Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

around. In fact, there was a wrecked one that had been pushed off the taxiway and
lay rusting in the sun. Next to it was a MiG-21 fighter that was missing a wing. Just
beyond these modern heaps, outside the perimeter fence, was the small but
authentic Lahun pyramid. Built 3,800 years ago, it was in marginally better shape
than the two Russian jets.
As I turned onto the taxiway, I saw them. Twelve F-16s huddled together just
off the north end of the runway. They were beautiful—decked out in fresh darkgray
combat paint with a lighter sea-gray splash around the cockpit. The distinctive
gold canopy glinted in the sun and brilliant white strobe lights flashed from their
tails. Heat-seeking Sidewinder air-to-air missiles jutted from each wingtip, and the
white tips of deadly long-range AMRAAM missiles were visible beneath the wings.
Each fighter had a pair of 370-gallon wing tanks and a rectangular electronic
countermeasure pod slung beneath the belly. They were clean, with new, black
tires and the exposed metal parts gleamed like they’d all been polished. This was
typical of American fighter jets, but I hadn’t seen one in six months and the
Egyptian Air Force didn’t spend much time on such things.
As I got closer, I saw the big “HL” on each tail flash and recognized the 388th
Fighter Wing, Hill Air Force Base, Utah. I’d never been stationed there but the
fighter community was small, so odds were I knew some of these pilots. It didn’t
matter. They were Americans, and these guys had just become my best friends—
even if they didn’t know it yet.
I raced up in my four-by-four pickup and skidded to a stop ten yards in front of
them. As I got out, twelve helmeted, dark-visored heads turned to stare. I walked
over to the leader’s jet and stood just beyond the lethal range of the jet intake. The
engine was powerful enough to pull a grown man through thousands of spinning
turbine blades and turn him into shredded wheat. This has happened occasionally,
by the way.
Looking up, I saw him raise his oxygen mask to his face and knew they were all
talking about me. Who is this guy Should we shoot him now Where the hell are
we Let’s shoot him now.
So I waved.
Nobody moved.
The high-pitched whine penetrated my earplugs, and I didn’t want to stay there
any longer than necessary, so I made a cutting motion across my throat. This was
the international signal to shut down the engines.
He shook his head slowly and they talked some more. I couldn’t really blame
them. After all, they were on a foreign air base in the middle of a country none of