“So we send the Navy modules over to Saudi Arabia, with me, and we test them there,” said Mack. “Jennifer can come—she’s the only decent pilot anyway.”

“Sandy Culver is the lead pilot,” said Jennifer.

“If you’re angling to go to the Middle East, Major, it’s not going to work,” said Catsman. “Colonel Bastian wanted you here. That’s good enough for me.”

“He didn’t say that specifically.”

“Yes, he did. Don’t you have a rehab or something to go to?”

Exasperated, Mack pushed his wheels and attempted to sweep out of the office. His off-balance attempt nearly sent him into the doorjamb. He recovered at the last second, swiveling to the left and just barely clearing. He swore he heard snickering, but wouldn’t give Catsman the satisfaction of turning around.

He was waiting at the elevator a minute or two later when Jennifer Gleason appeared.

“I made a shot to get you along, Jen,” said Mack.

“Thanks.”

“Catsman’s a pain. I could do a better job than she could.”

Gleason didn’t say anything.

Women always stuck together, Mack thought. But it was true—he was more qualified than Catsman to run the base.

Not that he wanted to run the base. He would, if it didn’t mean sitting behind a desk in a chair all day.

Which, come to think of it, was what he was doing these days. God, he hated the wheelchair.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard Baker-Baker Two , over the Gulf of Aden

2250

THE ETHIOPIAN PILOT REPEATED HIS WARNING: THE AIRCRAFT

must identify itself or be considered hostile and be shot down.

Breanna bristled. Baker-Baker Two’s belly was loaded with Piranha guidance buoys; she had no offensive weapons. If the Ethiopian MiG fired, all she would be able to do was duck.

“Computer has weapons ID’d as AA-12 Adders,” said Spiderman, referring to the NATO designation of the antiair missiles the lead aircraft was packing. Known in Russia as the R-77, the missile was commonly referred to as the “AMRAAMski.” It had an effective range of perhaps one hundred kilometers; when it came within twenty kilometers of its target, it turned on an active radar guidance system that was difficult to break. The aircraft probably also carried R-73s, known in the West as AA-11s. These were shorter range heat-seeking weapons, mean suckers in a knife fight.

“Radar is locked,” warned the copilot. “They’re firing at us!”

“Countermeasures. Hold on everyone—this may get ugly.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2252

“THEY’RE FIRING AT THEM!” WARNED MCNAMARA.

Dog already had the throttle at the last stop, but leaned on the slider anyway.

“They’re taking evasive action,” said McNamara, monitoring the radar at the copilot station. “ECMs, ducking away.

The Ethiopians split into twos, Colonel—looks like they’re trying to get them from both sides.”

“Prepare our Scorpions,” he told him. “Zen, the Ethiopians SATAN’S TAIL

115

have opened fire. Two AA-12 Adders have been launched.”

“Flighthawk leader,” said Zen. “Still zero-five from intercept on the southernmost group.”

Aboard Baker-Baker Two , over the Gulf of Aden

2253

THE MEGAFORTRESS ROLLED ON HER LEFT WING, PIROUETTING

in the air as a cloud of metal chaff blossomed above her, an enticing target for the Russian-made air-to-air missile. Between the decoy and the electronic fuzz broadcast by Baker-Baker Two’s electronic countermeasures, Breanna had no doubt she would avoid the enemy missile. She was concerned about the follow-up attack. The lead MiG had swung sharply east and then cut north, undoubtedly hoping to swing back around while her attention was on his wing-man’s missiles. At the same time, he dove closer to the waves, hoping to go so low that her radar couldn’t find him.

If his maneuvers succeeded, he’d end up behind her, in perfect position to fire his closer-range heat seekers. Meanwhile, the second element of MiGs would close from the south, preventing her from running away.

The tactics would have been effective against another aircraft, but the Megafortress’s radar had no trouble keeping track of the enemy plane’s position, and unlike other aircraft, it had a stinger in its tail—literally.

As the first AMRAAMski sucked the decoy and exploded a mile and a half away, the MiG began accelerating, trying to close the gap between them.

“Stinger air mines,” Breanna told her copilot.

“Stinger is up,” said Spiderman.

“He’s closing. Firing two heat seekers!”

“Relax, Spiderman, I’ve done this before,” said Breanna.

The Russian-made missiles had been fired from roughly five miles away, too far to guarantee a hit against any aircraft, let 116

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

alone the Megafortress. Breanna waited a beat, then tossed flares out as decoys and tucked hard right. But rather than cutting into a sharp zigzag and losing her pursuer, she stayed with the turn, inviting the MiG to close and take another shot. A cue in her heads-up display warned her that he had switched to his gun radar, but he was not yet in range. Breanna started a cut back, again just enough to keep her quarry thinking that he was the hunter.

“Firing,” warned Spiderman.

“Boy, he is a slow learner,” said Breanna. The MiG was roughly three and a half miles off, too far for his bullets to strike the Megafortress.

“Two more contacts closing,” warned Spiderman.

“Hang in there,” said Breanna. She nudged left, lining her adversary up. “Stinger ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Now!” she told the copilot, slamming the throttles and using the Megafortress’s control surfaces as air brakes to dramatically lower her airspeed. The Stinger air mines exploded practically in the face of the following MiG pilot. By the time he realized what was going on, his Tumansky turbojet had sucked in enough tungsten to open a salvage yard—which was about all his jet was useful for.

“He’s down! He’s ejecting!” shouted Spiderman. “Way to go, Captain!”

Breanna’s answer was to sleek her wings and mash the throttle back to military power, then tuck the Megafortress into a roll—two more radar-guided missiles were headed their way.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2255

ZEN CURSED AS THE MISSILE FLARED BENEATH THE WING OF

the MiG-21 closest to the Flighthawk—he hadn’t quite made it in time.

SATAN’S TAIL

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“Weapon is an AA-12,” said the computer. “Target is Baker-Baker Two. Hawk One remains undetected. Time totarget engagement, thirty seconds.”

Zen leaned forward as he flew, keeping an even pressure on the joystick controlling the Flighthawk, referred to as Hawk One by the computer. He couldn’t worry about the missile now, even though it had been aimed at an aircraft flown by his wife; he had to concentrate on the MiG, three miles dead ahead of him.

Or rather, dead ahead of the Flighthawk. He was nearly twenty miles to the southeast. But when he flew the robot, it was as if he were sitting in its nose, rushing toward the enemy plane.

The rectangular aiming cue in his main screen began blinking yellow, indicating that he was approaching firing range. He nudged left slightly, putting the MiG’s tailpipe in the middle of the screen, which was actually a holographic projection in the visor of his helmet. The aiming cue turned solid red; Zen waited another second, then pressed the trigger. A dotted black line appeared in front of the Flighthawk.

Zen nudged the stick left, pushing the line through the rear tail plane and then up through the wing of his target. The MiG’s right wing flipped upward, then pushed hard down.