“You have a shape on that northwest quadrant,” Jennifer said. “The computer’s not flagging it as hostile. Grid AA-4.”
“Yeah, I have the quadrant,” said Zen. Holding Hawk One steady toward the Sudanese city, he moved Two lower to check out the unexpected contact off its left wing. The sweat now began to pour in buckets as he rolled the plane into a tight dive, dropping it quickly to five thousand feet. The Hawk’s radar transmitted a detailed image back to the mother ship; Jeff left it to Jennifer to examine as he flew the plane low and fast across the edge of a Sudanese settlement that apparently had been obscured by clouds on the photos. He brought the Hawk lower, picking up speed; he straightened his wings now at five hundred feet, three hundred, sensors blazing.
RWR clear. No SAMS, no defenses.
A building and a shed, if you could call them that. Neither was as big as a cottage back home.
A bus lumbered ahead. Zen began to pull off, then saw something flash to his left. Not sure what it was, he stayed on his course, accelerating.
Another vehicle, this one an ancient pickup. He nailed his throttle down, streaking past before rocketing back upward, hewing right. He pushed his left hand toward him, riding Hawk Two closer to the other half of his mind, which was just passing the Sudanese city.
“Whoo, that was fun,” said Jennifer. “Initial analysis clean. I’m playing the optical sensors back to recheck those buildings.”
Zen shut her out. It was difficult enough being in the Flighthawks.
It hadn’t seemed this hard when he flew them before the accident. And yet he’d been controlling three planes then—his own as well as the two UM/Fs.
His head felt like it was going to break in half.
“Clean,” announced Jennifer. “No visible life-forms, Dr. Spock.”
When Zen didn’t respond, she added, “Our ten-year mission, to explore new worlds—”
“Yeah, I got the joke,” he snapped.
“Sorry.”
Zen saw a small truck off the side of the road, then another.
Hawk One screen, right? They were starting to blur together, despite the purple separator line.
The trucks weren’t significant, he decided. The Hawks crossed the Wadi al Madi, a trench that emptied into the Nile much further to the east. He couldn’t tell if there was water in it or not as he passed, holding both Flighthawks at eight thousand feet.
They were invisible, dark birds in the desert night, riding the wind. He selected both FLIRs in the top screen, trying to get more comfortable. They came up toward the east-west railroad line that perforated Sudan; he took the Flighthawks down it to nearly the limit of their safe separation distance before edging back.
Maybe he shouldn’t think of them as if they were two planes. Maybe they were really one, a coordinated being, an extension of himself. Like his arms or eyes, working together.
There was a rhythm; once he found it he’d be fine. Once he found it.
“We’re coming to Bravo,” Cheshire told him. “We’ll follow your turn.”
“Roger that, thank you, Raven,” Jeff said.
“Hawk Two at Bravo,” the computer told him.
Though a basic element of formation flying, coordinating a parallel turn was tricky, and even experienced pilots could have trouble doing it. It was not easy to hold position, and the pilots had to coordinate their maneuvers carefully. In some ways it was even harder with the Flighthawks, since he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—use the throttle to cover any mistake. But Zen didn’t need to; he had the planes moving in tandem, perfectly balanced against each other, working like the hands of a prizefighter prodding his enemy. He came around to the new bearing southeastward with the Hawks nailed on beam precisely seven miles apart. He allowed himself a brief exhale of congratulations and relief.
A boxer probing his opponent. This one was a cipher, without noticeable weaknesses. The desert went on forever, admitting no secrets. Finding Smith in it would be impossible.
If it weren’t for the fact that there were other people with Knife, Zen wouldn’t mind missing him completely.
The idea snuck up from behind, curling around his spine as if it had risen through the sweat beneath his flight suit.
He hated Smith.
Because of the accident? Or because of Bree?
He wanted her back. And not to be friends. He was wrong about the divorce. He had to fight for her.
How the hell did you do that in a wheelchair? He couldn’t even do his goddamn job without sweating buckets.
A herd of cattle materialized on the right side of the viewer, crowding out his thoughts about his wife, bringing him back to the Hawks. The warm bodies milled back and forth in the rapidly cooling desert air. There were some tents, a vehicle.
“Nomads,” said Jen.
“Yeah,” he acknowledged.
Something moved in the far corner of the left end. Zen pushed his attention toward it, realized he was seeing a gun emplacement.
“Ground intercept radar active,” warned the computer. Information spat at him—ID’ing a pair of twin 35mm GDF antiaircraft weapons controlled by a Contraves Skyguard system. The Swiss-built system was relatively sophisticated, though its maximum range was well under twenty thousand feet. According to the threat screen, the Flighthawks had not been locked, though the radar was active.
“I’m going to get close and personal,” he told Cheshire after filling her in.
“Copy. We’ll hold to our flight plan.”
Zen looped Hawk Two into a turn about three miles from the radar source. He changed the main viewer from optics to FLIR. It was a military installation. The guns were mounted at the northern edge of a complex that included several dug-in shelters and four tanks. Several vehicles were parked at the southern end; the Flighthawk camera caught a soldier on guard duty smoking a cigarette. The UM/F passed within two miles of the radar unit without being detected.
“No aircraft,” said Jennifer.
“Yeah,” said Zen, concentrating on returning the Flight-hawk to its briefed flight path. The fact that the antiaircraft weapons used a Western-made radar could mean that it was a rebel unit opposed to the pro-Libyan government—or not. In any event, their Anotonov didn’t seem to be there.
Exhausted, Zen returned to the programmed course. He had to have a break; reluctantly he turned the controls over to the computer and reached down for his Gatorade. He was so thirsty he drained it and had to reach for his backup, sitting in a case on the floor by his feet.
“Hard work, huh?” asked Jennifer.
“Yeah.”
“You’re doing good.”
“Yeah.”
“You want some advice?”
“Advice?”
“You’re doing a lot of the routine stuff the computer can handle,” said Gleason.
Anger welled inside, but before he could say anything, Gleason reached over and touched him on the shoulder. It felt electric, almost unworldly—his mind was still out with the Flighthawks, as if he were actually in their cockpits.
“You’re doing fine, Major,” she said. “Let the computer do the routine stuff. That’s what it was designed for. You do what’s important. You’re trying to control both planes at the same time.”
Zen glanced at the instrument screens, making sure the UM/Fs were operating fine, then pushed up the helmet to see her.
“It’s almost like you’re afraid the computer’s going to take your job,” Jennifer said. “I know we haven’t had a chance to run many flights with two planes since you’ve been back, but you’re getting twitchy. You’re not letting the computer fly like you used to.”
“It’s my job to fly them,” he told her.
“Absolutely,” said the scientist. “But you can’t split yourself in half. You can trust the computer.”