Despite the aircraft’s superior technology, Barbier’s stomach is tightening in fear. Somewhere up ahead is a squadron of Russian stealth fighters, believed to be carrying nuclear weapons. While the Raptor’s airframe minimizes radar cross section based on its angular design, its Russian counterpart produces a plasma cloud, which envelopes the plane, decreasing the reflected radar signals. Locating the enemy will not be easy.

“Woodsman to Snow White, come in Snow White.”

Barbier adjusts his headpiece to speak with Elmendorf Air Force Base. “Go ahead, Woodsman.”

“The Wicked Witch (NORAD) has detected the dwarfs. Downloading coordinates now.”

“Roger that.” Barbier watches as his central tactical display lights up like a Christmas tree. A secure, intraflight datalink simultaneously provides each of the seven Raptor pilots with the identical display even as the system analyzes and coordinates a shoot list.

Seven blue circles mark the F-22s in formation. Nine red triangles are approaching from the northwest, flying in formation, low to the water.

Barbier touches a bar on his throttle. Each bandit is instantly assigned a white circle with a number, the designations appearing on both the main tactical and attack displays of each Raptor.

Situated within the belly of Barbier’s F-22 are two ventral weapon bays and two side bays. The ventral bays each contain four HAVE DASH II advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles (AMRAAMs), a ramjet-powered, Mach-6 weapon capable of punching through six feet of concrete over a distance of a hundred nautical miles. Each side bay holds one GM-Hughes AIM-9X Sidewinder, a seeker missile capable of locking on to targets a full ninety degrees off the fighter’s boresight.

The word SHOOT simultaneously appears on Barbier’s attack screen and helmet-mounted heads-up display. The pilot fingers the pickle button, watching his tactical display as the F-22 crosses from the outermost ring into the middle ring of attack. At this range, the Raptor’s weapons can engage the enemy while the bandits remain too far away to return fire.

Barbier whispers, “Have a good swim, motherfuckers.”

With forty gees of pressure, the pneumatic-hydraulic launchers beneath each of the F-22s eject a salvo of missiles from their weapons bays. The missiles go autonomous within seconds, closing on their targets at a hypersonic velocity of sixty-five hundred feet per second.

The F-22’s bank sharply, descending to a lower altitude.

The Russian squadron leader’s heart leaps into his throat as his missile warning system lights up, the onboard alarm echoing in his ears. Perspiration breaks out beneath his flight suit as he hastily launches his decoys and breaks from formation, unable to fathom where the attack could be coming from. He glances at his radar, then cringes in terror as his wingman’s jet incinerates into a blazing fireball.

The alert becomes a deafening death toll. Staring at his radar in absolute terror, the pilot struggles to grasp the concept that the hunter has somehow become the hunted.