“Flight Jersey to Dragon One,” said the airborne radar operator aboard the EB-52. “Report: Two Su-27s coming in your direction from the south. Report: bearing one-six-five. Report ..

Mack listened incredulously to the contact information. The two planes were over Malaysian territory, on a course that would take them out over Mack’s position. But Malaysia didn’t have any Su-27s, and all eighteen of their MiG-29s were over at Subang, a good thousand miles away. As the MiGs were the most capable planes in the region, two spies at the airport there were paid good money by the prince to keep them informed.

Two others were paid so-so money. All of the air bases operated by Indonesia and Malaysia, including the two Malaysian and one Indonesian fields on Borneo, were covered around the clock by spies. Mack surely would have known by now if these planes were operating there.

Whoever they belonged to, they were moving at a good clip—the radar operator warned that they were topping six hundred knots.

“We’re sure they’re not MiGs?” asked Mack.

“Yes, Minister. We’re sure.”

“Yeah, those are definitely Su-27s, and they’re hot,” confirmed Deci.

“Roger that,” said Mack, pulling back on his stick and climbing off the deck.

BREANNA DID A QUICK RUN THROUGH THE SCREENS THAT showed how the Megafortress was performing, and then brought up the fuel matrix, which gave the pilots a set of calculations showing how long they could stay up with the fuel remaining in their tanks. The Megafortress computer system could make the predictions seem terribly precise-42.35 minutes if they spent it doing these orbits and then headed straight home—but in reality fuel management remained more art than science. The screen gave the pilots several sets of reasonable guesses based on stock mission profiles as well as the programmed mission. It could also make calculations based on data inputted. Breanna brought a “profile map” up at the side of the touchscreen and quickly built a scenario from it by tapping a few options. They could climb to twenty-five thousand feet, engage the two Sukhois, and then slide back home.

Just.

Not that they could actually engage the Sukhois. They weren’t carrying any anti-air missiles. They didn’t have any shells for the Stinger air-mine tail weapon; the shrapnel discs were in relatively short supply and weren’t needed for training.

“Captain, what are your intentions regarding the Sukhois?” she asked the Megafortress pilot.

He replied that he would remain on station until Mack gave him other orders. It wasn’t the wrong response, exactly, but it wasn’t exactly the sort of answer that was going to set the world on fire.

“Should we take the initiative and ask the minister what he wants us to do?” she said, her patience starting to slip a little. “Maybe suggest we try and establish contact with the bogeys and get them to declare their intent? Maybe prepare an offensive or defensive posture?”

“By all means,” answered the pilot. “But the minister may prefer to deal with them himself.”

“The A-37B is a sitting duck,” she said.

To her surprise, the pilot chuckled. “The minister would not lose an engagement,” he said.

“He’s unarmed.”

The pilot chuckled again, his laughter implying that she didn’t understand the laws of physics—or Mack Smith. The minister could not be shot down, and anyone foolish enough to attack him would get their comeuppance—even if they were flying cutting-edge interceptors and he was in an unarmed plane designed as a trainer.

Breanna, no longer able to contain her frustration, hit the talk button. “Dragon One, what’s your call on the Sukhois?”

“I want to see what the hell they’re up to and where they came from:’ replied Mack. ‘Because there are no Sukhois on Borneo. Malaysia’s MiGs are way over in West Malaysia near the capital.”

“Mack, I can assure you, those are Sukhois, not MiGs and not ghosts. Your people are not screwing this up. Those planes are coming hot. What are you going to do if they turn hostile?”

“Hey, relax Bree. I’m cool.”

“You’re a sitting duck. And they haven’t answered our radio calls. If they get nasty—”

“Oh, give me a break, will you? I can handle them.”

One’s loonier than the other, Breanna thought.

MACK CONTINUED HIS LACKADAISICAL CLIMB, TRYING TO conserve his fuel while making sure the pointing-nose cowboys running for him knew he was here. They were now about eight minutes away, flying at roughly twenty thousand feet, separated by about a quarter-mile. Their radars were not yet in range to see the Dragonfly.

But given their speed and direction, it seemed highly coincidental that they were flying in his direction on a whim. “Mack, you’re in radar range of the Su-27s.”

“About time,” he said.

“You want us to jam them?”

“Hell no! I want to see who these guys are.”

“THEY KNOW HE’S THERE,” DECI TOLD BREANNA OVER THE interphone. “Altering course slightly. They should be in visual range of Mack in, uh, thirty seconds,” said Deci.

“I’ll pass it along,” said Breanna.

“Radar—uh, they just turned on their air-to-air weapons,” said Deci. “They may really want to shoot him down.”

MACK CAME OUT OF HIS TURN ABOUT THREE SECONDS TOO soon, and had to push into his dive before he saw the first Sukhoi. He got a glimpse of it in his left windscreen, then heard the RWR complain that one of the fighters had switched on its targeting radar.

“I was afraid of that,” he groused out loud, as if the device could do anything but whine. A second later it gave another pitched warning, indicating that the enemy’s radar had locked on him and was ready to fire.

Then the unit freaked out, obviously a result of Breanna’s ordering the Megafortress crew to jam the airwaves so he couldn’t be shot down.

Mack sighed. A completely unnecessary order, even if her heart was in the right place. Mack pulled his plane into a tight turn and put himself right below the Su-27s as they turned. Separated by ten thousand feet and a good bit of momentum, all he caught on the gun’s video camera—rigged for the training exercises—was a gray blur. He pounded the throttle but there was no hope of keeping up with the Su-27s. Within two minutes, they were beyond his radar.

And he was short on fuel.

“Jersey, this is Dragon One. I’m bingo on fuel, headed for home”

“We’re close to our reserves, as well,” replied Breanna. “Did you get any sort of IDs on those Sukhois?”

“Negative,” said Breanna. “They had old-style N001 radars. Seem to be Su-27S models.”

The NOO1 was a competent but older radar type, and no match for the Megafortress’s ECMs or electronic countermeasures. It meant the planes themselves were relatively old and had been purchased second- or even third-hand. But it didn’t say who they might belong to. For the moment, at least, their identity would have to remain a mystery.

“Your seaplane didn’t show up?” he asked.

“I don’t think it was a seaplane.”

Probably not, thought Mack to himself. More than likely, his neophyte radar operators had bungled a routine contact with a speedboat, then sent him out on a wild goose chase.

He listened as Breanna updated the rescue situation—there were now two vessels conducting a search, with no survivors located as of yet.

“Time to pack it in,” he told the Jersey crew. “Head for the barn.”

He snapped off the mike, then did something that would not have occurred to him a few weeks ago.

“Hey, crew of the Jersey—I mean, crew of Brunei Mega-fortress One,” said Mack, touching his speak button. “Kick-ass job. Very, very good job. Attaboys all around.”

Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia