The momentary displacement of space and time that Ozerov felt a few moments earlier was gone. He was on the bomb run now, under attack, and nothing else mattered. "Just check my switches, activate backup-data recorders, and stand by for missile launch." Ozerov hit the BOMB button,

which activated the missile-launch sequence, selected and powered up a missile, spun up the gyros, unlocked the pylon, dumped the inertial flight data, and accomplished a motor continuity test. As that was happening, he pulled back on the stick and climbed to the minimum release altitude of two hundred meters, reaching altitude just as the countdown ran to zero. "Missile launch, ready, ready . . . now."

With a sudden bang! and a brilliant plume of fire, an AS- 17 missile leaped from the right-side pylon and screamed off into the darkness. Ozerov immediately banked right-the AS-17 would be turning left toward the target-and descended. Simultaneously, he switched the weapon system from MISSILE to GRAVITY. "I've got gravity weapons selected, target called up. Check my switches. You've got the airplane-I'm going into the radarscope."

The bomb run itself was a piece of cake-the target had a radar reflector on it, and each offset aimpoint was a solitary building that any idiot could find with a half-decent radar.

Ozerov checked each offset- any discrepancy in the crosshairs between offsets was a sign of velocity or heading error, but the system was running very well. There were no errors to zero out. "Target acquired. Radar bomb release, crew. We are running fully synchronous, all computers fully operational, with a drift rate of less than six meters per hour at the update."

"What it means," the copilot said with a chuckle, "is that Tuman is flying tighter than that virgin the Captain's been seeing."

They were only a few seconds to release

Ozerov's head flew away from the radarscope so hard the back of his head hit against the ejection seat's headrest. No one noticed his eyes-but they were wide, darting with sheer terror and confusion. "Holy shit... shit . . . where the hell am I?" he said in English. "Where am I . . .

"Ozerov, what's wrong with you. . .

"Doors coming open," the engineer reported. "Stand by for release..

It was just like the GIANT VOICE Bomb Competition bomb run, Luger thought. The Strategic Training Range Complex, somewhere over Montana-Powder River, or Havre, it all seemed like centuries ago. He and McLanahan were on the last bomb run, dropping simulated SRAM missiles and blivets-concrete shapes made to look like real bombs. Everything was perfect, perfect. The computers were running hot, the crew was relaxed- the pilot, Houser, was still his Mr. Perfection self and the copilot, "Double-M" Mark Martin, never said much, but Patrick McLanahan, the radar navigator/bombardier, Sergeant Brake, the gunner, and Mike Hawthorne, the electronic-warfare officer, were set to kill and excited as hell. They were on their way to another Fairchild Trophy, their second in a row.