First Strike

ELEVEN

Tombstone stared down the long, gleaming white expanse of concrete stretching out before him. The runway was comparable to any that he’d seen in the United States. Sure, there were a few differences in the placement of lights, the numbering system, but in general airfields all over the world had certain similarities. Function drove form. There had to be places to keep aircraft out of the weather. There had to be a way to fuel aircraft, a control tower, and at least some facilities for maintenance. Associated ground equipment and ground crew were another constant, and he had been impressed with how well the Armenians were trained. Had it not been for the accent of the tower controller, he would have believed that he was on an airfield somewhere in the United States.

The MiG itself was impeccably maintained. Its engines thrummed with a comforting rhythm, and even if pitched differently from a Tomcat, reassuring all the same. His aircraft wanted to fly, surged against the brakes as he held her back, coming up to military power in preparation for takeoff.

After his first lesson in the MiG, he’d come to a new appreciation of the MiG’s capabilities. Before, he’d seen MiGs primarily as adversaries with weaknesses that he memorized and exploited. Now, her weaknesses were something he had very much in mind. Primary among them was the appetite of this MiG and the relatively small size of the fuel tanks. She also carried a lighter loadout of ordinance, more on par with what a Hornet would handle than his own massive Tomcat.

On the upside, she was more nimble, quicker to turn in the air and to gain altitude. And, during ascent, she could manage a full negative angle that a Tomcat couldn’t match. Aerodynamically, she was an exceptionally stable, nimble fighter. In air-to-air combat situations, he would not have minded flying her.

But this was an air-to-ground mission, and the lighter loadout of ordinance worried him. Still, a dirt mission might be preferable to ACM. In air-to-air combat, decades of flying the Tomcat would influence his every decision, and he thought that he might miss exploiting some advantage that the lighter aircraft had. With air-to-ground, the adversary stayed the same.

“We’re very certain of this,” Russo had said. “Our intelligence sources are, well, let’s just say they are highly placed. He will be leaving Chechnya tomorrow afternoon, and this will be our last opportunity for a strike.”

“Our last chance for a ground strike,” Tombstone had corrected.

“Yes, of course. But, that’s far preferable to having to track him down after he launches. The difficulties inherent in shooting him down over a populated area are considerable. The whole point is to avoid civilian casualties, and we could help his cause more by shooting him down over a hospital or an orphanage.

Tombstone nodded. Yes, this was a way to do it, although both of them had pointedly avoided mentioning how many people on the ground at his base might be killed as well.

But those were the military people, weren’t they? And that made a difference, didn’t it? They had to know when they’d signed on with a renegade that they were putting their lives at risk for something like this.

“Hunter, you’re cleared for takeoff. Launch at your discretion.”

Tombstone disengaged brakes. The MiG surged underneath him, hungry to be airborne. As he had every time for the last two days, Tombstone marveled at her sheer speed, her willingness to slip the surly bonds of Earth. Such a long runway, and so little of it needed.

The MiG sliced through the cold air like a scalpel through skin. The cold air was dense, and provided more lift, virtually vaulting her into the air.

His orders had been explicit. Once they were clear of the Armenian airfield, there would be no further contact from any of the air controllers. The forces on the ground were simply told that he was a military aircraft on independent operations.

“So far, so good,” Greene said over ICS. “Now, as long as the Armenian’s intelligence is good, we’re okay.”

The photographs Russo had showed them were obviously taken from a satellite. The resolution was grainy and the details less distinct than Tombstone expected from American satellite shots. At first, he was inclined to chalk that off to inferior technology, and then he caught himself. Would Americans show the very best satellite shots to a foreign national? No. Tombstone knew better than that from countless Allied and NATO briefings. Even the closest allies were shown products that did not reveal the full capabilities of the system. Why would foreign nations do anything else?

So, Tombstone had fished delicately for details, asking questions about the better photographs. Russo had answered each question with more detail. Perhaps it was ground intelligence, but Tombstone doubted it. The Russian fighter-jock priest knew more than he was telling. And, had their situations been reversed, Tombstone would have done exactly the same thing.

“A little late to be worrying about the intell, isn’t it?” Tombstone asked.

“Better late than never,” Greene grumbled.

And what was it with his young pilot? For the last twenty-four hours he’d been in a surly mood. Not openly disrespectful or contentious, but Tombstone could tell he had something on his mind. A less than successful encounter with one of the Armenia women he’d been introduced to? Or maybe a touch of the flu — maybe even doubts about his mission. Well, whatever it was, he better not let it affect his performance in the backseat.

Warrant Officer Joseph Starskii had never intended to be a rebel. Most certainly, he had not intended to be part of a losing rebel force trapped in a makeshift camp, working on radar that had been modern during Stalin’s days, and under the command of officers and senior warrant officers far more brutal than those he’d known in the Russian Naval Air Service. He most certainly had never planned on military field rations as his primary subsistence.

Starskii had been comfortably retired from the service for three years and living in his native Chechnya. Sure, there were food and fuel shortages, but he had a hard time imagining any part of the world where that wasn’t so. He had a small garden, a few chickens, and, while it was hardly a luxurious or even dependable life, there were no inspections, no officers, and nobody shooting at him.

All that had changed during the first Chechen rebellion. Momentarily caught up in the furor of patriotism sweeping across the area, he had reported as ordered to the rebel commander. Once they’d found out that he could not only operate a radar but repair one as well, his fate had been sealed.

The rebel forces had spent the last five days on full alert, and the strain was starting to show. Tempers flared, careless accidents happened, and conditions were made no easier by cold military rations as their only food, and by rudimentary sanitary facilities. They smelled of too many men too long unshowered and the stench filled their operations center, although you didn’t notice after the first thirty minutes. But the initial shock of it during the moments you first walked inside was enough to stun you. It made concentrating on briefings difficult.

Even knowing they might be attacked at any moment did little to increase the state of alertness. There was only so long you could run on adrenaline, only so long, and they’d passed that point weeks ago. Now, it was a matter of conserving resources, waiting for the moment you had to act or die.

Starskii checked the contact on the screen, noting that it was radiating the appropriate IFF signal for a civilian airliner, Aeroflot, and their location matched flight plans already on file. They were the same flights he’d seen on the last two watches, and there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Suddenly, from the front of the room, he heard raised voices. Both were readily recognizable. One was his immediate supervisor, the watch officer, and the other was their operational commander. Comrade General Korsov.

The watch officer wasn’t a bad guy. They’d shared a few drinks off duty and had cautiously felt each other out on their respective views on the Chechen forces and prospects. Under different circumstances, they would have been close friends.

Korsov, however, was another matter altogether. The few times Starskii had encountered him, it had had the unexpected result of refiring his passion for the Chechen cause. Korsov represented everything bad Starskii had ever seen in the Russian Naval Air Force.

“I don’t care who told you, it was still a violation of operational security,” Korsov shouted. “If we are so sloppy with planning, how will we be during the execution?”

Starskii’s supervisor’s voice was at first placating, then defensive. “How can you expect us to do our jobs if we don’t have adequate information? If we’re not notified when you expect to launch, we would assume that you were hostile air.”

“You would have provided confirmation of my flight’s identity,” the Russian shouted. “And now, you fool, you have compromised the entire evolution.”

“I have compromised? Sir, I was simply told that your aircraft would be departing this evening.”

“And who did you tell?” The Russian’s voice grew louder as he turned to face the operations center.

Starskii ducked down behind his consul, hoping to avoid notice. Yes, he had been one of the ones told, since his sector of airspace would be involved. A sensible precaution, and he’d thought no more of it.

Within moments, Korsov loomed over him. “And you — what do you know about the flight plans for this evening?”

Reflexive self-preservation immediately took over. “Nothing, sir. The only thing scheduled is an Aeroflot flight or two, but they are all well north of us.” Starskii stared into the Russian’s eyes, frightened to his very soul. Korsov had dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to peer into his brain. Korsov knew he was lying — Starskii was certain of it.

To his surprise and relief, the general grunted and turned away. He turned back to the Starskii’s supervisor. “Who, then?”

To Starskii’s relief, the supervisor immediately took his cue. “No one, sir. They would have been told at the appropriate time.”

A long silence followed.

Had Starskii not been so involved in trying to watch the argument without being detected, he might have noticed a small air contact wink into being at the very eastern edge of his area. He might have seen it grow two or three pixels stronger for just a moment then fade away. He might have wondered what caused it.

But he never, ever, would have interrupted the argument taking place to report it.

The gentle warble of the MiG’s ECM detection gear was markedly different from that of a Tomcat. Tombstone heard Greene swear softly as he fumbled with unfamiliar dials. The frequency of the detection was displayed on the edge of Tombstone’s HUD.

“Standard ground search radar,” Greene said finally. Tombstone had already figured that out from the parameters.

“They got us yet?”

“I don’t think so. It looks like it’s just in general search mode. The thing is, Tombstone, they didn’t brief us on any ground station search radar. And if they didn’t tell us about that, what else didn’t they tell us about?”

“Like what?”

“Like ground-to-air missiles, maybe.”

Tombstone held his temper. There was no point in bitching about it, and it wasn’t unreasonable to be detected by radar. It was probably just a small airfield, maybe just a tower, that handled cross-continent flights. “We’ll deal with what’s there, Jeremy. Is it in targeting mode?”

“No.”

“Is it one of the radars normally associated with a mobile antiair platform?”

“I don’t know that that matters,” Greene said, his voice growing cold. “It may not be directly slave to one, but it could be used by any of them. Even a Stinger could get some initial indications off of one. And the Stinger has a two-mile range and we’re going to be well within that on our final approach.”

Tombstone felt his irritation growing, more at Greene than at the prospect of antiair defenses. The latter he’d expected — the former he didn’t. All aviators were capable of compartmentalizing their minds, putting aside any other concerns and focusing on the task at hand. There was no threat near — and Greene knew that Tombstone knew that. So, why all this flack in the cockpit?

“Jeremy — just shut the hell up,” Tombstone said with a cold note of authority in his voice. “We’ve got a mission to fly. Whatever other problems there are, we’ll settle them when we get back on the ground. Got it?”

“Got it. Sir.”

“Time on top?”

“Ten minutes. Sir. All the landmarks may look a little different.” Greene’s voice was coldly professional now.

“Roger,” Tombstone acknowledged. Turning to the east to slip out of the radar envelope would add a degree of difficulty to their run, but not an insurmountable one. By losing altitude now and using the hills to block the radar signals, Tombstone hoped to be able to approach undetected for a longer period of time.

At least by the Chechens. But the Russians, ah — that is a different story, isn’t it? The land bases will see us coming, and getting through is going to depend on whether or not our Armenian friends can convince them that we’re a routine flight. And, on whether they’re loyal to a bad guy.

Well, there was no help for it now. He wasn’t going to cancel the mission just because there was an air search radar they didn’t know about.

“You are relieved,” Korsov said coldly. Starskii peeked up over his consul, trying not to be caught snooping. Since they had moved away from his consul, their voices had been quieter for a time. From what he could gather, Korsov did not completely believe his supervisor’s explanation.

“I did nothing wrong, sir,” the superior said, an almost desperate note in his voice. They were committed now to the story that he told, and it was clear that he intended to justify himself when the wiser course might have been to simply roll on his back and whine.

A sudden sharp spike of noise echoed through the compartment. Starskii’s jaw dropped. Korsov had slapped the supervisor across the face, moving with such lightning speed as to be scarcely detectable.

“You are relieved,” Korsov said. Starskii saw Korsov examining the room, carefully evaluating each man there. Finally, Korsov pointed at Starskii. “You. Come here.”

Starskii moaned, his stomach whirling and churning. He walked on unsteady feet over to the two. His superior refused to look at him. “Yes, sir?”

“As of this moment, you are to assume his duties.” Korsov peered closely at him. “What is your name?”

“Joseph Starskii, General.” Cold swept over him, radiating up from his gut, and threatening to make him lose the heavy, indigestible rations he’d consumed just hours before. “Sir, I think there are others more qualified.”

Korsov stepped closer, and Starskii felt the heat radiating off him. It was as though Korsov were superhuman, possessing a metabolism different from that of a normal person.

“Yes,” he said, studying Starskii carefully. “But loyalties still means a great deal to me, do you understand? And if you are to be loyal, I would prefer it to be to me.”

He knew! He knew I lied, and yet he let me live. Relief rushed over him.

“Come,” Korsov said, drawing him out of earshot of the others. Two military police hustled his former supervisor out of the room. “We must talk.”

Starskii could feel everyone else trying very carefully not to see him. Eyes were averted, heads turned away. Whatever mistake he had committed, they wished to be careful to avoid it.

“You understand my concern over the compromise of this mission, yes?” Korsov asked softly. His eyes bore into the uneasy air traffic controller.

“Yes, sir.”

“Regardless of who you have or have not told, the fact is that the knowledge should have never been in this room. And now, since the remote movements are compromised, there must be a change of plans. I will be departing immediately. As supervisor, you’ll tell no one of this. You will make sure that your actions are appropriate. When we appear on your radar scope, you’ll order our contact not reported. Is that clear?”

“Very, sir.”

“Ninety minutes later, you’ll evacuate the center personnel and proceed immediately to the airfield. There, you’ll board a transport and you will follow us to Bermuda. Is that clear?”

“Yes, commander.”

“You have no questions, do you?” Korsov’s voice made clear what the appropriate response was.

“No, comrade. In ninety minutes, then.”

Starskii’s answer appeared to satisfy Korsov. He rocked back slightly on his heels, his hands jammed deep in his pockets, and fixed the controller with a dark stare. “Succeed and you will be well rewarded. Disobey me and the consequences will be immediate and severe.” Without further word he turned and stalked out of the room.

Starskii let out a long, shaky breath. Behind him, the normal sounds and voices of the mid watch resumed.

I will tell no one. But, in ninety minutes — well, I’ll decide then what to do. Because with comrade general out of the room, and airborne himself, things are entirely different.

“Three minutes,” Greene said. “Recommend you come left on course zero nine four for twenty seconds to retain original flight profile.”

“Acknowledged.” Yeah, that might be the better idea. Pop in between these hills, pick up his original route rather than deal with approaching from another angle. The more that was familiar, the better off they were.

Tombstone cut the nimble aircraft hard to the left, counted out loud, and turned just as Greene updated his advice. “Come right now to course zero one five, descend to two thousand feet.”

“Time on top?”

“Ninety-two seconds,” Greene answered. “Recommend descent to eight hundred feet in thirty seconds.”

“Roger.” Just like the original profile said. Man, if I can’t lay these bombs down his chimney, I’d better hang up my spurs.

Tombstone rolled inverted to take a closer look at the terrain as he descended and located the landmarks they’d picked out from the satellite photos. They were flying a perfect approach, exactly on schedule. And, any second now, all hell was going to break loose.

Korsov climbed into the cockpit of his aircraft, feeling the cold seep through his flight suit and into his undergarments. Though winter was still a month off, already he could feel it coming on. All too soon, the wind would blow steadily, cold and harsh down from the north, and the snow would complicate even the simplest of maneuvers. The Russians had known for generations what the Germans learned the hard way — do not attack during the winter.

Ah, but winter in one place was not the same as winter every place, was it? He could almost feel the Bermuda sun on his hands, feel sunburned skin tight across his chest, marvel at sweat rolling down his back in the middle of November. Yes, Bermuda in winter was entirely different from Chechnya in winter.

His aircraft was already preflighted, and his assigned regular copilot waiting for him. Years ago, he been able to comfortably relinquish tasks such as preflight, checking fuel status, and such. Those who worked for him knew well the consequences of making a mistake.

He clambered up the boarding latter, feeling the cold reach deep into him through his fingertips. The plastic ejection seat was hard and unyielding. Before he even buckled his ejection harness, he reached down to flick the heater on. Hot air gouted out under his feet, and he felt the Bermuda sun on his skin again.

The flight line technician fastened his ejection harness, double-checked that the safety retaining pins were removed, showing them to Korsov for his inspection. Behind him, his copilot did the same. Then, as the technicians climbed down and, even before they were on the ground, bad guys slid the canopy forward and locked it into place.

In front of him, another ground traffic controller stood in front of the aircraft, lighted wands held steady in front of him. When all the other technicians cleared the area, Korsov was signaled to proceed, and then handed off along the line to a second technician, who guided them toward the runway. As he reached the apron, the second ground tech snapped off a sharp salute with his lighted wand and pointed toward the runway. Korsov turned and continued his taxi.

He paused for a moment at the end of the runway, stepped hard on the brakes, and ran the engines up to full military power. They sounded sweet, operating perfectly. There was no tower to control takeoffs or landing — they had all been killed during the first rebel attack on the airfield. Not that there was much need for them now — the only aircraft coming in or out were his, and he knew when each was scheduled.

It has not been a fatal mistake to warn base operations of his departure that afternoon, he admitted. He would have done so himself, but certainly not that far in advance. No, half an hour before his intended departure would be fine to prevent any confusion in the antiair batteries.

“Ready?” he asked his copilot.

“Yes, comrade,” the man replied.

“Well, then…” He let off the brakes, and the MiG surged forward evenly. She bolted down the runway, gathering speed every second, and leaped in the air as though she were going home.

Their next stop would be in Bulgaria, both as a brief maintenance stop and to rendezvous with a squadron of MiGs that would be joining them there. Korsov wasn’t entirely sure what Maskiro had told the squadron commander, a subordinate of his in the Black Sea Fleet, but Maskiro appeared confident that the MiGs would be there. He relayed that information to his copilot, who had not known until the time where they were headed, although he certainly had been able to guess the final destination.

“Comrade! Air contact, bearing one one zero, range six miles!”

An air contact? Nothing scheduled to be in this area. Perhaps a private aircraft?

“Speed, four hundred and twenty knots, altitude eighty seven hundred meters,” the copilot continued, thus eliminating that possibility. “Comrade, it must be a military transport — there are no civilian flights scheduled.”

It was just as he had feared — someone knew that he was leaving the airfield, someone knew.

His copilot’s voice trembled. “Radar in search mode only, sir. No targeting. Should we radio a warning back to our operations center?”

They’d know in a few minutes. Know, and pay for their mistakes.

There had been no air transport scheduled to evacuate them in ninety minutes. In fact, there had been no provisions made for them at all. As he watched the unidentified aircraft descend, turning toward the air base, and then descend again, he knew exactly what it was. There was only one particular mission that fit that flight profile. Soon enough, the operations center would know as well.

“No,” he said. “They have detected the contact on their own radar by now.”

“But, sir, if they haven’t, we must warn them.” The copilot said disbelievingly.

A babble of voices, some shouting, some crying, came over the tactical frequency now. Korsov smiled grimly. There was no need to warn them now — they knew exactly what was coming.

Starskii stared at the screen. There was no doubt in his mind what the blip represented, not with that flight profile. Even now it was decreasing speed, descending again, and any second it would—

“Everyone out!” he shouted, his gaze still glued to the radar screen. Korsov’s aircraft was just rolling off the runway, and they surely must see the incoming contact. And would have seen it before the controller, since his greater altitude was giving him a longer range. “There’s only one target — I know what that is, on that flight profile. Everybody out! Get as far away as you can!”

The fifteen remaining watchstanders needed no further urging. They abandoned their consoles, some of them running away with headsets still on, and headed for the single door leading into the reinforced structure. From there, they raced down the short passageway separating the operations center from the unclassified portions of the building. A few shouted warnings to the others as they ran, but did not slow to assist them.

Once outside, they headed in various directions. Starskii himself ran straight ahead, heading for the gate, shouting at the guards to unlock it. They had no way of knowing he was the senior person in charge of the operations section and were slow to obey him. A few men ahead of him started climbing the fence, frantic to be clear of ground zero.

Even an Olympic medallist would not have been able to run fast enough to make any difference. The controller and his own compatriots might be battle-hardened soldiers, but they were hardly world-class runners. They ran nonetheless, praying, some of them for the first time in years, hoping against hope somehow to make it far enough away to survive.

Tombstone rolled back over into level flight and continued his descent. By now the targets were clearly visible just in front of them. It was a ramshackle cinder block building, the exterior in severe disrepair, and surrounded by a rusty chain link fence.

“Man, look at that,” Greene said, leading forward and watching over Tombstone’s shoulder. “They’re running like ants.”

“You would be, too.” Tombstone was intent on making minor corrections to his lineup.

“For all the good it will do them,” Greene said.

“Time to release?” Tombstone said.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

Tombstone stared forward, now close enough to see their faces. Without exception, stark terror distorted their features into something almost less than human. He felt a flash of pity for them, and then remembered the pictures of the dead civilians in Bermuda.

“Seven, six, five, four…”

Despite the best intentions of military men and women everywhere, it came down to this, didn’t it? There was no way, despite the long-standing American dream, of limiting casualties to just the military. No way at all. And, no, the men running away from him below might not actually have been on the ground in Bermuda, but they were just as responsible for what had been done there as if they had been.

“Three, two…”

“Hunter, abort! Target is gone — repeat, your target is gone!” Russo’s voice broke through the cockpit like a wave of cold water, shocking each man.

Without even acknowledging, Tombstone broke hard to the right.

“What are you doing?” Greene howled. “Tombstone, we’re only two seconds—”

“You heard the man,” Tombstone snapped. “There was only one real target on this mission, and he’s gone.”

“How do you know that? How do they know? What is this, waiting until the last minute? Hell, it would have been safer to release than to abort, you know that!”

“We have our orders. And we’re going to follow them.”

But—” Greene broke off as a movement on his screen caught his attention. “That must be him, Stony! That air contact — it’s another MiG. We can catch him. We can put an end to this right now.”

Tombstone knew Greene was right. That was their target flying the other MiG. It was close, so close — only one minute separated them. They were within range even now.

“Forget our load out?” Tombstone snapped.

Greene swore violently, directing his oaths equally at the Russians and the Armenians, and the ordnance techs who’d loaded the MiG only with ground attack weapons. Short of dropping an iron bomb on top of the other aircraft or ramming it, they had no way to attack. Even the nose gun had not been loaded.

Just then, a hard tone cut through the cockpit. It was louder and more insistent than the earlier ESM alarm. Tombstone glanced at the frequency and pulse rates on the alarm display, and knew immediately what it was.

“SAM! Get us out of here!” Greene shouted. “Tombstone, it’s got a seeker head and—”

Tombstone broke hard to the right, and kicked the MiG into afterburner. He glanced down at his fuel gauge, keeping up his scan, absorbing all the information from all the sources immediately, integrating them into a coherent threat picture, and calculating his options without even being conscious of it.

He knew instinctively he could not outrun the missile. They were too close, and had too little time. And, if he used the afterburner now, there was a good chance they would not be able to return to base.

“Do you see it?” Tombstone demanded, keeping his attention on the terrain ahead. They were now at 500 feet and still descending.

“No, I — yes! I got it, ten o’clock low. It’s got a lock!”

“That’s what they’re supposed to do. Options?”

“Faster!”

Tombstone didn’t answer. Ahead of them were the low hills that had shielded them from the air search radar as they were approaching. Now, they would serve a similar function, only in reverse. But the descent angles would have to be calculated perfectly. Since the missile was rapidly gaining altitude, it would have a look-down capability that would negate the masking effect of the hills. If he could just entice it down, then cut back behind the terrain, it might work.

“What are you doing?” Greene screamed. “You’re heading back toward it!”

“Tell me when it turns!” Tombstone demanded. He pulled the MiG into a tighter turn, decreasing the range to the missile, dividing his attention between the HUD, the terrain, and the missile. This close to the ground, a hill could kill him just as fast as a missile.

“It’s got us, it’s got us.” The tone sounding in the cockpit increased in frequency and pulse rate, indicating the missile had a lock on them.

“Hold on!” Now the trick would be to see if he could shake it.

Tombstone put the MiG nose down, still in afterburner, and headed for the deck. Eighty feet, seventy feet — Tombstone yanked up hard at forty feet. He maintained level flight for a few moments, and watching for the missile to react.

“It’s coming after us,” Greene said, his voice disbelieving. “Damn you, you—”

Tombstone dropped the MiG’s nose down hard again, grunting to maintain the blood flow to his brain, then jerked the MiG back up. Already he could feel the G forces eating away at his vision, threatening to rob him of the only sense that would keep them alive. Greene was unprepared for the new maneuver, and let out a moan of protest.

“Stay with me!” Tombstone snapped. The missile was closing, only 200 feet behind him now, and just for a moment he felt despair. It wouldn’t work — there wasn’t enough time — they would have to punch out, take their chances on the ground, which was no chance at all, not at this altitude, not in Chechnya.

“Oh,” Greene moaned. “It’s — it’s still coming, Tombstone.” His voice, while slightly fuzzy, contained none of his earlier panic.

“Hold on. This is our only chance.” Tombstone dropped the nose of the MiG down and headed for the hill in front of him.

The area around base was composed of a mixture of ridges and valleys, with hardwood trees and pines dominating the hills. The hardwood trees had already started to lose their leaves, but the evergreens formed a solid line thirty to forty feet above the cold ground. Tombstone aimed directly at a group of pines. At max speed, the deciduous trees were little more than sticks against the gray sky, and the evergreens were easier to see.

“No!” Greene howled. “No, you can’t—”

“I can’t,” Tombstone screamed, shouting not only at his backseater but against the Fates as well. “I can!”

The trees were so close, too close. At the last second, he yanked the MiG over on her side and pulled her up hard. Almost too late — the aircraft jolted violently as the top branches smacked against her wingtip. She started to cartwheel, but for the first time Tombstone was part of her, melded to metal as he’d never been before. Her wings part of his body, her hydraulics lines and cables his blood vessels and ligaments. He reacted without having to think, countering the aircraft’s insistence that she must rotate, had to, pulling her out of it by demanding more of her control surfaces and engines than anyone had ever done before.

In a Tomcat, he would have been dead. He knew that with cold certainty. And even in the MiG, so light, so responsive, so willing, it was a close thing. Time stopped and the trees seemed to creep past him. He had time to examine each branch, each needle, it seemed.

Greene was screaming, no words just inchoate sounds of terror and protest, scrabbling forward with his hands as though to reach for the controls but too panicked to remember that he was strapped in. As the MiG careened past—through—the trees, Tombstone felt nothing but cold, utter, focused peace. If it was to end here, it would end. If not, it wouldn’t. Nothing else mattered, not Tomboy, not the screams coming from the back seat, and least of all his own body. All that mattered was that he fly, right now, right this second, better than he’d ever flown before.

Suddenly, they were clear of the trees, climbing hard, the dense cold air caressing the fuselage and urging the aircraft to fly, fly. Time resumed its normal progression, and the feeling of detachment started to disappear. He noticed dispassionately that his hands were trembling ever so slightly at the fingertips, the only sign of the adrenaline that was flooding through him.

A hard blast of air rocked the aircraft, threatening to destroy her precarious aerodynamic stability. He calmed her as he would an unsettled horse, letting his hands and feet form the words on her controls.

“It detonated! It hit the trees! Or the ground! I don’t know which — oh, dear God.” Greene was almost sobbing. “There was nothing I could do. I was — I was—” Greene’s voice dissolved into sobs.

It struck Tombstone at that moment precisely what Greene’s problem was. It had nothing to do with courage or with his confidence in Tombstone. No. That wasn’t it at all.

The problem was simply that Greene was a pilot. And no pilot, no matter how good or how bad, no matter how brave or how timid, ever tolerated being a passenger.

A pang struck Tombstone. He had done this. He had asked another pilot to fly back seat, to go against every instinct and reflex in his body.

Would he have done it, if asked?

I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have lasted as long as he has. No way.

“As soon as we get back on the ground, I’m getting you an aircraft,” Tombstone said, pretending that Greene had not been crying. “I should never had done this, asked you to fly back seat this long. And we’re heading for the Jefferson. You want a fight, I’ll get you a fight.”

No answer. Tombstone didn’t expect one. Words were cheap, but he’d prove he meant what he said as soon as they were back on the ground.