“Roger that,” replied Dog. He’d expected the Navy to jump the gun; in a way, it was surprising that the task force had waited so long. The new Seventh Fleet commander, Admiral Jonathon “Tex” Woods, had boarded the aircraft carrier to personally oversee the tests. While his military record was sufficiently impressive for him to be known even in the Air Force—and hated to be shown up in combined-forces exercises.

Which in a way, this was.

“Zen, those Tomcats are yours if they get close enough,” Dog said. “Curly, stand by for launch of Piranha system. Chris, open bay doors.”

The Megafortress shook slightly as the large doors of the bomb bay cranked open. The sophisticated flight computer system compensated for the plane’s altered aerodynamics so swiftly Dog hardly noticed. He pulled back gently on the stick, pushing the plane exactly onto the

dotted red line the computer put on his screen.

“Three, two, one—” said Ferris.

There was a loud rumble from the rear as the buoy fell into the water.

“Device launch in twenty seconds,” said Ferris.

“We concur,” said Delaford. “Counting down.”

Dog pitched the big plane’s nose toward the waves; the optimum launch angle was a fairly steep forty-three degrees.

“Tomcats are looking for us,” reported Ferris. “Ten seconds to launch—we need more angle, Colonel.”

“Got it,” said Bastian, hitting his mark. The weapons section of the flight computer that helped manage the Megafortress projected the launch countdown in his HUD, “Launch device,” he said as the numbers drained to zero.

“We’re off,” said Ferris. “Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house she goes.”

Dog ignored Ferris’s attempt at cosmic relief and began to pull the plane upward. He’d had to drop fairly low to the waves for the launch, and the vision of sharks circling his dinghy returned. As they climbed, the Piranha team went through the shakedown procedure, establishing contact with the probe. They immediately began steering it toward the target task force. Traveling at just over forty knots, Piranha had already identified the ships in the group for the operators. She dove to four hundred meters, completely undetected by the screening vessels and the two ASW helicopters, which had set up a picket of sonar buoys. The operators detected a submarine operating a towed array-probably the Connecticut, a killer in the ultramodern Seawolf class, though they were too far away for a real ID or even an accurate range. Meanwhile, the stealthy profiles of the Megafortresses made it possible for them to elude the Tomcats for close to half an hour, even though opening the bay doors to drop the buoy had alerted their airborne radar plane to their presence. Dog began to think they’d manage to complete the exercise scot-free.

His copilot brought him back to reality.

“Tomcats are on us, changing course,” said Ferris. “At bearing—shit—they’re launching weapons!” yelled Ferris, as usual far more agitated than the situation called for.

“Evasive maneuvers. Hang on. Zen, those Navy birds are yours.”

“Engaging,” replied Major Stockard. His voice, although relayed through a satellite system in orbit several kilometers above the Megafortress, sounded like he was in the next seat over.

Aboard EB-52, “Raven,” west of Hawaii

August 16, 1440

The F-14’s had slowed to fire their long-range Phoenix AIM-54’s, but they were still closing on the Megafortresses at over five hundred miles an hour. It was clear from the way they were flying their radar hadn’t picked up the Flighthawk, which were now heading into a bank of clouds just over the attackers’ flight path. Raven began blanketing the air with a thick fog of countermeasures, confusing not just the Tomcats’ radar, but the Grumman E-2 Hawkeye feeding them data more than a hundred miles to the north. The Navy interceptors were now limited to what their Mark-1 eyeballs could feed them; which meant they had to close to visual distance. In another sixty seconds, they’d be able to nail the Megafortresses with short-range heat-seekers or cannons.

Simulated, of course.

Zen didn’t intend to let that happen. The U/MFs had several disadvantages fighting the sort of long-rang combat the Tomcats preferred; they were equipped only with cannons and their mobility was limited by the need to stay within ten miles of their mother ship. But in a close-quarters knife-fight, they were hard to top. Hawk One broke from the cloud bank she was sitting in as close to the canopy of the lead F-14 as he could manage, flashing across its bow like a meteor shot from the heavens.

Or an air-to-air missile launched by an undetected fighter.

The slashing dive had the desired effect—the lead F-14 pilot jinked madly as he unleashed a parcel of flares and chaff, not quite sure what was coming at him. The decoys would have been more than enough to clear an enemy missile from his back—but Zen wasn’t an enemy missile. He curled Hawk One upward, angling toward the dark shadow of the Navy aircraft. The Tomcat’s variable geometry wings had flipped outward to increase aerodynamic lift, a sure sign to Zen the plane was caught flat-footed. He pressed his attack into the Tomcat’s belly even as it upgraded GE F110’s spit red fire, the massive turbines winding to push the plane away.

Had this been a “real” encounter, the Navy pilot might have escaped—an ol’ big block Pontiac Goat could beat a slammed Civic off the line any day of the week, and Zen at best could have gotten only a half-dozen shots into the belly of the accelerating beast—not nearly enough to bring her down, barring ridiculous luck. But the computers keeping score took the U/MF’s chronically optimistic targeting gear at its word. According to its calculations, something over a hundred 20mm shells raked the Navy plane’s fuselage and wings, turning it into a mass of flame and metal.

“Score one for the AF,” said the event moderator blandly, circling above in a P-3 Orion. “Nirvana Tomcat One splashed.”