Obligatory Author's notes: I've been asked to describe the A-1 Skyraider, because it's such an old bird not many people are familiar with it. The Skyraider was the result of a Navy competition to replace both the TBM/TBF Avenger and the Curtis Helldiver with one aircraft. The winner was Douglas with the AD-series of planes. AD stands for Attack, Douglas, as the Navy had an independent numbering convention until 1962. After 1962, the AD-series became the A-1, with the unification of Air Force and Navy aircraft numbering conventions. The Skyraider had the unofficial nickname of "Spad" or "Sandy" during the Vietnam Conflict, mainly because it was one of the last prop attack planes in an all-jet conflict.
Powered by a 2800hp Wright R-3350 radial engine (A-1J), the Skyraider was capable of carrying up to 8,000lbs of freefall or forward-firing ordinance, with enough armor plate that the VC despised the aircraft for it's ability to withstand small arms fire, and long loiter times. The plane was also armed with four M-3 20mm cannons in the wings.
The Skyraider had a long service career with the US and allies from 1946 with the last 'Raiders retiring in 1979, going through several variations. There were night-attack, AWACS, electronic-warfare, air ambulance, transport, as well as the primary ground attack version. Out of 3,180 built only 19 are still airworthy.
Any further questions, particularly about other aircraft can be directed to my email address provided in my profile.

00000

The door to the senior commander of the Aslan Air Force opened, then closed as the general's aide walked in. "Sir, I have the latest batch of applications for Area 88."

"Good, let me see them."

The major set the stack of applications on the desk. "Sir, I'm having reservations about some of them."

"Why?"

"Because a number of them are females," the major replied. "Having Her Highness out there flying and fighting was something I would not have allowed, sir."

"And you would have seen me…retired the next day," he countered, diplomatically. "His Majesty would rather see his daughter under the command of her cousin than in any of the regular units. There she gets a chance to prove her mettle against the enemy, as well as showing that she can lead as well; instead of sitting behind a desk, filling out paperwork. And it shows that we are—what is that American phrase again? Ah, yes—an equal opportunity employer."

"Sir, with respect, I do not like it."

"Major, the times are changing. If we are going to win this war, then we're going to need every able-bodied pilot we can pay. Gender will no longer be a concern of ours.

"If you don't like it Major, you can always go to the front to see it first hand."

00000

A flight of six fighters, as diverse as their pilots, touched down and taxied off the runway on to the apron. It was one of those few slow days, which allowed the maintenance crews to catch up on some much needed work on the planes. The Tiger II with the chocolate-chip style camouflage and the Ace of Spades on the tail didn't cause much of a stir. Neither did the Mystere with the guillotine. Although there was some comment about the sky blue F-100 with the barn door on the tail, as well as the Hawker Hunter with the bomb and guitar crossed. There were, of course, several cat-calls from the ground crew and other pilots with the pilot of the Hunter climbed out of her plane, in a skin-tight, almost painted on, silver flightsuit.

What caused the biggest commotion; however, were the positively antique T-6 Texan and the Henschel Hs-129. Especially since the old Luftwaffe tank-killer was sporting a pair of PT-6 turboprop engines on the wings. Blackjack looked over towards the antiques, particularly at the Texan. Under the cockpit sill was the cartoon figure of a tiger with a silk scarf trailing in the breeze. Walking over to the fighter that was even older than his beloved Skyraider, he recognized the pilot. "Uncle Morris?"

The WWII veteran turned around when he heard his name. "Nephew? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Same reason you're here," Blackjack replied, has he hugged his father's best friend. Makoto was snapping pictures of the apparent family reunion, after all something like this makes for the warm, fuzzy feeling that the Pulitzer Prize committee has a soft spot for. "By the way, I haven't gone by my name since I've gotten here. And I prefer it that way."

"So what the hell am I going to call you, 'Nephew' all the time?"

"Nah, Blackjack. Just Blackjack."

Morris slapped his nephew upside the head. "If your father were here right now…he'd probably kick your ass seven ways to Sunday."

"I know Morris. I know." Blackjack's father had been a member of the American Volunteer Group, prior to America's entry into WWII, flown with the Fourteenth Air Force, joined the Reserves after Japan's surrender, flew F-80s and F-86s over MiG Alley during the Korean War, but had been shot down by ground fire, the day before the cease-fire was signed. Morris, and several of his squadron mates searched from the wreckage out, but they couldn't find a trace of Blackjack's father. Search and Rescue personnel found not a trace of him in the wreckage, either. "So who's the old kraut?"

"Werner Kopf," Morris replied. "Apparently I'm not the only relic here. He flew missions for the Luftwaffe over the Soviet Union."

"Well, he'll see his fill of Russian equipment again." Werner had walked over to where Morris and Blackjack were. Blackjack turned to the old German, with his hand extended. "Welcome to Area 88."

"Danke, Herr…"

"Blackjack. Just Blackjack. We don't stand on formality here," he replied. "Come on let me show you two to Saki's office."

Saki was, at that moment, looking over four of his new pilots. Their personnel jackets were sitting on his desk, open with two others closed. "Your postings to Area 88 are approved. Prior to any combat missions, you will need to be brought up to speed on all navigational landmarks. Mr. Benson, you will be reporting to Mickey Simon in Zero-Zero Section. The rest of you will be reporting to Zero One Section, for the time being until I can properly place you. Your section leader is Kitri Parnaveh. Dismissed."

Roundel looked at Saki, as the latter lit a cigarette. "Two military pilots and two civilians. It'll be interesting to see how the civilians cope with warfare."

"Kazama did it, and he hasn't turned into a beast yet," Saki retorted. He picked up one of the files and read it aloud. "'Isabel Hilary Arthur, Flight Officer, Royal Air Force; dismissed for conduct unbecoming an officer.' Hopefully, she will straighten herself out."

Roundel picked up the jacket and read further. "'Disciplined for flying a Vulcan bomber under the Tower Bridge.' I just hope she did it at low tide or the bridge was up," he chuckled. "Sir, what do you want to do about Kitri?"

"What about my cousin?"

"Rumor has it that she's been seeing Blackjack ever since the day she got here. Well," Roundel amended, "since he coached her down after her fighter got hit."

"Kitri is a big girl," Saki said. "As long as it hasn't turned physical, then Blackjack has nothing to worry about. The moment I find out it has, then he had better be ready to take the next step."

00000

The briefing room was filled with the pilots and cigarette smoke, Blackjack sitting near the back of the room, lit cigar in his mouth. He tended to fly very few actual alpha strike-type missions because of his particular aircraft. Every pilot here knew that for a fully loaded jet to try to keep up with fully loaded Skyraider, the jet pilot would be hanging on the edge of a stall all the time. And even if the Army cooperation and C/SAR support missions weren't as lucrative as downing rebel MiGs or Sukhois, Blackjack wasn't here for the money.

Saki walked up to the podium, forestalling further conversation. "Good evening. Tomorrow's operation will hopefully shorten the war, and the regular military has not been involved in the planning and will not be involved in the execution of this mission. Intelligence has confirmed that a salt freighter will be departing the harbor of al-Baqaba, bound for Murmansk. Our mission will be to sink the freighter, preferably after it reaches international waters. However, as the civil war is a purely internal affair, the international community would not be surprised if we sank it within rebel waters."

"Wait a minute, Saki," Mickey said. "You want us to cross the frontlines, head to a probably very heavily defended harbor area, and sink a freighter in a mission that even the regulars wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole?"

"That is correct."

"You've got to be off your rocker, Saki," Greg complained.

"Just how are we going to do this? Unless McCoy has magically acquired Harpoons or LGBs, none of our planes can carry torpedoes."

Saki gave his argumentative pilots an exasperated look. "There is one plane that is capable of this mission, and due to the seriousness all pilots will be required to fly." Behind his sunglasses, he saw Blackjack starting to relax. I've got him on this one, he thought, chuckling inwardly. "The exceptions are Benson, Holman, Arthur, Claude-Boilleau, Kopf, and Harriman. You five will need to be brought up to speed on all navigational landmarks, and provide an alert fighter force if needed." Saki saw that Blackjack was sitting up straight. "Dismissed."

"Flight leaders remain for additional information," Roundel said, as the rest of the pilots stood and left.

With the briefing room empty, save for Shin, Blackjack, Mickey, Kitri, Greg, Saki and Roundel, Blackjack asked the question, after moving to the front. "Why am I going on this raid, Saki? My bird isn't fast enough to keep up with the others."

The fact that Blackjack had sat down next to his cousin wasn't lost on Saki. "Because your plane is the only one capable for this mission," he replied.

"Wait a minute. All of the other planes on this base are incapable of bombing this ship?"

"Capable of bombing, yes; torpedoing, no," Saki replied.

"As in "Battle of Midway"-style torpedo run?"

Saki smiled. "Yes. And you have the dubious honor of carrying out that mission, Blackjack."

"So let me get this straight," Mickey asked. "Blackjack will be carrying a torpedo across the country, and making a run against a freighter like it was 1940?"

"Yes. Well, he'll be carrying two torpedoes. McCoy isn't sure if they'll still fire."

"Great, what god did I piss off today?" Blackjack muttered, as Roundel explained the rest of the mission.

Morning dawned like any other in Aslan—clear and hot. There was barely the hint of a breeze over the airbase. As Blackjack walked down the flightline to his plane, it felt as though even God was holding His breath on this morning. Having spent most of last night, reading up on the tactics he was going to use tonight, Blackjack hadn't been able to get much sleep, and wanted to preflight his plane before this evening. Theoretically, it's a simple idea to torpedo a ship from a plane with an unguided torpedo: fly low and slow; 100 knots 100 feet off the surface of the water and eyeball the torpedo in. Reading the accounts of the Devastator squadrons at Midway had put a chill up the pilot's back.

Approaching one of his revetments, Blackjack looked in. Sitting there on dollies were the two torpedoes he was to carry. "Beauties ain't they," McCoy said. "My supplier found them in the back of a warehouse in Germany, still in their crates. Says they go back to World War II. Damn shame I've got to use them here. I could probably make a pretty penny selling them to a museum or collector."

"Will they work?" Blackjack asked, hesitantly.

"They'll work. I had Mucho Loco go over them yesterday. She certified them as live munitions," the old scrounger replied. Airman Vasquez was the only one crazy enough to play with live munitions to see if they work. "She even tested the firing mechanisms to see if they'll work. And they did."

"I hope to God that she's right. It won't be her ass in a sling if they don't go off."

"I know, I know," McCoy said, sympathetically. He started to walk off. "By the way, I've got the rails you need for your birds. Have Tran stop by tomorrow."

Blackjack nodded as he began his walkaround of his attack plane. Tran had taken off the additional hardpoints under the wings, to conserve weight, while a fuel tank sat on the centerline hardpoint. He checked the fuel levels in all the tanks, and noted with satisfaction that the fuel level was at the bottom thread of the filler port.

Kitri walked up to the Skyraider, and walked around it. "An amazing aircraft," she said, as she ran her hand along the straight wing. "Obsolete, and yet still quite capable of handling itself in a fight."

Blackjack looked up from one of the starboard guns, where he and Tran were cleaning the barrel. "In the hands of a skilled pilot, this old bird is capable of shooting down a jet. It isn't always the plane, but the pilot. You stick a green Russian pilot in their latest piece of equipment and Chuck Yeager in his P-51, Yeager'll win hands down."

"Yes, I remember that well from the other day," Kitri replied. "Blackjack, why do you have a smiley face painted on your tail?"

He looked at his crew chief first. "You okay with this, Tran?"

"Yeah, I got it," he replied. "Go talk to your girlfriend," he added in Vietnamese.

Blackjack gave his crew chief a dirty look, as he climbed off the wing of the attack plane and walked over to Saki's cousin. He leaned against the wing, as he told his story. "I flew Spads with the Second Special Operations Squadron out of Bien Hoa. We all painted nose art on our planes like it was 1945, and for some reason I didn't feel like having a nudie cutie on my nose. So I decided to paint a smiley face on my plane."

"I see. And the reason that you have 'Have a Nice Day' painted on the underbelly?"

"Because I'm twisted," Blackjack replied, a sardonic grin on his face. "Because the last thing I want the rebels to see is that corny, hackneyed phrase sending them to Hell."

Kitri smiled at him. "Good, then we are on the same wavelengths."

"You want to go have a drink with me?"

"You know we go wheels up in nine hours," she replied. "We're within the 12 hour limit."

Blackjack smiled sheepishly. "A cup of coffee then? And not the runway sealant they brew in the canteen." Kitri nodded, and they headed back towards the barracks.

McCoy noticed the two from his PX, and smiled. "Well, I wonder when I'm going to need to break into the precious gemstones. That engagement will be a first for here."

00000

As the sun set in the west, pilots and ground personnel headed towards their planes. Turbines began wailing, some coughing clouds of smoke. With the whine of the inertial starter, the blades of Blackjack's 'Raider started turning. When he hit sixteen blades (four rotations), Blackjack hit the starter. With a coughing fit, the big Wright radial began to rumble to life. Letting the engine idle and warm up, Blackjack ran through the last sections of the checklist. "Tower, Blackjack, Three Zero Section. Ready to taxi," he called over the radio, after waiting for the other pilots to call their taxi requests in.

"Blackjack, Tower. Cleared to taxi."

"Roger." He signaled Tran, who pulled the chocks, and advanced the throttle. The big Douglas fighter-bomber began rolling out of the revetment, turning towards the flightline. Zero-Zero section was already taking off; Shin, Mickey, Hoover, and Campbell, all in formation. One Zero section started their roll down the runway, and were airborne moments later.

Kitri looked over to the Skyraider, gave Blackjack a thumb's up, and advanced the throttles of her Mirage. Her wingman kept pace with her as the fighters roared down the runway.

The radio in the 'Raider crackled to life. "Blackjack, you are cleared for takeoff. Godspeed and good hunting." Taxiing into position, Blackjack stood on the breaks as he advanced the throttles, letting manifold pressure and revolutions stabilize. Letting off the brakes, he added a heavy boot to left rudder to keep his fighter heading straight down the runway. The Skyraider accelerated sluggishly, with the two torpedoes under the wings and a belly full of avgas weighing it down. Slowly though, the tail lifted off the runway, and the warplane lifted off, clawing its way into the still air.

Radio silence had been strictly observed on the approach across the frontlines. All the pilots on the strike mission were left to their own thoughts, as they flew a circuitous route to al-Baqaba to avoid detection by radar, without the comfort of radio chatter, except for those with a backseater, but even then, conversation quieted after awhile as they ran out of things to talk about. Blackjack sat in the stygian darkness of his cockpit, the red-lit instruments his only companion. As they flew over the front, artillery and tank cannons could be seen firing, their flashes like ground-based lightning.

Al-Baqaba became visible on the horizon, waste gas flames and streetlights highlighting it's location against the dark desert night. Blackjack flicked his navigation lights on and off three times, the arranged code signal for the rest of the fighters. Two fighters stayed with the Skyraider, providing cover in case the diversion wasn't successful.

Already traces could be seen to the north of the small formation, along with rocket motors igniting as SAMs streaked skyward and searchlights pierced the night skies. To the northwest, afterburner torches denoted rebel fighters being scrambled to meet the threat. The radio came alive with chatter from the other mercenaries, as their part of the plan was met. Lights within al-Baqaba started shutting down, as the rebel authorities implemented blackout procedures. "Crap," Blackjack muttered, "how the hell am I going to spot that damn freighter now?

"Huntress," he said, keying his mike, "turning inbound now."

"Affirmative, Blackjack," Kitri replied. "We're climbing to 5 thousand for overwatch."

As he neared the harbor entrance, Blackjack's prayers were answered. It was almost as if the moon was acting like a giant spotlight, illuminating the harbor; a washed out high noon, where everything was in shades of grey. And the salt freighter was right in front of Blackjack, broadside to him, silhouetted by the light. It couldn't have been a more textbook target approach. Airspeed and altitude were both pegged at 100. "Torpedo one…away," he called over the radio, as the port hardpoint released the torpedo. He pulled up and banked to the right, letting the weight of his remaining torpedo pull him around.

The torpedo performed as advertised. It ran hot, straight and normal right into the hull…of a Soviet intelligence trawler that just happened to be passing the freighter. "Son of a bitch," Blackjack growled. "Target denied. I hit the wrong fucking ship, Goddamnit. Rolling in again." He finished his 180 degree turn, got on the same attack plan, and could see muzzle flashes of rifles as the crew of the freighter fired at him.

With some random fire from his cannons, the crew scattered around the deck of the ship. "Torpedo two…away!" Blackjack yanked back on the stick, and climbed with scant feet to spare over the freighter's masts…and into the furball that was above him. He was silhouetted by the explosion and subsequent fire when the torpedo impacting against the freighter's fuel tanks.

"Blackjack," Kitri called over the radio, "dive and get out of here."

With 23mm cannon shells hitting his fuselage, he complied, throwing his fighter around in a series of complicated jinks. "Hey, I see a nice, juicy target of opportunity," he called.

Sitting tied up to the refinery's loading dock was another ship; one with three domes on her deck. As Blackjack was walking his cannon rounds towards the ship, Mickey saw what he was doing. "Jesus Christ! Everyone, bug out! Bug out, or you're going to get cooked!" The former naval aviator wracked his Tomcat around in a tight turn, the wings stretching out like angel's, as his afterburners lit the night sky.

"Blackjack, what the hell are you doing," Kitri all but shouted into the radio.

"Going after a nice, juicy target of opportunity," he replied, the chatter of his 20mm wing cannons audible over the radio. He looked up through the gunsight at what he was actually shooting at, and the reality of the situation hit home. Filling the windscreen was 140 thousand cubic meters of liquefied natural gas carrier. And the bullets were already in the air. Oh shit, Blackjack thought to himself, I'm going to die. As he jammed the throttle to the stops and flipped on the water injection, it was already too late.

The rounds for the cannons were a mix of high explosive, armor piercing, incendiary, tracer, and ball. All it took was three rounds to create Hell on Earth. The first was an armor piercing round, punching through the double wall tank, releasing the gas. Once the incendiary and tracer entered the gas cloud, the gas ignited, creating a Hiroshima-like mushroom cloud.

00000

"You have the look of someone waiting for their lover," Makoto remarked, snapping a couple of pictures of Kitri. "Can't be Shin, since he landed with the main body. So is it Blackjack?"

"You still have the look of a predator looking for prey," Kitri shot back. Her look softened, slightly. "Tell me something, what do you know of Blackjack?

"Blackjack? As far as I know, he's a Vietnam vet, like Mickey. He tends to take calculated risks that have put him in favor with the ground-pounders. I've been on a couple of missions with him, so I've seen how he flies. It's like he's got a death wish or something.

"I also think he's the base prankster, but I could be wrong about that. No one knows who's been targeting Saki for practical jokes, but it's never the same type of joke, and never more than once a week. Rumor has it, they started when Blackjack got here, though."

"I see," Kitri said. They heard a familiar buzz that sounded off, and as she looked up, Kitri smiled, but the smile turned to concern. "Ah, Blackjack is back…" There was a plume of black, oily smoke pouring out of the engine. "Makoto, go get help!" The photographer took off, running for the nearest hangar to sound the alarm, as Blackjack's 'Raider looped around to land. The engine finally sputtered to a halt, as the crankcase ran out of oil. The propeller windmilled as the plane sank towards the runway threshold, before impacting in a shower of sparks as it skidded out of control towards the tower.

The disabled fighter came to a halt just off the runway, as friction overcame momentum, and Kitri was off like a bat out of hell towards the fighter. As she got closer, she could see the paint was scorched, the Plexiglas canopy shattered. Climbing up on to the wing, Kitri could see that Blackjack was barely conscious and bleeding from multiple wounds, and pulled him out of the wrecked fighter, just as the meat wagon pulled up. The medics took the seriously wounded pilot from Saki's cousin, and hightailed it to the base hospital.