Deep Black

aggressive. The formation allowed them to concentrate their attack in a variety of ways, most of which a pilot in a teen jet — an F-15, for example — would have salivated over.

The top screen of Malachi’s cockpit area showed the enemy planes coming toward them, rendering them as red double triangles. The screen had a yellow bar and letters at the top, telling the pilot that his Sidewinder AIM-9 M missiles were ready. Just as in a “real” plane, the all-aspect Sidewinder would growl when it sniffed the MiG in the air ahead. Either Whacker or the pilot could make the call on when to fire the missile; in this case it was Malachi’s decision.

Malachi felt the muscles in his forearm and fingers starting to freeze on him. He glanced sideways toward Train and for some reason was reassured by the veteran pilot’s quizzical stare.

“Break,” said Train.

Malachi leaned on his stick a little too hard, then got befuddled by the transmission delays. The plane dropped two thousand feet as he backed off, and now he started to fall behind it — the nose of the small robot pointed too far east, then too far west as he found himself wallowing through the turn. He was a far better pilot than this — far better — but he lost his concentration and then his target; if it weren’t for the dedicated sitrep or bird’s-eye-view screen sitting between the two flying stations, he might have lost himself as well.

He wasn’t that far from where he was supposed to be. He started to nudge back on the stick, and the enemy plane came across the top edge of his screen. The Sidewinder growled, but Malachi hesitated. The target pipper included a distance-to- target reading that told him he was 3.5 miles away, which was at the far end of the Sidewinder’s range.

He was gaining on the MiG. If he could hold off a few seconds he’d have him.

“Fire Fox Two,” Train called his shot on the lead plane. Fox Two was a heat-seeking missile.

Train added something else, but Malachi lost it as the MiG he was attacking jerked to his right, aware that he was being hunted. Malachi went to follow but lost the MiG as it started a series of zigging turns — though it was extremely maneuverable, the slight time lag in the control system made it impossible for the F-47 to stay with the MiG. Instead, Malachi backed off his throttle, waiting for the MiG to commit to a real turn. That was stock MiG strategy — use his plane’s extreme maneuverability to cut inside his pursuer, ending up behind him in what would have looked like a swirling ribbon if the movements were painted on the sky.

Rather than following him, Malachi would aim at the point where he came out of the turn, hoping to nail him there. A larger plane, of course, would never be able to make that sharp a cut. The MiG moved left, then right, then left, committing itself. Malachi went for the gas—“Fire Fox Two,” said Train.

A second later, the lead plane’s missile flashed into the side of Malachi’s screen and merged with the tailpipe of the other plane.

“Splash two MiGs,” said Riddler from the back.

“Fuck,” said Malachi as the screen blanked. The simulation over, he put his head over the back of the seat.

“You took way too long,” said Train, who had swiveled to the side.

Malachi nodded. “Yeah.”

“You had trouble on the bracket,” said Whacker. “You went at it too hot and you got sucked into a pursuit. There’s too much lag in the controls. That second is a killer. Use your missiles. You could even have launched the AIM-9 when the MiG first started to cut. At that point I think you would have gotten him.”

“He would have gone to flares and stuff.”

“Yeah, but you would’ve had a shot.”

“I sucked,” admitted Malachi. “I got the jitters when we picked them up.”

Train stood up. “All right, guys. Take five. Germany should be ready for us soon. You OK, Reese?”

“Yup.”

Train had the option of flying both planes in a combat intercept; the computer would actually take the wingman position, following a prescribed routine based on Train’s movements as well as those of the bandits and a tactical library. But Malachi had shown a million times that he could beat the computer.

A million times in simulations, that is.

“Malachi, you all right?”

“Major, I’m kick-ass OK,” he said. “Just need a quick kick from Speedball and I’m set.”

“Speedball?”

“Music group,” said Malachi, taking the MP3 player from his pocket. “Only on break. I promise.”

61

Karr stayed in the shower until his toes wrinkled. The hot water washed away seven thousand miles’ worth of grime, then ground away at his skin, shaving off several epidermal layers. Back in the kitchen in fresh clothes, he made a whole pot of very strong coffee and sat at the table, reading an old issue of Car and Driver stowed here at his request. The magazine was several years old and he’d already read it cover to cover perhaps three dozen times; one of the cars it featured was no longer even offered for sale. But he read it eagerly, even thoughtfully, his mind absorbed by details of the Mazda RX-8’s cornering ability and a rant about how hard you had to mash the Z car’s gas pedal to get it really moving.

Between the coffee and the shower, Karr decided he was awake enough to forgo a stimulant patch; the time-released amphetamine made him feel a little too jumpy and he’d only used it once since coming to Russia. It allegedly wasn’t habit-forming, but he figured that was complete bull. His concept of the body as temple for the spirit did not preclude trading vodka shots, eating double cheeseburgers, or forgoing some of the precautions they preached in health class, but he was enough of a control freak to dislike operating in a submerged haze of consciousness.

He closed his magazine and got up from the table. He retrieved a large metal attache? case from the bottom cabinet next to the stove, opened it, and took out a laptop. Then he went back to the table, pulled out the chair he’d been sitting on, and got down on his hands and knees, feeling carefully for the right tile — he could never remember which of the four beneath the table it was. Finding it, he pressed on one corner and tried lifting it with his fingernails, but they weren’t quite long enough. He tried two more times — he’d actually managed to get it the last time he was here — then gave up and got a pair of knives whose thin blades were hooked slightly; he jostled up the tile with a flick of his wrists, retrieving a large coaxial cable from a compartment next to the plug.

The system took a while to boot up and then check itself. Karr poured himself a cup of coffee in the meantime, sliding back into the chair. As the test pattern came up, he took out his satellite phone and called Blake Clark in St. Petersburg, an MI6 contact whom he’d asked to meet Martin when he arrived. The British agent answered the phone with a sharp “Clark.” Glasses clinked in the background.

“How’d my package do?”

“Arrived and left.”

“Take the flight to Finland?”

“Said you’d told him there was a change in plans,” said Clark.

“Yeah. Which plane?”

“You didn’t tell me I had to baby-sit the chap.”

“He’s gone now?”

“At least an hour.”

“You’re sure he got on a plane.”

“He didn’t come out of any of the entrances. My people were watching for him.”

“Thanks, Blake. I owe you one.”

“Actually, if we’re keeping track, you owe quite a bit more.”

Karr hit end, then keyed Bori Grinberg. Grinberg answered on the first ring.

“Da?” Grinberg’s accent — and language — always started out somewhere around Berlin but could range over to Paris, up to Krako?w, and back to Moscow depending on the circumstances.

“It’s Karr. So?”

“Meter never moved.” Grinberg’s English had a Russian tint to it, which made Karr suspect that he was in