I’m the son of a senator, Senator Bill Young of Georgia. I won’t lie, I had it easy. Growing up, I mean. Well, everything: schools, friends, money, girls, a kickass dad with some really scary friends. I’ve taken the easy road through life, but now I’m here, standing in an office wearing a crisp uniform and saluting. With my hand, I mean. And at an officer, not a high school cheerleader. That other thing in the hotel room the Atlanta Herald made up. Anyway, and so I’m doing that and he says to me:

“Congratulations, pilot. Welcome to the Air Force.”

This is my story.

Soon, I’m outta the office and on my way to Ramstein Air Base, fighter central for the European continent. As we take off from Randolph, I plaster my hands against the window and smear my nose on the glass in one last look at what I called home for training. I’ll miss the place like hell. I can only hope that Ramstein has a ping-pong table too.

As the Hercules’ tyres skids on the runway tarmac and we come to a standstill, I heave my duffel over my shoulder and swagger down the ramp and into Europe, my suitcase’s small wheels bouncing down the loading ramp. As I pass by the hangars, I hear the sound of socket wrenches furiously twisting, the reckless clanging of steel, the ding of hammers and the shrill buzz of drills. I ignore all that: the clean-cut chisel-jawed guys in flight suits, cigarettes dangling from their mouths; the pairs of legs on creepers protruding from under machinery waiting for strangers to walk up so they can ask them for a tool; the hot blonde intelligence officers and shrinks teasing around in their heels and skirts pretending to be professional; I head straight for the dorms, leaving the potential for character development to the other greenhorns. I’m a pilot.

I drop off my luggage, and as I’m checking the welcome basket a siren starts to wail, and an authoritative voice on a loudspeaker tells me to haul ass to the briefing room, on the double. I burst out of the dorm and head with great purpose down the hall, darting past doorways and skidding round corners until I find a suitable visitor’s map on a wall. Now, with sketchy knowledge on where I should be heading, I jog at a more even pace in what I think is the right direction until I reach a smoky room with drawn blinds and a lot of guys with sharp hairdos and cocky stares sitting at desks in front of a projector. I settle down and glance at the image in front.

Boy, talk about trying to scare the new guys. Pranksters.

As the serious-looking colonel next to the picture explains the situation, an intercom crackles.

“Sir, we’ve got incoming MiGs!”

The colonel swivels back to the assembly and barks. Men jump out of their chairs, sending them clattering. These guys are really jumpy, no doubt. I slide out from under my desk and follow my peers to get suited up, and then to the runway, where several of the Air Force’s latest $100m tin can, the F-29 Retaliator, are already being prepared.

I lower myself into a cockpit and wave away the attendant trying to strap me in. Flicking switches, I adjust my rear-view mirror.

Looking pretty good… wait a minute. WAIT A MINUTE.

Is that a MiG?! HOLY SHIT. They could have said they were being serious! Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, okay, okay. Get this thing in the air and fly around a bit looking mean and let someone else get shot down. Dad wouldn’t let you die.

In case I hadn’t got the message, an instrument begins to beep alarmingly and flash ‘SCRAMBLE’ repeatedly. Blink. I suddenly feel alive. I act with professionalism, thrust the canopy shut and look dead ahead down the runway and past the control tower, into the horizon.

“Let’s roll!” I cry, jamming the throttle wide open.