CHAPTER 1
“A pair of bandits, Daddy. Five o’clock high.”
Jerry Adair was startled by his daughter’s voice. The sonsofbitches sure know how to
get my attention. Using my daughter’s voice. The dirty pissing bastards.
He pulled back on the pistol-grip side stick and felt his F-22 jet fighter tilt upward into
a steep climb. His right forearm rested comfortably in the cradle that protected it against
the crushing g-forces that would punish him in a real flight. The F-22 could pull nine g’s
when it was going balls-out; no human pilot could handle an ordinary up-from-the-floor,
between-the-knees control stick under that kind of acceleration load. The side sticks and
arm cradles were the only way to get the job done.
With the thumb of his left hand he nudged the throttle control knob and felt himself
pushed deeper into his padded seat from the increasing acceleration. He knew it was
actually the seat deflating, but damn it felt real.
His back even throbbed slightly where the vertebrae had been cracked years earlier in
that wheels-up landing he had made in Saudi Arabia.
Should never have told the bastards about that, he grumbled to himself.
They use every goddamned thing against you.
Barely vocalizing the words, he murmured, “Panoramic view.” His Agile Eye IV
helmet visor lit up and he saw his own fighter as a bright yellow swept-wing symbol in
the center of the universe, its nose aimed at the sky. Sure enough, a pair of red symbols
were moving in swiftly after him, but far behind. Nothing else in the area. No radar locks,
no missiles launched. Not yet. The ground was a rolling green carpet far below, like a
cartoon or a kid’s drawing, with his potential targets drawn in with big red X’s
painted over them.
Damn, the g-suit was squeezing his guts just as if he was really flying. How do they do
that? Great simulation: Physical reactions just like the real thing. Got to hand it to those
double-domed sonsofbitches, they’re making this ride everything you could ask for.
Maybe even more.
The two bogies were diving down toward him, Adair saw. He kicked left rudder and
levelled off, hoping they would overshoot him; then he would slip behind them and fire
his Sidewinders at the bastards. He was surprised at how much effort it took to reach the
missile arming switches and flick them on. A small deadly black cross appeared on his
helmet display. If it touched the symbols of the intruder aircraft the missiles would
launch automatically.
But the bogies were not going to overshoot him, he saw. They were slowing down,
popping their airbrakes to begin a high-speed yo-yo that would plant them on his tail.
Cursing, puffing from exertion as if he were really flying, Adair thumbed the throttle
control forward to full military power and pulled the stick back, trying to put as much
distance between them and himself as he could while he clawed for altitude. The
intruders immediately broke off their maneuver and hustled after him.
“They’re closing in, Daddy,” his daughter’s voice warned, edging higher, tinged with
fear.