Strike Zone (14 page)

“Same routine as Brother Starship,” Zen told Kick.

Starship tensed, even though he knew Zen meant it as a joke.

Kick started his move about six thousand feet above the interceptors, rolling into a banking turn that would take him across their course. But they broke before he went for his flares, apparently in response to the Megafortress pilot's hail. Kick held on to his disposables and began to climb again, intending to circle back close to the Megafortress until it was clear what the Chinese were doing.

Conservative move, Starship thought. He would have tucked back toward them and hit the gas.

“They're looking for you,” Zen told the two lieutenants. “They know the Megafortresses fly with U/MF escorts. They want to draw you out.”

“What should I do?” Kick asked.

“Give me the controls,” said Starship without missing a beat.

“Fuck off.”

“Wait until they come out of that turn,” said Zen. “They aren't particularly maneuverable, and it'll be obvious where they intend to go. You've got good position.”

One of the J-8s—in some respects it was a supersized J-7, itself a kind of new and improved MiG-21—swung into a wide arc, trying to get nose on nose for the Megafortress, which the computer's dotted line showed would happen at about sixty miles away. The other plane ducked down toward the waves heading in the opposite direction.

“Trying to get lost in the clutter,” suggested Starship. “Ain't gonna happen.”

The powerful gear aboard
Penn
could track him right to the water, and probably a few fathoms below.

“So what should Kick do?” Zen asked.

“I'd go for the snake, get in his nose, show him there's no hope,” said Kick.

“I wouldn't,” offered Starship.

“Why not?” asked Zen.

“Because first of all, dropping down like that, he's going to have an impossible climb before he can deal with us,” said Starship. He pointed over at Zen's screen. “Even if he goes to his afterburner when he's in position, he's going to be way gonzo in front there. You can splash number one, then come for number two.”

“We're not splashing anyone today,” said Zen. “Just remember that.”

Starship felt his face redden.

“I think Starship's right,” Kick told Zen.

“Well then make sure the Megafortress knows what you're doing,” said Zen, implicitly agreeing.

Z
EN WATCHED
K
ICK
slash across the Chinese Pilot's nose, timing his maneuver to match a jink east by
Penn
. It came off well, the Chinese interceptor turning to the right—an instinctive move that widened the gap between him and his ostensible target.

“Okay, so how'd we know he was going to go right?” Zen asked.

“We didn't,” said Kick.

“Well, most pilots do,” said Starship.

“Western pilots, maybe,” said Zen, still playing teacher. “But you have something to go on beyond that.”

“He moved that way earlier,” said Starship. “Plus it takes him closer to his base.”

“Yeah,” said Kick, getting it.

Zen said nothing as the Flighthawk pilot brought his plane around to intercept the second J-8, which as predicted was climbing off the deck, throttle nailed to the afterburner slot. He'd turned into him a little too soon, probably nervous about retaining his connection to
Pennsylvania
, which of course was moving in the opposite direction.

It wasn't exactly a huge mistake, but it was enough to convince Zen that he'd put Starship in the pilot's seat tomorrow. Lieutenant Andrews was a somewhat better pilot and had better tactical instincts as well—possibly a function of his time in Eagles. The difference between the two men would probably disappear in a few weeks' time, but for now it was enough to make Starship the clear choice.

As the second J-8 jock pulled off,
Pennsylvania
cut to the south, having reached the end of its practice search track. Zen watched as Kick rode the Flighthawk up through the clouds toward the mother ship.

“Not too quick. Hang back between the Megafortress and the J-8s,” Zen told Kick.

“I know,” snapped the pilot.

“Relax, Kick,” said Zen.

A warning tone bleeped in the headsets.

“RWR,” said Kick. “Wow—they're trying to spike us.”

Zen's screen showed that the Chinese planes had activated their targeting radars. The planes carried PL-7A homers—semiactive radar missiles—but they had almost no hope of hitting the Flighthawk at what was now close to fifty miles. Nor were they in position to fire on the Megafortress.

Maybe they were newbies too.

“That's a hostile act,” said Starship. “I'd splash him.”

“You can't splash someone because they turn their radar on you,” said Kick.

“That's not an air traffic control radar,” said Starship. “That's weapons, baby. Hostile act, per ROE.”

“Radar's off,” said Zen.

“What was he doing?” asked Kick.

“Busting your chops,” said Zen.

“Why?” asked Starship.

Zen laughed.

“We could've spun around, targeted him ourselves.” The lieutenant seemed indignant. “I could have shot him down.”

“Well, from his point of view, he could have shot you down,” said Zen. “The Chinese pilots like to push things to the limit. I've dealt with these jokers before. Believe me, that's nothing. They'll do a lot worse tomorrow.”

“How will I know whether they're serious or not?” asked Starship.

“My call as mission commander. No matter who is flying the Flighthawk,” Zen added, emphasizing that he hadn't made his decision yet.

Or at least not announced it.

“Good time to tank?” asked Kick.

“Yup. You think you can do better than Starship?”

“I made it on the first try.”

“There's always room for improvement,” said Zen.

Brunei
1900

D
OG STARED OUT
the window of the Mercedes limo as the caravan approached the gates of the sultan's palace of Istana. Part of a large and modern government complex, the Istana Nurul Iman sat on a rise above the city. A golden globe sat to the left, shimmering with the reflected glare of floodlights. A web of white steel rose in the shape of an airy roof from the main gate, sheltering the procession past an honor guard to the entrance of the ceremonial hall, which sat just beyond the sultan's personal home and government offices.

Colonel Bastian had spent most of the day with members of the Brunei armed forces, trying to get the protocol crap out of the way so he could join the patrols tomorrow. He was now on his way to a state dinner being thrown in his honor; if he survived that, he figured he'd be done with the diplomatic BS for at least a few days.

Things had been so hectic he hadn't even had a chance to call Jennifer and see how she was. He thought of her as the cars started through the gate; if she were here she'd have some smart-alecky thing to say about the fancy buildings and frou-frou trees lining the grounds. She'd laugh about how uptight he was.

She'd also be wearing a pretty dress. He could do with that.

“The tie, Colonel. The tie.”

Dog turned to Brenda Kelly, the State Department protocol officer who was sitting next to him in the back of the limo.

“Your tie,” she repeated as the car stopped.

“Oh yeah.”

Dog made the adjustment just as the door snapped open. Dog unfolded himself from the back of the car, then turned and put his hand out for Miss Kelly, who had dressed in a long, traditional sari with a scarf to cover her head, showing respect. With Kelly on his arm, Dog began walking down a red carpet toward a set of steps. It was a long walk, and he had to pause every ten feet or so, as a different contingent of the honor guards snapped to in anticipation of a formal salute.

“I feel like we're at a Hollywood premiere,” Dog whispered when they reached the set of steps just below the main entrance. A group of soldiers barred their way, aiming a pair of flags at them.

“Wait until we get inside,” said Kelly.

“I don't have to salute inside, right?” asked Dog. “Or are the rules different here?”

“Bow when the sultan comes,” said Kelly, who had told him to do this at least a dozen times.

Dog remembered, bending stiffly with as much grace and solemnity that he could muster. The sultan, a congenial man who managed to seem both casual and regal at the same time, stepped up and put his arm around Colonel Bastian as if they were old friends.

“We are glad you are here,” he told Dog.

“My pleasure. Absolutely my pleasure.”

“Major Smith has regaled us with your achievements,” said the sultan. “You are quite a hero.”

“Not really, Your Highness.”

“No need for modesty among friends,” said the sultan, leading him from the large reception room. They walked down a hall, Miss Kelly and other dignitaries falling in behind them. The sultan pointed out some
artworks and a letter from King George—it wasn't clear which one—as they walked.

“I thought of being a pilot in my younger days,” said the ruler as they entered a room that looked somewhat like a fancy English club. It was filled with people, including Mack Smith, who nodded at Dog from the side. “But flying is a job for a young man.”

“You're still young enough to fly,” said Dog. He hadn't meant it as flattery; the ruler seemed about his own age.

The sultan smiled, then began introducing him to some of his government ministers, members of the legislative council who advised him on important matters. He and most of the country's elite spoke English perfectly; Brunei was part of the Commonwealth, and had in fact spent much of the twentieth century under British rule. While Malay was the official language, a good number of the 336,000 people who lived in the country spoke English, and no member of the kingdom would consider himself educated if he didn't.

Dog shook hands and nodded for nearly a half hour, continuing to do so even as the sultan stepped away to confer with one of his sons. Miss Kelly stepped up and whispered in Dog's ear, identifying whom he was greeting—the British ambassador, the head of the British Army Gurkhas battalion stationed in the kingdom, and a number of prominent businessmen.

Waiters appeared carrying plates laden with food. Everyone seemed to stand back on some invisible signal. Dog realized they were watching him anxiously.

“You have to try the food first,” whispered Miss Kelly. “Manners.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“It doesn't matter,” said the State Department rep. “You're the guest. Go.”

Dog took a fork and small plate from the nearest server. The hors d'oeuvre tasted somewhere between a pepperoni and an anchovy (it was a specially pickled shrimp), but Dog figured he would survive.

“This one,” said Miss Kelly.

“More?” he whispered.

“Smile, Colonel.”

“What is it?”

“Some sort of jellied curry fruit. I think.”

“You think?”

Dog speared the thick green curlicue. He'd just about gotten it into his mouth when Mack Smith appeared at his elbow.

“Hey, Colonel,” said Mack. “Try the monkey brains yet?”

“Mack. Where the hell have you been since last night?”

“You told me to make nice with the political types. I have been. Me and the sultan's nephew are like that.”

He twisted his fingers together.

“Which nephew?” asked Dog.

“Unofficial head of the air force. Catch up with you in a bit,” said Mack, sliding away. Colonel Bastian started to take a step after him, but Miss Kelly grabbed him.

Not particularly gently, either.

“Eat,” she whispered.

“You and my grandmother have a lot in common,” said Dog.

“I hope that's a compliment.”

Dog smiled at the latest waiter, taking a plate from him. This time the intricate creation—it was a collection of fruit in a tiny cup made from rice—tasted so delicious he actually wanted another. But apparently the protocol didn't allow for seconds; he needed to try as many dishes as possible.

“You're doing great, Colonel,” said Miss Kelly.

“If I don't like it, what happens?”

“They chop off the cook's head,” she said.

Dog thought it was a joke, but he wasn't positive.

“I have someone you have to meet, Colonel,” said Mack, tugging slightly at his arm.

Dog turned. A youngish, slightly paunchy man wearing a perfectly tailored suit smiled and bowed his head. Dog bowed back, noticing the man's large black opal pinkie ring and his thick Rolex.

“His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg,” whispered Miss Kelly, a second before Mack could. “The sultan's nephew. Unofficial head of the air force.”

“Your Highness,” said Dog.

“Colonel Bastian. We have heard much about you and your squadron,” said bin Awg. “We are extremely impressed, and deeply honored to have you in our kingdom.”

“The pleasure's ours, I assure you,” Dog told him. “I'm glad that we could assist in the ASEAN exercises.”

“Most delightful,” said bin Awg.

“Pehin's a collector,” said Mack.

Dog saw Miss Kelly stiffen. She had explained yesterday that “Pehin” wasn't a name but rather an honorific used by important members of the government. But bin Awg ignored the faux pas, smiling and tilting his head.

“I have a few old airplanes,” said bin Awg. “It's a hobby.”

“I see,” said Dog. “What sort of airplanes?”

“You'll have to come to see for yourself.”

“I hope to,” said Dog.

“Hell, Colonel, Pehin's got two MiG-19s, a MiG-21 from Yugoslavia, a Mirage III—piece of shit, take it from me—and, get this, a Badger. A Badger, Colonel.”