Piranha

“Missiles are tracking,” said Ferris.

“Can we break them if we stay here?”

“Trying. The Tomcats are still coming. They want our blood.”

“We’ll hold our position as long as we can,” Dog told Delaford. “Hopefully, we won’t get nailed in the process.”

“It’ll be worth it,” said Delaford, whose project had faced considerable skepticism from the Navy brass.

Dog told the other Megafortresses they could break off.

“Sixty seconds,” said Delaford. “Right under the admiral’s nose.”

“Colonel, one of those Navy logs won’t quit.”

“Tinsel,” said Dog, giving the order to dispense electronic chaff designed to confuse the radar guiding the long-range missile.

“Fifty seconds,” said Delaford.

“Missile impact in twenty,” warned Ferris.

“Hang on, everybody,” said Dog. He pulled the Megafortress hard right, then back left, accelerating north briefly but then pulling back west, trying to stay within range of the Piranha buoy.

“Must’ve graduated from A

Dog decided to do something he’d never be able to manage in a stock B-52—he twisted the massive plane through an invert and accelerated directly toward the AIM-54. Against a “live” missile, the strategy would have been dubious, since the proximity fuse would have lit the warhead as he approached. But the gear in the nose used to record a hit was a few beats slower than the real McCoy, and Dog just managed to clear the AIM-54 before it “exploded.”

“Shit, I lost the co

“Can you get it back?”

“Trying.” Dog could hear Delaford and English tapping furiously on the keyboards that helped them control the remote devices.

“We can drop another buoy,” suggested English.

“We should,” said Delaford. “But this one is closer. You know Colonel, I think they’re trying to jam us.”

“They have two jammers aloft,” said Ferris.

“Give me a course,” said Dog. “Delaford, is there any way to make Piranha spit in the admiral’s eye when it comes to the surface?”

“Working on it, sir.”

Galatica

August 16, 1507

Unlike the earlier attacker, these Tomcats not only knew Fentress’s Flighthawk were there, but considered them enough of a threat to target them with their Phoenix missiles. Ducking the long-distance homers wasn’t that difficult—Fentress had done so in about a dozen simulations over the past two weeks—but it did take time. It also cost him position—he lost control of Hawk Four as his Megafortress jinked out of the ECM-shortened communications range to avoid another volley of missiles. The onboard computer took over the robot, turning it toward the EB-52 in default return mode.

Fentress pulled Hawk Three higher, hoping to get into position to break the next wave of attack, which he expected to be close-in dash to fire heat-seekers. But the Tomcats had something else in mind; AMRAAM-pulses, fired from just over forty miles away.

A red-hot wire snaked around his chest. Not one but two of the Scorpions locked on his plane. These were considerably more difficult to avoid. Even in simulations, he’d never gotten away from a pair. Galatica, with its performance significantly hampered by the revolving radar dome in its upper body, would have an even more

difficult time, regardless of the countermeasures it spewed.

Fentress recoiled himself to his job; he’d do his best and jinked in the direction of the lead Tomcat, which was already homing in on Galatica. To catch the Navy pilot’s attention, he winked his ca

Two more missiles that can’t target Gal, Fentress thought to himself. He threw the Flighthawk downward, then cut diagonally, hoping against hope to beam the missiles.

He did. As he started to recover from the dive, he realized he had also gotten away from the missiles launched earlier. But all his jinking and jiving had left himself open to another F-14, which screamed toward him, gun blazing. Fentress started to turn, confident he could get out of the Tomcat’s gunsight. His screen showed a simulated run of bullets trotting past the canopy—and then everything buzzed red and a large “2” filled the control screen. He’d been nailed by a Sidewinder he’d never seen.

Hawk Four, flown by the computer, had already suffered the same fate. Shorn of its defenders, the over-matched EB-52 found itself sandwiched between a pair of Navy Top Guns, whose M61;s made confetti of the wings.

“We’re hit,” said the Megafortress pilot, Captain Teijen. “Performance degrading. Prepare for ejection.”

“Aw, shit,” grumbled the copilot.

Still, the EB-52 was a tough airframe. Teijen held her up, swooping left and right, and managed to take out one of the Navy fighters who apparently didn’t believe the brief on the potency of the Stinger tail weapon. There was no shaking the Tomcat flight leader, however, who came in close and winked his ca

“You be sunk,” said the pilot with a laugh.

The computer and the event moderator concurred.

“Yeah?” said Teijen. We’ll see how loud you laugh when your carrier goes down.”