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  Maggot shrugged, a perfect reflection of his father. “No sweat.”

  Shanker’s lips compressed into a straight line. “We’ve been having generator problems lately. It checked out okay last time, but if he loses the generator, he’ll lose the master reference gyro.”

  “Which means he’ll lose his altitude indicator, right?”

  “Yeah, and he’ll be on battery power.”

  “Not good,” Maggot said. “What systems will he have to shut down?”

  “He’ll shut off the main radio and DC fuel pumps first thing,” Shanker said. “They really suck up the power, and he has to conserve power for his basic instruments. There’s another problem: With the DC fuel pumps off, he’s gravity-feeding the engines.”

  “Fuckin’ lovely.” Maggot muttered. He looked at the sky. “He’ll be okay if he can get below that cloud deck so he doesn’t have to rely on his instruments.”

  “The quicker the better,” Shanker said. The two pilots scanned the sky, neither one liking what he was seeing. “Langston’s Legend is a real hot rod,” Shanker said, hoping Maggot would catch his meaning. He did.

  Maggot ran over to Hank Langston, who was standing next to the TV reporter. “Hank, I need to borrow your body and the Legend.” Hank looked at Maggot, his eyes wide, not knowing what to say. “We need a chase plane to bring them down.”

  To Hank’s everlasting credit, he never hesitated. “Let’s go.” He and Maggot ran for the Legend.

  “What’s happening?” the TV reporter shouted.

  “The Lightning needs a shepherd to get him down,” Hank called back.

  “Can my cameraman go in the backseat?”

  “Not unless he can fly formation,” Maggot shouted.

  Hank felt his stomach flip-flop at the word “formation.” But he never stopped running. He was panting when they reached his plane, and he paused to catch his breath. “You ever flown formation?” Maggot asked. Hank shook his head. “Dual controls?” Hank nodded this time. “Good,” Maggot said, giving him a push onto the wing. “You fly in the front seat.” Hank slipped into the seat as Maggot crawled in behind him. “Go-go-go!” he yelled.

  Hank reached up and pulled down the canopy, flicking the latches to the locked position. His fingers hit the battery switch and flew over the front panel. In less than two minutes the turbine engine was on-line, and they were fast-taxiing for the runway. Maggot worked the radio and requested an instrument departure to VFR on top. “We’re going after Lightning One,” he advised the tower.

  The tower controller was aware of the Lightning’s problem and cleared them for an immediate takeoff. “Climb runway heading and contact approach for radar vectors to on top.”

  “Cleared for takeoff,” Hank radioed. He moved the prop lever to full pitch and fed in the power. The Legend sprang forward like a Thoroughbred racehorse out of the starting gates. It took only six hundred feet to reach seventy-five miles per hour and Hank pulled back on the stick. He immediately sucked up the gear and climbed out at thirty-five hundred feet a minute. Unfortunately approach control wasn’t as fast as the tower and delayed their instrument climb through the clouds.

  “Maintain runway heading and VMC,” approach ordered.

  “Rog,” Hank answered. He climbed straight ahead and punched into the clouds at exactly five thousand feet.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Maggot said over the intercom, his voice amazingly calm, almost conversational. “VMC means visual meteorological conditions. I can’t see shit.”

  “Your eyeballs ain’t my eyeballs,” Hank answered, now well into the clouds. But the cloud deck was much thicker than Hank had expected, and when they didn’t punch out in a few hundred feet, he broke out in a dead sweat. He started to pant heavily.

  “Keep your instrument scan going,” Maggot said, his voice a cool fountain of reassurance. “Control your breathing. Don’t hyperventilate. You’re looking good. Don’t fixate on one instrument. Lookin’ good. Ain’t no one else flying around in this crap. Think big sky, little airplane. You’re doing fine.” After what seemed an eternity, they broke out on top at fifteen thousand feet. Hank kept the climb going, and exactly eight minutes after he’d hit the battery switch for engine start, they were level at seventeen five and headed for the Lightning.

  A sixth sense told Seagrave he had to really conserve his battery and keep radio transmissions to a minimum. “Norfolk Approach, I need to descend below this undercast as soon as possible. Radar vectors, please.”

  He gritted his teeth when Approach uttered the inevitable: “Stand by, clearing airspace below you.”

  Maggot’s voice came over the radio. “Approach, Legend Five-one-five-one requests vectors to join up on Lightning One.”

  “Roger, Legend Five-one,” Approach answered, shortening the Legend’s call sign. “Fly heading one-one-zero. Lightning One is on your nose at fifty-four miles.”

  “Copy all,” Maggot replied.

  “Your uncle to the rescue,” Seagrave told Eric. “My guess is that Hank’s in the front seat and wetting his knickers.”

  “Hank can be cool,” Eric replied, defending his friend.

  Seagrave patted him on the knee, pleased with the boy. “You’re helping, and I’m glad you’re here.” Eric beamed, for he knew it was the truth. His self-esteem shot over the moon.

  “Legend Five-one,” Seagrave radioed. “How read?”

  “Copy you five-by,” Maggot answered.

  “You might want to get the thumb out. I’m on battery power.”

  “Rog,” Maggot answered.

  “How fast can this puppy go?” Maggot asked Hank.

  “Time to find out,” Hank answered, firewalling the power lever.

  The three-bladed prop bit into the air, and Maggot watched the indicated-airspeed needle touch 290. He mentally converted the indicated-airspeed readout to a true airspeed of 380 knots. He gave a low whistle of approval. They were traveling at 440 miles per hour. “She’s a real screamer,” Maggot allowed.

  “Performance Aircraft,” Hank said, “the people who build the kit, redline it at four hundred and fifty miles per. I think it’ll go faster.”

  Hank moved up in Maggot’s estimation. He may have been a paunchy fifty-five-year-old man, but he had walrus-size balls, and his attitude was in the right place. “This will do just fine,” Maggot said, not willing to push the flight envelope any further.

  Seagrave’s voice came over the radio. “Legend Five-one, I do not have a tallyho. Do you have me in sight?”

  “No joy,” Maggot replied.

  The TV reporter had gone live and was talking to his anchor in the station. “A real-life drama is unfolding here at Newport News–Williamsburg International Airport as Hank Langston, a local businessman, attempts a daring rescue of an aircraft in distress.”

  “Get with it,” a voice said in his earpiece. “We’re live on national TV, and that’s the third time you’ve said that. We need something new.”

  The TV reporter gulped. “Right now, like the family, we can only wait.” The cameraman zoomed in on Stuart and Shanker, who were huddled over the radio. “Why is a twelve-year-old boy flying in an antiquated jet fighter? Regardless of the answer, the heroism of the two men attempting to intercept and lead the stricken aircraft to safety cannot be questioned. But why should their lives be in danger in the first place?”

  The voice in his earpiece said, “Heroism versus stupidity. Play that.” The reporter swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and tried to think of something more to say. Then it came to him. “Isolate on the father,” he told his cameraman. He walked quickly over to the men and shoved his microphone in Stuart’s face. “Colonel Stuart,” he said, “is it true your brother is up there with Mr. Langston attempting to rescue your son?”

  Stuart nodded dumbly at the reporter, not sure what to say. Shanker grabbed the microphone. “That’s a true statement. Mike here is not a pilot. He works in the Pentagon.” He gestured at the sky. “My older son, Dwight—they call him Maggot�
��he’s a fighter pilot and flies the A-10 Warthog. He knows what he’s doing and it’s no big deal, just a precautionary landing. Besides, fighters have electrical problems all the time.”

  It wasn’t what the reporter wanted to hear. “So the situation is quite safe.”

  Shanker gave him a look that seriously questioned his intelligence level. “I didn’t say that. I said it was a precautionary landing, just in case. We’re playing it safe, that’s all.”

  “I would like to hear from the father,” the reporter said, fighting with Shanker for the microphone. He finally wrestled it out of the older man’s grasp and turned to Stuart. But Stuart had moved away and was standing on the grass between the parking area and the runway, his eyes locked on the clouds above him.

  The voice in the reporter’s earpiece was talking. “We got a hot one here. We can turn it into a special—old men chasing youthful fantasies and putting a boy in danger.”

  “Tallyho!” Maggot called.

  “Where?” Hank shouted, not seeing a thing.

  “On the nose, six miles.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “I got the aircraft,” Maggot said, taking control. Hank started to protest, but there was an authority in Maggot’s voice that told him to let go of the stick. “Sweet,” Maggot said, feeling out the controls. He jerked the Legend to the right as he made a radio call. “Chalky, we’ve got you in sight. Hold your heading, descend to sixteen-five. Say airspeed.”

  “Three seventy-five knots indicated.”

  Now Maggot had to get them both in the same flight envelope while converting to the Lightning’s stern. Fortunately, the Legend’s indicated-airspeed indicator was calibrated in knots per hour like the Lightning’s. But the Lightning could slow down only to around 220 knots indicated before handling became delicate, which was something they wanted to avoid while flying formation. On the other hand, the Legend’s indicated top speed was around 300 knots indicated, a much better airspeed for the Lightning. While 80 knots of airspeed may seem like a lot, it is a narrow window for two such dissimilar aircraft. Maggot split the difference. “Set two sixty knots indicated.” He radioed.

  Hank tried to be cool when Maggot tucked in next to the Lightning. But it just wasn’t there. “Oooh, shit,” he muttered. He was looking directly across at Seagrave, a little more than twenty-five feet away. But it looked much closer, and he could swear the Lightning’s left wingtip was in his lap.

  “He’s on battery power,” Maggot told Hank, “so he’ll keep off the radio to save the juice. He’ll be fine once we get him through the clouds.” Maggot reached around and patted his right shoulder with his left hand, the universal signal for Seagrave to fly on his wing. Seagrave tucked in closer and matched his speed.

  “Oooh, shit,” Hank repeated, thinking what it would be like descending through clouds with a thirty-eight-thousand-pound fighter welded onto his wing. “Can we do this?” he wondered.

  “Piece of cake,” Maggot assured him. He keyed his radio. “Norfolk Approach, Legend Five-one. Lightning One is on my wing. Descending to four thousand feet at this time.”

  “Legend Five-one, you are cleared to ten thousand feet.”

  “Norfolk,” Maggot replied, “that will put us directly in the soup. Not the best place to fly formation. Leaving sixteen-five for four.”

  “Legend Five-one, you are cleared to ten thousand, repeat, ten thousand. I will clear you lower as soon as possible.”

  “Sorry, Norfolk,” Maggot replied, “your transmissions are coming through broken. Leaving sixteen-five for four.”

  “I can hear him perfectly,” Harry said over the intercom.

  “No you can’t,” Maggot said. “He can divert traffic. He doesn’t want to because that will upset the traffic flow into Washington. Which will tick off some senator who thinks the system exists for his benefit.”

  “But we got to do what the controller says.”

  “Only if we hear him. Besides, his only purpose in life is to help us, not the other way around.” Maggot edged the Legend slightly forward of the Lightning as they dropped closer to the cloud deck below them. Now they were skimming the top. Suddenly the Lightning’s nose pitched up seven degrees. Hank gasped. “Not to worry,” Maggot said. “He’s shut off the fuel pumps to save the battery, and the fuel-collector boxes are gravity-fed. He’s just refilling them before we enter the clouds.”

  Seagrave gave him an okay sign and tucked back in. “Here we go,” Maggot warned. Hank sucked in his breath as Seagrave moved in even closer, and this time he was sure they were going to collide. “No lost wingman today,” Maggot murmured, almost praying. Hank knew that if they lost sight of the other aircraft, each would turn away fifteen degrees to give them separation. But without an altitude indicator, a directional gyro, and a vertical velocity indicator, the Lightning was in a world of hurt. But Hank had no way of knowing that he was in the presence of two consummate pilots. They were aggressive to a fault and believed in meeting any challenge head-on. Both were more than willing to pit their skills against the odds, and Hank was about to learn what that really meant.

  The two aircraft punched into the clouds, welded tight.

  The cloud enveloped them like a soup sandwich as Maggot flew a stable descent, maintaining a constant rate of descent and speed. His heading was locked on 283 degrees, and the heading indicator never budged. Traces of turbulence rocked the airplane, but Maggot held the descent constant. Hank’s eyes darted from his instrument panel to the Lightning as it misted in and out of sight. His breath came in rapid pants. “Don’t hyperventilate,” Maggot warned him again. Maggot’s eyes moved in a fixed pattern, scanning the instruments before looking outside to check on the Lightning and then back inside. He never moved his head, and the stick was in constant motion as he made minute adjustments.

  “I can’t see him!” Hank shouted. More than anything he wanted the Lightning away from his aircraft, the baby he’d spent over two years building and sunk $165,000 into. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. “We’re gonna have a midair! Go lost wingman!”

  “Your eyeballs ain’t Chalky’s eyeballs,” Maggot gritted, throwing Hank’s words back at him. He, too, had lost sight of the Lightning. “We gotta trust him. He ain’t got much in the way of instruments. We’re his main attitude reference.”

  The Lightning emerged out of the mist. It had never budged from its position on their wing. “Oh, God,” Hank whispered, not able to take it anymore. He closed his eyes.

  Seagrave’s eyes were padlocked on the Legend as it drifted in and out of view. When it disappeared, he would start a mental countdown from five. If he reached zero, he fully intended to turn away fifteen degrees for fifteen seconds before resuming his original heading. But that would have meant relying on the standby airspeed indicator, the turn-and-slip indicator, and the RPM gauges. Not a lot. Fortunately, he never reached the count of two.

  “It’s getting lighter,” Eric said. “I think I saw the ground.”

  “You’ve got keen eyesight,” Seagrave said. But his words were labored as the Legend momentarily disappeared. Then it was there again, still leading them down.

  “I see ground,” Eric said.

  They dropped out of the clouds and leveled off at twenty-five hundred feet. Seagrave moved away from the Legend and took a deep breath. “Well done, Maggot,” he murmured.

  “We never panicked, did we?” Eric said.

  Seagrave peeled away his oxygen mask and let the cool air wash over his face. He smiled at his copilot. “No we didn’t.”

  The TV reporter stood so his cameraman could frame him in the same scene as the Lightning landed in the background. But the cameraman had a better sense of the dramatic and focused on the two aircraft as they came down final in a loose formation. At exactly five hundred feet Maggot firewalled the power-control lever and pulled up and out of the pattern while the Lightning touched down in what looked like a routine landing. Since he had no indication showing residual brake pressure,
Seagrave decided he had taken enough chances for one day and stopped on the runway. Stuart was the first to reach the aircraft and looked up to see his son smiling down at him from the cockpit.

  “It was cool, Dad! I got to do an aileron roll and we flew formation with Maggot through the clouds.” Stuart didn’t know what to say and could only look at his son. “And we never panicked either.”

  The TV reporter arrived with his microphone. “That’s a good question, Colonel Stuart. Why should they have panicked?” Stuart didn’t answer.

  Shanker helped place the crew boarding ladder against the jet. “Hey, Chalky, don’t you ever taxi back in on your own?”

  Seagrave stood up in the cockpit, his face lined with fatigue. “Why should I when so many of you blokes are willing to do it for me?”

  “Why didn’t you declare an emergency?” Shanker asked.

  “What emergency?”

  For a moment there was silence between the two men as they grinned at each other. Then, “Thanks, Chalky. I owe you.”

  The Englishman climbed down and stood beside Shanker as Hank piloted his Legend to a picture-perfect landing on the cross runway. He taxied in to a forest of thumbs-ups as shouts of approval from his friends washed over him. He lifted the canopy as the propeller spun down. Slowly he stood up, surprised how tired he was from the short flight.

  “You did good, Hank,” Maggot called from the backseat, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  More shouts of approval echoed over Hank as the cameraman zoomed in on his face. He hopped down from the wing and ran his hand lovingly over the fuselage, a quiet look on his face. Then he declared, “Cheated death again.”

  Hank Langston and his Legend had met the challenge.

  18