War with Russia

Bertinetti saluted. Next, he stepped forward to where Teteris was standing in front of the digital map issuing orders in Latvian. He quietly thanked him and wished him luck. Teteris gave him a grim smile and a nod of thanks and turned back to the job at hand.

Five minutes later, he was beside his F-16 being greeted by the Crew Chief. “All ready to go, Sir. I’ve connected ground power. The Data Transfer Cartridge weapons info is all set and ready to go. Panels, weapon racks, pneumatic pressures and oil are also checked and good to go. Let’s get you into your G-suit.”

Quickly Bertinetti struggled into his G-suit, climbed the ladder and lowered himself into the familiar cockpit. The Crew Chief expertly strapped him into his seat, hooked up the G-suit hose and parachute harness, then climbed down and removed the ladder.

Alone in the cockpit, his heart thumping as adrenalin coursed through his body, Bertinetti forced himself to calm down and run through the standard pre-start routine, as if this were just another training flight. He positioned his switches rapidly and glanced around the cockpit. Satisfied that all was in order, he put on his helmet, then hooked up the oxygen hose and attached it to his harness, before plugging it into his Combat Edge vest. As the flow of oxygen kicked in, he relaxed and breathed deeply. Above him he heard the hum of the canopy closing and locking.

Ready, he radioed the tower for start clearance. Then he heard the Crew Chief’s voice: “Clear aft and front. Chocks in. Fire-guard posted. Go for start when you are ready.”

“JFS—Jet Fuel Starter—ON,” he replied and heard the whine of the jet fuel starter engine. He looked down and noted the dial of the Revs per Minute gauge, near his right kneecap, beginning to gently wind up. Above and beside him the strobe and navigation lights began to flash.

“Twenty percent—check.” Bertinetti lifted the throttle up and clunked it forward through the gate to allow the high-pressure fuel to start flowing to the main engine. The plane came to life; once again a living, flame-snorting creature.

“Forty percent. Shut down JFS.”

The whine turned to a scream. “Seventy percent—main engine start complete. Avionics on, inertial navigation system aligned, aircraft systems check. Ready for departure.”

The aircraft began to move and Bertinetti pulled out toward the runway. A moment later there was a voice from the control tower in his headset: “Apollo, hold position. Bandits incoming!”

Bertinetti thought fast; it was too late to stop now and, anyway, he would be a stationary target out here on the tarmac. “Cobra Two, I’m rolling now. I’ll take my chances.” No time for a normal takeoff. Just get into the air as quickly as possible.

Not a moment too soon either, as ahead of him, alongside the perimeter fence, he saw flashes of gunfire as four Bofors, 40-millimeter cannons of the Latvian Air Force air defense, desperately tried to engage a pair of Su-25SM Frogfoot fighter-bombers as they hurtled past, loosing their rocket pods as they did so. Explosions seared into the night sky as multiple rockets found their targets and the base’s heavy air defenses fell silent.

“Focus on takeoff. Nothing else matters. You can deal with them when you’re airborne.” Bertinetti was back at Nellis Air Force Base in the southern Nevada desert and he heard the voice of his instructor on the Red Flag exercises.

His brain remained on auto as he released the throttle, while the F-16 bucked forward like a bronco in a Western rodeo. Ahead of him the other F-16 was taking off, piloted by his wingman Captain Mike Ryan, the flames from its engines flaring in a series of concentric rings, repeated deep red then lighter in the darkness, from shockwaves caused by supersonic efflux from the jet pipe coming into immediate contact with the subsonic air just behind the aircraft. As his own aircraft gathered speed, he was conscious of the runway bumping beneath him and the forest flashing by. Then he saw a necklace of tracer as 30-millimeter cannon rounds from an Su-25, passing low over the runway, blasted past his canopy at high velocity, before immediately overshooting him.

Not a chance, brother. You were just a bit too keen, Bertinetti thought to himself, elated at his lucky escape.

In less than twenty seconds he had reached takeoff speed of 180 knots and, as he applied gentle aft pressure to the stick, the bumping from the runway ceased. He was airborne.