NCM Fighter Squadron

The C5 is here, like it or not!!

Part 1


As for me...

C5 I take one last deep drag on my cigarette, and flick it away from my C5 Fighter Jet. As it hits the concrete pad, tiny sparks scatter like fireflies in the night. My foot glides into the first of three foot holds as I climb to my home away from home. I buckle up my safety harness after checking the chute which serves as my seat cushion. Clicking each of the 14 switches activate the lights on the panels in front of me, and I reach into my pocket to pull out my good luck charm. Swept back cross flags, painted red, white, and black. I remove the adhesive back on the replacement emblem from my newly acquired 97 Corvette, and stick it firmly on the dash above the altimeter. I close the smoked glass hardtop, and secure it with the three built in clamps. The vats protected ignition key slowly slides home and a twist is all it takes. As I fire up the turbocharged all aluminum LS1 engines, I can see a foot of flames gracefully blowing out the side exhausts.

A few preflight checks, and my map in place, I taxi to the runway. As I turn onto the runway at a fairly fast speed, I take note of the lack of body roll, and total control my play toy can handle. Then I glance out each side of my window, and double check the operation of my oval clearance lights. One last switch to flip, and my takeoff lights pop up into view. Even in the near total darkness, I can make out the raised fiberglass panels that curve up on each side of the hood. As I turn from the taxiway to the runway, I pull the cableless throttle all the way back, and the G-forces push my body deep into the back of my rich leather seat. As I hear the Goodyear EMT runflat tires clear the runway, I reach for the leather covered handle to my right, and pull it effortlessly toward me, raising the tires up out of harms way. I slowly tilt the padded leather trimmed steering wheel to a more comfortable position as I enjoy my cruise.

Heading north at Mach 1 speed, I punch into the control panel the arm weapons code. As the panel glows with multiple colors identifying the weapons of choice, I turn on the Bose Gold CD player, filling my helmet with the Beach Boys music of years gone by. I then set a heading to the first offenders location I determined after my spy recon trip the week before.

I circle the 6 car garage for a few seconds, then select the smart bomb on my left wing. I guide the laser lock to the third bay from the right, where stored is the offenders pride and joy. Through the tiny windows of the garage door, I can barely make out the rear of the car, with its' distinctive four round taillights. With little hesitation I release the laser guided weapon toward its' target. The bomb slides out of its storage area, and shoots out of the front drivers side air duct just behind the front wheel. A single trail of white smoke streams from the missiles rear vented ducts, and as it descends to 1,000 feet, I can tell it is right on target. I then hit the abort button, and the bomb explodes with great force, and a flash illuminates the dark sky for as far as I can see. I can see left over particles rain in a circle several hundred feet wide. All of the street lights for blocks instantly go off, and a few seconds pass as I turn a hard right. Looking out by heated side view mirrors, I can see a few of the street lights flickering back on as the photocells slowly react to the darkness once more. A slight grin comes to my face, and I pull straight up to 30,000 feet before leveling off.

I head south for home, and after landing, I easily climb out of the cockpit, thankful there is no door sill to climb over like the last years' model. I walk around to the front of my jet. I double check the front air scoops for obstructions, as these scoops to a great gob of cooling my front brakes on hard stops. I reach in my back pocket and wipe of the residue from a few unlucky bugs on my fog lights. Some people should be so lucky I say to myself. As I walk away from my second love, I hear the so familiar chirp of the horn as the alarm automatically sets itself. One last glance, and all I can see is the light from the hanger reflecting off the five spoke silver wheels.

I walk into the house, and set down in my easy chair. My loving wife comes up, gives me a peck on the cheek, and asks "Working late dear?" Yeah, I volunteer, and as I grab for the Atlanta Constitution, I ponder my one unanswered question...

"Was that one hell of a warning shot or what?!"

:)

Racer Dan



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