Strike Zone

in the checklist as an ordinary copilot — though his intention really was to hurry the procedure along — but the prince considered it mostly a solo act. Mack had everything he could do to keep from nodding off until the engines finally spooled up.

As the old red dog nudged along the runway, Mack felt his pulse rate start to climb. It didn’t hurt that Miss Kelly chose that moment to twist back toward the flight deck, exposing a good portion of cleavage.

“This is it,” she said giddily.

“Yeah,” said Mack. “It really is.”

Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea

1153

Zen sat back in his seat aboard Raven, watching the diagnostics screen fly by as the prelaunch checklist for the U/MF-3 Flighthawk continued. The words hawk one ready flashed on his screen. By convention, the robot aircraft was dubbed “Hawk One.” Each U/MF in the air was called “Hawk” and numbered by the computer system, generally by launch sequence. The green color-coded screen told Zen that everything was optimum and routine.

But not for him. For Zen was actually sitting in an aircraft twenty miles from the plane preparing to launch Hawk One. The robot’s mothership was Penn; its pilot was Starship, who had just finished the preflight check without help from Zen. Zen felt a bit like an anxious father, watching his son take his bike out for the first time without training wheels

Zen still wasn’t quite used to watching while others flew the Flighthawks. He’d never be used to it, to be honest.

Even worse, he’d lost his last protege, Captain Kevin Fentress, over this very ocean not two weeks before.

Fentress was good, too good to lose. Zen had ridden him hard, much harder than Starship and Kick. He wanted to think it had made a difference.

Had it, though?

Maybe. Part of the reason he’d ridden him, and he had to be honest with himself about it, was that he was jealous of the kid — Fentress could get up and walk away at the end of a flight, something he’d never be able to do again.

He was jealous of Stoner too, for the same reason.

“Hawk One away,” said Starship.

“Roger that,” said Zen, watching the optical feed. The computer showed the aircraft in good mettle, systems in the green, course perfect.

“Looking good, Hawk One,” he told Starship.

“Thanks, big guy.”

Aboard Penn, over the South China Sea

1213

Weather was clear,visibility unlimited. He didn’t even have a hangover. Starship couldn’t be happier.

Well, Kick could be back home or in the other plane. That would make him happier.

“Hawk One,be advised we have a pair of Chinese Sukhois, that would be J-11s similar to Su-27s, coming south toward the task force,” said the plane’s copilot, Captain McNamara. He gave their bearing, altitude, and approximate speed; the figures were duped on the display. If he changed course slightly he could intercept them in roughly five minutes.

“Hold your present course,Hawk One,” said Zen from the other plane, as if reading his mind.

Starship acknowledged, though he chafed a bit. He really didn’t appreciate having a babysitter.

“Looks like they want to see how low the Aussies can track them,” said Kick. The J-11 pilots had tickled their afterburners and plunged toward the waves, riding down in an extremely low-level track; so low, in fact, that Starship wasn’t entirely sure the Russian-made fighters weren’t skipping on the water.

HMAS Maryborough was one of Australia’s finest destroyers, an American-built ship of the Oliver Hazard Perry class. Outfitted very close to the American standard, the Maryborough packed a competent Mk 13 SAM system; its SM-1MR missiles could take out a target at twenty-five nautical miles, but was arguably better at defending against medium- and high-altitude attacks than the wave-top dash the Sukhois were attempting. While it was academic — the Australians weren’t about to fire at the Chinese planes — it did make for an interesting few minutes.

“I’m amazed they’re not flaming out,” said Kick, monitoring the Chinese hot dogs from his screen. “The radar says they’re six feet above the water. They’re going to slam into the hulls of the ship if they’re not careful.”

“They’ll pull up, watch,” said Starship. They did — though a little later than he thought, the lead plane ripping so close to the Maryborough ’s antenna mast that it undoubtedly wobbled in the wake.

“They’re out of their minds,” said Kick.

“Typical Chinese bullshit,” said Zen from Raven.

“Gentlemen, let me remind you we are supposed to be flying silent com,” said Colonel Bastian from the pilot’s seat of the Pennsylvania. “Please keep unnecessary chatter to a minimum. We have twenty-five minutes to the start of the show.”

Aboard Brunei Badger 01, over the South China Sea

1230

They were within visual range of the Asean task force — cleared to fly above courtesy of the prince’s rank and their theoretical status as members of the Brunei air force — before Mack got a chance to take the helm, but as soon as he did he started making up for lost time. After a bit of straight and level to get the feel of the plane — sucker flew like a big ol’ Caddy, fins and all — Mack decided to see how good a job the riveters had done lashing the Soviet metal together.

“Hang on,” he said, and he tipped his right wing and slid the big Russian bomber downward. It didn’t quite knife through the air — the action was a bit more like an ax head hurtling down a slope — but after the relatively placid flight north it felt like a roller coaster. Mack rode the plane down through fifteen thousand feet before rocking level.

His nose started to float up as he tried to put her into a hard turn — it was a big plane, and the hydraulic controls felt very different from the fly-by-wire gear he spent most of his time with. But a sigh from Miss Kelly over the interphone circuit chased off any hint of doubt; Mack tensed his biceps and the big plane moved smartly through the sky, right where he wanted her.

“That boat looks so small,” said Miss Kelly. “What a view.”

Mack’s view — both of the ocean and of Miss Kelly — was not nearly as expansive as he would have liked, but it would do. The Thai destroyer she admired was off his right wing, bow nudging away the swells.

“We are in an exercise area,” said the prince. “We must be careful.”

“Not a problem,” said Mack. “You think we can make it through a roll?”

And without waiting for an answer, he flicked the stick — well, more like leaned on the old-fashioned wheel yoke that served as a stick — and pushed the big old bomber through an invert.

Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea

1233

Zen double-checked their positions on the SITREP in his flight helmet, then flipped the main view back to the feed from the nose of Hawk Two, the Flighthawk still sitting under Raven’s wing. The computer had finished the prelaunch check and was holding.

“Hawk leader, we’re ready when you are,” radioed Dog from the Pennsylvania.

“Hawk leader copies,” said Zen. “Hawk One? Status?”

“On course. Twenty minutes from alpha point,” said Starship. Alpha was an arbitrary spot sixty seconds from Chinese territorial water where Starship would start his dance.

“Hawk leader copies.Raven?”

“Raven is ready. We’ll initiate launch maneuver at your command.”

“Hawk leader copies.”