ABLE THREE-SEVEN

A Romance

Disclaimer: The TV series 'I Dream of Jeannie' is the property of its creators / copyright holders - Sidney Sheldon's Estate, Screen Gems, CPT Holdings, NBC and/or Sony Television. If I forgot anyone please don't sue…I assure you I'm as poor as a church mouse. This story is written purely as entertainment and is being disseminated for free (I write for fun, not money). There, now that's out of the way. I don't own Tony, Jeannie, Roger and the others…but these are solely my words.

A/N 1: While 'continuity' is a more-or-less alien concept in the Jeannieverse, assume all of season 1 and the first half of season 2 occurred as portrayed. Chapter One (note I said Chapter One) of this story diverges from the series shortly after episode #49 – You Can't Arrest Me…I Don't Have A Driver's License.

A/N 2: This is the first installment of my first IDoJ story and I admit up-front that I'm a little nervous about how it'll be received. It's different, it's not particularly comedic, and turning sitcom characters into serialized drama characters without altering their personalities has proven close to impossible. In short, all the characters are a little more serious and mature, both emotionally and in how they relate to one another. As it stands, I think you'll still recognize them; they're acting like adults but I firmly believe their comedy counterparts also would when confronted with life-changing circumstances. Unfortunately, if you're looking forward to pratfalls you're likely to be disappointed. Sorry about that. 

Prologue

"Moose and Squirrel"

Above Ha Noi Tinh (Hanoi), North Vietnam – 17 August 1967

Lieutenant-Colonel Ganya Nureyev, on detached duty from the Frontovaya Aviatsiya, the Frontal Aviation arm of the Soviet Air Force, yawned and pulled his fighter into a long, slow turn over the capital for his second pass of the day, idly scanning the horizon for any hints of movement. Not that he really expected anything major…American warplanes almost exclusively concentrated their efforts farther south, and his bosses at the embassy didn't have the stomach to risk one of their own in a direct confrontation…but there was always the chance something would turn up. On top of that, he simply enjoyed flying; even if he did have to ride herd over a gaggle of Vietnamese pilot-trainees as an excuse to do so.

Still, he figured he couldn't complain. Officially that was his function; training the natives to fly the MiG-21, code-named 'Fishbed' by his nation's capitalist rivals. The most advanced fighter in the Soviet export arsenal, it was, at least by specification, a better match against the F-4 Phantoms the Americans flew than the subsonic MiG-15s and MiG-17s the locals favored. And, since there was nothing quite like demonstrative instruction, he took every opportunity he could to fly alongside his charges. Usually it was dull work. With the exception of the occasional Wild Weasel raid against Hanoi's surface-to-air missile installations, opportunities to demonstrate true 'hands-on' techniques were few. Flying F-105 Thunderchiefs…very fast but not-very-nimble aircraft better suited to engaging ground emplacements than aerial combat…the Weasels habitually darted in, fired a few anti-radar missiles at the SAM sites, and bolted south again at the first sign of a MiG interceptor. Not much challenge for an officer trained to go toe-to-toe against the top NATO pilots in Europe.

Nyet, the Soviet pilot groused to himself, the Yankees are just as reluctant to expand this foolishness as our masters in Moscow…at least as long as Comrade Ho keeps his regular forces tacitly out of the conflict between the illegitimate government in the South and his Viet Cong surrogates. This made sense from a strategic perspective, but he found it difficult to train his pilots when their first taste of real combat didn't happen until they were sent south…which only occurred after they were out from under his tutelage. Most of the time his 'graduates' acquitted themselves well, but their losses were still too high.

But there was another opportunity that occasionally presented itself, and it was in the hopes of this that he was loitering today. The Weasels had struck yesterday and sometimes, when the Yankees were unsure about their battle damage assessments, they would follow-up a strike with a reconnaissance flight just to double-check. For such a minor raid they wouldn't risk a U-2 spy plane. Instead, they would send a specially-outfitted Phantom; one with a photo-reconnaissance package rather than weapons.

Glancing around, he surveyed the three trainees flying formation with him. Still unfamiliar with their new aircraft, they weren't ready for combat yet and a reconnaissance fighter…an RF-4, as the Yankees designated it…would offer them the perfect opportunity to practice against a comparable foe without worrying about being shot down. Despite being unarmed the RF-4s weren't easy targets; all Phantom variants were tough birds and the pilots chosen to fly recon were the best. They had to be…they often flew unescorted and talent in the cockpit was the only weapon they had. The best outcome for them in a fight was that they lived to take pictures another day.

Circling around for his third pass, Nureyev was starting to pay more attention to his fuel situation…MiG-21s were notorious gas hogs…when Hanoi Ground Intercept, the control center that vectored interceptors to enemy combatants, reported an inbound hostile. Even if he hadn't been listening, the SA-2 missile launch plumes and the black smoke created by 57-millimeter antiaircraft shells detonating in the sky south of Hanoi and would've instantly told him where the action was.

It looked like he and his trainees were in luck today after all. Switching to the internal frequency monitored by the other MiGs flying formation with him, he began issuing engagement instructions. Hopefully, the duck-hunters wouldn't bag the prize before they joined in.

***

By the time Colonel Nureyev reached the area Ground Intercept vectored him to, he could immediately see he would have no trouble finding his foe; the lone Phantom was already in trouble. Having apparently suffered a glancing blow from a missile, the fighter was trailing thick, gray smoke from one engine and had gone nap of the earth in an attempt to conceal its retreat to the south.

The Soviet smiled grimly. It was tough to sneak away when leaving such a trail of bread crumbs behind. If the two trainees he'd told to separate from him followed his instructions…a big 'if' with the natives, sometimes…the Yankee would find his southern escape route cut off. His only other option at that point would be to run for the Gulf of Tonkin…if he lasted that long. Given the damage the twin-engine fighter was apparently sporting, Nureyev would easily overtake it before it went feet wet.

Under most circumstances, that's when the dance would begin…but the Russian had his trainees to consider. If he just swooped in, he would score a quick kill but doing so would do nothing to improve their skills. With that in mind, he adjusted his intercept path slightly and throttled up to make a high-speed pass near the fleeing jet rather than a gun run. If the American was, indeed, a damaged reconnaissance plane, he would loop away, summon his native comrades and critique their performance as they took it down. If it turned out that the Phantom was an armed version, he would take it himself.

As he powered past the enemy jet, the missile damage it had suffered was easily identifiable. The port side air intake looked as if a giant's fist had pounded it into scrap and the corresponding engine…starved for oxygen…had flamed out. With half its thrust gone, the aircraft could remain airborne but it wasn't going anywhere quickly. More importantly, its elongated nose – specifically designed to house a camera package – identified it as an RF-4. So it was safe to call in his students. Should they bungle the kill...as they probably would, given their level of proficiency…he would stay near enough to quickly finish the job. Just as he was about to tell his wingman to make the first pass, however, another feature of the plane caught his eye…one that immediately made him hesitate.

American pilots who'd achieved notoriety were a cocky lot and many of them, the Soviet knew, personalized their aircraft. 'Nose Art', they called it. From an operational security perspective it was a bad practice…it made a pilot identifiable to his adversaries…but they seemed not to care. Renderings of scantily-clad women… wives, girlfriends, mistresses, even juvenile fantasies…abounded, along with witty names, cartoon characters and other symbolic totems. It was even rumored that Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU, maintained a nose art database.

This American craft was no different; its pilot's artistic signature was, in fact, well-known to him. Indeed, thanks to the massive amount of publicity surrounding his arrival in-country six months prior, it was familiar to every MiG-driver in Vietnam. "A beautiful blonde in pink harem girl attire holding aloft a purple bottle," Nureyev muttered to himself, barely able to contain his glee. "Oh, today is a good day for me," he contentedly sighed. "I have wanted to meet you for a long time now…comrade Astronaut."

***

Six months down… Major Anthony Nelson sighed to himself, only half paying attention as he pre-flighted his aircraft and waited for his GIB, his guy-in-back, to show up on the tarmac. As usual, the young imagery specialist was late, but he didn't mind. Today he couldn't find it in himself to mind about much of anything; he'd hit the official six-month mark in-country and in a few days he'd be taking leave. It wasn't quite the Freedom Bird…just a one-week mid-tour break in Hawaii…but he'd flown so many missions since arriving in this godforsaken place that he'd take any opportunity to relax that came his way.

Coming around the tail of his Phantom he checked the landing gear and the underside of the wing one last time as he moved forward, finally stopping at the ladder to the cockpit. There, reclining rather seductively on a stylized pink cloud, his plane's namesake…the work of his artistically-inclined crew chief…seemed to smile down at him from the side of the fuselage. "Good morning, Jeannie," he affectionately murmured, reaching up and pressing his palm against the blonde's cheek, "you ready for our magic carpet ride today? Sure you are; you want me to get to Honolulu, right? Well, darling, you and I fly one more mission and the next time my feet leave the ground I'll be in a first-class seat on Pan-Am coming to see you. I miss you."

Someone cleared his throat behind him. "Sweet-talking the plane again, sir?" his back-seater, Lieutenant Don 'Duck' Dunnock, remarked with a snicker once he had Tony's attention. "Hey, don't stop on my account," he continued with a nonchalant wave, "we used to talk to the horses back on the ranch like that. If it helps you keep me in the land of the living, go ahead and chat Ali Baba's honey-pie up all you want. If she starts answering, though…uh, just keep it to yourself, okay?"

Tony managed an amused snort. That wasn't going to happen, but the young man had no idea how easily it could. If he hadn't forced Jeannie to 'djinn promise' she'd stay out of Vietnam, his Phantom likely would've wound up as the only haunted warbird in Southeast Asia. It was a strong promise…a djinn risked fading into Limbo if he or she broke it…but, knowing Jeannie, she'd push herself to the precipice looking for loopholes. And if she found any, she'd exploit them. With that in mind, he regularly combed through the aircraft looking for signs of djinni infestation; leftover date pits, little silk-lined sleeping nests, perfume-scented notes that didn't have postmarks…anything that appeared out-of-place. So far, she seemed to be keeping her word and, judging by the regular mail she sent, she was doing surprisingly well on her own.

While she was obviously proud she'd proven she could survive in his world, her correspondence also made clear that she missed him terribly. The autonomy mortals took for granted was an unnatural state for a young 'servant' djinni and she needed his presence…to touch him and hear his voice…to truly feel whole. Recently, she'd also let slip that she was…well, it wasn't 'erotic fantasizing' exactly, but in her last letter she lamented that she'd become so accustomed to sleeping in his bed at home that she wouldn't be comfortable in her bottle in Hawaii. Given that the room he'd reserved in Waikiki was a single and nothing larger was available, she was sure her mathematically-inclined Master would agree that putting one and one together equaled a mutually-satisfying alternative.

As he read that, he could almost hear Jeannie giggling as she wrote it. Salaciousness was new to her bag of tricks and she wasn't very good at it but, bless her heart, in his current condition she didn't need to be. His recent letters to her hadn't been shining exemplars of pure and noble intent, either. It was amazing how six months in a combat zone could weaken one's resolve, but understandable when one's djinni was also such an alluring woman.

Duck was already strapping in. "You saddling up, boss?" he called out, startling Tony out of his reverie. "Staring at your cartoon beauty won't get you any closer to the real one."

"Don't I know it," the astronaut ruefully chuckled, "but at least it reminds me of who I'm fighting to get back to." With a sigh, he hopped up into the cockpit, took his helmet from one of the ground crew and quickly ran through the final pre-flight checks. At the last, he unzipped a pocket of his flight suit and pulled out a small, pink bundle of silk, hanging it and the object it was looped through off to one side.

Watching this little ritual for the hundredth time, Duck shook his head. "For the life of me, I'll never figure out what's so all-fired important about an old rag and a bottle-stopper. What is it? Some sort of rabbit's foot?"

Tony was watching for his ground crew to pull the chocks away from the wheels. "Do you really want to know?" he humorously replied. Taking the object in question down, he removed one of his gloves and carefully twined the translucent material between his fingers. "Well…this rag, as you call it, is a veil. It was worn by a very beautiful Persian woman and is over two-thousand years old. The bottle-stopper…uh, unless you're into Middle Eastern folklore it's a little harder to explain. Let's just say I brought it to ensure a loved one gets to be the master of her own fate if something happens to me."

"Ancient Persian veils and Bedouin legends, huh?" Duck snorted. "I'd say you should seriously be on medication if you hadn't already passed all those NASA psychological tests."

"Who says I passed them?" Tony spookily responded as he hung the charm back on its hook. Smiling mischievously to himself, he paused a second and then added, "I suppose I could've told you that, right now, the beautiful two-thousand year-old Persian woman who owns the veil is curled up on my couch at home nibbling on a TV dinner and watching Bewitched. That'd be pretty far out, huh?"

"Yeah…way out…man," the back-seater nervously gulped. "Like totally psychedelic. Uh…sir…you remember what I said about talking to the plane? I take it back. If it does…um, start answering…you need to tell me right away, okay?"

"The next time my lithium fails you'll be the first to know," Tony gently assured him. "Just pray we're not on final approach when it happens." Forestalling further comment, he slipped his glove back on and keyed his mike. "Charlie Niner-Two, this is Able Three-Seven, RF-4C outbound to Hanoi…ready to taxi."

"Acknowledged, Able…clear to taxi." Rattling off runway instructions and other flight data, the air traffic controller concluded, "Good luck and good hunting."

Easing the throttle forward, the astronaut-turned-pilot remarked, "Alright, young lady…time for us to go downtown and take a few happy snaps for the wise men back in Washington."

***

"We're three minutes out from target," Duck announced, tracing their flight path on the map strapped to his leg. "Soon as we clear these valleys, bump up to eight-thousand feet for the camera run."

"You know everybody and their brother is gonna see us at that altitude," Tony grunted, keeping his attention on the terrain speeding by them. He was staying as close to the treetops as possible, risking small-arms fire to minimize their exposure to heavier weapons. "We'll be radar-painted almost immediately."

"That's the altitude LBJ's smart guys specified," Duck shrugged. "Guess they know something we don't. Anyway, the Weasels went through here just yesterday. We'll be in and out fast and clean, boss…no worries."

"Famous last words…" the astronaut mumbled under his breath. For all his stick-talent, he'd only been this far north a few times; enough to have developed a healthy respect for Hanoi's air defenses but not enough to be comfortable flying straight into them. "Okay, Jeannie," he cajoled the plane as he kicked it into the clear, "let's give the man a chance to get his pictures and get back to the bottle."

His unspoken concern that perhaps the Weasels had overestimated their success in the morning briefing was confirmed almost immediately…black puffs of seemingly harmless smoke started appearing around them and the warning tone of a radar-lock blared through the cockpit as soon as they topped the last ridge. "Just get us in and out quick, boss," Duck repeated, a tremor of nervousness now in his voice. "We're almost there…this won't take long."

"They've painted us," Tony tightly observed as he leveled out and rammed the throttle forward, "Don't watch the flak; it'll hypnotize you. Keep one eye on the instruments and the other looking out for missile launches."

"We've hit our marker!" Duck called out, too occupied with his own tasks to follow Tony's instructions. "Cameras rolling! Hold steady!"

The tone in Tony's helmet was becoming more strident. Too strident. "Dammit, Duck," he warned, "something's wrong…the area's way too hot! The Weasels must've gotten spoofed yesterday! If you don't hurry up…"

He didn't get a chance to finish. "Missilemissilemissile!" Duck screamed, "Inbound ten-low!"

Cursing, Tony wrenched the aircraft into a spinning dive away from the SA-2 an instant before the flying telephone pole streaked through the space they'd just vacated. The plane rocked as it detonated above them. "There's more radiation going through here than Hiroshima!" he barked at his back-seater as the enemy radars reacquired them and the tone began gaining strength once more. "They're on us like white on rice! I can't shake the acquisitions…we're gonna get another one! Time to bug out!"

"Concur!" Duck hollered, trying to scan both ground and sky simultaneously. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught several more bright plumes of smoke and fire rising deceptively slowly to meet them. "More inbounds! Three-low!"

"They've got lock!" Tony announced, desperately trying to shed altitude and get under the missile's minimum ceiling as quickly as possible. If he couldn't dump air, they were going to…

He didn't hear the warheads detonate, but he felt the blast pressure ripple through both the aircraft and his body like a never-ending wave. It was as if a child had grabbed the Phantom like a toy and, in a fit of rage, flung it across the sky. Inside the cockpit, Tony was dimly aware that just about every alarm and warning light was going off, but he ignored them. It was all he could do just to wrestle the plane back into some semblance of controlled flight. Fighting the stick the whole way, he managed to get them down to near-treetop level again, this time nailing his compass arrow dead on the 'S'. "Hang with me, Duck," he grunted at his dazed companion. "We can still scoot outta here. I'm not giving up on Hawaii yet."

Duck wasn't a pilot, but he knew how to read the instruments. With a groan, he shook his head to clear it. "Uhh…we're not doing so hot, boss. Port engine shows shutdown…hydraulic pressure is dropping…we're…jeez, I've never seen so many red lights outside a simulator. We're losing fuel, but not bad…" Just then, a bright silver shape slowly edged by them; too slowly to be another missile. "…and it looks like we've picked up a MiG problem," he breathed, watching the enemy fighter as it passed them and began circling around. "A MiG-21…how 'bout that? They're fielding the first string for us. I'm surprised he didn't just pop us from behind."

"He's checking us out first," Tony grunted, "trying to figure out what flavor of Phantom we are." Unfortunately, since they were the unarmed flavor this friendly pass would likely be followed up with a gun run. Why waste an expensive missile when cannon rounds were so cheap, plentiful and fun? He found himself wishing he was in one of NASA's F-104s. They were temperamental beasts but, with a top speed of nearly two-thousand miles per hour, he'd have been back in the south chugging his second cup of coffee by the time the MiG pilot even realized he'd been there. There was no helping it, though; he had what he had, and he hadn't become an astronaut…the best of the best…by crying foul every time something didn't go his way. Getting back to the task at hand, he willed some spine into his voice. "Just keep your eyes peeled for his buddies," he directed, "and don't panic. I've still got a trick or two up my sleeve."

Duck didn't have to look very hard. "One more hanging back behind us," he called out after a moment, "and two coming up from the south. Looks like they're trying to cut us off."

With effort, Tony banked to port…trading 'south' for 'east'…and began talking on the radio. "We're making for the water," he noted once he was finished. "Navy's sending in support off a carrier but they're thirty minutes out. Hope you brought swim trunks." He didn't say it, but he knew they wouldn't arrive in time. At half-thrust, he could almost measure his jet's speed with a calendar.

Almost in time with the thought, a rhythmic buzzing noise…like a bumblebee beating against a windowpane…caught his attention. Glancing out the canopy, his lips thinned as he watched the MiG's tracer rounds whizzing by. "Hang on, Duck…we're gonna find out if this joker's worth his hardware." Just as the MiG was lining up for another shot, Tony flicked his wrist and executed a series of snap-rolls so tight they would've earned him an invitation to join the Thunderbirds had any friendly pilots been there to see. The next several cannon bursts sailed harmlessly by.

There was a good reason Tony Nelson wore Astronaut's wings…even in a severely damaged aircraft he was a technically flawless pilot, an adversary worth fearing and, that day, he used every tactic and trick he knew…and a few he invented on the spot…to shake the communist pilot off. The MiG driver, whoever he was, wasn't a dogfight virgin either and, over the next fifteen minutes or so, the peasants working in the rice paddies below were treated to a piloting display worth telling their children about. The damaged Phantom spun, jinked and dove as if possessed by a crazed demon, always seeming to stay mere inches away from sudden death as it struggled towards the Gulf of Tonkin. Every mile was earned the hard way.

But there was a limit to what the plane could take and it was only a matter of time until it reached it. Eventually a well-timed burst found the Phantom's tail and shredded a portion of it. What remained of the aircraft's maneuverability was eliminated and Tony quickly realized that straight and level flight was all 'Jeannie' had left in her. Knowing they were done, he sucked in a heavy breath. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he quietly whispered to a beautiful woman nine-thousand miles away. "Looks like I'm leaving you at home alone for good this time…"

For his part, Duck was bracing himself. When the killing blow didn't immediately fall, he hazarded a look to the side. "Boss, what's he doing?"

"Huh?"

"The Vietnamese pilot…he's flying formation beside us and making like he's calling us nuts."

Tony looked out and saw the MiG was no longer on their 'six'…it was flying close enough for him to see the pilot watching him. Noticing that he had the American's attention, he pointed at his helmet and spun his finger around the earpiece. "It looks like he wants to…talk."

"Talk? Jeezus…what do we do?"

"We don't do anything," the astronaut responded. "You keep quiet. This may be our only chance, so let me do the talking." Switching channels to one both sides monitored…the universal distress frequency…he tried to decide what to say. Not that it mattered much…he had no interest in listening to the other pilot's gloating, but he was very interested in buying time. He knew they couldn't escape…but a minute or two of breathing space would be enough to set a few loss-mitigating conditions. Looking about quickly, he noted the leader's wingmen weren't in a position to see him clearly. Surreptitiously he flipped a toggle on his control panel, hesitated a second to see if they'd noticed what he'd done, and then keyed his mike.

***

Sidling his MiG up to the mortally-wounded Phantom so they were wingtip-to-wingtip, Colonel Nureyev waited for the other pilot to glance over at him. Once he did, he pointed at the earpiece on his helmet and made a spinning motion with his finger. A moment later, the American mimicked the gesture. Seeing that he'd been understood, the Russian switched frequencies to the universal distress channel and listened. There'd be a reprimand waiting for him from the KGB and GRU shitheels back at the embassy for communicating on an unscrambled band but, even with the divide between East and West, a bond existed among those who traveled in space. It was a brotherhood he very badly wanted to join.

The static broke almost immediately. "Sorry, Charlie," the American transmitted, "but I don't speak Vietnamese. Since you seem to have me by the short hairs anyway, I'm guessing this'll be a quick conversation."

Nureyev laughed. Even knowing his death was imminent, the astronaut wasn't panicking. That didn't surprise him. One had to have testicles the size of grapefruits to fly atop a ballistic missile. "Then we have something in common, Yankee," he responded in English. "My Vietnamese speakings also not so good."

There was a long moment of silence before the mike was keyed again. "You know…you do sound a little too much like Boris Badenov to be a local," the American eventually drawled. "So Chairman Ho's puppet-masters are finally crawling out from behind the Iron Curtain and showing themselves. A little far from home aren't you, Boris?"

"Not as far as you, my space-travelling friend," the Russian chuckled, "but you right; your time almost up."

When he replied, the surprise was evident in the American's voice. Even through a static-filled link, Nureyev could hear it. "How the hell did you know I'm an astronaut?"

He laughed outright at that. The NASA man was brave but still typically Yankee; ignorant of anything outside his own sphere of influence. "In Soviet Union, babushkas wait in queue a day for roll of shit paper," he chortled, "but we also put men in space first, da? You think nation that can do that has no TV? All pilots here know to look for Phantom jet with blondie harem girl holding bottle painted on fuselage. And today I find you." Shaking his head regrettably, he tsked, "Not good, my friend…not good. Were I you, wishings I was home with pretty blondie on Florida beach right now I would be."

Unexpectedly, the Yankee astronaut laughed right back. "Boris, forget Florida. Knowing my little harem girl, she's trying every trick in the book and then some to get HERE right now. Unfortunately for me, she'll fail…and you have no idea how lucky that makes you."

"Da, is unfortunate for you," the Russian pilot agreed. "But you and I, we discuss other matters. My native hosts…they become suspicious quickly so I will be frank. You are skilled pilot and your…" squinting at the name under the nose art, he enunciated, "…'Jeannie' is spirited girl, but I know she is finished." Exaggeratedly, he sighed. "But you, comrade…you do not have to be. Hilton is wery, wery bad place…but grave, I think, is worse. If real Florida Jeannie is like beautiful harem girl on plane, think of her and choose Hilton. There will be bad for you, but she will have some hopings to seeing you again someday." Shaking his head at the other pilot, he pointed at him, fired a short burst from his cannon, and then drew a finger across his throat. "Here…nyet. No hope. Not wishings to kill you, but decision is yours my friend." Certain his opponent understood, he banked away, circled behind the helpless Phantom and lined up for the coup de grace.

***

"I don't like either of your options, Boris," Tony grunted to himself as he watched the MiG-21 pull away. "I think I prefer the one that keeps my Jeannie from lying awake at night crying because her Master is in a bamboo cage." Flipping the toggle he'd been depressing back into place, he glanced at the corresponding gauge, saw that it read zero and allowed himself a second of satisfaction. His chatty Russian friend had been too busy bantering to notice he was jettisoning his remaining fuel. The good ship 'Dreaming of Jeannie' was done for…there was no doubt about that…but when the MiG came in to finish them off they wouldn't burn up in a fireball. At least, that was the idea.

"We should punch out now, Boss!" Duck exclaimed. "The Russkie's right! We're dead if we don't!"

"Just hang on a little longer," he calmly replied, feeling the remaining engine starting to sputter beneath him. It was odd, he fleetingly thought, how calm he felt; almost as if he'd never been more alive than he was…here at the point of death. Reaching out, he trailed a finger down the frayed pink veil he'd knotted around the ancient bottle-stopper six months and a lifetime ago. No…that's not true he corrected. I felt just as alive the last night we spent together. If this doesn't work, at least I'll die knowing we both got a fleeting glimpse of the life we could've had. But he wasn't dead yet. His expression hardening, Tony snatched his djinni's love token off its little hook, stuffed it in a pocket of his flight suit and securely zipped it up. Keying the mike for the last time, he delivered his parting shot…only verbal, unfortunately…and switched frequencies without waiting for a response.

***

The American recon plane, one engine totally flamed out, the other sputtering and half its tail gone, remained airborne only through the extraordinary skill of its pilot. Even if Nureyev simply broke off and let it go, it wouldn't hold together much longer. The Yankee astronaut knew this as well, but couldn't resist one final retort. "Listen, Boris," he radioed, "before you pull the trigger…do one thing for me?"

"What is it?"

"Just once I'd like to hear a real, live Red actually say 'Moose and Squirrel'. If I gotta go down, I might as well go down laughing."

Not getting the reference the Russian frowned in puzzlement, then shrugged. Evidently the spaceman had made up his mind.

***

"MOOSE AND SQUIRREL?" the back-seater yelped. "Have you flipped your lid? We're flying a glorified hunk of scrap over the heart of North Vietnam and you just asked that commie gunslinger for a Bullwinkle and Rocky line? Oh, shit…we're really in for it now…"

"Listen, lieutenant," Tony shot back at his camera operator, emphasizing the rank to get the young man's attention, "people make stupid mistakes when they're mad, and unless the idea of wearing burlap pajamas for the next few years appeals to you, we need a mistake from him." Quickly checking their altitude, airspeed and location, he continued, "Duck…you need to be ready. No matter what I do, we're gonna go through hell on earth in a few seconds so tighten your harness, hunker down and pray that armor plate behind your seat is thick enough to protect us. I'll punch us both out when the time's right…not before. You got that?"

Duck's voice couldn't have gone any quieter. "Yes sir," he meekly responded.

Eyeballing his airspeed indicator again, Tony eased the throttle back to just above a stall and did his best to follow his own advice. Any second now, the Russian would figure out that they weren't bailing…at least, not on his schedule. Were they to do so, MiGs would simply loiter around their drop area until the NVA regulars sent out to track them down arrived. He harbored no illusions about their chances under that scenario. They'd find themselves guests at the Hanoi Hilton by nightfall, he'd be paraded in front of the international press as the latest 'high-payoff' capture and…well, there were only vague whispers about what happened afterwards. He wasn't sure how true they were but he knew for a fact that Uncle Ho-Ho's boys couldn't even pronounce 'Geneva Convention'.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in a breath and tried to relax as he waited for the inevitable. And, as always happened when he relaxed, she drifted into his thoughts. What was it Jeannie had whispered in his ear that last night? That if he thought about her hard enough, she could see him? He didn't want that…not now…and he tried to clear her out of his mind. But doing so was self-defeating; the harder he struggled to push her away, the stronger her image manifested. Cocoa Beach time was eleven hours behind Vietnam; it would be early evening there. What would she be doing? Taking a nap? Reading? Maybe Roger had stopped by and invited her out for a movie? Darling, if you can really see this, things aren't as bad as they look, he lied. Don't panic. Trust me…I have a plan...

***

Switching frequencies back to Hanoi Ground Intercept, Nureyev still allowed the enemy pilot ten seconds to eject. When he didn't, he disappointedly sighed. "I am truly sorry," he muttered in Russian, "This will not be popular in either of our countries but as you capitalist bourgeoisie say…business is business…" Depressing the trigger, he began raking the stricken aircraft with cannon fire.

***

As if time had somehow slowed down for him, Tony idly watched the first tracers from the MiG-21 flash by, and shortly afterwards he felt the Phantom's death-shudders as cannon projectiles began finding their mark. Is this what accepting one's fate feels like? He could literally see the skin being flayed off the jet's wings and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It wouldn't take long.

Only at the end did worry begin leaking around his hastily-emplaced mental barriers…but he wasn't concerned for himself. Sweetheart, you need to turn away now. You don't want to see this. If you love me, smoke into your bottle, cover your ears and close your eyes. Chant a mantra. Pray. Do anything that blocks me out…oh, God… And then it was too late. The crew compartment exploded around him in a maelstrom of flying projectiles, metallic shards and other debris as cannon fire began tearing through the main fuselage. Jeanniemyangel! If this is my last thought, I've loved you since the day I found y…

As the remaining engine disintegrated the aircraft bucked and rolled, savagely slamming Tony's helmet into the canopy and dazing him. The world outside…what he could see of it through the haze of pain in his head and the splintered safety glass…became a swirl of greens and blues as the aircraft tumbled. A thousand miles behind him, he could hear Duck screaming like a banshee as he was tossed like a pea in a rattle but he didn't care. For him, there was no more fighting, no more NASA, no more Jeannie waiting patiently at home…nothing remained but his training and an instinctive need to survive. Reaching between his legs, he grasped the ejection handles without conscious thought and fought to keep from blacking out. All he knew was that he needed to hold himself together for a few seconds. That would be enough.

Just before its final demise, the fuselage briefly righted itself and gave instinct its chance. Long hours in NASA's centrifuge paid off and precisely two seconds before the Phantom slammed into the ground, he pulled upwards with all his remaining strength. Tony Nelson, one-time astronaut and latest casualty of the Vietnam War, was dimly aware of the concussion as the explosive bolts beneath his seat blew him clear of the airframe…and then everything faded to black.

***

Lieutenant-Colonel Nureyev didn't release the trigger until the second engine blew apart and the Phantom's smoking remains heeled over, beginning a slow death tumble towards the rice paddies and jungle below.

He didn't loiter around to see the end. Confirmation didn't matter to him. Per the orders of the senior Soviet Military Liaison, Ground Intercept was required to credit the kill to his native wingman…who hadn't fired a shot and couldn't have challenged the American pilot on his best day. Tonight the young Vietnamese, whose father was a high Party official, would have his picture taken with Ho Chi Minh and be hailed as a People's Hero for dealing a crushing blow to the morale of the Yankee imperialists. Nureyev would get nothing; not even a victory star on his fighter. Such prideful things as individual recognition, the embassy's Political Officer would explain, were counterproductive to the Cause. It was more beneficial to the Proletarian Revolution to let their primitive allies celebrate it as a home-grown propaganda success.

But the truth would get out through unofficial channels…perhaps even back to Moscow...and that was definitely not a bad thing. His third application for cosmonaut training was even now winding its way through the organs of the State and he was confident this coup would finally earn him the coveted billet inside Star City he sought. And word of his chivalry would also get to the right people. He had done it purely out of respect but he wasn't shortsighted; it would gain him credibility with the Americans. Someday, he predicted, relations would thaw and he would be working with his former opponent's NASA counterparts. They would know he'd offered a defeated brother the opportunity to choose a dignified end and…well, he did not expect forgiveness nor would he ask for it, but America's astronauts were honorable men. The respect he'd shown one of theirs today would be repayed with respect for him tomorrow.

As he expected, there was no celebration waiting for him when he landed. He stood stiffly at attention on the flight line as his General reprimanded him, returned to his barracks, ate cold pork and turnips for dinner that night, and tried to get a few hours sleep before having to wrestle with his ill-educated trainees again. Just before turning in, he poured himself a tumbler of vodka and raised it in the American's memory. "Prosit, Major Nelson," he grunted. "I do not know why your government was foolish enough to send you here, but hopefully your loss will be my gain. I will remember you and speak of your skill and bravery when I become a cosmonaut…but, for what it is worth, I will also say I would much rather have flown with you as a comrade than against you as an enemy."

To Be Continued…