Sabrina
Copyright© 2026 by The Outsider
Chapter 31: Storm Front
05 March 2023 – Spangdahlem Air Base, Spangdahlem, West Germany
February is usually the coldest winter month in the Northern Hemisphere. February 2023 was no exception, especially for those interacting with Sabrina Marie Knox-Jones. A cold fury rolled off Sabrina during Arne Thorvoldson’s memorial service. The only person to receive warmth from Sabrina was Cheryl Thorvoldson, Arne’s widow. Friends at Spangdahlem marveled at Tom Jones’s ability to seemingly ignore his wife’s anger. Sabrina was curt, brittle, and withdrawn during the shortest month of the year, which ended abruptly tonight.
“Why is the living room couch made up like a bed?” Sabrina demanded when she returned from a patrol flight.
“That’s where you’re sleeping tonight,” Tom answered from the kitchen with his back to her. It was as if he’d punched her. “I gave you a month, Sabrina. The headquarters building’s flag is at full staff this morning, so it’s time to move on. I get that you can’t tell me everything. I know the ‘training accident’ line is bullshit, but I won’t ask you about it.
“Unf•©k yourself!” Tommy barked as he turned to face his wife. “You’re driving away every friend you’ve made here! You’re driving away the few people we hang out with when you’re off duty! Channel this anger! Use it! Don’t let it use you.”
Tom walked away and gently closed the bedroom door. Sabrina stared at the door for minutes before she turned for the couch.
’Again, the shit I don’t want to hear... ‘ she thought as she lay in the living room instead of her bedroom. ’But need to hear... ‘
Her thoughts kept her awake until well after midnight.
Tom woke her with a gentle kiss in the morning. Sabrina gave him a weak smile when she opened her eyes.
“Babe, I’m sorry,” he said as he knelt by the couch. “I didn’t mean for you to sleep out here. I only wanted you to think about how you’ve been acting.”
“That took until about two o’clock, and I fell asleep while thinking.” She stretched her neck with an audible <POP!> “It wasn’t good sleep, either.”
“It’s almost 6:30. Are you on flight duty today or ground?”
“Ground. As in: ‘I need to ground this attitude of mine... ‘“
Tom took her hand.
“Sabrina, I know there will be times when you can’t tell me the whole story about something duty-related. And times when you can’t tell me anything. Your reaction to an event still speaks volumes. Watch out for that. Not only because it impacts our marriage, but because it could impact your career.”
Sabrina squeezed Tom’s hand.
“Which is less important than we are.”
“Honor above all else, in all things. Don’t compromise one because of the other, Sabrina. I’m with you for life, regardless of how turbulent the ride.”
She didn’t deserve a husband like Tommy.
Sabrina walked into the 22nd TFS building a different person, or maybe the original person. A polite greeting for everyone, regardless of rank. Subtile direction instead of outright orders, when applicable and appropriate. Bringing down thunder when necessary. She reserved the thunder for training and patrol flights whenever possible. Sabrina was an absolute artist in the cockpit, precision personified. During training, she anticipated an opponent’s actions and was always ahead of them.
A patrol was another matter. Where an opponent in training became a colleague afterward, there was no quarter for those opponents on patrol. Sabrina skirted the limits of the rules of engagement but never broke them. She lit up Soviet, East German, or Czech fighters as soon as they crossed a line, talked trash in their language over Guard when they tried the same, and generally harassed them when able.
Sabrina’s flight helmet now bore the callsign ‘Raikou.’ It sported a version of Katsushika Hokusai’s Raijin painting – a red-skinned demon behind dark clouds. The helmet beast had long black hair and blue eyes, like Sabrina. She was ‘the Goddess of the Shitstorm.’ The other pilots loved it. Their commanders? Not so much.
Colonel Doherty couldn’t argue with Sabrina’s job performance. She was a damn fine mentor to pilots fresh from training, even after only a year of active service. Her paperwork was as exact as her flying. He never had to ask her flight lead about it because it was late. It never was. Doherty didn’t hesitate to name her training officer for the 22nd TFS.
Major Caleb Bryson called Sabrina into his office as he packed one day in August.
“Hey, Goddess. How was your brother’s wedding?”
Sabrina and Tom had flown to Hawaii for Anna and Alex’s wedding in early July. Frankfurt to New York, to Los Angeles, to Honolulu. And then back. A week was barely long enough, and the jet lag had been brutal. Sabrina also hated not being in control of the planes.
“Sir...”
“Christ, Sabrina, relax!” Tank snapped with a smile. “There’s no one else the rest of us appreciate seeing in our group more when we fly lead.” The smile grew when he saw her frown deepen. “Listen, I know you’re only a year in, but have you thought about what’s next for you?”
“Not really,” Sabrina shrugged. “Not yet, anyway. Overseas assignments are usually three years long, and I’ve only been here for one. I’ve got time.”
Tank tossed a printed sheet of paper across his desk. Sabrina glanced down.
“Tank, shouldn’t I concentrate on being a good squadron pilot before delusions of grandeur fill my head?”
“I think you’ve got the ‘good squadron pilot’ thing sewn up, Raikou.”
“I’ll think about it, Tank.” Sabrina waved at the two boxes of personal items. “When do you have to report to Langley?”
Tank would be the new operations officer for the 94th Tactical Fighter Squadron at Langley Air Force Base, Virginia, and a new lieutenant colonel.
“Zero-two October.”
“A little more than a month off. Not bad.”
“Darcy and I will take it. We can visit both sets of parents before I report.” Sabrina picked up the other box and followed Tank when he left with the first one in his hands. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Never know when I’ll need a favor.”
Tank put his personal items into the back seat of his car. Then, he turned to Sabrina and offered his hand.
“Thanks, Sabrina. Get ahold of me if you ever need anything. It’s been a pleasure serving with you.”
“Best of luck in Virginia, Sir.”
The pair exchanged salutes before separating. Tom noticed Sabrina’s distraction when she returned home.
“What’s up, Babe?”
“Tank Bryson suggested a possible career path to me as he packed up his office today.”
“A good path? One that gets you where you want to go?”
“I think it could.”
“So, what’s the path?”
“Air Force Test Pilot School.”
Tom whistled.
“Shades of ‘The Right Stuff!’ You gonna do it?”
“Maybe?” she said, looking conflicted. “I’ll have to think about it some more, and we’ll have to talk about it. That’d be a year in the middle of a desert for you. Most of the test squadrons are based on dry lake beds, too. Few green-and-lush bases like here. You might be staring at the sand for years.”
“Do I get to stare at you while I’m there?” Sabrina stared at him here. “Do I need to say it, Sabrina?”
“‘I knew what I signed up for... ‘“
“Exactly. Look, I went to school for accounting. I currently work in accounting. Plus, I get to tell people where I work in accounting. It’s cool to tell people I work at Spangdahlem Air Base in West Germany when I’m not even in the military!”
“You mean after they recover from hearing you’re an accountant?”
“Shaddap, kid.”
Sabrina continued to research Test Pilot School. Being accepted would be cool. Being chosen and sent on exchange to the Naval Test Pilot School at NAS Pax River, or even to the UK’s Empire Test Pilots’ School, would be phenomenal. But did she want to leave a line squadron? Or the possibility of serving in one for some time?
She put the test pilot school choice aside for another month and settled back into the line squadron routine. The end of summer and the start of autumn brought more joint NATO training missions. Sabrina caught up with many of her foreign ENJJPT classmates and some American classmates stationed in Europe.
Major Harrison Dawson replaced Caleb Bryson as Charlie Flight’s commander in mid-September. He was ... okay. Bryson was a more dynamic leader, more likely to jump in and help out if you asked, more apt to give you a task and let you sink or swim while completing it if you didn’t. He wasn’t going to stand over your shoulder and watch.
Harry Dawson, however, was a micromanager. He wanted frequent progress reports and exact completion dates. He gave you the Glare of Death if you forgot or missed something. Dawson even tried pushing a new callsign for Sabrina: ‘China Girl.’
“Never mind that my mother’s parents are Japanese, not Chinese,” Sabrina growled while she and others sat in a pub on base. “What movie was that when a character points out the difference?”
“No idea,” Zander Soto said around his drink. “Is it bad to say I’m glad I’ll be out of here in six months, though?”
Sabrina threw a pretzel at Zander while others did the same. The staff here would be pissed if they saw the mess.
“That’s a ‘yes,’ Zander,” Kian Wells added.
“Says ‘Mister Out-of-Here-in-Nine-Months’...” countered Walker Manning. Like Sabrina, Walker had close to two years remaining at Spangdahlem.
“Don’t worry, Sabrina, no one’s taking ‘Raikou’ away from you,” Griffin Hebert, a nine-month member of the 22nd, said. “Doherty will scalp Harry with a dull butter knife if he keeps pushing this.”
“‘This too shall pass... ‘“
“Your lips to God’s ears, girl.”
“Oh, shit...” groused Kian Wells.
“Grease?” Walker Manning asked before following Kian’s gaze.
A blank mask settled onto everyone’s face when they saw their flight commander.
“Dafuq is he doing here?” Zander Soto asked in a quiet hiss.
“A Fun Sponge that one is,” Sabrina added as they all tried to remain unseen.
A Fun Sponge either soaks up fun feelings to share them later or, like their approaching boss, removes them from the area permanently.
“Manning, what’s the update on the plan for our next training flight?” Dawson inquired when he walked up to their table.
“Same as I told you when I went off duty, Sir,” Walker replied. “Because I’m now off duty, Sir.”
“You should show more dedication to your job, Manning.”
“I do, Sir. When I’m on duty.”
It was a wonder the others at the table kept a straight face. A welcome voice came from the opposite side of the table.
“You should let your pilots enjoy their time off duty, Major,” Lieutenant Colonel Travers, the 22nd’s operations officer, said. He took a sip of his beer while staring at Dawson.
“Yes, Sir!” Dawson barked from attention. He turned on his heel and left.
“Let me or someone in the squadron office know if he does that again, lady and gentlemen,” Colonel Travers said. He nodded at them and turned away also.
“It’s gonna be a long two years,” Griffin Hebert said while rubbing his temples.
“How high’s the cloud deck supposed to be?” Griffin Hebert asked while looking up one October morning.
“That’s something the weather squadron will cover in the briefing, Griff,” Sabrina replied.
“Looks crappy.”
“It’ll probably fly crappy until we get above it. ‘All-weather air-superiority fighter,’ remember? We got this.”
“Did the maintenance squadron get the avionics upgrades finished?”
“Yessir. Gotta love software upgrades. Each aircraft took about ten minutes.”
“They say the F-22B will have a holographic heads-up display.”
“Supposedly,” Sabrina shrugged. “I’m more interested in the shenanigans the Soviets and their lapdogs are involved in. They’ve stepped up the aggressiveness again.”
“Once they hear your callsign, they’ll settle down.”
“I doubt it’ll be that easy, Griff.”
Sabrina peeled off from her younger colleague and walked into her aircraft shelter. Her crew chief informed her of the avionics software upgrades that had been installed and their features. They discussed maintenance work since the aircraft’s last flight, fuel and armament status, and the number of flight hours remaining until the next major overhaul. She thanked the technical sergeant and walked to the aircraft.
She inspected the exterior of the sleek fighter in a precise manner. Attention to detail had always been Hamish’s recurring mantra during flight training. It applied to all phases of flight: preflight, in the air, and after you returned. Find the problem before it becomes a problem.
Sabrina climbed into the cockpit, strapped herself in, and began her checklists. The new avionics started up much faster, the display was slightly refined, and everything was where she expected. The colors were subtly different and more ‘natural’ in appearance. How anything about a three-hundred-sixty million dollar stealth aircraft could be considered ‘natural’ was open to debate.
The ground handler saw Sabrina’s nod of readiness. She held up one finger and signaled Sabrina to start the left engine. Sabrina taxied off her shelter’s pad a few minutes later and toward the taxiway. Griff took position behind her.
“Spangdahlem Tower, Tempest One, flight of four, requesting permission to taxi,” Sabrina heard Kian Wells ask Tower over the radio. “I have information Kilo.”
Tower cleared Tempest Flight and told Sabrina’s flight element to take position behind Tempest One and Two and take off when able. Soon, four F-22A fighters rocketed into the dreary West German skies and angled east toward the border. They punched through the cloud deck at eight thousand feet and continued to climb. Sabrina pulled down her dark visor against the bright sunlight above.
“Little different than downstairs, huh, Griff?”
“Know-it-all...”
“Tempest One to Tempest Flight, keep the chatter down today. The Sovs are still strutting about Thor’s demise, even though they deny anything happened. Eyes open, weapons tight, and be ready for anything.”
“Roger, One,” was Sabrina’s reply. Her fellows answered the same way.
’”In Omnia Paratus...”’ came her next thought. ’”Be Ready for Anything...”’ Latin sounded so cool sometimes. Sometimes.
Tempest Flight retraced the same fateful route as that day in January. Sabrina had to remind herself to breathe as they continued southeast over Schönbrunner Wald. Over Pleckensteiner Wald, just before Tempest’s turn at the Austrian border, the Warsaw Pact rattled their sword again. An antiaircraft radar lit up from behind a forty-four thousand-foot peak on the Czech side of the Iron Curtain. The Raptor’s newly enhanced radar pinpointed it.
“One from Three, Feeler from across the border, behind the hilltop to our ten o’clock,” Sabrina reported the radar to Tempest One, Kian Wells.
“I have the same, Three. One to Flight, FENCE in. Arm weapons, but keep them tight. Do not fire.”
The Tempest pilots set switches to prepare for possible combat. They circled into a right-hand turn north of the Austrian border and angled back toward Czechoslovakia.
’We won’t have much time-on-station after flying down here from Luxembourg,’ Sabrina thought. ’I hope there’s a Pegasus nearby.’
Enemy radar kept painting the patrol flight as they flew nearby. The pilots kept their eyes out since missiles wouldn’t necessarily come from the same point as the enemy radar.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.