Titles by Dale Brown

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

(with Jim DeFelice)

FLIGHT OF THE OLD DOG

SILVER TOWER

DAY OF THE CHEETAH

HAMMERHEADS

SKY MASTERS

NIGHT OF THE HAWK

CHAINS OF COMMAND

STORMING HEAVEN

SHADOWS OF STEEL

FATAL TERRAIN

BATTLE BORN

THE TIN MAN

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are

either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / June 2001

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2001 by Target Direct Productions, Inc.

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a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

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ISBN: 0-425-18120-0

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

I

Down for doubles

Air Force High Technology Aerospace

Weapons Center (Dreamland), Nevada

10 October 1995, 0530 PDT

GRAVITY SMASHED AGAINST HIS HEAD SO HARD HE nearly eased off on the stick. That would have been fatal—the butt of Major Jeff “Zen” Stockard’s Strike Eagle was dancing across the boresight of a pursuing fighter at optimum cannon range. Stockard’s only hope was to yank and bank away, zigging and zagging in a wild twist across the desert sky, pulling between six and seven g’s as he tried to escape. He tightened his fingers around the control stick and hung on.

Zen had done this a million times—in fact, he’d fought this very same dogfight on a simulator the day before. But that was then, this was now. The simulator could only approximate what the slashing maneuvers did to his body. His neck and shoulders especially—the helmet he had to wear to control his remote escorts weighed more than forty pounds. The helmet used holographic imaging to provide enhanced optical and sensor views from both his plane and the escorts; its oval master view could be divided in half or quarters by voice command or the push of a button on his specially designed control stick. The skull bucket, with its onboard microprocessors, thick layers of LEDs, and retina-scan circuits, was critical to his mission, but that was no comfort when the sudden slash of his maneuvers increased its weight exponentially. The F-15E’s ACES II ejector seat had been modified to help support it, but Zen still worried that his head was going to snap right off his body as he pushed through the seven-g turn.

Even with normal gear, seven g’s would have hurt. The cells in his pressurized suit worked against his body like a masseuse’s hands, fighting to keep his blood in place. But he was out at the edge of his endurance. Zen’s heart pounded violently in his chest as he rammed his F-15E Eagle back to the right, picking his nose up and then flailing back over in a barely controlled reverse dive.

Bitchin’ Betty—the plane’s English-language audio warning system—whined that he was about to become toast. Too many g’s, too fat a target, too little airspeed.

It might also have complained about his housekeeping, for all the attention he paid to it.

Stockard pushed the nose around, gaining just enough momentum to miss his pursuer’s snap shot as he recovered. He had to hold on for at least another ten seconds before his escorts caught up. If he lasted that long, the fighter hunting him would become the hunted.

If he didn’t: toast.

MAJOR MACK “KNIFE” SMITH CURSED AS STOCKARD’S Strike Eagle once more slid out of his targeting pipper without cuing the signal that meant he’d splashed the SOB. If there had been real slugs in his F-15C’s M61Al cannon, he was sure he’d have nailed Stockard by now. But even though the laser designator had danced back and forth across the Strike Eagle’s left wing and fuselage, the computer-controlled SiCS, or Simulated Cannonfire Scoring system, refused to record a fatal hit.

Only reason for that, he decided, was that he was supposed to be profiling an Su-27, with its notoriously inaccurate fire-control system. Had to be. That or someone had rigged the gear against him.

Knife tucked his Eagle down to follow Stockard into a rolling dive. Stockard was clever—he was trying to get Knife to either speed up and fly right by him, or slow down enough to let the two Flighthawks catch up. The Flighthawk U/MF-3’s were the purpose of this exercise. Flying as escorts controlled by Zen, the two robot aircraft were supposed to keep Knife from shooting down the Strike Eagle. The exercise was designed to push the mini-planes and their human commander to the limit.

Which was fine with Knife. As long as he nailed the SOB.

Stockard’s left wing slid downward, and the plane seemed to literally drop from the sky. Knife pushed his nose down before realizing what was going on. Zen was twirling through an invert as he dove, aiming to swoop off at close to ninety degrees. Knife had no choice now but to follow—anything else would let the escorts catch up.

He matched the spin, catching a glimpse of one of the Flighthawks trailing him. He ignored it—if he could see it, it wasn’t in position to nail him, he decided—and concentrated on Stockard, whose rear tail fins were still disappearing below his HUD. Stockard was below ten thousand feet.

So much for the rules of engagement. Not that Knife would have let them stop him from winning either. But it was a relief that the other guy had ignored them first.

Stockard’s fantail sailed into Mack’s targeting pipper, and he pressed the trigger.

No good. Stockard pulled left just in time to duck the shot, recovering at eight thousand feet.

The g forces kicked up by the maneuvers tore Knife in all different directions; he felt like he was being pinched and pulled at the same time. A dark cloud began edging toward the corners of his eyes as he saw Zen flicking to the right. He pulled at the Eagle’s stick to follow, worrying in the back of his mind that the extreme maneuvers would flame the Eagle’s nearly unflammable engines. And then he realized he’d blown it.