Nerve Center (8 page)

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.

“I think calling it a complex is a pretty strong statement,” said Bastian, even though it was fun to see Rubeo speechless.

They’d spent more than a half hour discussing the best way to proceed, or not proceed, if ANTARES was restarted as part of the Flighthawk project—a given, based on Dog’s brief conversation with General Magnus this morning. Magnus was clearly angered by Keesh’s end run. But while he sympathized with Dog’s protest against ANTARES, he’d ordered Dog to proceed with the program “as expeditiously as possible.” A contingency budget line—black, of course—had already been opened for the program. Magnus seemed to be playing his own brand of politics, trying to swim with the currents.

“I would prefer that we left psychological innuendo out of the discussion,” said Rubeo, his voice so cold it was a wonder his breath didn’t frost. “The interface is neither stable nor dependable. We don’t even know precisely how ANTARES works.”

“One of the biggest drawbacks with the present control system employed by the Flighthawks is the human element, as Dr. Rubeo has noted on several occasions,” said Geraldo, ignoring Rubeo’s last point—which was technically true, despite reams of data and elaborate theories. Her crisp tones matched her starched blue suit; military personnel aside, she was probably the most conservative dresser of any Dreamland worker, the scientists especially. With a rounded face and frosted hair, she looked like a slightly older, slightly more distinguished Bette Midler. She’d come from Cuba as a girl, though the only trace of an accent was a slight tendency to roll her is when excited.

Like now.

“Those drawbacks, which Dr. Rubeo has himself outlined, can be overcome with ANTARES. I have kept abreast of the latest exercises, Colonel; four planes cannot be handled adequately with the present arrangement.”

“Four can be. We should put our resources into the next generation of control computers,” said Rubeo. Tall and rangy, in certain lights he looked like a young Abraham Lincoln.

This wasn’t that kind of light. He looked and sounded a bit like an out-of-control animatronic character at Disney World.

“ANTARES made C3 possible,” said Geraldo.

“Piffle.”

“You’re suggesting that the computers would completely fly the planes,” said Geraldo.

“They already do,” said Rubeo.

“You cannot remove human beings from the equation.” Geraldo held out her hands and looked at Bastian triumphantly, having played her trump card.

“I can’t say I disagree with that,” admitted Dog, “though I’m not sure I accept ANTARES as fully human.”

“It’s as human as language,” said Geraldo. “That’s all ANTARES really is—a very special language. A way of talking to a computer, which happens to control an airplane. Or several.”

“Piffle,” repeated Rubeo. “It takes over three quarters of the subject’s brain. Tell me that’s human—tell me that’s better than using computers as tools designed to do a specific job. Computers that we can document every function of, every byte of information and logic.”

Bastian leaned over the table toward Geraldo. She reminded him a bit of the dean of students at his college, an almost matronly sort who could outdrink any sorority on campus.

“If we build on the previous program, what would be the next step?” he asked.

“First, we need a subject. My preference would be someone who is ‘clean,’ someone who not only hasn’t worked with ANTARES before, but who doesn’t know how to fly. If we work with a clean slate, we won’t have barriers or bad habits to break. I believe from my review that the biggest hurdle to joining with the computer has been the learned patterns associated with flight. To use my language metaphor again—when you learn a new language, the old one gets in the way. And that goes for ANTARES as well. 1 would propose a whole host of changes from the old program, including some bio enhancements.”

“Drugs,” sputtered Rubeo.

“Yes, drugs,” said Geraldo. “Supplements actually, designed to enhance neural and other brain functioning. The tests have already been conducted.”

“Mmmm,” said Dog noncommittally.

“On the other hand, using someone already familiar with the procedure would cut down on the start-up time.” Geraldo nodded as if responding to an argument Dog hadn’t made. “At present, there’s only one person on base who has used ANTARES, and that is Major Jeff Stockard.”