A quick glance at the instrument panel. Green, green, green. You could write a tech manual using these readings.
“Initiate launch maneuver.”
“
And then he was in the air, speeding away, going through a system check, nudging the Flighthawk out ahead of the EB-52. He climbed upward, the blue bulb of heaven spreading out around him. Major Stockard was sitting in a seat in the bay of the massive Megafortress, but his mind soared through thirty thousand feet, climbing up over the shimmering Pacific, looking down at the world as God looked down on His universe.
Upstairs on the flight deck, the Megafortress crew quickly ran through their own checks, making sure the electronics link between the two planes was at spec. The pod the Flighthawk carried was a shallow, rectangular box fitted under the fuselage area; it looked a bit like a sculpted pizza carrier. Most of what was in the pod were small but powerful amplifiers, tuned to work with a specific set of signals picked up by an antenna (actually a matrix of antennas generally spoken of as one) that would be cranked out of a second box that looked like a parachute pack at the rear of the small plane. The pack and antennas changed the flight characteristics of the aircraft, though C3 had been programmed to compensate so well that Zen wouldn’t “feel” a difference unless he put the small plane through some very hard maneuvers. The antenna and its filament mesh stretched nearly one hundred yards and could be jettisoned by verbal command.
A series of test tones shot back and forth as the techies upstairs took the measure of their gear. Satisfied that they had a good feed, Zen leveled his Flighthawk off at 39,573 feet and opened up the antenna.
“Hawk leader, we are zero-five from alpha,” said Dog. “Looking for a gono go.”
“Roger that,” said Zen.
He clicked the interphone and queried
“
“Roger that,” Zen acknowledged. “Colonel, we’re go.”
“Let’s do it, gentlemen,” said Dog. “
“Well, Major, you’re an excellent pilot,” said the prince as Mack finally relinquished the controls for the trek back. “I must say, you put this old plane through its paces.”
“Ah, you should see me in an F-22,” Mack told him. “But I like this old plane. Solid. Big. Solid.”
He saw Miss Kelly looking back at him and smiling. He gave her a big Mack Smith smile, then checked his watch.
They’d be back just in time for cocktails at the club the prince had taken him to last night.
Delightful.
Mack took off his headset and loosened his restraints, thinking he’d stretch his legs a bit. But as he started to get up, the prince put his hand out.
“Wait, please,” said bin Awg. The indulgent smile he had worn constantly since Mack met him had drained from his face. Mack slid back into his seat and grabbed his headset in time to hear a position and a vector.
“Chinese planes,” explained the prince. “J-11 interceptors coming south toward the exercise area.” He reached to the side and pulled up a flight board, handing it to Mack. “Major, please, if you could check our fuel situation. I believe sheet two would be appropriate,” he added, referring to one of the matrixes that showed how much flying time the plane had left for different flight regimes. “I would like to show these Chinese pilots that the Brunei air force is not entirely without representation in the area.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Mack, snugging his seat belt.
Dog glanced at the multiuse display on his left, which was set as a sitrep to show the position of the Megafortress and its Flighthawk, as well as any other aircraft nearby. The Flighthawk was about a quarter of a mile from Chinese airspace south of Yulin on Hainan, just completing a turn to the east after discharging a packet of electronic tinsel, or chaff, which could be easily detected on the Chinese radar. They’d launch the Hellfire in sixty seconds.
“J-11s are running south toward the Australian frigate,” said the copilot, Captain McNamara, relaying word from the radar operator. “Another one of their mock attacks.”
“They’ll have to fend for themselves,” said Dog. “I’m more worried about that civilian,” he added, referring to a small private plane flying at about twelve thousand feet on almost the exact path the Flighthawk was taking. “I don’t want to hit him with the missile.”
“Shouldn’t come close,” replied McNamara.
“
“Yes, sir.”
“You see that civilian?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Delay your event for ninety seconds.”
“
The RWR panel on the Megafortress buzzed as one of the self-defense units on the island switched on radar used to guide Hongqi-2B missiles, a Chinese surface-to-air missile that was essentially an upgraded version of the Russian V-75 SA-2. The weapons system was potent but fairly well understood by American analysts and easily defeated by the onboard ECMs, or electronic counter measures, carried by
But that wasn’t why they were here.
“Looks like we have their attention,” said Dog. “Radio the flight information back to the ASEAN ships over the clear channel,” he added.
“I’m being tracked,” said Starship. His voice sounded less haughty than it customarily did — but only slightly.
“Steady as you go,” said Dog. “Let’s get that civilian out of the way, then fire your missile as planned. Be very careful of your position.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stoner got into the car and gave the driver the address, settling back in the seat as they headed toward the outskirts of the capital, Bandar Seri Begawan. The day had started steamy and was now as hot and muggy as a Finnish sauna; the Toyota’s air-conditioner was cranked, but Stoner’s white shirt was still pasted against his neck.
Oil had made the kingdom prosperous over the past decade or so, but in some respects Brunei remained unchanged. The spirit of the people was still generous and reverent; Islam gave the society an ordered and calm quality. Even in the city, the population was relatively small, especially for Asia; the crowds that were familiar in Hong Kong or Beijing, for instance, were missing here.
They turned up a road that bordered on the jungle and stopped in front of a large, white building. Stoner got out, told the driver that he would be back, and walked inside. The man at the security desk took his name, then made a phone call. His Malay was so quick and accented that Stoner couldn’t follow what he was saying, though he assumed he was calling the man he’d come to see, John Conrad.
