Chapter 2: The Sound of Thunder and Bad Decisions

Chapter 2: The Sound of Thunder and Bad Decisions

The dawn mist hadn’t even cleared the end of the runway before the noise started. It wasn’t a low rumble; it was a physical force, a high-frequency scream that rattled the rivets in the hangar doors and set off car alarms two counties over.

Salty sat strapped into the thirty-degree reclined seat of the F-16 Fighting Falcon, his helmet visor lowered, staring through the crystal-clear glass of the bubble canopy. The Pratt & Whitney engine behind him was howling through its startup sequence, the digital displays flickering to life in a soft, green glow. He adjusted his oxygen mask, took a breath that tasted like pure tactical air, and rested his hand on the side-stick.

Off his starboard wing, looking like a heavily armored building with jet engines slapped on top, sat Ye Olde Large Lad in The Warthog. Through the glass of his own cockpit, Large Lad gave a thumbs-up that looked like a bunch of bananas wrapped in leather. The twin TF34 turbofans mounted high on the A-10’s tail spun up with a deep, bass-heavy roar that you felt more in your teeth than your ears.

"Radio check, Large Lad," Salty crackled over the comms, adjusting his throttle. "You comfortable over there in the titanium bathtub, or do you need a booster seat?"

"Just waiting on you and your flying mechanical pencil. Try to keep up."

"Keep up? Pal, I’ll be three counties ahead before your airbrakes even fold back. Tower, Viper 1 and Warthog 1 cleared for immediate departure."

Salty shoved the throttle forward into full afterburner. A wall of blue fire erupted out the back of the F-16. The acceleration slammed Salty flat into his seat, the g-forces pulling the skin of his face back into a violent grin. The white line of the center strip blurred into a solid streak, and in less time than it took to blink, the F-16 yanked off the asphalt, pitching nose-high at a forty-five-degree angle and rocketing into the clouds like a surface-to-air missile.

A heartbeat later came Large Lad. He didn't rocket skyward so much as he pushed the air out of his way through sheer force of will. The Warthog rolled down the runway with heavy, industrial purpose, its massive wings biting into the cold morning air. With a deep, mechanical groan, the A-10 lifted off, remaining low, dark, and menacing over the treeline before banking hard to follow the Viper's vapor trail.

At ten thousand feet, the sky was a blinding, crisp blue.

Salty rolled the F-16 on its back, hanging upside down in his harness, looking up—or rather down—at the patchwork carpet of green fields below. "God, she turns on a dime!" he yelled into his mask, yanking the side-stick hard right. The Viper snapped through a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree roll so fast it made his inner ear throw a complete tantrum. "She’s a liquid machine, Large Lad! Absolute poetry!"

"Poetry is for guys who can't carry sixteen thousand pounds of ordnance," Large Lad’s voice chuckled in his ear.

Salty flipped upright just in time to see the broad, angular silhouette of the Warthog cruising up beside him. While the F-16 twitched and darted like a hummingbird on an espresso kick, the A-10 rode the sky like a battleship cutting through calm waters. Stable. Unyielding. Terrifyingly solid.

"Watch this, Salty," Large Lad called out.

The Warthog banked left and dove straight for the deck. Large Lad flattened out fifty feet above an abandoned dirt strip in the valley, the dual engines howling as he pulled a tight turn around a cluster of pine trees. Even without firing a single round, the sheer presence of the aircraft—the massive nose housing the seven-barrel GAU-8 Avenger cannon leading the way—looked like an act of war against the landscape itself.

"Now that," Large Lad growled, pulling back on the stick and climbing steadily back up into formation, "is what we call hugging the terrain. You can keep your Mach two at forty thousand feet. Down here, you can see the look on the grasshoppers' faces."

"Alright, big man, fair enough," Salty grinned, his hand inching the F-16's throttle toward the gate. "Let’s see how she handles when we stretch her legs. Rendezvous over the shoreline. Last one there pays for fuel—and that’s a heavy tab today."

Salty slammed the gate into max burner again. The F-16 lurched forward, speed tape on the heads-up display rolling numbers faster than a slot machine. 0.8 Mach... 0.95 Mach...

The air around the Viper condensed into a shimmering cone of vapor. Salty held his breath, leaning into the stick, his flight suit seams groaning under the strain of both the heavy Gs and his own post-breakfast frame. CRACK-BOOM! The shockwave shattered the sky behind him as the Viper punched cleanly through the sound barrier, sweeping away into the blue haze at Mach 1.2.

"Mach one achieved!" Salty hollered, clapping his gloved hand against the canopy arch. "I broke the barrier, Large Lad! Smooth as silk!"

"Good for you, speed racer!" Large Lad replied, his voice calm as if he were sitting in a porch rocker. "I’m currently doing three hundred knots, enjoying a warm cup of coffee out of my thermos, and admiring the lovely coast scenery. Take your time coming back around, I’ll be the one floating like a brick."

Salty swung the F-16 in a massive, wide arc, cutting off his afterburner and bleeding speed until he dropped back into formation alongside the heavy A-10. Side-by-side, the contrast was absurd: a high-tech grey needle built for speed and stealth, flying wing-to-wing with a flying fortress built out of straight lines, titanium plate, and pure bad attitude.

They leveled off together, drifting through the afternoon sun as the light reflected off the silver and grey composite panels of both warbirds.

"Not a bad way to spend a Wednesday," Large Lad admitted over the radio, his massive helmet turning toward Salty's canopy.

"Not bad at all," Salty agreed, tapping his fuel gauge with a leather glove. "Though we’re burning jet fuel at a rate that's going to make our accountants weep tears of blood. We better head back before we have to glide these multi-million-dollar lawn ornaments onto the grass."

"Roger that, Viper 1," Large Lad chuckled. "Form up on my wing. First one back to the lawn chairs gets the cold drink."

They turned in tandem, twin shadows gliding across the clouds, heading back toward the little private airfield where two empty folding chairs were waiting on the tarmac below.