The Sukhoi sat under a tarp in the far corner of the hangar, mostly forgotten now that its mission had been completed and it had yielded its data to the CIA and Air Force. Howe powered up and rolled away from the hangar.
“I’m not taking this job,” he reminded himself as he waited for the tower to give him clearance. “It’s not what I want to do. And besides, it’s a desk job.”
Although there were fringe benefits: He felt one of them as he accelerated into the sky.
“Hawk One, this is Two,” said Storey as they tracked out into the small rectangle they’d been given to fly in. “I’d say you’ve flown before.”
The two aircraft moved over the Atlantic, passing through a thick bank of clouds.
“Clear skies,” remarked Storey as they burst above and ahead of the weather. It was as if the sun had disintegrated the curtain of clouds; the sky seemed so clear you could look up through the canopy and spot the angels polishing the stars.
Howe pushed his wing down and began a gentle bank, riding the Hawk southward in a lazy orbit. The stick responded easily, the aircraft eminently predictable despite all its mods and miles. One thing he had to give NADT: They knew what they were doing.
If he took the NADT post, he could do this whenever he wanted.
If he really wanted to fly, why had he left the Air Force in the first place?
Hell, he could find a job as a contract pilot somewhere. Anywhere, just about. Work as a test pilot.
Maybe that was the slot he should take at NADT, not boss man.
Turn down the chance to be rich?
Maybe the money had corrupted Bonham. Wasn’t money the root of all evil? Or was it your own soul where the problem was?
Half a million bucks a year — more, potentially lots more, when you threw in bonuses and stock options and all the perks. Maybe it was a drug you couldn’t resist.
As they neared the end of the cleared range, Storey started talking up the plane, mentioning some of the improvements in engine technology. As a general theme, the engineers had substituted new materials for the traditional metals, seeking to make the power plants lighter and yet tougher at the same time. Howe knew the real question wasn’t whether the materials were usable but rather whether it would be practical — as in affordable — to use them in full-scale production. Even the military had financial constraints, and just because you could make something smaller, faster, and lighter didn’t mean it was cost-effective to do so.
Howe started a series of maneuvers, doing inverts and sharp cuts, rolling out and climbing, diving toward the ocean and whipping back upward, doing his best impression of a 1920s barnstormer. While admittedly the Hawk couldn’t match those old biplanes for sheer warp-ability, it could slash around the sky fairly well. He managed some tight angles and high g’s, felt the restraints press against his body and the blood rush from his head despite the best efforts of his flight suit.
The maneuvering forward airfoils and the variable-attack edges on the main wings gave the smallish Hawk some serious advantages in a close encounter with an enemy fighter. Howe found himself almost wistful for the days of cannon-punctuated furballs, close-in dogfights as much decided by the skill of the engineers who constructed the aircraft as the pilot himself. Today a dogfight would typically end without the planes even seeing each other; an American fighter pilot was equipped and trained to down his opponent before the enemy’s radar even picked him up.
Forget the romance. There was no arguing against the idea of beyond-visual-range combat. The goal was to shoot down the enemy and live to tell about it, and a great deal of work had gone into making that happen.
Reality and fantasy veered in different directions. Reality: The NADT job would be a pain in the ass. He’d be a paper pusher. And maybe worse: They’d expect something for their half-million big ones.
“All right, Hawk Two, let’s head back,” said Howe.
“Roger that. I’ll tell the folks back home to warm up the car.”
As Storey clicked off, Howe caught part of a transmission from a ground controller querying a light aircraft back near the coast. It was flying toward a restricted area north of Washington, D.C. Something in the controller’s tone caught Howe’s attention; he glanced at the radar screen and located the plane about twenty-five miles to the southeast.
The plane failed to respond to the queries. About sixty seconds later a ground controller vectored an Air National Guard flight toward the aircraft to check it out. Howe called in to ask what was going on.
“NADT Test Flight One, we have an aircraft refusing to answer hails or directions at this time,” snapped the controller.
“We’ll check it out for you. We’re closer than Guard Sixteen,” he said, referring to the F-16 that had been vectored to check out the plane.
The controller hesitated but then acknowledged. Howe and Storey selected max thrust — the Hawks had no after-burners — and changed course for the intercept.
The small low-winged monoplane was flying a straight-on path toward the Capitol building. A bomb-laden plane on a suicide flight? Or a lost civilian with his radio out?
Howe’s augmented radar system painted the light plane to his right as he approached. A new controller added data about the plane. The pilot was off his filed flight plan by several miles.
Howe and Storey tried hailing the pilot on the civilian frequencies and an emergency channel but got no response. In the meantime the Air National Guard F-16 was galloping toward them with orders authorizing the pilot to shoot down the plane.
As he cut the distance between them to under five miles, Howe flipped through the radar modes into Close Surveillance to scan the interior of the aircraft.
“NADT Hawk Flight One, advise your situation,” said the Air National Guard pilot.
Howe told him he thought he could get a look at the cockpit.
“You’re not going to make it in time,” said the other pilot, who naturally assumed that Howe would have to fly alongside the other plane at very close range, matching his speed and altitude, to see what was going on.
A blue bar at the top of Howe’s radar image screen alerted him that he was now close enough to get a good view of the plane. “Interior image,” he told the computer. The two planes were still about two and a half miles apart.
The pilot was slumped over the control yoke. But there was another person in the plane.
An injured pilot and a hijacker? Or an injured pilot and a scared, nonpilot passenger.
The person in the first officer’s seat was much smaller and moved around.
The rest of the plane appeared empty.
No bomb that the gear could see.
“Guard Sixteen, pilot of target plane appears unconscious. There’s a passenger. Looks like a kid,” added Howe. “He’s light on fuel as well.”
“How the hell do you know all that?” demanded the Guard pilot.
“NADT Flight to Guard Sixteen,” said Howe, hoping his call sign would provide a clue, “I’m afraid I can’t go into details. But I do know it.”
There was a spar and a compartment behind the cockpit area painted solid by the AMV: The gear couldn’t see inside. It was possible that it was a bomb.
“NADT Flight Hawk One, Hawk Two, Guard Sixteen, we have additional data on the intercepted flight,” said the ground controller before the F-16 jock could respond. “Pilot is a thirty-four-year-old male, one passenger, ten- year-old girl, his daughter.”
“Shit,” said Storey.
“All right, let’s think on this a second,” said Howe. “How many terrorists are going to take their daughters with them on their final flight?”
“How do we know that’s really who they are?” responded Guard Sixteen.
“The person in the first officer’s seat is pretty small,” said Howe. “Yeah, it’s definitely a girl. She’s got long hair.”
Howe slid closer, riding inside twenty yards, ten, worried that the turbulence off his aircraft might upset the plane. He didn’t need the high-tech AMV system any more: He could see the girl pretty clearly through the large window in the relatively new plane. He tried to signal for her to speak, but she didn’t seem to have a headset. He
