A chapter from Homing, a novel in progress
My stepfather was a US Air Force pilot. I grew up on a military base in California named after a pilot who died when his Black Hawk collided with a crane. I sometimes fantasized about my stepfather being killed in a plane taken down by a bird. He might be flying a Dassault Falcon that blew up when its engine sucked in a flock of starlings. Or a Boeing B-52 bomber that exploded over the Sierras when it hit a mother eagle.
Surely this has happened to other pilots who have adopted other daughters. A fighter pilot died when a goose shattered the windshield of his 38 Talon. A US Air Force general crashed his F-22A Raptor when a bug flew into his eye. An A-4 Skyhawk went down after it struck a swarm of bees. The smell of burning bees wafted into the cabin.
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