“Fire On High” is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. All characters and settings © Tigermark 2003-2018 unless otherwise noted. Request permission before using them, please.
The characters of Anatol Altaisokova and Melinda Altaisokova are my names for characters © Max Blackrabbit. They appear in this story with his permission. The characters of Brandy, Maxwell, Tonya and Zig Zag are also © Max Blackrabbit and appear here with his permission. Events and information relating to Tonya, Anatol, and their family are presented here, but are not to be considered canon to those characters or any other story but this one. ZZ Studios, and all characters associated with ZZ Studios, James Sheppard, and Marvin Badger © James Bruner and appear here with his permission. Although characters from and events referring to Zig Zag the Story appear here, this story is not canon to that one, and the author will disavow any knowledge of this story. Wanda Vixen © Chris Yost and appears here with his permission. Sabrina Mustidalae © Eric W. Schwartz and appears here with his permission. This story is not canon to Sabrina Online the comic, or Sabrina Online the Story, either. Matt Barstock, Angie Rockwell, Intermountain Charter, The Bitch, and her crew, and Jerry Kitt © Silver Coyote. See their story HERE. Gail Rutherford © me and is not canon to any other story involving ZZ Studios. Gabrielle Ryder and Jean LeBrun © Aslaug, from her Transitions stories. See them at her site, The Axe Shed, available from the links page. Aramis Dagaz is© his player and appears here with his permission.
Author’s Note: Lewiston, Maine’s airport, identifier KLEW, is actually uncontrolled. That is, it has no control tower. Poetic license was used for this story, so Alex and company talk with a control tower whilst aviating there.
Chapter 86
Sitting Ducks
Freddie Hausfus was not a happy canid. His own ramp crew had turned on him. He could see why Colonel Mastifson hated the tiger. So smug. And intimidating! The canid had actually feared for himself when the tiger had caught him loosening the fuel check valve. He was not looking forward to reporting his lack of success back to the Colonel.
Then O’Whitt came in and filed his flight plan. A few moments later he heard the confirmation come in. The copy came across the printer by where he was at the radio, too. He then locked eyes with the tiger. He couldn’t hold that calm, cool, felid stare. The tiger walked out, joined by another fur in a flight suit. Freddie assumed it was another Kentiger employee going back with him.
He grumbled to himself as he watched the tiger-striped jet start up and taxi away. Having nothing else to do for the moment, he snatched the fax copy of O’Whitt’s flight plan out of the printer and read it. Then he arched an eyebrow in surprise. He’d assumed the other fur in the T-38 was the slim lioness flight attendant, but her name had been Rebecca. Who was this Belinda Styles? The only other fur he’d seen had been the chubby blonde lioness who’d gone into the pilot’s lounge earlier. Now who was she? The gears in Freddie’s head churned a bit, and then he noticed the two furs in dark suits watching the ramp from over by the Customs area. He’d lived there long enough to know that a) they didn’t belong there, and b) they looked Cuban. On a hunch, he got up and strolled across the ramp toward them.
They looked a bit defensive when he walked up. He stopped a couple of steps away and addressed them.
“Hey, either of you speak English?”
The dark-furred hound answered in thickly-accented English. “Yes, I do.”
“You lookin’ for a blonde lioness, kinda chunky?”
Both fur’s ears perked up. “Yes, we are. Where is she?”
“Yes,” the other fur, a Doberman, stated in an even thicker accent. “She owe us money.”
Freddie smirked. “Well, she’s on that tiger-striped jet that just—”
The canid was interrupted by the sound of a T-38 in full afterburner rocketing down the runway and into the air. The sound echoed for several moments as the aircraft lifted rapidly away over Kingston Bay. When they could hear again, Freddie continued.
“On that jet that just took off.”
The two dark suits looked at each other. There followed a rapid-fire exchange in Spanish. One of them produced a radio and spoke emphatically into it. He then turned back to Freddie.
“Where are they going?”
Freddie grinned. “New Orleans, by their flight plan.”
More rapid-fire Spanish over the radio. Freddie understood enough to make out “Get them” and “MiGs.” He turned and walked away, smiling to himself. Now he had something good to report.
# # #
Aramis was on the phone with Sheila Roland, explaining what was happening on Mastifson’s case.
“So yes, we’re keeping a very close watch on him, but so far we have no actionable evidence.”
“Okay, so what can we do on this end?” the Doberman detective asked.
“Keep an ear out. He may try to hire some local thugs to go after Col. O’Whitt.”
“That I can do. Keep in touch Andy.”
“You too Roland, bye.”
Aramis hung up the phone just in time to see Chief Agent Perez wave him to his office.
“Now what,” he groused to himself as he stood and walked the short distance into his supervisor’s office. Perez didn’t have him sit when he got there.
“Aramis, comm chatter is going nuts! Col. O’Whitt has managed to get himself in the middle of that CIA operation I mentioned. Still not sure what or how, but you are now our liaison with them. He’s coming in to New Orleans, so go meet him there, you barely have time to get there. There’s a C-21 for you at Langley. Your contact is a chihuahua named Livingston. Drop the Andy Denver with him, and the Colonel since he already knows you. Get going, O’Whitt should arrive in New Orleans in about 3 hours. You’ll be hard pressed, but you can barely make it.”
“Yes sir,” the felid replied as he stood up and headed out to grab his go bag.
# # #
Jefferson Mastifson had only been back from lunch for a short time when his cell phone rang. He noted the number and answered.
“Yas Freddie, what was the result?”
“Hello Colonel. Well, I tried, and I was able to stall a bit, but my ramp crew turned on me. I tried one thing on his jet, but that tiger must be psychic. He caught me at it and banned me from around either aircraft. Still, I got him good and set up at the end.”
Mastifson frowned. That didn’t sound like much.
“Go on Freddie, what else?”
“He took outta here with some blonde lioness on board. There were some Cubans looking for her. Usual spy-type stuff. I told ‘em where she went.”
Mastifson’s eyes went wide. “You…you…”
“Sic’ed the Cubans on them, yes sir. I think they might be sending MiGs after them.”
The canid sounded pleased with himself. Mastifson found himself grinning from ear to ear.
“Excellent Freddie, you do indeed make me proud. Thank you.”
“Glad to help, sir. He was an irritating sort. I’ll talk to you later, bye.”
Mastifson put up his phone and all but danced with glee. He could see the headlines now.
“Retired Air Force Ace missing at sea. Local hero missing in Gulf of Mexico.”
Oh, there would be a great hue and cry, and Mastifson would look downcast and lament his loss.
“But he was a bit careless at times. So sad he didn’t make it.”
In a very good mood now, he decided to go home early. By tomorrow, the news would be full of the story.
And he would be free of O’Whitt.
# # #
Stripes One was at thirty thousand feet above scattered cumulus topping out at about eighteen thousand. They were half way across the Gulf of Mexico, cruising at 500 knots. The trip had been pretty quiet, as Belinda didn’t seem interested in talking much.
Just then, Alex heard a *ping* and the computer-generated voice call out, “Unidentified Radar. Unidentified Radar.”
Alex acknowledged it, silencing the alarm. Belinda came up on the intercom.
“Alex, what was that?”
The tiger was unconcerned. “My maintenance guy is a former Marine. He likes to keep Stripes One ready for about anything. We have a radar detection system on board for radars other than normal ATC. If I recall the frequency it’s showing, that was from a Cuban MiG-21 radar. They must be out playing over the Gulf, and we got a stray—"
*ping* “Unidentified Radar. Unidentified Radar.” Alex shut it off again, frowning. He looked in the mirror that he could see the back-seater in. Belinda’s eyes were wide, her pupils betraying fear.
“Okay Belinda, out with it. What’s going on?”
The lioness bowed her head, sighed, and decided to come clean.
“Alex, I work for the CIA. I’m carrying documents that are highly classified. They were stolen, and on their way to being sold to the Cubans. We recovered them. Someone must have told them I left with you. Those MiGs are probably hunting us. They’ll try to coerce or force you to fly to Cuba. They cannot be allowed to get these documents.”
Now Alex really frowned. The T-38 was good, and Stripes One better than usual, but with drop tanks on they couldn’t outfly MiGs. Just one missile or cannon volley would be the end of them. He quickly calculated their fuel. On just internal tanks, they could make New Orleans from their current position. There was enough in the drop tanks to open up some space before the MiGs were on them.
“Hold on, this could get rough!” he stated as he pushed into afterburner and past mach. Fortunately, the drop tanks and hardpoints, designed for the F-5B, could take the shock load. They could stay above the speed of sound for a minute or so before they exhausted the fuel in the drop tanks. Still, it would give them some breathing space. As he pulled them back out of afterburner, Alex considered his next move.
# # #
Coronel Juan Alvarez raised his eyebrows as he saw the radar target fifteen miles away suddenly accelerate. What were they intercepting? His orders had only said to go “persuade” an American civilian aircraft on course for New Orleans to divert to Cuba. That it was a small two-fur jet with tiger stripes.
With him today in their MiG-21s were Capitàn José Juaquin, and Primer Teniente Jorge Martinez. All three were well-experienced and trusted enough to go beyond radar-control range. They had full cannons, full missile racks, and drop tanks. Internally they had enough fuel to get home, but just in case the Cuban Navy had a ship coming in their direction.
“We lost him, Coronel,” Alvarez’s wingfur called.
“Yes, I know. Accelerate to Mach one point eight for thirty seconds. That will deplete our drop tanks. We’ll only let them go if we have to maneuver for combat or to lessen the drag to get home. Once we come out of Mach, call out with radar or visual contact. Cannons only for now. We are trying to get them to come to Cuba. I’ll do the talking.”
“Yes sir,” he heard both wingfurs reply. They went into afterburner for thirty seconds. Just as they came out, Alvarez saw a target at the extreme twenty-mile edge of his radar’s range.
“There you are,” he said to himself. To his subordinates he said, “Target acquired. Close and prepare to escort the aircraft to base.”
# # #
Billy was doing as he said he would, sitting in his office monitoring the day’s activities. They had most of their aircraft active, save for a Citation over at Bluegrass for inspection and maintenance, and two Kingairs on the ramp, one of them the cargo bird with no passenger seats. He heard a knock on the door and said absently, “Come.”
Duncan Jetter stepped in and closed the door.
“Billy,” he said without preamble. “Just got a call on the company frequency from Joe Eps. The Gee Four plus one lame lion are about an hour and a half out. Still no word from Alex, but Joe said Mastifson’s guy on the ground there did try some stuff. Alex caught it and put a stop to it. He should be about thirty minutes behind them.”
Billy breathed a sigh of relief. Alex seemed to have dodged another of Mastifson’s traps. Just then his intercom line buzzed.
“Yes Loni?” he answered as he toggled the speaker on.
“Call for you, Line one. I think you need to take it. It’s about Alex.”
Billy looked at Duncan, who shrugged. “Thank you,” the tiger said as he toggled the intercom off and put the incoming call on speaker.
“Billy Panelli, can I help you?”
“Mr. Panelli, this is Jon Livingston. I’m with the government. One of our furs is on board an aircraft with your Colonel O’Whitt. They are in trouble over the Gulf. Copy down this clearance number, you’ll need it. Come to Keesler Air Force Base ASAP.”
The fur read off a series of letters and numbers, which he then repeated. The line then went dead. Duncan looked at Billy, who was already rising to his feet.
“I have to get my plane ready to go, I’ll—”
“Not be going alone. You’re still on light duty. I have the clearance number, and I’ll fly you down in the Kingair.”
Billy could tell he wouldn’t win this one with Duncan, so he simply nodded and said, “Let’s go.”
As they walked out, Loni half-whispered, “God speed.”
They both nodded as they headed out the door.
# # #
“Borrowing one of your radios,” Belinda called out. Alex gave a nod, indicating he’d heard her. So far, they hadn’t heard anything more. Just as he thought that perhaps they had lost the Cubans, he heard it.
*Ping* “Unidentified Radar, Unidentified Radar.”
He silenced the voice alarm but left the ping to remind him they were being tracked. Knowing the speed the MiGs could do without afterburner, he knew they had about five minutes before the Cubans overtook them. The more he changed course, the longer that might take, but the longer it would take them to reach U.S. airspace.
Alex decided to play it cool. The MiGs would be nearing bingo fuel soon, so maybe they could outlast them. The time ticked by. He saw the MiG that came up on his tail. MiG-21’s. Older fighters, but the same generation of aircraft as the T-38. He noted the two that attempted to sneak up on either side well before they were in position. Dialing up 121.5 on a radio, Alex made the first call.
“Hello MiGs, can I help you guys with something?
After a few seconds, the reply was curt. The heavy accent adding to the authoritarian tone.
“Striped aircraft, you are in Cuban airspace. Follow us to base or be fired upon.”
Alex caught Belinda’s look of fear in his mirror. He winked at her and replied.
“Well now, by my nav-i-gation, we’re in international airspace several hundred miles from Cuba. Y’all better check your instruments.”
There was a pause. Alex noted this let them get closer and closer to U.S. Airspace. Then the fur in the lead MiG tried a different ploy.
“American aircraft, your passenger is wanted by Cuban authorities. If you land and turn them over, you will not be harmed. Refuse and we will fire on you.”
Alex looked nonchalantly over at the MiG to his right.
“Yeah, not gonna happen. Extradite ‘em if you can, we’re going to the States.”
Alex waited. He saw the Cuban speak into his mask and knew what was coming. He’d seen the MiG behind him lining up as the MiG to his left eased out away a bit. The MiG behind him fired a short burst with tracers from his cannon, just off Alex’s port wing. Just as he did this, Alex began to roll violently up and over to the right, releasing his left drop tank as he did. He stopped inverted right over the lead MIG, cockpit to cockpit.
They had a front row seat as the tumbling tank flew back, damaging the right wingtip and vertical stabilizer of the MiG that fired as it passed. The MiG wobbled and lost speed and altitude. Over the radio, they heard a stream of Spanish. Alex arched an eyebrow at Belinda in the mirror.
“I speak a bit, although not usually such language. Suffice it to say they are not happy with us. The MiG is returning to base, if he can make it,” Belinda replied to his inquiring look.
They both looked up through the canopy at the pilot of the lead MiG, who was gesturing and yelling into his mask. He shook his fist at them. Alex waved, and Belinda pulled at one eye, stuck her tongue out (which he couldn’t see for her mask), and flipped the Cuban off.
The two aircraft stayed like that as the MiG tried various maneuvers to get them off him. The MiG finally accelerated enough to outdistance the T-38. Alex rolled back level and continued pushing for U.S. airspace, getting closer every second. The other MiG carefully took up position behind them, although he still was a bit close. The lead MiG established himself a bit farther out to the right this time.
“Okay, that worked better than I thought it might. It probably won’t a second time, at least I think it won’t,” Alex stated. Behind him, Belinda just shrugged. It had been very sudden, and a lot more effective than anything she might think of. The Spanish had ceased on the radio, and now the lead MiG came back on.
“Very clever. Last warning, American! Turn to one two zero now or we shoot!”
Alex looked at Belinda in the mirror. She simply shook her head no, so Alex answered.
“Not a chance. Tell Fidel to get his own date.”
This time, he couldn’t see when the command to fire was given, as the lead MiG was too far away. As soon as the first tracer went past, Alex rolled up and hard left, releasing his right drop tank as he did so. The MiG had closed in and was following so closely that he also tracked left. The drop tank missed the Cuban’s wing, but completely took off his vertical stabilizer. The aircraft lost stability and began to come apart. Alex saw the pilot eject clear and begin to freefall. The last MiG peeled off to follow him down and make sure his parachute opened.
Free of them for a moment, Alex had his own problems. He could see a three-inch hole in his port wing, just about midway out. His port engine instrument lights were lit up like a Christmas tree. He quickly leveled out and shut it down. There was no fire yet, but he wished he knew if he was leaking fuel. The digital readouts would tell soon enough. The tanks were self-sealing, but if a line was damaged, they could be in real trouble.
“Belinda,” he called. “We’re damaged and there’s one more MiG. He’ll probably be back. I can’t stay at this altitude on one engine. How bad do they want you? If we eject, will they get to us first?”
She was silent a moment, but then replied.
“Yes, they will. They may already have a ship either in the area or on the way. Help from the States would have to get ready and launch to get here.”
Alex was silent a second before speaking.
“Well, as the saying goes, where there’s life there’s hope. We are wings-level, we have one good engine, altitude under us and fuel still in the tanks.”
He reached out and shut off the crossfeed, relying on the center and aft fuselage tanks. Now all there was to do was fly the aircraft and wait. U.S. airspace was tantalizingly close, but with no one there to enforce it, would the Cuban turn back?
# # #
Coronel Alvarez watched what was left of his wingfur’s aircraft hit the water below. He then directed his attention to his wingfur himself. Primer Teniente Martinez made a successful landing and climbed into his life raft. The Coronel called in the position and waited for a reply. After a few moments, it came.
“Los Baños Base to Intercept One. Ship will reach your downed pilot in an hour. Stand by for General Guttierez.”
The fur waited, wondering what orders would come. Shortly the radio came up again.
“Coronel Alvarez, this is General Guttierez. This is a direct command. Since you have come this far, and the American will not turn, shoot them down. No missile, I want direct visual confirmation. Only disengage if you encounter U.S. fighters. You are very close to their two-hundred-mile air defense zone.”
Alvarez closed his eyes. He was not happy with the American, but he did have a grudging respect for a pilot who took out two armed fighters in an unarmed trainer. The orders seemed to him like sour grapes. Vengeance for losing whatever the furs in the aircraft carried. Orders were orders, though.
“Yes, General. I will return to base with visual and gun camera footage, barring an encounter with U.S. fighters.”
“Los Baños Base out.”
Coronel Alvarez fed in power and climbed. He found the American at around fifteen thousand feet, trailing a slight stream of fuel and speed down to about two hundred fifty knots. Not using the radar, he lined up just off to one side and behind the crippled aircraft. He hadn’t realized that the American had been damaged. He keyed up the radio.
“American, you are a very worthy opponent. Unfortunately, the politicians and generals say you must go. I salute you. It is with regret that I do this.”
With that, he lined up the gun pip and prepared to fire.
End of Chapter 86