Page 26 of Viking

Langley AFB

May 1, 2024

0700

Logan

The whine of the engines crescendos into a deafening roar as I run through my pre-flight checks. The F-22’s cockpit is a space I’ve come to know better than anywhere else. Every screen lit up, every command at my fingertips, just like it should be. I scan the HUD as the data lights up. Fuel levels, weapons systems, radar—it’s all green.

“Viking, comms check.” Major Townsend’s voice cuts through the headset.

“Loud and clear, Bishop,” I reply, keeping my tone even. He always manages to sound like he’s barking orders, even during routine operations.

“Spartan, comms check,” Townsend continues.

Ryan’s drawl filters through the comms. “Spartan’s good. Don’t worry about me, Bishop. I know how to fly,” he teases.

“Ghost, comms check,” Townsend finishes.

Dalton replies, “Ghost is ready.”

“Copy all,” Townsend says. “We’re on mission parameters now. Remember, this isn’t a joyride. We’re flying a tactical repositioning to Tyndall, so keep it tight and professional. I’ll lead the formation; Viking, you’re on my left. Spartan and Ghost, take the rear echelon. Let’s keep it sharp, boys.”

The subtle jab about professionalism isn’t lost on me. Townsend always feels the need to flex his authority, but I let it roll off. I’m not here to argue with him.

The tower clears us for takeoff, and one by one, we roll onto the runway. Townsend’s jet, in the lead, is already accelerating when I ease the throttle forward, feeling the twin Pratt & Whitney engines respond instantly.

“Bishop’s up,” Townsend says.

The rumble grows into a raw, guttural power, pressing me back into the seat as I surge down the tarmac. At rotation speed, I pull back on the stick, and the jet leaps into the air, climbing steeply into the cloudless sky. “Viking’s airborne,” I call over the comms, a grin tugging at my lips. No matter how many times I’ve done this, the thrill never fades.

“Spartan’s up,” Ryan adds, his tone casual.

“Ghost’s airborne,” Dalton confirms.

We form up quickly, our Raptors sliding into position with surgical precision. The sun glints off the titanium hulls of the jets as we climb to altitude, the world below shrinking into a patchwork of greens and blues.

Cruising at 30,000 feet, the flight settles into a rhythm. The four of us keep tight spacing, just as we’ve trained. My eyes sweep over the horizon, scanning for anything unusual, but it’s a routine transfer. Clear skies, minimal traffic, nothing to do but hold position and enjoy the view.

“Spartan, you awake back there?” I ask, unable to resist ribbing Ryan a little.

“Wide awake, Viking,” he shoots back. “You’re the one flying like my grandma.”

“Knock it off, both of you,” Townsend snaps. “This isn’t a chat room.”

“Ghost, how you holding up?” I ask, aiming for a more constructive tone. Dalton is the youngest in our flight, and these frequent transfers can be grueling for the newer guys.

“All good, Viking,” he replies. “Clear skies and steady hands.”

“Good to hear,” I say.

The time passes in a mix of professionalism and banter. We execute formation changes, practice a few coordinated maneuvers, and log some solid flight time. The Raptors respond like they have been built for us, gliding effortlessly through the air.

“Bishop to Viking, let’s run a delta split for approach. You take the lead into Tyndall’s airspace; I’ll bring up the rear,” Townsend says, his tone clipped.

“Copy that,” I reply, adjusting my vector. I know he hates not being the lead, but I’m not about to argue mid-flight.

As we near Tyndall, the coastline comes into view—a jagged line separating the endless blue of the ocean from the green expanse of land. My HUD lights up with the airbase’s beacon, and I guide us into the designated pattern for landing.