The Army helicopters, meanwhile, reported that they were five minutes from their landing zone. Zen jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Four, which was just starting the far leg of an orbit near the LZ. He poked up the nose of the plane, twisting toward the target area. As he climbed through two thousand feet, he shot out a double shot of radar-deflecting chaff. He ticked the wing up again, hit more chaff, and turned his nose toward the target, giving the Army Super Black-hawks a feed of their target area over the new system.

“Good, good, good,” sang one of the Army observers.

Jeff turned Four back over to the computer and concentrated on Mack. The ZSU-23 antiaircraft guns protecting the target area wouldn’t be a problem for at least three minutes.

MACK CURSED INTO HIS MASK. THE FLARE HAD BEEN A clever trick, forcing him to waste his last Alamo.

Zen would be counting on him to waste time looking for the other Flighthawk: more than likely it was lurking near the ridge where he’d found the first, undoubtedly hoping to get behind him for a tried-and-true rear-quarter attack.

That wasn’t going to work, though, because he was going to ignore it. He goosed his throttle to dash ahead, eyes pasted on the passive IRST. Mack got two quick contacts out near the helo target area—the U/MFs, which were at twelve miles.

Damn, these Dreamland mods were good—his F-15 next-generation demonstrator couldn’t find them with its passive gear until they were within five miles, pretty much dead-meat territory.

There wasn’t much sense trying to lock them up at this point, since he had only the heat-seekers and was much too far to fire. Mack nudged his speed down. He wanted the package to come to him, and wouldn’t commit to the attack until he knew where the helicopters were. Assuming he found them soon, he’d open the gates on the afterburners for a few seconds, shoot forward, and dust by the U/MFs. From there he’d take a wide turn and listen for the growl of his heat-seekers as they found the helicopters in the chilly morning air.

Most likely he’d pick them up as his nose passed the ridge. Thirty seconds.

Forever.

No amount of Dreamland magic could uncramp the MiG’s cockpit. On the tall side for a fighter pilot, with broad shoulders and thick pecs, Mack had to poke his elbow practically through his side to get a comfortable angle on the throttle lever, whose slide seemed notched in the plane’s external skin. The handle was directly over the emergency power settings and just ahead of the flaps—he glanced to make sure he had the proper grip, not wanting to screw something up. He settled his hand in place, looking back to the front in the poorly laid-out cockpit. The Russians knew a lot about mechanics, but they were light-years behind in ergonomics.

Now here was a mistake—a Flighthawk, coming at his nose, four miles away, without its wingman.

Dumb even for Jeff; he’d prematurely committed himself to an easily deflected attack, while leaving only one plane to guard the Super Blackhawks. Worse, the U/MF was an easy shot for an Alamo, whose all-aspect targeting gear made a front-quarter shot very tempting as they closed.

Too tempting to miss. He had four of the air-to-air missiles. Even if he used them all against the Flighthawks, he could take out the helicopters with his cannon.

The Alamo practically jumped up and down on his wing, begging to be launched. Poor Jeff. He was so anxious to nail him he’d gotten sloppy. Knife pressed the trigger on his stick, launching the Alamo.

As it left the rail, the Flighthawk split in two.

JEFF FURLED HIS EYES AT THE VISOR IMAGE. THIS WAS the tricky part—the MiG could outaccelerate the Flighthawks, and if Mack played it smart, he’d just get on his horse and shoot into the clear. That would leave only one Flighthawk to get between him and the essentially defenseless helicopters.

But Mack was Mack; he couldn’t resist easy pickings. Sure enough, the U/MF’s enhanced optics view caught a flare beneath Mack’s wing; within two seconds C3 had interpreted and calculated the threat. By then, Jeff had already pulled the two Flighthawks away from each other.

For about ten seconds, he controlled them simultaneously. He twisted and turned in opposite directions, pouring on the speed, flares kicking in every direction. The baffled Alamo thought its target had exploded.

Now Mack would be pissed that he’d been tricked for a second time, and go all out for the Flighthawks. But which one?

The closest. Sharkishki whipped onto Hawk Three, its superior acceleration quickly narrowing Jeff’s brief lead. But the Flighthawk’s thrust-vectoring tailpipe narrowed its IR signature, meaning that Knife had to get within three miles of the plane before he’d be able to launch. Zen verbally selected God’s-eye view in his main screen, asked for distances—and then just as Mack entered firing range, he cut Hawk Two across the MiG’s path.

MACK INTENSIFIED HIS STREAM OF CURSES AS HE closed on the target. The war-game dummies had been made from actual R-77 “Archer” all-aspect infrared missiles; while the Dreamland team had jettisoned the cumbersome helmet system the Russians used, they had retained (and improved) the targeting-handoff system, allowing Mack to simply designate the target and let the computer worry about firing. While that took a bit of initiative away from the pilot, it allowed him to concentrate entirely on his enemy—useful against the tricky little Flighthawks.

True, he knew when to fire better than any damn computer. But the automated system meant he’d be able to lock up both Hawks quickly. He’d launch, swerve, and find the other U/ MF, which was climbing and looked to be angling for a turn behind him.

Bing-bang-boing. Dead Flighthawks all over the field.

Except it didn’t work that way.

As Mack edged Sharkishki left, he designated Hawk Three, handing off to the computer. Within five seconds, the U/MF fell into the middle of his pipper. The missile growled, then barked; the AAM dropped from its rail. As Knife raised his eyes toward the sky where he thought the second bandit had flown, the system growled and fired another missile, and then a third.

Just as the computer had fired, the second Flighthawk had veered into his path, disgorging flares like a pyromaniac—prompting the automated system to lock on the extra targets. Stockard had taken advantage of a bug in the programming.

“Override, override,” Mack screamed, trying to turn off the automatic firing feature.

As the computer acknowledged, a green flare lit the sky ahead. His first missile had simulated a splash.

Another flare ignited moments later in the vicinity of the second Flighthawk.

Served the damn cheater right—both his planes were splashed. The helos were dead ahead, defenseless.

Mack whipped his head backward, making sure the last Flighthawk hadn’t caught up. It was nowhere in sight.

This turkey shoot was going to be very tasty, he thought, turning his gaze back toward the target area.

ZEN STRUGGLED TO HOLD HIS HEAD STRAIGHT UP, forcing as slow a breath as he could out of his lungs. His neck and shoulder muscles had gone spastic, knotting and cramping, pulling half of his spine out of whack, shooting pain all across his back. He felt disoriented, momentarily losing the connection between his body and his mind, as if he were truly in the cockpit of one of the Flighthawks, as if it truly had been shot down.

He’d caught Mack by surprise, but Smith had managed to hold on to his last missile, giving him a decided advantage as he zoomed toward the helicopters. Zen selected Hawk Four’s cockpit view for his main screen, preparing to rise off the deck and confront the aggressor. The C3 flight-control and strategy computer had already taken over piloting the “downed” planes, flying them along a preplanned route back to one of Dreamland’s runways to land. Their cockpit view screens sat at the top left-hand corner of his visor, shaded slightly in red.