Strike Zone

by Dale Brown

  “Go for it,” he told the computer, using exactly the same tone he would have used for Kick or Starship.

  The computer’s verbal translation system had been “trained” to recognize much of Zen’s slang, and took Hawk Four on the intercept.

  Zen turned his full attention back to Hawk Three. The Taiwanese UAV was now just five miles ahead.

  A warning flashed on his screen:

  Connection loss in three seconds

  TWO MORE MISSILES exploded to the east of Raven. Dog saw a pair of Su-27s heading in from the northeast, coming on at about ten degrees off his nose. They were at twenty miles, firing radar missiles.

  “They’re on us,” said Delaney.

  Dog hit his chaff, then jerked hard to beam the Doppler radar guiding the missiles. The maneuver would put the Megafortress at a right angle to the radar, temporarily confusing it.

  “FT-2000 is changing course,” reported Delaney. “It’s going for one of the missiles that was just launched.”

  That’s our one lucky break, thought Dog.

  “Raven—I need you closer. I’m going to lose Hawk Three.”

  Dog jerked back toward the Flighthawk.

  “Raven—you have to get closer.”

  “I’m working on it, Zen,” said Dog. The throttle slide was at the last stop; he could hit the control with a sledge-hammer and the plane wouldn’t go any faster. “Wes, see if you can reach any of these units. Tell them we’re pursuing a cruise missile that’s going to attack Beijing.”

  “But—”

  “Do it, Wes,” said Dog. “Deci, try the control program Ms. Gleason uploaded earlier. I know we’re not in range yet but try it anyway.”

  Lieutenant Deci Gordon was the other electronics operator. While he could dupe Wes’s controls, he was tasked at the moment to ID and fuzz radars.

  “I have to clear the ECM board to load the program and use it. I won’t be able to bounce the radars,” explained the lieutenant.

  “Do it.”

  “On it, sir.”

  ZEN CUT HIS speed, just barely keeping the connection to Hawk Three. The Flighthawk was undoubtedly a good deal faster and more capable than the plane he was chasing, but it was Raven’s speed that counted, and the big airplane was already huffing and puffing. All he could do was sit and wait, hoping Raven would catch up—and that the flak dealer Delaney was now warning about wouldn’t hit him in the meantime.

  Maybe it would get the Taiwan plane at least.

  Raven rocked up and down but stayed on its course. Zen cursed to himself, pushing forward against his restraint.

  Come on, damn it. Come on!

  He tried selecting Hawk Four, which had been out of contact since firing on the second fighter in the attack group. The feed from Raven showed where it was—about five miles out of range, launching an attack on one of the Chinese fighters.

  It had already splashed two of the Sukhois. Not bad for a bunch of electrons.

  Raven shuddered beneath him. Something had just hit the plane.

  Stinking Chinese. They didn’t deserve to be saved.

  Come on, baby. Come on.

  Something rumbled on Zen’s right—shrapnel from a missile had taken a nick out of the EB-52. Zen felt himself sliding left, even though the Flighthawk remained level.

  The targeting screen blinked yellow.

  Ten more seconds and he’d be in range. He could see the fat belly of the Taiwanese bomb strapped to the fuselage of the UAV.

  Raven stuttered in the air, her speed and altitude plummeting.

  Nine seconds. Eight…

  Connection loss in three seconds

  “Dog! I need six seconds!”

  ENGINE FOUR WAS gone, and the oil pressure in three was dropping. The computer helped Dog compensate as Delaney struggled with the defenses.

  “I’m losing Hawk Three!” shouted Zen over the interphone.

  The computer—prudently—wanted to shut down engine three. But Dog stayed with it, squeezing the last ounce of momentum forward, trying to keep close enough so Zen could complete the shootdown.

  Just wasn’t going to happen. Even the Megafortress could not defy all the laws of physics at the same time. The EB-52 shuddered violently.

  He was going to lose it.

  They had to get closer to the Flighthawk, or the whole mission would have been a waste.

  Dog pushed the nose of the big plane downward, picking up speed. They had a good deal of altitude to work with—but every foot made them more vulnerable to the air defenses.

  “Missiles!” said Delaney. His overstressed rasp sounded like an old man’s last gasp for air.

  “Zen, I’m going to try and dive as close to Hawk Three as possible,” said Dog. “After that, we may be bailing.”

  “Roger that,” said Zen. “We need more speed—I don’t have the Flighthawk.”

  “WES, CAN YOU try that program Jen gave us again?” he said. “Just broadcast it?”

  “I’m doing it,” answered Deci Gordon.

  The Flighthawk screen flickered.

  “Control,” said Zen.

  Red pipper.

  Yellow—no shot.

  Zen pressed the trigger anyway.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  Fire you goddamn son of a bitch.

  DOG COULD SEE a pair of flak guns starting to fire off his right wing. The Megafortress was still too high to be hit—but it wouldn’t be in about twenty seconds or so.

  Come on, Zen, he thought. Come on.

  ZEN LET OFF the trigger, seeing the bullets trail far short of his target.

  Beijing lay about a hundred miles away. The Taiwan UAV was going to make it.

  The computer buzzed with a fuel warning and put a script up on the screen: He had ten minutes of flying time left at present speed.

  Figures, he thought.

  The targeting screen went yellow. The Megafortress shuddered, then started to yaw hard to his left.

  Connection loss in three seconds

  We’re toast, he thought.

  And then, either because its own programming called for it to pop up so it could detonate its bomb, or because of the program Jennifer had prepared, the UAV pulled its nose up. The maneuver made it lose speed. Zen’s targeting pipper went red.

  He fired.

  He missed.

  The ghost clone climbed off to his right.

  “SUKHOI ON OUR back, five miles, four,” said Delaney.

  “Stinger,” said Dog.

  “We’re out of airmines.”

  “Flares.”

  “No more expendables.”

  “Can you launch an AMRAAM?” asked Dog, wrestling with the controls.

  Delaney didn’t waste his tortured throat. The question wasn’t really serious—the AMRAAM-plus would have to go backward to do any good.

  This was going to be it, thought Dog.

  “Zen—we need you to take the target out now,” he said calmly. “Crew, prepare to eject. Begin the self-destruct sequences on the gear.”

  THE PREGNANT W danced upward and to the right. It must be answering Jennifer’s control sequence somehow, thought Zen, trying to follow.

  As he tucked his wing to the right, he got a yellow firing cue. And then a ball of red fire opened above him—shrapnel from a Chinese missile.

  His screen blanked. Hawk Three was gone.

  Zen pushed back in his seat, finally defeated.

  Son of a bitch, he thought.

  They were going out. That was going to be fun—he’d be dead meat wherever he landed.

  No way. He’d go down with the plane.

  Zen reached to pull his helmet off but then stopped. Hawk Four had returned, flying off its left wing in Trail One, a preset position.

  “Four,” he told the computer.

  The main screen came on, along with a warning—he had five more minutes of fuel.

  At this point, that was like having a full tank.

  Zen accelerated over the stricken Megafortress. T
he Taiwan UAV was five miles ahead, still climbing.

  The pipper began to blink.

  Red.

  He pressed the trigger. The 20mm shells spit out in an arc, falling to the left of the target. He nudged his stick, moving the stream slowly slowly slowly.

  He eased off the trigger, pushed the stick hard to the right, felt Raven lurch in the air, fired again.

  The Taiwanese UAV erupted in a fireball.

  “HE GOT IT! He got it!” shouted Delaney.

  Dog, following his own self-destruct checklist, had wiped out the coding in the computer that helped him fly Raven and was too busy wrestling with the plane to answer.

  He could fly with two engines, even if they were on the same side. What he couldn’t continue to do, however, was duck enemy planes. And that Sukhoi behind was closing in for the kill.

  “Dream Command, this is Dog—we have the clone down,” he said. “Repeat, we have the clone down.”

  The answer came back broken up.

  “We’re hit pretty bad,” added Dog. “We’re into our destruct checklist on sensitive gear. Be advised we’ve told the Chinese that we were targeting a cruise missile bound for their capital.”

  Dog took a breath. He had gone against his orders to keep the mission secret, but in his judgment, the broadcast had made sense. Certainly the Chinese would find out about the attack at some point, and informing them now had been a valid attempt to save his people.

  And screw anybody who second-guessed him.

  “Dream?” he said, not hearing an answer.

  “Washington is trying to contact the Chinese themselves and tell them what’s going on,” said Catsman through the static. Dog tried to ask for more details but got no response.

  “Wes, have we wiped out all our radio antennas?” Dog asked over the interphone.

  “Next thing on my list. I wait for your order unless, uh, unless it looks like you’re not going to be giving it,” said the lieutenant. Dog heard him mumbling to himself and punching his panel. “Colonel—the Chinese controllers are ordering their planes to stand down.”

  “They don’t seem to be following orders,” said Delaney as tracers flashed over their wing.

  DOWNSTAIRS ON THE Flighthawk deck, Zen loosened his restraints. Hawk Four was low on fuel and now out of bullets, but it could still be of some use. He had the computer plot an intercept to the Su-27 behind them, and held on as it closed. The computer gave him two proximity warnings, then closed its eyes as the Flighthawk slammed into the front quarter of the Chinese plane.

  But that was it. The fight was over. Four more planes were galloping in from the west, and two were closing ahead.

  Zen initiated the self-destruct procedures. The first stage started a series of programs that wiped the drives and other memory devices. Then small charges began blowing up the Megafortress’s side of C3. The explosives were carefully calibrated to take out the circuitry but not damage the shell of the aircraft.

  He took off his control helmet. The helmet was supposed to be physically destroyed with a small hatchet kept near the rear of the compartment. He had to lift himself from the ejection seat and get into his wheelchair to do that. He undid his restraints and pulled over the chair, wedging it into the space. As he pushed down to get in, the aircraft dropped twenty or more feet in an instant and he lost his balance, flopping back in the ejection seat rather than his chair.

  So this was what it felt like to go down.

  Zen remembered Stoner trying to tell him about the enemy he faced.

  “They don’t trust us,” said Stoner.

  Actually, he’d said that about Zen, hadn’t he?

  Zen scooped up his helmet and pulled it back on. “Dog—jettison our weapons and put the gear down.”

  “They’ll shoot us for sure.”

  “No. They’ll either accept our surrender, or they’ll back off, thinking it’s a trap,” said Zen. “They will—they’ll think it’s a trap. They thought we lured their other planes close to us by making ourselves seem vulnerable and shot them down with a secret weapon. If we look defenseless, they’ll hesitate. They’re paranoid about us—they probably think we’re broadcasting the orders from their controllers. It’ll work. It’s our only shot, one way or the other.”

  “THE SU-27 PILOTS still aren’t responding,” said Wes. “Their controllers are just about screaming at them.”

  Dog thought about what Zen had said.

  If they put down their gear, dropped their weapons—would the Chinese figure they were surrendering and let them alone?

  Maybe.

  More likely, they’d think it was a trick.

  But at this point, it didn’t make much difference. One of the Chinese planes rode in over their wing, slowing down and hanging so close he could have hopped from his wing to Raven’s.

  “Open the bay,” Dog told Delaney. “Eject the missiles. I’ll get the gear down.”

  Delaney was too hoarse to argue. Dog lowered the gear, the plane objecting strongly. His airspeed dropped and he got a stall warning.

  A fresh flood of tracers shot across their bow. The interceptors closed into tight formation all around them, adjusting their own speed as if they were flying an air show demonstration. Though they might have been temporarily confused, it was just a matter of time—seconds, really—before one of their bursts nailed them.

  Dog reached over and hit their lights—everything, even the cockpit lights.

  “Two on our tail, one on each wing,” said Delaney, his voice a croak.

  “Wave at ’em,” Colonel Bastian said. “Show them we know they’re there. Wave.”

  Dog turned to the cockpit window on his left and gave the high sign.

  “Wave, Wes,” said Dog. “Like we have the whole thing under control.”

  He waved again, then turned his attention back to the front of the plane. The tracers had stopped.

  Was Zen right? Did the Chinese pilots think they were up to something? Had they heard the transmissions from the ground and finally decided to comply? Were they simply confused?

  Or were they cats, taking a last moment to enjoy the fear of their prey before finishing him off?

  “Wave, Wes. Smile at the bastards,” said Dog.

  “Uh.”

  “Wes?”

  “The flight on our nose is asking for instructions,” said the specialist. “Sir, uh, we’re being asked our intentions.”

  “Honorable,” said Dog. “Put me on their frequency.”

  Epilogue:

  Heroes, after a Fashion

  * * *

  Beijing

  15 September 1997

  1200

  IN THE BEST of all worlds, Dog would have preferred to be anywhere but Beijing.

  In the worst of all worlds, he would also have preferred to be anywhere but Beijing.

  But Beijing was where he was. And as an honored guest, to all forms and appearances.

  A car stopped a few feet away from the building where he was standing with the Chinese officers who had met Raven. The American ambassador stepped from the plane, accompanied by a Chinese official. The ambassador stepped smartly to Dog, saluting first—Dog was a little taken aback, but gave the proper response—and then shaking his hand.

  “A hell of a job,” said the ambassador. “Washington’s told me everything.”

  “Okay,” said Dog, truly surprised as the ambassador grabbed him in a bear hug.

  “Did the self-destruct go all right?” whispered the ambassador.

  “Yes. Completely,” said Dog. “The computers are completely fried.”

  “Excellent.” He turned and smiled at the Chinese officials. “Washington will throw a ticker-tape parade for you.”

  The ambassador introduced the man who had come with him as the Chinese foreign minister. Dog tried to bow, though his back was a bit stiff from the flight and fatigue.

  “You have saved Beijing,” said the minister. “You are a hero.”

  Dog smiled weakly. A few weeks a
go he’d thought he’d be ordered to bomb Beijing, not save it. But such were the twisted fates of war.

  “They’re having a ceremony to open the discussions between Taiwan and the Mainland,” said the ambassador. “The Taiwanese president will thank you, and the Mainland premier may actually thank you too.”

  “I’d rather sleep,” said Dog honestly.

  The ambassador looked as if he were going to have a heart attack.

  “But I’ll do my duty,” added the colonel.

  “Good,” said the ambassador, starting away.

  Taiwan

  1200

  STARSHIP ROLLED OUT of bed, even though he’d had less than four hours’ sleep. He’d come to a decision about the Brunei offer.

  No way would he take it. Major Smith would be disappointed, but that was too bad. He’d worked too long and too hard to get to Dreamland.

  Granted, the assignment wasn’t everything he thought it would be. But then, he wasn’t everything he thought he was either.

  He glanced at his watch. Noon. He could grab a beer, something to eat.

  He’d be all right if he didn’t drink too much.

  It wouldn’t matter today how much he drank. Major Alou said today was an off day. Off meant off. He’d give that to Alou—when he said off, he meant it. Not like Zen.

  Zen and the others on Raven were being called heroes. Good, he thought; they deserved it. They were heroes.

  He wasn’t. But he had done his job, and because of that, an Osprey’s worth of Marines and Air Force crewmen were alive.

  He pulled on his pants. Maybe he’d see if Kick was awake.