CHAPTER 1

The black shape sliced through the upper atmosphere like a black stiletto. Its short forward-swept main wings and slightly smaller forward-swept canard were reminiscent of the pommel and guard of a medieval knife. Its long nose, flattened by the chines along the sides, thrust forward like a blade of the finest steel. But even a blade forged and flung by Satan himself would have been puny by the standards of the weaponry concealed within this nose. Its wings, canard and twin inward-canted fins were the only excrescences to mar the long sinuous shape. Fast it most assuredly was. Every line and curve screamed that here was a machine whose total reason for being was to fight and win. Yet, curiously, it was not its appearance that would have sent a shiver of apprehension through an observer. Much more menacing was its undeviating flight path. The impression of mindless, arrogant irresistibility, as if weaving or dodging was for lesser things.

Far below, Greenland slips by in just three minutes, its frozen surface glinting in the mid day sun. Onward, onward, racing towards darkness as it outstrips the speed of the Earth's rotation at a rate that makes even the magnificent Concorde pale into insignificance. Baffin Island and Goose Bay are traversed in a mere six minutes. The 600 miles to the Canadian border with the United States takes a further three minutes.

The cockpit, unusual for an aircraft with such a high altitude capability, is a pronounced bubble reaching down to hip level to provide the superb visibility that is life itself to a fighter pilot. It is situated well in front of the canard so the view is unobstructed. Inside are two seats, one behind the other with the rear one raised to give its occupant unobstructed forward vision. Only one is occupied. In the front seat sits a stocky figure clad in a combination flying-cum-anti-g suit, flying helmet and gloves. The visor is up and the oxygen mask is unclipped and dangles under the chin. A wisp of red hair sticks out between the helmet and forehead - like straw from a roughly made scarecrow. Enough of the face is visible to show that he is no youngster. He seems out of place in this high tech projectile - a middle-aged drone strayed from the cosy office into the gladiators' arena. He sits with his head tilted back and askew against the headrest, his eyes closed and his forearms resting on the ample armrests. His gloved fingers brush the bases of a pair of short, carefully sculpted, be-buttoned joysticks set into the armrests. His loose fitting suit hides any signs of respiration. He might be a dummy - or dead.

Suddenly a computer-generated voice breaks the silence. Well modulated enough to be human, it is rendered startling by the absence of the human trait of tentative throat clearing when breaking a long silence.

"Commencing descent phase." - a few seconds delay - "Commencing desc..."

The figure stirred and silenced the voice with a curt "Roger". With every sign of reluctance he came to life, yawned, stretched, opened his eyes and blinked in the harsh white sunlight of the upper stratosphere. He hitched himself back into his seat, sat up straight and looked around his world. He spared scarcely a glance for the interior of the cockpit, the computer would interrupt him soon enough if any parameter went outside its design limits. Twisting and tilting his head this way and that he savoured the feeling of gliding in a glass bubble between the near-black of space and the blue-tinged planet spread out below. This was a view of which he never tired. It always kindled within him a great wave of affection for the often beleaguered-seeming world which he could encircle with such ease. As always of late, it led inescapably to a nagging unease that his view of such beauty should always be from the command seat of a weapon of destruction.

The cockpit was almost totally silent. The thin outside air made just the merest whisper of a high pitched rustle as it flowed over the glass-smooth nose and canopy. A tiny background hum hinted at the myriad motors, servos and instruments all around him. The outside noises from aft the cockpit were swept away as his supersonic speed raced him forward faster than the sound waves could catch up. Only by concentrating hard could he hear a minute sound from the engines, a sound carried and conducted through the structure of the aircraft itself. He leant his head to one side so that his white bonedome briefly touched the canopy. The direct contact conducted the sound more efficiently to his ears so that he could clearly discern the thin wail of the engines.

How well he knew the sounds of his aircraft, particularly those of the two massive, multi-mode engines mounted away back at the roots of the main wings. In normal conditions of sub-sonic flight the engines operated as fairly ordinary fighter engines. In that condition, their noise heard in the cockpit was a muted hum. As the split throttle levers were pushed forward the noise would increase, deepen and become more purposeful. About half way forward the throttles would hit a spring-loaded detent which marked the maximum 'cold' power.

A hard push, and they would slip through into the reheat range. Extra fuel would pour into the after-burner rings in the engine tailpipes, creating vastly more thrust. The price was vastly increased fuel consumption and huge, writhing, orange flames streaming from the tailpipes. These flames could be like a magnet to attract heat-seeking missiles. The noise was the roar of distant blow-torches used by giants. As the speed of the aircraft increased to greater than the speed of sound, the computer would command internal doors and passages to adjust so that more and more of the air from the intakes was directed to flow around the outside of the turbines to the combustion chambers. In this mode the engines ran as turbo-ramjets. The higher the speed, the greater the proportion of the air by-passing the turbines, until at Mach 3 - three times the speed of sound - the engines would be operating as pure ramjets. In this mode the sound was a distant shrieking spine-tingling wail. This was how they were running now. They were right at the very limit of height at which the ramjets could operate. Up where the air was so thin that they could hardly gulp enough in through their massive intakes to provide enough oxygen to burn the fuel. But up where the thin air also meant that the resistance to motion was tiny and the aircraft could travel very efficiently at enormous speeds.

Push the throttles further still and they would pass through another detent, and enter the exo-atmospheric mode. This was for even greater heights where there was insufficient air to support combustion. In this mode the computer would command hydraulic rams to slam shut doors over the air intakes, sealing out what little air was left. And valves would open to gush oxidant, as well as fuel, into the engines. In this state the engines were pure rocket, and their noise was the deep-chested rumble of distant thunder. Although the exo-atmospheric mode was primarily intended for extreme altitudes, it could be used at any time when huge amounts of thrust were required - gargantuan, rolling, roiling rivers of energy that could black-out the crew from the acceleration.

He shook himself and appeared to talk to himself. "Computer. I have control."

The voice-recognition program in the computer analysed the sounds, interpreted them, verified that it was his voice - and no other voice on earth - that had uttered them, and obeyed the command. It switched out of its autopilot mode and left the controls in the capable hands of the pilot.

His left hand eases the throttle joystick back a fraction and he moves firmly against his straps as the aircraft starts to decelerate. The path tilts slightly downward so that from its position high above North Dakota it is aimed at a point in the Arizona desert. Speed 12,000 knots, altitude 180,000 feet, angle of descent 1.8 degrees, distance to impact 1,100 miles, time to impact five and a half minutes.

At this height the density of the air is less than a half of one thousandth of the density at sea level so, even at this speed, the supersonic shock wave is weak. But it is building fast and, if the speed continues unabated, will soon reach cataclysmic proportions.

"Computer. Put the nav map on the bottom screen." Immediately the large screen occupying the whole central area below the flight instruments lights up to show a full colour relief map of the United States from the Canadian border in the north to the Mexican border in the south. A small plan-view picture of the aircraft a little way up from the bottom of the screen indicates the current position. The map slides down the screen in keeping with the aircraft's forward movement and enlarges in keeping with the rate of descent.

Again the computer breaks the silence "Thirty seconds to seventy thousand feet, speed will be Mach 1.23."

The left hand eases the power level back another fraction, increasing the rate of deceleration. Supersonic flight below 70,000 feet over inhabited territory is downright antisocial. The speed and altitude continues to decrease and only the instruments depicted on the screen immediately in front of the pilot give any indication of the speed slipping below Mach 1. A slight forward movement on the power 'stick and the deceleration ceases, leaving the aircraft to continue its descent at a steady 0.95M.

It slides from the cold near-vacuum of the upper stratosphere, through the lower stratosphere into the life-supporting troposphere. Now the sombre black of the high altitudes had given way to the familiar friendly blue that is getting lighter by the second as the altitude falls away.

The computer, monitoring and controlling the myriad sensors, detects a potential danger, "Collision alert. Light aircraft on converging course. Time to impact two minutes forty three seconds."

A curt "Roger" followed by "Computer. Overlay all traffic on the map screen." A dozen or so tiny aircraft appear on the screen, each the correct shape and in scale size. Each tagged with its height and speed and all coloured green except for one which pulses a soft red - the projected mid-air collision co-participant. He reaches up and slides the visor down over his eyes. A thin fibre optic umbilical joins the helmet to the seat headrest.

"Computer. Put flight information and traffic on the HUD." Obediently the computer processes the instrument, navigational and sensor data and feeds it through the fibre optic to the Head-Up Display. A small laser projects the information onto the visor so that it appears as faintly glowing numbers and symbols apparently written on the terrain in front of him. When he turns his head the instrument data turn with him but the sensor data stays in the correct position relative to the real world.

As he scans around, all aircraft within fifty miles are ringed by faint green circles -except the collision prospect, here the circle is red and pulses gently. The brightness and the pulse rate will increase as the distance closes and the danger becomes more acute. The conflicting aircraft is still too distant to be seen by the naked eye so he orders, "Computer. Info on conflicting traffic."

Immediately the computer-generated voice reports "Conflicting aircraft is a Beech Sundowner. Altitude eight thousand three hundred feet agl, speed one twenty five knots, heading one eight seven degrees. Time to impact two minutes eight seconds."

"Roger." Caution is second nature to him. Flying fighters is an unforgiving business and nothing should be left to chance. The aircraft is probably innocent and harmless - but ... "Computer. Report weapon status."

"All offensive weapons secured. Active defence system secured. Passive defence system set to close range." Okay, that collision alert aircraft might be innocent or it might not. Either way his guard is up.

"Altitude / speed alert. Thirty seconds to ten thousand feet."

"Roger." A twitch of the throttles to decelerate to the legal maximum of 250 knots below 10,000 feet.

Suddenly the conflict indicators on the screen and HUD change to green and the computer reports "Conflict alert terminated. Target has changed course and is descending."

"Roger." So much for his paranoia! It was unlikely to be a business traveller, more likely a Sunday morning joy rider out for a loaf around the neighbourhood. When it had turned away from a direct collision course the computer had noted the fact but the alert had continued until the computer had calculated that it was sufficiently far off a collision path for it to be incapable of returning to present a threat.

The black javelin swept over the Sundowner with a thousand feet to spare. The light aircraft was descending as if heading for home and that triggered a thought in his mind. That lucky pilot would land, taxi to the hangar or tie-down area and then stroll in the sun to the club house shack and slake his thirst with coffee or a cold drink. He was suddenly envious of this American cousin in his little Sundowner who could drop in anywhere for that glorious coffee that only Americans seemed to be able to make.

It was just after 9AM local time but it was three hours since he had breakfasted. What the hell! So it was unusual for a fighter pilot to pull up his heavy metal alongside the Cessnas and Pipers and stroll in for a coffee. Well, so what? It was a quiet Sunday morning and he could almost smell that coffee. Besides, this was almost a holiday, wasn't it?

"Computer. Overlay all airfields on the map." A scattering of airfields of varying size were indicated, each tagged with its vital statistics. He knew from visits to the USA spanning many years that stopping for sustenance at isolated airfields was a lottery. Often there were no facilities at all, and even where there were dining facilities they were of uneven quality. Some were plain awful but others were truly excellent. He would much rather take a chance at a small country airfield than go to a large hub where delays, questions and 'plastic' food were certain.

He looked at the map and saw that a small single-runway field lay almost dead ahead. It was as good a choice as any so he ordered "Computer. Radio contact with Barlow Field." The computer obediently looked up its data-base of the world's airfields and switched frequency to that used by the airfield.

He touched the transmit button on the throttles, "Barlow Field. Good morning, can a thirsty visitor get a cup of coffee with you?"

A long pause and the reply came back "Barlow Field to visitor. Good morning sir. Coffee and home baking at the FBO shack at the east corner of the big hangar."

"Ah, roger Barlow, I'll be with you in about five minutes." The airfield was now in sight and he eased the speed back to a whisper-quiet one hundred and fifty knots and ordered "Computer. Configure for landing." The wheels thumped down and the HUD symbols changed to give landing information. It was a nearly straight-in landing and he eased into a gentle left turn to line up. Power back, nose rearing high like a bird of prey, mains touch, reverse thrust, and the nosewheel touches, scurp scurp.

He decelerated hard on the short runway and turned off at the end. The taxiway approached the FBO shack from the opposite side of the hangars and he turned off to park in the shade of the largest hangar. "Computer. All systems to standby. Open canopy, lower port ladder." The bubble canopy hinged up about the rear and a lightweight centrepole ladder extended from a hatch just below the canopy rim. He removed his helmet, unstrapped, stepped over the low rim and descended quickly, then stripped off his g-suit to reveal a pair of nondescript slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. Rolling the suit up into a bundle he tossed it into the cockpit and said "Computer. Close." The ladder retracted smoothly and the canopy hissed shut.

He stood for a moment, stretching and savouring the clean desert air. In a another couple of hours it would be uncomfortably hot but for the moment the sun eased his sleep-stiffened neck like a magic balm. As he started to walk towards the FBO shack he looked around and saw that the whole place had a run-down look. Obviously it had been built a long time ago, probably during World War Two, and there were no aircraft parked outside. He guessed that the old hangars had been built for warplanes and now had more than ample capacity to swallow any 'planes owned by local enthusiasts. Any commuter airliners or business aircraft were likely to be thin on the ground on a Sunday morning. It was pretty much the story of hundreds of other airfields in this great country where there was enough land to spare even for airfields that didn't really earn their keep in financial terms. Long may it last.

CHAPTER 2

The shack was a fairly substantial wooden building with a veranda and it appeared to be the focal point of all human activity on the airfield. He pushed through the swing door and found himself in a large room with a bar counter along one side and a motley collection of tables and chairs scattered about the floor. It obviously did duty as a restaurant, flight planning room and general meeting place for local and visiting crews.

He was greeted by the only occupants, a man in late middle-age and a woman perhaps ten years younger, standing behind the bar between the coffee machine and the Unicom radio. "Howdy, mister, I guess it was you who radioed in a while back."

The visitor nodded so he continued "Welcome to Barlow," he stuck out his hand "I'm Clem Saunders and this is my wife Sarah, we're the FBO here." The friendly, outgoing gesture was so typically American that the visitor smiled warmly in return. After a few hours on the edges of space any human contact was precious but it was hard to imagine any race on earth who could make a returning pilot feel more welcome.

The stranger shook hands with them both, "Hi, I'm Jim Simpson. I'm over from the UK for a month or so," he grinned and wiped his brow , "the heat here is not quite what I'm used to."

The couple chuckled, "I guess not, we were in England a few years ago and it rained danged near every day!"

The visitor ordered coffee and a piece of fruit pie. Whilst he waited he mused over his welcome. Obviously he hadn't been observed as he landed and taxied in. No one could have been this cool after having seen his aircraft drop into such a small field. With a bit of luck no one would notice until after he had taken off. Questions he didn't need!

The coffee and pie were excellent and the couple friendly as only people living in isolated areas can be. He had been sitting long enough so he stood at the bar chatting. "You on holiday or business Jim?"

He stretched the truth far enough to be vague. "Bit of both really, mostly business but I'm going to get in a day or two visiting an old buddy and later I hope to get in a bit of sight-seeing from the air. America is such a wonderfully varied country that it's always a pleasure to rubberneck from on high."

"You're right, I never tire of it myself. What you flying?"

Jim had been expecting the question, there is none more certain when flying folk meet, "Oh it's a UK two-seater. I call her the Witch because she flies like a witch on a hazel broomstick." He smiled in a self-deprecating way, hoping to indicate to these courteous westerners that he didn't really want to answer questions. Better for them to think the Witch was not worth the walk around the hangar for a look. He was relieved when Clem was diverted onto what was clearly something of a hobby horse.

"Yeah, we get a lot of home-builts these days, factory airplanes have just about priced themselves out of the reach of the ordinary guy - at least our kind of ordinary guy. I guess the fat cats back east and in California are still doing fine, though!"

They continued to chew the fat, putting the world to rights on both sides of the Atlantic until Sarah suddenly said "Samantha should be back by now, she's been gone nearly two hours."

Clem grinned, man to man. "Our youngest daughter Samantha is doing her Private Pilot licence check ride and Ma's kinda worried. Cain't get used to the idea that female kids can fly just like guys these days. Our eldest kid, Joe, is a First Officer on 747s with a local airline and our next, Lucy, is married to a local rancher. They were no trouble at all but Sam has been crawling into cockpits since she was a toddler. Before the recession hit flying she used to be forever cadging rides from pilots. Hell, I had to start giving her lessons when she was twelve, she soloed on her sixteenth birthday! The only ambition she's ever had is to be a pilot, not just any pilot either but a test pilot on fighters!"

Sarah smiled a little sadly, "Yeah she’s a worry alright, but not about her having an accident. She's a good pilot and I'm as proud of her as Clem is but it ain't right that a sixteen year old girl should pray every night that she'll wake up a man and be able to fly fighters. I tell her to put more effort into being a lady and she'll be able to marry a rich guy and be able fly as much as she wants." Her smile faded and her eyes showed pain, "How can there be anything but disappointment and bitterness for a girl whose only wish in the whole world is to fly fighters?"

The silence became brooding and uncomfortable so Jim cleared his throat, "Ahem, apart from the problem of her being a girl, is she a good pilot?"

Her father looked up with a fierce pride "The best! I taught her myself an' I tell you she's the best I ever trained." A grin spread across his face, "Sure, I'm biased, and she's been flying a whole lot longer than most kids of her age. But she's flown with lots of good pilots and they all say the same, if she were a guy she'd be as near a dead cert for fighters as makes no never mind! Trouble is, she knows it and it gnaws at her. If she was no good she might give up but I guess she's like the rest of us, when we find something we're good at we want to ride it to the top." He sighed and poured another three cups of coffee and pushed one to the visitor and another to his wife.

They lapsed into thought and sipped their coffee. Suddenly the noise of a light aircraft broke the silence. With a gesture to the coffee pot and a "help yourself" the couple turned through the back room and onto the deserted tie-down area for a better view of the approach and landing and to meet the aircraft. Jim reached absently for the coffee pot, topped up his cup and took it to a corner table so as not to intrude on the family when they returned. He had been touched by the story of the girls dream of being a fast-jet pilot.

He smiled slightly at the thought of how he, as a child of farming parents in the north-east of Scotland, had driven his parents to distraction by his insistence that he was going to fly. He'd done it too, despite the odds. Now he frowned at the thought of how much greater the odds were for the girl. No matter how good she was, she really hadn't a chance in a million. It was true that there had been many women in aviation but nearly always their fame had sprung from the fact that they were women in a men's world rather than as equal participants. Some, like Hanna Riesch and Jackie Cochrane in the West, and Lily Litvak the Rose of Stalingrad in Russia, had been great by any standards but without a war they'd probably barely have been noticed. Even war wouldn't help today. The sort of wars that America might fight in the future would be unlikely to call for women to fly fighters - nor provide the time to train them if they did.

As the aircraft taxied past the shack he noticed that it was a Sundowner. His erstwhile air-miss companion perhaps? Perhaps she'd better not learn how she'd wandered through the sights of the most potent of the breed she coveted. The engine coughed to a standstill and the ensuing silence was broken a moment later by the chatter of excited voices. More voices than could be accounted for by the family.

A young girl in jeans and T shirt burst in through the back door, laughing over her shoulder at her parents and half a dozen men and women who, by their garb, had mostly been engaged in a bit of do-it-yourself maintenance in the hangars. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits and it was clear that the girl was something of a favourite. Jim scrutinised her closely. She obviously had little interest in her appearance and displayed none of the usual trappings used by sixteen year olds to make themselves look more grown-up and sophisticated. She was still very much a child, small, slim and boyish with long fair hair and a mass of freckles. The long hair seemed at odds with the rest of her tom-boy appearance and he wondered whether it was the girl’s own choice or a determined attempt by her mother to retain some femininity in her daughter.

He watched as they clustered around the bar and accepted cans of beer and soft drinks from Sarah amid a babble of good natured banter. The girl was laughing and flying her hands as she described some manoeuvre performed on the test. An old man in a greasy boiler suit banged his hand on the bar and shouted above the noise, "A toast. For Sammy and her brand new licence. May this be only the first of many and may all her dreams come true!"

There was a chorus of "To Sammy!" and they raised their cans and drank. A young blonde giant called "Hey Sam, that means your dreams of coveting my body, not danged airplanes."

The girl laughed "No way, Seth Peters..." she broke off "But I did see a body today that I sure could covet." She waved down the hoots of ribald laughter and became suddenly serious. They listened and she explained, "'Bout half-way through the test an airplane passed overhead and it was FANTASTIC! Jet black and long and lean like a Habu but with forward-swept wings and a forward-swept canard nearly as big as the main wings. It's fuselage seemed to have chines like the Habu but the engines were close to the fuselage." Her eyes had a distant look and her voice went quiet with awe "It made the Habu look OLD!"

Uh huh, so the girl had been in the air-miss Sundowner. Her description could refer to nothing but the Witch. One of the young women broke in with what might have been a trace of jealousy in her voice "Fancy getting to fly it, did you, Sam?" The young girl's face twisted in anguish, then she caught herself and the moment was past. Jim felt a momentary anger at the questioner, Samantha's dream might be an unusual one for a young girl but no one deserved to have their dreams used as barbs against them.

As the banter continued, his attention wandered and he was lost in thought when he became aware of Clem at his elbow with the coffee pot in his hand. "Care for a fill up?"

He pushed his cup out for a fill. "Clem, I have some contacts. If I could arrange for your daughter to have a flight in something fast, would you let her go?"

Clem looked at him sharply and sat down opposite. "Sure," he hesitated, "it might break the thrall, 'specially if it was a bit rough." He looked Jim straight in the eye with an expression of mixed hope and guilt and continued defensively, "I flew F86s in Korea and I know that that kind of flying can be a mighty sweaty, uncomfortable business. A rough ride wouldn't put her off flying but it might make her more ready to settle for something more attainable, and comfortable, than fighters."

Jim nodded agreement and said casually, "Oh, I think I could guarantee that it would be fairly rugged." He gave a conspiratorial grin and added "Just trust me, huh?"

Clem went back behind the bar and Jim waited patiently for a lull in the babble of voices which were still arguing about fighters in general and the mysterious black aircraft in particular. When the lull came, he winked at Clem and directed a loud grating voice towards the crowd, "Women flying fighters?" His voice exuded crushing scorn, "Stick to knitting and cooking and prettying yourself up, kid. Leave the real flying to men!"

There was a stunned silence in the room, as much for his rude effrontery as for what he had said. The girl jerked round, seeing him for the first time, her face white with anger. Her parents both moved as if to head off her retaliation but they were too late. "And why shouldn't women fly fighters? What, tell me, is there about modern fighters that women can't do just as well as men? The controls are powered and everyone knows that women have more endurance and resilience than men!"

He took a sip of coffee and waved the other hand dismissively, "Sure they can FLY, but fighters are to FIGHT!" He adopted a superior tone, "It's not like buzzing around the local area on a Sunday morning you know, kid, the whole idea is to kill or be killed. The few women who have flown in combat did it a long time ago and in 'planes that would hardly count as more than advanced piston trainers today." With the air of delivering a final clincher he added, "Same with driving. Women can drive but when did you last hear of one winning Indy or CanAm?"

The whiteness of the girls face was relieved only by the bright red spots of anger on her cheeks. "It's easy for you to say that! Men control everything about high performance flying." She fought back a sob of sheer frustration. "If we could just get a CHANCE, we'd show you!"

He gave a laugh redolent of contempt, rose and, with a dismissive wave of his hand, walked outside. There was a moment's silence, then all eyes turned to the girl who, on seeing them all staring at her, spat "It's true, we women just don't get a chance. Equal rights? Pah!" Then with a tentative grin she added, "I could beat that old fart anyway!"

Her parents exclaimed at such language but were unheard in the gust of relieved laughter. They were still laughing and joking at her sally when Simpson returned with a khaki bundle in each hand and a stark white flying helmet looped by its strap over his right forearm. His voice cut across the laughter, killing it dead. "Okay kid, I'm calling your bluff. Put that on and let's see what you're made of." He threw the left hand bundle to her and she caught it automatically.

She unrolled it to find herself clutching a combat g-suit. She stared at it and then at the stranger. "You offering me a flight?"

"Yes, put it on and let's go - unless you have to wash your hair or paint your nails, little girl!" He stepped into his own suit, zipped it up and adjusted the lacings of the g-suit. She noticed that the suit appeared to be of the standard NATO pattern but completely devoid of wings, badges of rank or squadron markings.

She hesitated and looked at her parents in mute appeal. Her father nodded and she hurriedly donned the suit. The stranger stepped forward, dropped on one knee and swiftly pulled the lacing up tight. Then he straightened and ran his eye over her. "Tuck that hair into your suit, I don't want it flailing around in flight." He waited whilst her mother helped her tuck it in and zip the suit up tight around the neck. He held out the helmet with his thumbs inside, pulling the sides slightly apart and lowered it carefully over her head. Wriggling it slightly to make sure that her ears weren't curled over he pulled it firmly down. It fitted well enough and he quickly clipped on the strap, pulled it tight and clipped on the loose side of the oxygen mask so that it hung under her chin. "We won't be at oxygen levels so you'll only need the mask for the intercom". Stepping back he gave her a long scrutiny and then, apparently satisfied, turned on his heel and with a terse "Let's go," stalked out the door.

With the mask bumping against her chest she half ran to keep up with him, and was followed by a tail of parents and friends. He strode past the front of the large hanger and turned left towards the aircraft. Behind him he heard a strangled gasp and turned to find the girl transfixed. "My God!" Her voice held real reverence, "My God, that's it! That's the 'plane I told you about!"

The stranger grunted with feigned impatience and resumed his pace. Arriving at the aircraft he said, "Computer. Open, and both ladders." The canopy hissed up and a ladder emerged to give ingress to each seat. He turned to confront the girl, "If you are sick in this aircraft, you'll lick it clean. Understood?" She nodded, unable to speak. He gestured to the aft ladder, "Right, get in." The girl climbed in carefully, unsure of where to put her hands and feet. He climbed up the ladder behind her, "Sit right back in the seat and strap in tight." He leant over her and guided the straps down over her shoulders. It was the standard full harness for parachute and seat and she was fairly familiar with it. She put on the parachute harness first. A strap over each shoulder, a loop up from between her legs, a strap from down by her hips at each side, and a broad belt from one side carrying the buckle. The two side straps went under and up through the loop and into the buckle. The shoulder straps plugged into the top of the buckle. Haul them tight -and then do it all over again for the seat harness. She felt trussed up tight, but not uncomfortable, just part of the aircraft. He showed her the seat height adjusting handle and pulled it fully up so that despite her small size she had a clear view in all directions except directly behind.

He looked at the girl, checking her straps and connecting up the intercom cable. Although the cockpit was pressurised and they wouldn't be going high enough to need oxygen he plugged in the hose so that it wouldn't flail about during hard manoeuvring. Finally, he clipped the mask up to her face so that she would be able to communicate via the built-in microphone.

She found the seat to be massively roomy for her small frame. Its back was raked at 30 degrees and her feet were only a little lower than her bottom. She had met this before in sailplanes where the semi-reclining position was used to minimise frontal area. She knew from reading that the reason here was more ominous. By reclining the seat and raising the feet the ability to tolerate high g loadings was increased. In this configuration a fit pilot could withstand 10g for a couple of minutes. Clearly, for all its long sinuous looks, this aircraft must be extremely agile to need this kind of seating. She looked around the cockpit. It was roomy and airy but strangely devoid of dials and switches. The instrument panel was completely flat and black. Only the be-buttoned control sticks on the armrests of each seat spoke of high tech. Twisting her head around she found that she could see clearly in all directions. The seat headrest was very slim so she could even see the tail fins. Great! She'd never had such super visibility in an aircraft before.

He climbed down and winked at the girl's father. "We'll be back by noon." A swift, raking glance along the length of the aircraft and he climbed swiftly up the forward ladder, swung himself into his seat, strapped himself in and connected up his cables and pipes. "Computer. Up ladders and close." The bubble descended over them and the locking bolts clunked home. "Computer. Cockpit cameras on." A video camera set in the top-centre of the panel in each cockpit switched on and a small colour picture of the girl appeared in the top-left corner of his instrument screen. A similar picture of him appeared on the rear screen. Normally the cameras were switched off but they were invaluable if either cockpit took a hit during a fight. His and his backseater could then assess the situation in the other cockpit and act accordingly. Now they would allow him to watch the girl as she sat behind him.

He clipped on his mask and flicked the intercom switch on, "Can you hear me okay?"

"Yes, loud and clear".

Satisfied, he turned forward and appeared to forget her. "Computer. Bring up all systems. Report status."

A faint hum was heard as the aircraft came alive and the computerised voice reported, "All flight systems correct. All power systems correct. All offensive weapons secured. Defensive systems to close range passive. All parameters set to standard."

He answered automatically, "Roger. Put flight instruments on top screens and map on lower screens." Immediately the screens in both cockpits lit up. Those set up in front of the two seats showed full colour pictures that were essentially high-tech representations of the traditional instrument panel, and the lower screen set at a slightly flatter angle, lit up with a moving map display.

The girl scrutinised the screens intently and was relieved to find that she could interpret the flight instruments without difficulty. The moving map display she had only seen before in books and films but again she had no difficulty in assimilating its information.

He looked out and saw that the small crowd had moved well back. He released the parking brake and eased the power lever forward. Smoothly, like a great black, predatory beast stirring from slumber, the deadly fighter started to roll forward. Without looking at the girl he started to explain the bare essentials. "Ground steering is by the rudder pedals and the brakes by the toe buttons. The throttles are sensitive, more power than you're used to. There is a detent about a quarter of the way forward, that's zero power. Forward from there gives you acceleration, back gives deceleration."

They had reached the taxi track and he started to swing onto it. "'Got to watch it in turns, there's a lot of overhang ahead of the nosewheel." As he turned onto the narrow taxiway, the long nose held them suspended 'way out over the grass. They rumbled smoothly around the rough old track with the cockpit nodding gently in a snake-like undulating motion as the undercarriage oleos absorbed the unevenness.

Stopping at the holding point near the runway he contacted Clem on the radio and went through the ritual of requesting and receiving clearance for takeoff before swinging onto the runway and stopping on the barely visible centreline dashes. He looked in the mirror to see how she was coping with the new experience. She was clearly excited but seemed to be taking an intelligent interest in things. He decided that she wouldn't dissolve in tears if he put the pressure on a little.

"Right, little missy hotshot. Full throttle to the first detent, rotate at 100 knots to 15 degrees nose up and she'll fly herself off at about 150 knots. Climb straight ahead at 230 knots and 2,000 feet per minute until you pass through 10,000 feet. Then accelerate to Mach 0.85 whilst turning onto a heading of 290 degrees and climbing at 5,000 feet per minute. Level off at 25,000 feet." He glowered at her in the mirror, "Got that?"

She nodded, apparently unsure whether he was instructing her on what she was to do or merely telling her what he intended to do.

He snarled with impatience, "Read it back, dammit!"

She did, hesitantly but without error. He looked at her narrowly on the little screen, at least she seemed to be able to think whilst being pressured. He pulled down his visor and ordered, "Computer. Put all traffic and nav info on the HUD." Then, folding his arms and pulling his feet well back from the pedals, he caught the girl’s eye and said, "Okay kid, you have control! Let's go."

She struggled to keep her voice casual. Hell, she'd spent as much time cultivating the casual drawl as she had learning to fly, "You mean, you want me to fly it?"

He rolled his eyes upwards in feigned despair but kept his voice sarcastic, "Only if you think you can cut it, little girl. Otherwise I can just turn around and take you back to Mummy. But make up your mind quick, we're cleared for takeoff but the clearance won't last all day."

The sarcasm brought a flush to her face. Oh, so that was the trick, was it? Make her take control with absolutely no training and then be sarcastic when she made mistakes. Typical bloody man! What he didn't know was that her doubt was not about her own ability to perform well but about whether he really intended that she should takeoff and fly unaided. His sarcastic reply had settled that doubt and had left an iron hard resolve that she would fly as well as any man in the same situation. She slipped her feet into the pedal stirrups and wrapped her fingers around the stubby levers. She'd never handled a sidestick before but she had enjoyed a few training sessions in aircraft with centre sticks. She'd always had a preference for sticks over control wheels, believing that sticks were for fighters and wheels for transports. (Now, though, even airliners were being produced with sidesticks, she thought inconsequentially.)

Everything fell beautifully to hand and she was suddenly both comfortable and confident. The runway had always seemed huge when seen from light aircraft but now, seen from this bubble perched ten feet up on the sharp end of a manned missile, it seemed grossly inadequate. She eased the throttles forward, fully intending to push it smoothly and firmly all the way to the stop as her training had taught her, but was so startled by the acceleration that her hand stopped with the lever only half way home. Her mentor's hand chopped down and slammed the lever fully forward.

Like a great black cat the Witch lunged forward, slamming her into her seat, knocking the breath out of her like a punch to the solar plexus. She had expected the acceleration to be impressive but had completely underestimated the sheer instantaneous savagery of it.

Suddenly everything was happening faster than she had ever imagined. In her dreams she had always been cool and in charge. Now she had a tiger by the tail and was far from in charge. The inexorable acceleration pinning her to her seat was registering 3g on the acceleration meter and every fleeing second was seeing their speed increase by more than 60 knots. A glance at the digital ASI showed it passing 120 knots and increasing at an unbelievable speed. Realising that, since pushing forward the throttles, she had done nothing to steer the aircraft she gave thanks to Heaven that the Witch had tracked straight and true.

His voice grated, "Rotate, damn you, rotate! We're going flying, not driving!"

She eased back on the stick and the nose lifted smoothly in crisp obedience. Afraid of over-rotating she concentrated hard on arresting the rise at 15 degrees, and suddenly realised that the takeoff was over and they were flying. The computer automatically retracted the wheels and configured all systems for flight.

Again the voice grated, "Speed, watch your speed!" Mortified, she snatched back the throttles, too much, damn, this thing reacted instantly. Some frantic see-sawing with both hands and she had the speed pinned at 230 knots - approximately. Then she realised that they were climbing like a dingbat, 12,000 feet per minute and, as she tried to get the nose down the 10,000 feet marker fell behind them. Blast, nose down a bit to get the rate of climb down, add power to get the speed up to Mach 0.85. The increasing speed converted the angle of climb into a higher climb rate and she was again frantically trying to co-ordinate both hands.

Used as she was to flying aircraft with large engine cowlings in front of her, she was holding the sleek tapered nose much too high. The rate of climb was out of hand again. Damn, damn, damn, 30,000 feet and still climbing hard. In desperation she pushed the stick firmly forward and was flung hard against her straps as she bunted over. Fully expecting some pungent expletives from the front seat she was too busy to care and didn't even notice when none materialised. Now she realised that they were still accelerating and that the speed was just passing Mach 0.95. Visions of being accused of laying a sonic boom across the area made her want to giggle. Her, little Sam Saunders, explaining to the court that she had been fighting to get the aircraft to go SLOW enough to stay subsonic! It was just too ridiculous!

Power back a bit more, gently back on the stick and the numbers all started to come together, 0.85M, 25,000 feet and... Sugar! The heading, she had forgotten to hold the heading and was still aimed west. A quick look around to check for traffic and then a gentle 30 degree bank to starboard. Slowly, slowly the nose crept around the horizon.

An acid, "If you don't intend to finish this turn over California then GET THE WING DOWN! You're not flying your Sunday flivver now, kid."

Too absorbed to be stung any more, she fed in more right stick and gently increased the back pressure until at 60 degrees she seemed to be vertical. Her helmet pressed down on her skull and she felt the g-suit explore her lower body as it went about its business. Two eight five degrees, roll out, wiggle woggle, done it! Mach 0.85, 25,000 feet and 290 degrees. A feeling of relief washed over her and she snatched a quick look in the mirror.

Any hope of congratulations were instantly crushed by the stony glare. "Awful, absolutely bloody awful! Women? Yuch!"

She ground her teeth in frustration but refused to be drawn. Instead she concentrated fiercely on flying precisely. In doing so she didn't realise he was watching her, nor see the twinkle in his eye. She had done well. She had kept her head and had stuck to the right priorities. She had concentrated first and foremost on flying the aircraft safely. Getting onto the right heading she had quite rightly treated as being of a lower priority. He'd give her a moment to settle down, get the feel of the aircraft, then put the pressure back on.

He was silent for a couple of minutes. Looking out with an apparent lack of interest, but watching the HUD carefully to assess the precision of her flying. Then he leaned forward and, using a light pen, caused a white marker to appear on the map screen. He indicated the point on the moving map display. "At that point you are to be at 230 knots, 500 feet agl and on a heading of 290 degrees. It should take about ten minutes. Use the time well, get the feel of her. Stay within plus or minus 5,000 feet, don't pull more than plus six or minus three g and do NOT go supersonic. Other than that, do as you think fit."

She acknowledged his instructions in clipped tones. That last "do as you think fit" bit home. She could be damned as much for timidity as for over enthusiasm. Well, rats to him! She would rather, as they used to say, be damned for errors of commission than for errors of omission! She would shake him up a bit! She glanced at him and found his face in stony repose with his eyes closed and his hands folded loosely in his lap. Tentatively she rocked the wings, nodded the nose up and down and very carefully yawed the nose a little from side to side. The controls were light and appeared to be beautifully harmonised but the thing that surprised her most was that the controls reacted instantly. There was no discernible dead spot, no feeling of stability to be overcome, just instantaneous reaction.

Without opening his eyes he murmured, "Lady, if you call that getting the feel of an aircraft you would obviously be best suited to flying an airliner - or an airship!"

Stung, she cranked the stick to the left and gasped as the left wing snapped down beyond the vertical with unbelievable rapidity. A twitch to the right and they were level again. Intrigued now, she nearly forgot his presence. Used as she was to staid and stable light aircraft the Witch was a complete revelation and she was utterly captivated by the crisp, clean control responses. A twitch to the left and the aircraft rolled through 360 degrees with unbelievable speed and no discernible tendency to deviate from its path. Back on the stick, gently to the left and she described a big barrel roll. Gradually gaining confidence she started handling the controls more roughly and found it to be a sensually pleasurable sensation.

He slitted open his eyes and watched her, noting the rapt expression and the smooth, co-ordinated way she handled the controls. She'd either been very well drilled or else she might indeed possess the Right Stuff! He glanced at the moving map and saw that they were close to the point he'd indicated. "Computer. Contact Nellis Range control." Then "Nellis Range from the Witch. ETA to outer gate is two minutes."

A pause whilst they checked the reservation he'd filed when he'd collected the flying suits from the aircraft, then "Witch from Nellis Range, you are cleared for a two way run."

"Nellis Range from Witch. Roger."

His harsh voice cut through the girl's pleasure, "Kid, you’re ‘way behind again! Get us down to 500 feet and 230 knots - FAST!"

Stung yet again, she snatched back the throttles and, with some trepidation, rolled inverted and pulled. The nose plunged until it was pointing steeply down and they were flung hard against their straps by the deceleration. Rolling out she gauged the distance to run against their rate of descent and deliberately held the dive as long as she dared.

If she thought the steep dive would disconcert him she was disappointed. As they plummeted down, he calmly said, "Computer. Altimeters to agl," and to the girl, "Your altimeter is now reading height above the ground, level out at 500 feet and 230 knots." The change in altimeter setting from the standard pressure setting used at higher altitudes to a ground-proximity reading had wiped a thousand feet off their indicated height and she was suddenly appalled to see how near the ground they were. She was lagging 'way behind the aircraft and beginning to sweat profusely as she yanked the nose up.

The aircraft responded immediately with such effect that she was slammed down into her seat and only the ministrations of the g-suit prevented her from blacking out. She had over-corrected wildly and they porpoised for a moment as she tried to get in phase with the oscillation and damp it out. At last she got her act together and stabilised the aircraft at about 500 feet over the flat desert. She looked at him expecting to be showered with abuse but he seemed as unperturbed as if he hadn't noticed anything unusual.

"Computer. Put the Nellis Range on the map." Obediently the range appeared on the map as a translucent blue cloud some 200 miles long by 80 miles wide. A thick black line snaked from one end to the other indicating the contour-following route. "Kid, follow the line, fast as you like but stay below 500 feet."

Like all young pilots, she liked nothing better than low flying but her father had disciplined her to accept the rules that forbade it. Now she was being encouraged, nay, ordered, to fly low and she accepted with alacrity. The first part of the run was over fairly flat desert and she had no difficulty in flying at 500 feet. She eased the throttles forward and as the speed crept up she became intoxicated with the sheer thrill of it all. Suddenly she realised that the hilly country was approaching with frightening rapidity - a quick glance at the ASI - good Lord, the speed was 600 knots and rising! Quickly pulling back on the power she eased back on the stick to clear the mountains.

"Low level in this ship means BETWEEN the hills, dammit!"

The growl brought near panic as she sought frantically to dip into the maze below. Bouncing them off their straps she brought the speed back to 250 knots and dived into a wide valley that stretched ahead. Trying to stay down below the surrounding tops she raced through the foothills and up over the central chain. An uncomfortable bunt over the top and then out through the foothills on the other side. As the ground fell away towards the plain and her heart slowed its pounding, she breathed a sigh of relief and gradually eased up the speed again.

Less than thirty minutes after entering the range they were nearing its end and she felt absolutely spent from the sustained concentration.

He settled himself more firmly in his seat, cinched his straps a fraction tighter then, "Computer. Low-level penetration info on the HUD for a return run." Immediately the flight information for a low-level attack run glowed on the terrain ahead. He extended his hands and feet to the controls and enunciated clearly, "I have control."

Even as she parroted the standard litany "You have control" her world came apart with murderous violence. She was hammered into her seat as he rammed the throttles forward and hauled up into a savage wingover. The wings rolled past the vertical and the nose chopped down towards the desert floor. She pushed down with her hands and feet in an involuntary spasm to try to get away from the inevitable crash. Amazingly the crash didn't come but the crushing g-forces of the pull-out were hardly any better.

They seemed to be scraping the sand and she willed herself to look at the altimeter. It was flickering around the 100 feet mark. Then her eye caught the Mach meter and she saw that it was past Mach 1.2 and rising fast. She was SUPERSONIC! For the first time in her life she was travelling faster than the speed of sound and she hadn't even noticed it happen! The Mach meter was nudging 2 and the mountains were approaching at an appalling rate. She flinched as they seemed to fill the sky ahead. Suddenly the manoeuvring so far seemed as nothing as her world disintegrated into a gyrating melee of earth and sky with the g-meter flickering dervish-like between +8 and -4. She was flung against her straps, the seat, up, down, sideways, struggling to keep her arms and legs from flailing around. The helmet weighed a ton and was one moment trying to ram her head through her shoulders and the next trying to wrench it off completely.

Fighting to cope with the battering, she strove to observe and understand what was happening. A glance at the ASI showed that the speed had dropped and was now flickering around Mach 1. They seemed impossibly low with terrain towering around them on all sides. Rocks and shrubs flashed by with a stroboscopic effect and the wings spent no more time level than at any other angle. Suddenly the sheer precision of it all rushed in on her. This was no buzz job. This was fine-honed professionalism where there was no bravado, just cool, calculated risk where the danger of flying into a mountainside was less than the danger from a missile.

She glanced at her companion and was momentarily nonplussed at the disappearance of the irascible middle-aged man she'd called a fart. The figure in the mirror was now a cold professional. Still and relaxed, only his fingers, head and eyes moved, controlling the aircraft with consummate skill but with no apparent effort. With sudden insight she realised that it WAS no effort. Flying no longer required any conscious thought, his brain was fully engaged in the tactics of the fight. Thinking, thinking, thinking, out-thinking the defenders, where was the threat, where was the potential to get caught out, where were the back doors, where could prowling defending fighters pounce. Dammit, with no man-made threats to worry about, this was EASY for him!

As they raced up through the foothills, the bunts over the ridges and cols became more savage until suddenly she was startled when he didn't bunt but snapped inverted, pulled, then snapped upright and flattened along the valley floor. Everything was happening incredibly quickly and she felt the exhilaration rise within her. This was FLYING! Through the main range now, always 'way down below the peaks, never, ever on the skyline. Through a deep, curving ravine, banking vertical to pull around the curve, rolling further to inverted to pull down the far side, continuing further to vertical the other way and pulling hard around another curve.

Now the foothills were falling away, the belly was spending more time trying to kiss the sand and the Mach meter was climbing relentlessly. He spoke in calm, relaxed tones, "Computer. Nellis Range Control." Then, "Nellis Range, the Witch will be clear in one minute."

"Ah, roger Witch, you are cleared to depart. Have a good day."

"Good day, Nellis, thanks for the ride." He chopped back the throttles and snatched the nose up 60 degrees. As speed was traded for altitude, he glanced at the girl, "You have control, take us home."

Still feeling sand-bagged by the sheer violence of the physical battering she had received, she responded as if in a dream. Her hands and feet moved to the controls, as she intoned the ritual, "I have control." Gathering her wits with an effort, her eyes sought the moving map to judge the required heading. She rolled smoothly to the left to point the little aircraft symbol to home and at the same time levelled out at 18,000 feet and brought up the power to catch the speed as it fell to 0.85M.

He watched her, appreciating the way she'd come to grips with the aircraft and the way she seemed to think naturally in three dimensions. Most new pilots find difficulty in merging a number of different manoeuvres into one, tending to level out, then adjust the speed, then turn onto heading. This slip of a girl brought them together so smoothly that he doubted that she even thought of them as separate manoeuvres. Was she that rare breed, a "natural" pilot? It would need a lot more time to tell.

The girl settled down to fly the return flight with every ounce of precision she could muster. Concentrating hard on doing a good job, there was still a part of her brain savouring the experience, exulting in it. This was flying, not as she had imagined it but a thousand times better than her rosiest dreams. In the past she had sometimes had dark secret doubts. Could she really do it, could she bear the g-forces, could she keep on thinking ahead when things were happening at lightening speed and she was being bounced off the cockpit walls? Now she knew she could handle these things and the only doubt remaining was whether she could ever approach the skill she'd just witnessed. But the optimism of youth made the doubt tiny and she could only feel the euphoria that here was she, Samantha Sarah Summers, flying a phenomenally potent fighter. Sure, there was a captain in the front cockpit but, she stole a glance at him, his hands and feet were well away from the controls and his eyes were closed. For the moment, that was more than enough.

At fifty miles to go he murmured "Set up the approach at 200 knots."

She took it as a hint and started to slow down and lose height very gently. Gradually the view became more familiar as the speed and height crept nearer the regime she was used to. He stirred to handle the radio call and then lapsed again into an apparent doze. She described a wide, careful circuit at 220 knots, lined up on the runway and eased the speed back to 200 knots. Juggling the controls with minute movements, she got the rate of descent about right and waited with growing apprehension as the runway came closer and closer and he appeared to be peacefully asleep.

She was just trying to decide whether it would take more courage to wake him to call for help than to land the Witch, when he came alive and said, "I have control."

It was with some relief that she answered "You have control" and withdrew her hands and feet. He scarcely seemed to move but suddenly there was no doubt that their wheels would strike the runway numbers. The wheels clunked down and a few moments later there was a slight jar as the mains touched, a brief burst of reverse thrust and the nosewheel kissed the concrete.

As they taxied in, Samantha's mind was suddenly a tumult of thoughts. It had been a wonderful flight, an incredible experience, but now it was at an end. Would she ever again fly in such a machine, taste the power and the freedom? The thought that she might not was beyond enduring.

They taxied in to park in the same place as before and were met by an even bigger crowd than had seen them off. "Computer. All systems to standby. Open canopy. Both ladders."

The hot, dry desert air was like an oven after the air conditioned cockpit and the girl felt her sweat start to evaporate. She scrambled lightly down the ladder and threw an arm 'round each of her parents, hugging them with an urgency she'd never felt before. It was as if she'd had a glimpse of another world and it had made her realise that the home life she'd taken for granted would some day end.

Jim climbed down and ordered the canopy closed and the ladders stowed. He moved with no great urgency, letting the girl transform back into her normal world, understanding her need and half regretting the flight. He knew that all youngsters had to move to the world of the adult some day but he feared that this girl was different, that she was a caterpillar yearning to become an eagle but destined to be compelled by her genes to become a butterfly. Beautiful, graceful, delicate and with the gift of flight but as far removed from the haughty eagle as her Sundowner was from the Witch. He turned and walked to the shack, avoiding the small crowd.

The girl had transitioned back to her old bouncy self, chattering fifteen to the dozen, ridiculously proud of the huge sweat patches over most of her suit. She was trying to describe the flight but was finding that the words eluded her. These people who had known her all her life, the youngsters who had shared her childhood and her flying pursuits, her mother who was so proud of her but so fearful of her future. How could they begin to understand? How could she find a common language to describe her feelings of ecstasy and fulfilment, the neck-snapping acceleration, the crushing g-forces. Yet she tried and they were unsure whether she had really had a mystical experience or whether it was just little Sam being over-the-top enthusiastic about flying. She turned to find her father walking quietly at her side. Their eyes met and he whispered "Now you know, don't you, Kitten?"

Yes, now she knew. Knew why he always had such difficulty trying to explain to her what it was like to fly an F86 over the Yulu River hunting Mig 15s. Trying to explain what it felt like to handle the hottest ship of the day at the dawn of the jet age. She hugged him and whispered back, "Yes I know, Daddy!"

They drifted into the shack, apparently all talking at once. One, the blonde young man who had teased her before, asked. "How far did you go, Sam?"

"To the far side of Nevada."

"But you've only been gone a couple of hours, hell, how fast did you go?"

"Over Mach 2 in bits - at LOW LEVEL!" She laughed, remembering the tumult of that first run up to Mach 2.

Questions and answers groping across a gulf of misunderstanding. She was momentarily chilled by the thought that she had been transmogrified to have more in common with the taciturn stranger than with her dear family and friends.

Clem and Sarah had slipped behind the bar and were handing out cans of beer and soft drinks with no apparent expectation of payment. Jim slipped away to the far end, poured himself a cup of coffee and took it to a table. He was sitting in brooding introspection when he became aware of Clem at his elbow. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "Well, I guess that didn't work too well did it?"

. "No, I'm afraid not. It was pretty rough but she just lapped it up. I think I made it worse, not better. Now she knows what a fast-jet feels like, no aircraft is ever going to feel the same again. I'm sorry, Clem, really sorry." He looked down at his coffee, cursing himself for interfering in the lives of these nice people and not wishing to meet Clem's eye.

The other man suddenly chuckled, "Hell, it was a good try and I'll bet you'd have given your eye teeth for a ride like that when you were a kid. I sure as hell would!"

Jim smiled gratefully, "Yes, I guess I would at that!" The grin slipped, "But it was different for us, being men it was just a matter of whether we could make the grade, not whether we could even get a chance." He shook his head ruefully, "I'll say this Clem, she really is pretty good. Put her through flight school and I'd be happy to have her as my wingman -sorry, wingwoman".

Clem grinned and shook his head, "Don't feel bad about it, fella. You don't know our Sam. She's been a dratted tomboy all her life and airplane mad since she was a toddler. She'd have tried her damndest to get into hot ships anyway, I don't think anything anyone could have done could have made it any worse." He laughed with more than a little pride, "I guess she's just a chip of the old block!"

Sarah brought the celebration to an end by reminding the young people that the school end-of-term party was that afternoon. She shooed everyone out and called to Clem that she was taking Samantha home to get her ready for the party. She promised to be back in time to help prepare a late lunch for the folk working in the hanger.

The girl came over to the men and, still on an obvious "high", handed back the suit and helmet, and thanked Jim for the flight. Then she added, "Sir, I guess you'll be leaving before I get back. Could you please fly over my school as you go?" A shy smile crept across her face, "They'll never believe in the Witch 'less they see her."

He caught himself about to smile back and answered sternly, "You get your head teacher to 'phone to say it's okay and I'll do a low pass." With that she had to be content. The two men sat in silence for a while. Jim cleared his throat, "Ahem, Clem. That girl of yours just might have the makings of a good pilot."

Clem grinned, "'Course she's good, I taught her myself" then more soberly, "but we both know that even for a man there's a big difference between being able to fly an airplane and being able to fight one. For a girl - hell, let's face it, it's danged well impossible to even find if she's got what it takes."

Jim stared out the window and kept his voice carefully neutral, "Well, maybe not. I'll be in North America for a month to take part in some exercises. She could hitch a ride with me if you like."

Clem looked at him sharply, "Hell, she's only a kid, I can't let her traipse off for a month with a man I hardly know! Anyway, Sarah would never agree." He looked embarrassed, "No offence, but you know what I mean."

Jim nodded "Sure, of course I do. Forget it." They lapsed again into silence, but now it was somehow a more companionable one. Eventually Clem roused himself and said he'd things to do before Sarah returned. Jim accompanied him to the door and lowered himself carefully into an old rocking chair on the veranda. The heat and silence of the desert surrounded him, making him drowsy until he eventually drifted off into sleep.

Half an hour later Sarah returned and quietly passed the sleeping figure. She joined her husband in the kitchen and he quietly told her about Jim's offer. "Surely you told him, no!" Her voice was sharp with concern.

"Of course I did - and he understood why." His tone was neutral and he didn't raise his eyes from washing his hands in the big sink.

She was always very sensitive to his moods, and now she stopped and looked at him for a long moment. "You're not sure though, are you." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Well no, not entirely. She's too young to go of course. Still..." The word hung in the air as he reached for a towel. "She is young, but so are all the kids who join the Air Force to fly fast jets. She's nearly seventeen, I wasn't much more than a year older when I joined up. Girls mature earlier than boys so she's probably a lot more grown up than I was -in fact, I'm sure she is. Besides, kids are growing up earlier these days."

"Clem! Surely you aren't saying she should go with him?"

"No, Ma. It's just that - well, if it had been Joe at that age we'd at least have thought about it."

"You know as well as I do that it's not a question of her maturity or common sense. It's just that she's a girl. You know what an Air Force base is like, particularly during an exercise. It's no place for a girl like Samantha. If she arrived in an airplane like that black monster she'd be chatted up by every young pilot in the place." She smiled slightly. "I may not be as young as I used to be but I can remember what you were like 'way back when you were in training."

"Yes, I know all that, but we maybe shouldn't deny her something like this just because she's a female. After all, if she'd been a boy it wouldn't have mattered so much, he could have joined the Air Force if he'd wanted to. It's different for Sammy, I doubt that she'll ever get another chance to fly anything remotely like that aircraft. For her it really is a chance of a lifetime."

"But Clem, it's not just that, it's dangerous too. You know how many crashes and deaths there are every year, I wouldn't be able to sleep at nights if she went."

"Yes, okay. I told you I'd turned down his offer."

She was quiet for a long time, then came to a conclusion. "Okay, I guess the important thing is whether he can be trusted to look after her. You've got some old flying buddies in England, go and 'phone them and try to find out something about him."

He pondered for a moment. "Well, I could try Sandy Smythe, he works in their Ministry of Defence now so he might know. I've got his home number in the office, I'll give him a call." Clem went into the small back room that served as an office and leafed quickly through his address book.

He dialled the number and was answered immediately by a crisp, cultured voice. "Group Captain Smythe."

"Hello, Sandy. This is Clem Saunders calling from Arizona."

"Clem? Is that really you? Long time no see, old boy." There was no mistaking the warmth in the voice. "To what do I owe this unusual honour? If you're coming to England I insist that you come and stay with Pam and me."

Clem chuckled. "No, Sandy, I'm afraid that's not it. I'm calling to scrounge some information. One of your guys, by the name of Jim Simpson, has dropped in and has offered to take young Samantha with him on a flying exercise in Canada. Well, Sam's not quite seventeen so we wondered whether you could find out what sort of a guy he is."

There was a very long silence, then, "A red-headed Scotsman in his forties?" The voice was suddenly very cautious.

"Yes, that's him."

Again the silence drew out, and when he spoke he was clearly selecting his words with care. "He's probably the best pilot either of us have ever seen. Usually flies an odd-looking monstrosity that could take out the Red Air Force single-handed."

"Uh, that's not what I meant, Sandy. What's his character like? Could I trust him to look after a young girl?"

"Oh, yes, of course he's trustworthy. It's just that, well... Dammit, Clem, he's a great fellow but he's a spook!"

"A what?"

"A spook. You know what a spook it. Someone who does spooky things that aren't talked about or reported in the papers." A pause, "And I didn't tell you that, Clem!"

It was Clem's turn to be silent. A spook. The fashionable name for a secret agent - a spy, or at least someone who took part in clandestine missions. "They're often not the sort of folks you'd trust your daughter with, Sandy."

"Don't worry about that, no harm of that kind will come to her if she's with him. But, knowing something of the sort of things he gets up to, she might find out what cordite smells like." His voice was terse and gave a clear indication that the matter was closed, so Clem changed the subject and chatted for a few minutes about old times and mutual friends.

When he returned to the kitchen his expression was thoughtful. "Well, did you find out anything?"

"Yes, I did. Sandy said he’s completely trustworthy, but he also said that he wasn't an ordinary squadron pilot. He said he was a spook of some sort."

Sarah had been involved with the Air Force for long enough to know what a spook was. In her experience it usually meant a pilot who was employed by the CIA and flew on spying missions. Now she digested the news. "So what's he doing over here?"

"I don't know. But he wouldn't offer to take Sam if he was on anything shady. I guess he's here on a genuine training exercise, I suppose even spooks need refresher courses now and then." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before adding, "According to Sandy he's an ace pilot. I suppose we should have thought of something like this, an airplane with no markings and a flying suit without badges."

"So, what do you think? Should we let her go?"

Clem shrugged. "I dunno. I have to say, I like the fella. In fact, I reckon he might even be a good influence on Sam, teach her some real flying discipline, that kinda thing."

"You'd like to let her go, wouldn't you?"

He shrugged again. "Well, she'd surely like to go, and I've got a feeling she'd be as safe with him as she would staying here at home. Now she's got her licence she'd be out flying on her own every chance she could get." He sighed, "Yes, you're right, I think we should let her go."

To his surprise his wife didn't argue, she just smiled and said. "Yes, I think you're right. It can hardly be more dangerous than the sort of things she usually gets up to!"

Jim slept through the bustle of Sarah preparing the meal. He woke as men and women from the hanger trooped in for lunch and he joined them at the tables. The food was plain but good, and he found himself suddenly hungry.

They were at the coffee stage when the 'phone rang. Sarah answered it and called across the room, "It's Mr Brown, the head teacher at Samantha's school. He says he'd be delighted to have you give a display and would three o'clock be okay."

Jim nodded, "Tell him I'll be there at three on the dot." He looked at his watch and saw that it was already nearly 2PM. He turned to Clem, "I don't like doing any sort of low level display without a bit of preparation first. Have you time to talk me through the local area?"

Clem nodded, "Sure, but you shouldn't have any trouble. The school is on the far side of town and has just open country beyond it. No hazards of any kind." As an afterthought he added, "I'll have a word with Sheriff Rantz to let him know what's happening."

They finished their coffee and Jim led the way out to the aircraft. He indicated with a gesture that Clem should climb into the back seat, then climbed up after him and handed him a helmet so that he could use the HUD, "Put that on and we'll fly it through on the simulator."

As Clem was fitting the helmet and adjusting the visor Jim swung into his own seat and closed the canopy to give the air conditioning system a chance to make the temperature more comfortable. "Computer. Simulator mode, full vision on the HUD." It appeared as if nothing had happened, the view was exactly the same as before. Jim eased the throttles forward and the view changed as if the aircraft was rolling forward. He taxied out and took off as if for real and turned left over the town. The view was perfectly lifelike except that there was no sign of vehicles or other life on the ground.

Clem was fascinated, he had been in many simulators, ranging from the crude systems of his Air Force days, through the modern but relatively simple systems for light twins, to the full blown Boeing 747 simulator his airline-pilot son had flown with him. The Witch lacked the motion cues of the large static simulators but the vision system was superb. He could well imagine a combat pilot sitting in his familiar cockpit practising for a mission before the actual raid. Flying the dangerous parts as often as necessary, trying different routes and different tactics.

They flew slowly over the town and circled the school. As Clem had indicated, the situation was uncomplicated. The school was right on the edge of the small town with the playing fields and then open ground before a ranch building some three miles away. Jim returned to low overhead the airfield and then circled the town to approach the school from the west. He tucked down low over the open country and brought the speed up for a fast run in. They spent fifteen minutes practising a display routine that Jim had done, with local variations, at a number of airshows back home. Satisfied at last he said, "Computer. All systems to standby."

With a suddenness that left Clem momentarily disoriented, they were back in a stationary aircraft on the ground with the birds eye view of the town replaced by a distinctly pedestrian view of the old hanger wall. They walked back to the shack to while away the remaining twenty minutes with a last cup of coffee. Sarah joined them and said "Clem tells me you offered to take Samantha with you." When Jim nodded, she continued, "She's a good girl but she's never been away on her own before. A harum scarum rascal and gets into dangfool mischief the moment she gets out of sight."

She sounded defensive and Jim smiled and held up both hands palms forward. "Please, say no more, I'm sorry I mentioned it. I didn't think about how it must have seemed to have a strange man coming in and offering to take your daughter away for a month."

Clem chuckled, "What Ma's trying to get 'round to is that we talked it over and, well, the kid's got to get off the apron strings sometime, so if you're still willing to take her she can go."

Jim looked from one to the other, moved by the trust they were showing in him. "Sure I'll take her, and don't worry, I'll see she doesn't get up to any tricks!" He smiled, "If she thinks that only good conduct will get her a chance to fly the Witch, I think she'll be as good as gold." He thought for a moment, "I've got to go on to Edwards Base for a couple of days to attend a meeting. How's about if I drop in about noon on Tuesday? If she wants to go with me, we can leave right after lunch. Would that be okay?"

They nodded, "Fine, we'll break the news to her after the party." They walked with him out to the aircraft and stood watching whilst he climbed in and strapped in tight. He checked his watch and flipped his hand, "See you on Tuesday, folks." He closed the canopy, taxied out and took off.

CHAPTER 3

Samantha had stood nervously by her head teacher whilst he telephoned her parents and had thanked him profusely afterwards. He smiled at her enthusiasm and waved her away towards her friends, then he raised his loud hailer. "Attention, please, I have an announcement to make. We have an extra attraction for you this afternoon. A flying friend of Samantha Saunders is going to do a flypast at three o'clock. He says he'll approach from the west so get yourselves out to the sports field in good time. Samantha assures me it's a sight to see!" They all laughed, knowing that to Sam a kite was a sight to see.

The pop music blared and Sam joined in the dancing with all the energy of youth, but she couldn't stop herself from checking the time every couple of minutes. After what seemed like an age the music was switched off and Mr Brown boomed, "Five to three, let's get out there."

Jim climbed gently away from the town and, looking over his left shoulder, had no difficulty in seeing the brightly coloured party in the playing fields. He scanned the area carefully, unscheduled airshows were not to be taken lightly. He called up a large-scale moving map of the area and lowered the visor to get the flight information on the HUD.

Still some miles from the school, he curved around the town and settled down towards the desert floor. He glanced at his watch to check the timing and then pushed the throttles gently forward. The speed surged up to a hair below Mach 1 and he bellied down to a bare 100 feet. Line up to traverse the unoccupied end of the sports field, time spot on and - across the fence.

Samantha made sure she was well clear of the crush and stared steadily towards the west. Everyone, including Sam, expected a sedate flypast as the aircraft headed on its way to its next port of call. It was therefore with a quick catch of her breath that she sighted the black shape approaching at incredible speed. Pushing so close to Mach 1 no sound preceded it as it poured towards them in utter silence. Suddenly it rolled inverted and the two canted fins appeared to slice the grass as it flashed across the field. It was nearly at the other fence when the noise of its passage hit them.

Sam caught her breath in awe. She was well aware that the aircraft had been subsonic, albeit only just, but it had still exuded a sinister deadliness. Yet, only a few hours ago, she had been in it when it had flown like this but at more than twice the speed. She wondered what it would have been like to stand on that deserted range and suddenly see the Witch approaching you like a Mach 2 shaft of doom.

He rolled upright, chopped the power and pulled up to the vertical, converting speed to height. Hard back on the stick to complete the loop and a vertical dive back towards the ground. A vertical roll and pull out to cross the field in the opposite direction. Slow right down and a slow - very slow - roll to let everyone imprint the lean shape of the Witch on their minds.

For the next ten minutes he enthralled his audience with a display of consummate flying skill performed in an aircraft with an unsurpassed flight envelope. His penultimate manoeuvre took him to the west of the field and he turned back to make a final pass. He approached slowly like a great black swan coming in for a landing. As the speed bled off, the nose rose higher and higher as the wings strove to produce lift by trading high angle-of-attack for speed.

Sam watched what she at first took to be simply a slow flying demonstration, but as the speed decreased and the nose rose higher and higher she became uneasy. Beyond a certain angle of attack any wing will stall and at this height a stall would inevitably be catastrophic. The pilot might eject but the destruction of the aircraft will be certain. Higher rose the nose, and slower dropped the speed. Sam stood rigid with fear, her nails digging into her palms, too frozen to even cry out a useless warning. Her mind screamed, "Get the nose down! Full power! Please, please, more power!"

But he couldn't hear and the angle increased inexorably until she knew that it was beyond hope of recovery Even the others around her seemed to sense that something was wrong although only the few who flew understood the danger. Slowly the nose rose to the vertical and it was as if everything was happening in slow motion. She waited in anguish for the total breakdown of control, when the lift of the wings and the thrust vector of the engines went beyond the corrective power of the control system. When that happened, there would be nothing left of the beautiful Witch but a gout of flame in a hole in the desert.

Inside the cockpit, Jim was well aware of the effect that this manoeuvre had on flight-wise observers. Only an aircraft with immense power and effective vectored-thrust control systems could hope to survive once the angle exceeded twenty odd degrees. He gently brought the nose up to the vertical, paused for effect, and then his left hand pushed the throttles firmly forward. The mighty turbines smashed up to full 'cold' power, slamming his head back against the head-rest. Then the throttles were moving through the first detent and he felt the thud as the after-burners lit, followed by another surge of acceleration. Still the throttles moved forward, through the next detent and he heard the clunk as the intakes slammed shut, felt the rumble as a Niagara of oxidant gushed into each combustion chamber, felt the g forces build rapidly as he feathered the throttles carefully to keep the acceleration within tolerable limits. Gaining speed at an enormous rate the Witch hurtled herself at the Heavens and the ASI and altimeter blurred as they sought to display her speed and altitude.

To Sam standing on the ground the effect was simply devastating. When the Witch hesitated on the vertical, it was as if in a last teetering, despairing effort to maintain balance. The next moment, a wave of sound hit them. The rising scream of the turbines, overlaid by the undulating roar of the after-burners, and then replaced by the gargantuan thunder of the exo-atmospheric motors. The towering crescendo of sound travelled through the air and hit them like a solid wall. For an instant, Sam thought the Witch had exploded, then she realised that it was accelerating straight up at a phenomenal rate. She stood in awe as the Witch receded at such a rate that the mind refused to accept that anything could recede that fast, and it created an illusion that the aircraft was shrinking as well as climbing. In less than twenty seconds the dot that had been an aircraft had vanished, and the crowd stood in silent awe at what they had witnessed. The head teacher called for them to return to the building and Sam turned as if in a dream and trailed along behind the crowd.

CHAPTER 4

Samantha arrived home in the late afternoon with a peculiar feeling of unreality. She felt confused, at once elated and depressed. It had been a fantastic day. A successful Private Licence check ride, a flight in the Witch, a party and an air display - all in one day. She was tired but not really sure whether happy or sad. The resilience of youth had ameliorated the shock of it all, but the corresponding lack of wisdom had made its assimilation more difficult.

She went straight to her room to change and eyed herself critically in the mirror. She looked well enough in her party finery but she felt no sense of satisfaction at that. She smiled wryly, maybe she really was weird - nearly seventeen years old and without the slightest interest in how she looked! She stripped and tidied away her clothes neatly. Then she donned an old track suit and trainers and gathered her hair up with one hand and slipped a rubber band over it with the other. The normality of her clothing made her feel more like her old self and she ran lightly down the stairs to the kitchen.

They always ate there when alone and the table was ready set. The meal was ready and both her parents were carrying dishes to the table. They sat down and started eating. Samantha's normally healthy appetite seemed to have deserted her and she pushed her food around her plate in silence. Her parents exchanged looks and her father said, "Penny for them, Kitten."

She looked up and contrived a smile, "Not worth that much, Daddy. I guess I must have eaten too much at the party. I'm not very hungry now."

"Uh huh. Well, if you don't want to talk about it, that's okay." and he resumed eating.

Samantha stirred her food for a moment longer then looked at her father, "It's just that I'm all confused, Daddy. When I flew in the Witch this morning, it was terrific, just absolutely the greatest. But this afternoon when he gave the display at school, well, it was different somehow. When he came towards us in that first high speed pass, I suddenly realised what the Witch looked like from the target's point of view. I've never seen anything so sinister as that long black shape with its strange wings coming at us so close to Mach 1 there was no noise. It was, well ..." she stumbled, hesitated and searched her mind for an apt analogy. "Seeing the Witch there, was like seeing someone playing with an executioner's axe with blood still dripping from it. Oh, I can't explain!"

Her father nodded calmly and she repeated "Oh, I don't know. It's just that when I was in the cockpit, I think I would have done almost anything - attacked any target. Afterwards, on the ground, I sort of saw the Witch for the first time as a weapon." Her voice trailed off as she found herself unable to put her thoughts into words.

Her father finished eating and laid down his fork and knife. "Kitten, what you've done is glimpsed the dilemma of flying military aircraft. You're not the first, there's no pilot worth his salt who hasn't experienced the same confusion. Military airplanes are the best, the most exciting to fly, the greatest flying experience of all. But they fly only because that's the best way to get a gun or bomb to the enemy. If it hadn't dawned on you one day I'd have been disappointed in you for being insensitive, and in your Mom and me for having failed you as parents." He smiled affectionately at his daughter, "Don't worry, Kitten, you'll get used to it. Right now it seems bad because it's new to you and because you have two lives, a big one on the ground and a little one in the air. Later on, if you stay in flying, they'll merge into one. Then you won't have this problem of one life trying to judge the other."

It was now the father's turn to grope for an apt analogy. "Look, if you're half the girl I think you are, you'll never quite lose the feeling. But, well, it's a bit like being a speculator on the Stock Exchange. At first, when a deal comes off and you make a lot of money, you might stop to think that when you gain, someone else loses. Maybe right at that moment there's someone about to jump off a window ledge, just because your astuteness has ruined him. Later though, you realise that it wasn't really your fault, it's just that the world isn't always a place where everybody can get everything they want. You don't grow callous but you do grow to accept that what you do has a bigger purpose and that, as long as you play the game by the rules and by your conscience, you can live with an easy mind." He continued, "No one in their right mind could ever say that war was anything but a grotesque obscenity. Nobody knows that better than someone who has fought in one. But try to see the bigger picture. People say things like 'Better dead than Red'. Well, that's rubbish, I'm sure most Russians enjoy their life just as much as most Americans do theirs. The point is that the struggle to civilisation has been a long and bloody one and it's not necessarily a one-way ticket. We think of fighting Russians but that's just because they are so powerful that they could present the most danger if a fight did start. But don't kid yourself, there are a helluva lot of regimes that are a helluva sight worse than Russia. We, and all other countries, need armed forces to combat them, and to prevent a slide back into the Dark Ages." He finished, feeling that he hadn't quite got through, but hoping that he might have planted a seed that would grow.

Samantha was subdued by her own uncertainty and her father's intensity. "Thanks, Daddy, but I guess it doesn't matter anyway, I don't suppose I'll ever get to fly anything like the Witch again."

Her father accepted a plate of fresh fruit and cream from his wife and said casually, "Oh, I think that would be up to you. Before he left, Mr Simpson said he'd be calling again on Tuesday and that if you wanted to go with him to the exercise in Canada, he would take you."

The girl's torpor dropped from her and she sat bolt upright. "Is that true?" She turned to her mother. "Did he really say that I could go with him in the Witch?"

Her mother smiled, tongue in cheek. "Yes, dear, he did. We said we weren't sure you'd want to spend nearly a whole month on an Air Force Base doing nothing but flying, but we said we'd ask you."

She looked aghast from one parent to the other. "Mom, Dad, how could you say that! You know I'd love to go. If he thinks I'm not very keen he might not bother to come back." She jumped up in agitation. "Do you know where he's staying? We might be able to 'phone and tell him."

Her parents laughed affectionately and her father answered, "Calm down, calm down, your mother's only joshing. Of course he knows you'll want to go and he definitely will return in time for lunch on Tuesday. Tomorrow you and your mother can sort out your clothes and things but right now sit down and finish your meal. Unless of course you feel unwell and might be better to have a few days in bed!"

Miraculously her appetite returned and she ate everything that was put in front of her in record time. While doing so she laughed and chattered with excited gaiety, all her doubts of a few minutes before quite forgotten.

The following morning Samantha was up bright and early and set to work with her mother to pack two suitcases. Sarah had been an Air Force wife for long enough to know to a nicety what was, and what was not, acceptable in an Officers' Mess. Her daughter had visited the Mess with her parents on a number of occasions but had never lived there and had certainly never attended a dining-in night. Her mother gave her a crash course on how to behave and found her a willing pupil. She may not have been intrinsically interested in Mess etiquette but her mother left her in no doubt of the likely outcome if she embarrassed her mentor with a faux pas.

CHAPTER 5

When the Witch radioed for landing clearance at 10:00 hours on Tuesday morning, it was Sarah who answered. Jim landed, taxied in and parked in the now-familiar place. He strolled over to the shack to find Sarah alone and clearing up after morning coffee break for the staff from the few small firms on the airfield. She welcomed him warmly and poured him a coffee. "Samantha has gone to Phoenix with her father on a charter to pick up some spare parts. I expect them back about eleven." She looked a little uncertain, "I hope you don't mind waiting, we didn't expect you until nearer twelve."

He assured her that he didn't in the least mind waiting and they fell to chatting about the differences in living between the States and Britain. By the time the drone of the Sundowner disturbed them they were happily conversing as old friends. The Sundowner taxied in and stopped on the tie-down area. The girl had been flying as Pilot in Command in the left seat and the shut-down checklist kept her a little longer in the cockpit than her father. She ran to catch him up and they walked arm in arm to the shack. Jim stood up to shake hands with Clem and then eyed the girl. "Well, are you coming with me or not?"

"Yes please, I'd love to come." she was anxious lest she 'blow it' by saying the wrong thing.

He grunted, "Okay, but get this. You do exactly as I tell you. Step out of line just once and you'll be back here so fast you won't know what hit you! Ok?"

She nodded apprehensively, "Yes, I understand."

"Right, are you all packed? No more than two big cases mind."

She nodded and indicated two medium sized suitcases behind the door. Sarah sent the girl off to get cleaned up and by the time she returned lunch was on the table. They ate a leisurely meal with Samantha all ears as the men reminisced about flying exploits in the earlier days of jet combat. She marvelled at how she learned more about her father's adventures in the space of an hour than she had in all the rest of her life. She also noticed that things left unsaid could bring a quick smile of mutual understanding and how some humorously-told episode could cause a sad, preoccupied expression to flit briefly across the speaker's face.

When Sarah brought the coffee, Clem turned to Jim, "Well, where do you go from here?"

Jim reached down and plucked a bundle of maps from the pocket of his rolled-up flying suit lying on the floor at his feet. He spread a couple out and indicated their present position and their destination in Canada. Turning to the girl he said, "Okay, kid, if you're going with me, you're going to earn your keep, so you can do the driving. Now, this is what we're going to do, so listen carefully. We don't want to hang about, so I want a good clean transit."

He indicated their starting and finishing points. "The distance is about 1,400 miles so it's worth going high for a fast flight. Now, we don't want a noticeable sonic boom reaching the ground. Normally that means staying subsonic below seventy thousand feet. However, if we climb steeply enough our boom will spread sideways and won't reach the ground, so you're going to climb out really steep. Not less than eighty degrees. Ok?"

"Yes, okay."

"Right, you take off on full cold power, pull up to at least 80 degrees and turn onto a heading of 010 degrees. Stay on full power and you'll go supersonic at about 20,000 feet and be at about Mach 2 by the time you pass through 70,000 feet. Keep on going to about 100,000 feet and then pull gently through inverted to keep us feeling our normal weight in our seats. Roll out and level out at 125,000 feet and Mach 3. Okay?" He eyed the girl interrogatively.

She nodded dumbly. He seemed to regard this as routine, whereas everything she'd read indicated that it was a long, long way from that. She knew that flight between 80,000 feet and the 300 or so miles of low earth orbit was the most difficult of all. The air was thick enough to create drag and aerodynamic instability but not thick enough to support the aircraft properly. She knew that the few aircraft in the world that could get up to 100,000 feet did so only in the hands of extremely experienced and skilled pilots; or even only when controlled by the computer of the automatic pilot.

Her father chipped in, "Heck, that's getting a bit extreme, isn't it? I thought you needed space suits and the like for that sort of stuff."

"Normally yes, but the Witch has no need for that, and she handles just the same at 200,000 feet as at 20,000 feet. You see, she's fly-by-light and the stick just commands the computer. At low altitude the computer normally uses only the standard ailerons, elevator and rudders but at higher altitudes it uses thrusters like on a space capsule to give the same control response. Even if you pull a tight turn she'll respond just the same, pull just as much g, because the computer will automatically use vectored thrust to compensate for the thin air."

He turned back to the girl. "The level flight transit time will be about three quarters of an hour and you'll have to start down a couple of hundred miles short of destination. Now, you won't be able to work the reverse of the steep climb trick; it would be far too uncomfortable, so you'll have to plan your descent properly to comply with the law." Again he looked piercingly at her, "Okay?"

"Yes, okay." But thinking feverishly about how to plan such a descent.

He caught her doubt, "Look kid, if you have questions, ask them. Don't just look doubtful and try to flannel your way through. You'll find that forward planning in the Witch is much more difficult than you're used to; everything is happening much faster and the power under your left hand has to be used sparingly when things get tight." He paused, his tone not exactly unkind but certainly uncompromising. "On your last trip you didn't have the benefit of the HUD but from now on it and the onboard computer are going to be your very best friends. If you're going to be any use as the Witch's apprentice, you MUST learn to use them properly."

He switched his gaze to the girl's parents. "Well, I guess we'd better be going. Thanks for your hospitality, and don't worry, I'll see she doesn't get up to any mischief!" He pushed back his chair, reached for the suits at his feet and handed one to the girl. Then he stood up and started to don his own suit.

Samantha hurriedly suited up and went with her father to get her suitcases. They walked to the aircraft and stowed the cases in a hatch just forward of the foreplane. She hugged both her parents, then ran quickly up the ladder to join Jim in the cockpit. They strapped in and called their goodbyes as the canopy dropped into place. He brought up all systems and then said to the girl, "You have control. Taxi to the holding point at the end of the runway. She acknowledged and, with a quick look at her parents, started the Witch slowly on its way.

She was more apprehensive about the taxiing than about the flying. She knew only too well how many experienced pilots had been humbled by running a wheel off the edge of the concrete and bogging down in the soft soil. Easy to do at any time but far, far easier when perched right in the nose of this long, lean thoroughbred. They travelled in a darting series of fits and starts as she tried to get the hang of the responsiveness of this great solid lump of an aircraft on the ground. Eventually, with the help of a fair bit of pedalling from the front seat, they arrived at the holding point. He showed her how to lower her visor and ordered the computer to put the flight information on both HUDs. Then he spent a few minutes talking her through the salient points of the display.

He called for takeoff clearance, then, "Okay Kid, let's go."

She carefully turned onto the runway and lined up on the centreline. Then pushed the throttles firmly forward. This time she was expecting the acceleration but was still caught off balance by the savagery of the thrust in the back. Being able to see the instruments in the HUD without taking her eyes off the runway was a tremendous help and she got the nose up more or less on time. Lift off followed immediately and she concentrated hard on pulling the nose up to the vertical. It seemed totally unnatural and she had to force herself to rely on the instruments when every fibre in her body was screaming that they were already over on their back. After what seemed an age she got the angle stabilised and risked a quick glance to the side to check on the position of the real world.

It wasn't a good idea! The angle and rate of climb combined to produce an unsettlingly disorientating effect. Snatching her eyes back to the front she concentrated on scanning the instrument readings on the HUD and saw that they were already through 30,000 feet and well over Mach 1. As their height increased the light blue of the sky turned to dark indigo as the mass of air between them and space decreased rapidly. At 100,000 feet she eased gently back on the stick and curved from the vertical to the horizontal. A quick sideways movement of the stick and they were right way up, then a gentle climb for a few seconds to get them to their cruising altitude of 125,000 feet. Gently back on the throttles to catch the Mach 3 cruising speed and - they were there, on height, on speed and on course!

She exhaled with relief and realised that she had been holding her breath. Trying not to move too much in case she nudged the controls, she looked carefully around. The view was magnificent but curiously familiar, just like all the photographs she'd seen taken from space. The sky, though, was unexpectedly alien in its blackness. It was a crazy feeling, but in looking up it felt like looking down into a vast black void. She shivered and wondered whether she could ever get used to that. Could anyone with an imagination ever get used to looking into the infinity of space?

He had monitored the climb and transition to level flight very carefully and had been moderately satisfied. Even bearing in mind that the Witch was really very easy to fly, the girl had performed well in a very unfamiliar situation. Now he sat as if asleep and left her get on with the job in hand. She gauged distance on the moving map by eye and decided that she would start down when overhead Winnipeg.

She eased back on the throttles and forward on the stick to try to maintain Mach 3 whilst sliding gently down through the stratosphere towards 70,000 feet. At 90,000 she started to slow down and had to do only a little bit of juggling to get the speed subsonic before passing down through 70,000 feet. After the desert of Arizona this was the far north and there was a lot of cloud about. Without asking what to do she turned gently to and fro to skirt the biggest of them. Gradually she brought the speed back until at 10,000 feet they were whistling along at a pedestrian 250 knots.

He stirred, "Computer. Contact White Lake Base." Then "White Lake from the Witch, ETA in 10 minutes."

The reply was immediate, as befitted a busy NATO Base. "Witch, you are cleared to land on runway 023. Uplinking data." A burst of digitised telemetry sped from the ground computer to the onboard computer and appeared at the bottom of the screen in front of each pilot. The girl was impressed and relieved by this. She had been dreading having to receive, copy and make sense of the cryptic and quickfire military communications. This advanced bit of military wizardry took its place in her mind alongside the HUD and the moving map as being worthy of the highest praise.

When she had heard that the designated runway was 023 she had curved to the left so as to approach the airfield on the required heading of 023 degrees.

He instructed the computer to reset the datum of her altimeter so that it would read height above the runway and she concentrated hard on trying to arrive at exactly the right point in three-dimensional space to intercept the glidepath to the runway threshold. The point arrived and she pulled off a little power and started to slide down the glideslope.

He reached for the controls, "I have control, but follow me through." She kept her hands lightly on the controls as the computer-driven servos moved them to exactly follow his movements. He talked, "Follow the HUD, keep the speed at 225 knots and the glideslope at 3 degrees. Don't stray far off the speed or slope, or it will all get out of hand. Watch the