Run like hell.

At a single request, Maraklov discovered the single best alti- tude to use to clear all terrain within five hundred miles-six 173.

thousand five hundred feet. He ordered the computer to maintain that altitude and set best-speed power settings for the engines.

As fuel was burned off and gross weight decreased, the com- puter would pick the best speed versus drag settings of engine power, trim, and wing configuration to achieve the fastest pos- sible speed. He could afford no more power changes, climbs, descents, terrain avoidance or defense maneuvers. His only op- tion was to stay at zero Q-where the sum of all aerodynamic forces on his aircraft remained zero, the highest possible cruise efficiency-and run for the border.

A fast mental inquiry and the GPS satellite-navigation system checked DreamStar's osition, computed a likely flight path around known population centers and defense areas, measured the distance between present position and the tiny dry lake, La- guna de Santiaguillo, where Kramer and Moffitt in north central Mexico were supposed to be waiting with a fuel truck. Laguna de Santiaguillo was an abandoned training facility (KGB assets utilizing locals equally receptive to rubles and dollars) in the foothills of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains, well within range of two Mexican fighter bases at Mazatlan and Monterrey.

A lousy location, Maraklov thought, but the only one possible on such short notice.

The computer had his answer after a relatively long two-second pause: three hundred miles to the Gulf of California, another seven hundred fifty miles along the west fidge of the Sierra Ma- dre Occidental mountains, then across the Remedias River valley to Laguna de Santiaguillo. He was traveling at one point one Mach, about nine hundred miles per hour, and was consuming twenty thousand pounds of fuel an hour. He had exactly twenty- two thousand pounds of fuel remaining. Which meant, at his current setting, he would flame out right over Laguna de Santia- guillo. He would have more fuel available if he used an idle- power descent and a long glide for landing, but he'd have less if he had to dodge any more missiles or if he had to use after- burner.

Another mental command and he checked the two AIM-120C Scorpion missiles, then tried a test arming. Both were fitted with instrumented warheads, but otherwise would launch and track like fully operational weapons. He could use them if he got himself comered. He would, though, have to shoot very care-

7.

174 .

fully-without explosive warheads there would be no proximity detonation; each shot had to be a direct hit.

But up here, the possibility of anyone touching him seemed unlikely. There were still search radars all around him, resem- bling huge green cones rising out of the terrain, but there were large gaps between the radar cones and he was picking his way through them, using slight heading changes to put a mountain or ridge line between himself and the radar cones. Smaller yel- low blobs, giant mushrooms, appeared now and then-the lethal envelope of surface-to-air missiles stationed below-but he was avoiding them as well. Now he was almost out of the Dreamland complex, accelerating past one thousand miles per hour.

Speed and stealth meant survival more than fancy flying or superior weaponry. The first time he had decided to steal DreamStar he'd imagined himself taking on the air might of the whole southeastern United States, flying rings around the best fighters and the best pilots in the world, winning out over a billion dollars' worth of hardware. Well, it wasn't going to hap- pen that way. He was going to sneak out, hiding behind every shadow, measuring every quart of fuel.

Whatever it took . . .

For the first time he really allowed his body to relax. He had stolen DreamStar right out from under the noses of the people who wanted to give up on his baby. And now he even dared to think that he might actually make it all the way.

He was allowed that heady thought for precisely forty sec- onds. From out of nowhere, a green triangle of energy appeared in front of him. There was no time to evade. The green triangle enveloped him, and instantly turned to yellow . . .

This thing was truly amazing, Major Edward Frost, the radar navigator aboard the B-52 Megafortress Plus, marveled. A god- damned B-52 bomber with more gadgets and modes and func- tions and bells and whistles than L. Air Traffic Control.

Frost was studying a fourteen-inch by ten-inch rectangular video display terminal set on one-hundred-mile range. A circle cursor, automatically laid on a radar return that matched the preprogrammed parameters set by Frost, was tracking a high- altitude, high-speed target dead ahead. You told the system what you wanted to find and it did the searching. It was a hell of a lot different from only a few years ago when radar navs on B-52 175.

bombers concentrated on terrain and cultural returns-moun- tains, buildings, towns. This B-52 was different.

Major Frost hit the mike button near his right foot. "Pilot, radar. Radar contact aircraft, one o'clock, eighty-five miles."

He punched a function key on his keyboard. "Altitude six thou- sand five hundred, airspeed . . . hey, he's moving out. Airspeed one thousand one hundred knots."

He hit another function key, and the display changed to a maze of arcs, lines, grids. The computer had presented a series of options for approaching the target.

Frost shook his head. Here I am, sitting in a B-52 bomber planning to attack a high-speed fighter!

"Turn right heading zero-five two to IR intercept in six-two nautical miles. Automatic intercept is available." Then to An- gelina Pereira: "I'm aligned for guidance-mode transfer at any time-"

"Belay that," General John Ormack said over interphone.

"Weapons stay on safe-that's our damned plane out there, Frost. "

"Sorry, got carried away."

"Auto-intercept coming on, crew. " Ormack connected the digital autopilot to the intercept computer and monitored the Old Dog's turn, pushing the throttles up to ninety five percent power to keep the angle of attack low. The autopilot made several small corrections farther to the right as the distance between the two aircraft rapidly decreased.

"Exactly what are we trying to accomplish here, General?"

George Wendelstat, the safety observer asked. Wendelstat was firmly strapped into the instructor-pilot's seat, wearing a backpack-style parachute on his beefy shoulders. His face was cherry red and he was sweating in spite of the B-52's cool in- terior temperature. "Do you mean to attack that aircraft?"

"What I mean to do is everything I possibly can to turn that aircraft back," Ormack said. "If I can't get him to turn around I mean to delay him long enough for help to arrive. "

"But this is suicide," Wendelstat protested. "A B-52 against this DreamStar? That's a fighter plane, isn't it?"

"It's also a stolen aircraft from my research center," Ormack said. "I'm not going to let this guy go without trying to do something-"

"Including getting us all killed?"

176 .

"I know the limits of this crew and aircraft," Ormack said.

"We have the capability to engage DreamStar and hopefully de- tain him long enough for help to arrive. I won't go beyond the limits of my responsibility or common sense-"

"You already have. He can launch a missile against us at any second-- "Seventy miles and closing fast, General."

"Wendelstat, sit back and shut up, " Colonel Jeff Khan, the copilot, broke in. "The general knows what he's doing."

Ormack reached up to the overhead communications console and switched his command radio to channel eleven. "CATTLE- CAR, this is Dog Zero Two. We have the hostile at our twelve o'clock, seventy miles. Closing on an intercept course. Request- ing instructions from HAWC Alpha as soon as possible."

"Break. Zero Tvo, this is HAWC Alpha. You can't do any- thing up there, John. We're vectoring in the F-16s now. Get out of the area as fast as you can. Over."

"I've got a lock-on and I'm turning for an I. intercept, Alpha," Ormack answered back. "I can turn it into a radar pass at any time. Just say the word."

"Sixty miles."

"He's got two Scorpion missiles, John," Elliott said. "Re- peat-he's armed with two live Scorpions. You won't have a chance. Disengage and leave the area-"

"I've got two Scorpions too, General. Plus I've got jammers that can counter the Scorpion's active radar. He doesn't.

"He can fly circles around your Scorpions-- Ormack interrupted again. "I can engage him, maybe force him to turn back, maybe knock the sonofabitch down. Or I can let him fly our plane to Central America or wherever the hell he's going. Which is it going to be?"

No immediate reply. Ormack nodded-he'd otten his answer.

9.

"Radar, change to Scorpion-attack profile. Crew, prepare to en- gage hostile air target."

Frost had his finger on the function key and hit it even before Ormack finished giving the order. Immediately the Old Dog heeled over into forty degrees of bank, then abruptly rolled out.

It was now aiming for a spot several miles along DrearnStar's flight path, projecting out to intersect the fighter's path at the AIM-12OC's optimum flight range. Ormack pushed his throttles up to full power, then reached over to his left-side panel and 177.

flipped a gang-barred four-way switch. "Guns, you have Scor- pion missile launch consent."

"Confirmed," Angelina Pereira replied. "Left pylon on au- tomatic launch, missile counting down ... twenty seconds to launch.

On the UHF radio Ormack said, "CATTLECAR, this is Dog Zero Two. Clear airspace for red fox engagement. Be advised, red buzzer activity on all frequencies. Dog Zero Two out." On interphone Ormack said, "Defense, clear for electronic coun- termeasures. Crew, prepare for air combat engagement."

"Fifteen seconds . . ."

Suddenly a metallic, computer-modified voice cut in on the frequency: "Dog Zero Two, disengage. I'm warning you."

Khan looked puzzled. "Who the hell was . . . ?"

"ANTARES. The master computer on DrearnStar. " Ormack flipped to the channel. "This is Dog Zero Two. Who's this?"

"This is Colonel Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov, General Or- mack. " Maraklov thought before continuing: should he give his American name? But he @was never going to return to America- the KGB or the CIA would see to that-and they would find out anyway. "You know me as Captain Kenneth Francis James, sir. "

Ormack swore through his oxygen mask. "Goddamn-Ken James stole DreamStar." He switched his command radio to channel eleven. "Alpha, monitor GUARD channel. Urgent." He then quickly switched his radio to the universal emergency fre- quency, GUARD.

"James-Ken-Mara . . . whatever the hell it is . . . land that plane immediately. I have orders to attack." On interphone he told Angelina Pereira to get ready to cancel the auto attack.

"Yes, sir . . . ten seconds."

"Turn off your attack radar immediately, General Ormack,"

the computerized voice of Maraklov on the emergency channel said, "or I will have no choice but to defend myself."

"Damn it, James, you're about ten seconds from getting your ass blown out of the sky. Decrease speed and lower your landing gear or I'll engage."

No reply.

"Five seconds . . . four . . . three .

"Any change in his airspeed or heading?"

"Negative," from Frost. "Still goin' full blast .

"Launch commit," Angelina said.

178 .

There was a muffled screech of rocket exhaust from the left wing, as the first Scorpion missile raced out of its streamlined canister. It ran on course toward its quar . Unlike previous ry air-to-air missiles, the JC.-version of the Scorpion did not glide or cruise to its target; even though it was still considered a medium-range missile it stayed powered throughout its flight.

"Uplink tracking . . . missile now tracking . . . dead on course .

The bands of yellow, signifying the B-52's tracking radar illu- minating his aircraft, suddenly changed to red. Maraklov caught a chill. This was real, Ormack wasn't bluffing. This Dog Zero Two had live missiles on board, and he was under attack. By a B-52 bomber . . .

He activated his attack radar. The radar imag o the B-5 still over fifty miles away, seemed the size of a flying mountain.

His radar wasn't picking it up but he knew the missile was only seconds from impact. His reactions were executed at the speed of thought . . .

He turned right toward the B-52, exposing only the minimum radar cross-section of his aircraft possible. He then began a se- ries of high-speed reversals using the canards in their high- maneuverabilit mode, not rolling into each turn but side- stepping, darting back and forth, keeping only DreamStar's front cross-section aimed toward the B-52. The B-52 would be carry- ing AIM-120C, same as DreamStar. The AIM-120 was a fabu- lous weapon, with big fins to steer it toward its target. But its developers ten years earlier had never envisaged an aircraft that could move sideways like DreamStar.

Maraklov continued to shoot back and forth for another two seconds, completing two full horizontal S-slides, making each dodge wider than the other, using his high-maneuverability ca- nards to keep DrearnStar's nose pointed at where he thought the missile would be. It was a gamble. With each turn, he hoped, the Scorpion missile would have to make bigger and bigger turns to maintain lock-on. As DrearnStar's side-steps got bigger, the missile's turn rates had to increase even faster to keep up-not fast enough, he hoped, for the missile to track its target at close range.

He was at the top of a right ninety-degree bank and about to execute another hard left break when he heard and felt a sharp 179.

bang to his left. He had been very lucky this time. Forced farther and farther out of phase, the missile was opposite his canop '

when its proximity warhead detected it was within lethal range.

Maraklov waited for the concussion and flak to hit, but nothing happened and all systems reported with a good status check when queried by an instantaneous mental command. Then Mar- aklov realized the Megafortress must have been on a test flight and so would not have live warheads in its missiles. Which di- minished but hardly eliminated their threat.

He had never paid much attention to the Megafortress Plus project, thinking of it as just another one of Elliott's eccentric boondoggles. Another underestimation . . .

A quick flash of his all-aspect-attack radar showed the B-52 maneuvering hard right, moving back into attack position, its huge wings pulling it easily around and behind him. The enor- mous plane had to be pulling at least four or five Gs, Maraklov thought. It was enough force to rip the wings off any conven- tional bomber and many fighters as well. Ormack obviously meant business, and he had the hardware to back him up. This was no place for a fight, even with a supposedly decrepit B-52.

ANTARES, however, always favoring the offensive, was beg- ging for a fight and had recommended a high yo-yo maneuver- a hard vertical pull, zoom over the top, then an inverted dive to lock-on-to pull behind and above the B-52 to get into missile- firing position. Maraklov queried about fuel: now he was two thousand pounds below the fuel curve instead of two thousand pounds above it. He had no time to waste with a missile pass.

Every time ANTARES activated its attack radar, even in small, frequency-agile bursts, the B-52 would jam it. ANTARES was being forced to use older and older data to process an attack.

Besides, if the B-52 could jam DrearnStar's phased-array radar, it could easily jam the AIM-120's conventional pulse-Doppler active radar. It was definitely time to bug out. Maraklov can- celed the right high-G yo-yo and pulled into a sharp left turn, using radar to clear terrain until he could get established on course again.

ANTARES tried to tell him, but Maraklov wasn't listening- tried to tell him that a left turn was precisely the wrong thing to do.

He barely had time to roll wings-level when the missile-launch warning hammered into his consciousness. This time it wasn't 180 .

a head-to-head engagement-the B-52 was in missile-launch po- sition, behind and slightly to the left, the cutoff angle estab- lished, the missile already aiming ahead of its target's flight path.

Radar, infrared, laser-whatever he had, DreamStar was wide open. The Scorpion missile was even close enough to be picked up on radar . . .

But ANTARES, literally, did not comprehend the meaning of surrender-it would compute escape and attack options until it ran out of power to energize its circuitry. And Maraklov, feeling he had no hope of survival, had surrendered control of DreamStar to ANTARES.

The computer took over. Using its high-lift wings and full canard deflection, DreamStar executed a sharp ninety-degree pitch-up at max afterburner. The Scorpion missile overshot but t turned precisely with DreamStar, arcing nearly up to twenty- thousand feet before following the guidance signals from the Old Dog and pitching over hard for the kill. The missile was now aimed straight down, passing Mach four, locked on, closing in again on DrearnStar's tail.

With its canards again in high-lift configuration, DreamStar continued its inverted roll, screaming below, then back up through the horizon. It was now clawing for altitude, skimming across the high desert floor by only a few feet. The Scorpion missile tracked every move, following DreamStar's high-G loop.