Yesterday was my last day in Mountain Home, and my last flight was a kick. The Marines were fighting a low altitude war, and your humble was right there among and amidst. Started off in company with a two-ship of Singaporean F-15 Strike Eagles, flew through the merge as the smallest and only third generation aircraft among four fiercely maneuvering fourth generation strike fighters and eased my way out of the arena for to set up for their off-target run. Zorching around so low that our ground controller was unable to provide any, you know: Control. My aircraft being below his radar horizon. Somehow managed to blunder into a merge with a solo FA-18D off target, passed him head on and right-to-right close aboard, briefly considered the wisdom of a turn to engage at 500 feet (or so) from a neutral pass, wisely – I think – forewent that opportunity. Accepting a neutral start in the Kfir nothing but an opportunity to prolong an agony. There was a valid reason why Vietnam era fighters and attack jets were advised to check six off target, for that is where the savvy bandit prefers to attack from, if they hope to one day cash retirement checks.
Bugged out for Boise after, joining occasional reader Idaho Joe for dinner and an adult beverage (or two) at a restaurant he recommended. Met his lovely wife, had a charming conversation with the pair of them, dined gladly (thanks again, Joe!) and am today set to travel to Pensacola.
I haven’t seen Son Number One for months, the Hobbit for weeks, and doings around these parts may be rather more noticeable by their absence than otherwise.
You are invited and encouraged to talk amongst yourselves.