Anachronisem (Solo)

[Drydock]

Back out of the cockpit Tip began opening panels, preflighting the old fighter.  Searching for, checking fluid levels.  Under the nose he ran his hand over the vivid sharks mouth everyone paints on a P-40. The angry one.   Was there an american aircraft more romantic, yet more misunderstood than this one?  After his one hour flight 10 years ago he'd read everything he could find on Curtiss's last Hawk, the name they gave all their fighters.  By design this was a Hawk 87.  Though everyone eventually adopted the nickname first given it by the British: Warhawk.   At least the Colonel hadn't painted it in the colors of the the Flying Tigers, the old AVG.  That group had long been disbanded when this N model, the last P-40 type, had gone into production.  The plane  instead bore the insignia of the 23rd fighter group, the only american unit still flying P-40s at the end of WW2.  A few custom touchs; spinner, rudder and elevators painted red.  He liked that.   A red tailed Hawk.   Helen had thought it a far more impressive airplane than the Mustang.


The Cabbie dropped Helen off at the entrance to the Sheraz airport passenger terminal.  This time of morning it was deserted, a security guard, a few sleepy baggage handlers moving about, filling their time cards.  On the second floor there was an observation lounge, overlooking the loading ramp, and further out, the runway.  She settled into a seat facing the window, shook out a newspaper, a bored woman too early for a flight.


Over the central gulf, an AWACs radar aircraft designated JACKKNIFE 2  turned into the initial leg of its patrol pattern, a long lazy oval keeping well out over water.  The Mission Commander ambled down the central aisle.  "Well now folks, whadda we got today?" 

"Just routine as hell, sir."

"Well OK then.  Operations, anything up besides commercial traffic?"

Operations tapped his display.  "Got an Iranian F-14A outa Bandar Abbas headed up the coast,  reckon he's gonna hang around the Battle Group for awhile."

"Just one?"

"Yeah, his wingman aborted with eletrical failure."  The radio intrepreter had gotten all that.

"Miracle they keep any of those damn things flying"

"They got their pride sir."  Not to mention a ton of money dumped into black market F-14 parts.

"We'll pass that on to 5th Fleet.  Anything else?"

Further aft, the arabic language interpreter spoke up.  "Some activity on their air guard channel.  Looks like 2 helo's are getting ready to spool up in Sheraz, head out for that big search in the mountians.  Sheraz should be putting up 2 Mig 21s to relieve that 14 later on.  All in the clear."  The Interpreter sat back.  "Yeah, and that Colonel will probably be futzing around in his Mustang again, outa Teheran."

All the little details.  The MC thought he had a pretty good crew here.  "How 'bout our folks?"

Ops had this.  "George Washington's got a couple of F-18s on Combat Air Patrol.  The Saipan's launching a recon drone in about an hour,  gonna look in on that "Redneck" search.  They'll run that at 60,000 along the coast."

"Good, good.  We still grilling in the hangar when we get back Sgt.?"

"Got the steaks maninating sir."

[Drydock]

Preflight done, Tip primed the V-12 Allison, 2 pumps, got the guard to help him pull the propeller through 2 complete turns.  To the east, the sky had just begun to lighten to the deep blue presaging sunrise.  He shook the big mans hand.  “Can’t thank you enough.”

“If you stay alive, it will be thanks enough.” 

Tip looked about.  “Where should we tie you up?”

Flashlight shook his head.  “Better you hit me.”  He turned, tapped his head behind the right ear.  “Here would be good.” 

Tip pulled his revolver, reversed it to strike with the butt.  “You’re sure?”

“It would be best, I think.”

“Someday, I think, I’m gonna have to buy you a drink.”

The big man laughed.  “Someday I will accept.”  Tip nodded, swung the Colt.  The guard sagged back, Tip catching him, lowering him to his back.  “Someday, friend.”

They’d unlatched the hanger doors earlier, now Tip pushed them slowly open, then climbed into the cockpit, strapping himself in.  Taking one last look around the inside of the aircraft, he checked the cowl flaps fully open, then reached forward, flipped on the master breaker.  A loud series of “Clacks” startled him.  Sounded like solenoids resetting.  Suppose that’s normal.  Not like he had any choice if it wasn’t.  He played the flashlight about, found the panel light switch, lit the gauges.  Looks like everything works.  Magnetos on. Hand shaking just a little, he energized the inertial starter, listening to the whine as the heavy flywheel spun up.  One more pump on the primer,  deep breath, starter clutch in.  One blade, 2 blades, a pop, puff of white from a port stack, then a barrage of irregular bangs, blending to a smooth staccato roar, the propellor blades spinning into invisibility.  Oil pressure, fuel pressure, volts, all green, coolant temperature rising.  Got to go, got to go now!  Tail wheel unlocked, propeller to Taxi, release brakes, goose the throttle, its rolling!  God you are shaking like a damn leaf. 

Damn it’s loud.  Oh yeah, head set.  That’s better.  Kick the rudder, weave side to side, you can’t see over that nose. Quick look back showed the wind sock over the hanger drooping. No cross wind to deal with, thank you God.  He must look drunk, wobbling around on this ramp.  A solid thump announced he’d crossed over onto the asphalt taxiway.  He kicked hard left, got the blue taxiway lights off the right wingtip.  Wonder how long before somebody notices. . .

-JACKKNIFE 2-

“What the. . .”  Radio leaned forward in his seat.  He keyed his headset mike.  “Major?  Sir, someone just started screaming, an’ I really mean screaming, on the Iranian guard channel.”

“Who is it, and what’s he yelling about?”

“Sir, I’m pretty sure its Shiraz control, he keeps telling someone to shut it down, shut it down, you are not authorized, that aircraft is not cleared. . .He’s really blowing a gasket here sir.  Lots a Farsi invective.”  Radio grinned.  “This guys creative.  Wait a sec. . .Sir, he just ordered those 2 helo’s to move out and block the runway.”

“The hell you say. . .”


Tip swung the Warhawk in line with the runway, ignoring the howling voice in his headset.  He locked the tailwheel, lowered the flaps, set the propeller for takeoff.  Throttle up, boost to 40 inchs, release the brakes, be ready for the Torque reaction!  North, south, west, east, Father forgive me for I know not what I do. . .

The tail came up, the old fighter rapidly gaining speed.  Tracking true, straight down the runway.  What the hell?  2 sets of navigation lights settled across his path.  2 helocopters.  Oh shit!  No way to stop now, c’mon, c’mon.  He could feel the fighter getting light, the tires starting to skip.  His left hand came up, instinctively wrapping over his right, trying to pull the fighter into the air, left thumb wrapping overtop the stick and the small black button there.



   


 

[Drydock]

With the first hint of dawn, Helen had gone out onto the small deck fronting the lounge. The terminal blocked any view of the runways western end, so she heard it before seeing it, a low mutter rising to a howl, distinct from the thin whine of turbines common to airports.    Now the old fighter appeared, a small shadow in the thinning darkness, rolling, gathering speed.  She clenched a red cloth in her hands, wishing the craft airborne, twisting it as two helicopters appeared, hovering across the runway.  Oh please no.  He won’t stop, she knew, he would die . . .Then the shadowed wings rippled with fire, thin streaks reaching out, tearing at the first helicopter.  It erupted in flames, dropping onto the runway.  The second helicopter clawed upward, desperate to escape.  But the plane rose as well, nose coming up, tracers rising, ripping, the helicopter rolling drunkenly with their impact, rotor digging furrows in the asphalt as it too fireballed to the ground. 

Shocked, yet somehow fiercely proud, she watched the elderly fighter flash through the smoke roiling over the burning wreckage.  Wheels coming up, rolling right, it passed low over the terminal, heading southwest.  She could just make out the white stars on the wings. 


“Holy Shit!”  Ops and radio both exclaimed simultaneously over their consoles.  The Mission Commander wondered what had happened to his quiet, routine day.  “Ops first.”

“Sir, those two Hueys just dropped off the screen, both transponders dead.  Not even a mayday code, just dead.”

“Radio.”

“Shiraz control just closed the north runway, calling for fire and rescue response.  And sir, he keeps saying; “He shot them down, He shot them down.”

“Sir!”  Ops was jabbing at his display.  “I’ve got an unknown bogie headed southwest out of Shiraz.  I show lift off about the time those two helo’s went down.  Shit sir!”

“Holy. . .”   The MC moved to the front of the aircraft.  “Satcom!  I need Doha on the Scrambler right now!”


Tip stared at the joystick as if he held a rattlesnake in his hands. Ears ringing from sitting midst the thunder of 6 .50 caliber guns, the cockpit still open.  Holy jumpin. . .evidently It had been a complete, VERY thorough restoration!  They must have been mounted after the Curtiss had been returned from England.  And THAT explained the “Clacks” he’d heard.  With the arming switches thrown, the guns had charged as soon as he’d closed the master breaker.   

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[Drydock]

Two choppers in flames, that many more dead.  There was no help for that now.  The guns had made his escape possible. He reached up, flipped the stored gunsight to its ready position.  Damn boy, you just hip shot 2 kills in a P-40; been 60 years since anyone did that.  Never be confirmed.  It was a strange, hollow euphoria.
   
He cranked the canopy shut.  1000 feet, dialed boost back to 20", throttle and prop to cruise.  Coolant temperature in the green, he gripped the tractor brake style handle and closed the cowl flaps, the planes speed surging with the reduction in drag.  With the Warhawk trimmed neutral, he broke out his map.  His course was around 250 degrees magnetic from Shiraz, 160 nautical miles to the coast.  Stay low, no more than 1000 feet in these mountains, lower yet approaching the coast.  The Iraninans had no look down radar cabability, he should be out of their coverage until he overflew the coastal radar stations.  That would keep the Iranians blind for a while.


   "Whats the word, Major?"
   
The Mission Commander held up one hand.  "CentCom is scrambling 2 16s, we'll have them for escort in about 1/2 an hour.  In the meantime, we monitor and report.  5th Fleet is tapping our downlink, and they got it up on the master display in the Blackroom right now.  So make it look good folks."
   
"Roger that sir.  Target designated Woodchip 4 proceeding course 250 magnetic, speed 250 knots."  (Woodchip 1 was the F-14, 2 and 3 had been the Hueys.)  Ops put one hand to his headset.  "Sir, Saipan confirms launch of their drone."
   
"Well hot damn, forgot about that.  Can we contact them, have them expidite to station.  Be great to have some visuals on all this."
   
"Allready done skipper."  Radio had figured on that.
   
"Good one Sgt."  The MC bent over Ops.  "Show me our bogie."
   
"Right here sir." Ops pointed at his display. "Runnin' low and slow.  Seems kinda funny.  Too fast for a chopper, but if its a jet, hell, if  I just flamed 2 choppers, think I'd be runnin on afterburner.  Cagey though,  Only one trackin' him right now is us."  Ops leaned in.  "That F-14 just turned inland,  Mebbe he's gonna try an intercept?"
   
"I got confirmation on that."  Radio yelled from the back.  "Shiraz control just turned him around."
   
"Hmmm."  MC rubbed his chin.  "14's got a good look down capable radar in the nose, if its workin'.  Narrow sweep though.  Might get a sniff if he can get close."
   
Radio piped up again.  "Shiraz just ordered those 2 Migs to expidite launch.  Their Colonel just came up on the net too."
   
"And there he is."  Ops tapped his screen, then started on his keyboard.  "New contact designated Woodchip 5.  Sir, its that Colonel in his Mustang.  Looks like he's on a best guess  pursuit vector.  Think maybe he's still got guns in that thing?"

[Drydock]

Luck, like love, is blind.  Some figure it to be fickle, maybe downright stupid.  It had done the fleeing  P-40 one favor this morning.  Now the dice would roll the other way. 
   He had eased the Warhawk up to 2500 feet, moving through a series of high passes.  The mountain looming before him offered a choice: left or right.  Right looked a bit lower, wider.  Right it was.  The pass to the right, unfortunatly, was just on the edge of the F-14s radar sweep. . .

   "Sir!"  Ops indicated his display.  "I think the F-14's got him."
   "Confirmed!"  Radio cocked his head, eyes closed.  "He just asked Shiraz for instructions."  He opened his eyes to the expectant crew.  "Kill him."
   Ops leaned in.  "There he goes."

   A P-40 has a small rear view mirror attached to the top of the windscreen.  Tip was checking it, when he caught a flash on the edge of his vision, high right.  A small dart shape, now changing, rolling, diving.  Sunlight off aluminum as it had manuvered.
   One of the oddities of the first 50 years of air combat, was that the preeminent skill of the fighter pilot was not the ability to fly.  It was instead the ability to shoot. To lead a target, put the bullets where the enemy would be, not where he was.  The weapons were fixed guns, aligned along the long axis of the aircraft.  Manuvering was no more than pointing the guns.  Manfred von Richtoften, the "Red Baron" of the First World War, and its highest scoring ace, once confessed to being a mediocre pilot at best. (He'd started the war as a Cavalry Officer.)  "But, I am the superior shot.  That, is how I win."
   Lucian Meyer would never claim to be a fighter pilot.  Nor would he claim the title of Gunfighter.  Yet the evidence of the last few weeks would say that he was, or at the least the instincts had been beaten into him.  He was a Gunfighter, in a Gun Fighter.  The reaction of a gunfighter, under fire, is to move lateral, go for cover. Tip slammed the stick to its left stop, flipping the Warhawk left, pulling back hard to his belly.  The elderly fighter curved left, rolling inverted as it dove into a narrow valley running south.  It continued rolling, coming upright as it leveled off, maybe 100 feet off the valley floor, rocky sides flashing by at over 400 knots.  Throttle to the stop, boost at 41", propellor set at max. thrust.  Tip held the plane low, checking the approaching shape, waiting for a missle launch. None came.  He looked up to see the delta shape of the Iranian F-14 pass overhead, perhaps 800 feet up.  Don't want to bring that big sucker down in the rocks, do ya?  Clearly defined in the cloudless sky, he could see no white shapes on its belly.  No radar missles then, perhaps only a couple of Sidewinder heat seakers.  Could those even pick up a piston engine plane?
   He was sweating, avoiding any thought that he had no buisness doing what he was doing.  The pain in his back was an unwelcome, though useful distraction.

   Ops whistled.  "Got brass ones, whoever you are.  Sir, he's gone way down in the weeds, only getting intermittant return now." 
   Radio sounded confused.  "Damn sir, that 14 driver is yelling back at Shiraz, says he can't get lock."
   The MC stared at the display.  "Hell, he just passed right over the guy.  What the hell kind of plane is this?"
   Radio was starting to feel like a football announcer.  "Shiraz just told him to use his goddamned gun then, uh, sir."

[Drydock]

Ops grabbed a fresh piece of tissue and wiped down his screen.  "Just picked up our escort outa Doha."  He looked closer at his screen.  “New contacts.  Designate Woodchips 6 and 7.  Just lifted off from Shiraz, course 250, speed 500 knots.  Evaluate contacts as Migs, sir.” 


   He had eased up a few hundred feet, looking for room to maneuver, one worried eye on the F-14 orbiting overhead.  The 14 had swept its wings out and forward, now in low speed configuration, beginning a curving descent into the valley.  Going astern.  Tip could see the air brake up between the twin tails.  He wants to tail chase?  It looked as though the jet jock was throwing away his advantages in speed and altitude to try to get a classic zero deflection gun shot. Well maybe so, but his own speed was down to 300 knots, best speed at this altitude.  Going down into the rocks had seemed a good idea to dodge a missile, but for a gun fight he was feeling trapped.  Climbing out would put him square in the 14s sights.  Checking aft showed the big jet easing down into the valley.  Dammit, he knows I can’t climb out, he can just sit and. . .
   There!  Instinct, no thought,  roll right and pull back, screaming against the force of the turn, the tearing pain in his back.   The 40 flashed thru a narrow pass, heading west.  He rolled upright, then pulled back in a loop.  Craning his neck, looking aft, hoping the 14 driver would be smart enough to know that you never try a loop in a dogfight.  His instructor had told him  that, before telling how he'd bagged a japanese fighter over New Guinea just like this. Maybe.
   Inverted in the top of the loop, Tip saw the 14 rise over the ridge in a gentle curve west.  Too big, too heavy to make the same turn as the 40, the jet had accelerated, sweeping up and over the ridge, pilot and rear seater looking down and to the right where the old propeller plane should be. Tip rolled left, pulling, bringing the Warhawk down in a corkscrew turn to the right, coming down on top of the 14.  Still pulling, the nose of the 14 falling just beneath the propellor spinner, he pressed the trigger.  Felt the vibration of those 6 .50s hammering, the tracers curving down out of his line of sight.  Eased off the stick, letting the nose drop.
   Well damn!  The big Grumman was trailing smoke, starting to roll level.  The .50s had struck just behind the cockpit. walking aft thru both engines.   He released the trigger, wondering how many rounds he'd wasted.  Now the canopy blew off, pilot and Radar Intercept Officer both ejecting.   2 good chutes, thank god for that.  The 14 gracefully curved into a mountainside.


   "Sirrrrrr."  Ops sounded worried.  "Mebbe you outer tell them 16 boys to hurry up a bit.  Woodchip 4 resuming base course 250, speed 250." 
   The MC was allready spitting words into a handset.  SOMETHING had just snuffed an F-14, you might not want to share the sky with whatever it is.
   "SIR!"  SatCom hollered from his partition.  "Saipan leveled their drone off at 50,000 feet, its on line now.  I got the down link on my set here."
   "Lemme see."  The Major pushed in to stare at the screen.  A small shadow moving across the land below.  "Zoom in."
   "Gimme a minute, gotta pass the request to Saipan."  Now the picture began to change.
   This picture was being viewed in several places: Jacknife 2, Saipan, the Central Command "Black Room".  Reactions were all quite similiar, but the AWACS Major might have said it best.
   "What is this shit!  Who the hell downlinked the History Channel!"

[Drydock]

-CENTRAL COMMAND-

   "Thats a gawd damned P-40!  Your tellin' me THAT just shot down an F-14!"  Commander 5th Fleet used to fly F-14s. He'd been awakened, dressed, and hustled into the CentCom situation room, to be shown something his mind told him was not possible.  "Somebody get some coffee in here dammit!"
   "I think I know who's flying that plane sir."  5th Fleet wheeled to scowl at an Air Force Lt Colonel.
   "Well?"
   The Lt.Col. took a deep breath.  This was his career, right here.  "Sir, you remember the memo sent up, about the identity of the "Redneck" thats been making trouble for the Iranians?"
   "Chief Meyer?  Damn right I remember.  My damn Marines keep pestering me to go in after him."
   "Sir, we have an intercept that claims the Redneck stole that plane.  A security guard claims that it was the Redneck that overpowered him."
   5th Fleets scowl deepened.  "Just a damn minute Colonel.  Meyer's a Master at Arms. I've seen his record. Expert with every weapon he's ever handled.  I can understand him running around the countryside shootin' terrorists.  But this sumbitch is in a World War 2 fighter, an he just shot down an F-14!"
   The Lt Colonel dove into the deep end.  He'd spent the last few days making MAC Lucian T. Meyer his personal research project.  "Sir, Chief Meyers a licensed Private pilot with 200 hours in the air.  20 of those hours were aerobatic training.  And sir, the man who taught him to fly was a Navy ace in the pacific."  The LtCol walked to the display.  "Look at his base course sir.  I'll bet he's trying to go to Doha."
   5th Fleet put his hands behind his back.  "Is that so.  You have any way of confirming this?"
   "I think so sir."  The LtCol. outlined a simple plan.
   "OooooKaaay."  5th Fleet walked to the display. "If this works, then what."
   "Thats your call sir, but can't we help him?"
   5th Fleet stared at the display, tapping one foot.  "Send your messages Colonel, then we'll see."


-JACKNIFE 2-

   "Major!"  SatCom hollered for the MC, pulling his attention off the overhead screen where Saipans "History Channel" footage was now playing.  "Sir, flash message from Centcom."
   The MC took the printout.  "Now what. . ."  He read it, then reread it.  "They really want me to do this?" 


   He could feel the sweat stinging in his wound, the blood beginning to seep downward.  Dammit!  All he wanted to do was leave!   What else would get sent after him?   They knew where he was now, had to know he was trying to cross the gulf.  There would be more planes up, just waiting for him to reach
 the coast.  Everything had gone wrong. Could'nt just sneak off.  The helicopters, the F-14, humiliations to a military burning to kill him. 
   Tip was confused: What was he so mad about?  He'd never expected to live through this anyway.  It'd been one hell of a ride, a story for the ages.  Maybe he was angry because he'd never get to tell it. . .what the hell was this?

   "No response sir"
   The MC leaned over Ops shoulder, staring at the small green dot, willing it to talk.  He spoke out  of the side of his mouth to the radioman. "Keep trying sargent."
   "Roger that sir.  Warhawk this is Jacknife, do you copy, Warhawk this is Jacknife, please respond, over."
   The voice was hesitant, angry.  "Jacknife, Warhawk, send your traffic."
   Radio leaned in.  "Warhawk, Jacknife, set your radio to your badge number"  It was the first test, and would get them off open frequency.
   Ops hammered a fist onto his counter "YES!  He's on it sir."  A number had just appeared on the display next to the dot representing the P-40. 
   "Jacknife, Warhawk, do you copy?"
   Radio checked his printout.  "Warhawk, Jacknife roger that.  What was your mothers middle name?"
   
   It was a test?  Who the hell is this?  "Ann"
   What caliber is your Sharps rifle."
   ".45-110"
   "What does Poop mean."
   He wanted to laugh.  "People Offended by Offended People."  A humerous anti PC organization.

   Radio laughed.  "Gotta be him sir."
   "OK Sarge, tell him to stand by."  The MC picked up the STU (Secure Telephone Unit) Satellite phone.  "Put me through to Centcom."

   Stand by?  What in the hell.  Dammit!  He fumed for a few minutes, scanning the sky, feeling blood trickle down his back to pool in his seat.  Damn damn damn damn.  It was halfway to forever when the voice came back.  "Warhawk, Jacknife, do you copy?"
   "Send your traffic Jacknife."
   "Warhawk, Jacknife, this is an American Radar aircraft.  I am switching you over to fighter control." 

   The MC slapped Ops shoulder.  "Bring him home Master Sargent."
   "You betcha Major.  Warhawk, Jacknife, do you copy?"
   "Warhawk copys."
   "Warhawk, Jacknife.  Your call sign is now Hawk.  I show you at course 2 5 0, angels 2, speed 2 5 0.  You have 2 Mike India Golf 2 1s closing at angels 7, speed 5 0 0, course 2 5 0, distance 5 0 miles, 18 minutes to intercept."
 

[Drydock]

   American terminology, American voices.  AWACs,  How had they known?  His mind turned the question over, examining, suspicious.  Finaly accepting.  It could be nothing but what it seemed.  He now had radar support, an angel on his shoulder,  whispering his enemys position in his ear.  How to use it?  He was out of the mountains now, into the hill country leading down to the coastal plain.  There would be no canyons to hide in, unless he wanted to go back.  No, his fuel would not allow that.  Even if he could, it was doubtful they'd make the same mistake.
   Or would they?  So far everyone he'd dealt with had been arrogantly comfortable in their own superiority.  They always thought they had the edge, wether it be a woman with a gun to her head, or a supersonic fighter under their butts.
   Mig-21s. Bored days in ships librarys, going over copies of Janes Fighting Ships/All the Worlds Aircraft, gave him the information.  Older models, stovepipes with wings.  No fire control radar, they carried Russian Atoll heat seeker missles, less sensitive than the American Sidewinders.  Single 23mm cannon.  Originaly designed without a gun, like the American F-4 Phantom, until the F-4s experience over Vietnam had shown a gun still to be a needed weapon in a fighter. 
   Still, most jet jocks hated the gun.   It was a close in, barroom brawlers weapon.  A knife on a snipers belt.
   So lets have us a knife fight.  Tip boosted the Allison engine to 41", maximum rated manifold pressure, and began a 2000 fpm climb to 7000 feet. 
   "Hawk, Jacknife, we show you climbing."
   Probably expected  him to go for the weeds again. "Roger Jacknife.  Let me know when bandits within 5 miles."


   "Hawk, Jacknife copies."  The MC stood behind his Operations Sgt.  "What the hell is he thinking?"
   Ops leaned back, rubbing his chin.  "Not sure sir. . .No, wait a minute."  Ops pointed at the display.  "He's out of the mountians now sir.  He'll be in coastal radar coverage pretty soon.  I'd vector him south, try to avoid the Migs, but I don't know his fuel status or range, and can't ask ,cause someone might be listening, an' he's got no scrambler.  So he can't run, an he can't  hide." 
   The Major quietly cussed himself.  "SatCom!  I need info on P-40s.  Range, speed, fuel load, anything you can get."
   "Yessir!"  The MC  was startled by Ops slapping an open hand on his console.  "Sonofabitch!  I know  what he's doing!"
   "Sargent?"
   "Those are older model Migs sir.  No radar homers, only heat seekers.  He's goin' to meet 'em sir.  He'll level at their altitude, then at 5 miles he'll turn into them.  Right there."  Ops jabbed his screen.  "High noon in Dodge City."
        
 

     



   

[Drydock]

   He never made it to 7000 feet.  Not long after starting his climb, Jacknife reported the Migs had reduced speed, begun a slow descent.  It was heady knowledge: They were still looking down, looking for him on the deck.  Stay arrogant, stay dumb, all he wanted was one good pass.  It sounded like a prayer.  Maybe it was.  Jacknife called 5 miles, Tip turned east.
   Still early morning, the sun coming over the horizon.  One last advantage: The Migs would be backlit shillouttes in the morning light.  His Warhawk would be coming out of  the shadowed haze always hanging over the Gulf. 
   He leaned forward against the straps, squinting into the morning light,  Looking for. . .2 dots, close together: Tight formation.  Good, the wingman would be concentrating on his leader, probably only one set of eyes to worry about, and hopefully those were looking down.  Tip forced himself back into the seat, trying to relax, centering the sight on the right dot, letting it grow.  It grew rapidly, the closing speed over 700 knots, the dot resolving itself into a bisected circle, then an aircraft.  No change in couse or speed, no indication of awareness.  It wasn't fair, not really.  But what had that old man once told him?  The best kills, they did'nt even know you were there.  The thin wings  just reaching across the inner circle of the sight, Tip lifted the nose slightly and fired.  Tracers arced out and down, seeming to drop a few feet in front of the Mig, then into it.  Velocitys combined to create incredible kinetic energy, shredding the Mig as it passed thru the "Sweet Spot" where the 6 .50s converged on a single point. 
   Then they were gone, flashing past either side as he cut through their formation.  Screaming with pain and effort he racked the Warhawk into  a hi G turn, looking over his shoulder, catching sight of the lead Mig as it began to tumble, then disintegrate:  A flameless puff of aluminum.  The wingman had lit his afterburner, climbing, going for altitude.  First smart thing he'd seen any of these stupid bastards do.


   Ops whistled.  "Poor sumbitch never saw it coming."
   "Damn fighter jocks get too damn dependent on radar."  The MC fought to keep his voice calm, professional.  "Status, people."
   "Woodchip 7 at angels 8 and climbing.  Does not appear ready to reingage at this time."
   "Radio confirms, he's been called off, told to maintain observation of Hawk." 
   "Called off?  By who?"
   Radio thought a bit.  "Sounds like the regional commander sir."
   "Major."  Ops was pointing at his display again.  "Sir, Shiraz is still the closest base.  If they launch more aircraft right now, they still can't reach Hawk before he crosses into international airspace.  Only folks that can engage him before then are the remaining Mig, and this guy."  Ops pointed at the dot representing Woodchip 5.
   "The Colonel and his Mustang."
   

[Drydock]

   So much for sneaking out under the coastal radar; the observant Mig made that pointless.  Tip leveled at 5000, speed 250 knots.  It was tempting to firewall the throttle, gaining a few miles, but losing precious fuel.  So he cruised, thinking.
   
Fuel was'nt the only thing he was losing.  Blood still trickled down his back.  Shifting in his seat to press the now soaked pad tighter against the wound had slowed the loss, hopefully given enough time it would clot.  Time, never enough time.  Not only that, but he was sure now that the 2 outer guns had gone silent just before the end of his firing run.  They carried less ammunition that the inner weapons; it was meant as a warning:  Break off and go home.  I'm tryin', old girl.  That meant, maybe 5, maybe 10 seconds of bullets left in the inner guns.  A couple of good bursts, no more.  4 guns instead of 6.
   
Advantages, disadvantages:  He had knowledge, the Mustangs course, speed, range, altitude, time to intercept.  Thanks to the Mig the Colonel had the same.  No advantage.    Experience?  The Colonel had to be a long time Air force pilot, several thousand hours in various types.  How many hours in the Mustang was unknown, but certianly far more than Tip had in the Warhawk.  Then again, Tips last hour had been a hell of a learning experience.  What of the planes themselves?  The Mustang was long revered as the finest piston engine fighter of WW2.  By contrast the P-40 had often been condemed as an obscelesent, inadequate design.  So the historians said, but a few pilots who had flown both sometimes said different.  The 40 might be more manuverable, and the superior supercharger that gave the Mustang its magnificent high altitude performance meant little below 10,000 feet.  Still, most if not all assumed a contest between the two would be no contest.
   
There it was again: Assumption.  Would the Colonel assume, as the jet jocks had, that a P-40 would be an easy opponent?  60 years of historical pronouncements would be hard to ignore.  One could explain away the loss of the 14 and the 21 with a combination of terrain and stupidity.
   
What would the Colonel do?  He was at 30,000 feet, 400 knots.  Going up to meet him was pointless.  The Warhawk would never make it, and lost too much performance at that altitude.  No, he had to wait here, let the Mustang make the first move.  It would be a diving pass, but then?  Assuming he survived that first pass, would the Mustang go for altitude to make another pass, or would he level out for a fight?  Well now, the Colonel was in the Finest Piston Engine Fighter of WW2, he'd bet right now he'd want to stay and dogfight.  He'd be betting his life, but what was new about that.  And if maybe the 40 was more manuverable, maybe with a faster roll rate, he might have a chance.  'Course, he now had only 4 guns to the Mustangs 6, was almost out of ammunition, and still had to survive that first pass.
   
      

[Drydock]

He thought about going lower, but decided it would cost too much in speed.  It might also discourage the Colonel from staying to fight.  If they did get into a turning fight, they'd lose altitude soon enough.
   
Jacknife called off the range as the Mustang closed in.  It began a descent, trading altitude for speed as it dove through the thickening air.   Tip waited.  The coastline was in sight now.   As the Mustang fell through 10,000 feet, mere seconds away, he slammed the throttle forward, boost to 55".  He'd read that in combat, Warhawk pilots often overboosted the rugged Allison.  It was another 250 or so horsepower.  Pray it wasn't just some old mans faulty ramblings.
   
Over his shoulder he could see the Mustang now, a rapidly growing shape in the high eastern sky.  He waited, watching it grow, playing dumb.  If it were me I'd start shooting right about NOW!  Tip slammed the stick to the right, pulling the still accellerating fighter into the hardest turn he could stand.  The stick kicked in his hands once, then he looked back to see the P-51 flash past his tail, allready starting to pull out of its 500 knot dive.  He rolled left, sweeping back to the west, watching the Mustang.  What would it do?  C'mon jackass, play my game now.
   
The P-51 pulled up in a classic Immelman turn, a half loop with a half roll at the top.  It seemed to hesitate for an instant, as if seeking the older Curtiss, then curved right to meet the Warhawk.
   
It was a perfect moment.  A moment when everything falls into place, and a man sees the future unfold before him.  Maybe just a few minutes of that future, but it's enough.  Most men never get one such moment, but Tip now realized he'd had three.  This one, the moment when the Colt settled into his hand in the Road Agent Spin, and the moment a sad woman smiled at him over 2 Tootsie rolls.  He watched the 51 through his canopy  and smiled.
   
They curved toward each other, trying to come head to head.  Not quite making it, they passed cockpit to cockpit, separated by no more than 50 yards.  Trapped in the dance now.  Going vertical, to climb, loop or dive, would cost too much in  speed, time or postion, leaving one vulnerable to the guns of the other.  The Mustang rolled right, trying to reverse its turn.  Tip saw now it rolled slower than the 40, much slower.  He pulled his turn tighter, coming around.  The Mustang had gone right to try to meet the Warhawk again, but now found the Curtiss inside the arc of its turn.  Tip rolled right, pulling to bring the nose around, inside the Mustang, trying to pull the his spinner past the nose of the other fighter.  It was a deflection shot he did not have the ammunition to make, but if the Colonel thought he did. . .
   
The Mustang rolled left, breaking out of the turn, not wanting to give the Warhawk the shot.  But doing so presented his tail to the older fighter.  It continued rolling left, but the Warhawk beat it into the turn with its faster roll rate.  Both planes speed had dropped under 220 knots now.  The Mustang could not run, and could not turn into the Warhawk.  The Colonel broke level, then tried to dive away.
   
He'd waited too long, confident in the Mustangs ability to dogfight.  Now his speed was too low, the air too thick, and diving from a P-40 was one thing historians did agree was a bad idea.  Tip dropped the overboosted Warhawk behind the Mustang, zero deflection, point blank range, and emptied his 4 remaining guns into it.  The Mustang shook and sparked with impacts.
   
No flames, no smoke, no spectacular shedding of parts.  Just a thin stream of what appeared to be coolant streamed back.  The Mustang never wavered, never rolled or turned, just kept going down in an ever steeper dive, ending in a white plume of seawater just offshore.  Tip leveled the Warhawk, pulled back on throttle and boost.  It was over.
   
Oh hell, was it?  "Jacknife, Hawk, where the hell is that Mig?"  No that he could do anything about it now.  "Jacknife, I am Bingo Winchester."  Out of ammunition.


   
Ops grinned, watching the Major spike an imaginary football.  "Be cool Hawk, we got him covered."  He turned back to his display.  "Shoo-fly 1 and 2, you are tracking hot, weapons tight."
   
"Hot and tight, Shoo-fly lead copies.  We have aquired target."  The lead F-18 Hornet from the George Washingtons CAP flight watched as the Mig 21 made a hard 180, heading back inland, no doubt with his threat reciever off scale.  "See ya!"  Both Hornets had just arrived on station.

   
   
Thank god.  Tip wiped a sweaty, now shaking hand on his pants leg.  Now if he could just land this thing.  "Somebody point me to an airfield?"
   
"Hawk, Jacknife copies. Reccomend climb to angels 5, then just follow your escort."
   
Escort?  He looked up to see the 2 Hornets drop into formation, one off each wingtip.  "Howdy fellers."
   
The Commander flying Shoo-fly lead was not a man awed by much, but the sight of this old fighter, with 6 streaks of powder burns on its wings, was awe inspiring.  Was that. . ."Hawk, Shoo-fly Lead, I see possible damage, looks like you've got a hole in your left stabilizer, another in the left elevator."
   
"Hawk copies."  Must have been that kick he felt as the Mustang made its first pass.  "No apparent control effects."

   

[Drydock]

   
He shifted, again trying to push the pad hard against his wound.  High with adrenline, the pain only a distant pulse in the backround.  That would change, was changing even now.  How much blood had been lost?  Not all that much, just that slow trickle, but how much could he afford to lose?  "Jackknife, Hawk, ETA to land?"
   
"Hawk, Jackknife, ETA 45 minutes to Doha at current course and speed."
   
"Hawk copies."  The Gulf is a narrow body of water, thank god.  "Jackknife, Hawk, request ambulance standing by."


   
"Oh shit!  Ops. . ."
     
The Master Sgt, was allready on it.  "Sir, Shoo-fly lead reports no damage in the Cockpit area.  Hawk, Jackknife, type and extent of injury?"
   
"Uh, Jacknife, Hawk, bullet wound, small caliber, 7 point 6 2, 3 weeks old, reopened."
   
The Major was still coming down from his own adreniline spike.  "Goddammit!  Now the sumbitch tells us!  SatCom!  Pass that along to Doha, reccomend full medical and crash teams standing by."

   
In its own way, the pain helped.  Pulsing in his back, keeping him focused, aware.  Keeping him from relaxing, letting the fatigue take him down.  There was Doha, a long, wide strip in the desert.  Doha tower reported prevailing winds out of the west, straight down the runway.  Good.  P-40s are tricky enough on pavement, really meant for grass.  Book says to avoid cross winds.  Not how to deal with them, just avoid them.
   
What else did the books say?  Don't try to three point it, come in level with power, fly it down on the mains.  All you got to do is walk away.
   
So damn tired.  He whipped his head side to side, fighting the darkness behind his eyes. Canopy open,  wheels down, flaps down, trim to level attitude, controlling descent with throttle.  On either side the Hornets matched him.  At 500 feet they drew up and back.  "Thanks for the company, Shoo-Fly."
   
"Our pleasure Hawk.  See ya on the ground, first rounds on us."  The Commander would land soon as the runway was clear, he had to meet this guy.
   
It was strangely easy, as though the old fighter took pity on him.  The main gear touched, skipped, rolled.  He pulled back on the power, letting the tail settle of its own accord.  Tail down, it started to drift right, he caught it, brought it back to center, let it coast down.  It drifted right again, this time he let it go, suddenly too tired to care.  The Warhawk bumped into the hardpan off the side of the runway, raising dust, finaly slewing around in a half circle to stop.
   
Magnetos off, main breaker off, revel in the sudden silence.  For a moment, the whole base seemed to hold its breath.  Then someone remembered his job, flipped on a siren.  Tip smiled, sagged back into the darkness.  Helen should see this.  I wish she could have seen.  Would she have been proud of what he'd done, or shocked again at the violence.  Would he ever know.  Would she have cared. . .He slipped off, even as men clambered on the wings, reaching into the cockpit.


   
The Cabbie dropped her off at the hotel,  Then drove off, whistling, happy with his role in the great adventure.  She would never see him again.  Oh god, she would never see HIM again.  The Philipino housestaff came out, anxious for word, but she walked past them, down the hill to the chicken yard and shed.
   
Inside, the mare stood three legged, dosing.  The great black horse was alert, eager, stretching out his head to her.  "Tecumseh."  She lay her cheek on the great forhead, hands rubbing the horses cheeks, starting to cry.  "He's gone, but I do not know how far he will get."  She'd stayed long enough to see the 2 Migs take off, heading southwest.  It was not supposed to have been this way. 
   
She backed away, rubbing her eyes.  Tecumseh lipped her hair, pulling at the veil.  Helen laughed, a small shakey sound.  "Well, I still have you."
   
She moved past her still sleeping mare, wanting to check saddles and tack, to be surprised by an unfamiliar gleam of metal midst the leather.  His sword, leaning against her saddle.  "My sword will always be yours."  So he had said, the man could be so damn literal.  Picking it up, she drew the blade from its polished metal scabbard, feeling the balance, watching the dim morning light play off the mirrored surfaces.  One man had died beneath this blade, one that she knew of.  Death and beauty. Him and her. . .what?  She sheathed the sword, sat down on a haybale, balancing the scabbarded blade on her hands before her, elbows resting on her knees.  Why had it all happened?  What reason, what mad purpose?  Had it meant anything, made any difference?


   
"FOOLS!  IMBECILES!  I am surrounded by magnificent INCOMPETANCE!  BEGONE!"  Seated in the secretarys office, the army Colonel smiled wanly as a red faced Lt. Colonel, deputy commander air force southern region, fled from the Imans office.  Taking the air officers departure as his cue, he walked in, locking the door as he closed it behind him.
   
The Imans face was florid beneath the beard.  "So Colonel, what have you to say!  A regiment of troops, and you could not find this man!  And now he escapes, to humilate us all!"
   
The Colonel would not be intimidated.  "I had warned you sir, that this would be a difficult undertaking.  The area searched would be vast, and nothing this man has done has been in any way conventional."
   
"YOU assured me he WOULD be found!"
   
"Given enough time, yes.  But too much time was wasted in meaningless acts of vengance, bumbling counterstrikes."
   
From a chair next to the Imans desk, the Al-Quieda commander stood.  "You speak of MY men?"
   
"Of whom else would I speak."
   
The Al-Quieda man wheeled to the Iman.  "This one insults us, and wastes our time.  There are still other americans out there to be found!  There was a team I tell you. There must be!"
   
The Colonels anger rose  "You insult yourselves!  There was only one man!  He slaughtered your people, then called on you to send more!  And you obliged him!  Fools the both of you!"
   
The Imans knuckles went white around the gold Cross pen.  The Al-Quieda man was shaking with fury.  "There was more than one. And there are circumstances. . ."
   
"The only circumstance that I can see is that your amatuer cowardly dogs are incapable of dealing with anyone who can FIGHT BACK!"
   
Face white with rage, the Al-Quieda man went for his pistol.  The Colonel side stepped, drawing his own gun as the Al-Quieda man fired his first shot. 
   
As a young Luetenant, the Colonel had faced tank and artillery fire in the Iran-Iraq war.  A pistol in the shaking hand of this fool bothered him but little.  Still, the Al-Quieda mans 2nd shot did graze his left arm.  Enough.  He raised his 9mm and shot the man between the eyes. 
   
Now standing, leaning over his desk, the Iman stared down at the body.  The Colonel needed but to shift his aim slightly to send his 2nd shot just above the Holy Mans ear.  He collapsed across his desk, blood flooding over the leather and gilt copy of the Koran.  Pity.  Holstering his pistol, he grasped his wounded arm and walked over to the locked door, listening to the secratary screaming and pounding upon the other side.  He unlocked and opened it.  "The terrorist has assasinated our Iman!  He wounded me, but I was able to kill him.  Call an ambulance, quickly now!"
   
With the secretary scrambling to do his bidding, the Colonel stepped back into the office, pulling out a cell phone.  He dialed the number of the Chief of Staff.  "General sir!  It is done.  Your southern flank will be secure."
   
"What of the Terrorist camp?"
   
"I will assemble the brigade momentarily.  We will destroy it by nightfall."
   
"Most excellent Colonel.  Should this go well, I think I may be able to find a set of Generals insignia for you."
   
"My service is yours, sir."
   
"What of the Air Force?"  The Colonel in charge of the Shiraz base had been a man of the Iman, and could have posed a problem.  The Colonel grinned.
   
"As you will find out shortly, that problem was taken care of for us."  Thank god for that oddly dressed fool of an American.
   
"I shall look forward to seeing you again.  God go with you."
   
"As God wills."  Such an odd, ingrained thing to say.  Ah well.  The Colonel stood for a moment, listening for approaching sirens.

[Drydock]

   How often had she blessed the isolation of her life, only to now curse it.  Five months, five months and she knew nothing!  Nothing of any import to her.  Oh, goverments had fallen, supposed great changes had swept the world outside of their little valley.  Whispers, rumours had drifted about her that night she'd left Shiraz.  Great men dead, revolution swift to follow.  But nothing of Him.  Was it simply the not knowing that haunted her, or something more.  She had hoped not, hoped the feeling would die.  What had he been but another violent man in a violent time.  Surely no better than those he had killed, fortunate only in the side he'd chosen.
   
Liar.  Part of her wanted to step outside herself and slap her for such a thought.  Perhaps sensing her internal struggle, Tecumseh trotted over to the fence she leaned against, lipping her veil.  For some reason the damnable horse was forever trying to pull it off.  It had become a game between them.
   
A game interrupted by the unfamilair stutter of a helicopter.  The first she'd heard since that last day in Shiraz.  Unbidden memories came, tracers, fire, white stars on wings.  She shook it all off, seeking this new sound.  A helicopter, a small civilian one, blue and white.  It came over the northern valley wall, sweeping down on the mostly rebuilt village.  It circled once, seeming to take in the new homes, the few remaining ruins of old, before settling into a field just to the west.  Allready a few  men were going to meet it.  She could see the Teacher, caution in his steps.
   
At least the Horse seemed unconcerned.  She'd learned to trust its judgement of men as she would her own intuition.  THAT thought suddenly left her wide eyed.   Oh do you really?
   
Implications still rattled about her head some time later, as she stood in her small stable, currying her pregnant mare.  Lost in thought, and the pleasure of her simple task, she never heard the chatter of approaching men, until the side door opened, admitting the Teacher and 3 unknown men.
   
"Dear one!  You must meet these people!"  The Teacher was enthusiastic, expansive, coming to her with outstretched arms.  "They are Doctors, American doctors,  members of an organization, ah, what was it again?"  He waved a hand at the 3 men.
   
"Doctors Without Borders."  Their eyes now adjusting to the dimmer light within the stable, the 3 men swept off their hats in that uniquely western gesture. 
   
"Yes, yes.  It seems they have heard something of our recent troubles, and came to offer aid.  I told them you were our Nurse, and they wanted to meet you.  This"  he indicated the oldest looking of the three, "is Dr. Cale Eldritch, his assitiant, Dr Norman Hampden, and their pilot, Mr., ah. . ."
   
"Walker sir,  Donald Walker."  The third man, standing behind the others.
   
"Forgive me, names sometimes escape me.  Gentlemen, may I introduce our most expert nurse, miss Helene Reman."
   
At the mention of her name, the third man, the pilot, visibly started, then stared at her.  "Helene? As in Helen?  That is not a name common to these parts."
   
"Indeed not!"  The Teacher was bubbling with enthusiasem.  "I know of no other.  I have told you of our past, our history.  Her mother named her for the Helen of legend.  Of Troy?  We do not often use the names of our past anymore, but now and then. . ."  He smiled.  "She was a beautiful child, and has lost none of that beauty in growing up."
   
"Please!" 
   
They all laughed.  The Teacher rubbed his hands.  "Come, come, we shall go to my humble home, drink coffee and see what can be done."
   

[Drydock]

   There was not all that much to be done.  For all the destruction visited upon them, there had been no real injuries, "only" the three deaths.  The villagers were a hardy people, well conditioned to their isolated life. 
   
It was a pleasant evening, listening to their different voices; professional talk was a rare thing for her.  They would hold a clinic the next morning, go over her records.  There was talk of a regional clinic being set up, with regular visits to these outlying, isolated villages.  Conversation turned to recent events.   The new provisional goverment would be holding elections soon, under United Nations oversight.  The doctors were surprised so little information had reached them, and eagerly regaled them with storys of change.  Outside the Teachers  house, a crowd of villagers had gathered, eager for such news, so the meeting moved out into the warm evening.  Lanterns were lit, food brought forth, it became a small celebration.
   
Helen burned with questions she could not bring herself to ask. It had been long agreed her role in Lucians escape would be kept secret:  No one could know the response of the new goverment, nor could one forget those sympathetic to the former regime.  Goverments, revolutions, could be temporary affairs.  Nor was she ready yet to replace undertainty with grief. 
   
She excused herself, then, as always, she sought comfort among her horses.    Tecumseh was affectionate, but restless.  "You want to run?  Tomorrow, when the others have gone, we will ride."  He nuzzled her, looking for a treat; He knew well she most always carried a few dates.  She laughed, held one out.  But he did not take it, instead raising his head to look   behind her.
   
It was the pilot, Walker.  He stood in the doorway, fixed in the glare of horse and woman.  Tecumseh made up his mind first, judging the man to be no threat, dropping his head to the date now forgotten in Helens hand. 
   
"Miss Reman?"  Walker was a tall, gangly sort, with a lazy smile above a bobbing adams apple.  She had caught him staring at her earlier, his expression one of deep thought.  "Miss, I'd like to show you something, please?"  He held it in his right hand, a document of some sort, tightly rolled.
   
"Something?"  She held her back to the stall, knowing the great black horse to be fiercly protective of her.
   
"Just this, Miss."  He stepped to her, holding out the document.  It was a magazine, "Flying", and on its cover. . .
   
"But that is the wrong airplane!"  But he's alive, she exulted!   Exultation turning to fear at what she'd just revealed. 
   
Walker smiled, suspicions confirmed.  "He was supposed to have taken the Mustang, was'nt he." 
   
She looked again at the magazine in her now trembling hands.  Lucian, wearing his blue uniform, standing on the wing of the "Angry" one, the Warhawk, one leg in the cockpit, scowling at the photographer.  Below the picture, the title "The Last Flying Tiger".  It was a finely detailed picture.  She traced her finger over the 5 small iranian peacocks painted below the canopy, and beneath them, painted in flowing script . .
   
"Yes."  Walker placed his finger next to hers.  "That is your name, isn't it?"  A hint of awe crept into his voice.  "You are the answer to the greatest mystery in aviation right now.  The question he will not answer.  Who, is Helen?"
   
   

[Drydock]

The helicopter departed the next day, doctors unaware, pilot sworn to secrecy.  He had left her the magazine.  The issue was devoted to Lucian, articles, interviews, evaluations of weapons and aircraft.  She had spent the evening pouring through it, absorbing every word.  It told of the crash that had brought him here, of his wandering through the mountians, the gunfights, injury and escape.  An interview given with great reluctance, much self effacement, even embarressment. Of her, and Tecumseh,  he had spoke only of a horse he'd grown fond of, special help he had recieved.  Once the question had been asked, who was the Helen whose name graced the side of the P-40.  He'd threatened to end the interview. 
   
There had been awards, accolades.  They called him an "ace", because he had shot down 5 aircraft.  Five!  She was thrilled, proud.  That he had killed her countrymen in doing so bothered her not at all, to her own surprise.  He merely defended himself, as he had defended her.
   
The magazine had been a few months old.  It spoke of his retirement, but not where he was now.  The Military had been reluctant to let him go, finaly persuading him to take a reserve commission, allowing him to be recalled if needed.  It was clear in the interview he hoped such a call would never come.  He spoke of having "Seen the Elephant."  Such an odd phrase.  Would they all please just let him fade away.
   
That next night she went to the Teacher.  Wreathed in pipe smoke, he sat silent, paging through the magazine.  Finished, he sat back, gazing at her until she dropped her head in embarressment.  "So, he survived.  And to great glory it seems."
   
"Yes."
   
"I admit I am surprised.  I have never met one so determined to seek a worthy death."
   
Helen nodded.  "He told me once, though he does not remember, that he thought it better to die surrounded by ones enemies, than to die in peace, alone."
   
"That would have been the time you carried him to Shiraz?"
   
"Yes."
   
"And did he say anything else?"
   
She looked into the lamp between them.  "He told me his name, asked me to weep over his grave, and said I had given him 3 gifts: Beauty, Trust, and Forgiveness."
   
Setting down the pipe, the Teacher laced his fingers.  "How does one give Beauty, Trust and Forgiveness, dear one?"
   
Helen leaned back, eyes closed.  "Beauty was when I first smiled at him.  Trust was when I gave his candy to the children,  and I forgave him for the deaths of my sister and her husband."
   
The old man knocked the dottle from his pipe.  "Ah yes.  So he fears only being alone."
   
"I think," she tilted her head in thought, "that he fears he is becoming too used to being alone."
   
He stood, walked to his mantle.  "I have been told, there is an American Military presence in Shiraz now, a small team at the airbase."
   
She was surprised at the conversation shift.  "Excuse me?"
   
"Perhaps they might be intererested in helping one who helped their man?"
   
"I. . .what is this?"
   
He faced her.  "Are you becoming used to being alone, dear one?" 
   
She stammered, stared at him.  "Why would you have me do this?"
   
The Teacher laughed.  "As a wise lady once told me, because no one else will."
   
"But the village. . ."
   
"Will go on as it has gone on since long before you were born.  And there will be a clinic soon."  A smile lifted the beard.  "And take the Horse."

[Drydock]

Life is damn strange, thought the newly minted Air Force Colonel.  Granma was right, grab on with both hands and just enjoy the ride.  Emerging from his tent he once again found himself in the middle of Iran, surprised and amazed at where his life had led him.  All thanks to a stubborn, mean, recalcitrant, gifted sailor he'd bet the farm on.  A full bird colonel, with his own command, a recconisance shop in the middle of indian country.  Hot damn.  With a brand new, damn capable E-7 to run his photo enterpretation lab. He threw a towel over his shoulder, heading for the short line at a set of temporary outdoor sinks.  You can learn a lot from your men, standing in line for your morning shave.  "Mornin', Sarge."
   
"Colonel sir!  Mornin'."  The Sergeant swiped the last bit of foam from beneath his nose.  He stepped to the side, giving his CO access to the sink.  "How does the day look sir?"
   
"Be puttin' a Predator up to support that Iranian brigade sweep south."  That was the remarkable thing, the Colonel mused.  Unlike Iraq, here the military was still intact, well trained. Not to mention highly resentful of any Arab insugents in their country.  That was the key: Arab insurgents.  To call an iranian an arab was a deadly insult, so the small pockets of largely arab funded, mostly Wahabi fundementalist Sunni insurgents, were pursued with vigor by the native troops.   
   
Their Air Force was a shambles though.  Years of embargo, of stripping parts from one plane to keep others, mostly older american types, still flying, had left few fully capable craft intact.  The "Redneck" debacle and its aftermath had left the force reeling, demoralized.  Thus the call to the UN for recconasaince assets to help pursue the scattered pockets of resistance.  The UN had in turn asked Centcom for help. Americans were the best in the buisness after all.
   
So here they were, set up in an old isolated Hanger on the western end of the Shiraz airport.  Its location had been ideal, easily guarded.  It had come with its own hulking Hindi security guard, who seemed to think the American presence a great joke for some reason.  Humour aside, they'd kept the man on:  He spoke excellent english, made a dandy interpreter, and was a wealth of information on the local area and conditions.  The man claimed to know of a hotel in the Christian quarter of town that would be happy to accomodate them; getting them out of the tents that now surrounded the old hangar.  Definatly worth investigating, once the security situation was well determined.
   
Ah well, hot running water would be nice. . .What the hell?  A breathless airman, one of his perimeter security men, had just come chugging around the hangar corner, yelling for the CO.  Damn!  Only half shaved.  "Here airman!"
   
The Airman seemed to hesitate: Do you salute your CO when he's bare headed, bare chested, with a foam mustache?  When in doubt. . .the salute was boot camp formal.  "Sir!  We have a situation sir!"
   
"Well?"
   
"Ah, yessir, there's a woman with 2 horses out at the gate sir, an that big Hindu guy insists she's got to talk to you, sir."

[Drydock]

   A long held truisem of the United States Military, is that no plan survives contact with the enemy.  Perhaps better to say, no plan survives.  Throughout history, the more carefully planned an operation, the less likely it was to be executed according to that plan.  The saving grace in this, is perhaps no military is better at making it up as it goes.
   
Helen was shocked at the speed of events.  Shocked as well to find the worlds most powerful nation and military evidently populated by the most sentimental of people.  Her story confirmed, she found herself, Shafaq and Tecumseh hustled aboard a 4 engine turboprop bound for Doha, Qatar.  There she had been extensivly interviewed, subjected to a physical examination, then feted by a number of men with impressive looking shoulderboards.  A military vetrinarian had examined both horses (Once she'd convinced Tecumseh to allow the man to approach) pronouncing both suitable for further transport, prescribing a mild sedative for the nervous mare.  She'd had to constantly soothe it during the flight across the gulf.   The great stallion had gone aboard the plane willingly, seeming to enjoy the experience.
   
Next they were loaded on a monsterous airplane, a C-5 "Galaxy" according to the crew, who also called it "The aluminum cloud."  She who had never flown, never traveled further that Teheran, now found herself on a non-stop flight to the United States.  The crew devoted themselves to her comfort, while apologizing for the length of the flight: One of the men cheerfully explained that the direct flight minimized the number of laws they were breaking!
   
A fuel stop in Norfolk Virginia, then on to Luke Air Base, Arizona.  Here the horses were stabled, Helen escorted to the base commanders house, where she collapsed on the provided bed, exausted and overwhelmed by the alien world she'd been thrust into.
   
Surely the Americans meant well, but they were so overpowering!   Perhaps sensing this, the base commanders wife forcefully shooed everyone off, determined to give the young woman time to wind down, acclimate.  That next day was spent quietly, tea, talk and horses.  Both the Commanders wife and her teenage daughter rode, resulting in a trip to the stables, to be introduced to the great War Horse. 
   
Tecumseh clearly was unfazed by any of this.  He was in his glory: feared by men, adored by women, surrounded by lesser animals, he ruled the stables.  Seeing the great stallion in such good humour, her own mare as well honored consort, restored much of Helens own spirit.  Enough that the Base Commanders wife appropriated a goverment credit card, taking all three to the base PX.  Helen soon found herself well equipped with American clothes, and perhaps her first American friends.
   
First save for one, and that one further north. Next morning a huge truck took them to Durango Colorado.  Here, for the first time, Department of Defense discretionary funds  chartered a steam powered freight run on the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gage railway.  Though a narrow road led to the high mountain town of Silverton, most all heavy hauling was still done by the railroads lovingly maintained 2-8-2 Mikado steam locomotives.  Helen was amazed that the country which had produced the impressive aircraft she'd rode in, still used steam powered trains.  The concept of a tourist railroad was new to her. 
   
Late summer in the San Juan mountians left her transfixed by its beauty.  She thrilled to the locomotives staccatto  exaust blast rattling about the steep canyons.  Below them a tumbling, foaming river leapt over rocks, through high narrow gorges.  The River of Lost Souls, they called it.  Of course.  Silverton itself was a small town, 500 full time residents, set in a magnificent high valley.  It felt, somehow, like home.
   
Most amazing of all, was that the media knew nothing of this.  How long it would last could not be known, she could only hope it would be long enough. 
   
One person waited for them in Silverton.  The Sherriff of San Juan County.  Lucian had hoped for a job with the railroad, perhaps working part time for the Sherriff.  Instead she had learned, he was a full time Deputy, with an occaisional weekend on the railroad, qualifying on the engines.  The Sherriff waited at the bottom of the ramp as they off loaded the horses. 
   
Another American shock: the Sherriff was a woman!  Complete with badge, gun and cowboy hat.  She waited, arm outstretched.  Helen took the offered hand.
   
"So you're the one.  I reckon I knew it.  Sour as that man is, had to be a woman back there somewhere."  She was short, stocky, black haired with dark, laughing eyes.  Helen was entranced.
   
"My name is. . ."
   
"Helen.  Yep, had to be."
   
Helen laughed.  "So, where is. . "
   
"Wish I knew!  Ida had his butt standing right here at attention, waitin'.  Took a week off.  Walks up inta them mountians by hisself, pup tent, old rifle an a fryin' pan.  'Bout as alone as you can get."  The dark eyes smiled at her from beneath the hat brim.  "You gonna change that?"
   
"I. . .maybe?"
   
"Don't reckon you traveled far as y'have for maybe."
   
Americans were a very direct people.  "No, I suppose not."
   
"Good!  So this is the horse."  The Sherriff craned her neck upward.  "Lord, there's enough for two there.  Y'know, he built a corral out t'his place.  Tried to sell him a horse, comes in handy 'round here.  Said he allready had one.  Sure enough."
   
Helen grabbed at that.  "He has a place, a home?"
   
"Sure enough.  Guvermint gave him a valley east of here.  Cabin, barn, enough room to land his plane."
   
"He has an airplane?"
   
The Sherriff regarded her with wide eyes.  "Lady, he's got THE plane.  The one with your  name on it."  A bark of a laugh.  "Reckon I'm the only Sherriff in the country can call in my own fighter cover." 
   
Important things now.  "How is he?"
   
The Sherriff swept off her hat, rolling the brim in her fingers.  "Damn fine deputy.  Probably have my job whenever he wants it.  Thank god he hates politics.  Don't get much crime 'round here, mostly we rescue lost tourists.  I swear, he goes into these mountains an' scares 'em out!"  Dark eyes fixed on hers.  "Can't say if he's happy.  He's just there.  Like maybe he's waitin' for something.  Or someone."
   
Helen nodded.  "You say he's out there, in the mountians?"  The Sherriff nodded.  "Is there somewhere I can leave my mare?"
   
The Sherriff reached for Shafaqs halter.  "Take care of her myself.  But Miss, no tellin' just where he is, an' you don't know these mountians.  Best wait 'till he gets back."
   
Tecumsehs ears were forward, the horse sidestepping, eager.  Helen climbed into his saddle.  "Perhaps I do not know these mountains.  But I begin to think I know the man.  And this one," she patted the great black neck, "seeks the man he was meant to bear."
   
The Sherriff nodded.  The woman before her seemed determined, the horse well equipped  "Reckon so."
   
Helen leaned down.  "But tell me, is there some place in this town I can buy a shovel?"

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