope there’s a Pegasus nearby.’

Enemy radar kept painting the patrol flight as they flew nearby. The pilots kept their eyes out since missiles wouldn’t necessarily come from the same point as the enemy radar.

‘Hahn’s sending us a flight of -16s, Grease Wells reported. ‘Stay frosty.’

Hahn Air Base near Lautzenhausen was home to the 496th Tactical Fighter Squadron and had sent four F-16C fighters to reinforce Tempest. Grease warned them not to become complacent in the meantime.

Tempest flew figure-eights in the area of the enemy radar station but well back from the border. An AWACS plane west of Munich tracked them and the approaching ‘Talon’ flight from Hahn. They also watched the Warsaw Pact side to ensure nothing surprised the fighters.

‘Tempest from Watchtower, Talon Flight is approaching from heading three zero zero. Thirty-five miles and closing. E-T-A five minutes.’

‘Roger, Watchtower. Tempest has eyes on Talon.’

Grease Wells and wingman Zeke Bradley, a noob, were pointed back toward France on the inside of the racetrack. Their optical sensors – aircraft cameras, not Mark-One eyeballs – had picked up the four F-16s approaching. The two flights soon merged.

‘Talon Lead from Tempest Lead. Suggest you initiate flight pattern one thousand feet below Tempest Three and Four to avoid blue-on-blue.’

‘Wilco, Tempest.’

A flight of four Czech Sukhoi Su-35 ‘Flanker-E’ fighters from České Budějovice soon appeared, mirroring the NATO force. A flight of four Soviet Su-57 ‘Felon’ stealth aircraft from Kiskunlacháza, Hungary, followed.

“‘Nuclear confrontation toe-to-toe with the Rooskies …’” Sabrina muttered.

“Hopefully not, Slim Pickens,” Grease responded over a direct link. “Watch your mic.”

“Raikou acknowledges,” she replied with an unseen blush. Sabrina’s father’s love of old things came back to haunt her.

The Soviet aircraft began mock charges toward the border to provoke a reaction. The Americans – Tempest Flight, in particular – were too well-trained for that. The military-political theater went on for some time. The Americans broke off in flights of two to refuel near Ramstein before returning. The Soviets and Czech aircraft made similar departures and returns over the following hours. Talon Three and Four approached from Ramstein when things changed.

“Tempest, Watchtower. Nebo-T mud radar site at your three o’clock just went to full power. Designate November One.”

“WARNING RED!” came an unwelcome call. “Talon Four has a hostile missile inbound!”

“Tempest One declares weapons free!”

“Tempest Two is Fox Two!”

An AIM-132C missile, a British-produced NATO air-to-air weapon, blasted toward the border and the Czech aircraft that fired on Talon Four. The Su-35 attempted to evade but disappeared in a dirty fireball moments later.

“Tempest Three is Magnum on November One! I say again: Magnum! Magnum! Magnum!”

Sabrina’s fingers worked the ‘pickle,’ the throttle in her left hand with function select knobs, and selected an AGM-124 Shrike II anti-radiation missile in her weapons bay. She slaved the weapon to Watchtower’s detector and fired. It dropped free of her Raptor before igniting its engine. It blasted away at close to Mach four.

“Talon Four, Glowworm.” Talon Four deployed a stream of flares to break the enemy missile’s lock on him. The enemy missile turned toward the F-16 from the 496th TFS instead.

“TALON FOUR! BREAK LEFT! BREAK LEFT!“

Talon Four broke again moments later, this time hard right, and escaped the missile chasing it. Sabrina’s Shrike II impacted the Czech radar site moments later, obliterating it.

“That’s a kill on Flanker Two and November One,” Watchtower reported. “Tempest and Talon, weapons tight. I say again: weapons tight per Ivory Tower.” ‘Ivory Tower’ was today’s call sign for SHAPE – Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe. Sabrina saw airborne contacts all over her radar now, on both sides of the Curtain. “Tempest Flight, you will proceed on heading three one zero, Angels three-five, and take position near Hahn until further notice.”

“Tempest Lead, I copy: heading three one zero, Angels three-five. Tempest Flight, form up.”

Sabrina followed her flight lead. They flew a lazy circle around Hahn Air Base for hours. It could be called combat air patrol, but that was a stretch. Tempest was ordered home to Spangdahlem, mid-afternoon. Personnel crowded Sabrina’s aircraft shelter when she returned.

Sabrina briefed her crew chief outside on the apron. She told the sergeant about aircraft performance, munitions expended, and fuel remaining. Technical Sergeant Hawthorne acknowledged the report and wished Sabrina good luck with the people inside.

“See if I wish you a happy birthday next year, Sergeant …” Sabrina grumbled before walking to the shelter.

“Lieutenant, I am Captain Ishita Sutar, 52nd TFW intelligence section. We need to talk.”

Colonel Doherty nodded at Sabrina as he had in January.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Captain Sutar led Sabrina back to the same briefing room as in January. Colonel Doherty sat with Sabrina again, gazing at the intelligence officer with interest when she told him he didn’t need to be present.

“Please proceed, Captain,” he said. She cleared her throat and did so.

Sabrina led Captain Sutar through the day until Tempest Flight arrived over Schönbrunner Wald. The intelligence officer asked Sabrina different but similar questions from that point on to see if Sabrina was lying.

“Captain,” Colonel Doherty interrupted. “Your questions seem like an interrogation. You owe Lieutenant Knox-Jones a reading of Article 31 if that is the case or you wish her to make a statement. You owe her an immediate statement of charges you will bring against her. If that is not the case, you will apologize to the lieutenant with your next breath.”

“Colonel, I am trying to ascertain what happened today.”

“You have access to AWACS data, the flight recorders of every aircraft over Pleckensteiner Wald, and ground radar telemetry from the area from American units and our West German allies. You will read my officer her Article 31 rights or change your tone. This interview is over either way.”

Colonel Doherty stood and motioned for Sabrina to do the same. They left the room over Captain Sutar’s protests.

“Sabrina, finish putting your aircraft and G-suit away, then head home. I’m sure USAFE, or maybe SHAPE itself, will send an intelligence officer to interview you at some point, especially after I talk to Colonel Newcombe. We’ll talk to Colonel Jessup at wing headquarters after that. And a Judge Advocate General’s Corps officer will be present at any future ‘interviews.’” Her squadron commander gave her a meaningful look.

“Tell Tom you had another ‘rough day.’ I know you won’t go any further, and he won’t ask. Try and relax tonight.”

“Depends if Germany is still here when we wake up tomorrow, doesn’t it, Sir?”

“Why do you kids have to be so depressing? Go home!”

Sabrina tossed him a salute and went home.

SHAPE didn’t send an intelligence officer for another three days. They were slightly busy. To Sabrina’s surprise, or maybe not, that officer was Major Hobarth. A Captain Martinez accompanied him.

“Good to see you again, Lieutenant, though I wish we were meeting for different reasons.” Major Hobarth motioned to the officer with him. “This is Captain Esai Martinez, Air Force Judge Advocate General’s Corps. He came with me to protect your rights. While we traveled together, we did not discuss this matter at all. Do you consent to his sitting with you?”

A glance and Colonel Doherty nodded.

“I consent, Sir. Thank you for coming, Captain.”

“You’re welcome, Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant?” Major Hobarth asked. “What happened when you reached Pleckensteiner Wald four days ago?” Sabrina recalled the events for him. “Why did you fire on the radar site?” She told him someone else had already fired on the Su-35.

“Lieutenant, the Soviets have blamed the incident on ‘rogue elements of the Czechoslovakian Air Forces,’ specifically the pilot who got the missile in his cockpit. There will be no repercussions for you regarding this matter. Alert levels across Europe are returning to normal.”

“So the Soviets blame the Czechs for this whole thing and get off scot-free, even though they probably told the Czechs what to do?”

“More than likely, yes,” Major Hobarth admitted. “That’s my unofficial opinion, of course. SHAPE’s official stance is this was a combination of poor training and control on the Warsaw Pact side.”

“How many more of these will I see over the next two years?” Sabrina asked Colonel Doherty with a sidelong glance.

“This and January’s incident are the only two I’ve seen during my time here. Must be you.”

“I got it from my dad,” she replied in her usual fashion. She looked back at Major Hobarth. “Now what, Sir?”

“Go back to work. Colonel Doherty probably has lots of fun things lined up for you.”

“He already made the noob Training Officer, Sir. Please, don’t give him any ideas.” Sabrina turned to Captain Martinez. “I’m sorry you wasted a trip, Sir.”

“Protecting someone’s rights is never a waste. Plus, I’ve now met the goddess of storms!”

“Thunder, actually. But don’t believe what you hear, Sir.”

“Don’t have to when I read the reports myself.”

“By the way, CINC AIRCOM asked me to give you this.” Major Hobarth slid an award binder and decoration case across the table. Sabrina opened it to find an Air Medal inside. “You’re free to go, Lieutenant,” Hobarth said. “Good to see you again, Colonel. Decorations for the rest of Tempest Flight are at squadron headquarters.”

“Okay, Sir. Now what?” Sabrina asked her squadron commander as they walked.

“Back to work, like the man said, you slacker.” He smiled down at her. “Plus, it’s time for me to heap more responsibility on you! Especially since you’re clear to fly lead in two-ship flight elements. Congratulations, Lieutenant!”

“Thanks, Sir! Bet you’re gonna regret that, though.”

“Is this what your mom deals with regarding your dad?”

Sabrina decided after the incident in January to research master’s degree programs. Since there was no such thing as ‘too early’ in the service, she figured it would help to have one well before she tried for major. That was years away, but the start of Worcester Poly Tech’s online master’s in aerospace engineering was three months in the past. WPI required thirty credits in various courses for the master’s degree. Sabrina figured she’d knock that out in a year or maybe slightly longer over their seven-week course blocks.

Coursework ate up more hours from Sabrina’s day. Tom was taking classes online as well. He would complete master’s of accounting classes by year’s end. He’d also take the CPA exam afterward. They resolved to stick to their ‘weekends off’ mantra as much as possible. There was no need to stifle personal progress, but they couldn’t let classes take over their lives.

Sabrina also started compiling her application packet for USAF Test Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base. She was under the maximum time-in-service restriction the TPS has, had a bachelor’s degree in Astronautical Engineering with a 3.7 GPA, was working on a master’s in Aerospace Engineering with a 4.0 GPA (so far), and had excellent officer performance reports in her file. The only thing she felt she was short on was flight time. Sabrina had slightly more than seven hundred hours amassed over the two years since earning her wings. That wasn’t bad, but she was still another five years and eight hundred hours from her Senior Pilot rating.

Sabrina felt her chances of being selected for the TPS on her first attempt were slim. She was too junior, had too few hours, her GPA was too low and was competing against too many ‘better’ applicants. Tom told her she was nuts. Still, he mentioned that he could finish his course online in the middle of a desert or in a lush landscape. Didn’t matter to him so long as he was with her.

Leaving for TPS would mean leaving Major Dawson. That was a point in its favor. He didn’t interrupt you off-duty anymore, though he looked like he wanted to. Dawson wasn’t the best pilot compared to Sabrina and her compatriots. His decision-making skills weren’t bad – if he was on the ground. The other 22nd TFS pilots couldn’t understand how Dawson made it through UPT and IFF being so hesitant in the air. He was a decent decision-maker compared to the average civilian but not the average fighter pilot.

“The Peter Principle,” Sabrina muttered. ‘You are promoted to the level of your own incompetence.’

“You ain’t kidding,” Griffin Hebert agreed while picking up a bowling ball.

“That and the Air Force has all these billets to fill,” Zander Soto added while lounging on the seats at their lane’s table.

“Supply and Demand?” Tom chimed in.

“And here comes the accountant out of left field! Wow! How did we not see that one coming?”

“Stay in your lane, Kian.” Kian Wells bowled on the adjacent lane. Technically, he wasn’t part of the conversation.

“I’m hurt, Zander. Deeply hurt.”

Soto refrained from flipping Wells off because of the families in the bowling alley tonight.

“How long do The Old Man and Colonel Newcombe have left before they leave?”

“Newcombe’s got less time left here than I do, less than four months,” Zander replied, meaning Colonel Newcombe would leave before March 2024. “Doherty is here until sometime next summer.”

“Doherty needs to fire his ass …” Sabrina griped.

“The Old Man would be hard-pressed to justify that unless one of us dies, Sabrina,” Kian pointed out. “Tank wasn’t relieved when Thor bought it, so I doubt Dawson would be out even then.”

“Anyway,” Kian Wells said as he sat down heavily and changed the subject, “I hear you and Tom are taking graduate classes online?”

“Tom’s taking Master of Accounting classes online through the University of Maryland. That’ll get him ready to take his certified public accountant exam. I’m pursuing an online Master of Aerospace Engineering degree through Worcester Polytechnic Institute in Massachusetts. Still thinking about Test Pilot School. I can take time off from the aerospace classes if I get into TPS.”

“Why aren’t you pulling the trigger on TPS?” Zander asked. “You’re the best pilot in the squadron! Sabrina, come on! You know you are! And for a fighter pilot to admit that about another pilot is unheard of.”

“She doesn’t believe that about herself, guys,” Tom pointed out. Sabrina glared daggers at him. “She thinks she’s too junior, her grades too low, not enough hours … I could go on.”

Nothing stopped the cascade of profane statements this time.

“BUUUULL SHIIIIT …” Scott Elliott sang from the neighboring lane while stroking his barely-regulation mustache.

“‘Stache, watch your language,” Wells warned. “You’ll offend the soccer moms.”

“He does that by breathing, Grease,” Sabrina reminded Wells. “Have you or Zorro heard where you’re headed?”

“Nah, too early. Zorro will hear first, but even that won’t happen until after New Year’s.”

“Hard to believe I’m not the noob anymore,” Griffin said as he scratched his head. New pilots had reported to the 22nd TFS over the past few months. “I think the AAFES price stickers are still on the newbies’ wings.”

“I think one’s still on your pants, Griff,” ‘Stache said.

Griffin flipped off ‘Stache Elliott … after checking the surroundings.