The Ghost of Flight 666

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Air Force test pilot Jeremiah Slade hated his given name. Most people just called him Slade, but not Jay or Jerry, and never Jeremiah. Rather like the Johnny Cash ballad, Slade grew up not only hating the name but developing a cold, impenetrable exterior to deal with the ridicule.

That armor never left him.

Today was no different. As Slade left his squadron operations building at Edwards Air Force Base to conduct a high level test mission, his test engineer, a DARPA guy who was good but chatty, needled him. “Lots of Congressmen and Senators watching today’s test flight Jerry — you nervous?”

Slade didn’t answer as they stepped out of the air conditioned building into the blast furnace heat of the flight line. The tarmac shimmered. The smell of jet fuel, exhaust and asphalt was stifling. Neither the heat nor the test engineer appeared to bother Slade. Topping six feet, at an athletic two hundred and ten pounds, Slade walked with an easy, almost panther-like stride. As a rule he was serious. His most demonstrative action was to brush back the lone forelock of his dark hair from his lean, gunfighter face with its piercing eyes.

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