Read Online Nerve Center by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown - Free Book Online

pilot and computer. Simply jumping from cockpit to cockpit—in other words, changing which Flighthawk he had manual control of—could be disorienting. It somehow taxed his muscles as much as his mind, as if he were physically levering himself up and out of his control seat into each plane. Controlling a four-ship of Flighthawks was like trying to ride four busting broncos simultaneously.
    The testing program called for them to move up to eight in two months.
    They’d work it out. Right now, Zen concentrated on nailing Mack. Yesterday’s mock battle had convinced him he’d never take out Mack straight on—the MiG was more capable than the F-16, and Smith could be expected to push it to the limits.
    Which would be Zen’s advantage. He ducked the lead Flighthawk down to treetop level, or what would have been treetop level if there had been trees in the Nevada desert. Then he pushed down to anthill level and stepped on the gas.
    Jeff’s shoulders relaxed as the rushing terrain flew by in his helmet. His thumb nudged against the throttle slide on the right stick—the Flighthawk controls featured HOTAS (Hands-On Stick And Throttle) sticks combining most of the functions normally divided between throttle and control stick. As he notched full military power, the computer warned he was approaching a ridge. It gave him a countdown; he waited, then pulled the stick back hard with a half second to spare, shooting the Flighthawk straight up.
    It was a bonehead move—the Flighthawk went from completely invisible to the fattest target in the world.
    Exactly as planned.
     
    MACK CHORTLED AS HIS LONG-RANGE IRST PICKED UP the Flighthawk climbing over the ridge eighteen miles away. He’d gotten by the F-l5’s so easily it was a joke, and now this. Zen had obviously miscalculated, not believing that the passive sensors in the MiG had been improved fourfold. He quickly selected one of his “Alamo” R-27 long-range air-to-air missiles. The fire-control system had been Westernized, making selection considerably quicker—one snap on the stick instead of a cross-body sequence of taps, and he had locked and launched.
    Though mocked up so its performance would resemble the Russian Alamo air-to-air missile, the rocket was in fact an AMRAAM with a simulated warhead. In keeping with the theme of anticipating the Russians’ next wave of technology, its guidance system smartly toggled its seeker from radar to infrared if it encountered ECMs once locked; that made the missile practically no-miss. In this case, the “Alamo” would fly toward the target until its proximity fuse recorded a hit. Then it would pop a parachute and descend to earth.
    Mack knew from experience that the Flighthawks would hunt in two-ship elements. Mack guessed the second plane would be about a mile behind the first, and when he saw a flash on the IRST he quickly kicked off his second and last Alamo.
     
    MACK’S SIMULATED ALAMO AIR-TO-AIR MISSILES activated their radars the instant they launched, so even though he hadn’t turned his own radar beacon on, Knife had effectively given away his position by firing.
    Which was half the point of Zen’s display with the Flight-hawk.
    The other half had been achieved by dropping the delayed-fuse illumination flare, which Mack had hastily mistaken for the second Flighthawk.
    A tiny cheat perhaps. But now Sharkishki was down to four missiles, all short-range Archers.
    Not that the Vympel R-73 heat-seekers were to be taken lightly. On the contrary—the all-aspect, high-g missiles were more capable than even the most advanced Sidewinders. But they had to be fired from very close range, severely limiting Mack’s choice of tactics.
    Zen told the computer to take over Hawk One. As good as C3 was, its evasive maneuvers were unlikely to be enough to evade the missiles. But he’d already accepted its loss. Jeff jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which was flying a preset course with Hawk Three at the eastern end of the range.