into a wide arc, trying to get nose on nose for the Megafortress, which the computer’s dotted line showed would happen at about sixty miles away. The other plane ducked down toward the waves heading in the opposite direction.
“Trying to get lost in the clutter,” suggested Starship. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
The powerful gear aboard
“So what should Kick do?” Zen asked.
“I’d go for the snake, get in his nose, show him there’s no hope,” said Kick.
“I wouldn’t,” offered Starship.
“Why not?” asked Zen.
“Because first of all, dropping down like that, he’s going to have an impossible climb before he can deal with us,” said Starship. He pointed over at Zen’s screen. “Even if he goes to his afterburner when he’s in position, he’s going to be way gonzo in front there. You can splash number one, then come for number two.”
“We’re not splashing anyone today,” said Zen. “Just remember that.”
Starship felt his face redden.
“I think Starship’s right,” Kick told Zen.
“Well then make sure the Megafortress knows what you’re doing,” said Zen, implicitly agreeing.
Zen watched Kick slash across the Chinese Pilot’s nose, timing his maneuver to match a jink east by
“Okay, so how’d we know he was going to go right?” Zen asked.
“We didn’t,” said Kick.
“Well, most pilots do,” said Starship.
“Western pilots, maybe,” said Zen, still playing teacher. “But you have something to go on beyond that.”
“He moved that way earlier,” said Starship. “Plus it takes him closer to his base.”
“Yeah,” said Kick, getting it.
Zen said nothing as the Flighthawk pilot brought his plane around to intercept the second J-8, which as predicted was climbing off the deck, throttle nailed to the afterburner slot. He’d turned into him a little too soon, probably nervous about retaining his connection to
It wasn’t exactly a huge mistake, but it was enough to convince Zen that he’d put Starship in the pilot’s seat tomorrow. Lieutenant Andrews was a somewhat better pilot and had better tactical instincts as well — possibly a function of his time in Eagles. The difference between the two men would probably disappear in a few weeks’ time, but for now it was enough to make Starship the clear choice.
As the second J-8 jock pulled off,
“Not too quick. Hang back between the Megafortress and the J-8s,” Zen told Kick.
“I know,” snapped the pilot.
“Relax, Kick,” said Zen.
A warning tone bleeped in the headsets.
“RWR,” said Kick. “Wow — they’re trying to spike us.”
Zen’s screen showed that the Chinese planes had activated their targeting radars. The planes carried PL-7A homers — semiactive radar missiles — but they had almost no hope of hitting the Flighthawk at what was now close to fifty miles. Nor were they in position to fire on the Megafortress.
Maybe they were newbies too.
“That’s a hostile act,” said Starship. “I’d splash him.”
“You can’t splash someone because they turn their radar on you,” said Kick.
“That’s not an air traffic control radar,” said Starship. “That’s weapons, baby. Hostile act, per ROE.”
“Radar’s off,” said Zen.
“What was he doing?” asked Kick.
“Busting your chops,” said Zen.
“Why?” asked Starship.
Zen laughed.
“We could’ve spun around, targeted him ourselves.” The lieutenant seemed indignant. “I could have shot him down.”
“Well, from his point of view, he could have shot you down,” said Zen. “The Chinese pilots like to push things to the limit. I’ve dealt with these jokers before. Believe me, that’s nothing. They’ll do a lot worse tomorrow.”
“How will I know whether they’re serious or not?” asked Starship.
“My call as mission commander. No matter who is flying the Flighthawk,” Zen added, emphasizing that he hadn’t made his decision yet.
Or at least not announced it.
“Good time to tank?” asked Kick.
“Yup. You think you can do better than Starship?”
“I made it on the first try.”
“There’s always room for improvement,” said Zen.
Dog stared out the window of the Mercedes limo as the caravan approached the gates of the sultan’s palace of Istana. Part of a large and modern government complex, the Istana Nurul Iman sat on a rise above the city. A golden globe sat to the left, shimmering with the reflected glare of floodlights. A web of white steel rose in the shape of an airy roof from the main gate, sheltering the procession past an honor guard to the entrance of the ceremonial hall, which sat just beyond the sultan’s personal home and government offices.
Colonel Bastian had spent most of the day with members of the Brunei armed forces, trying to get the protocol crap out of the way so he could join the patrols tomorrow. He was now on his way to a state dinner being thrown in his honor; if he survived that, he figured he’d be done with the diplomatic BS for at least a few days.
Things had been so hectic he hadn’t even had a chance to call Jennifer and see how she was. He thought of her as the cars started through the gate; if she were here she’d have some smart-alecky thing to say about the fancy buildings and frou-frou trees lining the grounds. She’d laugh about how uptight he was.
She’d also be wearing a pretty dress. He could do with that.
“The tie, Colonel. The tie.”
Dog turned to Brenda Kelly, the State Department protocol officer who was sitting next to him in the back of the limo.
“Your tie,” she repeated as the car stopped.
“Oh yeah.”
Dog made the adjustment just as the door snapped open. Dog unfolded himself from the back of the car, then turned and put his hand out for Miss Kelly, who had dressed in a long, traditional sari with a scarf to cover her head, showing respect. With Kelly on his arm, Dog began walking down a red carpet toward a set of steps. It was a long walk, and he had to pause every ten feet or so, as a different contingent of the honor guards snapped to in anticipation of a formal salute.
“I feel like we’re at a Hollywood premiere,” Dog whispered when they reached the set of steps just below the main entrance. A group of soldiers barred their way, aiming a pair of flags at them.
“Wait until we get inside,” said Kelly.
“I don’t have to salute inside, right?” asked Dog. “Or are the rules different here?”
“Bow when the sultan comes,” said Kelly, who had told him to do this at least a dozen times.
Dog remembered, bending stiffly with as much grace and solemnity that he could muster. The sultan, a congenial man who managed to seem both casual and regal at the same time, stepped up and put his arm around Colonel Bastian as if they were old friends.
