27 July 2022 – Spangdahlem Air Base, Spangdahlem, West Germany

Sabrina wiped her palms on her uniform trousers, trying to dry them before reporting in. The last thing she wanted to do was offer a damp hand to her squadron commander on her first day. In her most confident voice, she told an admin airman why she was there and presented her orders.

“The squadron’s out training on the new aircraft, Ma’am, so your commander’s tied up. Let me see if the wing or operations group commander is available.”

‘A Colonel?’ Sabrina thought. She looked down at her blue duty uniform, checking her ribbons and brushing away perceived lint. ‘Shit, did I put my wings on upside down? Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sabrina, effing calm yourself …’

“The Operations Group colonel will see you now, Ma’am.”

Sabrina stepped into the indicated office. Pictures, citations, and combat awards hung on the walls. Full-sized flags stood behind the oak desk. She expected Grampy Tom to show up any minute. Instead, a compact gray-haired man in a flight suit stepped around the corner. His gaze locked on her.

“Sir, First Lieutenant Sabrina Knox-Jones reports!” she announced with a crisp salute.

“New grist for the mill of the 22nd,” the full-bird colonel growled. He offered his hand. “Colonel Jack Newcombe, 52nd Operations Group commander. Welcome to Deutschland, Lieutenant.”

“Danke Schoen, Herr Oberst!”

“You’ll fit right in, Lieutenant,” he laughed. “I understand you just left Tyndall? Finished at the top of your B-course?”

“The Raptor’s one hell of an aircraft, Sir,” Sabrina shrugged. “We clicked. The IPs there know their business, too.”

Colonel Newcombe waved her to a chair. He sat behind his desk.

“I hear you’re the best pilot ENJJPT’s produced in quite some time,” he said casually. Sabrina was uncomfortable with that statement. Thinking you’re the best leads to problems. “You’re uncomfortable with that, aren’t you, Knox?”

“Colonel, I may have done well in school but haven’t stepped foot in the real world, Sir. USAFA, ENJJPT, B-course … those are all good, but I haven’t gone up against anyone with a red star on their tail. And that’s not to mention our pilots with stars and wreaths above their wings. I’m a noob, Sir.”

“But you’re a humble noob, Lieutenant.” He opened a desk drawer and extracted a single sheet of paper. He held it up. “Pete Cunningham has good things to say about you and how you do your job, Sabrina. Are you okay with me using your first name?”

Sabrina nodded blankly. She knew about the Good Ol’ Boys network in the military. Messages flew fast, and sometimes that wasn’t a good thing. Major Cunningham, Lieutenant Colonel Cunningham now probably, was Sabrina’s overseer from the 306th Flying Training Group at USAFA – and one of her biggest advocates.

“Ever play aggressor?”

Sabrina’s head snapped back to the other side of the desk.

“Sir? Not as a pilot, no, Sir.”

“But … ?”

“My father took me to the fort near our house to terrorize Army ROTC cadets on a field training exercise. I was a junior in high school. Kinda reinforced my desire to go Air Force and not Army, Sir.”

“I’ll bet!” Jack Newcombe laughed. “Winter FTX?”

“Yessir. Four inches of snow on the ground, too.”

“Anyway,” Newcombe chuckled while shaking his head, “I want you to strap an F-22 on and help terrorize your new squadron members.”

“Um, Sir, shouldn’t that job go to one of them? I know the basics of fighter operations, but … wouldn’t I be a safety hazard, Sir?”

“I doubt it. One of the visiting instructors from Tyndall will be your commander while you act as a member of the aggressor flight.” Newcombe smiled at Sabrina. “Plus, the IP asked for you by name, too.”

“Why am I nervous, Sir?”

Newcombe said nothing but pressed a button on his phone. His door opened a moment later.

“That’s why I’m nervous …” Sabrina sighed.

“Sabrina, I’m hurt. Colonel, did you hear that slander? What is my recourse under UCMJ, Sir?”

“To suck it up and take her flying, Captain Wallace!”

“I guess that’s that, huh?” Bree Wallace asked while looking back at Sabrina. “C’mon, let’s go to the office they let us use here and start the briefing. With your permission, of course, Sir?”

“You ladies go ruin someone else’s day. Like the 22nd Tactical Fighter Squadron’s day.”

“I should have never accepted that dinner invitation,” Sabrina grumbled.

“You’ll thank me later, Sabrina.”

“Later? After the pilots I haven’t met yet string me up for embarrassing them, Captain?”

“That’s a very remote possibility, Sabrina.”

Sabrina didn’t respond. She didn’t say anything until she sat in Bree’s office.

“How many of you came over here, Ma’am?”

“‘Bree,’ Sabrina. We’re alone in the office, so relax. Dale, Tiger, and Smokey joined me on this TDY jaunt.” Dale ‘Naught’ Connaughton, Jack ‘Tiger’ Bengali, and Tyler ‘Smokey’ Robinson were other IPs from Tyndall’s 43rd Tactical Fighter Squadron.

“And they’re out causing grief for the 22nd right now?”

“Yep. It’ll be our job to add to the misery.”

“Great …” Rubbing your forehead doesn’t relieve a headache, by the way.

“And we’ll help you get a new call sign.”

“Oh?”

“Raijin.”

“Thunder god? Oy vey. Can we stick with Thud, please? The noob calling herself a god? A recipe for disaster, that’s what that is!” Sabrina threw up her hands. “Actually, this whole thing is! I gotta spend three years here, remember?”

“Sabrina, it’ll be fine. I’ve done this before. okay?” Sabrina put her head in her hands. “Anyway, the day’s just about over. What are you and Tom doing for dinner tonight?”

The morning dawned clear and warm. Bree Wallace picked Sabrina up at Eifel Arms, the temporary lodging facility, and took her to the easternmost hardened aircraft shelter at Spangdahlem.

Sabrina shook hands with Dale, Tiger, and Smokey in the half-cylindrical building. There they briefed her on the plan for the day, her role, and her responsibilities. Sabrina glanced at the 22nd TFS patch on her arm and wondered how long it would be before the squadron stripped it off her. Like the disgraced Army cavalry officers her father once told her about.

Putting on her G-suit and climbing into the F-22 cockpit calmed Sabrina. As concerned as she was about angering her unmet fellow pilots, Sabrina was born to fly. Any plane became an extension of her, but the F-22 was more a part of her than any other.

With checklists complete, Sabrina gave her crew chief the sign to remove the chocks. Once removed, he gave her the command to roll. She held position behind Bree Wallace’s aircraft at the Runway 23 threshold.

“Spangdahlem Tower, Nymph One, flight of two, on Taxiway Echo requesting permission to take off.”

“Nymph One, take position on Runway Two-Three and hold for instructions.”

Bree and Sabrina took staggered positions at the end of Runway 23 and awaited clearance.

“Nymph flight, clear for take off. Turn left once airborne, heading one-eight-zero, climb to Angels eighteen.”

“Nymph One, roger. Turn one-eight-zero and climb to Angles eighteen. Nymph is rolling.”

Once in the air, Dale, Tiger, and Smokey joined their flight. They pushed south until they made radar contact with the 22nd TFS as they trained.

“Nymph Three and Four, execute.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

Dale and Smokey pulled up and climbed toward twenty-five thousand feet. Tiger, in Nymph Five, drifted east to monitor.

“Red Five, standing by …”

“Thanks, Luke,” Bree responded with sarcasm. “Two, follow me.”

Major Caleb Bryson flew east, training in his new F-22 Raptor. He missed his F-16 Falcon, but the Air Force wanted what it wanted. It wasn’t his decision. The 22d TFS was now an F-22 squadron. The 480th at Bitburg remained an F-16 one.

“Skip, how are we looking?”

“Starting to see more than the regular commercial traffic on the scope, Tank. Standby.” A pause. “Unidentified bogeys fifteen miles at our eight o’clock low, closing fast.”

“‘Unidentified?’ What about our AWACS and ATC coverage?”

“Dunno. Twelve miles … Contact! Raptors ten miles, now at our seven o’clock low and climbing.” A screaming warble. “They just lit us up! Recommend evasive!”

“Break left!”

Skip Stedman went left, and Tank Bryson dove right. A glance over his shoulder told Tank the bogey wingman was on his tail, settling onto his six. He tried every trick he ever learned, but that bastard stuck to him like he was painted on. Tight, reversing turns did nothing to shake the attacker, and the enemy crept closer. Rolls, Immelmanns, Split S, all futile maneuvers. The missile lock alarm sounded in his helmet, and he sagged.

“FUCK!” Tank cursed.

“Nymph Two, that’s a kill,” came a female voice. Most of Tank was angry, but part of him acknowledged that some women were skilled pilots.

“Adler Seven, returning to Spark.” ‘Spark’ was the pilot’s local nickname for Spangdahlem.

“Adler One to all Adler units, return to base. Operation concluded,” came the order from Lieutenant Colonel Tim Doherty, commander of the 22nd TFS. The others acknowledged.

The Adlers of 22nd TFS landed first, then the five Nymph aircraft. They taxied to opposite ends of the base. The pilots would gather in the 22nd’s briefing room in one hour.

The four 43rd TFS pilots talked animatedly about their actions during the training exercise. Sabrina stood silent. She didn’t want to accompany her former IPs into the 22nd’s briefing room. She’d prefer to show up like any new pilot and ease into the unit. That wouldn’t happen.

The five aggressors stood along the side wall of the briefing room. Colonel Doherty listed the items the 22nd needed to work on as they transitioned to the Raptors. Sabrina noticed Colonel Newcombe at the back of the room and paled when he nodded at her. Colonel Doherty completed his list and motioned the aggressor flight to the front of the room.

“These are the aggressor pilots you faced today,” he said. “While they all came from Tyndall, only four are currently assigned there. One is the newest member of our squadron. Lieutenant Knox-Jones, please step forward.” Sabrina swallowed and did so.

“This is First Lieutenant Sabrina Knox-Jones, a graduate of ENJJPT and the best pilot to pass through Tyndall’s B-course in years. She’s assigned to Charlie Flight under Major Bryson.”

Sabrina saw a man’s head jerk around, and his eyes locked on her. Those eyes narrowed. Sabrina knew she was in for it after the meeting concluded. Just what she needed. Major Bryson stalked over when Colonel Doherty dismissed the squadron. Sabrina braced to attention.

“You were on my tail today? A brand-new, just out-of-school shavetail?” Sabrina was silent while Bryson stared at her. “I asked you a question, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Sir! I was on your tail in Nymph Two!”

Bryson’s look softened. Slightly.

“Colonel Doherty was right, shavetail. That had to be some of the slickest flying I’ve ever seen. You stuck to me like you’d been painted on. What’s your call sign?”

“Sir, my latest call sign is ‘Thud.’”

“‘Thud?’” Bryson asked in confusion. “As in Thunderchief?” Sabrina nodded. “You certainly ruled our slice of the sky this morning. I’m glad you’re assigned to my flight. Welcome to the 22nd, Thud.” Bryson nodded to her and walked away.

Sabrina stopped sweating as he did. Then Colonel Doherty walked up.

“Was Caleb giving you shit, Thud?” he asked.

“No, Sir! Welcoming me to the squadron, Sir!”

“Don’t try to kid a kidder, Lieutenant,” Doherty laughed. “He’s been the king of the walk here since he reported, but you schooled him in flight without breaking a sweat!”

“Oh, I was sweating just now, Sir …”

“I’ll bet. Captain Wallace told me about a possible new call sign for you, too.”

“Um, Sir? Could we hold off on that? The ‘Raijin’ thing? I just got here and still have a lot to learn. The 22nd flew105s back during Vietnam, so I’m proud to wear the name ‘Thud,’ here.”

Doherty nodded. “I’m glad you’re in our squadron, Thud. You’re humble and talented. We need a little of both here. I’ll see you ’round the shop.”

“Did you get a new call sign?”

“No, you troublemaking visiting IP! Colonel Doherty agreed to my request to let that ride for a bit. I still have lots to learn here.”

“You’ll do well here, Sabrina.” Bree Wallace said. “You know how to balance your skill with humility, which isn’t always true with fighter pilots.”

“Present company excepted, Ma’am.”

“Oh, definitely not!” Bree laughed. “I’m a cocky little shit!” She pushed Sabrina’s shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s finish cleaning up and have lunch. You need to be in your flight’s office this afternoon.”

Sabrina transitioned to the receiving end of the 43rd TFS’s spankings in Charlie Flight. Bree Wallace liked jumping all over her aircraft anytime Bree flew near. Bree would hand off to the other members of the American Hornets – as 43rd TFS from Tyndall was known – to keep the pressure on.

Sabrina didn’t know it, but the Hornets were impressed with her ability to perform under that pressure. The Hornets also saw improvements across the 22nd TFS. The 22nd had seasoned pilots and knew US Air Forces-Europe needed top performance.

The senior pilots’ attitude toward Sabrina thawed over the next month. They watched her work to become the best wingman (wing person?) in the 22nd. Members with longer tenure in the 22nd – all of them – knew they were the best but welcomed Sabrina’s efforts. They were all bold pilots at their ages.

Tom and Sabrina settled into an on-base townhouse in the northeast corner of the base. They did everything American service men and women did on foreign assignments: opened new bank accounts on-base to align with West Germany’s system, got new phones to work on European cell networks, and passports to visit other Western European countries. The other thing they did was make sure they asked about local restaurants and shops.

While Spangdahlem tried to offer service members as much as possible, there’s only so much you can pack onto two square miles. The small town of Spangdahlem offered some diversions from US standard food and activities. Larger cities of Trier and Bitburg offered more. Tom and Sabrina quizzed each other after using German language teaching CDs and streaming services. They didn’t want to be ugly Americans outside the gates.

“Can you believe this place?” Tom whispered while eating one night. “They put a lot of ‘Italian’ restaurants back home to shame!”

“There’s a reason Mom’s has been in business for nearly sixty years, Honey.”

“Yeah, smiling at our bad German might be one of them!”

“Oh, yours is not bad,” their waitress Hannah commented – in excellent English – as she approached. “You at least try, and your German is improving. We appreciate that.” She stopped and motioned to their clothes. “You also took the time to dress more as we do here and do not stand out as Americans as much as some of your countrymen.”

“Our parents taught us to be polite guests,” Tom pointed out.

“Ja, your parents did, Herr Thomas. And yours, Frau Sabrina. Not everyone was so lucky.”

They fought the urge to tip Hannah for her kind words, but tipping was not done here.

Sabrina stood her first alert shift in early September. Alert is a twenty-four-hour shift where pilots prep their aircraft for rapid startup, then wait in nearby quarters. With short flight times for missiles and planes from across the Iron Curtain, aircraft needed to be airborne as fast as possible. An alert shift member is exempt from training and administrative duties until their shift ends.

Sabrina checked the layout of the alert hut. She made sure she knew the way to her aircraft. Sabrina confirmed the women’s section was closed off from male airmen and officers. She was the only female alert pilot on base, and servicemen were known to do anything possible to catch a glimpse of a scantily clad woman.

She didn’t sleep deeply that first night, and was exhausted when she returned to the townhouse the following morning.

“That good, huh?” Tom asked as she walked in.

“I think I waited for the klaxon to go off all night. I’m going to take a shower and lie down.”

“I’ll see you later this afternoon, then. I’m working at Legal Aid today.”

Sabrina grunted, kissed him, and headed upstairs.

She woke to the sound of jet engines six hours later. Rubbing her eyes, Sabrina went online and searched for a dinner spot. Tom returned home at quarter past five that evening.

“Don’t hang up your coat,” Sabrina told him while checking his clothes. “Those’ll work. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” Tom asked as he turned back to the car.

“A little place in Trier for dinner.”

“Very nice. We haven’t been to Trier yet. Local German food, or something else?”

“No, good ol’ German food this time. It’s a well-rated place, so it shouldn’t be a problem. It’s about a forty-five-minute drive, and I made reservations.”

The restaurant was worth the drive. Sabrina and Tom’s German had continued to improve. They asked staff not to switch to English but to help them in German when necessary. The young couple learned more about their host country that night, and the servers were glad to see a military family learning. Eighty years of occupation created friction at times.

Sabrina went back on routine patrol that weekend. She’d prefer to fly around all day than sit in the alert shack. A Monday at the end of September brought a minor break in routine with an escort mission from Spangdahlem to Rhein-Main Air Base near Frankfurt. Sabrina would follow KC-46 tankers as if they were bombers and get to see a different part of West Germany. Carrying ‘white’ weapons on a training mission was par for the course in Europe, though.

There were no surprises en route, and Sabrina hung out on the tarmac waiting for the Pegasus drivers. She heard a welcome voice during a brief trip into the operations building.

“RAIJŪ!”

Sabrina spun and wrapped herself around a towering West German.

“KHAAAAAN!” she cried out in her best Captain Kirk bellow.

“Did I not tell you we’d see each other again?”

“Yes, of course! You were correct, Gunnar.”

“Flake! Come see who I have found!”

“Flake! You warped Welshman!”

“Ungrateful colonist!” Eirwen Biven replied in laughter as Sabrina also hugged him. “You should have all been punished for treason long ago!”

“Probably. Where are you two stationed?”

“RAF Wildenrath,” Flake answered. “Number 47 Squadron. Love your American ‘Herky Birds.’”

“Gunnar?”

“Wunstorf, with the rest of those lousy Brits.” Flake blew him a raspberry. “I fly der deutsche Airbus A400Ms.”

“And what are the odds of us winding up here today? All three of us?”

“I told you, Sabrina, NATO is not that large. Where are you stationed?”

“Spangdahlem. One of those F-22s is mine.”

“And you are the best pilot in your squadron, no doubt.”

“Gunnar! I’m still learning the job, so, no.”

“Not yet,” Flake added.

“You’re not helping, Flake. Hey, is there a cafe in the building or nearby? My Pegasus drivers will be another hour or two.”

“Making sure they signal their turns, Sabrina?”

“Flake, don’t talk bad about the people who give us the go-juice!”

The three friends got caught up as they shared snacks and soft drinks in the small cantina. One of the American KC-46 crews eventually tracked Sabrina down.

“Looks like I gotta go, fellahs. You two keep in touch! Tom and I have our international driver’s licenses and Hauptuntersuchung-approved cars, so we can come to see you!”

“Which does not surprise us in the least, Sabrina,” Gunnar rumbled with another smile. “Auf Wiedersehen, meine freundin.”

The three separated with hugs and smiles.

Sabrina was still in a good mood when Tom returned from work.

“Did something fun happen today, Babe? You’re extra bubbly!”

“I ran into Eirwen Biven and Gunnar Pohl from ENJJPT at Rhein-Main today!”

“What? How?” Sabrina gave him the story. “Well, Gunnar saw the future then, didn’t he?”

West German weather started its slow decline into winter not long after that. Low overcast skies and decreasing temps meant longer prep for deicing, longer planning, and closer checks of intel. The last thing anyone wanted was REFORGER (Return of Forces to Europe) in the midst of winter.

Late January was the 52nd Tactical Fighter Wing’s turn to patrol near the Inner German Border, the line between East and West Germany, and the rest of the Curtain in the American Sector. Today belonged to the 22nd TFS, with the 480th TFS at Bitburg as their backup. Sabrina checked her aircraft exterior before climbing up and strapping in. Checklists complete, she rolled out behind Arne ‘Thor’ Thorvoldson, a native of South Dakota and a six-years-of-service captain.

“Spangdahlem Tower,” Sabrina heard Arne say, “Stinger Five, flight of two, ready to taxi.”

“Stinger Five, take Taxiway Papa to Alpha and hold for two Stinger flights ahead of you.”

“Stinger Five has Papa to Alpha and watch for the other Stinger aircraft. Stinger Five and Six are rolling.”

Ten minutes later, they were in the air, headed for the Fulda Gap area. Arne and Sabrina would turn south near Fulda and fly the entire Czech border to the Passau area before turning north and refueling. Stinger One and Two – Kian Wells and Zander Soto – would take the same path but start at the north edge of the American sector. Stinger Three and Four – Walker Manning and Scott Elliott – would start between her flight and One and Two’s.

The F-22s jumped off the runway and turned right, then settled onto a course east northeast. The third Stinger flight turned southeast as they passed over Fulda, where the ground portion of World War III would likely start. Conventional wisdom had long been that Warsaw Pact armor would pour through the Fulda Gap and spread across Western Europe. Squadrons of A-10 attack planes waited in case that day ever came.

Sabrina could see Stingers One through Four on her radar twenty miles ahead of them, spread over a five-mile distance. She confirmed her master weapons arm switch was set firmly on ‘safe.’ She had no wish to be part of an international incident today.

Stinger One reached Waldkirchen and turned southwest toward Passau. Three trailing planes did the same over the next few minutes. Passing Zwiesel and Frauenau, Arne angled south of Großer Rachel, the second-highest peak in the Bavarian National Forest. This would ensure a safe buffer between their advanced fighters and the Czechoslovakian border. Arne had just passed over the Lusen peak when the sky came crashing down on them.

<SCREEE!> <SCREEE!> <SCREEE!>

“SAM! BREAK RIGHT!” Arne yelled.

Sabrina reacted instantly, pulling right and diving while releasing flares and chaff. She lost sight of Arne’s aircraft and could not raise him on the radio.

“Stinger One! Stinger Six declares an emergency!”

Sabrina pulled her Raptor into a tight right-hand turn and pointed it back toward Lusen. Her stomach dropped upon seeing the smoke and flames spread across a peak to the east, further into the Schönbrunner Wald.

“Six, this is One. State the emergency.”

“Six to One, Five is down. I repeat, Five is down.” Sabrina swallowed hard. “I have no signs of a parachute, nor do I have emergency comm traffic.”

“Six, Stinger Flight is headed your way.”

“Roger.”

Sabrina dropped her speed and set up a pylon turn over the mountaintop south of the impact site. The rest of Stinger Flight arrived minutes later.

“Thud, what happened?” Kian Wells asked.

“Grease, we were flying southeast along the ridge, well off the border, when we passed over the national forest. As Thor passed over Lusen, a missile radar suddenly popped on, and the warning sounded in our headsets. He told me to break right, and I did so immediately. By the time I circled back around, he was gone.”

The rest of Stinger Flight searched the surrounding area the best they could. At their speed, though, it would be easy to miss something small – like a parachute.

“Stinger Flight from Stinger One, return to Spark. If possible, no contact with other units except Spark Tower. Stinger One will handle all external communications.”

Despite an F-22’s cruise speed, the return to Spangdahlem Air Base seemed interminable and long. Sabrina had failed at her job or felt like she did. She was supposed to protect Arne as his wingman. She dreaded landing at Spark today more than the day she played aggressor.

Grease told Sabrina to land first. Investigators would want to talk to the eyewitness first. Tower had Sabrina roll down the runway until she reached Taxiway Echo, then exit. They brought her to a large hangar away from her usual aircraft shelter. Once inside, Sabrina noticed people not in uniforms or flight suits.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this …’

Sabrina climbed down with her helmet bag and talked to her crew chief. One of the not-in-uniform crowd looked unhappy because she stopped to talk to the hired help. Too bad, so sad. DILLIGAF, buddy? Sabrina turned and approached Colonel Doherty standing next to Mister Unhappy when finished with her pilot tasks.

“Lieutenant,” Colonel Doherty began, “you are to go with this team and answer their questions. You are not under arrest, accused of a crime, nor are you under suspicion of committing one.” The colonel fixed Mister Unhappy with a glare. “The lieutenant had duties to complete, Major. I hope that is clear?”

The man nodded and swallowed.

“Quite clear, Sir. Lieutenant Knox-Jones, I am Major Benjamin Hobarth of USAFE Intelligence. My team and I need to debrief you regarding the incident with Captain Thorvoldson. Would you please come with us?”

Sabrina looked at Colonel Doherty, who nodded.

“Yes, Sir,” she responded.

Major Hobarth and his team led Sabrina to a medium-sized conference room. Sabrina was surprised to see Colonel Doherty behind her. The colonel motioned for her to sit at the table and took the chair next to her. The panel introduced themselves and mentioned that the information discussed should be considered classified until otherwise notified.

“Lieutenant, please take us through your day, from when you reported for duty until we sat in this room.”

Sabrina did so and answered their follow-up questions. Colonel Doherty did not interject or caution her to remain silent. The debriefing took close to an hour.

“Colonel, Lieutenant, USAFE has been following information that the Soviets were developing radar and antiaircraft systems capable of detecting and engaging stealth aircraft. While there had been no confirmation of these rumors before today’s incident, we have it now.”

“So, it’s an act of war?” Sabrina blurted out. Colonel Doherty shook his head at the same time Major Hobarth shook his.

“Lieutenant, today’s incident was an unfortunate training accident. Nothing more.”

Sabrina shot out of her chair in anger. Major Hobarth held up a hand to calm her.

“Major Thorvoldson’s aircraft experienced an unforeseen failure of his Number One engine. Specifically, a turbofan blade failed, and the resulting shrapnel destroyed the engine. That also caused the rupture of his left wing’s fuel tank, precipitating the explosion you witnessed.”

“Thor was only a captain, Sir,” Sabrina said in confusion. “He wasn’t on the major’s list yet.”

“His promotion was approved late yesterday, Lieutenant,” Colonel Doherty clarified. “Sadly, Thor left on today’s flight before I could inform him. His wife will see a major’s death benefits instead of a captain’s.”

Sabrina realized this was a cover story. The Soviets and Warsaw Pact would face no reprisals for their unprovoked attack. Sabrina wanted justice for Thor, but USAFE – and the State Department, likely – wanted things handled this way. Her face hardened.

“Will that be all, Major?”

Major Hobarth sighed. “Other than reminding you that this debriefing and its content are classified? Yes, Lieutenant. That will be all. Dismissed. Colonel, thank you for your assistance.”

Sabrina turned and held the door open for her squadron commander. She stood stiffly at attention while she did. He stepped through the portal. Sabrina followed, nearly slamming the door shut.

Colonel Doherty looked at the young woman marching angrily toward squadron headquarters alongside him.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened, Sabrina, and it won’t be the last.”

She looked over at the O-6. Her face resembled an angry mask.

“Sir, I mean this with all due respect, but the instant I hear Thor’s name being slandered in any way, if he’s ever said to have been the cause of what happened to his aircraft …” A pause. “Maybe that’s better left unsaid?”

“Arne was a friend, Sabrina. You’ll never hear that from me. Hobarth has assured me it won’t ever come from USAFE, either.”

“One other thing, Sir … Raijin, Narukami, Raikou, Kaminari-sama … Pick one. After today, I won’t buck the ‘God of Thunder’ call sign.”