The General Dynamics F-16V thundered past the grandstand and slammed into the 9-G Viper turn that makes the Fighting Falcon the best dogfighting aircraft in the world. Then ... without bleeding any speed, the pilot stood the F-16 on its tail and lit the Pratt & Whitney 220/222E afterburner. The cannon boom of 30,000-pound feet of force drove the aircraft straight up into the summer cumulous.

The Viper was almost instantly a speck as it rolled into a perfect Chandelle and reappeared in a sneak pass from behind the crowd. The physical waves of thunder washed over the assembled multitude as the pilot snapped into a wide inside loop, which became a nifty half-Cuban eight as the Viper streaked back over the awestruck multitude.

There were a few moments of jet noise rumbling off in the distance – the sound that only a beast like the F-16 generates. Then it whipped past the grandstand at near supersonic speeds, flying UPSIDE DOWN, snapped into a jaunty three-point aileron roll, and disappeared into the clouds - jet noise blasting the crowd.

Thousands of people stood speechless. Then they burst into raucous cheers. The old guy looked at his beautiful granddaughter – all five-foot-one of spunky fourteen-year-old ... long blond ponytail poking through the adjustment strap of her Air Force cap. He’d expected her to be thrilled by the spectacle. But she had inexplicable tears in her eyes.

The old man said, concerned, “What’s the matter, Sweetie?” She said, “Why can’t girls do that?” The old man knew something that his granddaughter didn’t. He said smugly, “Come with me.”

The granddaughter gave him the look that all tweens give the hopelessly aged and followed him as he strode toward the flightline. The demonstration Viper ... painted with snake eyes, scales, and fangs ... had just rolled to a stop as the pilot wound the engine down.

The old man and his granddaughter walked up to the yellow tape, and he flashed his credentials. The airman guarding the perimeter said respectfully, “Yes, Sir!” and raised the tape to let the old man and his granddaughter walk toward the aircraft.

The ground crew wheeled out the maintenance platform. After the usual fiddling with straps, the pilot emerged, threw a jaunty leg over the side of the cockpit, stood, and swaggered down the steps ... the very model of a modern Top Gun warrior.

The crew chief helped the pilot remove the HGU-55 flight helmet, and the granddaughter gasped as a golden sheaf of blond hair tumbled out and rolled down the pilot’s shoulders. An angelic face looked toward the old man and waved happily. He said to his granddaughter, standing there with her mouth open, frozen in amazement, “Well, do you want to meet her?”

Air Force Captain Amy “Boho” Fuller was the Cadet Wing Commander of the Academy class of 2012 and the current boss of the Viper Demonstration Unit. She was a true American hero. The old man had met her at a commemorative event in Washington DC several years earlier, and they’d kept in touch.

He said, “Amy, my granddaughter thinks girls can’t fly.”

The captain laughed uproariously, turned to the Base PR Officer standing attentively nearby, tossed him her helmet, and said, “Take over.” Then she added, “Hasn’t your grandad told you about the WASPs?”

We were flying out over the harbor on a sunny Sunday in Oahu. I could see the scurrying on the fantails below as the ships prepared the decks for religious services. We were up early because Ronnie needed one more check-ride before she could solo.

Ronnie and I had had a boisterous night. She might be in her late twenties. But she loved sex, and at age twenty-one, I still had plenty of steam in the boiler. It was past sunrise when we finally tapped out. So, we dragged our sleepy butts out to John Rogers Field on Barbers Point to get the check-ride out of the way.

I requisitioned our bright blue Waco-UPF7 to do it in - the one with the same bloodlines as the Wacos from the National Air Races. The Waco was a gorgeous, staggered-wing biplane with a 220-horsepower radial that gave it a lot more kick than the dreary, 65-horsepower Taylorcrafts and Interstate Cadets that my employers, Andrews Flying Service, usually flew.

The Waco was usually out when I got to work. I mean, seriously ... I like to sleep in. But the early bird gets the worm - or, in my case, the best ride in the hanger – and we were aloft as the sun climbed higher into the bright Pacific sky.

I usually did Ronnie’s check-rides sitting next to her in the front cockpit. The Waco had enough room for two up there. So, I could enjoy both the scenery and the woman’s fantastic body. However, today was Ronnie’s last check ride. So, I decided to play it legitimately and sit in the rear seat where the instructor usually sits. Each cockpit had a complete set of controls, and as it turned out ... it was lucky it did.

We could see the morning action in what was becoming an absolutely magnificent Hawaiian day. Ronnie was doing touch-and-goes because takeoffs and landings were the real challenge. Each time she did ... we had to swing way out over Ford Island to reenter the pattern.

Recreational aircraft didn’t have radios back then. You avoided problems by flying strict approach patterns at set altitudes. Part of the instruction was teaching the standard landing approaches and procedures. We also taught visual scanning to keep you from having any surprises.

Ronny had the controls, and she was just turning to align with the runway while I glanced around, looking for traffic. That’s when I spotted a fighter arrowing toward us on a collision course. I grabbed the stick and did a violent snap roll. Ronnie screamed as the fighter rocketed past, its slipstream buffeting us as it went by.

I looked behind to get the tail number of the hotshot who’d buzzed us. Army Air Corps pilots were supposed to avoid the airspace around John Rodgers Airfield, and I wanted this guy’s dingle-dangles for my rear-view mirror. What I saw left me speechless.

The offending fighter wasn’t one of Hickam’s Curtis P-40Bs with stars and bars on its wings. It was a Mitsubishi A6M Zero sporting the “rising sun” insignia of the Empire of Japan. I swiveled my head to look back toward Pearl Harbor, and the plumes of black smoke were just beginning to rise skyward – I realized that the American fleet was under attack!!

The guy in the Zero had scared the crap out of me. But at least I could do something about it. Forget pattern flying; I had to get us on the ground FAST because another Zeke was lining up for a firing pass. Meantime ... Ronnie was having a kitten up front.

I firewalled the throttle and put the Waco into a nearly vertical power dive, thanking my lucky stars for taking the bigger, sturdier aircraft. Under that kind of stress, the wings would have come off a Taylorcraft. It was also fortunate Ronnie had aligned us with the runway because I was aiming for the landing slot at 130 MPH—well past the Waco’s maximum speed and utterly foolish for landing approaches.

At the last practical second, I hauled back on the stick, and the g-force smashed us into the seat. Ronnie screamed again. That was getting irritating. But my faithful Waco swooped into a remarkably smooth and level touch down. I would have been congratulating myself if it weren’t for the fellow back there who was trying to kill me.

Our sudden reduction in airspeed fooled him, and he flashed overhead without firing. Nonetheless, I was sure he would be back. Interminable seconds passed as I frantically taxied the Waco toward the hanger. When we arrived, I locked up the brakes, and we came to a juddering halt.

Ronny had the wing to exit onto. But the escape from the rear cockpit was a bit more involved. So, it took extra time to lever myself out. Ronnie was just disappearing into the hangar when the son-of-a-bitch in the Zero began his strafing run. I was ten yards behind Ronnie as the tracers walked past me.

I threw up my arms to protect myself. I know ... it was stupid – just instinct. Mere flesh wasn’t going to save me from the storm of machine gun and cannon rounds striking around me. So, I just happened to be looking at my left arm as a 20-millimeter shell blew it off - perhaps four inches below the elbow. A foot to the right and it would have exploded my head.

I was engulfed in a pink mist. But the realization hadn’t set in yet. I continued to sprint until I reached the relative safety of the hanger. I say relative ... because the Japs were shooting it up. Fortunately, those Zekes were escorts for the Kates and Vals - making loud booms at Pearl. So, they weren’t carrying the little 250-pound bombs they sometimes had under their wings.

As I ran into the protection of the hanger, Ronnie took one look at me ... shrieked, and fainted. I glanced down - my whole left side was soaked in blood - and then I passed out right behind her. I awoke in a bed in Hickam Hospital, twenty miles away. The tourniquet that a Navy nurse - who fortunately was taking flying lessons at the time – had applied had saved my life. But my flying days were over.

Congressional Airport was the home of the Civilian Pilot Training Program for the Washington, DC, area. You needed a car to get out there. But there was always plenty of traffic on the Rockville Pike, which ran right past the place, and folks would pick you up back then. Thus, you could either hitch a ride or take a bus.

My father wanted me to attend an Ivy League school after graduating from prep. But I was tired of him planning my life. So, I enrolled in the CPT Program on the sly. I figured I could make a living as an aviator, and the Old Man could just go screw himself.

I was full of it back then. I suppose most 18-year-old punks suffer from the same case of over-entitled testosterone poisoning. I was big and boisterous, and I didn’t have much in the way of brains or common sense, which was why I did nutty things. The nuttiest, by far - was learning to fly. But I was hooked once I did!!

It cost thirty-five bucks, which was a lot of money back then. That covered the medical exam and life insurance. I had the money saved, but the hard part was sneaking off to the airfield without my parents figuring out where I was going. They probably thought my comically stealthy behavior was just me sneaking off to get laid – and they were okay with that. They would have had conniptions if they’d found out what I was really doing ... odd double standard, don’t you think?

Flight instruction took place after ground school, where you learned civil air regulations, navigation, and meteorology. Once you passed that exam, you were required to log thirty-five hours to get a license—eight hours of dual instruction, nine hours of dual check time, and eighteen hours of solo flight.

I did the flight instruction in a Piper Cub ... with tandem seats and rudimentary instruments. The Continental flat-four gave it a maximum speed of 87 MPH, so the Cub was gentle and easy to fly. But it was kind of scary knowing that you were sitting at three thousand feet with nothing more than thin steel tubes and fabric keeping you up there—almost like a kite. I decided not to think about it.

The Old Man practically stroked out when I told him I’d rather fly than sit behind a school desk—imagine that. In 1940, flyers had a reputation as daredevils and barnstormers, not the noble protectors of Western civilization that they were viewed as four years later. In fact, the CPT program was founded to get more people into flying.

My parents were typical for their era. The Old Man was staunchly Democratic and a worshiper of FDR. My mother was from the white-glove Virginia aristocracy, so she tended to vote for whoever was the most conservative candidate. Me? I could care less which guy’s stupid decisions were currently wasting my tax dollars. So, I was totally apolitical—I still am, which is ironic given what I do for a living now.

My Old Man had a civil service job at the Treasury Department. It was important, and it gave him lots of money and influence. So, I prepped at St. Albans, about a twenty-minute walk from our place in Georgetown. St Albans is an all-boys school. Thus, you had to hang out at Maret if you wanted to get any female action, and that’s where I met Susan.

Our two schools were located less than a mile apart. And both were full of over-entitled preppy brats. So, the annual soccer match was a dick-measuring contest. I was the goalkeeper for St Albans all four years – mainly because I was too stupid to say “no” when they asked me to do it.

Goalkeeping is 99% sheer boredom and 1% utter terror since it involves throwing yourself at the spiked boots of an onrushing thug who wants to kick the ball into the net—or your head off your shoulders. Either way, it’s a win for him.

In those days, they didn’t have all the protective gear they have now. So, it was just me standing there in a dinky pair of shorts and shirtsleeves and wearing a silly little blue, red, and gold striped beanie that let the referee know I was the goalie. That was what I was doing in the last game of my senior year.

The referee – a knave with a heart as black as the shirt upon his back ... to paraphrase Shakespeare – had just assigned a last-second penalty kick to tie the game. So, it was me versus Jack Lambertson, a fellow who would make the gunfighting villain from High Noon look downright friendly.

As Lambertson stepped up to the spot ... I idly looked to my left. I could see that glance register with him. So naturally, I dove right – which was where I knew he would kick it. He did, and I palmed the ball a couple of feet in front of me, then scrambled to get my body on top of it.

Lambertson, who was following up his shot, kicked me in the head. It was game over, we won. Of course, I wasn’t around to enjoy it because I was out colder than a mackerel, still clutching the ball.

I came around to the odor of smelling salts being administered by an angel. Apparently, I’d died and gone to heaven. Nobody was near us. My teammates were celebrating fifty yards up the field, and the Maret guys had wandered off in disgust. You would have thought somebody would have noticed that I was lying there dead. But I guess jubilation clouds a guy’s thinking at a certain age.

Susan was the Maret coach’s daughter and the school’s pseudo-trainer. She was also Lambertson’s girlfriend. Hence, she was watching more intently than the rest. What she saw was her sweetie-pie gaze down at my dead body, nod with satisfaction, then wander off toward the Maret dressing room. Which led her to grab the medical bag, rush over, and put my head on her lap.

I opened my eyes to a vista of two majestic mountains with a concerned angelic face resting in between like the sun rising over the Himalayas. She said worriedly, “Are you alright?” I was still in a pea soup fog. Consequently, it took a second for her question to register.

I said, confused, “Who are you?” I know ... not smooth, but we didn’t treat head trauma like they do today. They just told you to walk it off.

She said, “I’m Susan Lawson, the Maret trainer. Just lie here until you get your wits back.”

I was still in la-la land, so I said, “What happened?”

She grimaced and said, “You got kicked in the head at the end of the game.”

I vaguely remembered a soccer game and that I was in it. I said, Inquiringly, “Who won?”

She laughed and said, “Does it matter? It’s over, and you appear to be in the right mind. Let me help you up.”

She gently untangled herself, stood, reached down, and helped me stagger to my feet. I had been unconscious. But I wasn’t dead. Hence, as I stood up, I took a long, lingering look at her spectacular body. I know ... not cool – but what do you expect from a horny adolescent male?

Susan said, amused, “Like what you see?”

I said eagerly, “Oh God, yes!!” That brought on a wide grin and a shake of her pretty head.

Susan helped me to the nearby Maret bench, one arm thrown over her shoulder. She was the ideal bundle—strong and athletic, she fit perfectly under my arm, and she even smelled nice. We sat companionably while I continued to put my shattered consciousness back together.

Up until then, I hadn’t really looked at her face. When I did ... I saw wide, intelligent blue eyes in a sensual heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and very kissable lips. The face was framed by extra thick auburn hair in a Prince Valient-style haircut. She was a knockout.

I was quickly getting my wits back. The whirling had stopped, and I no longer felt like I was going to throw up. There was a lump on my forehead that hurt like hell. But I felt well enough to walk back to the St. Albans dressing room.

The field was utterly deserted now, just Susan and me. I stood and said, “I feel better, and you probably have someplace to go. So, I’ll just call my mom to pick me up.”

My savior looked wistful. I knew what she wanted. So, I added, “Would you like to go out sometime. I ought to buy you dinner for taking care of me.” Yeah-sure-right! That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Susan looked delighted. But she said, “I have a boyfriend. Still ... I guess it would be okay if we just went out as a thank you.” Obviously, she was as self-deluded as I was.

I said, “Could you write down your phone number, and I’ll call you?” She didn’t have a pencil or paper, but she did have one of those Parker fountain pens in her purse. So, she wrote her number on the back of my hand in Shaeffer’s indelible ink. It stayed there for weeks. I called her the following Tuesday and made a date for that Saturday.

I had a 32 Ford Roadster convertible with an 85-horsepower flathead engine that made it fly. It was one of the benefits of a privileged upbringing. It was a rusty shade of deep blue, and with the top down, it was a veritable chick magnet. My Old Man had bought it for fifty bucks and used my access to it as a leash of sorts ... just to keep me in line.

Susan lived in the Woodly Park area in the direction of the Zoo. Her dad taught at Maret. But he had made his money the old-fashioned way ... he’d inherited it. So, Susan’s house was a freaking palace - even larger than mine. It was located on a leafy middle-class street that reeked of Andy Hardy. I know ... those films were sappy. But they cemented a view of the nuclear family that continues to this very day. That was Susan’s world.

Her dad greeted me at the door in the requisite cardigan, pipe in hand. Her mom was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t outright tell me that Susan already had a boyfriend, but it lay there in the subtext. The boyfriend, of course, was also the father’s star player, and I was the one who disappointed both father and boyfriend. So, it was a bit frosty ... to say the least ... when Susan breezed into the room.

Susan’s father lit up when he saw his little girl. She was gorgeous. Susan wore the standard preppy girl’s uniform: polished penny-loafers, blue knee socks, a Glen plaid pleated skirt, and a white round-collar blouse topped off with a virgin pin. Her lustrous hair was in two perky ponytails, which made her look like a spirited Cocker Spaniel.

Meanwhile, I had gone from hostile trespasser to potential rapist in her old man’s mind. He turned to me and said sternly, “I don’t want her back any later than 9:30. Where are you taking her?” Susan looked more amused than appalled as she said, “Erik’s taking me out for a bite to eat to thank me for attending to him after last Friday’s game.”

I said respectfully, “We’re going to Martin’s Tavern, Sir.” I wasn’t born yesterday. Martin’s was a place Susan’s dad would deem suitable. That was ironic since Martin’s was the home of more skullduggery and dirty dealing than any dining establishment in DC because most of Congress ate there.

As we got into my car, Susan said, concerned, “We’re not really going to that stuffy old place, are we?”. I laughed and said, “God no!! I’m taking you somewhere you’ll love.” Susan said, “Where’s that?” I said mysteriously, “You’ll see.”

Instead of insisting that I tell her like most women would, Susan looked intrigued. She was starting to grow on me. I mean, she was Lambertson’s girlfriend, and I wanted to stay out of that guys orbit because he wasn’t the most reasonable guy – especially when it came to his woman. But Susan Lawson was a beautiful, intelligent, and adventurous pal - a package hard to ignore.

We did the usual getting-to-know-you stuff during the thirty-minute ride out to Rockville. What I learned ... was everything that I needed to know about Susan’s life. She was full of plans and ambition. Hence, her hooking up with Lambertson was inevitable. Lambertson was the big jock on campus, while Susan was the homecoming queen, star of the annual musical, and class valedictorian.

I had no thoughts about a future with the woman, so her love life was no interest to me. But her story did paint an eloquent picture of a girl doing an outstanding job of pleasing everybody but herself. That was inevitable—at least, with parents like hers. Susan was their family’s crown jewel—the one on which all of their hopes were pinned. Naturally, they’d be overly controlling. Susan’s only goal—being Susan—was to make them “proud.”

I, on the other hand, had always had a rebellious streak. I just couldn’t abide being told what to do, especially by people I didn’t respect – for instance, my teachers and, honestly, my folks. And I could care less what those people thought of me. So, maybe I went a tad out of my way to swim upstream.

Susan looked puzzled when I turned into a bumpy farmer’s lane and stopped behind what must have seemed to her like a big barn. I said, “We’re here.”

She said, “Where’s here?”

I said, “Where I planned to take you.”

She said, looking incredulous, “You’re with the wrong woman if you think I’d let you take me out here for a literal roll in the hay.”

That was so Susan. I laughed loudly. Susan said, “Okay, what’s this all about?”

I said, “Follow me,” and walked around to the front of the hangar where the school’s Taylorcraft was parked. I’d made the arrangements the day before. Susan stopped and just stood there ... awe written large on her face. I walked up beside her and said, “Get in; you’ll love it.”

I helped her wordlessly into the right seat and secured the cabin door. I did the regular preflight walk-around and plopped down on the left side. The seating was a bench, like the front seat of my Ford, so we were squeezed in side-by-side.

My buddy Steven was the school mechanic. He walked over and turned the prop a half-dozen times to prepare the engine. I opened the magneto, pushed the primer button a few times, pulled the throttle back, and gave him a thumbs-up. He spun the prop, and the engine coughed and fired. I gave him another thumbs-up, and he waved while I taxied out onto the grass strip, trailing clouds of blue smoke.

There was no such thing as ATC at that cow pasture. We just took off when we reached the start of the runway. We rumbled slowly along for some time before I felt the wings go dynamic. Then I hauled back on the wheel, and we meandered into the sky at forty miles per hour.

Susan was frightened during the rollout and takeoff—even though she was trying to hide it. But she started to look exhilarated the minute we got off the ground. She gazed at me with those big, beautiful eyes and said, “This is the most thrilling experience of my life.” I smiled with satisfaction. I’d read my girl right. She was born for adventure.

We headed southwest at 1,000 feet, intersecting the Potomac at the Great Falls. That sight alone was thrilling, even for me. Susan just stared out the side window, which she’d slid open to look down. We were cruising at no more than fifty knots, and you could stick your hand into the slipstream, which Susan occasionally did. It was a sensual act like she was caressing the air. She kept cutting me ecstatic glances ... the woman was hooked.

I said, “Do you want to try it?” She nodded eagerly. I said, “Just follow the river and keep it steady. If you pull back, you go up...” and I demonstrated, “If you want to go down, you push the wheel forward.” I moved us back to our original altitude.

She took the right-hand wheel and sat there in rapt concentration, the tip of her tongue peeking out of one corner of her beautifully sculptured lips. The trim tabs were doing most of the actual flying. Then, a wind gust hit us. The Taylorcraft is light. So, you need to work with the wind, and the gust knocked our orientation almost sideways. Instead of panicking, Susan calmly steered back on course.

I said approvingly, “That was really well done! You’re a natural.” I got a zillion-watt smile for that.

I’m not stupid. So, I added, “Why don’t I give you lessons.” She gave me a look so laden with longing that it nearly melted the soles of my shoes and said, “Really, you’d do that for me?”

I understood that she was lusting after the flying lessons ... not me. I mean - I wasn’t a total doofus. But teaching Susan flying provided an entrée for the rest of her life. I had qualified as an instructor for the CFP program, and we were always looking for recruits. So, I said, “We can fill out the paperwork when we get back. Meanwhile, let’s take a tour of Georgetown.”

By then, we were at the Chain Bridge. I took over and ran along the Palisades until we hit the University, where I dropped to 150 feet. You would never be able to do that now. But things were a lot less regulated back then, and it gave us a splendid view of M Street. There was the usual evening traffic, the bars and restaurants were doing land office business, and the city was beginning to light up below.

I took a detour as we made our way back to Rockville. I thought Susan would get a kick out of flying over her house. So, I dropped to a hundred feet. She made an anguished sound as we passed over it and said, “That’s Jack’s car in the driveway.”

The first thing her mother must have done when Susan left was to call her boyfriend ... how delicious. Susan would have some “splainin’” to do when she returned to the house. I hoped Lambertson would act like an asshole – or do anything to drive her into my arms. I almost snickered.

It was dusk as we touched down. The field had no lights, so the landing was trickier than usual. We rolled up and stopped. Susan just sat there in the gathering dusk. I said, concerned, “What’s wrong?” She said ruefully, “I don’t want this to end.”

I said, “It doesn’t have to. We can arrange lessons. Just call me, and we can set them up.” As I said, I was a certified instructor, and the CPT paid me a stipend for every person I recruited for the program. So, it was a win-win for me. Susan filled out the paperwork, reached into her little purse, and came out with two twenties. I had to save for six months to get that much cash.

When I dropped Susan off, Lambertson had the good sense to stay in the house. I was a lot bigger than he was. She said, “Jack’s going to be angry. But he doesn’t own me. I’ll call you as soon as things die down here.” I watched her tight little body walk up the steps to her house – jolts of jealousy bouncing around in my skull. She turned and gave me a yearning wave, opened the door, and walked inside.

I never heard from Susan again. Whether it was her parents or Lambertson ... the phone never rang. I didn’t view that as a betrayal since we’d made no commitments. Stuff just happens. All the same ... it bummed me out, and I spent a couple of weeks pining for what might have been.

I realized that any hopes for a long-term relationship were a fantasy. Susan was far too embedded in the life she was currently living, and she’d told me all along that she was Lambertson’s girl. Plus, horny teenage boys have the attention span of a Labrador retriever. So, I soon forgot about my little crush.

Meanwhile, I’d dropped the news on my parents that I was going to continue as a full-time instructor with the CPT - rather than go off to Princeton, where they planned to send me that Fall. That got me kicked out of the house. My dad told me, “If you want to be your own man, then you will have to support yourself.”

I didn’t have a problem with that. The CPT paid eighty bucks a month which was more than the average household made back then, and it would get me away from my parents. So ... just to make my point, I took an immediate posting in Fort Collins, Colorado.

I realize now that it was a totally selfish and ungrateful act because it almost killed my mother. But back then, I was as stupid and self-centered as every other eighteen-year-old boy, and I had a dream. I wanted to fly.

I would have laughed at anyone who suggested that getting up at 4:30 in the morning and working straight through until almost 8:00 pm daily would be fun. That was before I arrived in Fort Collins. But I loved my work as an instructor, and all the time I spent in the air made me a much better pilot.

The practical reason for taking that particular posting was to learn how to fly at high altitudes. The simple act of leaving the ground in Fort Collins was equivalent to flying at 5,000 feet back in Rockville. So, you got the experience of maneuvering in “thin” air. Plus, the winds in the Rockies could be a challenge.