Strike Zone

II Paradise

“A couple of hours in paradise and already you’re sleeping late,” Zen told Lieutenant Kirk “Starship” Andrews as the young Flighthawk pilot sat down at the table across from him. Starship’s breakfast tray contained two large cups of coffee and nothing else.

“My body’s still back in Dreamland,” mumbled Starship.

“You sure it’s not with the hospitality people?” said Lieutenant James “Kick” Colby, the other Flighthawk pilot Zen had taken on the deployment.

“It wants to be,” said Starship.

“Natives are off-limits,” said Zen. “You can look but you cannot touch. Got that? And be careful how you talk to them.”

“How about the State Department liaison?” asked Kick. “She’s hot.”

“Out of your league,” said Zen.

“Mack Smith’s eyeing her already,” said Starship.

“Oh there’s serious competition,” said Kick.

“I’ll take one of the waitress babes,” said Starship, lifting his gaze toward the buffet at the front of the room. Six of the most gorgeous women in Asia stood at attention behind the table. Zen had his back to them, but he could practically feel the warmth of their smiles beaming across the room.

The Dreamland pilots and crew were being housed at a hotel just outside the airfield where they’d set up operations. “Mess” consisted of a lavishly appointed private room — thick tablecloths, hand-woven silk rugs, paint that seemed to contain speckles of gold — on the ground floor of the hotel. The room was part of a restaurant that back in the States would rate four stars — the wine list was a little too restricted to make five.

For breakfast, the Dreamland personnel — crew dogs and officers alike — had sorted through an all-you-can eat array of various meats, cooked-to-order eggs and omelets, a pyramid of exotic fruits, and enough donuts, rolls, and pastries to make a small town diabetic.

Zen had chosen his usual oatmeal and bananas, though he had made a concession to local tastes by sampling the pinkish-green juice. It was sweet, but tomorrow he’d go for the orange.

The coffee, however, was a real keeper. He might have to arrange for a pipeline back home when the mission ended.

“So are all the deployments like this?” asked Kick. He’d come to Dreamland from an assignment as a Hog “driver,” piloting A-10As. The story went that his nickname came from early flight training, when he needed a kick to get going; if so, that need had long since disappeared.

“What do you mean?” asked Zen. “In terms of food?”

“The hotel rooms, the women. Everything.”

“Usually it’s cots and tents,” said Zen. “Brunei’s just a special place.”

Starship and Kick had been with the program only a short time; neither man had logged a hundred hours with the robot aircraft. But Fentress had been the only other pilot with real experience. While the two youngsters had their drawbacks, both could handle a single plane reasonably well, and consistently scored high in the simulations and exercises. It was time for them to take the next step.

“Paradise,” mumbled Starship.

“You have a hangover, Lieutenant?” asked Zen.

“Uh, no, sir. Whacked on the time difference, though. My body thinks it’s yesterday.”

“Tomorrow,” said Kick. “Nine o’clock is five o’clock last night tomorrow.”

“Huh?” asked Starship.

“I’ll give you an example. 2200 here is 0600 at Dreamland, same day. 0900 here would be 1700 there — but they’re back a day. So while we’re out on a day patrol, they’re sleeping. 1200 is 2000 yesterday there. Or 2300 in Washington, D.C.”

Starship blinked at him. “You do weather and traffic, too?”

“Fifteen hours’ difference. Would be sixteen, except the States are on Daylight Saving Time,” said Kick. “You know it’s Saving, not Savings?”

“Eat hardy, gentlemen,” Zen said, pushing away from the table. “We brief at 1000, and we’re in the air at 1300. And watch the alcohol, Starship. Those clubs are not officially sanctioned. No matter what Mack Smith says.”

Boston slid his hand along his M-16A3 and rolled his head on his neck. He figured he didn’t hate guard duty any more than the next guy — but that meant he hated it pretty bad.

From what the others on the Whiplash team were telling him, guard duty was about all he was going to be doing for the next six months. He hoped they were just busting his chops because he was the team nugget, or new guy. He’d clearly drawn the worst assignment — he’d been standing out here since four A.M. local, and had another hour to go.

And when that was over, he wouldn’t be hitting the sack — he was supposed to report to the Whiplash trailer, known as Mobile Command, and get himself educated on the high-tech communications gear they used. Whiplash team members were expected to act as communications specialists during the deployment.

All that SF training, and basically he was a radio operator and a guard dog.

In fact, he wasn’t even a guard dog. The real sentries were high-tech sensor arrays placed at the edge of the field where they were assigned. The arrays were monitored in the trailer (at the moment, Egg Reagan had the con). A special computer screened video, infrared, motion, and sound detectors. Those inputs could be piped into Boston’s Smart Helmet, supplementing the helmet’s own infrared, short-range radar, and optical sensors.

The thing was, the helmet was pretty damn heavy and hot besides. Fortunately, Egg had told him it wasn’t necessary to wear it; he’d alert him to any problem. The helmet was clipped to his belt.

Boston wasn’t the only flesh-and-blood sentry. A battalion of Brunei soldiers blocked access to the area Dreamland had been assigned. There was also an honor guard — a mixed unit built around British Gurkhas, a storied unit of foreign troops that had originated in Nepal — which conducted a ceremonial changing of the guard on the apron twenty yards away every fifteen minutes, or so it seemed.

“Yo, Boston, trucks coming,” said Egg in his earbud.

“Another ceremony?” asked Boston. His mike was clipped to the top of his carbon-boron bulletproof vest; it was sensitive enough so that he could whisper and be heard over the Dreamland com system.

“Negative,” said Egg. “These are customized SUVs. Not military.”

“I hear them,” said Boston. He brought his gun up, though there was no way any intruder could get by the Brunei soldiers, whose weapons included several antitank missiles.

Unless, of course, they stood back and let the trucks pass.

“What’s this?” Egg said in his ear.

The first truck — a large black Chevy Suburban with a block of lights across the top and enough chrome to make a drug dealer jealous — roared straight toward Boston.

“If he doesn’t stop, I’m taking him out.”

“Careful. I think they’re VIPs,” said Egg.

“If he doesn’t stop, I’m taking him out,” repeated Boston. He drew back, squaring as if to fire.

The driver of the SUV slammed on his brakes and swerved, stopping a few yards away. Two other SUVs pulled in alongside.

The doors of the vehicles flew open together. Men in lightweight civilian suits emerged from the trucks. Bruisers all, they were clearly bodyguards, with vests under their jackets.

“No weapons,” said Egg, giving him the read from the monitor.

“If you say so,” said Boston.

A short, slightly paunchy man stepped forward from the other side of the middle vehicle. He was obviously a local, and was wearing what seemed to be relatively expensive clothes.

“Hello,” said the man with a jovial smile.

“I’m sorry,” said Boston, his voice hard enough to make it clear that was a lie. “No one is allowed past this point. No one.”

The man laughed.

“Sir, no one is allowed past this point,” said Boston. “Not even the sultan.”

“Oh well,” laughed the man. “I’m just his nephew.”

Thoroughly confused, Boston had the man covered. Someone else got out of the SUV from the other side.

“Colonel Bastian is on his way,” said Egg. “Oh, I see now — that’s Mack Smith.”

“Who’s Smith?” Boston said.

“Major Smith — he’s ours. The guy getting out of the SUV. Colonel Bastian brought him as a political officer.”

The somewhat bedraggled man came out from around the truck and approached Mack.

“It’s all right,” he told Boston. “They’re with me.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Boston. “I have very strict orders. No one gets past me. I’m authorized to shoot,” he added, as Mack continued to within a few feet of him.

Smith squinted at him. “You know who this is?”

“The sultan’s nephew, sir.”

“A prince,” said Mack. “His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg. Very, very important man in Brunei.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir. But he’s not coming past unless my orders change.”

“You really going to shoot?” asked Mack, taking another step forward.

“Bet your ass. Sir.”

“Jeez.”

Bin Awg laughed. “No need for an upset, Mack. We can come back another time.”

“Colonel Bastian’s at the gate,” said Egg.

“Sir, my colonel is on his way,” Boston told bin Awg. “I apologize, but my orders are very explicit.”

“Let’s have breakfast, then come back,” the prince said, turning back to his vehicle. “Come on, Mack.”

Smith frowned. Boston caught a whiff of perfume, stale cigarettes, and even staler alcohol as the major walked back to the SUV.

“That was really Smith?” asked Boston.

“The one and only.”

“Action at Da Nang,” the EB-52’s copilot, Kevin McNamara, said over the interphone, the Megafortress’s onboard communications system. “We have two MiG-21s taking off. We’re tracking. You have the data.”

Starship felt his throat constrict. His hand involuntarily tightened on the control yoke, even though he didn’t have control of the plane yet.

“Hawk leader copies,” said Zen. “They have two more coming, huh?”

“Looks like it.”

“Should we go ahead with the handoff?” asked Starship, sitting next to Zen on the Flighthawk control deck. They had just begun the prehandoff checklist before the MiGs scrambled from the Vietnamese airfield about a hundred miles to the northeast.

“Absolutely,” said Zen. “You all right?”

Five minutes earlier, Starship would have told him that he’d never felt better in his life. Aspirin and the Brunei coffee had helped him get over the banger of a headache he’d had this morning, a hangover obtained courtesy of a few whiskey sours with Major Smith after the official reception.

But with McNamara’s warning, his headache had returned. His muscles were twitching and his mouth felt dry.

Nothing a shot couldn’t cure, but that wasn’t possible here.

“Let’s do it,” he told Zen, forcing enthusiasm into his voice.

The Flighthawk commander gave verbal authorization. Starship acceded. Zen hit the keys on his panel and gave up control of the bird.

“Authorization Zed Zed Stockard,” said Zen as the computer asked for final confirmation. C³ buzzed in Starship’s ear, turning over the helm.

“Handoff complete,” said Starship. “On course.”

He read off his bearing, altitude, and course speed — a prissy bit of the procedure in his opinion, though no one was asking — then worked through a full instrument check with the computer. Starship went by the book, aware that not only Zen but Kick were watching everything he did, ready to point out the slightest deviation from Major Stockard’s prescriptions.

While ostensibly designed to familiarize the crew with the area and procedures for communicating with the ASEAN task force, Starship sensed that today’s mission was really a tryout. Major Stockard had said during the preflight that he hadn’t decided who was going to take the U/MF-3 on the decoy flight tomorrow, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that today’s flight would help determine who got the glory and who sat on his thumbs in the fold-down rumble seat at the back of the compartment.

Starship liked Kick as a person, but he’d never be able to stomach playing number two to the other lieutenant. Kick had never been a top jock. Heck, he’d been a Hog driver, flying A-10As before coming over to Dreamland, and everyone knew the A-10As were basically cannon fodder.

Granted, he was a hard worker and a decent guy, but he wasn’t first-team material. If he were, he’d’ve been in Eagles like Starship before transferring here.

“Be advised there are now two MiG-21s off Da Nang, bearing at three-one-five,” said McNamara. The Megafortress copilot customarily kept the crew apprised of the location of other players on the field. “Climbing through eight thousand feet, accelerating — looks like they want to come say hello.”

Like many of the members of Dreamland’s Megafortress fleet, the Pennsylvania was named for a famous battleship, in this case the venerable battlewagon Pennsylvania, a member of the Iowa class that had served after World War II. She was equipped with a powerful AWACS-style radar, which rotated in a fuselage bulge around the wing root; augmented by a phased array unit in her nose and a host of other antennas and sensors,Penn could sniff out targets five hundred miles away. She and her sisters were intended as replacements for the venerable and considerably more vulnerable E-3 AWACS Sentry, though more mods and updates were planned before the type went operational with the “regular” Air Force.

Like Zen, Starship used a special control helmet to help him fly the robot plane; while heavier than the brain bucket he would have donned for an F-15 flight, it seemed more intuitive than the panels at the control station where he was sitting, which could also be used if he wished. Infinitely configurable, the display screen in the helmet could be divided into several panels. This allowed the pilot to simultaneously see what was in front of him, glance down at a “sitrep” of the area fed from the EB-52’s sensors, and a full array of instrument readings. Though he wasn’t yet rated to handle multiple planes, the helmet could in theory control up to four Flighthawks at a time, switching its views, sensor, and instrument data between them by voice command or keyboard toggle. Most times, Starship used a standard screen view that provided a nose camera shot in the top screen, with a sitrep at the lower left and various flight info on the right.

The MiGs blinked in the sitrep, two red triangles flying above the gray-shadowed coastline toward the light blue ocean.Penn was about two hundred miles east of them. If they were headed here, it was because of the ground radar and a controller; their own radars were far too limited to see the Megafortress.

And the Flighthawk was invisible to just about everybody, with the exception of Penn.

On the far right of the sitrep, a green-hued rectangle bore the tag YUBARI. If Starship asked for the information, C³ would have looked into its memory banks and announced that Yubari was a Japanese patrol ship, carrying some surface-to-air missiles but primarily intended for antisubmarine work. She was sailing roughly a hundred miles to the east, part of the ASEAN exercises. The ship was working with an Australian cruiser, which was temporarily off the screen further east.

“Those suckers got to be thirty years old,” said Kick, wearing a headset and standing behind him. He was referring to the MiGs, which indeed had been built before any of the men on the Flighthawk had been born.

“The sucker we’re flying in is close to fifty,” said Zen.

“I meant it in a good way,” said the other pilot.

“The ground radars picked up the Megafortress and scrambled these guys to take a look,” Zen added, using a voice that sounded to Starship like the one his Philosophy 101 professor used to explain Plato’s theory that humans saw reality like shadows on a cave. “The MiGs are still picking up speed, but they’re not going to come on too much faster or they’ll end up with fuel issues. C³ has already figured out an intercept. See it Kick, on the dedicated screen?”

“Got it.”

“Obviously, it relies on you to know the ROEs,” said Zen, referring to the rules of engagement that governed when — and if — force could be used. “As far as the computer is concerned, war is always in order.”

“As it should be,” said Kick.

Brown nose.

“Still coming at us,” said Starship. He’d told Zen he’d gotten the nickname because of his first name — Kirk, as in James T. Kirk, the commander of the starship Enterprise. That was partly true — his parents had been serious Trekkies, and had the show in mind when they named him. But he’d actually earned the nickname during flight training for rashly predicting that he would pilot the space shuttle or its successor someday.

A prediction he meant to make good on.

“Mission commander’s call on how to proceed,” said Zen, still in instructor mode. “On a typical radar mission, the profile we’re following, your job is going to be to run interference. But the pilot of the EB-52 is going to have to balance the situation. Let’s say you have two bandits. If they’re hostile and coming at you, he may be under orders to get the hell out of there. Never mind that a Flighthawk could take them in a snap.”

Zen paused. Starship knew the major was speaking from experience — he had a lot of notches on his belt.

“What you don’t want to do is put the Flighthawks in a position where they’re going to get deadheaded,” said Zen. “So you keep with what the EB-52 is doing.”

Deadheaded meant that the command link had been severed. When that happened, the Flighthawk would revert to a preprogrammed mode and fly back toward the mother ship. It happened just beyond twenty-five miles, depending on the flight conditions. Because the U/MFs were so maneuverable and the EB-52 was flying its own course, it could happen relatively easily in combat.

But loss of a connection was the ultimate spanking, and Starship meant to avoid it. He was currently fifteen miles ahead of Penn, accelerating slightly.

“Zen, they’re going to afterburners,” said Major Merce Alou, the Penn ’s pilot. The pilot’s decision to communicate the information signaled that he was concerned about the situation.

“Roger that. I think we can hold on course,” Zen told him. “We’re plotting an intercept.”

“Roger that. We’re monitoring them up here. They’re not targeting us at this time.”

“You get all that?” Zen asked Starship.

“Yup,” said Starship. He had the Flighthawk at 27,000 feet on a direct line toward the lead MiG; they were now closing to fifty miles. “If this were an F-15, I could take them out in sixty seconds.”

“Yeah, what’s a little court-martial for creating an international incident?” said Kick.

“What do you think of what the computer is suggesting?” asked Zen.

“It has me slashing down and getting that lead plane, then whipping back for the second in one swoop,” said Starship. “Awful optimistic with a cannon.”

“Yeah, especially for you,” said Kick.

“Hey, I’ve seen you on the range, Mr. Marksman,” snapped Starship. “They put you in a Hog so the bullets would be big enough that you couldn’t miss.”

“It is optimistic. The computer thinks it never misses. It’s almost right,” added Zen. “But the thing here is that it’s figuring that the MiGs will stay on course. You can tell it to anticipate what they’ll do, and it’ll give you more options.”

“I thought I shouldn’t do that because we’re not in attack mode,” said Starship. He also felt that he was a bit beyond taking combat cues from a computer. That was okay for Kick, whose cockpit time had been spent largely in a ground-attack plane. Starship’s entire training had been for air-to-air combat, and he’d flown against MiG-21s in numerous exercises.

Of course, he’d never gotten this close to real enemy fighters in an F-15.

Not that the Vietnamese MiGs were the enemy. They had as much right to be here as he did.

Starship checked his airspeed and heading carefully, trying to will away the dry taste in his mouth. He could feel Kick hovering over his shoulder, waiting for the chance to jump in.

“They’re not acknowledging,” said Alou after he hailed them, first in English, then with the help of the translation module in the EB-52’s computer. He tried again, giving the MiGs his bearing and location, emphasizing that he was in international waters and on a peaceful mission.

The MiGs still didn’t respond.

“Let’s give them a Dreamland welcome,” Zen told Starship.

Starship took a breath, then flicked the control stick left. The U/MF tipped its wing and whipped downward, its speed ramping toward Mach 1.

The odd thing was the feel. Rather than having his stomach pushing against his rib cage, it stayed perfectly calm and centered in the middle of his body. The disjunction between the Flighthawk and the Megafortress was one of the hardest things for the pilot to get used to.

Zen had warned him about that.

“Flares,” said the Flighthawk pilot. He kicked out flares normally intended for deking heat-seeking missiles, making himself clearly visible to the Vietnamese fighters, who were now roughly two miles away.

The Vietnamese pilots reacted immediately, turning together to the north, possibly convinced they were seeing UFOs or the fiery manifestation of a Buddhist god.

“Stay on your game plan,” coached Zen.

Starship realized he’d started to pull up a little too sharply. He easily compensated, but he felt apprehensive nonetheless; Kick was standing behind him, after all, taking mental notes.

Even an F-15C Eagle would have had trouble climbing back and turning as tightly as Starship’s Flighthawk as he whipped his plane onto the tail of the opposing flight, aiming to paint the enemy cockpit with his shadow.

Not enemy. Not enemy,he reminded himself. Relax.

“How long do you want me to sit here?” he asked Zen.

“Break off once they turn,” said Zen. “There you go,” he added as the first MiG changed direction. “Come on back to Penn. They look homeward bound.”

“Roger that.”

Professor Ai Hira Bai monitored the communist MiGs as they circled northward, away from the American Megafortress. The planes were more than one hundred miles from his own UAV, the Dragon, well out of range of its onboard sensors. To see them, he would ordinarily have had to rely on the limited data fed from the buoy network that helped guide the small robot plane, but the ASEAN maneuvers provided better opportunities.

The ships involved in the exercise were testing links that allowed data from one ship to be shared among the entire task force over a wide area. Since Professor Ai had been able to tap into an Australian frigate’s communications system, he too had a full data set that included wide-ranging radar coverage courtesy of two Japanese Aegis-equipped destroyers.

Ai watched the screen with fascination. He was interested in the performance of the Flighthawk, though this was difficult to ascertain from the radar data, even as the robot plane passed almost directly overhead of one of the ships. The craft was clearly faster and more maneuverable than his own plane. Its data flow with the mother ship, of course, was extremely rich — he’d known that since their long-range intercepts of the signals. He would have given much to be able to decode the information that passed between them.

On the other hand, his own invention was not without its advantages. The buoy and satellite system that relayed its control signals allowed him to fly the aircraft far beyond its remote station — although in some circumstances there was a noticeable lag as the commands were transmitted. And his plane was not only stealthier, but its signal carrier included what he called a “mocking device” that could spit back bits of intercepted code to confuse a nearby Elint gatherer.

“Should we engage?” asked Kuo, who was helping fly the UAV.

“No,” said Professor Ai. “Not today. Let us simply observe and see what our friends do. We may have only one chance, and we must choose it wisely.”

Starship had just traded places with Kick when the pair of Chinese fighters appeared. These were Shenyang J-8IIs, more formidable than the ancient MiGs the Vietnamese had sent, but they too made a rather pedestrian and predictable approach, flying a routine intercept about fifty miles east of Guangdong.

“Same routine as Brother Starship,” Zen told Kick.

Starship tensed, even though he knew Zen meant it as a joke.

Kick started his move about six thousand feet above the interceptors, rolling into a banking turn that would take him across their course. But they broke before he went for his flares, apparently in response to the Megafortress pilot’s hail. Kick held on to his disposables and began to climb again, intending to circle back close to the Megafortress until it was clear what the Chinese were doing.

Conservative move, Starship thought. He would have tucked back toward them and hit the gas.

“They’re looking for you,” Zen told the two lieutenants. “They know the Megafortresses fly with U/MF escorts. They want to draw you out.”

“What should I do?” Kick asked.

“Give me the controls,” said Starship without missing a beat.

“Fuck off.”

“Wait until they come out of that turn,” said Zen. “They aren’t particularly maneuverable, and it’ll be obvious where they intend to go. You’ve got good position.”

One of the J-8s — in some respects it was a supersized J-7, itself a kind of new and improved MiG-21—swung into a wide arc, trying to get nose on nose for the Megafortress, which the computer’s dotted line showed would happen at about sixty miles away. The other plane ducked down toward the waves heading in the opposite direction.

“Trying to get lost in the clutter,” suggested Starship. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

The powerful gear aboard Penn could track him right to the water, and probably a few fathoms below.

“So what should Kick do?” Zen asked.

“I’d go for the snake, get in his nose, show him there’s no hope,” said Kick.

“I wouldn’t,” offered Starship.

“Why not?” asked Zen.

“Because first of all, dropping down like that, he’s going to have an impossible climb before he can deal with us,” said Starship. He pointed over at Zen’s screen. “Even if he goes to his afterburner when he’s in position, he’s going to be way gonzo in front there. You can splash number one, then come for number two.”

“We’re not splashing anyone today,” said Zen. “Just remember that.”

Starship felt his face redden.

“I think Starship’s right,” Kick told Zen.

“Well then make sure the Megafortress knows what you’re doing,” said Zen, implicitly agreeing.

Zen watched Kick slash across the Chinese Pilot’s nose, timing his maneuver to match a jink east by Penn. It came off well, the Chinese interceptor turning to the right — an instinctive move that widened the gap between him and his ostensible target.

“Okay, so how’d we know he was going to go right?” Zen asked.

“We didn’t,” said Kick.

“Well, most pilots do,” said Starship.

“Western pilots, maybe,” said Zen, still playing teacher. “But you have something to go on beyond that.”

“He moved that way earlier,” said Starship. “Plus it takes him closer to his base.”

“Yeah,” said Kick, getting it.

Zen said nothing as the Flighthawk pilot brought his plane around to intercept the second J-8, which as predicted was climbing off the deck, throttle nailed to the afterburner slot. He’d turned into him a little too soon, probably nervous about retaining his connection to Pennsylvania, which of course was moving in the opposite direction.

It wasn’t exactly a huge mistake, but it was enough to convince Zen that he’d put Starship in the pilot’s seat tomorrow. Lieutenant Andrews was a somewhat better pilot and had better tactical instincts as well — possibly a function of his time in Eagles. The difference between the two men would probably disappear in a few weeks’ time, but for now it was enough to make Starship the clear choice.

As the second J-8 jock pulled off,Pennsylvania cut to the south, having reached the end of its practice search track. Zen watched as Kick rode the Flighthawk up through the clouds toward the mother ship.

“Not too quick. Hang back between the Megafortress and the J-8s,” Zen told Kick.

“I know,” snapped the pilot.

“Relax, Kick,” said Zen.

A warning tone bleeped in the headsets.

“RWR,” said Kick. “Wow — they’re trying to spike us.”

Zen’s screen showed that the Chinese planes had activated their targeting radars. The planes carried PL-7A homers — semiactive radar missiles — but they had almost no hope of hitting the Flighthawk at what was now close to fifty miles. Nor were they in position to fire on the Megafortress.

Maybe they were newbies too.

“That’s a hostile act,” said Starship. “I’d splash him.”

“You can’t splash someone because they turn their radar on you,” said Kick.

“That’s not an air traffic control radar,” said Starship. “That’s weapons, baby. Hostile act, per ROE.”

“Radar’s off,” said Zen.

“What was he doing?” asked Kick.

“Busting your chops,” said Zen.

“Why?” asked Starship.

Zen laughed.

“We could’ve spun around, targeted him ourselves.” The lieutenant seemed indignant. “I could have shot him down.”

“Well, from his point of view, he could have shot you down,” said Zen. “The Chinese pilots like to push things to the limit. I’ve dealt with these jokers before. Believe me, that’s nothing. They’ll do a lot worse tomorrow.”

“How will I know whether they’re serious or not?” asked Starship.

“My call as mission commander. No matter who is flying the Flighthawk,” Zen added, emphasizing that he hadn’t made his decision yet.

Or at least not announced it.

“Good time to tank?” asked Kick.

“Yup. You think you can do better than Starship?”

“I made it on the first try.”

“There’s always room for improvement,” said Zen.

Dog stared out the window of the Mercedes limo as the caravan approached the gates of the sultan’s palace of Istana. Part of a large and modern government complex, the Istana Nurul Iman sat on a rise above the city. A golden globe sat to the left, shimmering with the reflected glare of floodlights. A web of white steel rose in the shape of an airy roof from the main gate, sheltering the procession past an honor guard to the entrance of the ceremonial hall, which sat just beyond the sultan’s personal home and government offices.

Colonel Bastian had spent most of the day with members of the Brunei armed forces, trying to get the protocol crap out of the way so he could join the patrols tomorrow. He was now on his way to a state dinner being thrown in his honor; if he survived that, he figured he’d be done with the diplomatic BS for at least a few days.

Things had been so hectic he hadn’t even had a chance to call Jennifer and see how she was. He thought of her as the cars started through the gate; if she were here she’d have some smart-alecky thing to say about the fancy buildings and frou-frou trees lining the grounds. She’d laugh about how uptight he was.

She’d also be wearing a pretty dress. He could do with that.

“The tie, Colonel. The tie.”

Dog turned to Brenda Kelly, the State Department protocol officer who was sitting next to him in the back of the limo.

“Your tie,” she repeated as the car stopped.

“Oh yeah.”

Dog made the adjustment just as the door snapped open. Dog unfolded himself from the back of the car, then turned and put his hand out for Miss Kelly, who had dressed in a long, traditional sari with a scarf to cover her head, showing respect. With Kelly on his arm, Dog began walking down a red carpet toward a set of steps. It was a long walk, and he had to pause every ten feet or so, as a different contingent of the honor guards snapped to in anticipation of a formal salute.

“I feel like we’re at a Hollywood premiere,” Dog whispered when they reached the set of steps just below the main entrance. A group of soldiers barred their way, aiming a pair of flags at them.

“Wait until we get inside,” said Kelly.

“I don’t have to salute inside, right?” asked Dog. “Or are the rules different here?”

“Bow when the sultan comes,” said Kelly, who had told him to do this at least a dozen times.

Dog remembered, bending stiffly with as much grace and solemnity that he could muster. The sultan, a congenial man who managed to seem both casual and regal at the same time, stepped up and put his arm around Colonel Bastian as if they were old friends.

“We are glad you are here,” he told Dog.

“My pleasure. Absolutely my pleasure.”

“Major Smith has regaled us with your achievements,” said the sultan. “You are quite a hero.”

“Not really, Your Highness.”

“No need for modesty among friends,” said the sultan, leading him from the large reception room. They walked down a hall, Miss Kelly and other dignitaries falling in behind them. The sultan pointed out some artworks and a letter from King George — it wasn’t clear which one — as they walked.

“I thought of being a pilot in my younger days,” said the ruler as they entered a room that looked somewhat like a fancy English club. It was filled with people, including Mack Smith, who nodded at Dog from the side. “But flying is a job for a young man.”

“You’re still young enough to fly,” said Dog. He hadn’t meant it as flattery; the ruler seemed about his own age.

The sultan smiled, then began introducing him to some of his government ministers, members of the legislative council who advised him on important matters. He and most of the country’s elite spoke English perfectly; Brunei was part of the Commonwealth, and had in fact spent much of the twentieth century under British rule. While Malay was the official language, a good number of the 336,000 people who lived in the country spoke English, and no member of the kingdom would consider himself educated if he didn’t.

Dog shook hands and nodded for nearly a half hour, continuing to do so even as the sultan stepped away to confer with one of his sons. Miss Kelly stepped up and whispered in Dog’s ear, identifying whom he was greeting — the British ambassador, the head of the British Army Gurkhas battalion stationed in the kingdom, and a number of prominent businessmen.

Waiters appeared carrying plates laden with food. Everyone seemed to stand back on some invisible signal. Dog realized they were watching him anxiously.

“You have to try the food first,” whispered Miss Kelly. “Manners.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the State Department rep. “You’re the guest. Go.”

Dog took a fork and small plate from the nearest server. The hors d’oeuvre tasted somewhere between a pepperoni and an anchovy (it was a specially pickled shrimp), but Dog figured he would survive.

“This one,” said Miss Kelly.

“More?” he whispered.

“Smile, Colonel.”

“What is it?”

“Some sort of jellied curry fruit. I think.”

“You think?”

Dog speared the thick green curlicue. He’d just about gotten it into his mouth when Mack Smith appeared at his elbow.

“Hey, Colonel,” said Mack. “Try the monkey brains yet?”

“Mack. Where the hell have you been since last night?”

“You told me to make nice with the political types. I have been. Me and the sultan’s nephew are like that.”

He twisted his fingers together.

“Which nephew?” asked Dog.

“Unofficial head of the air force. Catch up with you in a bit,” said Mack, sliding away. Colonel Bastian started to take a step after him, but Miss Kelly grabbed him.

Not particularly gently, either.

“Eat,” she whispered.

“You and my grandmother have a lot in common,” said Dog.

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

Dog smiled at the latest waiter, taking a plate from him. This time the intricate creation — it was a collection of fruit in a tiny cup made from rice — tasted so delicious he actually wanted another. But apparently the protocol didn’t allow for seconds; he needed to try as many dishes as possible.

“You’re doing great, Colonel,” said Miss Kelly.

“If I don’t like it, what happens?”

“They chop off the cook’s head,” she said.

Dog thought it was a joke, but he wasn’t positive.

“I have someone you have to meet, Colonel,” said Mack, tugging slightly at his arm.

Dog turned. A youngish, slightly paunchy man wearing a perfectly tailored suit smiled and bowed his head. Dog bowed back, noticing the man’s large black opal pinkie ring and his thick Rolex.

“His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg,” whispered Miss Kelly, a second before Mack could. “The sultan’s nephew. Unofficial head of the air force.”

“Your Highness,” said Dog.

“Colonel Bastian. We have heard much about you and your squadron,” said bin Awg. “We are extremely impressed, and deeply honored to have you in our kingdom.”

“The pleasure’s ours, I assure you,” Dog told him. “I’m glad that we could assist in the ASEAN exercises.”

“Most delightful,” said bin Awg.

“Pehin’s a collector,” said Mack.

Dog saw Miss Kelly stiffen. She had explained yesterday that “Pehin” wasn’t a name but rather an honorific used by important members of the government. But bin Awg ignored the faux pas, smiling and tilting his head.

“I have a few old airplanes,” said bin Awg. “It’s a hobby.”

“I see,” said Dog. “What sort of airplanes?”

“You’ll have to come to see for yourself.”

“I hope to,” said Dog.

“Hell, Colonel, Pehin’s got two MiG-19s, a MiG-21 from Yugoslavia, a Mirage III — piece of shit, take it from me — and, get this, a Badger. A Badger, Colonel.”

“Nice,” said Dog. He could practically feel the killer stare Miss Kelly was laying on Mack.

“I have been fortunate in finding old wrecks and restoring them,” said bin Awg modestly. “I also have a Catalina flying boat. A handsome aircraft as built, and I have added a few modern amenities. I’ve offered Major Smith the chance to fly some of my fleet,” added the prince. “Perhaps you would care to as well.”

“I’d love to,” said Dog. “When I get a chance. You really have an old MiG-19?”

“Yes, yes. The North Koreans will sell anything for food these days. It was in reasonable repair — if one overlooks the fact that it did not have an engine.”

“I told the prince he and his uncle could come up in a Megafortress for a spin tomorrow,” said Mack. “They’re psyched.”

It took every ounce of Dog’s restraint not to slap his erstwhile political officer across the face.

“Mack, let’s talk for a second,” he told Smith. “Excuse us, Your Highness.”

He took two steps backward. Miss Kelly stepped forward to chat with the prince, who sampled some of the food in Dog’s place.

“Are you out of your mind?” Dog asked Mack.

“Why?”

“We’re not here as part of a carnival show. We have a mission.”

“Yeah, but Miss State Department Bombshell says we’re supposed to make nice,” said Mack. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“Bin Awg is head of the air force?”

“Unofficially,” said Mack. “He’s more a consultant. See, the sultan is the head of the military forces. Then there are the professional officers and whatnot. My buddy Pehin is kinda between them and his uncle. Haven’t seen him fly yet. Great guy. Knows where the best clubs are. Doesn’t drink — that’s his only flaw.”

“Mack, you’re supposed to improve relations, not threaten them.”

“I am. So what do you say? We take him up for a spin in the morning? Morning’s around noon here, if you get my drift.”

“Both planes are taking off at 0700 tomorrow,” Dog told Mack. “There’s no time for a demonstration flight tomorrow.”

“Next day then,” said Mack. “Hey, Zen brought his nuggets with him. Hey, boys.”

As Mack walked off, Dog reminded himself that he had personally tagged the major to come along. While he’d made the choice largely because Mack was one of the few officers at Dreamland he could actually spare for a do-nothing job, it was nonetheless a decision that could not be cited as one of his best. Smith was an excellent pilot, but outside of the cockpit, he was a class-one boob.

Dog turned back to find bin Awg talking up Miss Kelly, who was flashing her full smile on him.

“We are very much in the mind frame of expanding our air force,” said the prince. “At present we have the Hawk 100s and 200s but, well, without disparaging our British friends — I fear the ambassador is within earshot — we are certainly in the market for upgrades.”

“We use a version of the Hawk ourselves,” said Dog. “It’s a competent aircraft.”

“Yes, the Goshawk T-45A, as a trainer for the Navy,” said bin Awg. “Very suitable in that role. But as compared to an F/A-18 or a Mikoyan MiG-29… Well, Colonel, I leave the judgment to you.”

“You’re thinking of buying Russian planes?” asked Miss Kelly.

Bin Awg smiled apologetically. “They are so desperate for hard currency these days that the price can be very attractive.”

“I’d think there’d be no comparison between the F/A-18 and a MiG-29,” said Dog.

Again, the prince flashed his apologetic smile. “The difficulty is perhaps with the export regulations. Sometimes these are not easily overcome.”

“Have you considered F-16s?” asked Miss Kelly.

“An admirable design,” said the prince.

“Better than the MiG,” said Dog.

“Yes,” said bin Awg. “To be candid with you, Colonel, our true desire is for an aircraft with much longer range. The F-15; that would be most desirable.”

“It is a good aircraft,” said Dog.

It was also a difficult one to obtain; Congress didn’t relish the idea of the country’s frontline fighter serving under other flags. Only the Japanese, Israelis, and Saudis had been allowed to buy it, and in each case the decision involved considerable political wrangling.

“We are very much in the market for aircraft,” said bin Awg. “Perhaps we can talk tomorrow, when we are aboard the Megafortress.”

“I’m afraid we’re not going to be available for a flight tomorrow,” said Dog as apologetically as he could. “We have orders from Washington to have both aircraft in the exercises. I’m sorry.”

The barest flicker of displeasure passed over the prince’s face.

“I’m afraid Major Smith made the commitment without checking with me,” added Dog.

“A raincheck perhaps,” said the prince.

“Definitely,” said Dog. “Definitely.

Zen listened to the Australian ambassador lecturing on the weakness of China.

“A few cruisers and a pair of submarines could hold the communists at bay,” said the diplomat. “They’re a shadow of themselves. A shadow of a shadow. That’s why they’re willing to talk to Taiwan. Their day is over.”

Zen had everything he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Granted, Mainland China had suffered some reverses over the past few months; the country remained a potent military force. Forget the ghost clone: It had several hundred more aircraft than the ambassador’s country, along with several new pocket aircraft carriers capable of projecting power throughout the region. Toss in cruise missiles, nuclear submarines, and undoubtedly a long-range bomber or two that the intelligence boys hadn’t caught on to yet, and you had a serious military power.

Not quite in America’s class, but nasty nonetheless.

Shadow indeed.

Stoner, standing across from Zen, nodded like a metronome as the ambassador continued.

Finally, Zen could take no more and wheeled himself away.

He found Kick standing by himself at the edge of one of the tables.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” he said to the Flighthawk pilot. “Where’s your partner in crime? Did he leave to catch up on his beauty rest?”

“Yeah right,” said Kick.

“You don’t like Lieutenant Starship?” asked Zen.

“He’s all right,” said Kick. “I think he headed out with Mack.”

Zen asked for a fruit drink from the waiter behind the table. There was no alcohol at the event; Brunei was an Islamic nation, and the sultan was a devout believer who would not have countenanced a violation of his religious principles.

“You sore because Starship is going to take the decoy flight tomorrow?” asked Zen.

“No, sir.”

Zen smiled at the obvious lie.

“It’s all right to be pissed,” he told the lieutenant. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be mad too. Come to think of it, I have been in your shoes. And I was pissed.”

Kick seemed surprised by Zen’s response and looked at him as if trying to figure out whether he was being tested. “Starship’s background with the F-15s means he has a little more experience. Right?”

“Just a little. You’ll catch up.”

Zen took a sip of his drink. Maybe, he thought, there was something more, something in their personalities. It seemed to him Kick was trying hard to be nice. He wouldn’t have.

Maybe that was all for show. Make nice to the boss.

“How’s your wife?” asked the lieutenant, trying to change the subject.

“Don’t know. She’s sleeping every time I call her,” said Zen.

“How’s the punch?” asked Stoner, coming over.

“It’s punch,” said Zen. “You agree with that crap the Australian was putting out?”

“Of course not,” said Stoner, taking a drink for himself.

“You didn’t argue with him,” said Zen.

“You think I could have changed his mind?”

Zen shrugged, though of course he didn’t.

“If I don’t listen to what people tell me, I won’t know what they’re thinking,” said Stoner. “It’s useful.”

“Man, I could never be a spy,” said Zen.

“Some of us are just born slimy,” said Stoner, his voice deadpan. “Right, Lieutenant?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Stoner looked down at Zen, smirking. Despite the fact that he still didn’t like the SOB, even Zen had to laugh along with him.

Jennifer lay on the couch, watching as the channels on her television clicked by, a mélange of infomercials, talking heads, and crashes filling the screen. She had been here for an hour or so, unable to sleep, not really up to leaving the apartment for her usual early-morning run. She was still locked out of her computers, and it seemed pointless to go anywhere or do anything.

Finally she saw the start of an old Warner Bros. Bugs Bunny cartoon and stopped. She observed scientifically as Bugs made his way out of the hole and began tormenting Elmer Fudd.

Wabbits. He sounded a bit like Ray.

But at least Rubeo had been fighting for her. He’d told Cortend exactly what he thought. More than she could say about any of her other so-called friends.

The phone rang.

Maybe it was Dog, calling to see how she was. If it was, did she want to talk to him? Why should she? What could he possibly say?

The phone stopped. She waited a minute, then picked it up and checked her voice mail system.

No message.

Jennifer turned back to the TV just in time to see Fudd blast himself with his own shotgun.

She felt so sorry for him she started to cry.

Dog, Zen, Alou, and Stoner previewed the mission together, reviewing the latest intelligence from the States as well as Dreamland and the ASEAN flag staff. Two dozen ASEAN ships, mostly frigates and destroyers, would track the progress of a pair of Australian submarines across a swatch of ocean nearly twelve hundred miles wide over the course of the next few days. The exercises today were being conducted in an area two hundred miles east of the Vietnamese coast; besides the allied vessels, the Chinese had two trawler-type spy ships in the vicinity, as well as a submarine. Further to the north but still in the open sea, the Russians were expected to fly a long-range surveillance aircraft; they had done so yesterday, following the progress of the exercises. There were also a number of civilian flights and merchant vessels that would routinely ply the area.

“Flight plan is basic. We come up, rendezvous with the frigates, then keep going. Stop short of Hainan, we do a square out and catch the clone in the flat,” said Zen. “Penn rides just to our half of the international side of the property line to make sure we have their attention. Raven and the Flighthawk with the passive sensor set are out in the flat, waiting for the lateral here to the West.”

“Who’s got the blitz?” asked Dog.

“We audible that at the line,” said Alou, not missing a beat.

“The Chinese may or may not pick up the U/MF that launches from Penn on their radar,” said Zen, getting the hint and dropping the football metaphors. He pointed to the radar installation on the southern tip of the island. “Starship will pull around here and throw off some chaff so he’s visible on radar. Once they know he’s there, he heads southeast and launches the dummied-up Hellfire. It transmits and you track it a bit, Colonel. Basically orbit around for an hour, which should give them time to get the clone over in our direction.”

“They may send fighters if you get this close,” warned Stoner. “The Chinese aren’t known for subtlety.”

“I’ve gone through it with my guys. They know to ignore the fighters,” said Zen. They were standing in the main room of the Whiplash security trailer, which doubled as a home-away-from-home sit room. Live connections to Dreamland, and from there to the rest of the world, were just a hot key away. “Only way we’re going to get their attention is if we’re obnoxious.”

“If it’s Chinese, yes,” said Stoner.

“Only one way to find out,” said Dog. “Are you sure your guys can handle the decoy?” he asked Zen. Neither of the new Flighthawk pilots had ever seen combat.

“All they have to do is fire the missile and hang on. We’re starting them off slow,” said Zen.

“Slow to us, but not the Chinese,” said Stoner. “Hainan is part of their country. It would be like going over Staten Island.”

“Worse case, Starship puts the Flighthawk on automatic and follows Raven home. Merce’ll kick them in the butt if they screw up,” added Zen, nodding to Major Alou.

“I don’t think I’ll have to,” said Alou.

“I’ll be watching from Raven. All they have to do is yell for help.”

Dog looked over the charts. Hainan was a large island below the Chinese Mainland across from northern Vietnam; its western shores edged the Gulf of Tonkin. The clone had appeared to the southeast of Hainan on the earlier mission. Zen and Stoner were theorizing that the clone was based northeast of there, and so its flight path would inevitably cross close to Raven.

The techies had made a few small tweaks to Raven ’s Elint gear to optimize gathering in the frequencies the clone appeared to use.Raven should be able to detect and record transmissions at about two hundred miles, which would allow it to get plenty of data without having to go over Chinese territory. Of course, there was no real way of knowing how far its net would truly extend until the clone appeared.

Dog looked down at the charts, sorting out possible bases. Southern China was regularly covered by a variety of systems, from optical satellites to RC-135 launcher trackers. How could a UAV base be missed or overlooked?

“What if this came off a ship?” he said.

“The Chinese carriers were under surveillance the whole time,” said Zen.

“Not a carrier,” said Dog. He leaned over the map, practically putting his face on it. “There were plenty of ships that would be within range.”

“Their destroyers, their patrol ships — everything was covered,” said Zen. “The Navy wouldn’t miss something like that.”

“What if you launched from a civilian ship?” asked Dog. “Is it possible?”

“You tell me,” said Stoner.

“You’d need some sort of catapult system,” said Zen. “Even then, it might be hard. One of the reasons the Flighthawks are air-launched is the stealthy characteristics would make it difficult for them to get airborne in a short distance. Besides, those other ships are not Chinese.”

“Maybe it’s not Chinese,” said Stoner.

“You could overcome the launch limitations,” said Dog. “Part of the reason the Flighthawks are air-launched has to do with their mission, working with EB-52s. There are other ways to go.”

“Sure,” said Zen. “Hell, anything’s possible, at least until we see what we’re dealing with.”

“Well, hopefully that happens today. You coming with us?” Dog asked Stoner.

“I have some people to talk to here,” said Stoner. “Zen said he didn’t need me.”

“I got it covered.”

Zen and Stoner still weren’t getting along, although to their credit they hadn’t let whatever personal animosity was between them get in the way of the mission.

Yet.

Colonel Bastian checked his watch. It wasn’t quite seven-thirty A.M. here, which would make it about 1530 or three-thirty in the afternoon the day before back home. He needed to check in with a whole roster of people back at Dreamland — Major Catsman, Ax, Danny Freah, and Rubeo — before the flight briefings. He was also supposed to update Jed Barclay, though that could wait until he was aboard Raven.

He also wanted to give Jennifer another try. She hadn’t answered any of his calls.

“Are we set?” Zen asked.

Dog took another look at the map. It bothered him that he had an inexperienced man running the Flighthawk that would cross over Chinese territory, but tracking the clone definitely called for someone of Zen’s skill. And the EB-52s had different specialties, so they couldn’t be easily swapped.

The thing to do, Colonel Bastian realized, was to switch places with Alou. This way, if things got too hairy with the Chinese in the early going, he’d be there to take care of it.

Made sense. He ought to be the guy with his neck on the line.

“I’m going to take Penn,” he told Alou. “We’ll swap seats. I want my neck on the line up there if we’re flying that close to China.”

“Your call, Colonel,” said Alou. “One way or the other’s fine with me.”

Dog nodded. Alou was typical of a certain type of officer common in the Air Force. Easygoing and generally quiet, they were pros who tended to do their jobs without much flash or complaint. They didn’t have the balls-out aggressive manner of a Mack Smith or a Zen before his accident — or even a Colonel Bastian, for that matter. But their steady approach and calm demeanor would generally carry the day when the mud hit the fan. Most of them, certainly Alou, didn’t lack for personal courage; they just didn’t strut about it.

“All right,” Dog said. “I have to go talk to the folks at home. I’ll see you in a half hour or so.”

Chen Lo Fann gripped the side of the seat as the small helicopter pivoted toward the fantail of the trawler. The Messerschmidt-Bölkow-Blohm 108 settled into a hover about a foot and a half above the deck of the ship. Chen Lo Fann nodded to the pilot, then undid his seat belt and opened the door, holding himself precariously as the wash from the overhead blades beat the salty air against him. It was just a bit too high to step down comfortably; with as much patience as he could muster, Chen Lo Fann took hold of the side of the plane and lowered himself carefully to the deck. He ducked away; the pilot in the aircraft waited until one of the crew members waved, then he revved the rotor, lifting and speeding off, flying back in the direction he had come.

The captain of the ship met Chen Lo Fann with a salute, though Fann had told him many times that was unnecessary. After a brief report that basically repeated everything he had already been told, Fann followed the captain downstairs to the command post for the robot plane.

Professor Ai met him at the door.

“Commander,” said the professor. Despite his age, his manner was humble, a sign of respect not for Chen Lo Fann himself, but for his grandfather. Chen Lo Fann knew this and accepted it as proper.

“There is news?”

“Much,” said Ai. He explained what he had observed from the encounter between the communists and the Megafortress the day before.

“They are due in a few hours,” said Ai. “The Australians were checking a position with another ship. The communist dogs will react again. One of their patrols will come south. If their instruments are confused, an accident is inevitable,” Ai said. “If we use the repeater devices aboard the UAV to blind and confuse the mongrels, it may be possible—”

“An accident will not give us the provocation we need,” said Chen Lo Fann. “The Americans must attack the Chinese, or vice versa. Both must be convinced that the other started the conflict. It must be done quickly.”

“That will not be easy.”

“Whether it is easy or not, it will be done.”

“Yes,” said Professor Ai.

Mack Smith Thought Bin Awg was a bit of a blowhard — albeit a rich one who didn’t mind spending his money — but his opinion changed the moment he stood under the nose of the Tu-16 Badger C.

At that moment, he became convinced that the prince was one of the most generous and wonderful human beings on the planet, with a connoisseur’s eye for vintage aircraft.

A one-time member of the Aviatsiya Voenno-Morskovo Flota — the Soviet naval aviation branch — the aircraft had had a rather checkered history after being decommissioned sometime in the 1980s. It had flown briefly with the Polish air force, put in a few months in East Germany (where it had allegedly worked as a weather plane, according to the somewhat unbelievable records supplies to bin Awg; more likely it was some sort of spy plane), and finally been “loaned” to Indonesia as part of a program by the Soviets to convince that country to purchase updates for its twenty-two-member fleet of Badger Bs. When the loan period ended, a series of complicated financial dealings resulted in the plane being deeded to the Indonesian air force, which then put it up for sale as surplus material.

It was at that point that bin Awg had obtained it, and after considerable time and expense restored it to 1961 condition. Though technically part of the Brunei Air Force — it had military insignia — it was in fact one of the prince’s private airplanes, and not included in the regular chain of command or inventory.

The design of the Tu-16 dated to the early 1950s, and in fact some elements owed their origin to the Tu-4, a Russian knockoff of the American B-29 Superfortress, the famous aircraft that had helped win World War II. Though only a little more than half the size of a Megafortress, the plane was large — its wings spanned a nudge over 108 feet, and a tape measure pegged from nose to cannon tip at the tail would notch over 114 feet. (Before being refurbished as a Megafortress, a B-52 spanned 185 feet and measured 160; Megafortresses typically added ten to the length but shaved off an even two with the composite wings. The real difference was in potential weight at takeoff; a Badger might tip the scales — and just make it off the ground — at 167,110 pounds; a B-52 could get up with over 500,000 and an EB-52 with even more, though it rarely was configured with that much weight. The Tu-16 might be more favorably compared to a B-47, another Cold War veteran that served as a medium bomber in the American order of battle.)

Mack didn’t particularly like the Megafortress and had turned down an offer to become a pilot in the program. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t appreciate old birds, and standing beneath the Russian Cold War bomber, he felt something like love.

Lust, really, since Miss Kelly was coming along for the flight. She had a nice hourglass thing going on with khaki pants and a button-down shirt that might have been just a size too small.

“Look at those engines,” said Mack, belatedly turning away to pat the air intake cowling of the Mikulin RD-3M turbo. “This sucker is a serious hot rod.”

“It does look big,” said Miss Kelly doubtfully.

“Come on, let’s go up inside her,” said Mack.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the prince?”

“He’ll catch up. Come on. We won’t break anything.”

The boarding ladder extended just in front of the forward landing gear, opening into a typically bare-bones Soviet-era cockpit. There were three seats on the flight deck — a swivel seat belonging to the forward gunner was mounted in front of the electronic gear racks at the rear of the deck — with a station for a radar navigator-bombardier in the nose.

At the center of the flight deck was an observation roof or “astrodome.” Behind this on the upper fuselage sat a pair of 23mm cannons; two other sets of the antiair guns were included in turrets in the belly and tail. The original model included another cannon in the nose — it wasn’t clear whether the designers had intended this for strafing or dogfighting, neither of which the plane would have been very good at. Bin Awg’s modifications had removed it; the space was needed for the updated avionics and radar gear.

Had the Badger been left completely stock, the nav’s seat up front in the nose would have seemed more than a little claustrophobic. Not only did he have to squeeze under the pilot and copilot to get into the compartment, but in the C model the forward-looking radar blocked off the view. But the prince’s updates enabled a different radar to be used and installed in the chin area; to replace it in the nose he had purchased a glass house from the Chinese, who were still making their own version of the plane, dubbed the Xian H-6. The navigator thus had the best seat in the house.

Mack pointed this out and eagerly helped Miss Kelly slide down and into the seat. She had just gotten snugged in when the prince climbed aboard, dressed in his flight gear; he wore a G suit despite the fact that the cabin was completely pressurized.

“Major, very good. And you have our guest installed.”

“Your Highness,” said Mack. “Ready to rock?”

“Yes,” said the prince, his tone slightly distant. He moved forward and took the pilot’s seat — a slight disappointment for Mack, who nonetheless slid into the copilot’s slot. The sultan’s nephew pulled out a clipboard and began working through an extremely lengthy checklist.

And working. And working. He didn’t merely turn a switch on; he found it, touched it, double-checked it against the list, made sure he knew all the positions, tentatively checked to see that all the selectable positions were indeed selectable, consulted the list, put the switch into the proper detent, rechecked it, went back to the list, nodded to himself, then penciled it off before proceeding.

Understandable for a complex dial, perhaps, but a bit much for a simple two-way toggle. Especially given the thick sheaf of procedures he had to work through.

“Can’t beat these old planes,” said Mack, hoping to hurry him along.

The prince smiled indulgently.

“We taking off soon?”

“In good time, Major. We plan the flight, then fly the plan.”

“Well, sure.”

They’d done that earlier, actually, but the prince saw fit to do it again. He was a demon of a partier, but when it came to aircraft, there was not a more careful or conservative man in the world. Mack tried to get involved in the checklist as an ordinary copilot — though his intention really was to hurry the procedure along — but the prince considered it mostly a solo act. Mack had everything he could do to keep from nodding off until the engines finally spooled up.

As the old red dog nudged along the runway, Mack felt his pulse rate start to climb. It didn’t hurt that Miss Kelly chose that moment to twist back toward the flight deck, exposing a good portion of cleavage.

“This is it,” she said giddily.

“Yeah,” said Mack. “It really is.”

Zen sat back in his seat aboard Raven, watching the diagnostics screen fly by as the prelaunch checklist for the U/MF-3 Flighthawk continued. The words hawk one ready flashed on his screen. By convention, the robot aircraft was dubbed “Hawk One.” Each U/MF in the air was called “Hawk” and numbered by the computer system, generally by launch sequence. The green color-coded screen told Zen that everything was optimum and routine.

But not for him. For Zen was actually sitting in an aircraft twenty miles from the plane preparing to launch Hawk One. The robot’s mothership was Penn; its pilot was Starship, who had just finished the preflight check without help from Zen. Zen felt a bit like an anxious father, watching his son take his bike out for the first time without training wheels

Zen still wasn’t quite used to watching while others flew the Flighthawks. He’d never be used to it, to be honest.

Even worse, he’d lost his last protégé, Captain Kevin Fentress, over this very ocean not two weeks before.

Fentress was good, too good to lose. Zen had ridden him hard, much harder than Starship and Kick. He wanted to think it had made a difference.

Had it, though?

Maybe. Part of the reason he’d ridden him, and he had to be honest with himself about it, was that he was jealous of the kid — Fentress could get up and walk away at the end of a flight, something he’d never be able to do again.

He was jealous of Stoner too, for the same reason.

“Hawk One away,” said Starship.

“Roger that,” said Zen, watching the optical feed. The computer showed the aircraft in good mettle, systems in the green, course perfect.

“Looking good, Hawk One,” he told Starship.

“Thanks, big guy.”

Weather was clear,visibility unlimited. He didn’t even have a hangover. Starship couldn’t be happier.

Well, Kick could be back home or in the other plane. That would make him happier.

“Hawk One,be advised we have a pair of Chinese Sukhois, that would be J-11s similar to Su-27s, coming south toward the task force,” said the plane’s copilot, Captain McNamara. He gave their bearing, altitude, and approximate speed; the figures were duped on the display. If he changed course slightly he could intercept them in roughly five minutes.

“Hold your present course,Hawk One,” said Zen from the other plane, as if reading his mind.

Starship acknowledged, though he chafed a bit. He really didn’t appreciate having a babysitter.

“Looks like they want to see how low the Aussies can track them,” said Kick. The J-11 pilots had tickled their afterburners and plunged toward the waves, riding down in an extremely low-level track; so low, in fact, that Starship wasn’t entirely sure the Russian-made fighters weren’t skipping on the water.

HMAS Maryborough was one of Australia’s finest destroyers, an American-built ship of the Oliver Hazard Perry class. Outfitted very close to the American standard, the Maryborough packed a competent Mk 13 SAM system; its SM-1MR missiles could take out a target at twenty-five nautical miles, but was arguably better at defending against medium- and high-altitude attacks than the wave-top dash the Sukhois were attempting. While it was academic — the Australians weren’t about to fire at the Chinese planes — it did make for an interesting few minutes.

“I’m amazed they’re not flaming out,” said Kick, monitoring the Chinese hot dogs from his screen. “The radar says they’re six feet above the water. They’re going to slam into the hulls of the ship if they’re not careful.”

“They’ll pull up, watch,” said Starship. They did — though a little later than he thought, the lead plane ripping so close to the Maryborough ’s antenna mast that it undoubtedly wobbled in the wake.

“They’re out of their minds,” said Kick.

“Typical Chinese bullshit,” said Zen from Raven.

“Gentlemen, let me remind you we are supposed to be flying silent com,” said Colonel Bastian from the pilot’s seat of the Pennsylvania. “Please keep unnecessary chatter to a minimum. We have twenty-five minutes to the start of the show.”

They were within visual range of the Asean task force — cleared to fly above courtesy of the prince’s rank and their theoretical status as members of the Brunei air force — before Mack got a chance to take the helm, but as soon as he did he started making up for lost time. After a bit of straight and level to get the feel of the plane — sucker flew like a big ol’ Caddy, fins and all — Mack decided to see how good a job the riveters had done lashing the Soviet metal together.

“Hang on,” he said, and he tipped his right wing and slid the big Russian bomber downward. It didn’t quite knife through the air — the action was a bit more like an ax head hurtling down a slope — but after the relatively placid flight north it felt like a roller coaster. Mack rode the plane down through fifteen thousand feet before rocking level.

His nose started to float up as he tried to put her into a hard turn — it was a big plane, and the hydraulic controls felt very different from the fly-by-wire gear he spent most of his time with. But a sigh from Miss Kelly over the interphone circuit chased off any hint of doubt; Mack tensed his biceps and the big plane moved smartly through the sky, right where he wanted her.

“That boat looks so small,” said Miss Kelly. “What a view.”

Mack’s view — both of the ocean and of Miss Kelly — was not nearly as expansive as he would have liked, but it would do. The Thai destroyer she admired was off his right wing, bow nudging away the swells.

“We are in an exercise area,” said the prince. “We must be careful.”

“Not a problem,” said Mack. “You think we can make it through a roll?”

And without waiting for an answer, he flicked the stick — well, more like leaned on the old-fashioned wheel yoke that served as a stick — and pushed the big old bomber through an invert.

Zen double-checked their positions on the SITREP in his flight helmet, then flipped the main view back to the feed from the nose of Hawk Two, the Flighthawk still sitting under Raven’s wing. The computer had finished the prelaunch check and was holding.

“Hawk leader, we’re ready when you are,” radioed Dog from the Pennsylvania.

“Hawk leader copies,” said Zen. “Hawk One? Status?”

“On course. Twenty minutes from alpha point,” said Starship. Alpha was an arbitrary spot sixty seconds from Chinese territorial water where Starship would start his dance.

“Hawk leader copies.Raven?”

“Raven is ready. We’ll initiate launch maneuver at your command.”

“Hawk leader copies.”

A quick glance at the instrument panel. Green, green, green. You could write a tech manual using these readings.

“Initiate launch maneuver.”

“Raven,” said Major Alou, piloting the plane. The mother ship began a gentle dive, which increased the separation forces as the Flighthawk was launched. Zen turned over control to C³, authorizing the launch — standard practice — and waited as the EB-52 nosed downward, picking up momentum.

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.Raven began tracking slightly east, anticipating the Flighthawk’s turn once it reached their target orbit.

“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 Penn ’s radio operators to make sure they were set. Alou and his copilot, meanwhile, completed a weapons check, making sure they were prepared for the worst.

“Hawk One is at alpha,” said Starship.

“Roger that,” Zen acknowledged. “Colonel, we’re go.”

“Let’s do it, gentlemen,” said Dog. “Raven, you’re silent com. Talk to you guys when we all get home.”

“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.

“Hawk One, this is Penn,” Dog said. “Ready to make your run?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You see that civilian?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Delay your event for ninety seconds.”

“Hawk One,” acknowledged the pilot.

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 Penn.

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.Raven was monitoring the frequency and would hear the information.

“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.

“You will wait,” the man told him.

Stoner nodded. In a few minutes, a large Anglo with a very bright red face rushed into the reception area, nearly out of breath.

“Conrad,” he said. “You’re Stoner?”

The CIA officer nodded.

“Ah, good. Come with me. We’re off.”

“Off?”

“We’ve got to get to Kampung Ayer,” he said in a thick and proper English accent. “That’s where our acquaintance is.”

A few minutes later, Stoner found himself in the stern of a small water taxi, speeding toward the floating island that lay in the mouth of the capital, an ancient tongue stuck in the ocean’s shallow bay. Built largely on stilts, the water village, a maze of wooden promenades and buildings lashed together with thin ropes, was home to more than thirty thousand people. The air had a pungent odor; the water went from deep blue to an almost coppery red as they drew closer to the village.

Conrad gave the taxi operator a few directions and they began threading their way through a narrow lagoon. Two turns later, they stopped in front of a large white structure that looked like an American double-wide trailer. The rusted tin roof boasted two large satellite dishes at its apex.

“Off we go,” said Conrad.

Stoner got out. The taxi backed up and sped off.

“We’ll get another, don’t worry, old chap. Plenty hereabouts.”

The two men walked up the plankway to the building. Stoner was surprised to find a cool interior and a thick, new-looking carpet. A young man sat at a desk that could have been a reception area at a better doctor’s office in the U.S.

“Cheese in?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Conrad. Please go.”

Stoner followed Conrad through the door into what looked like a small den. A large TV screen filled one side; CNBC was on. Near the television a man in shorts and T-shirt sat on a leather couch, a phone at his ear. He had a pair of laptops out — one on the floor, one next to him on the couch. Conrad pushed over a large chair for Stoner, then got another for himself. The man on the phone — Cheese — continued to talk for a while, mentioning some sort of stock he wanted to short — then finally concluded the conversation.

“Listen, I got to go,” he told whoever was on the other line. “I have MI6 and the CIA sitting in my office. Yeah, looks like I got big trouble.”

He punched the phone, then rose, jabbing his hand toward Stoner. “James Milach. They call me Cheese because I made a killing in Kraft. No shit.”

Stoner shook his hand. “Stoner.”

“Beefeater told me. You figure it out yet?” he added, turning toward Conrad.

“Still working on it.”

“Thinks he may be related to Conrad, the author. Except what he doesn’t know is, Conrad was Polish,” said Cheese, sitting back on his couch.

“There is a possibility I’m related,” Conrad told Stoner. “And the author traveled through here. I, of course, was raised in London. Unlike Cheese, who is so obviously an American. Though he has settled in rather well.”

Cheese wasn’t paying attention. He looked at the laptop, then studied the stock screen at the bottom of the TV. “I hate these stinking time delays.”

“I’ve been trying to come up with a list of chip fabricators,” Stoner said. “Ones that are active in Asia, that have custom capabilities but would work quietly for another country. I’ve looked into official sites, but I’m told that—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Beefeater told me all about it. I can help. Hang tight a sec, okay?”

Cheese grabbed his phone and quickly punched a combination of numbers. “Hey, screw what I told you yesterday. Dump ’em. Yeah. I don’t care. Buy IBM or Intel. Whatever. Just do it. Quick.”

“Cheese spends an inordinate time thrashing about in the stock market,” said Conrad.

“Why don’t you just use your laptop and make your own trades?” Stoner asked.

“Oh, I do. But sometimes when you want to make certain moves, brokers are useful. You may have to spread things around. It’s more a hobby these days. Then again, there’s always hope I’ll come up with something to beat Kraft and get a new nickname.”

Conrad chuckled.

“So you can help?” said Stoner.

“Chip fabricators. Processor chips doing really high-grade stuff. Not a lot of them in Asia that aren’t, you know, say, under a government’s thumb. My bet would be Korea,” said Cheese.

“Yes,” said Stoner. Another officer had checked on the Korean plants very extensively, and had assured him they weren’t involved.

“All right, so forgetting Korea, what do we have, right?” continued Cheese. “We’re talking very high-end processors and no questions asked. Right?”

Stoner nodded.

“I know of a factory in Thailand. I’d start there.”

“Others?” asked Stoner.

“My assistant will get you a list. But forget it. If it isn’t that Thai place, it isn’t anywhere. Anything you need, they’ll do. Of course, if you look at the customs records, what few there are, you’ll see they only make chips for VCRs and TVs, that sort of thing. Don’t believe it.”

“Can they do memory chips and CPUs? Specialized work?”

“One of their partners was a Taiwan company owned by Chen Lee. You hear of him?”

“No.”

Cheese smiled. “His company ever goes public, you want a piece of it. He’s the king of salvage. Anyway, he withdrew his financing or something about a year ago. I don’t know the whole deal. Supposedly it was a top operation, though why they located there, I wouldn’t begin to guess.”

“Maybe so nobody would come around asking questions.”

Cheese shrugged. “Anyway, they’d make something for you. They’re desperate. Or they were.”

“Were?”

“I believe they’re bankrupt, now that Chen cashed out.” Cheese jumped up. “I got to hit the treadmill down the hall. You guys want to come or are we done? I got sweats if you want. Shower when you’re done.”

Stoner looked at Conrad. His red face had turned beet red at the prospect of exercise.

“I think we’re done,” said Stoner. “If I can get that list.”

“They’re telling the Sukhois to the south to come home,” said Captain Justin Gander, one of the intercept officers upstairs who was listening in via the Elint gear on the plane. A translation unit in the computer could give on-the-fly transcripts of voice messages.

Zen checked the counter in the screen on the left, noting that they were now about thirty seconds beyond the designated launch time for the dummied-up Hellfire. He wasn’t sure why Starship had missed the launch.

“Sukhois are saying — having a little trouble with the translation — they’re going to inspect another aircraft.”

“What aircraft?” asked Zen. The Sukhois were a good seventy miles south and back further to the west.

“They’re calling it a Xian. Hang on — all right, registry is Brunei,uh, Badger belonging to the air force. Has a utility role according to our index. Uh, looks like it’s on a routine patrol, just kind of flying around but not an official part of the exercise. Oh — VIP plane. Prince bin Awg flies it. Sight-seeing.”

“Great place for sight-seeing,” said Zen. “Our ghost clone show yet?”

“Nada. Got a lot of traffic out near Taiwan. We’re reading pretty far.”

Zen grunted, preparing to bank the Flighthawk as they came to the end of their orbit.

“Zen, looks like they held off on the Hellfire launch because of civilian traffic,” said Merce Alou, who was piloting the plane. “They’re giving positions to the Australian frigate.”

“Not a problem,” said Zen. He dipped Hawk Two into a shallow bank. As he took the turn he watched the view from the rear-facing video cam, which was using a computer-enhanced mode to show the antenna, whose silvery metal was nearly invisible to the naked eye. The web crinkled a bit as the direction changed, but Zen was able to keep it stretched out by nudging downward a little more.

“Turn complete,” he told Alou, who was timing his own maneuvers to the Flighthawk.

Starship saw his position drift toward the Chinese border over the ocean. He applied light pressure to the stick but couldn’t seem to master it, the nose of the small robot stubbornly edging northward.

“You’re going over their line,” said Kick.

“No shit.”

Starship gave up on the light hand, jerking the aircraft sharply to get back on course. The Flighthawk responded as it was programmed to do, veering sharply and changing course. The pilot cursed to himself but kept his cool, sliding back onto the dotted line provided by the computer.

“What are we doing,Hawk One?” asked Colonel Bastian.

“Controls getting a little twitchy,” said Starship.

He swore he heard Kick chortling to himself.

“The controls or you?”

“Me, sir.” Starship felt his cheeks burn.

“The Chinese are scrambling additional planes. We definitely have their attention,” said Dog, his voice calm. “Resume the countdown on the Hellfire and launch when you’re ready.”

“Yes, sir. We’re at thirty seconds.”

Mack could see the idiot Chinese pilots coming toward them from the north, riding a quick burst from their Saturn AL-31FM turbos. The planes they were flying were license-built Sukhois Su-27s, known in China as J-11s and virtually identical to the Russian model, whose design dated to the late seventies and early eighties. Essentially an attempt to keep up to the frontline F-14 and F-15, the Sukhoi was a very good and capable aircraft, but even gussied up with a glass cockpit and thrust vectoring tailpipe, it didn’t impress Mack. Zen could nail one of those suckers with his little bitty robot planes, which as far as Major Smith was concerned, said it all.

The lead Chinese pilot challenged them, calling them “unidentified Xian H-6” and asking what unit they were with.

“Usual Chinese bullshit,” grumbled Mack.

“What’s going on, Major?” asked Miss Kelly.

“He’s just jerking our chain,” Mack told her. “Pretending to think we’re a Chinese aircraft. It’s a game. They make believe they don’t know who we are, so they can fly up close and show off. Goes on all the time. Macho posturing. Don’t be impressed.”

The interceptors started a wide turn, obviously planning to swing around and come across their wings.

“The Chinese can be quite aggressive,” said bin Awg. “They don’t believe that Brunei should have an air force.”

“They don’t think anyone should have an air force,” said Mack.

“They are precisely why we need an air force.”

“You got that straight, Prince,” said Mack. “Jerks. Don’t let ’em push you around.”

Bin Awg broadcast his ID, course, and added a friendly greeting, all in Mandarin.

The Chinese didn’t bother acknowledging.

Mack pulled out his large map of the area, working out how far the planes had come. The Sukhois were large aircraft and could carry a decent amount of fuel; even so, he figured these two jokers must be out near bingo — they’d have to go home soon.

The J-11s had slowed considerably, and as Mack had predicted split wide so they could bracket the Badger. Painted in white, the double-finned planes were trimmed in blue. They had what appeared to be R-73 Russian-made heat-seekers tied to their wings. Known as Archers in the West, the short-range missiles were roughly comparable to Sidewinders.

“Frick and Frack,” said Mack as the planes pulled alongside.

Miss Kelly laughed.

The backseater in the J-11 on the right had a camera. Mack resisted the impulse to give him the finger — it would be posted on the Internet tomorrow if he did. No sense giving the Chinese jerks the satisfaction.

The Sukhoi on the right swung across the Badger’s path, a few yards away. The prince struggled to hold his big, fussy aircraft steady and not hit the idiot. Bin Awg was a good pilot, but the J-11’s bulky mass presented a case study in wake turbulence. Nor was the other commie giving him much room to work with.

The RWR bleeped on and off. The Chinese jocks were really pulling their chain, activating their radars as if intending to target them.

“They’re lucky we don’t have air-to-air missiles,” grumbled the prince.

That gave Mack an idea. He threw off his restraints and climbed back to the gunner’s station. It took a moment to get the hang of the gear, but though ancient it was straightforward enough that even a zippersuit could figure it out. Mack felt the gears chattering behind him as it turned. He put his face down into the old-fashioned viewer, surprised to find that it was actually a radar screen, not an optical feed. As he did so, the pilot had to push down to avoid the Sukhoi’s tailpipe. Losing his balance, Mack grabbed for a handhold. His finger found the gun switch, and to his shock and surprise, a stream of bullets flew not just from the top guns but from all three of the antiair stations.

For one of the few times in his military career, Mack Smith was utterly speechless. He hadn’t thought the weapons were loaded — bin Awg hadn’t given any indication that they were. Nor would he have guessed that they could be fired so easily, or that all three weapons could be commanded from one station.

Of course, had he been trained as a weapons operator, a glance at the panel would have told him all this. But then if he’d been a real weapons operator, he wouldn’t have been fooling around in the first place.

Actually, the same might be said for a pilot, or any officer of the U.S. Air Force, Navy, or Army, whose duty might reasonably be said to include restrictions against being a bonehead in a potential war zone.

Without saying anything, without breathing, Mack slid back into his copilot’s seat, sure that his career in the U.S. Air Force had just ended.

At least he hadn’t shot down the planes. The J-11s pulled off to the north, making tracks.

No one else said anything as he pulled on his headset. Mack glanced toward the prince. His face was red.

Probably, he couldn’t be jailed for what was just a dumb-ass mistake. Court-martialed, sure.

But jailed?

If they did jail him, would it be in Brunei or the U.S.?

A communication came in from the Australian frigate.

Mack listened as the prince gave his position and intentions; they were homeward bound.

“Scared those buggers off, mate,” said the Australian. “Good for you.”

Obviously, it wasn’t a flag officer talking. Bin Awg acknowledged with his ID, but said nothing else.

“I, uh, I—” started Mack. He intended to apologize, but apologies had never exactly been his strong suit. His tongue froze in his mouth.

“Major?” said the prince.

“Um.”

“Major Mack Smith, you have just done something I wish I had the guts to do ten years ago. You sent the devils packing. This is a great moment. A very, very great moment.”

If Mack had had trouble speaking a moment before, he was utterly speechless now. He wanted to tell the prince that, in all honesty, he was exaggerating by a country mile.

Then he thought he’d apologize, say he hadn’t thought the gun was loaded, and throw himself on the mercy of the court. Maybe the prince might say a few words on his behalf.

But nothing came out of his mouth.

Bin Awg turned to him. “Well done. Well, well done.”

“Uh, thanks,” was all Mack could manage to get out of his mouth.

Dog checked the SITREP. They had Chinese J-11s to the south of them, J-11s to the west, a big ol’ Russian Coot, and even a U.S. Navy P-3—but no ghost clone, at least not that they could see. He hoped Raven was having better luck.

“They’re getting to be at bingo now, sir,” said the copilot, whom Dog had asked to keep track of the Flighthawk status. “Bingo” in the Flighthawk referred to the point at which they had to refuel.

“Hawk One, this is Penn. How’s your fuel state?” said Dog.

“Getting edgy,” replied Starship.

“What’s edgy?”

“Uh, we’re getting there.”

Dog shook his head. The nugget was like a kid who’d been swimming in a pool all afternoon and didn’t want to get out even though his lips were chattering and his body was blue. As long as he didn’t admit being cold, he wouldn’t be.

Didn’t work that way with jet fuel, though.

“Hawk One, have you discovered the secret to perpetual motion?” Dog asked.

“Um, excuse me, Colonel?”

“Time for you to refuel, no?”

“Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

“All right, let’s radio the fleet that we’re breaking off and going home,” Dog told the entire crew.

Starship slid back in his seat as the computer took the Flighthawk in and began the refuel.

He was tired and more than a bit frustrated. All that flying and no sight of the ghost clone.

Not to mention the fact that the Chinese fighters had stayed well clear of him.

“Tired?” Kick asked.

“Nah,” said Starship.

“Zen’s probably tracking him right now.”

“Yeah.”

“You hear what happened with the Brunei Badger?”

“Something happened?” Starship had been too intent on his own mission to bother with anything that didn’t concern him.

“Couple of J-11s buzzed them just about an hour ago. Mack Smith sent them packing with a burst of cannon fire across their bow.”

“Live gunfire?”

“No shit,” said Kick.

“Wow. He allowed to do that?” Starship’s ROEs strictly forbade him from firing except in the most dire of circumstances, and if he had tried that Zen would have found a way to kick his butt back to Dreamland.

“Got away with it. Nobody’s complaining.”

“Those the planes we saw earlier?”

“Yup.”

“They were probably just out of fuel,” said Starship. “They were operating at the edge of their range.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not the way the Brunei prince sees it. They’re sending airplanes out to escort them back to a hero’s welcome. I’m not making this up.”

“Man, I wish I had Mack Smith’s life,” said Starship as the computer buzzed him. The refuel complete, he took over from the electronic brain, ducking down and then zooming ahead of the Pennsylvania to lead her back to the base.

Danny Freah got up from his desk in the security office, his eyes so blurry that he couldn’t read any of the papers on his desk. He’d been staring at computer reports along with summaries of regulations, laws, and previous investigations for over four hours.

For all that, he probably knew less now than when he’d started. As head of security at Dreamland, Danny had extraordinary powers to investigate possible espionage; he didn’t even have to rely on Colonel Bas-tian’s authority in most cases. Everyone who worked at the base had to sign long, complicated agreements that essentially stripped him of privacy and made Danny Freah Big Brother. If events warranted, he could tap their phones, read their mail, even enter their homes.

But what he needed in this sort of case was the ability to read people’s minds. Because it just wasn’t clear to him that anyone — Jennifer Gleason especially — had betrayed his country, knowingly or unknowingly.

Occasionally during the Cold War, technology theft was straight-out obvious — the Soviet Union produced a four-engine bomber based on a B-29 a few months after the plane landed in the country’s Far East, for example. But much more often, the theft was considerably more subtle and nuanced.

The Soviet Tu-95 bomber, for example, had probably been influenced by American designs — yet it did not directly correspond to anything in the American inventory. Were similarities between American jets and advanced MiGs and Sukhois due to similar design requirements and constraints, or espionage? When was a copycat simply that — and when was it an act of treachery?

Danny needed more extensive data about the ghost clone before he could even decide whether there might be a case here. Even then, he’d need really, really hard evidence to take to Colonel Bastian — or to Bastian’s superiors, if Danny decided the colonel couldn’t be unbiased.

Cortend, on the other hand, worked on the premise that espionage had occurred, and therefore she would find it. She didn’t really care what effect she had on the base, much less on the people she was grilling. And because she wasn’t conducting an official investigation — not yet, anyway — she could ignore a lot of the standard rules and procedures designed to prevent abuses. She bullied people into cooperating “voluntarily” and then screwed them, or tried to.

Danny wasn’t like that. He didn’t nail people without damn good reason to do so.

Should he?

Maybe Jennifer did know something, or had done something really wrong. She was pretty antagonistic, and hadn’t been acting particularly, well, innocent.

She’d answered all the questions, though. She claimed she didn’t remember the conferences or the paperwork.

Probably that was true. He couldn’t remember back a few years himself. And as for paperwork…

It was bullshit. The files were full of contact reports that no one ever looked at. Truth of it was, Jennifer Gleason rarely left the base, not even to go home, not even for a vacation. She was about as far away from being a spy as you could get. Knowledge, yes, but little opportunity, and dedication probably unmatched even at Dreamland.

Were his emotions getting in the way of his judgment? He liked Jennifer, and even more importantly, he liked Dog; if Jennifer were guilty, it would kill the colonel.

To his credit, Dog wasn’t interfering. Clearly he didn’t think Jen was guilty, but he wasn’t interfering.

Danny glanced at his watch and decided he’d go catch some Z’s. Maybe tomorrow one of the scientists here would come up with some new gizmo that would let him read minds.

UNABLE TO SLEEP,Jennifer pushed herself out of bed. Her legs and neck felt numb. She folded her elbows against the sides of her chest, then bent at the waist, stretching her muscles. The numbness stayed with her.

She walked from the small bedroom to the slightly larger living room, which had a kitchenette at the side. She sat on the couch, staring at the TV on the wall near the door but not bothering to turn it on. Jennifer pulled her feet up onto the couch, looking at her toes.

The numbness affected even them.

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,Hawk Two,” said Alou. “Be advised we’re intercepting communications now between a ground controller and a flight of Chinese F-8IIs — hang tight.”

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 Raven was waiting with its probe already out for the refuel. It took a few minutes to climb and line up correctly, moving in toward the waiting straw like a kid homing in on a root beer float in an old-fashioned ice cream shop. Zen throttled back, hit his computer-generated marks, then prepared to give up control to the computer, which would fly the actual refuel. But just then the RWR buzzed in his ear, warning him that the Chinese pilots had turned their radar into targeting mode, as if they were preparing to fire guided missiles at the EB-52.

“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 Raven ’s bow, its pilot threw the plane into a hard turn north, probably surpassing nine g’s. It was a wonder he didn’t pass out.

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 Raven.

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 Raven ’s tail. Zen pushed back toward Raven as the Chinese planes pulled north.

“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 Raven, one of the F-8s drove up near Zen’s right wing, closing the distance from about a hundred yards, obviously curious about the U/MF. Zen didn’t blame him, actually; the little plane looked more like a UFO than a conventional aircraft. He switched over to the frequency the Chinese aircraft were using.

“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 minutes of flying time left.

“Should we be polite?” asked Alou.

“Give it a shot. If they don’t move off, break left hard. I’ll drop in and we’ll hook up before they can get back.”

As Alou asked the Chinese pilot in English and Mandarin Chinese to stand clear so they could refuel, the lead F-8 returned, taking up a position under the other wing. This ruled out Zen’s plan.

“All right, that’s it,” said Zen. He pushed the slide on the throttle and whipped the Flighthawk forward, riding in between the F-8 on the right and the Megafortress. The Chinese pilot got the message and began to duck off to the right. But as he did, his flight leader lost his nerve and jinked downward as well — right into the other plane’s wing.

A turbulent rumble of air shook all four aircraft. Zen thought he had hit the belly of the Megafortress — he’d been closest to the EB-52—and slammed the Flighthawk downward as quickly as he could.

For a long half second, he wasn’t sure where anyone else was. He felt a disconnect between his mind and body — his eyes were plummeting with the Flighthawk while his chest was taking a few g’s from the other direction, Alou trying to climb out of trouble.

By the time Zen pulled upward, Alou had steadied the Megafortress. It hadn’t been hit.

“All right. I have to refuel,” said Zen. “No more fooling around.”

The warning tone was loud in his ear, the Flighthawk pleading for gas.

“Roger that,” said Alou.

“Chinese aircraft are down,” reported the copilot. “I see one, I have two chutes. Good chutes. Lucky bastards.”

“Thank God for that,” said Alou. “Even if they don’t deserve it.”

From the air, the small tanker looked no different from the average commercial vessel plying the South China Sea. A small gray tarp, frayed at one edge, flapped in the wind on the starboard side; the masts were in disrepair and the paint near the waterline clearly needed to be scraped and reapplied. Anyone who followed the ship for any length of time would realize that the engines had a habit of spewing dark smoke at unpredictable intervals, but they would also notice that the crew, while relatively small, was motivated and disciplined. The flag that flew from the mast was Malaysian, though of course in these days of international shipping, any observer might guess that was more a matter of convenience than a clue to its ownership. The Dragon ship — its actual name was Dragon Prince, though few used it — was to all outward appearances just one more small merchant vessel trying to make a living in the difficult business of international shipping.

But as the old Chinese proverb put it, appearances were often meant to deceive.

Chen Lo Fann stood on the bridge of the Dragon Prince, waiting. An American satellite had just inconveniently passed overhead, delaying their launch. They had to wait another ninety seconds to make sure that it was well out of range.

Chen Lo Fann waited stoically, willing the time to pass. There was no doubt in his mind that their chance had passed by today; he hoped Fate would provide another tomorrow.

“Commander?”

Surprised, Chen Lo Fann turned. “Professor Ai, why are you on the bridge? Shouldn’t you be with your controls?”

“You need to listen to this,” said the gray-haired scientist.

Chen Lo Fann nodded, then followed as Professor Ai led the way below to the compartment where the intercepted information was compiled. He stepped quickly to the panel at the right and flipped a small toggle switch, allowing an intercepted radio transmission to be broadcast onto the deck.

The words were in Chinese.

A search-and-rescue operation.

One of the Communist planes had gone down!

“Two of the planes collided,” said Professor Ai. “They will send a rescue craft, a Harbin flying boat. It is their usual procedure.”

And so, thought Chen Lo Fann, there is such a thing as Fate.

“Yes,” he said. “Let us refine our plan.”

Zen completed his refuel and pushed the Flighthawk away from the belly of the big plane, looping over the wide expanse of water. The two Chinese aircraft had crashed roughly five miles from each other, the planes zigging away after the collision. One of the F-8s had lost its wing, and its jock had hit the silk within seconds of the mishap; the other pilot had stayed with his plane though a good hunk of a tail fin had been sheered off. That pilot was just now hitting the water; Zen banked and approached him from the west.

The Chinese had shot down Quicksilver, killing four of Zen’s friends and nearly killing his wife; while the reviews showed that the attack was a mistake, Zen nonetheless held the Chinese responsible. If they hadn’t been overly aggressive, his people would still be alive.

On the other hand, his duty was to help rescue these jerks.

“Do you have their exact position?” Zen asked Alou as he watched the first pilot hit the water.

“Negative. If you want to go over them and get some GPS readings, we can alert PRC rescue assets,” said the pilot.

“Have they scrambled SAR units yet?” Zen asked.

“We’re working to figure that out, Hawk leader.”

Zen slowed the Flighthawk down as he took a wide bank to swing over one of the Chinese pilots, who was struggling with his gear. The air-to-ground attack mode on the Flighthawk’s radar gave a precise reading of cursored objects as part of the data set; intended to target GPS-guided munitions in coordination with the Megafortress, it could also help in the SAR role. Zen told C³ to find the pilot in the water; the computer popped a little red halo around his head and plotted his exact location.

“Got Idiot One,” said Zen, uploading the information as he brought the Flighthawk back in the direction of the other pilot. At about two miles, he saw a yellow splotch appear on the waves — the pilot had inflated his life raft. “Idiot Two is alive and well.”

“Hawk leader, be advised we have a pair of Chinese aircraft — uh, J-11s or license-built Su-27s — coming out in our direction,” said Alou. “Looks like they’ve been tasked for search and rescue. We’ll attempt to contact them; at present they’re outside of radar range but we have some telemetry on them. Going to take them a bit to get down here.”

Zen acknowledged. As he orbited back, he saw that the second Chinese pilot had not yet inflated his raft.

“Either one of our friends is having trouble with his gear, or he likes to swim,” Zen told the others.

The pilot remained a small dot in the water as he approached. Zen tucked lower, easing down below five thousand feet to try and get a better look at the pilot. He was going about 220 knots and couldn’t get much of a visual; he came back around, speed dropping through 200 and altitude bleeding away, but the cam caught only the top of the man’s head. Just as he pulled off, Zen thought he saw the Chinese pilot’s arm jerk up; if it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t have known he was alive.

“He’s alive but definitely having trouble with the sea,” said Zen. “Where are those SAR assets?”

“Still trying to get a direct line to the Chinese. They’re not answering our hails. They’re on your radar now.”

“Yeah. More idiots. Can we get a helicopter up from one of the ASEAN frigates?” Zen asked.

“We’re working on it, Zen. Looks like we’re out of their chopper range. Hang tight.”

Zen flew a racetrack orbit over the two men, a simple, lazy oval in the sky.Raven had already made two broadcasts over the international UHF Mayday frequency, using the Chinese planes’ call signs, but had not received answers. Zen clicked into the SAR circuit himself and gave it a shot, telling the downed pilots he had their locations and help was on the way.

“Thank you,” came a staticky reply. “Is Commander Won okay?”

“I’m not sure who is who,” replied Zen. “I can see two men down. One of you is in a life raft. The other is just in the ocean.”

The reply was garbled, but Zen made out the words “malfunction” and “problem.”

“Get this,” said McNamara, Raven’s copilot. “The Chinese are warning us off.”

“Tell them to fuck themselves,” Zen replied. He overheard Alou transmitting to the Chinese fighters personally, giving the location of the two downed planes and telling them that the planes had collided with each other. Alou added that they were standing by to assist.

The answer from the Chinese was rather emphatic.

“Their weapons radars are active. We are spiked,” said McNamara, meaning that the radars had a lock on the Megafortress, and the interceptors’ missiles could be launched at any time, though they were probably about ten miles outside their optimum range.

Ten miles equaled a bit less than a minute at their present course and speed.

“They are jerks, aren’t they?” said Alou.

“Incredible,” said Zen. He was tempted to tell Alou to open the bomb bay doors and target the PRC fighters with their AMRAAM-plus Scorpions. But it was no more than a quickly fleeting thought.

“I think we should tell them they’re being assholes,” Zen suggested. “And in the meantime, offer to pass on messages to their comrades. Give them IDs and stuff. We can break the ECMs on launch. If we don’t shoot the idiots down.”

“I concur. You want to talk with the pilot in the water?”

“Sounds good.”

The Chinese pilot’s name was Lieutenant Tzu — or something reasonably close. He gave his unit identification and the plane he’d been flying to Zen to pass on. At the same time, he asked again about his flight leader.

“He’s definitely in the water, and he’s moving around,” Zen told him. “But his raft doesn’t seem to be working.”

The pilot said something that was overtaken by static. Zen thought he was asking if he could drop a life raft. That was impossible, since the EB-52 hadn’t been rigged for rescue missions, and didn’t carry gear that could be dropped out to pilots. The Flighthawks had no gear at all.

“We’re sorry, but we don’t have that kind of gear aboard. We’ll keep an eye on him,” Zen explained.

“Give me the direction,” said the other pilot.

The two men were now about six miles apart; surely it would take several hours for Lieutenant Tzu to reach his comrade. But the idea was a noble one, and Zen gave the lieutenant the heading, circling around a few times to make sure he understood.

The J-11s, meanwhile, had decided to play nice. They’d turned off their weapons radar and were asking for vectors to their downed airmen. Alou and McNamara used the computer’s translator module to help communicate as they spoke with them; it turned out to be faster to go back and forth in Chinese than to struggle in English. A Harbin Z-5 seaplane was being scrambled and was en route.

Scrambled was a relative term — the aircraft was only now leaving its base, and at top speed—300 knots — would take an hour and a half to arrive. More than likely, it would be more than two.

The J-11s, meanwhile, were near bingo.

“The Chinese want to know if we can stay aloft over their pilots while they go and refuel,” said Alou. “They’re just about out of gas.”

“Well, what the hell did they send them down here for if they didn’t have enough fuel to do anything but spin around and go home?” asked Zen.

“You’re asking me to explain the logic of the Chinese command system?”

“Do we have enough fuel ourselves?”

“Tight. We’ll have to try and arrange a refuel as we head south,” said Alou. “We can do it, though. Mission commander’s call.”

“Well let’s not run out of fuel ourselves,” said Zen. “But you better tell that Z-5 to get a move on — Commander Won doesn’t look like much of a swimmer, even with his lifejacket on.”

Colonel Bastian was several hundred miles away, about to enter Brunei airspace, but his voice came through loud and clear on the Raven ’s flight deck. Major Alou switched into the private Dreamland circuit, which used a dedicated satellite network to provide around-the-globe encrypted transmissions.

“Raven here. Major Alou.”

“Bastian. What’s the situation?”

Alou filled him in. The J-11s had taken a quick look and gone home; the Chinese rescue plane was still a good half hour off.

“We’ve asked Texaco to come up and stand by,” Alou added, referring to a KC-10 tanker asset operating in Brunei with the Dreamland team. Its tanks were filled with a special Dreamland jet fuel; though the planes could use the ordinary J-8 blend, the tiny Flighthawks operated better with a slightly tweaked mixture, and whenever possible Dreamland used its own tankers and support crew.

“That’s fine. You say you have video on the Chinese planes’ collision?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve already downloaded it to Dream Command.”

“Good,” said Dog. “I’ll talk to Major Catsman and Jed Barclay. We’re about to land,” he added. “Keep me informed.Penn out.”

“Raven.”

The Harbinz-5 was a monstrous four-engine seaplane, a big flying amphibian that had been designed as a replacement for the Russian Beriev Be-6. The Z-5 had no American equivalent; it looked a bit like a Consolidated PB2Y from the World War II era, with the fuselage lengthened and slimmed down and the wings set very far back. While slow and ponderous, it was well suited for long-range and tedious SAR missions over the ocean. It could stay aloft for at least fifteen hours, carried an eight-man crew, and had a pantry full of rescue gear.

By the time the Harbin made contact with Raven, the raftless Commander Won had managed to get his rescue radio working. Zen passed along a message that the pilot was tired but alive. When the Z-5 came in sight, Zen rode Hawk Two out to meet it, looping around and bird-dogging the big flying boat in toward the pilot. He pulled off and watched the lumbering plane touch down, splashing against the water as it came in. The ocean was as calm as a bird bath, and the airplane had no problem coasting near its man to facilitate the rescue.

“They’re saying thank you, and they can take it from here,” said Alou. “Our tanker’s en route to the rendezvous. Good time to split.”

“Well, at least the SAR guys know their manners,” said Zen, climbing so they could tank and begin the long trek home.

By the time Dog returned to the base, the adulation for Mack Smith had reached comical proportions. The Brunei officials spoke in tones that suggested the major might have a national holiday named after him. Even Mack seemed a bit embarrassed by the reaction of the Brunei officials, though this hadn’t stopped him from giving two interviews to the state-run media in a special lounge over in the international airport terminal.

“What happened, Mack?” said the colonel when the major finally managed to pull away from the horde of officials and bureaucrats trying to congratulate him.

“Colonel, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Take your best shot.”

Dog listened as Smith told him how the cannons had fired on their own when he turned the radar on.

“They fired on their own?” said Dog. “You didn’t hit the armament panel and then push the trigger?”

“I don’t believe that was the case, sir.”

“Mack, you really don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Didn’t you know the weapons were loaded?” demanded Dog.

“No, sir. Not at all. I swear to God. I did not know they were loaded.”

The last bit — but only the last bit — seemed sincere.

“You know what would have happened if you hit one of those planes?” Dog asked.

Mack held out his hands.

“This is a serious screw-up,” said Dog.

“Prince bin Awg doesn’t think so,” said Mack. “He thinks I’m a hero. And Miss Kelly says it’ll probably help the alliance.”

“This is the sort of thing I’d expect out of a lieutenant,” Dog told him. “A lieutenant who was maybe about to be bounced down to airman. Not a major. Not someone who has serious responsibilities and wants to command a squadron someday.”

Mack’s face blanched.

“Colonel, honest to God, I didn’t know the cannons were loaded. I thought I’d just spin the gun around. I was, it was, I just thought—”

“What did you think?”

“It’s hard to say what I was thinking now,” said Mack. “It’s hard even to say I was thinking at all.”

“You got that right.”

There was a knock on the door.

“No more interviews,” Dog told him. “Don’t say anything. Nothing. Not one word until I speak to Washington.”

He turned and went to the door himself. He pulled it open, thinking he would find one of the local press people, but instead found bin Awg.

The sultan stood a few feet behind him.

“Your Highness,” said Dog, bowing his head in respect.

“Colonel Bastian.”

“Your Excellency, let me apologize,” said Dog. “I deeply regret the trouble we’ve caused.”

“Apologize?” said bin Awg.

The sultan put up his hand. “The Chinese have been taught a lesson,” said the ruler. “There is no need for apology. I hope you and Major Smith will be our guests this evening for a private dinner.”

As Dog started to say he couldn’t, he saw Miss Kelly in the background. She was nodding her head emphatically.

“I um, I’ll try, Your Excellency.”

The sultan smiled. “Try very hard,” he said before turning to leave.

Lieutenant Deci Gordon studied the displays on his console, looking at a graphical representation of the many different electrical signals in the air around Raven. While the complex array of sensors lining the Megafortress’s hull could pick up everything from rocket telemetry to cell phone conversations, the computer had been programmed to look for a very narrow band of transmissions in the same power range as that used by the Flighthawk. The graphical representation of the scan — custom-designed for the EB-52 and still being refined — looked something like an undulating sand dune, with narrow symmetrical lines formed by an unseen rake. His eyes hunted the ever-shifting sands for a blue triangle — the indicator that would show the ghost clone’s broadcast. Though he had told the computer to alert him if it was detected, Gordon trusted his own mark-one eyeballs more than the computer. He stared at the screen and worked his equipment, changing different parameters and the capture patterns in hopes of finding something.

Trained as both an electronic warfare and Elint specialist — traditionally separate though linked roles Raven itself combined — Gordon was a next-generation whizzo, a backseater whose mastery of the radio waves allowed him to listen in on, confuse, or destroy transmitting devices from radars to cell phones and walkie-talkies. Typically,Raven carried two experts; generally in combat one would concentrate on radar intercepts and the other would work with enemy telemetry and communications. Deci’s specialty was radar, but both he and his workmate, Lieutenant Wes Brown, were cross-trained. In this case, both men were using different sets of the gathering gear to look for the clone.

Deci flipped his scan back to an overall capture pattern, showing the active radio transmissions within a two-hundred-mile radius of Raven. Purple starbursts representing the Chinese SAR effort appeared at the top left, with ASEAN transmissions to the southwest below and the radioed instructions from the tanker they were to meet in five minutes a nice lime green at the right. The colors had been selected from a list of preferences Gordon himself had set; he’d already decided the choices needed a bit more work, but any refinement would have to wait until he got back to Dreamland.

Gordon couldn’t wait for the refuel. A large submarine sandwich was waiting for him in Raven ’s fridge, located in the galley area at the rear of the flight deck. He’d chow down as soon as they hooked up with Texaco.

He flipped back to the ghost clone monitoring screen, determined to take one last look. As he did, the computer sounded the “gotcha” tone in his ear.

It took a half second for him to spot the triangle, flickering at the very top edge of the screen. When he did, his finger shot toward it, tapping the touch-sensitive screen.

“Capture,” he said, “capture.”

“Crew, we’re zero five from the rendezvous with Texaco,” said Major Alou.

“Major, hold off! Hold off!” said Gordon, barely able to control his excitement. “I have something. I have it.”

Zen jerked in his seat. He pulled the Flighthawk back north, waiting as the information on the intercepted data flashed onto the sitrep screen, sent there from the data link upstairs.

“Yeah, yeah, looks good.Raven, I think we have a hot one,” said Zen.

“Hawk leader, our fuel state is getting toward critical,” said Alou.

“How critical?” asked Zen. He was roughly six minutes away from the ghost clone.

“We can give you ten minutes, no more,” said Alou. “Then we come back or we ask the Chinese for a link home.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Roger that. Texaco’s coming north with us, but even so, we’re cutting it close.”

Zen pushed the throttle slide up, increasing his speed. He shot a glance at his own fuel panel, just to double-check that he had enough petrol himself. The computer told him that at this speed he could go nearly fifteen more minutes before hitting his reserves.

Plenty of time, he told himself, nudging for more power.

Professor Ai Hira Bai saw the Communist Chinese aircraft at the bottom of the viewscreen as he approached. It looked like a burning cockroach sprawled across the water, its white hull glowing in the reflected sun. He brought up his weapons screen, though he was still a good distance from his target.

Professor Ai did not like to think of himself as a vengeful man, but as he began to close on his target and his heart pounded harder, he did start to feel a certain satisfaction rising in his chest. He tried to push it away, realizing it was a distraction — all emotion was a distraction — and yet he could not.

He wanted to kill. There was no question about that. He wanted to kill the men in the aircraft as surely as he wanted to breathe. He wanted to kill all the mongrels on the Mainland.

He would settle for these communist dogs.

The pipper crawled toward its target. The H-5 was taxiing, moving in the water.

Suddenly, the radar aboard the robot sounded a warning — another plane was approaching.

Professor Ai ignored it, leaning forward in his control screen.

Zen saw the Chinese rescue plane before he saw the ghost clone. The H-5 was just starting to move at the top left of his screen; the unmanned airplane had to be somewhere just to its right, but he couldn’t see it yet on the visual.

Zen realized what was happening a second before McNamara alerted him from the flight deck.

“We have his radar,” said McNamara. “They’re targeting the Chinese plane!”

“Warn them,” said Zen. “The AMRAAMs — can you target the clone?”

The interphone and radio circuits clogged as the pilots above tried to communicate with the Chinese plane and locate the clone at the same time. Zen continued on his course, powering up his own weapons. An upside-down W appeared on the left side of his screen, whitish-gray in the harsh light above the waves. It was the clone.

Zen pushed his stick hard, trying to get it into his aiming reticule.

He was too far. He’d never get to it before the clone opened fire.

“Can you jam his radar?” Zen asked.

McNamara didn’t answer. Instead, C³ gave a buzz indicating that Raven’s ECMs were being activated. This was followed by a proximity warning — the electronic fuzz eroded the communications link between the mother ship and the Flighthawk. Zen had to throttle back or risk losing the connection.

Which gave him an idea.

“Get north,” he told Alou. “Get between the clone and its mother. Knock down its signal.”

Again, the only answer from the bridge was nonverbal — a quick jerk in the air as the heavy bomber lurched northward, trying to follow Zen’s directions.

Zen’s targeting cue began blinking, its color changing to yellow. He was lined up for a shot but too far away, the computer was telling him. He needed to wait until the cue blinked red.

The clone danced up and down, weaving through the air. Then it exploded—

No, it was firing.

Zen pressed the Flighthawk trigger, though he was still well out of range. The W-shaped boogie split off to the right, climbing. Zen turned hard and hit the gas, immediately getting a proximity warning.

“Turn off the ECMs. I have to follow him.”

“Zen, we’re at bingo. We’re beyond it — we have to refuel. We have to go back,” said Alou.

His voice was so stern Zen didn’t argue. He pulled around, looking in the direction of the H-5.

It was still on the water, taxiing he thought. Then the large tail seemed to fold backward, the massive airplane crumpled like a piece of origami caught in a tornado. Flames burst from the engines; in a matter of seconds, the entire aircraft had disappeared under the water.

“Oh shit,” said Zen.