Barnstormer looked off to both left and right as he climbed ever higher on the power of his wing muscles. He was far above the gentle sprawl of countryside surrounding Ponyville, yet still low enough that he could make out the tiny dots of the Apple family working their farm in the early afternoon sun. He smiled as the thought of them reminded him that there was a fresh batch of cider waiting for him at The Watering Hole when he returned, then turned his attention back to his race skyward. He loved the look of the land from on high, the gentle curve of the earth, seeing just where everything really was in relation to everything else; he loved the wind whipping through his gold and black mane and the light gray of his hair coat. And he loved, more than anything, the feeling of facing an opponent in combat, razor-sharp skills meeting each other in a lethal contest for the open sky.
For though I fly through the Valley of Death, I shall fear no Evil, for I am at seventy thousand feet and climbing! Barnstormer was reminded of his favorite maxim, the one displayed as a plaque over the hangars of the old SR-71 testing grounds; one he took to heart, and quite thoroughly encapsulated his feelings on being in the air. Though he couldn't fly anywhere near that high alone, not unless he was behind the stick of his beloved F/A-18, he had gone higher using just his own wingpower than ever before. The Apple farm had shrunk considerably, and it's caretakers had long since vanished from view. As he started to tire, mostly due to the thinning of the atmosphere than any real overexertion, he let gravity slow his ascent until he was flat on his back, floating for the briefest of moments in weightlessness, exalting in the feeling of hanging between heavens and earth...and then he flipped himself head over heels until he was pointed straight down, flapping his wings harder than he ever, gaining as much speed as possible.
As the terrain hurtled towards him, growing larger in his view at a terrifying rate, Barnstormer angled his wings such that he entered a corkscrew maneuver, struggling against the battering winds to maintain his downward plunge. Just before he reached the point of no return, the moment where he would have to pull out of the dive in order to not leave a pony-sized crater in the landscape outside Ponyville, he felt a thud, as if lightning had struck nearby, an impact to the air that rattled his bones. Yet the sky was clear, the Pegasi had no rain scheduled for more than a week, which could only mean one thing-he had broken the sound barrier. He chanced a quick glance behind him to confirm what he already knew-and yes, there it was; the evidence of a Sonic Rainboom to make that Wonderbolts fanatic he had heard about, Rainbow Dash, jealous.
Turning his head back to the front, he realized even that quick glance was too long-the ground had gotten much closer than he had expected it to be. Splaying his wings and all four legs out to create as much drag as possible to slow himself, he pulled out of the now seemingly suicidal dive with no room to spare-he could feel blades of grass scraping his stomach as he blew by the orchards he had seen from miles above just seconds before, almost faster than could be tracked by a pony's eye. Keeping his altitude steady, he corkscrewed a few times more, then slowed and pulled up to a more reasonable height. Stopping to hover, he looked behind him-unmowed grass in the pastures besides the apple orchards was blown over in a wide, straight line for several miles along the trajectory he had been flying. He laughed to himself at the sight he imagined he must have given Applejack and her relatives during his acrobatics, and at coming so close to being pony-paste on the ground.
Landing, Barnstormer brushed aside a lock of his mane that had come loose from the ponytail he kept it in with a hoof, and started to make his way over to the farm proper, to reassure his fellow ponies no harm had come to him. Sure enough, Applejack, Applebloom, and Big Mac burst out of the nearest stand of apple trees before he had made it halfway there.
“Lands sakes, yah sure did give us a fright!” Applejack exclaimed, reaching him first and seeing at the smile on Barnstormer's face that he was obviously fine. Thumping him lightly on the head with a hoof, she asked, “Just what exactly do yah think you were doing?”
“Um....flying?” Barnstormer replied with a smirk, to which Applejack rolled her eyes.
“Looked more like crashin' t'me,” she retorted.
“Yeah, yer lucky we didn't have to scrape you out of th' grass...though it looks like the grass might have to be scraped offa you there, friend,” Applebloom snickered, seeing the stain of green underneath Barnstormer's flanks.
“I...guess I did cut it a little close,” he admitted reluctantly, soliciting a traditional 'Eeeyup' from Big Mac, at which Barnstormer scowled playfully.
Starting back towards the farmhouse and motioning for Barnstormer to follow, Applejack asked, “So just where did yah learn t' fly like that, anyway?” The question caught him a little off guard-he tended to forget that he was still a relatively new arrival in Ponyville, and the ponies here hadn't grown up with him, knowing the ins and outs of his life.
“Well, I grew up flying crop dusters for the family ranch back in Appleloosa, and sometimes, when the work was done and I had time to kill, I'd just do some acrobatics for a while. When I realized how much I loved the adrenaline rush and pulling maneuvers like that, I joined up with a flying circus. Did that for a while until one day when I lost track of where I was in a performance and ventured into a no fly zone and ended up getting chased by a couple guys from the Equestrian Royal Air Force. I wound up pulling this insane move where I flew upside down through an open barn to get away from them, and one of the pilots chasing me happened to have some pull with the recruitment office, and saw that, tracked me down after, and made me an offer-spend an amount of time in jail wholly disproportionate to the crime...or fly for the ERAF. The choice was obvious, so I took the job and wound up moving here to be closer to headquarters in Canterlot. And that...is when I earned this,” Barnstormer said, turning so that the Apples could see the silhouetted F/A-18 that was his cutie mark.
Upon seeing his beloved markings, and noticing the pause when speaking of it, Applebloom's face contorted into an odd mixture of curiosity and pensiveness. Seeing that Applebloom's flank was bare, and the quick glances Applejack and Big Mac gave Applebloom, he added, “I was a very late bloomer-didn't get my cutie mark until I was nearly a full grown stallion.” Barnstormer didn't need to be told twice that the filly was self-conscious about the subject.
“Well, talk about yer lucky breaks,” Applejack said, eliciting another 'Eeeyup' from Big Mac, as she continued, “I imagine all that showing off just made yah right thirsty as a Parasprite's hungry. How about some fresh squeezed cider, on th' house?”
Finally reaching the homestead, Barnstormer nodded emphatically, grateful for the generosity and the chance to save a few bits-military pay was decent, but nothing outstanding, after all. He followed the family inside, already tasting the sweet, sweet cider and fully intending to enjoy every last drop.
***
Barnstormer settled into a chair at the kitchen table of the Apple's farmhouse as Applejack and Applebloom retrieved mugs and plates while Big Mac went to the cellar to procure a keg of the family's famous cider. A quizzical glance from him was ignored, or perhaps simply unnoticed, by the two sisters. Barnstormer's confusion grew when, after setting her burden on the table, Applejack turned to retrieve a platter of apple fritters while her sister took what he assumed was her usual place at the table and Big Mac returned from the cellar.
Setting the tray of sweets down, Applejack chuckled,“Yer lucky Granny Smith's not here or she'd thump ya right good for stealing her spot. She can be a bit particular 'bout manners 'n such.” Barnstormer couldn't hide a sheepish grin as Big Mac took his place at the table and promised to remember for the next time.
Needing to sate his curiosity, he asked, “I'd thought it was just a mug of cider,” raising an eyebrow towards the plate of cakes.
“'Taint nothin', sugarcube. We take care of our own here in Ponyville. Right, Apples?” looking towards her siblings, they each responded enthusiastically, Big Mac with the never changing 'Eeeyup' and a large smile, Applebloom with a simple beaming smile. “See?” the elder sister concluded.
“Well...alright then,” slightly uncomfortable with the familiarity of the endearment, he continued, “Can't say no to hospitality like that, can I?” He snorted amusedly, taking a fritter and letting his mug be filled to the brim with drink.
They made small talk for a time, grazing away at the snacks the family had brought out. Barnstormer couldn't help but notice the increasing number of poorly hidden glances at his cutie mark that Applebloom was making. One was so obvious that even her sister, sitting next to her, couldn't help but notice. Both sisters thought he missed the light kick under the table that Applejack tried to hide by scooting her chair closer to the table.
Attempting to change the subject slightly, if only to partially sate Applebloom's curiosity, Applejack asked, “Ah know a pegasus, a real good flier, just like you, but even as daring as she is Ah've never seen her try something like what you did. And she made it to the Wonderbolt Reserves! Ah think you're going have to explain to me...well...why?”
“Why be so reckless?” he inquired. At her nod, he continued, “Well, when you go through something that by all rights should have left you dead as a doornail, you tend to look at life a bit differently.” At everypony's alarmed and confused looks, he finished, “Same story as how I got my cutie mark.”
Hearing that revelation, Applebloom's face went slack, expressing nothing. Barnstormer would have sworn that had she been alone at the table she would have flipped it end over end. Finally unable to contain a short laugh and momentarily enjoying jerking the farmers around, he reassured the filly, “I don't mind. If you want to know, all you have to do is ask.” Cutting Applejack's protest short, he added “Really. I love telling the story. No one ever believes it at first.” Seeing the mischievous glee in Barnstormer's eyes, she acquiesced.
Turning to face Applebloom again, he started “Alright, so what do you-”
He was cut short by the youngster's oubturst of “It's so unique I've never seen a cutie mark like that before how old were ya when ya got it what kind of plane is that how did ya get it and why is it that kind of plane specifically are ya the best at flying that kind or is it something else and why won't we believe how ya got it and how did you almost die oh yeah and why were ya such a late bloomer that parts important I need to know tell me tell me tell me,” each word coming out faster and louder and running into each other until the thunderstruck pegasus could hardly keep track of all the questions.
Before he could reply, Applejack apologized, “Sorry about that, our Applebloom is just a might bit obsessed with getting her own cutie mark. The shenanigans she and her friends get up to sometimes, let me tell you...” Though her tone was less than pleased, Barnstormer noticed the fondness in the look directed at the filly.
“I am not obsessed,” Applebloom protested, crossing her arms and affecting an air of grumpiness.
The hell you're not, Barnstormer thought. But, everyone's obsessed with something. Cutie marks alone are evidence enough of that, he laughed to himself. Settling more comfortably into his chair, he said aloud, “No worries, as I said, it's a story I love telling. Sometimes I don't even believe it myself.”
Scooting closer to the table and settling in for the telling, the Apples listened as Barnstormer started, “Well, it was on the day of my final carrier qualifications-that's a practical exam they have, see, we have to land on the carrier in all these different weather conditions...”
***
“Tower, Mercury 2-2 requesting taxi and takeoff clearance,” Barnstormer said into his helmet mic from the seat of his F/A-18 Hornet, currently holding position on one of the port-side deck elevators of the ERS Luna. Today was a big day for him, the last day of his carrier qualifications, the final test in his role as second plane of the second flight in the Mercury training group before earning his wings and being admitted into the Equestrian Royal Air Force. The sky was mostly clear, winds were negligible, and Barnstormer was feeling extremely confident about his odds, given that the other two portions of the test took place in bad weather and nighttime conditions, both respectively and together-and he had aced each of those.
“Mercury 2-2, ceiling is Angels six, visibility unlimited, currently no friendly traffic in sight. Cleared for takeoff on CAT-2,” the air traffic controller responded from the carriers operations tower.
“Roger, tower. Taxiing to CAT-2,” the pilot confirmed. His engines already having been started and left to idle while awaiting clearance, Barnstormer nudged the fighter's throttle forward slightly to give it a little momentum to approach the carrier's second launch catapult. As he slowly crawled across the gigantic ship's deck, he reached to flip the switch that would lower the plane's wings from their folded up storage positions, and turned on his landing lights.
As he reached the launching mechanism and halted his movement so the catapult officer could connect his aircraft to it, he lowered his flaps and moved the stick and rudder pedals to make sure all of the fighter's control surfaces were in good working order and wouldn't become stuck at a critical moment. Seeing that the catapult officer had moved out from beneath his plane, he returned the thumbs up the pony was giving him, and added a salute to signal the all clear and readiness to launch.
Returning his attention back to the fore, Barnstormer shoved the throttle to maximum afterburner and, letting the engines spool up for a few precious seconds, punched the button that would send a signal through the plane's electronics to the catapult, hurling him off the end of the carrier deck. He was immediately thrown back in his seat, the forces acting on him so strong it was all he could do to keep his hooves on the controls. And then suddenly, with a bone-jarring thud, he was clear, flying under his own power. He immediately pitched the nose up a few degrees to gain some life saving altitude, should something go wrong, and banked hard to the left, coming around in a one hundred and eighty degree turn so that he was now flying roughly parallel to the carrier's port side, but facing the direction that carrier was traveling away from. Raising his landing gear completely and his flaps two notches, he pulled the throttle back to maintain a gentle, level glide a few thousand feet above the endless ocean.
“Mercury 2-2, paddles contact, altimeter two-niner-niner-two, cleared for approach and landing” The tower radioed, letting him know that the carrier's automated landing system had recognized his aircraft and was tracking its flight path, and what to set the instruments displaying his altitude to to account for local barometric pressure.
“Roger, paddles contact, altimeter two-niner-niner two, state seventeen point three,”, Barnstormer confirmed, adding his current fuel levels. Excellent, he thought. Even smoother than I anticipated. The next few minutes were usually the easiest part of landing on an aircraft carrier, especially in such good weather. All that was required of a pilot at this point was to fly straight and level on his current course, until he had flown far enough out to make a wide sweeping turn that would align himself with the angled landing deck of the floating behemoth.
Even though speeds were relatively slow, compared to what a fighter like the one Barnstormer was flying could really do, that point was upon him before he knew it, and accordingly he banked once again to the left, lowering his landing gear and flaps once more. The carrier was still littler more than a distant dot in the expanse of deep blue, but Barnstormer knew that it would grow in his vision all too quickly. He was reminded of the analogy “like jumping on a postage stamp from a mile away”, and marveled at how apt it was. Though it had been smooth sailing thus far, the pilot knew just about anything could go wrong at any second-and that's why he loved his job.
Keeping the angle of attack indicator, the instrument that told a pilot where his plane was traveling in relation to it's true heading, squarely above the growing deck of the ship, so as not to fly too low and plow into the stern in an extraordinary fireball was habit for Barnstormer, even though it often put him at odds with the Landing Signal officer on duty. In simulations, he had had trouble keeping his plane high enough when he did as he was instructed and kept the AOA indicator where it should be, between the second and third arresting wires at the back of the deck. These wires ensnared a planes tailhook, and acted as a giant breaking mechanism to slow the planes incredible speed in an extremely short distance. So he compensated by raising the nose a few degrees until he was close enough that he could physically see the arresting cables and not rely solely on the LSO's radio instructions.
“Mercury 2-2, three quarters of a mile, call the ball,” the LSO radioed. “Calling the ball” as it stood in pilot jargon, meant that a pilot could now physically see the carrier's landing light guide, and was expected to report if he was off target. It was just one more safety feature to ensure every pilot made it back in one piece-they were a precious and highly skilled resource after all.
“Tower, Mercury 2-2, Hornet ball, on glideslope, state fifteen point nine,” he replied, letting the tower know all was as it should be. It was at this point a pilot had to be extra sharp; to anypony else almost a full mile was a long way off, but to a pilot it may as well have been an inch away. A mistake at this point could, at best, throw off a landing and require the pilot to come around for another pass, and at worst, be lethal; it was extremely difficult to correct a mistake at this stage. So far, though, everything had gone smoothly, and Barnstormer expected no troubles.
That is, until, an unexpected thermal, rare at sea, buffeted the plane. Under normal circumstances, high in the sky, a jolt like this one was minor, hardly worth noting. In the final stages of a carrier landing, this landing in particular, it served to lift the plane a few extra precious feet above the waves...and so close to aft end of the carrier, it threw everything into chaos.
Immediately, shouts of 'BOLTER BOLTER BOLTER' assaulted Barnstormer through the earpieces in his flight helmet, urging him to gain altitude and speed as quickly as possible to avoid crashing. Knowing what to do, and praying it worked and the unexpected updraft hadn't just cost him his life, he pushed the throttle past the safety stops and pulled up-but it was too late, he hadn't had enough initial speed to produce the required lift to pull the plane out of its now deathly descent. He sailed past the leading edge of the landing deck and out over open water, still descending despite his best efforts. He continued trying to push the throttle forward, risking snapping it in two, hoping to coax just that much more thrust from the engines, finally managing to slow his descent. He felt the aircraft shudder as the rear landing gear, which he hadn't had time to retract, dipped below the surface. Miraculously, the nose of the plane didn't immediately slam downward into the waves, and Barnstormer was astonished to notice he was actually gaining altitude, if ever so slightly, and gaining speed.
Frozen in shock, he was rattled from his reverie by the continued shouts from deck and tower crew. Having been lost from sight briefly, from their perspective, they had no idea if he was still alive.
“Tower, Mercury 2-2, I'm alright, I'm alright, gaining altitude and turning for another pass.” Keeping with his update to the tower, he banked left and pitched up, falling back into the traditional landing pattern. “Blasted thermal threw me off.”
“Mercury 2-2, copy that. Bit of a close one, there, you need a minute to shake it off?”
“Negative, tower, back in the saddle. Just want to land and grab some lunch,” Barnstormer replied, smirking to himself. The tower controller couldn't hide the mirth in his voice when he radioed to confirm.
Well, let's hope THAT never happens again... he thought as he continued on his flight path to a better landing.
Climbing down the ladder from the cockpit of his now safely landed F/A-18, he was surrounded by a small gaggle deck crew and landing officers. Pushing his way through the chaos, Barnstormer met his commanding officer, a pegasus by the name of Razor Wing. Motioning for Barnstormer to follow, Razor Wing left the throng behind and started across the deck, entering the operations tower and clopping briskly down the halls to his office.
Once inside, he faced Barnstormer across his ample desk, looking bemusedly into Barnstormer's face for any indication of undue stress.
Finally speaking, he asked, “You do realize, just how insanely, uncannily lucky you are, don't you, Airman?”
Standing at attention and staring at the wall above and behind his superior's head, he replied “Sir, I'd like to think some skill played a part. But yes, sir, I do realize how lucky I am.” Truth be told, though he wasn't rattled by the near death experience, he did acknowledge his survival was due far more in part to the gods of fortune than his own considerable skill.
Standing in silence for another moment, Razor continued, “We looked at the footage caught by the bow recorders. Care to guess why you aren't slowly sinking into the drink?”
Barnstormer honestly had no clue how he head managed to survive such a surely fatal mishap, so he answered with a simple “No, sir.”
“As near as we can tell, it was, quite simply, you reacted fast enough to give yourself enough speed, and thus enough lift, so that by the time your gear hit water, your descent had been mostly halted. The wheels grazed the surface-well, grazed might be putting it lightly-but the point is by the time they hit you had recovered enough to pull yourself out. A millisecond's more delay in throttling up and you'd be deader than a doornail. I'm not aware of anypony in the service that could have reacted fatser, and I've trained or flown with just about all of them. As such, you're being transferred to our best unit, the 181st Strike Fighter Group, upon graduation, which I'm making effective immediately. Congratulations,” he said, raising a hoof for a formal hoof bump.
“I...ah...th-thank you sir,” Barnstormer stammered, incredulous that a mistake, and one that nearly cost him his life, would be the thing to help him achieve his dream of being a part of the most prestigious squadron in the service.
“There's also that...” Razor added, looking pointedly at Barnstormer's bare flank.
Only it was no longer blank. Barnstormer blinked, disbelieving, at where once had just been a smooth grey coat was now the silhouetted three-quarters profile of his F/A-18, right where a cutie mark would be. Convinced that somehow the deck crew had managed to spray paint the image on his flank unnoticed in the short walk from his plane, he rubbed it with a hoof. But no paint smudged, the image remained as sharp and pristine, evidence that Barnstormer had at last, at such a late age, found his calling.
“Lucky thing that the 181st flies F/A-18's,” Razor chuckled, “or that would make for quite a bit of awkwardness. Now, if there's nothing else, get packed. You ship out at first light.”
Scarcely containing his elation, Barnstormer may as well have shouted the 'Yes, sir' he gave Razor Wing, and bolted out of the office and down the labyrinth of halls to his quarters to gather his things. This is going to be one amazing posting, he thought as he opened his cabin door, looking forward to flying with the most skilled ponies Equestria could offer.
