"They're lighting afterburners."
"Probably blowing the carbon out of their arses," said Sullivan. "The Russians are particularly constipated this time of year."
The planes were roughly 250 miles away, traveling at about 500 knots or nautical miles per hour. Lighting their afterburners — essentially dumping a lot of fuel into the rear of the engines to make the planes go fast — would quickly increase their speed up over the sound barrier. Still, they were a good distance away; it would take at least ten minutes and probably a little more before they were close enough to pose a threat to the Megafortress.
Assuming they were interested in doing that.
"Flighthawk leader, our friends are at it again," Dog told Zen.
"Yeah, Colonel, I'm looking at the radar. What are they doing?"
"Probably testing to see how we'll respond," said Dog. "Plot an intercept for Hawk One near the border just in case." "Done, Colonel."
Dog checked the radar image. The radar in the Russian fighters — or whatever was guiding them — wouldn't be able to see the Flighthawk at this range.
Three minutes later the MiGs were still running hot in their direction. Their speed was up over 1,100 knots. They'd switched their afterburners off — if they left them on too long they'd quickly be out of fuel — but kept their course steady.
"Contacts one and two looking at the border in a little over five minutes," said Rager.
"Let's show them we know they're on their way," said Dog. "Sully, open the bomb bay doors."
"On it, Colonel."
The plane shook with the vibration of the bomb bay doors swinging open. The Megafortress had six AMRAAM-plus Scorpion missiles loaded for air defense, along with two smart bombs. Dog wasn't aligned perfectly to fire them — his track was roughly perpendicular to the MiGs — but he could easily bring them to bear if the situation warranted.
By now Romania's ground radars along the seacoast had spotted the MiGs, and the antiaircraft missile batteries along the eastern border of the country were being alerted. The defenses dated from the mid-sixties, however, and would be of little concern to the MiGs if they crossed.
"Two minutes to the border, Colonel," said Rager. "They're— Shit! Weapons radars activated."
"Relax," said Dog. "ECMs, Sully."
The copilot activated the Megafortress's electronic counter measures, jamming the frequencies used by the MiG's radar missiles to home in on their target.
"Colonel, I can set up a better intercept over the border," said Zen.
Dog's orders specifically forbade him to send any of his aircraft over the line, and in fact directed him to "actively avoid contact" — which could be interpreted to mean that he should run away if the MiGs got any more aggressive.
He understood why, of course — the U.S. wanted to avoid giving the Russians even the slightest pretense for coming to the aid of the rebels. But he still bristled.
"Stay on our side of the line," said Dog.
"Roger that."
"Colonel, I have a fire indication! Missile in the air!
AMRAAMski! Two of them."
"What the hell?" shouted Sullivan.
Dog dipped his wing, turning so he could "beam" the enemy radar and make it harder for the missiles to track him. The planes were a little more than thirty miles from the border, and the Megafortress was another forty from that. They were just at the missile's effective range, maybe even a little beyond it.
"Missile one is coming for us," said Rager.
"Colonel, you want to take them?" said Zen.
"Negative," said Dog tersely. "Button us up, Sullivan."
"Yes, sir."
The closed doors made it easier for the Megafortress to maneuver.
"Zen, put Hawk Two between us. Look for the missile." "Roger that, Colonel."
Dog turned the Megafortress again, pushing hard to get away. What the hell were the Russians doing? Trying to start
World War III?
"Missile one — off scope," said Sullivan. "Missile two— gone."
"They self-destructed, Colonel," added Rager. "MiGs have turned." He gave a bearing and range — they were under fifty miles away.
"Stand down," said Dog. "Excitement is over, gentlemen. Let's get back to work."
"What was it all about, Colonel?" asked Sullivan after they had returned to their patrol route.
"They're trying to rattle us. It's an old Cold War game. First one to blink loses."
"Did we blink or did they?"
Dog frowned.
"Let's get back to work," was all he said.
Once a pilot learned the basics of flying, he or she could in theory fly anything. It was a little like learning how to ride a bicycle or drive a car — once the basic physical and intellectual skills were mastered, going from one cockpit to another wasn't all that difficult.
Of course, when you were a pilot who operated at the very top of the profession, who flew planes at the cutting edge in extreme situations, you did more things with your aircraft than the weekend flier puttering from small town to small town in his Piper. And when you were among the most elite members of the subspecies, your expectations of yourself as well as the plane were extremely high. They didn't change just because you were in an unfamiliar cockpit. Yes, you could strap just about any plane onto your back and take a nice, nonchalant orientation flight, not push the bird or your self very hard without a very steep learning curve. But that wasn't the way a top test pilot operated.
No, an elite pilot pushed a new plane and herself to the max. Which was where the frustration came in.
Breanna tried hard not to curse as Boomer gave her a stall warning coming out of the turn. Supplying more throttle, she powered through the maneuver, holding her position tightly to the ghosted course suggestion on her heads-up display.
"Good. I'm ranging. Locked. Ready to fire," said Sleek Top.
Sleek Top was sitting in the pilot's seat. Under normal circumstances, the copilot handled the targeting duties, but both consoles were fully equipped and either pilot could comfortably fly or control the weapons.
"Climbing," said Breanna, sighing as she turned toward her next mark.
"You're doing good, Bree."
"Uh-huh."
"You don't think you are?" "I guess."
Sleek remained silent as they worked through the rest of the exercise. Breanna didn't have a lot of time in either "stock" B-1Bs or the B-1B/L, but the plane was easy to adjust to compared to getting used to sitting in the second officer's seat. The world looked very different from the right-hand seat.
But if that's what it took to get back in the air, that's what she would do.
They finished off with a mock refuel. Breanna could have had the computer fly the plane through the rendezvous— and on a combat mission, that might have been the preferred option — but it felt like cheating. She held steady, eased up to the boom, and hooked in almost as easily as if she were flying an EB-52.
"You are a hell of a pilot, Breanna," said Sleek Top as they turned back toward the runway to land. "Hell of a pilot."
"For a woman?"
"Nah," he said quickly. "For anyone. You picked up the fine points really fast."
"I'm still working on it. I know I have a way to go." "Listen. About last night—" "It was a great basketball game." "I meant—"
"It was a great basketball game," she repeated. "Maybe Zen and I can join you at another. He's an even bigger fan than I am."
"I'd like that," said Sleek Top. "Very much."
"They fired on you?" said Samson.He could feel his anger rising as he paced in front of the large screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.