Piranha

Raven

August 16, 1507

Zen’s finger strained against the slider on the back of his combined stick-throttle. He had the engine nailed on the redline, trying to hustle the Flighthawks back to help Fentress fend off the rear-end attack. The Navy attackers had done an excellent job against the Dreamland planes, overcoming their technological disadvantage with shrewd tactics and kick-butt flying. They didn’t call these guys Top Guns for nothing.

Not, of course, than Zen would admit that in mixed company—mixed company meaning anyone who showed an affinity for bell bottoms and pea coats. Naval aviators might have proven in combat they were every bit as good as Air Force jocks, but no red-blooded USAF zippersuit would say so—except under extreme duress.

And maybe not even then.

Zen calculated a good merge on two planes coming in on his left figuring to turn and then let the Tomcats’ superior speed bring them to his gunsights. That worked fine for one of the planes, but the other wingman simply accelerated out of range as Zen brought Hawk Two to bear. He twisted off and gave the robot to the computer, telling it to target a new knot of Tomcats aiming for Iowa from the west, the computer handled if fairly well, but with four Scorpion AMRAAMs in the air, and its need to engage the enemy at close range, it was soon over-matched, taken down by a simulated explosion about fifty feet of its wingtip.

In the meantime, two Tomcats closed on Iowa for Sidewinder shots. As Zen tried to dive on them, his seat spun wildly, moving in the opposite direction—Raven’s pilot, Major Alou, was jerking madly to avoid a fresh missile attack. The movement disoriented Zen, who had an image in his screen more than four miles away. He had to break off his attack after pumping dozen shells at the F-14, doing some damage but not enough to splash it.

The air was thick with flares, electronic fuzz, and dummy weapons. Zen rolled around and found himself approaching Raven. Making the best of the situation, he slid Hawk One into a gradual turn, figuring to try and catch the planes that were closing on his mother ship. At the same time, he got a warning tone from the computer that his fuel were getting low.

The Navy fliers stayed just out of reach of Raven’s Stinger as they kicked off their missiles. All but one of the Sidewinders missed their mark; the one that did explode caused “fifty-percent damage” to the right wing control surfaces and some minor damage to the power plants. Enough, claimed the moderator, to rule the Megafortress down.

“Down?” said Alou. “Down? No way.”

The other crew members’ reactions were considerably less polite. Zen had one of the Tomcats fat in his pipper—he laid on the trigger, then whipped across the air like a stone slipped on a pond to nail the second.

Except that, under the engagement rules, he was dead once the Megafortress was.

The Tomcat jocks were laughing. Zen had considerable trouble restraining himself from riding Hawk One over their canopies.

“Navy referees,” muttered Alou.

Iowa

August 16, 1507

Dog could feel a curtain of sweat descending down the front of his undershirt, as if he were coming toward the kick lap of a great workout. And in a way, he was—jinking and jiving as a pair of Tomcats, now out of missiles, tried to get close enough to use their guns. He fended them left and right, riding up and down, all the while waiting for Delaford to tell him when they could launch the buoy. They’d temporarily lost contact with Piranha, though its operator was confident it was close to the aircraft carrier.

“We’re going to lose speed as soon as we open the bay door,” said Chris Ferris. The copilot had a habit of worrying out loud. In Dog’s opinion, not a particularly endearing trait.

“I’m counting on it,” replied the colonel, flashing left as one of the Tomcats began firing again. The Navy planes couldn’t position themselves effectively because of the air mines spitting out from the back of the plane, but that advantage would soon be lost—the computer warned they were below a hundred rounds.

Worse, another quarter of fighters were coming from the north.

“Okay,” said Delaford.

“Chris, turn off the Stinger as if we’ve run out of shells,” Dog told his copilot. “Then open the bay doors and launch. Everybody hang tough,” added Dog. “This will feel like we’ve hit a brick wall.”

The Tomcats, seeing the Stinger had stopped firing midburst, closed in tentatively, expecting a trick. Meanwhile, Ferris gave Dog a five count. When he reached one, the colonel did everything but throw the plane into reverse—and he might have tried that had he thought of it. The Megafortress dropped literally straight down in the sky, an elevator whose control cables had suddenly snapped.

The Tomcats shot overhead.

“Piranha Buoy Two launched,” reported Ferris, immediately closing up the doors to clear the Megafortress’s sleek belly. Dog banked so close to the water, its right wingtip might have grazed a dolphin.

“They’re coming back, and they’re mad,” said Ferris. “Whipping around—rear-quarter shot.” He started laughing. “Suckers—Stinger on and firing.”

Their anger and fatigue took its toll. One of the Navy fliers was mauled; the other backed off—then declared a fuel-emergency and broke off.

“Four bandits still coming at us. In AMRAAM range,” warned Ferris.

“How we doing down there, Delaford?” asked Dog, cutting back north to stay near the buoy, though this meant closing the gap on the approaching F-14’s.

“Got it! Ten seconds to surface!”