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data from other available sensors, weighed how much each was worth under the circumstances, and then built an image to the pilot that represented reality. Even at close range, when he was ostensibly looking at a direct image from one of the Flighthawk’s cameras, the computer was involved, enhancing the light and steadying the focus. So where did you draw the line on what to trust?
The two aircraft were flying single file, headed directly toward the lake. They were descending at an easy angle, coming down through 20,000 feet above sea level—relatively close to some of the nearby peaks, which topped 12,000. The lake and the valley it was in were about 5,000 feet.
Starship was approaching the lead plane just off its right wing. At ten miles he switched the main screen to the long-range optical view, but all he could see was a blur, and a small one at that.
Within five seconds he had closed to inside five miles. The starlight-enhanced image showed a dark gray plane with no civilian markings. It was a twin turbojet, high-winged, with its engines close to the fuselage. Admittedly, it looked a lot like the reference pictures of a Fokker that he had pulled up from the Tactics library. But the wing area was larger, and the angle of the fuselage near the tail just a bit sharper—according to the computer, which modeled the image against the references for him.
But the key for Starship were the passenger windows—round on the An-24, and round on the airplane in front of him. The Fokker’s were rectangular.
All aircraft carried an IFF—Identification Friend or Foe—system, designed to distinguish between civilian and military aircraft. While the Megafortress had tried ident earlier, Starship instructed the computer to query the airplane again. The transponders in the two planes failed to respond.
“Bennett, I have the lead turbojet aircraft in sight,” said Starship. “I confirm visually that it is an An-24. Be advised, its ident does not respond.”
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“Roger that. Take it down.”
“Copy, Bennett.”
THE SU-27 BEGAN A TURN BACK TOWARD THE TRANSPORTS
when it was about fifty miles from the Bennett, a little later than Dog hoped. His plan was to get close to the Su-27 and then spin in front of him just within range of the Stinger air mines.
He’d have to wait two whole minutes now before he’d be close enough to make the turn, and a lot could happen in that time. Including getting hit by the Sukhoi’s first missile, which was still tracking them.
“Missile one is still coming at us,” said Sullivan. “Ten miles.”
“Chaff. Crew, stand by for evasive maneuvers,” said Dog, even as he jerked the aircraft onto its wing. The chaff was like metal confetti tossed into the air to confuse targeting radars. The Megafortress dropped downward, away from the chaff, in effect disappearing behind a curtain. Dog pressured his stick right, putting the EB-52 into a six g turn.
The missile sailed past. Apparently realizing its mistake as it cleared the cloud of tinsel without finding an aircraft, it blew itself up—not out of misery, of course, but in the vain hope that its target was still nearby.
By this time, however, the Bennett was swinging back to the north. The Su-27 was approaching her nose from about two o’clock. The Chinese fighter pilot wanted to do exactly what Dog wanted him to do—get on his tail and fire his heat-seekers. Quicker and with a much smaller turning radius than the Megafortress, the Chinese pilot undoubtedly felt he had an overwhelming advantage.
Dog had flown against Chinese fighter pilots several times. They had two things in common: They were extremely good stick and rudder men, and they knew it. He was counting on this pilot being no different.
What he wasn’t counting on was the PL-9 heat-seeker the pilot shot at his face as he approached.
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“Flares,” said Dog. He tucked the Megafortress onto her left wing, sliding away as the decoys exploded, sucking the Chinese missile away.
The Su-27 pilot began to turn with the Megafortress, no doubt salivating at the sight—the large American airplane was literally dropping in front of him, its four turbojets juicy targets for his remaining missile.
“Stinger!” said Dog. “Air mines!”
Sullivan pressed the trigger, and the air behind the Megafortress turned into a curtain of tungsten.
“Launch! Missile launch! He’s firing at us!” shouted Sullivan.
Dog throttled back hard and yanked back sharply on his stick, abruptly pulling the nose and wings of his aircraft upward. The aircraft’s computer barked out an alarm, telling him that he was attempting to “exceed normal flight parameters”—in layman’s terms, he wasn’t flying so much as turning himself into a brick, losing all of his forward momentum while trying to climb. The Megafortress shook violently, gravity tugging her in several different directions at once.
Down won. But just as it did, Dog pushed the stick forward and ramped back up to military power on the engines.
This caused a violent shudder that rumbled through the fuselage; the wing roots groaned and the aircraft pitched sharply to the right. Dog eased off a bit, grudgingly, then finally saw what he’d been hoping for—two perfect red circles shooting past.
They were followed by a much larger one. This one wasn’t simply red exhaust—the edges of the circle pulsed with a violent zigzag of orange and yellow. Not only had the Sukhoi sucked a full load of shrapnel into its engine, but one of the exploding air mines had started a fire.
“He’s toast!” yelled Sullivan. A second later the canopy of the Chinese jet flew off and the pilot bailed, narrowly avoiding the tumult of flames as his aircraft turned into a Molo-tov cocktail.
* * *
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STARSHIP STRUGGLED TO KEEP HIS FLIGHTHAWK ON A steady path as the Megafortress jerked and jived through the air. This was the most difficult part of flying the robot planes: making your hand do what your mind told it to do, and not what its body wanted. The disconnect between what was happening on the screen—an aircraft in straight, level flight—and what was happening to his stomach was difficult to reconcile.
Starship put both hands on the control and lowered his head, leaving the Megafortress behind as he willed himself inside the little plane. He took Hawk One in a wide turn to his left, away from the military transport he’d just passed.
Hawk Two, trailing by a little over two miles, followed. He thought of switching planes— Hawk Two would have had an easier shot—but the Megafortress’s shuddering sounds seemed to promise more heavy g’s to come, and he decided to stay where he was.
By the time he came out of his turn, the lead aircraft had made a turn of its own to the east. Its companion was following suit.
“Colonel, my contacts are heading away,” said Starship.
“Should I pursue?”
“Stand by, Flighthawk leader.”
The Bennett leveled off. Starship checked the position of his airplanes on the sitrep; he was about eighty miles northeast.
“What’s the situation, Starship?”
“Looks like they’ve broken off and are heading home,”
said Starship. “I’m not sure if they saw the Flighthawks or not— Hawk One was definitely close enough for a visual.”
“Save your bullets,” said Dog. “We’re out of Anacondas and we may need them for the ride home.”
VI
Borrowed Time
White House basement
1500, 17 January 2006
(0600, Karachi)
“SO I HEAR ROCKY BALBOA FINALLY GOT HIS MITTS ON
Dreamland,” Margaret McGraw said when she called Jed to brief him on the latest round of NSA intercepts related to the warhead recovery mission.
“How’s that?”
“Oh, don’t give me the I’m-above-all-the-infighting line, Jed. I know you know what’s going on. Admiral Balboa pulled a coup.”