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The air traffic controller’s deep voice replied almost immediately. “Devil One, Mugu approach, radar contact, maintain VFR. Information Romeo is current, Mugu is landing two one. Say intentions.”

Colt grinned as he listened to the exchange that would have sounded foreign to anybody but a pilot. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought the “Devil” call sign belonged to the Dust Devils of test squadron VX-31 from China Lake. Jug’s squadron. That he was returning to base, or RTB, from the Warning Areas off the coast meant there was a better than fifty-fifty chance the man he was flying to see was on the other end of the radio.

“Devil One’s looking for the overhead.”

Sure sounds like Jug.

Colt keyed the microphone switch and spoke quickly. “Jug, switch fingers.”

Click. Click.

The double break in squelch was all the confirmation he needed that his friend was at the controls of Devil One. Still outside approach control’s airspace, Colt switched off their frequency and dialed in 123.45 MHz. Known as “fingers” to almost every backcountry pilot, it was the unofficial air-to-air communication channel.

“Jug’s up.”

“Jug, it’s Colt.”

“Colt! You’re not in Camarillo yet?”

“Had a little detour.” Colt paused as a thought came to him. “Say, do you think you could coordinate permission for us to land at Point Mugu instead of going all the way to Camarillo?’

“Always looking for the easy way…”

Colt laughed, but he knew that if it was possible, Jug would make it happen. “Working smarter, not harder, brother,” he said, then scanned the sky above him forward of his wing line, trying to spot the Joint Strike Fighter’s blinking strobe lights against the canvas of stars. “Where are you, by the way?”

“Look over your left shoulder.”

Colt turned his head and saw that Punky was also trying to spot the fifth-generation fighter in the growing darkness. Suddenly, a deafening thunderclap rocked the plane on their right side, and he spun his head around in time to see the orange-blue glow of a single Joint Strike Fighter in full afterburner, rocking its wings.

“You son of a…,” Colt said.

“I’ll talk to Mugu for you,” Jug replied with obvious joy in his voice. “No promises.”

“Thanks, Jug.”

Click. Click.

Colt switched back to the Point Mugu approach control frequency, already feeling better about their prospects. With both Punky and Jug in his corner, the dark cloud looming over his head didn’t seem so bleak and the threat to the JSF not quite as daunting.

“We’re going to stop them,” he told Punky over the intercom.

“Yes, we are,” she replied. “And I’m going to kill her.”

Colt wasn’t sure she intended for him to hear that last part.

* * *

True to his word, Jug had coordinated with Point Mugu base operations and succeeded in securing authorization for him to land the experimental airplane at the base. Knowing Jug, he had probably told them an admiral was at the controls of the Carbon Cub, a suspicion made more likely by the excessive courtesy he was given as they set up to land on the shorter east-west runway. Once on the ground, they were requested to taxi clear to the north ramp.

Dammit, Jug! Colt thought with a smile. What did you tell them?

On the ramp, Colt saw two F-35C Joint Strike Fighters parked in front of one of the two hangars and a pilot suited up for flight waving lights in his hands to marshal the Carbon Cub into a parking spot. When Jug crossed his arms over his head, Colt came to a complete stop, then shut down the plane and jumped out. Jug walked around the front of the cowling with a huge grin on his face. “Isn’t this a little slow for your liking?”

The two men embraced under the wing. “Can’t always be supersonic with my hair on fire.”

“Yeah, not with these pretty locks!” Jug reached up and tousled Colt’s hair, then looked over his shoulder as Punky emerged from the Carbon Cub. His eyes grew wide, and even in the darkness, Colt noticed them scan up and down her body in a thinly veiled attempt at checking her out. “And who’s this?”

Colt made the introductions, feeling more than a little jealous when their handshake lasted longer than what was socially acceptable. At last, Jug released his grip on her, then turned and led the pair across the ramp to the hangar.

“So, what’s so important that you flew up from San Diego in that bug smasher?”

“Whoa! Easy how you talk about my plane,” Colt said.

“Sorry, brother.”

Colt knew he wasn’t. “At least wait until we’re out of earshot. You might hurt her feelings.”

Jug shook his head and led them into the back corner of the hangar and a vacant room that had been temporarily converted into a paraloft. As he began stripping out of his flight gear to stow it neatly next to the only other set in the room, Colt leaned on a wooden bench pushed back against the cinder block wall and reached into his flight suit pocket for the thumb drive he had taken from the Lincoln. “I came to bring you this.”