Starfighter

Force down in the seat, I glance to the side and the flashing blurs instantly drop from view, the bursting reflections on the wingtip disappear quickly. Gear switches up. Within the dull roaring rush surrounding us that accompanies our wing tilted against the orange-covered black horizon, a sturdy motor whine vibrates in the seats. The electronic green lines swing in on the matchbook screens thunk, thunk gear doors closed, 'Gear Up' in tiny scientific print. The brilliant candy-red LED numbers of the altimeter somersault higher values ears popping. In an instant, the world changes and we are removed from the loose, lazy ground and into that infinitely expansive element of solid force and motion that demands uncompromising performance from your body and soul. Jerk port aileron a punch up in the seat the stars snap clockwise and stop the instant we counteract. Body wants to fall left, hefty straps hug me to the seat. L-shaped featherweight headset clasps and holds the tiny roll microphone at my lips. Com button down.

'Red Two and Four, moving into the pattern, stand by for one round formation.'

Dave snaps formation lights switch on wingtips light.

'Roger.'

An electronic reply in our ear canals.

A glassy rush with a sudden burst of thunder pervades the field as the strafers lift off darting off the runway like glittering clusters of nav lights shooting off a barrel of stars in twin rows. We maintain the pushing bank as the strafers climb and turn sharply, closing in on us to hover at our wingtips in a matter of seconds. Head is on a pivot, C-5's deadly-looking pitot deftly moves up to the starboard wingtip and stops under Sandy's command on her controls. Our headsets talk again quickly.

'Red Two, check.'

'Red Four, check.'

We ease out of the turn. Level. In one-meter formation you can't snap anything. Smoothness is the key. Com button down. The pilot within me talks.

'Mate. Down we go.'

Dave eases the grips forward, my left hand slides the throttles ahead, 30 marks on the line. Inner organs strain up as we accelerate in the dive to the black, invisible ground, relying totally on the convulsing numbers on the altimeter, flailing in a precise and steady manner with the cold accuracy of a computer. Leveling out, the controls tremble ever so slightly, a sudden, gentle tug on our straps the controls solid and stiff. Mach 1.1 and accelerating. We are accelerating at 1 G and my eyes are beginning to adjust to the blackness ripping from ahead to below. Grazed by the last light of the moons setting in the west ghostly trees and shrubs shoot out of the horizon and shred to a blur surrounding our symmetrical formation. We are at 180 meters altitude and accelerating to Mach 3. Shock wave cones forcing the strafers to extend the formation to 3 meters on either side, wingtips glowing and flashing as if pulling live wires apart from our separating craft. Ground speed indicator reaches 3000 k.p.h. 3100 3200 3300 3350 acceleration easing com button down. 'Mach 3, check. Stand by.'

Left hand grasps the throttles. Button down again.

' aaaaand cut it!'

Throttles yanked back. We slam forward into the straps, a piercing scream bursts into the cockpit and descends in frequency as the engines fight the kilohurricane. Com button down once again, ground racing, LED numbers flickering, wingtips flashing

'Ready to break... now!'

Grips yanked back, a punch in the gut, straight climb, the strafers flame off to the sides. The three ships split a symmetrical explosion of three trails darting outward.

Pressed down in the seat, climbing steadily, altimeter flashing, I'm activating my combat computers and deceleration