Deep Black

60

Malachi had flight control of the second plane in the two-plane element, wingman to Train’s lead. They flew a sucked echelon, a formation that had Malachi’s F-47C riding a sixty-degree angle off Train’s tail. Their altitudes were offset as well; Malachi tracked 5,000 feet higher than Train, who was at 35,000 feet. Their indicated airspeed was pegged at 580 knots, a bit under Mach 1.

The two MiGs approached from the southwest at high speed. According to the RWR, they hadn’t spotted the two Birds — but they had a perfect intercept plotted out.

Interesting coincidence.

“We’ll bracket,” said Train.

“Roger that.”

“Intercept in zero ninety seconds.”

“Roger that.”

Malachi leaned forward in his seat, heart thumping so loudly it could have set the beat for Fat Joe. Their formation was aggressive — arguably too aggressive for manned fighters since it limited defensive maneuvering and made it easier to cull off one of the fighters, usually the wingman. But the unmanned planes were designed to be 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.”