Piranha

Zen had already jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two. He had the other F-14 on his left wing, cutting back toward its original course, C³, the sophisticated control-and-tactical-assistance computer that helped fly the Flighthawks, suggested a high-speed attack at the rear quarter of the F-14. Zen recognized it immediately as a long shot; even with the computers keeping score, such an attack would have an extremely low kill-probability.

Deciding that was better than nothing, Zen told C³ to implement the attack plan, then jumped back into Hawk One, changing the view screens and control selections via a verbal command to the computer of “One” and “Two,” then pulling around, trying to set up an ambush on the Tomcat. A call from Raven’s radar operator changed his priorities.

“Bogies at one hundred miles—make that a four-group of F-18’s, angels twenty.”

“Hawk leader,” acknowledged Zen. Even as the information about the bandits’ course and speed was downloaded into his computer, Zen had decided he would pass off the Tomcat and concentrate on the Hornets.

“Yo, Curly—you see the Tomcat gu

“On him,” said the other pilot.

Aboard EB-52, “Galatica,” west of Hawaii

August 16, 1449

Unlike Zen, Captain Kevin “Curly” Fentress had never flown in real combat; nor was he a fully qualified jet pilot. He’d only racked up ten hours so far in Dreamland’s T-38 jet trainer, every minute among the longest of his life. Curly had come into the Flighthawk program after helping develop early-model unma

But he was learning.

The Tomcat packed a pair of all-aspect heat-seekers. While Fentress had to be respectful of the missiles, they were considerably less dangerous than AMRAAMS. It was also to his advantage that the Tomcat was gu

The Navy jock wasn’t flying a Messerschmitt. Rather than engaging the small fighter as it dove in front of his F-14, he lit the burners and blew past both the U/MF and the approaching Megafortresses. Fentress gave a few blinks from the gun of Hawk Four, but the smaller engines couldn’t drive the Hawk close enough to the muscular Navy plane to record a hit.

“We can take him with a Scorpion,” said Captain Tom Dolan, the copilot in Raven.

“No, he’s mine,” said Fentress tightly. “You’re going to need that Scorpion later.”

He knew better than to try to run the F-14 down. Fentress held back as the Tomcat started tracking north, waiting for the plane to single out its quarry and start to close.

Though it had a much easier angle on Raven, it seemed to be picking out Iowa.

Coincidence? Or had he been briefed beyond the accepted rules?

No matter. The F-14 began picking up steam as it pressed toward the Megafortress’s tail. Fentress had a good intercept plotted—the target indicator on Hawk Three began blinking yellow, indicating he was almost in range. Just as it went red, the F-14 pilot belatedly spotted the robot and abruptly nosed downward. Fentress once more found he couldn’t stay with the Tomcat, but according to C³, did manage to put six shells into its wing.

The event moderator called it “light damage.” Under the rules of the game, the F-14 should have broken off and gone home. But instead, the Navy jock lit the burners and jerked his nose up, pulling a good seven or eight Gs. He recovered from his evasive maneuver and bullied his plane toward a firing solution a bare five miles off the EB-52’s vulnerable V-shaped tail.

Iowa

August 16, 1452

Dog shook his head as his copilot reported that the F-14 was getting ready to launch AIM-9’s.

“Flares.”

“Flares. Stinger ready,” said Ferris. “They’re cheating,” he added bitterly. “Bastards.”

“Fire when you have him,” answered Dog calmly. “Don’t hit the Flighthawk. Crew, hold on for evasive maneuvers.”

Dog jerked the stick hard, pushing the big plane to the left, then back again, jinking the massive bomber as if she were an F-16. Adrenaline shot through his veins, and he realized he was laughing. It was times like this that reminded him why he’d joined the Air Force.

Galatica

August 16, 1454

Fentress slapped Hawk Four toward the F-14’s tail as it closed on the Megafortress. The magnified screen showed the bomber’s tail stinger tracking back and forth, obviously taking aim at the aggressor—its air mines were fatal at 2.5 miles, which was just inside the fatal range of the Sidewinders. Undoubtedly the Navy pilot wasn’t concerned about “surviving” the conflict; he’d get close enough to launch the Sidewinders even if it meant he got slammed himself.

Fentress pushed his nose down, moving his pipper dead into the canopy of the Tomcat’s two-man cockpit. He waited a second after the red bar flashed, remembering Zen’s admonitions regarding the Flighthawk control computer’s unyielding optimism.