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Three seconds passed.

Finally, “Stinger One-one copies, Hammer. We show the bandits turning nose hot.” “Nose hot” meant that the opposing fighter’s nose was pointed toward them. It was an indication of hostile intent.

“Negative, negative,” Kissick replied, his voice rising. “They’re gonna turn and stay north of the border.”

Another two seconds. “Copy.”

Kissick stood there, watching the glow worms on the screen come closer. If this peckerhead in Stinger One-one pushed any harder, Kissick was going to call the game off. But as long as they followed the rules of engagement, he’d let them play. At least they might scare the crap out of a couple Iraqi fighter jocks.

* * *

Maxwell glanced to his right. A quarter mile away, in combat spread formation, was his wingman, Leroi Jones. Both jets were in full afterburner, hauling ass to catch their commanding officer, who had just charged off to engage the Iraqi Air Force.

Maxwell studied his situational display. The bandits were heading west along the border. They were obviously playing their game of feint and tease. The other two blips in the display — Killer and Hozer — were nose hot on them, in a ninety-degree intercept angle.

Maxwell was getting a bad feeling in his gut. He called on the tactical frequency: “Stinger One-one, confirm the rules of engagement. We gotta see hostile intent, right?”

“We already covered that in the briefing.”

“I show the bandits nose cold.”

“Get off the frequency,” DeLancey snapped, “unless you’ve got something I need to hear.”

In the cockpit of his Hornet, Maxwell smoldered. Everyone on the channel — AWACS, Rivet Joint, the rest of Stinger One-one flight — had heard the rebuff.

Okay, asshole, go for it. Maybe we can bail you out. Maybe not.

* * *

Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!

Colonel Jabbar heard the aural alert from his Sirena RWR — radar warning receiver — and he felt every nerve fiber in his body tingle.

He had heard it before, of course. And he expected it. It meant that the Americans — probably F/A-18 Hornets — were rushing toward the NFZ at high speed. Even his enfeebled GCI up in Baghdad had been able to pick them out and send the warning. So it was all very normal that Jabbar and his wingman would be getting an RWR warning from the inbound fighters. It was part of the game.

Still, that slow chirping of the Sirena made his blood run cold. Jabbar toyed for a second with the notion of turning hard into the Yankee bastards and engaging them. Stuff a couple of AA-10 missiles up their intakes. It would be glorious. It would correct a hundred past humiliations the Iraqi Air Force had suffered.

But not today. He did not have an expendable wingman to lose in such an engagement. Instead he had Saddam’s idiot nephew to protect.

“Blue Wing, stay with me,” Jabbar radioed Al-Fariz. “We have fighters approaching from the south.”

Jabbar started a gentle turn to the north. He would play it safe, show everyone that he was giving the border a wide berth. As he turned, Jabbar glanced over his left shoulder. Make sure Al-Fariz was following.

He saw nothing.

No wingman. Just empty sky.

“Blue Wing, where are you? Join up! Now!”

* * *

Captain Hakim Al-Fariz heard the warning. Enemy fighters inbound from the south! Even though Colonel Jabbar had briefed him that the Americans would probably send up fighters, the news that they were out there — coming toward them! — sent a surge of adrenaline through Al-Fariz’s body strong enough to jolt a camel.

His immediate reaction was to go to his own radar. Fighters! Where were they? From what angle?

Fixated on the display, he twirled the acquisition knob. He was a novice with the complicated Russian-built tactical radar display. Why wasn’t he picking up the targets? Where in God’s name were they?

While Al-Fariz toiled with his radar, his MiG-29 rolled into a gentle left turn.

Southward. Into the NFZ.

* * *

They all saw it.

Tracey Barnett, in the E-3C AWACS, picked it up on her display. The trailer MiG was… Oh, shit!.. the guy was turning nose hot!

Butch Kissick was peering at the same display. “God damn it!” he roared. “Look at that. The sonofabitch is flying right into the NFZ.”

Brick Maxwell, leading the second section of Hornets at Mach 1.2 toward the NFZ border, observed the MiG drifting across the border. He also saw the lead Fulcrum in a shallow turn — to the right. What the hell? Were these guys playing a game? Some kind of setup? The trailer Fulcrum was either playing a game of chicken or he was totally out to lunch.

Maxwell felt a sense of dread. This was going to be ugly. The other pair of blips — Stinger One-one and his wingman — were closing fast from the left. DeLancey and Hozer were almost within the envelope for a missile shot. And so was the Fulcrum. He was still coming left.

Nose hot.

* * *

DeLancey wasn’t worried about the Fulcrum pilot taking a shot. If the guy really wanted to fight, Delancey figured, he wouldn’t be so stupid as to make a shallow turn like that into two opposing fighters. Even if he managed to get a missile into the air, DeLancey was sure that at this range he and Hozer would have the time and tools to defeat it.

Only one worrisome thought troubled him: This MiG jockey might get homesick and bug out for Baghdad.

He might get away.

And sure as hell, that’s what the guy was doing. DeLancey could see it happening on his radar. He could see the bandit’s nose cranking around back to the right. The sonofabitch was going to cut and run!

Well, maybe he’d get away, maybe not. If the stupid bastard was in the NFZ, he was fair game.

On his stores display, DeLancey selected an AIM-120 radar-guided missile. It would be at the far edge of his firing envelope, but it was the only shot he would have.

He rolled his Hornet into a right turn, leading the Iraqi jet’s turn to the north. He superimposed the target acquisition box in his head up display over the radar symbol of the retreating Fulcrum.

Looking good… almost… hold it… There!

Fighter pilots called the AIM-120 a “wild dog in a meat locker.” This was because the missile contained its own autonomous guidance system which, when locked onto a target — any target — guided the weapon without further control from the pilot. Once launched, the AIM-120 pursued its prey like an unleashed hunting animal.

Delancey squeezed the trigger on his stick.

Whoom!

He squeezed again.

Whoom!

Two AIM-120 missiles, one after the other, were racing out ahead of the Hornet. Behind each missile trailed a wisp of smoke and vapor.

“Fox 3!” yelled DeLancey, signaling that he had just fired radar-guided missiles.

* * *

Hunched inside the cockpit of his MiG-29, Captain Hakim Al-Fariz heard the slow chirping of the Sirena radar warning receiver. Then he heard it sharpen to a high-pitched warble.

Al-Fariz felt a stab of fear that nearly made his heart explode. Even though he had never been in combat, he recognized that shrill warbling sound: The Sirena, which had been receiving the American fighters’ APG-73 radar emissions, was now hearing something else.

A missile! An air-to-air missile was inbound. From where? Was it targeting him?

Al-Fariz refused to believe what was happening. How could this be? This was his first tactical mission in the MiG-29. He wasn’t supposed to be fired upon by the enemy.