FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Jet-A

---

Prologue:

Havana, Cuba.

White smoke gushed from the turbine hoods of engine one. The rumblings of pistons and propellers filled the tarmac as "Clipper Neptune's Jalopy" was prepared for departure from the Jose Marti International Airport, Havana. The old C-119G rattled and droned with its load of cargo strapped down in the hold, ready for its ninety mile flight over the sea to Miami. The twin-engine, twin-boom cargo plane was painted in the blue, gold, and white markings of Freightmaster Services, out of Opa Locka.

"Well after another bullshit delay...we can finally get this sugarcane on the road!" exclaimed the Captain, forty-six year old Bruce Melick. A black and white furred malamute, he was an ex-bush pilot from Alaska, a veteran with old radial powered aircraft. His flight crew were other seasoned veterans of flying "round engines". Kevin Donnerberg, a black and gray wolf in his early forties, served as co-pilot and Rick Vanderbilt, a white and gray wolf, the youngest at age thirty-eight, was flight engineer to the Fairchild.

"Maybe they want to search the plane's cargo and manifests one more time?" Rick cackled with a cynical laugh.

"We're only forty minutes behind schedule 'cause of that." Kevin grumbled.

Freightmaster had been running into issues with Cuba's communist authorities. Although impossible to prove, the attitude throughout the company was that the intense scrutiny stemmed from a meeting Freightmaster's upper management had with Cuban authorities in mid 2018. A scathing comment by Lloyd Tanager, the senior head of Freightmaster, against Cuba's communist government ushered in the increased bureaucracy dealt by the freightline.

"Alrighty...I think we're good to go here~" Bruce announced as everyone watched a Centoh Intermodal C-124C taxi in from a direct flight from Ohio. The all silver Douglas towered above them as it slowly taxied by, urged by its smoky piston engines.

"There's Centoh's 'Ole Shaky'...heh, that's one cargo group the commies won't fuck with." Kevin chuckled.

"Oh Rob Barion won't put up with that..." Bruce shook his head. "He runs it a lot different than his husband~"

"Joey's too easy going." Kevin added as he adjusted his headset.

"Well...let's get her going...the engine's overheating and so am I!" Bruce laughed as he gripped his throttles and began to taxi for the runway. "Standby on the J34."

"Gotcha~"

The Flying Boxcar slowly taxied for the active runway, following behind a fellow company C-118A, a Liftmaster named "Clipper Robert Gold Tokarev".

"Hey, how long was your delay!" laughed the captain of "Robert Gold Tokarev". "I got out after an hour and a half!"

"Heh! Forty minutes this time for us..." Kevin chuckled into his radio set.

"Lucky you..."

"Yeah..."

"Well be safe on your return flight! I'm sure our friends will be escorting us..."

"Yeah...I'm sure of that..." Bruce grumbled.

Following five minutes behind the C-118, "Clipper Neptune's Jalopy" began its takeoff roll down the two mile long runway of Havana. The boxy cargo plane was propelled by two R-3350 Cyclone-18's, monster turbocompound radials that belched a steady stream of fire from the turbine hoods. They spun four-bladed Hamilton propellers that clawed the air, giving off a loud, mean roar. Screaming atop the roof of the cargo plane was a podded J34 turbojet, which gave extra thrust for the maximum weight takeoff. It emitted a dark exhaust plume that trailed behind as the Fairchild slowly lifted off the runway, to begin its flight to Miami. It departed Havana and turned north-west, beginning a long slow climb to nine thousand feet for the two hour flight over the glistening Atlantic.

Slowly climbing to cruise altitude, the crew programmed the autopilot and settled back for the uneventful flight to Florida. They continued to vent their disgruntlement of being delayed, yet again, for some bureaucratic government decision. It was painfully aware that it was retribution, for the comment by Lloyd to the aviation department of Cuba, telling them they "couldn't tell their ass from their elbow". Now all the planes faced scrutiny with their cargo and manifests, under the guise of "preventing contraband".

"And clear of Cuban airspace..." radioed the captain of "Robert Gold Tokarev".

"Thank god." Bruce responded before releasing the microphone toggle.

"A week ago, we had two MiG's shadow us up until we got near Key West..."

"I had one on my starboard on the third..." Kevin added. "Joey, Kurt, and Lloyd really must have pissed off the commies."

"It's not fun having jets with missiles shadow! That's for sure." The captain morbidly laughed.

"Yeah... sounds like my Dad's stories about 'Nam." Bruce chuckled.

An hour passed high over the Atlantic. It was uneventful as the everyone let the plane fly itself towards Miami. Some chatter continued on over the drone of the radials, which purred outside the cabin.

"Hold up...what's this?" Kevin muttered as he turned his head to look out his side of the cockpit windows. "Hey, uhh, guys? We got company..."

Off to starboard, just barely above the big cowling and wing flew a Cuban MiG, a camouflaged MiG-23ML. With its wings swept forward, the Flogger shadowed the Fairchild over international water.

"Why the fuck are they out this far?" Bruce grumbled. "We did everything they wanted."

"TWICE." Rick rolled his blue eyes. "Jesus Christ..."

"Well we're pushing forward...we are out of their jurisdiction."

"Pfft, yeah."

"I'd be so pissed if we had to turn back because THEY screwed something up."

Kevin watched the Cuban jet slip from view as it backed off, disappearing behind the thick wings keeping them aloft.

"Huh...that's weird...he's, he's backing off!" Kevin exclaimed.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I don't get it."

"Good...let him go on his merry fuckin' way." Rick grunted as he checked over his engine gauges. "Engines look good, Bruce."

"Sounds good to me." Bruce added. "I know for a fact Joey and them are not happy about this treatment the company is-"

A very loud explosion suddenly rocked the Fairchild. The nose suddenly pitched down as alarms began to blare. The sound of air rushing through the cargo hold was immediately evident. Bruce grabbed the yoke and pulled it back to feel the C-119 fight him. "Neptune's Jalopy" was going down.

"Holy fuck!" Kevin exclaimed. "What the fuck was that?!"

"We're losing altitude! Engine fire! Engine fire!"

"We got a fire light on one!" Rick called out.

"What the fuck just happened?!" Kevin yelled.

"Help me Kev! Holy shit!" Bruce exclaimed.

"Did we just get hit with a missile or something?!" Rick yelled. "We're only carrying fucking sugar bags!"

"Jesus Christ!" Bruce yelled. The Fairchild fell through a thick cloud, trailing black smoke and fire.

Punching through the cloud, the sight of the glistening Atlantic filled the entire view. Slamming in opposing rudder, cranking the yoke and pulling hard back, the Flying Boxcar shuddered and moaned, with the ominous sound of metal creaking and twisting as it was slowly brought out of a freefalling dive.

"That's it! That's it!" Kevin yelled over the roaring propellers.

"Prepping the J34! Shutting down one!" Rick called out.

"Pull co2!" Bruce called out as he got the Fairchild level again. But even in level flight, the plane did not fly "right". It shuddered and crabbed through the air at a slight angle. The yoke shook in his grip.

"Engine's off!"

Bruce looked to his left to watch the flat-tipped propeller come to a stop. A light trail of smoke continued to emit from the cowling, which had a few small holes in the top. A couple cowling petals were missing, but he couldn't see what else was missing.

Rick reached forward and adjusted the throttle to the turbojet on the roof. It helped keep the heavy plane in the air with its single remaining piston engine.

"Miami Center this is Freightmaster two-thirty-seven declaring an emergency! Repeat, Miami Center this is Freightmaster two-thirty-seven declaring an emergency, over! We've had an explosion of some kind on our aircraft and request an emergency landing when we get to Miami. Over."

"Freightmaster two-thirty-seven, this is Miami Center, acknowledged your emergency, and we will have emergency services standing by."

"Much appreciated...over."

"Rick! Check the cargo hold!" Kevin called as he helped Bruce hold the plane steady. The white and gray wolf unbuckled himself and quickly stepped into the cargo hold. He immediately found the fuselage to be riddled with holes, including one section of the rear petal door missing. The rear of the plane looked like Swiss cheese. He braced himself against the strapping to stare out the gaping hole in the rear fuselage, where the door would have been. The twin booms that held the stabilizers were ripped to ribbons, as were the stabilizers. Some smoke continued to trail from some of the holes in the booms.

"Holy shit!" Rick yelled as he made his way to the cockpit. "This plane's all fucked up!"

"We got hit with a missile or something?" Kevin exclaimed.

"Looks like it! It looks like Swiss cheese in the hold." Rick yelled over the wind and engine noise. There was just silence between all of them, as their dying plane limped on towards Florida.

---

Jet-A

As fast as his legs could go, Joey ran. Through the perimeter fence of the Newark-Heath Airport, the black and tan Doberman rushed to his idling Corsair, to take him to Opa-Locka. Dressed in his khaki wartime flight suit, he breathed heavily as his mechanic Vlado waited for him. Joey wasted no time in jumping up onto the inverted gull wing of his FG-1D and climbed into the cockpit, feeling the warm exhaust blow against him. Vlado helped strap him into the armored seat of his warbird.

"Okay, you be safe!" Vlado exclaimed.

"Thanks~" Joey nodded as the burly Croat jumped down to release the chocks. He motioned for Joey, who immediately began to taxi, zigzagging his Corsair around to see over its long nose. "The Ohioan", a glossy sea blue Corsair with its nose and tail adorned in red and white checkerboard was quickly taxied to the runway, and immediately began takeoff. Joey redlined the Double-Wasp, the huge Hamilton propeller ahead of him roaring as he lifted off the runway and climbed away, to begin the long flight to Opa-Locka. The snowy landscape of Heath, Ohio passed below as Joey turned to head south. His mind though all about what had happened earlier in the day.

"Clipper Neptune's Jalopy" crashed on landing at Miami International. Crippled by an air to air missile, the Fairchild was limped to Miami where it bellied in on landing, after its landing gear failed to extend. It caught on fire, and the plane, along its with cargo load of sugar was destroyed. The crew made it out safely. It was the first serious accident for Freightmaster after Joey partnered up with Kurt and Lloyd Tanager, and the first serious international incident between Cuba and the United States. Ahead lay almost four and a half hours of flying in his Corsair. As he departed Ohio, and flew south over West Virginia, Kentucky, Joey thought about the growing problems he had faced with Freightmaster and Cuba's government.

A consequence of the cooling relations between the US and Cuba, the Cuban government began imposing more and more bureaucracy on Freightmaster, and other US cargo carriers going to and from the island nation. It cumulated in a September 2018 meeting with Freightmaster's leaders and the heads of the Cuban Aviation Department. Freightmaster voiced its complaints about delays imposed by authorities over manifests. The issue was made worse by the recent influx of smuggling flights coming in and out of Miami, hauling illegal goods and drugs from other shady cargo groups looking to cash in. The tense meeting was made worse by Kurt's father Lloyd, who made a number of scathing comments about the communist government. Being half-Cuban, Lloyd took it to heart. The awkward meeting only made things worse for Freightmaster, and now Joey was faced with a serious, international dilemma. The idea of one of his cargo planes being shot down by a military jet sent a shiver down his spine.

Looking down at his instrument panel, "The Ohioan" cruised at 215MPH, heading south-south-east over the northern border of North Carolina. Its R-2800 purred contently, cruising at nine thousand feet with the propeller etching a golden circle in front of him. Joey wished the plane few faster; he felt so anxious, so impatient in wanting to meet up with Kurt and Lloyd, to assess the situation himself, and to discuss their emergency plans to counter the shoot down.

Four and a half hours later, Joey finally arrived at Opa-Locka. Circling around to wait for traffic, Joey descended in and touched down at the Executive Airport. Rolling out, he taxied to the oil stained tarmac of Freightmaster, who's Florida office was a small white building tucked at one corner. In front of the small building were a couple of Freightmaster's other propliners; a C-47A, and a four-engine C-54G.

Joey shut the big radial down and jumped down just as the propeller stopped turning. He rushed immediately to the front door of the office, to be greeted by Kurt. The black and rust Doberman welcomed the Brazilian Dober in immediately for discussions in their office.

---

The clock struck ten-fifteen when Joey finally stepped through the door. With a haggard step, the Doberman looked tired as he clutched his leather flying helmet that dangled in his grip. It was a day filled with tension, questions, planning, media interviews, and more questions than answers. Interviews with the crew, the FBI, the NTSB, FAA- it was a long day, made longer by the four and a half hour flight back to Ohio. He let out a slow, exhausted, exhale.

"Hi Uncle Joey!" grinned Alvin. The fourteen year old ran over to greet his exhausted uncle with his usual enthusiasm.

"How was your day?" Joey asked as he gave his nephew a hug.

"Good! Should I dare ask how your day went?"

Joey closed his eyes and chuckled. "It was a long day."

"I can tell~"

Joey dragged himself to his bedroom, where Rob laid in bed, the wolf-hybrid looking dour as usual, reading a maintenance book to his L-1049 Super Constellation. He was dressed in his usual evening attire of red and white striped pajamas. Joey stepping into the bedroom got his attention as he put his large book down.

"You made it home~" Rob said. A smile slightly curled up on his scarred face.

"Yeah." Joey grunted. He stripped himself out of his flight suit and tossed it aside. He proceeded to strip out of his under clothes, down to just his snug briefs and a white tanktop, revealing his muscular body. "What a long fucking day it was."

"I bet." Rob shook his head. "More fallout for Freightmaster and ATS~"

"We speak to the head of Cuba's aviation department, or whatever they call it...they're saying it was an accidental firing over a misidentified plane."

"Governments modernize, the lies stay the same."

"How the fuck do you misidentify a Fairchild!?" Joey laughed sardonically. He smacked his paws against his hips. "Twin booms, twin engine, with a jet pod on the roof."

"I don't see this helping the current debacle in relations... How quickly they warm, then cool." Rob shrugged.

"Either way, Neptune's Jalopy is a complete write-off." Joey concluded. "Burned to the ground. Absolutely nothing salvageable. Not even an engine."

"Shit happens." Rob added as Joey climbed into bed. He crawled over to his spot and sat up, with Rob.

"It's a shitshow." Chuckled Joey.

"I can tell. Same shit, different day." Rob chuckled in return with a smile. He sat his book aside and gave his husband a warm hug, which Joey returned the gesture with a kiss on Rob's nose, then lips.

"It's good to be home with you." Smiled Joey.

"Thanks."

"So what are you doing with the maintenance book to the Constellation?" Joey asked curiously.

"Well..." Rob said with a momentary pause to grind his teeth in annoyance. "Had an engine fire on Coneflower this morning..."

"Well that's not good."

"Transfer pump failure on four. It was a pretty bad fire. Got the plane down, but the cowl, nacelle, and motor mounts got damaged, and the wing will need some repairs to be made airworthy again... couldn't have happened at a worse time... I lost the Convairliner, that's going out of service for a new restoration, and Altair is out of commission for a scheduled Iran."

"Double whammy, Rob." Smiled Joey.

"Yeah, tell me about it." Chuckled the wolf-hybrid cynically. "Geriatrics for airplanes~"

"Speaking of geriatrics. You know, I love my Corsair to death...it's a real treat to fly. But it just can't traverse the gap between Ohio and Florida fast enough in an emergency like today..." Joey admitted.

"Cruising speed of two-hundred and fifteen miles an hour~ Anything faster you risk burning the engine out and sucking all your fuel away." Rob chuckled.

"I need to find something that's a lot faster...to close that gap between Newark and Opa Locka~" Joey pondered out loud.

"Why don't you just fly one of my jet warbirds?" Rob mentioned. "They're fast, loud, and supersonic to piss off people and the feds."

"Don't they handle a lot...rougher? Like...less forgiving? I've flown in them with you...but that's a different story."

"Eh." Rob shrugged. "You just gotta know their vices. You got the MiG-17, MiG-21, MiG-23, Mirage Three, Su-27- that one's pretty expensive to operate...MiG-29...that's another expensive one. I just got a F-4J from China Lake for the museum...eh...military might not like that too much, fuck em. I don't know Joey, just give a few a shot and see how you feel about them."

"Sure, I think a few test flights might get the ball rolling."

"Or just be a pussy and buy something like...a Aermacchi 326 or something. Or just be every other square in the warbird scene with a Czech Albatros~ Docile jet trainers with mediocre range."

"Don't all jets pretty much have bad range?"

"Yeah~ Especially with afterburner." Rob morbidly chuckled. "I for one love the MiG-21. Especially the PFM variant.

"I'll just have to see what works for me then!" Joey exclaimed.

"We'll have to take you up on Geert's trainer for refresher, then kinda go from there." Rob pointed out.

"Sounds like a plan." Joey nodded. "I'm dead tired...I'm going to bed!"

"Sounds like a good idea." Yawned Rob. "Good night~"

"Night~"

---

The morning sun shone brightly in the mild skies over Newark-Heath. The tarmac to the small airport was kept wet by the slowly melting mounds of snow that piled up around the pavement. On the other side of the airport, what used to be a farmer's field, was now the nucleus of Rob Barion's aviation empire. Little Newark-Heath Aviation Works became Rob's aviation hub, housing his growing aviation museum, and hangars that housed his large aircraft. Joey found himself waiting on the tarmac, watching the commotion going on.

The large asphalt square was a hotbed of activity, as aircraft underwent winter maintenance in the favorable weather. Rob's B-29A shared ramp space with his wounded L-1049E, "Coneflower". Ladders and scaffolding surrounded the massive radial engines to both aircraft. An army of workers serviced both aircraft. Joey stood near "Coneflower", watching Vlado and his son Tito assess the damage to the fourth engine, which showed obvious signs of fire damage on its blackened cowl. Rob's other mechanic Pablo, who Joey was fond of, climbed up a ladder carrying a new tool to help take the cowlings off. In the background, a couple workmen serviced the huge Curtiss Electric Propellers to "Seoul Train".

"Mornin' Joey!" came Stanley, the resident EAA inspector to the airport. The Rottweiler carried a clipboard stuffed with paper on it that flapped in the mild breeze.

"Whacha up to?" Joey asked curiously.

"Oh, making sure your husband doesn't do something rash and impulsive." Teased the Rottweiler with a grin. "Whacha doin' here?"

"Oh, just waiting for Geert." Joey shrugged. "We're going on a test flight in his jet."

"Oh! Yeah, he mentioned something to me about taking you on for jet training?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna try and see about getting a jet warbird or something...for the emergency flights."

"A plane for any occasion~" teased Stanley. "Heard you had a bad accident down in Miami?"

"Yeah, you could word it that way." Joey chuckled. "Fucking Cubans shot down my Fairchild."

"Really? That was a really pretty plane...when you had them here before flying them down there."

"Ugly beauty, I say." Joey laughed. His conversation with Stanley tailored off as the growing whistle of jet engines filled his cropped ears. The Doberman turned to where the sound was coming from, as the high pitched scream of a Fouga Magister appeared from around side the massive hangar. It was a weird looking jet trainer, a French plane. It hugged the ground from its stubby landing gear, sported thick, narrow wings, and had a very distinctive V-tail configuration. The plane was polished natural metal, with prominent dayglo orange patches on its nose, wings, and tail. The jet was painted up as a former Belgian Air Force machine, having come from Belgium. The stubby trainer had Geert Apps at the controls in the front seat. He passed by Joey, turned the jet around and parked it. Two members of Rob's ground crew, ventured over to chock the plane as Geert shut the turbojets down. The cockpit looked disproportionate to the fuselage.

The canopy was pushed open by Geert. Hinged from the top, it swung up as he climbed out. A small two-step ladder was placed below as Geert stepped onto it and down. Taking his white plastic helmet off, Geert was a middle-aged Dutch Border Collie. Nearing fifty-six, he was Rob's business partner, co-owning the Newark-Heath Airport. It was just a side project for the billionaire Geert, who spent most of his life just living off his family inheritance, from their time in the Dutch banking industry. Unlike a mercurial, high-strung Rob, Geert was always calm and easy going.

"Just the man I wanted!" Geert exclaimed to Joey. He spoke with a Dutch accent. "How's it going today?"

"Oh, fine." Joey smiled. "So this is the jet bird I'll be starting off on?"

"Mhmm." Nodded Geert. "1954 built Fouga Magister. Served in the Belgian Air Force. A real gentle jet. Twin engines for safety...thick straight wings, just like a piston engine plane."

"I see~" Joey nodded.

"Well...you'll need this..." Geert said as he turned to return back to his jet trainer. He popped the rear canopy open and revealed a charcoal gray flight suit and parachute for Joey. Also in the backseat was a white US styled flight helmet, a vintage 1960's model. "And your helmet~"

Joey accepted the uniform and helmet from Geert. He turned to venture into the hangar to change.

---

After a long instructor spiel over the ejection seat and controls, Joey got strapped into the front cockpit of the Magister. The cockpit was narrow, even to the slender Joey. The instrument panel was all analog, with various gauges, dials, and switches. It reminded him of a more cluttered version of his P-47's instrument panel. Going through the checklist, Joey went through the instrumentation gauges and switches to start the number one engine. Opening the fuel valve, he engaged the starter, which immediately followed by the growing whine of a turbine spooling up. It started off as a deep whirr, which got higher pitched as the RPM's increased. The fuselage and helmet helped muffle the high pitched screech. Joey repeated the process for engine two, which effortlessly turned over and added to the noise.

Ground crew pulled the chocks away at Joey's command, who got the trainer to roll with a gentle burst of power. The Magister began to taxi, giving the Dober an excellent view forward, low to the ground. There was no need for zigzagging to see over a long nose, giving Joey a respite from taxiing with his head stuck out the cockpit. He rolled it slowly along the service road, and turned to wait at the edge of the runway, where he watched a Citation business jet rocket off into the air. Joey got a clear runway and he taxied to park at the end, for one final sweep of his instrument gauges and fine tuning of the flaps.

"Looks good here~" Joey motioned.

"I concur." Geert acknowledged. "Everything's a go!"

"Here we go." Joey announced as he put his left paw on the throttles. He opened them up slowly, spooling both turbojets up to command maximum thrust. The engines roared to life and began to propel them down the runway. There was no torque, no need for opposing rudder as the lightly loaded Magister rocketed down the runway, gaining momentum rapidly. The whole airframe grew buoyant; the light, floaty feeling that the wheels could spontaneously lift off the pavement. Joey waited as he watched the airspeed pass v1. He was committed to flight as the needle passed by the v2 minimal.

Tugging back on the yoke, Joey felt the wheels leave the pavement. The Magister's thick straight wings gathered lift and pulled them off the runway. It handled just like his Corsair and Thunderbolt, with a slow, gentle climb out. The Doberman had flown with Rob in a couple of his high performance jet warbirds; with afterburner engaged, takeoff was a violent, adrenaline rushing affair, being slammed into the seat by the force of the engine as they rocketed into the air. Joey pulled the gear up and continued to climb, the twin engines propelling them skyward.

For an hour, Joey explored jet flight with himself at the controls. Corkscrewing up to around eight thousand feet, Geert encouraged Joey to get a feel of the plane as they flew over the Ohio countryside. Cautious at first, Joey took it slow; the Magister was slightly underpowered, a fact confirmed by Geert. Each Marbore turbojet barely produced eight hundred pounds of thrust. The plane handled more like a piston engine warbird than a jet.

Joey completed a roll, followed by a barrel roll. He dove for speed, then pulled the jet up for a loop, which the plane did without complaint. Geert was ever observant in the rear cockpit. In another loop, Joey felt the "G's" come and go; the feeling of being squished as he pulled up into the climbing phase of the loop, then the momentarily grace of weightlessness at the apex.

"The plane is so docile because of its straight wings. When you get swept wings, or deltas, you get the little quirks that are tradeoffs in the quest for speed. You gotta respect them, or you'll regret it." Geert explained.

"Or with your Starfighter...no wings." Chuckled Joey.

"Exactly." Geert responded amusingly. "Mine have stubby wings...the worst of both worlds!"

"So what kinda quirks you expect on swept wings? Delta wings?"

"You've flown on them before." Geert laughed lightly.

"Yeah, with Rob at the controls~"

"Swept wings are more susceptible to Dutch roll, which is a yaw-roll. Landing speeds increase. Deltas have even more premiums on landing and takeoff speeds because of their smaller wing area. But those things are super stable in high speed flight. Again, the tradeoffs."

"I see~" Joey nodded.

Concluding his test flight, the two flew back to Newark-Heath, where Joey circled around twice to come in for landing. The gear dropped into place, and the flaps were deployed, slowing the plane up for an uneventful landing. At the last second before touchdown, Joey flared, bringing the nose up to touch the plane on its main gear. He got confirmation of touchdown with the telltale jolt of landing. The nose gear was gently touched to the pavement, and the Magister rolled out, with Joey returning back to Rob's tarmac space.

As both engines spooled down, ground crew choked the plane and set the little stepstool up for Joey to disembark, followed by Geert a few seconds later. His lower extremities all seized up, Joey stretched and flexed his back to loosen up. He concluded the flight with his usual walk-around inspection, finding no defects or leaks with Geert's little trainer.

"So...what did you think?" Geert asked as he took his helmet off. He ran a gloved paw through his graying hair as well as fixing his somewhat floppy ears.

"It handled quite nicely."

"Heh, it's just the beginning." Geert chuckled. "We'll get you up to snuff on this, before turning you loose in another jet warbird."

"Sounds like a plan!" Joey agreed.

"If you 'scuse me, I need to go lend my expertise on this engine fire..." the collie concluded as he turned to head over to help Vlado, Tito, and Pablo over the charred engine of "Coneflower". Joey chuckled and sat the helmet back in the cockpit of the Magister. A new milestone had been set.

---

After three weeks, Joey achieved basic jet proficiency. Entering the first week of March, Joey concluded his last flight with the Magister and Geert. He now began the next phase of jet training; with a much higher performing jet.

A light drizzle fell from milk gray skies over Newark-Heath. On the tarmac sat Rob's MiG-23UB, his twin-seat "Flogger". Painted in the dark chocolate and green camouflage of East Germany, "Black 104" sat being drizzled upon as ground crew to the museum prepped the plane. Jet fuel was pumped into the large drop tanks that were shackled to the wing roots, which sprouted the variable geometry wings that were swept forward. It was the trademark feature of the Flogger that made the MiG-23 unique among Soviet interceptors. "Black 104" was a ex Bulgarian trainer, which came to the US during the 1990's along with other old Soviet hardware. It was one of the first jets Rob had purchased for his fledgling museum in 2013. He paid a grand total of just forty thousand dollars for the airframe and turbojet.

Joey looked up at the huge radar nose of the Flogger. Dressed in a snug, gray G-suit, the Doberman's head was clad with a white ZsH-3 helmet, which sported a darkened visor, and KM-32 oxygen mask, clasped to the side. A parachute was strapped to his back. Rob was similarly dressed, only his ZsH-3 was orange, with a white stripe down the middle. The hammer and compass symbol of the extinct GDR was applied to it, as was "DDR" in bold red letters. The wolf-hybrid monitored the fueling of the big drop tanks.

A huge radome, large, slab-side air intakes for the massive turbojet, and multiple missile pylons on the belly and wing roots- the MiG-23 was a large jet warbird. Joey gulped at its size, his eyes gazing at the large jet pipe protruding out the rear. The thought of engaging afterburner brought goose bumps. The spidery landing gear looked overbuilt, the MiG designed to operate from rough fields as well as runways.

"Alright, let's get you in there." Rob motioned. Joey nodded and climbed up the red painted, steel ladder that was propped up against the fuselage side. Joey climbed up and popped the rain streaked canopy open. The cockpit was painted a soft blue color; apparently it was the best color to reduce stress in flight for Soviet aircrew. The cockpit felt cluttered with instrumentation; the view forward was constricted by a large gyro gunsight and radar ranger. The radar scope was just beneath. A thick armored glass plate was immediately behind the gunsight. Most of the instruments were still in their original Russian Cyrillic, with some English labels added below them. The Dober climbed in and strapped himself into the ejection seat. He connected his headset to the radio just as Rob climbed aboard the rear cockpit.

"Mic check~" his voice crackled over the intercom.

"I hear you loud and clear, Rob." Joey said as he gave a thumbs up.

Ground crew yanked the ladder away and retreated back. Joey realized it was now on him. Glancing around the cockpit, he began the checklist go through his instrumentation, under the watchful eyes of his husband. Joey turned on internal power and watched gauges come to life. Amber, green, and yellow lights glowed as Joey checked internal power out. Lifting up a switch cover, Joey turned on the fuel pumps and hit the starter for the engine. Immediately a deep whir could be heard from inside the fuselage as the turbojet engaged and began to slowly spool up. Like the Magister, it had a low, deep rumble that increased in pitch as RPM's increased. The Tumansky was a lot louder and deeper than the little turbojets on the Magister. Joey carefully kept his eyes on the EGT and RPM gauges. There were less steps involved in starting a jet engine than a piston radial engine.

"Looking good. Oil temperature, pressure, nominal." Rob said through his oxygen mask. "RPM's within range. Engine nominal, Joey."

"I confirm on my end." Joey nodded. "Gauges look right on the money."

"Alright. Whenever you're ready." Rob offered.

"Sure~"

"We'll do a non afterburner takeoff. Get you situated."

The chocks were pulled away, and Joey released the brakes. A gentle burst of power got the Flogger rolling across the tarmac, which Joey maneuvered by pushing his feet into the rudder pedals. The East German jet taxied slowly on the service road, dwarfing a small Cessna 172 that taxied ahead of Joey.

Keeping his head on a swivel, Joey looked around to find his view rather restricted past his three o'clock and nine o'clock. The large slab-sided air intakes and the wing roots made viewing past a certain point almost impossible. The cockpit was low set in the fuselage, and the canopy faired right into the fuselage. Viewing his six o'clock was impossible, save for a small reflecting mirror bolted to the top of the canopy. The jet was clearly meant as an interceptor, not a true dogfighter.

"Boy the view kinda sucks!" laughed Joey. "It's not like flying the Thunderbolt, or the Corsair, with its semi-bubble canopy."

"It's an interceptor. A bit of an oversight for the Soviets~" Rob shrugged.

"Yeah, no shit." Chuckled the Dober.

Turning onto the runway, Joey lined up on the centerline, and paused, checking over his instrumentation one final time. His paw gripped the throttle- he hesitated for a split second to get his bearings, before shoving it forward to command maximum "dry" power. The turbojet spooled up, its exhaust plume darkening as the MiG began to roll. Lightly loaded, it gained momentum quickly. Compared to the Magister, the Flogger accelerated much more rapidly. Without afterburner, Joey felt himself being pushed into the seat as he watched his speedometer carefully. A gentle tug on the control column brought the nose up, the jet leaping off the runway and into the air. The rough rumble of tires grew silent as the plane climbed into the gray skies above. Flaps were retracted, and the gear was brought up. It was now time to fly.

Joey corkscrewed up to nine thousand feet, and did three laps with the jet between Newark and Findlay. On the first lap, he flew with the wings fully swept forward. Flying at a steady four-hundred miles per hour, they traversed half the state and made it to Findlay in ten minutes. Passing by the city and turning around, Joey leveled back out to head back to Newark. He manipulated the wing sweep controls and adjusted the wings to be more swept. He put the wings at a medium sweep, and watched as the hydraulic systems slowly adjusted them.

"You'll find roll rate improves some, but your lift is diminished as wing sweep increases." Rob radioed to Joey.

"Makes sense~" Joey nodded.

Jetting back to Newark, Joey passed over downtown Newark and turned, feeling the turning radius suffer as he went back to fly towards Findlay again. Skimming along the cloud deck, Joey was amazed at just the high cruising speed. Unlike the deep, mesmerizing drone of a piston engine, the jet hummed along, the cockpit filled with a muffled screech of the Tumansky spooled up inside the fuselage.

Returning over Findlay, Joey swept the wings fully back. They folded back to lie perfectly with the wing root angle, the wings almost parallel with the stabilizers. At this angle, the jet's lift was halved, and Joey could feel its handling degrade at slower speeds. He built speed back up after exiting the turn and found that its roll rate was increased. It was sharp as a knife flying at high speed with its wings fully back.

"It's a docile jet." Joey admitted.

"I'll say, it's more tame compared to the Fishbed." Rob acknowledged. "Deltas are not for the faint of heart."

"My only ding to this jet...is the view out is a bit poor..."

"If you think the front is bad...trying flying from the rear cockpit. I got this little porthole to see out, and that's about it~" chuckled Rob.

"Hey, let's try the afterburner!" Joey suggested.

"Heh, if you want."

Checking his speed, Joey gripped the throttle and opened it up all the way, engaging the afterburner. A cocky grin turned to a look of surprise when he felt the afterburner light up; Joey was pressed into the ejection seat as the jet rocketed away over the countryside. The Doberman watched the speed leap, and the fuel gauge drop as the Tumansky roared. In mere seconds, the aircraft roared past 500 MPH, the wind noise against the windshield beginning to grow louder. It had an ominous growl to it as condensation began to build up.

"Nearing transonic! Speed brakes!" Rob called as he pulled the throttle back and deployed the speed brakes. The Flogger buffeted and began bleeding speed off. Joey was stunned with shock, unaware of what Rob was doing as the MiG slowed down. Rob momentarily took control.

"Hey you freeze up, up there?"

Joey blinked and shook his head. "Yeah...I guess I did... wowzers..."

"Yeah, that afterburner is awesome isn't it?"

"Wow..." Joey muttered into his microphone. "That was a 'V-TEC just kicked in yo' moment~"

"Yeah, you gotta get used to it." Rob concluded.

Joey brought the Flogger back to Newark-Heath, where he circled around in preparation for landing. The wings were un-swept, speed brakes deployed, and the flaps and gear dropped. The Flogger descended in for a textbook touchdown on the centerline. The drab 'chute was deployed and unfolded, the orange and white cruciform parachute helping to bleed off further speed down the small runway of Newark-Heath.

Returning back to the tarmac, Joey spotted Vlado and Pablo standing in wait. Vlado held a fire hose in his grip that was connected to a nearby hydrant, which puzzled the dog.

"Hey, what's the hose for?"

"So the brakes don't melt~" chuckled Rob.

"Oh boy..."

The MiG-23 turned and parked in front of Rob's hangar. Vlado opened the nozzle up and sprayed water on the main gear, which immediately flashed to steam with an audible hiss. The screeching turbojet was powered off and the canopy panels were opened up just as the plane was chocked.

Pablo secured the access ladders to the front and rear cockpits for Joey and Rob.

"Hey-o, how'd your flight go?"

"It was fast~" Joey smiled with a sarcastic wit.

"Heh!" chuckled the Mexican Dober as he helped Joey out and down. The Doberman returned to the tarmac and walked around the entire plane, looking for anything abnormal with Rob. He found the jet looking ship shape as steam wavered from the brakes.

---

The muffled noise of the turbojet mixed with the hum of electronics and the rush of oxygen through the mask. Clad in his flight suit, Joey flew solo, his first time to Florida aboard "Yellow 49", a MiG-23MLD. The ghost gray Flogger-K flew alone at eighteen thousand feet, over North Carolina, enroute to Opa Locka. The speedometer read 425kts; he was cruising at almost five hundred miles per hour. The swings were swept fully back, and the autopilot guided him towards Florida.

Joey glanced around at the steel blue sky all around him. The sun brilliantly glared above him. He was borrowing Rob's Flogger-K; it was one of five MiG-23's he owned in his museum. The jet was painted in its original military colors of the Soviet V-PVO, the air defense branch of the Soviet military. "Yellow 49" was the jet that Alexei Tokarev defected in, flying it to West Germany in 1983. It was given back to the Soviets, where Rob found it three decades later, lying derelict in central Ukraine. He brought it back to the States and made it airworthy again, as a memento to his best friend's father.

At eighteen thousand feet, turbulence was minimal. The air was thin, and he flew all above the weather fronts. Joey was impressed by the speed a jet warbird offered him; he was an hour into his flight and almost halfway to Opa Locka. But that was the only benefit he had; the glaring nags he found during flight training with the Flogger continued. Sure, it had speed, but Joey was annoyed by the limited view he had outside of the canopy. How Rob, Felix, and the others loved the jet baffled him; they all spoke glowingly of it, including the MiG-21. But Joey was not only annoyed, but concerned about running into something because of the blind spots in his view. He was certainly flying at a speed where any mistake could be instantly fatal.

An hour and a half later, Joey made it to Opa Locka. Upon arrival, he was met by Kurt and his father Lloyd, always casually dressed for the Florida warmth, armed with a hose and a bucket of water. They doused the brakes in water and helped him out to whisk him inside their office for a discussion with the NTSB, over the Fairchild shoot down incident.

The meeting lasted for an hour, with representatives from the FAA, the NTSB, and even an agent from the CIA. They gave Freightmaster an update on the incident, with further information from Havana, over the "accidental case of misidentification". Halfway through their meeting, they were interrupted by the arrival of one of their DC-7BF's, having come straight from Havana. Their crew reported being harassed and buzzed multiple times by Cuban jets, with a near midair collision from one dangerously close pass. The group conclusion by Freightmaster was simple and unanimous; end all business and cargo operations from Cuba. Immediately.

Concluding their meeting, Joey, and Kurt stepped out onto the sunny tarmac to watch "Challenger" arrive. Felix Barion's L-749, the short-fuselage Constellation taxied in on its inboard radials, carrying Felix and his friends to shoot the service announcement video Joey had requested. He had beat them by three hours to Opa Locka.

"Didn't we take off at the same time?" teased a grinning Felix as the fawn furred Doberman lugged his video camera case along.

"Funny how that works out huh?" grinned Joey in return.

Heading back into the office, it was a mini production as Kurt's office was turned into the set, with lighting rigged up, and sound ready. Felix worked to secure his old tube camera, an early eighties Ikegami 79DA, to the tripod. It sported a large microphone that had a yellow foam cover on it, strapped to the side of the carry handle.

"You go from creating airlines to creating videos~" chuckled Kurt as he sat at his desk under the bright glaring spotlights.

"I'm multi-talented." Chuckled the young Dober.

"Just taking a break from flying?"

"Kinda, yeah." Admitted Felix as he got his camera ready.

The video was short, sweet, and to the point. Shot in two takes and recorded to a Hitachi one-inch open reel deck, it concluded Freightmaster's Cuba operations, citing the shoot down incident as the primary reason, along with the legal and liability issues dealing with the authorities in Havana. It was effective immediately.

Packing up, Joey followed Felix and the others back to the tarmac where their aircraft sat. The Flogger looked rather imposing next to the docile, curvaceous Connie.

"Soooo, Whacha think of her?" Felix asked as he stood gazing at the slab-sided Flogger.

"Well...she's fast...but eh~" Joey shrugged.

"Not really your thing?"

"Nah. I'll be honest." Joey shook his head. "I'm not really digging the restricted view I get- especially on my six. I'm pretty much blind past three and nine o'clock."

"Yeah, that's my only ding. But it's a fast, stable jet. I like flying the Flogger. It's more forgiving than the Fishbed, that's for sure." Felix nodded. "It's got better acceleration than an early F-16, and is far easier to maintain than the Flanker."

"It's not bad, but it doesn't tickle my fancy." Joey admitted.

"When you find the right bird, you'll know it!" Felix added as he smacked the nose gear to the jet jokingly.

"Heh, I'll keep that in mind." Joey smiled. "Well...I'll see you folks back in Newark."

"Yeah...in three hours." Felix laughed. "Speed demon~"

---

The runway came fast for Joey, his nerves on edge as he kept the centerline in focus. Strapped into the front cockpit of a Mirage IIIB, the delta-wing interceptor descended in for landing, cruising at 200MPH for touchdown. In the rear cockpit was Joey's friend Mark Prince, a black wolf clad in his flight suit. His suit and helmet was black, as was his two-seater, appropriately named "The Dark Prince II". It was Joey's second try in getting a feel for flying a delta-wing jet warbird. The Doberman looked tense behind his oxygen mask and goggles; he was not liking the high landing speed.

Newark-Heath looked small in the distance; the runway was a small vertical rectangle, and the museum's two massive hangars stood to the right. The 4,800 foot runway was all Joey had to stop his barreling in Mirage.

"Boy, this is coming in real fast..." Joey mentioned.

"That's normal for deltas. You're doing great." Mark responded with a compliment. "Just keep her nice and straight. And when you get touchdown...brakes and parachute!"

"Duly noted."

Breathing slowly, Joey concentrated for landing. Following instruction, he began to pull the nose up for landing as the runway threshold came up. The delta needed a high angle of attack for landing, which obscured his view. He got a jolt and a screech of the tires against the pavement, which signaled touchdown. Immediately, he put on the brakes and deployed the brake parachute, all the while, the jet roared down the runway, bleeding off speed.

"The Dark Prince II" took every inch of runway to stop. Coming to a stop nearly at the end of the runway, Joey turned off the last access for the service road. The parachute dragged behind as Joey taxied back to the museum's tarmac. He was greeted by Mark's husband Tanner Rodriguez on the tarmac. In the far corner, Joey spotted his nephew helping to get a two-seat Mustang ready with their friend Bob Woodward, a sixty-seven year old retired test pilot, a gray wolf who hailed from Luxembourg.

Joey turned and parked the jet at the other end, where Tanner chocked the wheels. The Atar turbojet was powered down, and the access ladder propped up for them to disembark with. The canopy opened as one piece and lifted up by hydraulic rams. Mark casually climbed out, but had to stop and help a nervous Joey out; he sat frozen in the cockpit, and had to be lifted out.

Tanner nudged Joey as his boots made it to the ground. "How'd you like the Mirage?"

"Well...it's less terrifying than the Fishbed...but not by much. I really don't like the idea of stopping literally at the end of the runway..."

"Oh, you just get used to it~" chuckled the beige and tan wolf.

"Yeah..." Joey laughed morbidly.

Fetching his flight report from Mark, Joey went to turn the paperwork at the airport terminal. It was a small brick square, housing the offices of the airport director that Rob had put in place. He stepped inside to drop off his folder into the properly labeled tray on Stanley's office door. It was paperwork for his test flight on the Mirage. Joey felt slightly embarrassed about it; he was not fond of the takeoff, or landing.

The Mirage III was a tricky jet to take off and land at Newark-Heath with its short runway. The delta wing required a lot of speed to generate lift, and the jet ate up almost all the runway to take off, even when lightened up in its civil life. Joey found that it was stable in the air, especially at high speeds, but landing was just as bad as his attempt at flying the MiG-21. Joey was not fond of the high landing speeds, which required the entire length of Newark-Heath to stop. The Mongol-B was worse off because its armored windscreen and gyro gunsight obstructed his view forward even more. His attempt at test flying Rob's MiG-21US resulted in a blown tire on landing, which almost resulted in a loss of control. The brake system and rim got damaged in the process. The Mongol was down on range, which was the opposite of what he wanted for his Ohio to Florida runs. The dog concluded that delta wings just weren't viable for him.

As he walked, Joey spotted Geert rumbling up in a golf cart. He was returning back to his personal hangar. He slowed up to meet with Joey.

"Hey Joey! How was your test flight in the Mirage? What did you think?"

"Oh...fast." He awkwardly smiled. "I don't really think I like delta wings."

"They're not for everyone." Geert chuckled. "You need a lift back to the hangar?"

"Sure, I guess."

Joey sat down beside Geert in his golf cart, as they rolled across the airfield, back to Rob's larger hangar, where Joey's truck sat at.

"The delta wing is great for everything but low speed." Geert recalled. "I like em, but I've been flying fast for a very long time. With a F-104 mind you!"

"I haven't found a jet warbird yet that I really like!" Joey exclaimed.

"Hmm...have you ever tried looking into the F-86?"

"Oh yeah?"

Geert took Joey to his own personal hangar, which looked like Rob and Felix's; a white hangar that looked like an oversized Quonset hut. Above the hangar doors read "Starfighters LLC", which was the name of Geert's side project in restoring old aircraft with his children. Following Geert, Joey followed the Dutch collie through a side door where he flipped on the lights.

Joey was greeted by a view of Geert's own aircraft collection. The centerpiece of his hangar was his Fiat built F-104S, depicted in the markings of his own Starfighter during his time in the Dutch Air Force. He owned three Spitfires- two Griffon powered models with the distinct five-blade prop, and a silver doped Mark Sixteen, the mount of his late father. On the other side of his hangar sat three F-86 Sabres; a Canadair built Sabre, in RAF camouflage and markings, and two radar-nose F-86's. Geert had a Greek marked F-86K, and a natural metal USAF F-86D.

"The Sabre is a very interesting jet." Geert explained as he walked over. "The Sabre Dog is a transonic jet- it doesn't fly as fast as a Mirage, but it's got speed, and range with drop tanks. The Sabre can be a bit unforgiving in stalls and spins, if you don't respect its swept wings...but it's like flying your Corsair in regards to its spins and stalls...but you've mastered that well."

Joey walked down the row and examined Geert's F-86's. They once belonged to Geert's late son, Maarten, who died in 2013 when his F-86 exploded into the ground after an engine fire at the Dayton Air Show. Geert reflected on the Greek marked machine, which he mentioned was his son's final project when he was killed. Geert finished it and test flew it, but grounded the plane in remembrance for his son. The Collie walked over to show Joey the natural metal "D" model. It was natural metal, with a polished black radome and a rounded, half oval air intake beneath the radome. Liberal applications of dayglo orange was applied to the tail, wings, and nose.

"This Sabre Dog was built in 1954, and flew with the US Air Force and then given to Denmark in the sixties. Maarten got the airframe in 2004, and he was slowly restoring it with his friends when he died." Geert recalled. A melancholy look was expressed on his face. His tone sounded sad. "I finished the plane and got it flying. She flies great. I think Maarten would be proud to see another creation of his fly."

"I see." Joey nodded.

"I'll tell you what...why don't you take it up for a spin?" Geert offered. "If you like the Sabre...I'll sell it to ya for a decent price."

"Really?" Joey asked. "Just take it up?"

"Yeah~" the collie nodded. "I think she needs to fly...and I think it would serve you well, Joey."

"Well...okay then!"

---

Taking up Geert's offer, Joey made a test flight schedule for the following Saturday.

Under the bright morning sunshine, Joey watched as "FU-178" was rolled out from Geert's hangar. Aided by Rob's pickup truck, the Sabre was towed out into the bright morning light. Its fluorescent orange paint glowed uniquely in the amber rays. Rob unshackled his truck from its nose wheel and pulled away, leaving the plane chocked on the tarmac. Having memorized the flight manuals that Geert provided him, Joey felt confident- a nervous confidence, that would handle the Sabre flawlessly.

The Doberman was dressed in a dark gray flight suit, with a parachute strapped to his back, and a white US style flight helmet, complete with oxygen mask and amber tinted goggles.

"You ready for this?" asked his husband, as Rob approached.

"As ready as I'll ever be." Joey nodded.

"Just take it slow, as always." Was Rob's suggestion.

"Sure~" Joey smiled.

"Break a leg!" Rob sarcastically quipped.

"Thanks~"

Geert helped Joey into the cockpit of the Sabre Dog. The bubble canopy was held up rather than slid back like other Sabre's. Joey climbed in and strapped himself in on the ejection seat. Looking ahead, the Sabre's instrument panel was cluttered with analog gauges, but they were better laid out, and not surrounded by a weird blue color like their Soviet counterparts. The middle of the instrument panel was dominated by a radar scope; there was no gyro gunsight to obstruct his view forward.

"You feel good, Joey?" Geert asked as he made some last second checks over the Doberman.

"Yeah! Yeah, I feel good." Joey nodded in agreement. "I like this cockpit quite a bit."

"Well good. You treat this plane well...she'll treat you well too." Geert smiled. "She's fueled up, and you're ready to go!"

Retreating away, everyone stood back as Joey was left to get his flight started. Closing the canopy had the whir of components as the canopy sealed around him. Electronics hummed as gauges and indicators came to life for him. Following the checklist, Joey went through the procedures and reached to start the J-47 turbojet. Like all the other engines, it spooled up with a deep drone that grew higher pitched as the rotational energy increased. Joey monitored the engine warming up as it idled at low power.

Geert and Rob pulled the chocks away at Joey's signal. They backed away, and watched as Joey motioned that he was going to begin taxiing. Releasing the brakes, he began to slowly roll, pushed along by his turbojet. The Sabre turned to follow the service road towards the runway. In the slow crawl, Joey wanted to get a feel of the aircraft on the ground. He appreciated the increased view the bubble canopy gave him, and by pushing his feet into the rudder pedals, he could turn the nose wheel. He turned to park on the runway threshold, to allow himself a moment to check over his gauges one final time. His left paw gripped the throttle.

"Sabre, N7543, ready for takeoff. Over."

"N7543, this is the tower. Cleared for takeoff."

Joey took a deep breath and shoved the throttle forward. The engine immediately spooled up followed a few seconds later by the afterburner engaging. The dog felt the "whoosh" of the afterburner ignite as it pushed him into his seat. The Sabre began to rapidly gain speed as it rolled down the runway. At five thousand pounds of thrust, it was a far cry from the MiG-23 and its Tumansky turbojet. Yellow flames spat from the jet pipe, like the exhaust plume of a rocket.

Tugging the stick back, the nose slowly lifted for Joey. He was very mindful of the dangerous fault the Sabre possessed; over-rotation. If the nose was pulled up too soon, it would never get airborne, and just run off the runway and crash. Joey checked his speed over and continued pulling the nose up, the jet leaping from the ground and climbing away with the ripping roar of the afterburner. He crossed over Hebron Road, and the Lowe's store in his climb out, giving people on the ground a spectacular view.

Engaging cruise power, Joey slowly corkscrewed up over Newark and Heath to a safe altitude to test out the plane. He turned his head around on a swivel; he was delighted to have a wraparound view with the bubble canopy. The swept wings felt stable in the air. They sported two drop tanks shackled to them. Joey felt they were going to be a permanent fixture to the wings. Turning the stick, he rolled the plane through a barrel roll. The drop tanks degraded the roll somewhat, but he liked the response. Putting the nose down, he built up speed and pulled the stick back to begin a loop, which he liked the feeling of controls as the Sabre rushed over the apex and back down. It felt crisp and responsive to his input. He repeated the moves a few times, including a curious test of how the aircraft handled a stall. Like many others, it gave a hesitating shake approaching its stalling speed. Joey pushed the nose down and increased more speed, before turning around to head back towards Newark.

On his flight back towards town, he spotted in the distance the distinctive shape of two Corsairs flying in formation, heading in the direction for the airport. Joey approached and saw that it was Ivo Horvat and his boyfriend Jordan Hoover, enjoying a Saturday morning cruise in the sky.

Forming up to the right, Joey adjusted his speed brakes and held their cruising speed. The Sabre had noticeably better low speed handling than the other jets.

"Well what a surprise!" came Jordan's Kansas drawl over the radio. "Welcome Joey!"

"Hey!" radioed Ivo. "How's that new mount working out for you?"

"It's a real treat to fly...I love this Sabre Dog..." Joey exclaimed.

"And you didn't die on takeoff! Congratulations!" laughed Ivo.

"Heh, thanks Ivo. I'm super flattered~" Joey sarcastically fired off.

Returning to the airport with the two Corsairs, the trio paired off in the landing pattern for the runway. Allowing Joey to come in first, the Sabre descended in with everything down. Joey had no problems flaring the F-86 and touching down for a smooth rollout. His first test flight in the Sabre was flawless.

Taxiing back to Geert's hangar, Joey looked jubilant under the canopy as he turned and parked. He powered down the jet engine and the tires were chocked by Geert. The Collie jumped up onto the wing and watched as the canopy popped open.

"How'd you like it?" Geert asked.

"I loved it~" Joey grinned. "I'll buy her."

"I think we can work out a deal~" chuckled the Collie as he shook Joey's paw.

---

Rushing through the hangar door, Joey ran as if he was scrambled for an intercept. Boots scraped along the pavement as the Doberman rushed to his awaiting Sabre, having got the call to come down to Opa Locka urgently. Dressed in his new flight suit, he jumped onto the wing of "Jet-A", the new name to his orange and silver F-86D. Vlado and his son Tito helped get Joey strapped into the cockpit and briefed.

"Alright! I'll see you all in the afternoon." Joey waved off as the two Croats jumped down to retreat back to safety. The dog reached down and turned over the J47, which spooled up with its growing whistle. As he waited for the engine to come online, he turned his head over to spot his Corsair sitting on the tarmac with its wings folded up. "The Ohioan" was prepped in the event that the Sabre was out of commission for something. It's red and white cowl added color to the tarmac, but yet it looked forlorn without Joey.

"Another day~" Joey thought to himself as he closed the canopy up. He released the brakes and began to taxi for the runway. He had a two hour flight to Florida ahead of him. "Jet-A" wasted no time in getting airborne. Trailing a yellow afterburner plume, the Sabre roared into the air, to begin its journey towards Florida. He climbed to altitude, checked his oxygen mask over, and set the autopilot for the journey south, to Opa Locka. At fifteen thousand feet, the air was thin, and the turbulence minimal.

Glancing around the cockpit, Joey gave the canopy a pat for good luck; he had "Jet-A" for just over a week. He bought it from Geert for half a million dollars, and it came with two spare engines and a host of spare parts. "FU-178" was now part of his fledgling little collection; made up of a P-47D, FG-1D, and now the F-86D. The Doberman was confident that he finally found the jet he loved. And not at a moment too soon.

Joey was flying back to Opa Locka, having gotten the call that representatives from Havana were wanting to negotiate with Freightmaster once again. There were talks about financial compensation over the shoot down incident, and better incentives from Havana for more autonomy with Freightmaster's operations in Cuba. It had been a month since their suspension of operations, and Kurt and Lloyd were interested, and they wanted Joey involved in negotiations too, as with the flight crew that was shot down. It was too good to pass up.

"Onward Jet-A!" Joey called with a laugh as he continued on his journey. He left behind Ohio and crossed over West Virginia and its Appalachians, which drifted below, flying high on the silver wings of his Sabre mount.