“Then why are we flying this mission, trying to bait this foo fighter? Who made it?” Scheuler asked.
“Because General Gullick ordered it,” Terrent said. He looked at Scheuler. “You have any further questions, I suggest you talk to him.”
Scheuler shook his head. “No, thanks.”
Terrent pressed a small red button added on top of the Y-shaped yoke in front of him, keying the SATCOM radio.
“Cube Six, this is Bouncer Three. All systems ready. Over.”
Gullick’s deep voice answered. “This is Cube Six. Go. Out.”
The airstrip outside was dark. Terrent pulled up on a lever to his side with his left hand and the disk lifted. The control system was simplicity itself. Pull up on the lever and the disk went up. Let go of it and the lever returned to center and the disk stayed at that altitude. Push down on it and the disk descended.
Terrent pushed the yoke forward with his right hand and they moved forward. The yoke worked in the same manner as the altitude lever. Letting go brought the disk to a halt.
Constant pressure equaled constant speed in whichever direction the yoke was pushed.
Scheuler was looking at the navigation display — a human device tied in to a satellite positioning system. A computer display with a black rectangular outline to separate it from the surrounding view showed their present position as a small red glowing dot with state borders shown in light green lines. It was the easiest way to orient the pilots as to their location.
“Let’s roll,” Terrent said. He pressed forward and they were out of the hangar. Behind them, still in the hangar, Bouncer Eight rose to a hover and waited. On the airstrip Aurora stood at the end, engines on, prepared for flight. On airstrips across the United States and down into Panama, and on board the Abraham Lincoln at sea, pilots sat in their cockpits and waited — for what, they had not been told. But they knew whatever it was, this was no game. The planes’ wings had live missiles slung underneath and the Gatling guns were loaded with bullets.
“All clear,” Quinn said, a rather unnecessary statement since everyone in the room could see the small red dot indicating Bouncer Three moving northwest out of the state. The computer had already screened out all commercial aircraft flights.
“Contact!” Quinn announced. A small green dot had suddenly appeared on the screen, well behind Bouncer Three. “Same reading as the first one!”
“Three, this is Six,” Gullick spoke into his headset. “Head for Checkpoint Alpha. Over.”
On board Bouncer Three, Major Terrent slowly pressed the yoke to the right and the disk began a long curve over southern Idaho, turning toward the Great Salt Lake. What was different about the turn from one made by an ordinary aircraft was the fact that there was no banking. The disk simply changed directions, staying flat and level. The bodies of the two men inside strained against their restraining harnesses during the turn, then settled back in the depressions.
“Give me a reading,” Terrent said.
“The bogey’s about three hundred miles behind us,” Captain Scheuler responded. He was watching the same information on his small screen that the people in the Cube had displayed on their large one.
“Is it turning with us?” Terrent asked.
“Not yet.”
“Get Aurora in the air,” Gullick ordered. “Alert Kill Zone Alpha reaction forces and get them up too. Have you fed coordinates of the bogey to Teal Amber?”
Quinn was working quickly. “Yes, sir.”
At Hill Air Force Base, just outside Salt Lake City, two F-16 Fighting Falcons roared down the runway and up into the night sky. As soon as they had reached sufficient altitude, they turned west, over the flat surface of the lake, heading for the desolate land on the far side.
“That’s the lake,” Terrent said. He pressed the yoke to the right a bit more.
“On course,” Scheuler said, checking their projected direction.
“Is the bogey turning yet?”
“Yes,” Scheuler said. “It’s taken the bait. Right on our trail, about one hundred and fifty miles behind.”
Terrent keyed his mike. “Six, this is Three. Kill Zone Alpha in one minute, forty-seven seconds. Over.”
“Roger,” Gullick answered. There were several more dots on the screen now. The red one indicated Bouncer Three heading directly toward a small orange rectangle — Kill Zone Alpha — a point directly over the center of the Hill Air Force Base Range. On the ground out there a helicopter and recovery crew from Nightscape waited. The green dot was the bogey, following Bouncer Three. Two red plane silhouettes showed the F-16’s on an intercept course.
A red triangle represented Aurora, en route directly from Area 51.
“Intercept in forty-five seconds,” Quinn announced.
Bouncer Three went through the orange rectangle.
“What the fuck was that?” the pilot of the lead F-16 called out as Bouncer Three flashed by.
“Wolfhound One, this is Six. Stay on target!” General Gullick’s voice in the pilot’s helmet was a cold slap in the face. “Have you got a lock on the target?” The pilot checked his instruments. “Roger, Six.”
“Arm your missiles.”
The pilot armed the air-to-air missiles under his wings.
Still shaken by the image of Bouncer Three, he also armed his 20mm multibarrel cannon. His wingman did the same.
“This son of a bitch is moving fast,” the wingman said over the secure link between the two planes.
“Not fast enough,” the pilot said.
General Gullick was concerned about the same thing in the Cube. “What’s the speed of the bogey?”
“Computer estimates twelve hundred miles an hour,” Quinn replied. “It’s pacing Bouncer Three.” Which was the reason the disk was flying so slowly, trying to draw the bogey in to the kill zone at a slow enough speed to be hit by the conventional jets. Gullick was intimately familiar with the weapon systems on board the F-16’s — he was checked out on the aircraft. They could handle that speed.
“Six, this is Wolfhound One. Target will be in range in ten seconds. Request final authorization. Over.”
“This is Six. Fire as soon as target is in range. Over.”
The pilot took a deep breath.
“Is this guy for real?” his wingman asked.
“No time for questions,” the pilot snapped. The heads up display indicated the target was in range. “Fire!” he yelled.
A Sidewinder missile leapt out from underneath the wings of both planes.
Even though they conceptually knew what the bouncers were capable of — and therefore could conceptualize what the foo fighters might be able to do — there was complete shock as the bogey simply left the orange square behind and was over fifty miles away by the time the Sidewinders had crossed the two miles from where the F-16’s were to where the bogey had been.
“What the fuck was that?” the F-16 pilot said for the second time in less than two minutes. His heads-up display was clear. The Sidewinder he’d fired was an arc disappearing over the base range, running out of fuel and descending. Whatever he’d fired at was gone.
Gullick reacted first. “Get Aurora after it. Launch Bouncer Eight.” He keyed his radio. “Bouncer Three, this is Six. Head for Kill Zone Bravo. Over.”
“This is Three. Roger.”
Gullick switched frequencies. “Wolfhound One, this is Six. Return to base for debriefing. Out.”
As the two F-16’s turned back toward Salt Lake City and Hill Air Force Base, the pilot of the lead aircraft looked across the night sky to his wingman.