Even when they did, communications bandwidth might still be a problem. Since any communications could be jammed or compromised in a combat situation, the Flight-hawks used an elaborate mix of laser and radio bands. Once they were in combat mode, everything went through three layers of 128-byte encryption. There was a brief but noticeable delay between command and execution in some flight regimes.

Zen checked his fuel and reviewed his flight data. He was back at twenty thousand feet, meandering at the edge of the restricted test range at 420 knots. Smith should have reached the end of the range by now. Zen stared out the canopy toward the southeast. Nellis Air Force Base, one of the busiest in the world, lay fifteen miles to the south, but with the heavy air restrictions in force, you’d never know it was so close.

Zen flicked the Eagle’s radar into air-to-air medium-range mode, scanning out ten miles to where his opponent ought to be turning around.

No contact.

No contact?

Zen started to key his mike when he realized what Knife was up to. His left hand pulled the throttle to goose the afterburners and get away.

IT WAS ALMOST TOO EASY. KNIFE GUNNED THE ENGINES and jerked the nose of his Eagle off the deck, rising from fifty feet AGL as he swung up behind the Flighthawks. Stockard lit his afterburners, but that didn’t matter—the Flighthawks were caught flat-footed. Hawk One tried to follow its mother ship, but its small engine was overmatched: The silvery hull slid precisely into the middle of the square target indicator of Knife’s HUD. The Flight-hawk started to jink left, but it was too late—the M61 A 1 Vulcan chewed it up.

Or rather, the SiCS bleeped to say it did.

Knife’s P&Ws were burning at 115 percent, and within seconds his F-15’s APG-63 radar tapped the second Flighthawk, just out of cannon range. Knife nudged his stick to the left as he closed, squaring in for a bull’s-eye.

Except the Flighthawk ducked off to the right, dropping down so fast he couldn’t react. But that was fine—his goal was to splash Zen, not the high-tech UAVs. And now that the Flighthawk had run away, Zen’s unprotected butt loomed at the top of his windscreen. Knife took a breath, adrenaline careening through his veins as he closed for the kill.

DAMN GOOD THING THEY WERE PLAYING BY CANNON rules or he’d be dead, Zen thought as he jerked Hawk Two away. Sidewinder would have walloped him.

Then again, according to the rules, Knife was supposed to be about ten thousand feet higher, not flying low enough to stop for traffic lights.

Not that fighter pilots were expected to follow the rules, let alone fight fair.

Smith was probably pissed that he’d beaten him in the first round, and wanted revenge. That would make beating him again all the sweeter, wouldn’t it?

Zen waited until he was sure Mack was coming for him before ordering the remaining Flighthawk to try to acquire his opponent’s tail. Then he brought his full attention back to his own plight. The two planes were fairly well matched; Zen’s slightly more powerful power plants made up for the fact that Smith’s plane was a tad lighter. As long as they both had the pedal to the metal, Smith couldn’t catch him.

Then again, Zen wouldn’t be able to get away either. Nor would he be able to splash Smith, which was what he really wanted.

Duck and roll?

Smith wouldn’t be fooled by it twice.

Feint left, plunge right, swing back in a high-speed scissors, twisting around to let the Flighthawk nail Smith in a front-quarter attack.

Not easy, but also probably the last thing Smith would be expecting, since the U/MF-3’s were not adept at head-on attacks. As the Flighthawk took its shot, Zen could buck into a tight loop and come up behind him. He’d have him for dinner.

Maybe. Very hard to execute, especially with half of his attention on the Flighthawk.

Go for it.

Zen backed his power off, sucking Smith toward him. As his warner buzzed, telling him that he was about to be nailed, Zen pushed left. He counted off two seconds, then came back hard right, rolling the plane downward with a burst of speed that got him out to Mach 1.2. Knife hesitated for a second, then began to follow.

Perfect. Zen slashed through the air like a ribbon unwinding from a spool, Smith barely hanging on. Stockard opened the Flighthawk visual screen in the lower right quadrant of his viewer, and asked for a sit map—a synthetic overhead or God’s-eye view—in the lower left.

Hawk Two was too far off the pace to complete the deal.

Cursing, Zen threw the Eagle over his shoulder, sliding and spinning downward to try to buy more time. Smith managed a snap shot, but couldn’t keep him in his target aperture long enough for the SiCS system to register a hit.

“Yo, scumbag, I would have put a half-dozen slugs in your wing on that shot,” snarled Knife. “Damn SiCs.”

Zen didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He had to go hard on the stick as Smith dashed downward, cutting between him and the approaching nighthawk.

Nice. Though the maneuver left Smith without a shot and potentially vulnerable himself, Zen was cut off and without enough forward energy to do anything but put his nose back down and try to pick up steam. Smith was on him again, accelerating across his path just when he thought he might try to recover. Zen threw the Eagle back down, slicing down to his left and then over into another invert as Smith somehow managed to twist his F-15C onto his tail.

The two planes twirled an elaborate ribbon in the sky, at times only ten feet apart. Zen played slapstick, ducking and bobbing just enough to keep from getting waxed. Finally he managed to get into a turn too tight for Smith to stay with; his pursuer had to back off or run the risk of overshooting him and becoming the target.

At that point, Zen should have transmitted the command “Knock it off” and ended the exercise. He’d fallen below three thousand feet and was low on fuel. He had only nominal control of Hawk One. He was far outside the stated parameters of the test. Both he and Knife had been rockin’ and rollin’ for more than an hour. Both had gotten out of bed shortly after midnight to begin the rigorous preflight procedures that were considered an important part of the experiment. He had also, by the standards of the experiment if not those he personally lived by, won the engagement.

The inquiry would note all of this, in a pointed aside. But neither Zen, nor Smith for that matter, was about to give up.

Zen cut south on a direct intercept for Hawk Two, determined to get his robot escort back into the furball. He’d used his air brake to make his last slash, which had cost him considerable flight energy, and as he jinked onto the new vector he got a stall warning. He dropped lower, quickly picking up speed, pouring on the gas as he streaked toward the desert floor. The Flighthawk, apparently confused by the twists of its target, was flying toward him at roughly ten o’clock, its own speed down to four hundred knots. Zen told the Flighthawk computer to plot a fresh nose-on-nose intercept with Smith, who by now had turned back around and had the stops out in pursuit. The plan was simple, a slight variation of the one he’d originally intended—the Flighthawk would force Knife to break; Zen would come back around and nail him from the rear.

Then he’d go home. He was bingo fuel.

“I’m coming for you, Zen,” gloated Smith.

“Hawk One, cannon,” Zen commanded.

“Not locked,” replied the computer, voice mode duplicating the visual indicator. “Outside range.”

They were at six hundred feet indicated, descending at a very slight angle. Smith was right on his tail, almost in range.

“Extreme range. Cannon,” commanded Zen.

“Not locked,” answered the computer. “Outside range.”

“Time to range,” said Zen.