He would not need his squadron mates, after all, but he could expend whatever bullets and missiles he had left killing them later, if they still posed a threat. First things first: time to slice up that bomber.

Before the squadron even realized what was happening, Jean-Paul had pulled back hard and engaged his afterburners, soaring back up into the sky like a bullet, homing in on the distant bomber. His copilot Serge Latral strained in his seat behind him and tried to grasp a breath as the massive G-force crushed him into his harness, driving the air from his lungs. His hands were heavy, he could barely speak, let alone engage his external comms, as he strained to ask his colleague why they had suddenly broken formation and gone rogue. The other pilots barked questions into their radio, but Jean-Paul stayed eerily silent, driving the plane upward and away from the other three fighters as he started to engage his weapons systems.

Jesus, thought Serge, staring at the weapons screens as they went active. Why is he doing this? We don’t have permission to go weapons hot. Holy shit, it’s happening. This is what Serge had been warned about. And now he was onboard while the crazy man in front of him engaged the multi-million dollar arsenal of the Dassault and flew like a demon into upper atmosphere.

Serge struggled to master his hands, switching on his comms he spoke in rasps, “Jean-Paul, what are you doing? Where are we going?” the strained voice went out over the airwaves, and the other pilots in the squadron called in alarm bells to mission control back in Kabul, asking for orders. The other French pilot also registered confusion at the name Jean-Paul. Weren’t Michel and Etienne flying Balbuzard Two?

Hearing Serge’s strained voice over the comm, Jean-Paul remembered that the copilot was back there and threw the plane into a violent turn. The overwhelming power of the twenty-thousand-horsepower engine forced Serge’s eyes back into his head. The poor man tried to control his body’s reaction, to master its instinctive responses to the pressure wrenching at him. But it was too much. As the blood was forced to the back of his head, his heart struggled to keep the oxygen pumping, but it was an impossible task for any human, and in a few moments the man blacked out.

His final act had been singularly important, though. For the pilot of the other French fighter was not the only one surprised by the mention of Jean-Paul’s name over the radio.

* * *