The computer also calculated that Starship would have exactly three seconds on target — enough for a single burst of gunfire.
Probability of a fatal hit: twenty percent.
"Johnson, can you take Bandit Four?" Starship asked.
"We're being targeted by the Sukhois," said Englehardt. "We have only four missiles left."
"I'll get one of the Sukhois," said Starship.
"Negative. Take the MiG. We have the Sukhois."
Engelhardt's choice was technically correct — the Mega-fortress had to be protected at all costs, and the Johnson was in a better position to strike the Sukhois immediately. But in Starship's opinion it was too conservative. Following the book, Englehardt was clearly intending to fire two missiles each at the Sukhois to cover for any malfunctions or screw-ups. One of those missiles could be used against the MiG, with the Flighthawks backing him up.
There was no time to argue. Starship tried to urge some more speed from the Flighthawk, nudging his nose down, but he was already at roughly the same altitude as his quarry and couldn't afford to give up much.
"Intercept in thirty seconds," said the computer.
The targeting pip appeared. It was solid yellow. He wasn't even close to a shot.
The MiG started to turn west, taking it even farther from the Flighthawk. He wasn't going to make it.
He didn't have to shoot the MiG down — not on his first try, anyway. All he had to do was get him to break off his attack.
The Russian had overreacted to the first encounter, going south. Maybe he could be bluffed into doing that again.
Starship pushed the Flighthawk to the right and began firing, even though the piper showed he was still out of range. The change in the angle put his bullets even farther off the mark. But it also made his tracers more obvious — he wanted the MiG pilot to know he was under the gun.
The first burst had no effect, but as he laid on a second, the Russian dipped on its left wing and dove off to the left, heading southwestward.
A warning flashed on Starship's screen as he went after it.
HAWK 3: LOSS OF CONTROL CONNECTION IN TWENTY SECONDS.
"Johnson, I need you to stay with me," he said.
"We have to deal with the Sukhois," said Englehardt.
Starship gave Hawk Three to the computer, telling it to stay on the MiG; it would fly pursuit even if the connection was lost. Then he took Hawk Four and pulled it south. It was still too far from the MiG to get into a tangle, but he might be able to use it when the MiG came back toward its target.
The Johnson, meanwhile, was climbing northward over the mountains, moving away from the Sukhois. The Su-27s were carrying several air-to-air missiles, but as of yet had not targeted the Megafortress.
HAWK 3: CONTACT LOST
Starship flicked the sitrep plot onto his main screen as the Flighthawk separated from his control. The MiG was still running due west. Starship thought, sooner or later, the pilot had to turn north.
Maybe he had a secondary target. Starship reached to his left, tapping the control for the mapping module in the computer. The module could display details on ground features, with identification tags such as highway routes.
"Highlight pipeline," Starship told the computer. "Instruction not understood." "Highlight trans-Romanian gas pipeline," he said. "Instruction not understood."
Frustrated, Starship put his finger on the pipeline that the MiG had been targeting. "Identify."
"IFC International Pipeline Junction 245A," said the computer.
"Highlight IFC International Pipeline and all junctions."
The pipeline lit in yellow on the map, with small rectangles of color along the way.
There was a block ten miles south of Hawk Three—exactly on the vector the MiG was taking.
His secondary target.
"Johnson, move west," said Starship.
"We will if we can."
"He has a target to the west. This is it," said Starship, tapping his computer to transmit the image to the pilot's console.
"Missiles in the air!" said the copilot. "Mini-Moshkits— they're homing in on our radar!"
Zen stopped at the foot of the access ramp as he came out of the trailer.
"Breanna, what the hell are you doing here?" he said, shocked to see his wife.
"Hello to you too, lover." She walked over and kissed him.
"No, really, why are you here?" he insisted. "I'm here as a copilot on Boomer" she said, pointing in the direction of the plane. "What's the matter?"
"There's no way in the world you should be flying."
"What?"
"Jeez, woman."
"What do you mean, 'jeez woman'?" "You were — hurt."
"When?"
"Don't give me that. In India." "So were you."
"You were unconscious for days, for God's sake." "I was sleeping. The doctors say I'm fine." Zen shook his head.
"You were on that island as long as I was," she said. Her face had flushed, her hands were on her hips, and her eyes had narrowed into slits. Zen knew she was mad, but he was furious as well.
"I wasn't knocked out in a coma," he told her.
"I'm better now. If you don't like it, tough." She turned and began stomping toward the hangar. Suddenly she stopped, spun around, and said, "And it's good to see you, too."
The people nearby tried pretending they hadn't noticed. Zen wheeled forward, angry that his wife was here, but not sure what he could do about it.
The door to the Command trailer opened, and he turned back as Colonel Bastian came down the ramp.
"Did you see her?" asked Zen.
"Who?"
"My wife."
"Breanna's here?"
"She's copiloting Boomer."
Dog frowned but said nothing.
"You think that's OK?" he asked.
"Did she check out medically?"
"She claims she did."
"It's not up to me," Dog said finally. "Come on. We have to get in the air."
Alin Voda knelt next to the pump house, holding his son against his body to warm the boy. He was feeling the cold himself. At first adrenaline had kept him warm, then fear; now neither was sufficient as the temperature continued to drop toward freezing.
The dogs were below them, near the creek. He wasn't sure how much longer it would be before they picked up their scent and started up the hill. But even if the dogs couldn't track them, Voda knew that sooner or later the soldiers would begin a large-scale search through the woods. The sounds of trucks moving in the valley below filled the hills with a low rumble. There must be dozens if not hundreds of potential searchers.
The Americans had promised to help. Voda wasn't sure what that promise would yield, but at the moment it was all he had.
"They're coming up the hill," said Mircea. "What do we do?"
This was as far up the property as either of them had gone; Voda had no idea what was beyond. But they clearly couldn't stay here; if they did, they'd be discovered.
"Let's keep climbing," he said.
"Papa, I'm too tired," said Julian.
"You've got to get up!" shrieked Mircea, almost out of control and far too loud. "You've got to!"
"Sssshhh," said Voda. He leaned down and hoisted the boy up onto his back. It had been years since he'd carried him this way, long years.
"Are we going to die, Papa?"
"No, no," said Voda, starting to walk. A tune came into his head and he began to hum, gently, softly. He'd gone at least a dozen yards before he realized it was the old folk song that had started him on this path.