Nerve Center

by Dale Brown

  The testing program called for them to move up to eight in two months.

  They’d work it out. Right now, Zen concentrated on nailing Mack. Yesterday’s mock battle had convinced him he’d never take out Mack straight on—the MiG was more capable than the F-16, and Smith could be expected to push it to the limits.

  Which would be Zen’s advantage. He ducked the lead Flighthawk down to treetop level, or what would have been treetop level if there had been trees in the Nevada desert. Then he pushed down to anthill level and stepped on the gas.

  Jeff’s shoulders relaxed as the rushing terrain flew by in his helmet. His thumb nudged against the throttle slide on the right stick—the Flighthawk controls featured HOTAS (Hands-On Stick And Throttle) sticks combining most of the functions normally divided between throttle and control stick. As he notched full military power, the computer warned he was approaching a ridge. It gave him a countdown; he waited, then pulled the stick back hard with a half second to spare, shooting the Flighthawk straight up.

  It was a bonehead move—the Flighthawk went from completely invisible to the fattest target in the world.

  Exactly as planned.

  MACK CHORTLED AS HIS LONG-RANGE IRST PICKED UP the Flighthawk climbing over the ridge eighteen miles away. He’d gotten by the F-l5’s so easily it was a joke, and now this. Zen had obviously miscalculated, not believing that the passive sensors in the MiG had been improved fourfold. He quickly selected one of his “Alamo” R-27 long-range air-to-air missiles. The fire-control system had been Westernized, making selection considerably quicker—one snap on the stick instead of a cross-body sequence of taps, and he had locked and launched.

  Though mocked up so its performance would resemble the Russian Alamo air-to-air missile, the rocket was in fact an AMRAAM with a simulated warhead. In keeping with the theme of anticipating the Russians’ next wave of technology, its guidance system smartly toggled its seeker from radar to infrared if it encountered ECMs once locked; that made the missile practically no-miss. In this case, the “Alamo” would fly toward the target until its proximity fuse recorded a hit. Then it would pop a parachute and descend to earth.

  Mack knew from experience that the Flighthawks would hunt in two-ship elements. Mack guessed the second plane would be about a mile behind the first, and when he saw a flash on the IRST he quickly kicked off his second and last Alamo.

  MACK’S SIMULATED ALAMO AIR-TO-AIR MISSILES activated their radars the instant they launched, so even though he hadn’t turned his own radar beacon on, Knife had effectively given away his position by firing.

  Which was half the point of Zen’s display with the Flight-hawk.

  The other half had been achieved by dropping the delayed-fuse illumination flare, which Mack had hastily mistaken for the second Flighthawk.

  A tiny cheat perhaps. But now Sharkishki was down to four missiles, all short-range Archers.

  Not that the Vympel R-73 heat-seekers were to be taken lightly. On the contrary—the all-aspect, high-g missiles were more capable than even the most advanced Sidewinders. But they had to be fired from very close range, severely limiting Mack’s choice of tactics.

  Zen told the computer to take over Hawk One. As good as C3 was, its evasive maneuvers were unlikely to be enough to evade the missiles. But he’d already accepted its loss. Jeff jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which was flying a preset course with Hawk Three at the eastern end of the range. He swung the nose to the north five degrees, heading for an intercept with Sharkishki. Three, flying three feet behind Two, tight to its left wing, followed the maneuver precisely.

  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.

  As Zen quickly checked on them, he noticed something he hadn’t counted on. Hawk One was still alive—C3 had managed to duck Mack’s radar missile.

  Cavalry.

  “Attaboy!” said Zen out loud, his muscle cramps suddenly disappearing. He turned Hawk Four over to the computer, telling C3 to keep it on the preprogrammed course behind the helicopters as they came in, where it would be impossible for Sharkishki’s radar to locate it. Then he pulled One out of the neutral orbit the computer had set, recording twelve g’s as he rushed toward Knife’s butt.

  Twelve g’s would have wiped out any normal pilot—and probably smashed most aircraft to bits. But the Flighthawk’s stubby wings and thick fuselage were designed to withstand stresses approaching twenty g’s. The plane stuttered in midair as its vectoring nozzle slammed it on course; inside five seconds Hawk One was galloping for Sharkishki’s tail.

  Slowed by the encounter with the other Flighthawks, the MiG was roughly six nautical miles ahead as Zen popped over the ridge—dead meat for a missile shot in a teen jet. But the Flighthawks’ only weapons were cannons; while the guns had good range—roughly three nautical miles even in a maneuvering dogfight—he was still too far away. Zen had the throttle to the max, but couldn’t gain on the MiG, which was now pouring on the kerosene as it closed on the Army target zone.

  Ten miles. Mack would have the Blackhawks before the Flighthawk caught up.

  “Helos hold,” Zen ordered the Army pilots, hoping to keep them out of danger. As they acknowledged, he jumped into Hawk Four, swinging her up and over them, rising to meet Mack.

  MACK’S HUD RADAR DISPLAY PAINTED A FLIGHTHAWK ahead, rushing to protect the helicopters.

  Interesting. Zen had broken his usual pattern, letting two of the U/MFs operate alone. He was learning.

  But the curve was steep. The Flighthawk would be dead meat as soon as Brother Archer growled on the wing tip.

  Mack nudged his stick left, intending to take an angle into the target area that would let him swing toward the helicopters after he launched his Archer at the robot. As he did, his rear-looking radar found the small plane trailing him.

  What the hell. Taking advantage of computer glitches was one thing, but bringing a plane back from the dead was total bullshit.

  Should have expected nothing less from the stinking SOB. What a pathetic egotist, determined to win at all costs.

  Knife would expose him to everyone, including his buddy Twig Boy. And his wife, though God knows how she put up with what she did.

  No way he was losing to a cheater. Mack reached for the afterburner. The Mikoyan flashed ahead with a sudden burst of speed, its pilot quickly revamping his attack plan.

  ZEN SMILED AS THE MiG SHOT AHEAD.

  “Helos go. Go!” he demanded.

  “Hawk Flight—we have a bogey at two o’clock. Request—”

  “Go! Go! Go!” screamed Zen. There wasn’t time to explain. He jumped into Hawk Four, yanking straight up. Mack didn’t fire, continuing to accelerate as he avoided the rear-quarter attack.

  “Computer, Hawk One on air defense at LZ. Plan Two.”

  “Plan Two, acknowledged,” said C3. It took control of the Flighthawk immediately, nosing it down to attack the two simulated ZSU antiaircraft guns on the ground.

  Zen, meanwhile, concentrated on Sharkishki, banking in a wide turn in front of him. Zen pushed off left, then cut back, aiming to intercept from the side. Knife could have simply powered his way past and taken out the helicopters—but that wasn’t Mack. Jeff knew he’d gun for the Flighthawk, concentrating totally on showing him up.

  What Jeff didn’t expect was Sharkishki’s nose suddenly yanking in his direction and growing exponentially. Mack had him fat and slow; there was little Hawk One could do.

  Except make Mack waste fuel. Sharkishki started with 3500 kg of jet fuel, killing nearly four hundred just to take off. The engagement rules called for Mack to reserve a thousand kg to get home, even though he needed far less with Dreamland’s many runways nearby. Between his low-level flight and afterburner use, he ought to be nearing bingo, the point at which he had to give up and go home.

  Knowing this was his enemy’s Achilles’ heel, Zen had had C3 keep track.

  “Calculated time for enemy bingo is ninety-eight seconds at present flight characteristics,” said the computer. “Enemy craft has Archer-type missile loaded and prepared to fire.”

  Jeff turned Hawk Four south and launched diversionary flares. Mack followed, steadily closing the gap as Zen zigged and zagged. He needed to get closer to guarantee a hit.

  Jeff ran out of flares as the MiG narrowed to four nautical miles from his tail. He pulled
eleven g’s trying to gun the Flighthawk back toward Sharkishki, but it was too late; the Archer ignited below the MiG’s wing.

  Jeff left the plane to the computer, returning to Hawk One. While he’d been leading Sharkishki away from the helicopters, C3 had been carrying out the attack on the ZSUs. It had been close—the computer had splashed both guns, but not before the lead Super Blackhawk took a simulated hit, causing minor damage but leaving the helo and its crew in the game.

  “Bogey is at bingo,” declared the computer.

  “Helo Flight, you’re cleared,” said Zen, rushing over them in Hawk One. “You’re bingo, Mack, bye-bye,” said Zen. “Sorry to see you go.”

  “Fuck you I’m bingo,” said Mack, winging toward the helicopters.

  “Flight rules—” declared Madrone.

  “Suck on your flight rules, Soldier Boy.”

  Dreamland Commander’s Office

  10 January, 1205

  “RESPECTFULLY, I HAVE TO DISAGREE. DISAGREE.” Martha Geraldo shook her head and turned toward Colonel Bastian at the head of the conference table. “Ray is prejudiced against humans,” she continued. “It colors everything he says. It is as bad as a mommie complex.”

  Steam seemed to shoot out of Dr. Rubeo’s ears. Dog had learned day one that the scientist hated to be called “Ray.” There was no way Geraldo didn’t know that; she was obviously pushing his buttons.

  Then again, she ought to be good at that sort of thing.