trying to get more comfortable. They came up toward the east-west railroad line that perforated Sudan; he took the Flighthawks down it to nearly the limit of their safe separation distance before edging back.
Maybe he shouldn’t think of them as if they were two planes. Maybe they were really one, a coordinated being, an extensions of himself. Like is arms or eyes, working together.
There was a rhythm; once he found if he’d be fine.
Once he found it.
“We’re coming to Bravo,” Cheshire told him. “We’ll follow your turn.”
“Roger that, thank you, Raven,” Jeff said.
“Hawk Two at Bravo,” the computer told him.
Thought a basic element of formation flying, coordinating a parallel turn was tricky, and even experienced pilots could have trouble doing it. It was not easy to hold position, and the pilots had to coordinate their maneuvers carefully. In some ways it was even harder with the Flighthawks, since he couldn’t – or didn’t want to – use the throttle to cover any mistakes. But Zen didn’t need to; he had the planes moving in tandem, perfectly balanced against each other, working like the hands of a prizefighter prodding his enemy. He came around to the new bearing southeastward with the Hawks nailed on beam precisely seven miles apart. He allowed himself a brief exhale of congratulations and relief.
A boxer probing his opponent. This one was a cipher, without noticeable weaknesses. The desert went on forever, admitting no secret. Finding Smith in it would be impossible.
If it weren’t for the fact that there were other people with Knife, Zen wouldn’t mind missing him completely.
The idea snuck up from behind, curling around his spine as if it had risen through the sweat beneath his flight suit.
He hated Smith.
Because of the accident? Or because of Bree?
He wanted her back. And not to be friends. He was wrong about the divorce. He had to fight for her.
How the hell did you do that in a wheelchair? He couldn’t even do his goddamn job without sweating buckets.
A herd of cattle materialized on the right side of the viewer, crowding out his thoughts about his wife, bringing him back to the Hawks. The warm bodies milled back and forth in the rapidly cooling desert air. There were some tents, a vehicle.
“Nomads,” said Jen.
“Yeah,” he acknowledged.
Something moved in the far corner of the left end. Zen pushed his attention toward it, realized he was seeing a gun emplacement.
“Ground intercept radar active,” warned the computer. information spat at him – ID’ing a pair of twin 35mm GDF antiaircraft weapons controlled by a Contraves Skyguard system. The Swiss-built system was relatively sophisticated, though its maximum range was well under twenty thousand feet. According to the threat screen, the Flighthawks had not been locked, though the radar was active.
“I’m going to get close and personal,” he told Cheshire after filling her in.
“Copy. We’ll hold to our flight plan.”
Zen looped Hawk Two into a turn about three miles from the radar source. He changed the main viewer from optics to FLIR. It was a military installation. The guns were mounted at the northern edge of a complex that included several dug-in shelters and four tanks. Several vehicles were parked at the southern end; the Flighthawk camera caught a soldier on guard duty smoking a cigarette. The U/MF passed within two miles of the radar unit without being detected.
“No aircraft,” said Jennifer.
“Yeah,” said Zen, concentrating on returning the Flighthawk to its briefed flight path. The fact that the antiaircraft weapons used a Western-made radar could mean that it was a rebel unit opposed to the pro-Libyan government – or not. In any event, their Anotonov didn’t seem to be there.
Exhausted, Zen returned to the programmed course. he had to have a break; reluctantly he turned the controls over to the computer and reached down for his Gatorade. He was so thirsty he drained it and had to reach for his backup, sitting in a case on the floor by his feet.
“Hard work, huh?” asked Jennifer.
“Yeah.”
“You’re doing good.”
“Yeah.”
“You want some advice?”
“Advice?”
“You’re doing a lot of the routine stuff the computer can handle,” said Gleason.
Anger welled inside, but before he could say anything, Gleason reached over and touched him on the shoulder. It felt electric, almost unworldly – his mind was still out with the Flighthawks. As if he were actually in their cockpits.
“You’re doing fine, Major,” she said. “Let the computer do the routine stuff. That’s what it was designed for. You do what’s important. You’re trying to control both planes at the same time.”
Zen glanced at the instrument screens, making sure the U/MFs were operating fine, then pushed up the helmet to see her.
“It’s almost like you’re afraid the computer’s going to take your job.” Jennifer said. “I know we haven’t had a chance to run many flights with two planes since you’ve been back, but you’re getting twitchy. You’re not letting the computer fly like you used to.”
“It’s my job to fly them,” he told her.
“Absolutely,” said the scientist. “But you can’t split yourself in half. You can trust the computer.”
“I do trust it,” he said.
Jennifer smiles. Jeff wasn’t sure what to say. In the old days, before the accident, had he let the computer do more/
Maybe.
Maybe he didn’t trust it because of the accident. And maybe she was right – maybe he was worried it would take his job, leave him with nothing to do but sit in a corner and gather dust all day.
Wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t a fucking cripple, legs be damned.
“Zero-ten to Delta,” said Cheshire, announcing the upcoming turn.
“Flighthawks acknowledge,” he told her, pulling the visor back on. “Zero-ten to Delta.”
“Scopes are clean, everything is looking very good,” said Cheshire. “Flighthawks are doing a slam-dunk job, Zen.”
“Yeah.”
“I know it’s a needle-in-a-haystack country down here,” she added. “But the Navy planes have the most likely territory. Nothing lives down here except sand.”
Zen got ready for the new turn. Cheshire was right – the ground they were covering hadn’t seen rain in eons. Devoid of water, there were only a few sparse settlements, and no nomads to speak of.
Except for the ones they’d seen a short while before, who’d been parked in the middle of sand.
Grazing animals over sand?
“Bobby, do me a favor, would you?” he asked the navigator. “Look at where our nomads were. They over a water hole?”
The navigator took a few minutes to get back to him. “Not on the map, but maybe those guys know where the water is.”
“Yeah. We got a satellite map that detects underground water sources?”
“What do you think this it, the library?” said the navigator with a laugh.
“Just checking.”
“There’s got to be water there,” said Bobby. “The cattle have been there for at lest two days.”
“Two days?”
“More. They’re on the U-2 photo and the satellite image Madcap Magician gave us, which is at least three or
