“Copy, Fangs,” George “Zero” Tanaka, the aircraft commander of the second Megafortress battleship, replied. “We’ve got him. What’s your status?”

“We’ve got a bellyful of duds now,” Kowalski replied. “I’m going to try inflight-aligning them to see if we can’t lob a few more in, but I have a feeling we’re done for the day. We’ll stand by at waypoint Lima in case you need any assistance.”

“Roger,” Tanaka said. To his mission commander, Greg “Gonzo” Wickland, he said, “Better check those Russian antiradar missiles—they’re likely to dud on us too.”

“They’re looking pretty good right now,” Wickland responded. He had reluctantly agreed to go with Tanaka on this mission—the possibility that his friend and mentor, Wendy Tork McLanahan, might still be alive down there in the heart of Libya changed his mind about being afraid of dying during a secret mission in the EB-52. “Our first launch point is a pop-up target at two o’clock, twenty-eight miles, an SA-10 SAM site. I’ll start the—”

But as Wickland watched the supercockpit display, he saw the icon representing the Libyan MiG-23 fighter turn toward them, and the green cone that represented his radar beam sweep in their direction. “Shit, that MiG is heading our way,” Wickland interrupted himself. “Step it down to five hundred feet and accelerate.”

“Set clearance plane five hundred, hard ride, and set four-eight-zero knots true,” Tanaka ordered the flight control computer. He carefully monitored the aircraft as the throttles advanced themselves and the terrain-following computer reset the height above ground the autopilot would continue to fly the bomber.

“He’s still coming around,” Wickland said. The radar cone had changed from green to yellow—now the fighter had an azimuth-only lock-on. “He’s got us. Deploy towed array.” Behind them, one of the tiny towed array antennas unreeled itself in the bomber’s slipstream. “He’s still up pretty high. Give me thirty left—let’s see if he follows us.” Sure enough, the fighter turned left with the Megafortress, but his range did not increase. Every now and then the radar cone depiction on the supercockpit display flashed red—that meant the fighter’s radar switched into range mode, the last measurement needed before missile launch—but it never stayed on very long. “He’s hanging out there at eleven miles, matching our airspeed, and just hitting us with his ranging radar long enough to keep up,” Wickland said. “He’s not letting our trackbreakers get a chance to wipe out his picture.”

“Waiting for instructions?” Tanaka asked.

“Give me forty right, nice shallow bank,” Wickland said. “Let’s see how aggressive he is.”

“But I have a target! I have another unknown aircraft at my twelve o’clock, seventeen kilometers, very low!” the pilot of the Libyan MiG-23 shouted.