The Fist

W e feel every hit as the hot desert air punches relentlessly at our tanker. The harnesses grip unforgiving, bruising our shoulders. The DC-6 is where I want her, on speed, on base leg, 30 flap, gear down and locked. Two F-15s practicing touch and goes, a struggle to get the timing down to slip in between them. One turns inside of me. Son of a bitch! Climb power! Flaps 2o-Positive Rate of Climb-Gear up. The F-15 jocks, oblivious- just keep trucking around and around. Losing visual in the turn, Ray picks them up on his side and calls for the controls, rolling back on final, calls gear down (again,) flaps 30, we slide down the chute, short final a roar as one of fighters screams overhead; full flaps-props forward- hydraulics checked. Ray greases the airliner dead center on the stripe, letting her roll down the baking desert concrete. Nose tire settles gently 'Reverse!' pop the throttle locks-the props on all four engines slip into a negative blade angle with a mighty whoosh. A flash as the second F-15 streaks down the left side of the runway. Ray shakes his head ' You boys go play-we have work to do.'

Franklin Mint 1/100 scale F-15. Photos by author