“We’re going to do this like we rehearsed,” said Cantor.

“I’m going to swing out. You get in their face.”

“Flying wing isn’t the most efficient strategy.”

“We’re not flying F-15s, Major. This is the way Zen teaches it.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll work against these bozos,” said Mack.

“I’m just pointing out, it’s not the best strategy to shoot them down.”

“We’re not supposed to fire at them.”

“Hey, don’t bitch to me. Complain to Colonel Bastian.”

I will, thought Cantor. I definitely will.

MACK STEADIED HIS FOREARM ON THE NARROW SHELF IN

front of the control stick, listening as the Wisconsin’s copilot attempted to hail the MiGs. The bogeys were doing 78

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

about 500 knots; with his Flighthawk clocking about 480, they were now about ninety seconds from an intercept.

If he’d been in an F-15 or even an F-16, the MiGs would be toast by now. An F-22— fuggetaboutit. They’d be figments of Allah’s imagination already.

Mack jangled his right leg up and down. Unlike a normal aircraft, the Flighthawk control system did not use pedals; all the inputs came from a single control stick and voice commands. This might be all right for someone like Zen, stuck in a wheelchair, or even Cantor, who’d probably been playing video games since he was born, but not for him. He loved to fly. He had it in his belly and his bones. Pushing buttons and wiggling your wrist just didn’t do it.

“They’re breaking,” said Cantor.

“Hawk One.”

The MiGs, which had been in a close trail, were getting into position to confront the Megafortress. Mack started to follow as Bogey One cut to the east, then realized the plane was closer to Hawk Two.

“I got him, Major,” said Cantor.

“Yeah, yeah, no sweat,” said Mack, swinging back to get his nose on the other airplane.

“If they go for their afterburners, they’ll blow right by you,” warned Cantor.

“Hey, no shit, kid.”

The computer’s tactics’ screen suggested that he start his turn now, recommending that he swing the Flighthawk in front of the MiG to confront it.

“Wrong,” Mack told it. Doing that would take him across the MiG’s path too soon, and he might even lose the chance to circle behind him. Instead, he waited until his MiG began to edge downward. Then it was too late—the Yemen pilot opened up the afterburners and spurted forward, past the Flighthawk, even as Mack started his turn.

“He’s going to use all his fuel, the idiot,” muttered Mack, putting his finger to the throttle slide at the back of the Flighthawk stick. Even so, there was no way he could catch END GAME

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up with the MiG; it was already flying well over 600 knots.

“They know where we’ll be, Major,” said Cantor. “They can’t see us yet but they learned from the encounters back in November.”

“Big deal,” said Mack under his breath.

CANTOR PULLED HIS FLIGHTHAWK BACK TOWARD THE MEGA-fortress, aiming to stay roughly parallel to the other fighter’s path. The MiG-29 Fulcrum was an excellent single-seat fighter, highly maneuverable and very dangerous when equipped with modern avionics and weapons. But it did have some shortcomings. As a small aircraft, it could not carry that much fuel, and teasing the afterburners for speed now would limit what it could do later. And their limited avionics meant the Flighthawk was invisible to them except at very close range. Guessing where it was wasn’t the same as knowing.

As soon as the Yemen jet turned to try and get behind the Megafortress at close range, Cantor made his move, trading his superior altitude for speed and surprise. He reminded himself not to get too cocky as it came on, staying precisely on course and resisting the temptation to increase his speed by pushing his nose down faster.

“Bogey at one mile; close intercept—proximity warning,” said C3, the Flighthawk’s computer guidance system.

“Acknowledged, Computer,” said Cantor. He gave the stick a bit of English as his target came on. The Flighthawk crossed in front of the MiG in a flash, its left wing twenty yards from the aircraft’s nose. As he crossed, Cantor pushed his stick hard to the right, skidding through the air and lining up for a shot on the MiG’s hindquarters.

He didn’t quite get into position to take the shot, but that didn’t matter. The MiG veered sharply to the west, tossing flares and chaff as decoys in an effort to get away.

“Hawk Two has completed intercept,” Cantor reported.

“Bogey One is running for cover.”

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Off the coast of Somalia

2010

STARSHIP ACKNOWLEDGED THE RADIO CALL FROM THE APproaching Indian destroyer, identifying himself as an aircraft from the Abner Read. He was ten miles northeast of the ship, the Calcutta, too far off for them to realize that the aircraft was too small to hold a pilot.

“Werewolf One, our commander wishes you to pass along a message to your commander,” said the radioman aboard the Calcutta.

“Sure,” said Starship.

“He salutes Captain Gale on his many victories. He hopes that he will have an opportunity to visit the AbnerRead in the future.”

“I’ll relay the message,” said Starship.

Starship circled over the Indian warship twice, then began heading back toward the Abner Read, close to 250

miles away. He double-checked the auxiliary screen showing the status of Werewolf Two—the computer was flying the aircraft in a routine patrol pattern around and ahead of the ship—then turned his full attention to the sea in front of him. An oil tanker was about a mile and a half northwest of him, low in the water with its full load.

Something else was there, too—a plane almost in the waves, moving at 100 knots, about five miles north of him.

“Werewolf to Tac,” said Starship. “Hey, check this contact out!”

Indian Ocean

2012

CAPTAIN SATTARI GRINNED AS THE TORPEDO FELL OFF ITS RAIL.

Freed of the weight, the Beriev rose abruptly. Sattari caught a glimpse of his well-lit target five miles off, just beyond the oil tanker. He banked and tucked back closer to the waves, END GAME

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trying to keep the plane no higher than fifty feet, where it should not be seen by the destroyer’s Russian-made radar system.

It would take the torpedo less than three minutes to run to its target. The destroyer would undoubtedly detect the fish once it cleared the tanker, and take evasive maneuvers when the torpedo was detected. But he’d gotten close enough to narrow the odds of escape; the torpedo was designed to home in on its target, and if the crew aboard the destroyer was not swift, he would score a great victory.

Pointless to even think about it now, he told himself, finding his new course.

“Aircraft!” said his copilot, manning the passive infrared sensors. “Helicopter!”

“Where?”

“Three miles to our southeast.”

“Pursuing us?”

“Uncertain. His radar is operating. He may see us.”

Sattari squeezed the throttle for more power.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2014

“MIG TWO CONTINUING TOWARD US AT A HIGH RATE OF

speed,” Jazz told Dog.

“Open the bay doors.”

“He’s not targeting us, Colonel.”

“Bay doors.”

“Bay.”

The rumble of the missile bay opening shook the aircraft.

Dog double-checked his position, then reached to the communications panel.

“Yemen MiG-29, this is EB-52 Wisconsin. You can get as close as you like, but if you get in my way you’re going to swim home.”

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“Big words, yankee-man.”