aircraft, reflected off the steerable/deformable mirror in the nose, and shot into space.
The AL-52’s aircraft commander, Air Force Colonel Kelvin Carter, didn’t see or hear a thing — no pulsing beam of light shooting off into space, no alien glow, no sci-fi warbling sound — and all he felt was a slight rumbling under his toes as the massive deformable mirror turret moved, smoothly tracking the targets far off in the distance. When he looked over at the supercockpit display on the mission commander’s side of the instrument panel, all he saw was a spark of light, then detonation.
“Splash one Archer!” Zipper Tarantino exclaimed, patting the top of the glareshield of his beloved Dragon. He had just shot down a supersonic air-to-air missile fired from the Russian MiG-29 Fulcrum from over two hundred miles away in less than twelve seconds with two bursts of laser light. “Good Dragon.”
“Good shooting, Zipper,” Carter responded. Kelvin Carter, from Shreveport, Louisiana, had been one of the senior flight-test pilots at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. Along with Patrick McLanahan and Nancy Cheshire, he knew more about the Megafortress series of bombers than anyone else, so he was the logical choice as the operations officer of the Fifty-second Attack Squadron at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, flying the incredible AL-52 Dragon.
As familiar as he was with the modified B-52 bombers that he’d helped develop at Dreamland, Carter was still amazed by the weaponry at his command: a two-megawatt, plasma-pumped, solid-state laser, the most powerful non-land-based, directed-energy weapon in the world. Seconds earlier, as he’d sneaked a peek at Tarantino’s wide-screen supercockpit display, he’d been looking at the telescopically enhanced image of a Russian air-to-air missile actually
The image then switched to the second missile and, with one command—“Attack target two”—Tarantino had initiated the attack sequence. Moments later the second AA-11 Archer air-to-air missile had disappeared in a ball of fire, well short of its prey: the U.S. Air Force C-32A VIP transport, carrying former president Kevin Martindale, Deputy Secretary of State Maureen Hershel, and their entourage.
Now the image in the full-color supercockpit display wasn’t one of a Russian missile — instead it was the image of a real live Russian fighter pilot, clearly visible in extraordinary detail through the cockpit of his MiG-29 Fulcrum jet fighter. Zipper could see the straps on the pilot’s oxygen mask, see the bulky helmet-mounted sight that controlled his air-to-air missiles, and even see that he was wearing a black turtleneck sweater under his flight suit.
“Hot damn!” Carter exclaimed. “You got the Russian pilot himself dead in your sights, Zipper. You’re clear to engage.” Tarantino then changed the laser’s aimpoint to the MiG’s left wing root, the spot where he knew an explosion would quickly and instantly send the fighter completely out of control. “Put the aimpoint back on the pilot,” Carter grumbled.
“What?” Tarantino asked.
“I said put the crosshairs back on that sumbitch.”
“Sir, it won’t matter—”
“Son, that bastard is looking over his shoulder, probably back to where he fired his Archers,” Carter said. “This bastard just shot at an unarmed, defenseless diplomatic aircraft. Fry his ass.”
Tarantino rolled the trackball aiming device smoothly until the pilot’s image was again centered on the supercockpit display, then locked it in. Carter followed the steering commands presented on his heads-up display; seconds later, they received a ready indication. Carter thought Tarantino might hesitate — but he didn’t. The crosshairs appeared, he saw a blinking l in the upper center of the display…
And seconds later the MiG-29’s cockpit canopy disintegrated. They watched in horrified fascination as the pilot’s head was jerked backward and his helmet, skullcap, and oxygen mask were ripped off by the sudden wind blast. For a second the Russian was able to pull back up and began fighting for control of his fighter — when Carter and Tarantino saw the Russian’s head, shoulders, and upper torso turn black, as if the pilot had instantly turned into a big lump of charcoal. Sections of his corpse started flying away in the slipstream, until moments later there was nothing left but unrecognizable pieces of his lower torso. Then the cockpit around the corpse burst into a bathtub of sparks and flame, milliseconds before a massive fireball erupted from behind the corpse and obliterated the image. When Tarantino zoomed out, all they could see were burning hunks of the MiG-29 fluttering through the sky.
“Jee… sus,” Tarantino breathed.
“I’ll bet he don’t feel much like a bad-ass aerial assassin now, does he?” Carter said. He looked at Tarantino, who was not moving, just staring at the supercockpit display. “Son, don’t you dare feel sorry for that rat bastard. Any man who can pull the trigger on an unarmed plane full of civilians deserves to get his ass cooked. And he sure as hell would’ve joyfully put two Archers into
“I know it, sir,” Tarantino said. “But it doesn’t make killing a man any easier.”
“You’re not an airman — and you’re sure as
Tarantino still didn’t move.
“Did you hear me, Zipper?”
To emphasize his point, Carter punched instructions into one of his multifunction displays. The beam-control telescope switched back to target number one: the C-32A VIP transport. The adaptive optics showed the plane in remarkable detail. Carter was even able to zoom in on the cockpit windscreens, showing both pilots working together, quick-don oxygen masks on, checklists out. The readouts still showed the plane in a descent, getting below Ashkhabad’s radar. “See that, Zipper? Our guys are still alive and still flyin’. You did good, son. You’re a defender, not a killer.” He put his gloved hand out and clasped Tarantino’s left shoulder, firmly but gently. “You gotta understand the difference, son. Otherwise you might as well not be wearin’ that uniform.”
He didn’t think Tarantino heard him, thought the kid might be heading toward the deep end — until he saw the young officer reach up and pat the glareshield. “Good Dragon,” he said in a strong, resilient voice. “Good Dragon.”
“There you go, son,” Carter said approvingly. Some guys never made it back to the world after scoring their first kill. He knew that Frankie Tarantino would — eventually — be okay. “There you go.”
Jalaluddin Turabi spooned the last of the rice into his mouth, pretending that its stale, bug-infested taste was really the savory juices from succulent lamb mixed with exotic Chinese spices. He knew he was the last man in his company to be fed, so that spoonful also marked the last of their rations. And he didn’t need to pick up his canteen to know that their water had almost run out, too. Damn it all, where in hell was their resupply flight? He knew that Aman Orazov was an incompetent asshole, but certainly even
Abdul Dendara, Turabi’s first sergeant, stepped over a few moments later and began to speak, but Turabi held up a hand. “Let me guess: We just ran out of fuel for the power generator?”
“That ran out an hour ago, sir, remember?” Dendara replied. “We just ran out of water.” He took Turabi’s canteen and replaced it with another, which had about a liter of fluid in it. “You may want to pour it through your shirt first to filter it. It was the last drop from the metal emergency barrels we scrounged from Yagtyyol last night. I got out as much sand and rust as I could.”
“Thank you. Any possibility of getting more water from the city?”
“Power is still shut down — we can’t get water from the wells,” Dendara replied. “Unless General Zarazi can get the power turned back on from Mary, we’ve taken every drop of water from that entire town.” He paused, then added, “I can order a patrol to start going house to house, looking for water….”
“I already said no, Abdul,” Turabi said. “The people out here are suffering just as much as we are. If the homes are evacuated, you can take water from there — make sure every cistern, every shelf, every refrigerator, and even every toilet tank has been searched — but if the house is occupied, stay away from it. I’ll personally execute any man who disobeys my order. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll pass the word again.”
“Do that,” Turabi ordered. “Now, assuming our men hoarded half their normal daily ration of water, we
