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It was bullshit. The files were full of contact reports that no one ever looked at. Truth of it was, Je
Were his emotions getting in the way of his judgment? He liked Je
To his credit, Dog wasn’t interfering. Clearly he didn’t think Jen was guilty, but he wasn’t interfering.
Da
UNABLE TO SLEEP,Je
She walked from the small bedroom to the slightly larger living room, which had a kitchenette at the side.
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She sat on the couch, staring at the TV on the wall near the door but not bothering to turn it on. Je
The numbness affected even them.
Was she going to stay in this hole the rest of her life?
Je
They were all against her.
Did she deserve that?
Maybe she did.
Je
Did she deserve that?
She picked the knife up and felt the blade with the edge of her thumb. Only when she pushed hard against it did the numbness dissipate.
Blood trickled from her finger. She stared at the red dots, watched the flow swell.
Slowly, she brought the knife upward toward her neck. She ran it up against her chin and then the cheek, the way a barber would drag a safety razor.
Was there no way to make the numbness go away?
With a jerk, she grabbed a bunch of her long hair between her fingers and the sharp blade of the knife.
She tugged. The hair gave way.
Again.
Again.
Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea
1444
ZEN CHECKED HISfuel state, then hit the mike switch.
“I think we’re just about wrapped up,” he told Alou. “I won’t jettison the ante
“Roger that, Hawk Two,” said Alou. “Be advised we’re intercepting communications now between a ground controller and a flight of Chinese F-8IIs—hang tight.”
While the pilot and the officer handling the intercept data sorted through the radio traffic to figure out what was going on, Zen brought his Flighthawk south and began descending. He had to visually inspect Page 96
the area where the ante
“F-8s are coming out to say hello,” Alou told Zen. “Going to afterburners. Apparently pissed off about something that happened south of us, over the ASEAN fleet. Let’s go ahead with the refuel.”
“Roger that. Preparing to drop trailing ante
“J-8s are in radar range,” said Alou.
“Roger that.” Zen took back control of the Flighthawk, climbing upward. He passed through fifteen thousand feet going toward twenty-five, where Raven was waiting with its probe already out for the refuel. It took a few minutes to climb and line up correctly, moving in toward the waiting straw like a kid homing in on a root beer float in an old-fashioned ice cream shop. Zen throttled back, hit his computer-generated marks, then prepared to give up control to the computer, which would fly the actual refuel. But just then the RWR buzzed in his ear, warning him that the Chinese pilots had turned their radar into targeting mode, as if they were preparing to fire guided missiles at the EB-52.
“Coming at us hard,” said Alou.
“Holding off on refuel,” said Zen. He rolled out to defend his mother ship.
One F-8—still on afterburner—shot in from the northwest, riding about a quarter mile away from the EB-52 at nearly the exact same altitude.
Four hundred meters sounds like a lot, but it’s not a particularly wide margin when one plane is doing 380 knots and the other is up well over 600. It was ridiculously close for the Shenyang F-8. While admittedly fast—the delta-shaped arrow could top Mach 2.2—the Chinese design had the turning radius of an eighteen-wheeler pulling three trailers and none of the finesse.
As it came across Raven’s bow, its pilot threw the plane into a hard turn north, probably surpassing nine g’s. It was a wonder he didn’t pass out.
Meanwhile, the other F-8 took a slightly more leisurely approach, backing off his throttle and trailing his partner by a good ten miles. He turned slightly and took a course that would take him directly beneath Raven.
By maybe two feet.
“Could be he needs some gas,” said Alou.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Zen. “I’m going to get in his face.”
“Hang back. Better that he doesn’t try turning and hit into us.”
“All right. Look, I’m going to have to refuel.”
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“Yeah, roger that.”
The second F-8 pilot, perhaps finally realizing that he couldn’t share the same space as the EB-52, banked about five miles from Raven’s tail. Zen pushed back toward Raven as the Chinese planes pulled north.
“Let’s do the refuel while they’re ru
“Bring it on in.”
But Zen had no sooner started up toward the boom when the F-8s turned back and headed toward the Megafortress.
“What’s with our friends?” asked Zen.
“Who knows,” said Alou. “Maybe they’re looking for flying lessons.”
“I’ll give them some cheap. You want to refuel?”
“Go for it. Delaney’s trying to talk to these idiots and see what they’re up to.”
About a mile from the back of Raven, one of the F-8s drove up near Zen’s right wing, closing the distance from about a hundred yards, obviously curious about the U/MF. Zen didn’t blame him, actually; the little plane looked more like a UFO than a conventional aircraft. He switched over to the frequency the Chinese aircraft were using.
“Get a look at the future, my friend,” said Zen, broadcasting in the clear in English.
“You must be very small to fit inside,” answered the Chinese pilot.
His English was a little difficult to make out, so Zen’s laugh was delayed. It was obviously intended as a joke—the Chinese had had the opportunity to meet Flighthawks before.
“No, I just sawed off my legs,” Zen answered.
He continued on his flight path into the refueling probe, which was jutting out the rear of the EB-52. Just as he got to within twenty yards, the F-8 jiggled in front of him. Apparently caught in the wind sheering off the Megafortress, the Chinese plane jerked down and then up, finally tipping on its right wing and swooping away. Zen had to slide back, afraid he was going to hit the idiot.
“Say, guys, no offense, but you have to stay clear, okay?” said Zen. “We’re working here.”
The lead F-8 took offense at his tone, telling him the sky belonged to everyone.