Top Gun (53 page)

As Green pulled back on the stick to chase after the Stiletto, he was kind of surprised by Andrew’s lack of aggression. Andrew
seemed content to play a defensive game.
Where were the kid’s balls?
Greene wondered as he once again closed on Andrew’s six. He was about to call another Side-winder shot when the Stiletto
in his gunsight abruptly slipped away. Andrew’s bird had dropped its nose and cut its thrust, so that now it hung in the sky
like a sea gull balanced in the wind!

How-did he do that?
Greene wondered. Meanwhile, he couldn’t do a thing about it; he
had
to overshoot. As Greene swiped past, giving up the offensive edge, he saw the Stiletto’s nose came around to point at his
tail, and then Andrew’s bird leapt forward in pursuit.

Greene wondered,
Where did Andrew learn that trick? I’ve never seen anything like it.
But Greene had a more important puzzle to ponder, like how to get one extremely angry Stiletto off his ass.

(Three)

“This is good-bye, Andrew.” Robbie called only a few seconds into the dogfight.

When Andy heard that, he was ready to throw in the towel. Robbie had managed to instantly lock onto Andy’s tail, and now he
was about to once again humiliate Andy. Andy was resigning himself to submitting to the defeat, but then he remembered what
Gail had told him about self-confidence.

Son of a bitch,
Andy thought.
Gail’s right. If I give in this easily, Robbie won’t have beaten me. I’ll have beaten myself.

As Gail had urged him to do, Andy forced himself to blank from his mind all he knew about his opponent, telling himself that
this bastard on his tail was just another Attacker. No more, no less.

“Fox two,” Robbie called.

And Andy zoomed upward, into the blinding sun. Sure, it was a long shot, but Ops just might give him the benefit of the doubt
if he could make the ref think that there was a possibility the heat-seeker heading for his tail pipe might have lost its
way nosing through the sunshine.

“Ivan one, negative Sidewinder shot on Pinto three,” Ops called.

Yes!
Andy thought gleefully, and then it hit him. His fear of Robbie had magically left him. He was no longer afraid. He was having
fun.

Time for Lieutenant Harrison to show Ivan one what the lieutenant had been practicing this past week.

Andy dropped away from the sun by executing a vertical reverse, and then leveled off, flying as straight and true as a jetliner
in order to sucker Robbie in. It was now a waiting game. Andy had to restrain himself from making his move too soon, even
though it seemed to him that the black F-5E already looked close enough to crawl up his tail pipe.

Steady now. Remember what Gail told you. You can beat him.

Andy tried to clear his mind so that he could better anticipate when Robbie might decide to call his shot. He’d been doing
some experimenting with his bird during his stint here at Ryder, perfecting a move that wasn’t in the books, but he knew his
opponent, and realized that when you were flying against a veteran like Major Greene, you could only use a trick once.

When Andy felt he could wait no longer—that his opponent was about to call another Sidewinder shot—he almost simultaneously
did a number of things: Andy dropped his fighter’s nose and slammed forward his throttle to idle; he popped his speed brakes
and lowered his landing flaps. Then he kicked rudder, enduring the pain of a 6-G rotation as the Stiletto hung in the air
spinning on its nose like a top. It sure was sweet to see Robbie’s black bird go shooting past.

Now it’s my turn,
Andy thought, pulling in his boards to slim down his bird. He cobbed the throttle and sprinted forward after his kill. The
black F-5E bounced around the sky like a cue ball on a pool table, running through an extended repertoire of aerobatics designed
to throw off its pursuer. Andy stuck to his opponent’s six like glue. He was itching to call a Sidewinder shot, but Major
Greene kept jinking, denying Andy the positive shot he needed if the Ops ref was to award him the kill.

“Hey, Andrew,” Robbie taunted. “You want me bad enough to run with the jackrabbits to get me?”

The black bird steeply dived. Andy followed his adversary down, perhaps an eighth of a mile behind. The desert’s tobacco-brown
terrain was rising up at them now. Andy checked his altimeter as Robbie continued to plummet, wondering what Robbie thought
he was doing, but he continued to call his opponent’s bluff by staying locked on the F-5E’s tail. They were down to about
200 feet when Robbie finally leveled off, the black bird rising and falling as it followed the hills and dips of the desert
landscape. Andy poured on the juice, closing to within a few hundred feet of Robbie’s tail pipes, experiencing the gut-wrenching,
deck-level roller-coaster ride for himself. Andy realized now that he wasn’t going to call a Sidewinder shot; that only a
gun kill would do to settle the score.

Andy inched forward his throttle, thinking it wouldn’t do to overshoot. He was trying to catch the dust-streaked black bird
in his gunsight, but Robbie was jinking like mad to deny him the opportunity. Meanwhile, the chase had taken them farther
east, back toward Ryder. Andy recognized his where-abouts from the landmarks: a tall rock spire and a deep arroyo that ran
through this section of the desert.

“Okay, Andrew,” Robbie suddenly called out with what sounded like a hint of desperation in his tone. “You can hug the deck,
but can you dig a tunnel?”

What is he talking about?
Andy wondered. What did the guy have in mind? Then the black bird veered toward the arroyo, and Andy realized what his crazy
half brother meant to do.

Robbie’s F-5E vanished from sight as it dropped down below ground level, dipping to fly
between
the banks of the dried-up river bed.

“You’re one good pilot, Robbie,” Andy radioed grimly. “But if you can do it, so can I.”

Andy plunged his Stiletto into the arroyo behind Robbie. The sensation of flying
below
ground level was as exhilarating as it was horrifying. The high brown walls of the arroyo were a blur whipping past just
a few feet on either side beyond the Stiletto’s wing tips, and then there was the river bed
itself
to contend with, maybe thirty feet below the Stiletto’s belly.

Now it was a question of who was going to lose his nerve first,
Andy thought as he gritted his teeth, concentrating on not smashing himself to pieces flying in this trench. Robbie was now
about five hundred feet ahead of Andy, who’d dropped back to avoid having the turbulence of the F-5E’s jet wash funneling
back along the arroyo pitch him into the clay banks. Andy was sweating like a pig. He didn’t think he could keep up this level
of concentration for much longer. He felt like the arroyo was closing in on him, but who knew? Maybe it
was
growing more narrow.

Time to try a little mind-fucking of my own,
Andy decided, mashing his radio transmit button. “Hey, Robbie! I’ve been watching you. You came pretty close to the port
edge, that time, pal! You prepared to play in this sandbox forever? ’Cause I am.”

Evidently, Robbie had had enough of playing in this sand-box. He climbed to starboard, leaving the arroyo behind as he clawed
his way into the sky. As Andy followed Robbie up on the straight climb, he had no trouble framing the black F-5E in his gunsight
and pulling the trigger.

“Guns, guns!” Andy roared into his radio as his camera rolled, freezing for posterity’s sake the image of the black bird pinioned
squarely in his cross hairs. Andy counted to three, imagining the video signal wending its way to Operations, so that everyone
could see him waxing the great Major Robert Blaize Greene.

“Ivan one. You are a mort.” Operations called. “Congratulations, Pinto three! That was superb flying!”

“I’ve waxed you, Robbie!” Andy crowed. “How does it feel, sucker?”

(Four)

“How does it feel, sucker?”
Andrew’s triumphant taunt echoed in Greene’s helmet. Greene was exhausted. From the moment that Andrew had pulled his incredible
stunt of some-how getting his Stiletto to hang spinning in the air, Greene had been on the defensive.

How does it feel, sucker?
Greene had tried every trick in the book to shake Andrew, and he hadn’t been able to do it. Then he’d tried a few tricks
that weren’t in the book, like hugging the deck to give the jackrabbits a haircut, and finally, turning his jet fighter into
an earthworm, literally trying to fly below the deck to try to shake the godawful avenging fury on his tail.

How does it feel, sucker?
Greene had steeled himself, screwing up every ounce of courage to dip into that arroyo, only to witness Andrew following
him in like it was nothing more than a Cakewalk. He’d known then that he was at the end of his rope; that Andrew had waxed
him; that it was only a question of how long Greene could keep Andrew from administering the inevitable coup de grace.

I’m beaten,
Greene had thought as he’d climbed into the sky. The hairs had risen on the back of his neck as he’d sensed Andrew zeroing
in. Then he’d heard Andrew call out,
“Guns, guns!”
and Greene had waited stoically for the Ops call that would seal his fate.

“Attacker one, you are a mort.”

“How does it feel, sucker?”

Robert Blaize Greene realized that he was smiling as he banked his black bird around to head back to base.

How did it feel? Greene felt relief.

(Five)

Ryder AFB

It was late Friday night. Andy and Gail were at the ice-cream parlor. Red Sky was over, except for its closing ceremony on
Sunday, of course.

“I can’t believe I won,” Andy murmured.

“You mean you can’t believe you won the Warlord trophy?” Gail smiled, squeezing his arm.

“That, and I can’t believe I beat Robbie.” Andy shook his head. “It’s like it’s a dream.”

“What makes it even better,” Gail said, giggling, “was that bagging him was the kill that put you over the top to win the
award.”

“Congratulations, Lieutenant!”

Andy looked up, not recognizing the gaggle of pilots who’d surrounded the table, but then, so many people he didn’t know had
been coming up to him, wanting to pat him on the back and shake his hand. Most of the final mass debriefing held in the auditorium
earlier that day had been devoted to his dogfight with Robbie. The audience had watched the electronic playback of the air
battle, coupled with the video footage from Andy’s gun camera. Both Andy and Robbie had been called up together to the lectern
to give running commentary on the footage. When it was over, the assembled personnel of Red Sky had given Andy a standing
ovation. During it, Andy had looked at his half brother, trying to see how Robbie was taking the indignity of it all. It had
been no good. Andy couldn’t tell. Robbie had kept a master’s poker face throughout the proceedings.

Finally, the debriefing was over. Now there’d be no more fuss made over the dogfight until Sunday, when Andy was to receive
the Warlord trophy. That was fine with him. He’d come to find being in the center of a dogfight was a hell of a lot easier
to take than being the center of attention.

“I wish people would drop it,” he now confided to Gail as the well-wishers went away. “I feel weird being hailed as some kind
of hero when all I really wanted to do was settle a personal feud.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gail replied. “As of today, you’re Jack the Giant Killer around here, and you might as well get used to
it.”

“I suppose,” Andy said. “But I still wish I knew how Robbie was taking all this.” He sighed. “He was totally deadpan during
the debriefing. Like it hadn’t mattered to him in the least.”

“How come you’re suddenly so concerned about Robbie’s well-being?” Gail asked knowingly. “I thought you two didn’t get along?”
she teased.

“It was never
my
decision that we didn’t get along,” Andy muttered. “He’s been calling the shots concerning our relationship, or lack of it,
ever since I was born. Damn, I wish I knew what he was thinking now.”

“It looks like you’re going to get your wish,” Gail murmured. “Here he comes now.”

Andy looked up. “Oh, Christ.” He scowled as he watched Robbie approach. “Who was it who said be careful what you wish for,
you might get it?”

Beneath the table, Gail was squeezing his knee. “Have courage, lover. You won the battle, now don’t lose the war.”

“Hi,” Robbie said, looked uneasy as he reached the table. “Can I sit down?”

“Sure.” Andy waited as Robbie settled himself. He wondered what to expect. He had the craziest desire to
apologize
to his half brother for beating him.

“I wanted to congratulate you on winning the Warlord trophy,” Robbie began. “And on beating me. I…” He hesitated, looking
like he was having trouble getting the words out.

“Maybe I’d better go,” Gail suggested quietly. “This is family business.”

“No.” Robbie shook his head. “You heard me insult him, you should be here to hear me take back what I said.” He smiled wryly.
“Anyway, I’ve got a hunch that one of these days
you’re
going to be family.”

“I have a hunch you’re right,” Andy said, putting his arm around Gail.

Robbie nodded. “I was wrong about you, Andrew. I’m sorry I insulted you… and your father.”

“Your stepfather,” Andy interjected.

“You’re as good a pilot as I am,” Robbie pushed on, sounding like he was having a hard time doing it. “No! You’re a
better
pilot than I am! You proved that today. I—” He shrugged, looking close to tears. “Ah… there’s a lot more things I want to
say—
need
to say—but I don’t know how to even begin….” He trailed off, hanging his head.

“You can start by calling me Andy.”

Robbie looked up at him. Andy smiled. “That’s what my
friends
call me: Andy.”

“You’re making this a lot easier on me than I deserve,” Robbie said slowly.