Was she going to stay in this hole the rest of her life?
Jennifer jumped off the couch, pacing across the small room. Cortend, Danny, Dog — they were all against her, weren’t they?
They were all against her.
Did she deserve that?
Maybe she did.
Jennifer found herself at the small sink. A large paring knife sat at the bottom, next to a coffee cup from a few days before.
Did she deserve that?
She picked the knife up and felt the blade with the edge of her thumb. Only when she pushed hard against it did the numbness dissipate.
Blood trickled from her finger. She stared at the red dots, watched the flow swell.
Slowly, she brought the knife upward toward her neck. She ran it up against her chin and then the cheek, the way a barber would drag a safety razor.
Was there no way to make the numbness go away?
With a jerk, she grabbed a bunch of her long hair between her fingers and the sharp blade of the knife. She tugged. The hair gave way.
Again.
Again.
Zen checked his fuel state, then hit the mike switch.
“I think we’re just about wrapped up,” he told Alou. “I won’t jettison the antenna until we’re ready to refuel,” he added. “Looks like, oh, ten minutes?”
“Roger that,
While the pilot and the officer handling the intercept data sorted through the radio traffic to figure out what was going on, Zen brought his Flighthawk south and began descending. He had to visually inspect the area where the antenna would fall to make certain it wouldn’t hit anyone — or be retrieved before it sank.
“F-8s are coming out to say hello,” Alou told Zen. “Going to afterburners. Apparently pissed off about something that happened south of us, over the ASEAN fleet. Let’s go ahead with the refuel.”
“Roger that. Preparing to drop trailing antenna,” said Zen. He checked his screen, went to the sitrep, then let the computer take the bird, holding it at 8,500 feet when he gave the command to release the antenna. A puff of smoke rippled from the rear of the Flighthawk; a set of charges no larger than firecrackers blew the mesh into sections, destroying any value it might have for an enemy. The metal that didn’t disintegrate settled in the water.
“J-8s are in radar range,” said Alou.
“Roger that.” Zen took back control of the Flighthawk, climbing upward. He passed through fifteen thousand feet going toward twenty-five, where
“Coming at us hard,” said Alou.
“Holding off on refuel,” said Zen. He rolled out to defend his mother ship.
One F-8—still on afterburner — shot in from the northwest, riding about a quarter mile away from the EB-52 at nearly the exact same altitude.
Four hundred meters sounds like a lot, but it’s not a particularly wide margin when one plane is doing 380 knots and the other is up well over 600. It was ridiculously close for the Shenyang F-8. While admittedly fast — the delta-shaped arrow could top Mach 2.2—the Chinese design had the turning radius of an eighteen-wheeler pulling three trailers and none of the finesse.
As it came across
Meanwhile, the other F-8 took a slightly more leisurely approach, backing off his throttle and trailing his partner by a good ten miles. He turned slightly and took a course that would take him directly beneath
By maybe two feet.
“Could be he needs some gas,” said Alou.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Zen. “I’m going to get in his face.”
“Hang back. Better that he doesn’t try turning and hit into us.”
“All right. Look, I’m going to have to refuel.”
“Yeah, roger that.”
The second F-8 pilot, perhaps finally realizing that he couldn’t share the same space as the EB-52, banked about five miles from
“Let’s do the refuel while they’re running away,” he said.
“Bring it on in.”
But Zen had no sooner started up toward the boom when the F-8s turned back and headed toward the Megafortress.
“What’s with our friends?” asked Zen.
“Who knows,” said Alou. “Maybe they’re looking for flying lessons.”
“I’ll give them some cheap. You want to refuel?”
“Go for it. Delaney’s trying to talk to these idiots and see what they’re up to.”
About a mile from the back of
“Get a look at the future, my friend,” said Zen, broadcasting in the clear in English.
“You must be very small to fit inside,” answered the Chinese pilot.
His English was a little difficult to make out, so Zen’s laugh was delayed. It was obviously intended as a joke — the Chinese had had the opportunity to meet Flighthawks before.
“No, I just sawed off my legs,” Zen answered.
He continued on his flight path into the refueling probe, which was jutting out the rear of the EB-52. Just as he got to within twenty yards, the F-8 jiggled in front of him. Apparently caught in the wind sheering off the Megafortress, the Chinese plane jerked down and then up, finally tipping on its right wing and swooping away. Zen had to slide back, afraid he was going to hit the idiot.
“Say, guys, no offense, but you have to stay clear, okay?” said Zen. “We’re working here.”
The lead F-8 took offense at his tone, telling him the sky belonged to everyone.
“Well, yeah,” said Zen. “But if you want to stay in it you better stand back. Even we haven’t figured out a way to get two airplanes in the same place at the same time yet.”
He brought his Flighthawk up, but before he even started to close got a proximity warning. The F-8 leader flew under the Flighthawk and crossed in front, missing both planes by no more than twenty yards.
That was just a prelude for the maneuver by his wingman, who took his F-8 close enough to the wing of the Megafortress that it looked like he was going to try docking on the Flighthawk cradle. He stayed under the big plane, making it impossible for Zen to refuel.
“I’m tempted to use the cannons,” Zen said to Alou.
“Makes two of us. How’s your fuel?”
“I can’t do this all afternoon.” The fuel panel showed that he was well into his reserves, with only ten
