Neutron Force. Don Pendleton

      Growling in ill-controlled rage, Lieutenant Steloriv swung his fighter dangerously close to the wallowing lead MiG. This was going to be tricky, and he had to stay sharp. A tiny slip at these speeds could make their wings tap, and Moscow would get a pyrotechnic display that would make the Rocket Brigade think World War III had started.

      Maneuvering carefully, the captain got close enough to see Karnenski through the Plexiglas canopy. The major hung limp in his seat, held upright only by the safety harness, his head rolling around loosely. The man was clearly dead, or dead drunk. Either way, this was a disaster.

      “Air Command, we have a problem.” Steloriv spoke quickly into his helmet microphone.

      “Radar shows clear,” base replied curtly. “And why have you changed course without permission?”

      “We haven’t. Major Karnenski seems to be unconscious and will not respond.” The captain swallowed hard. “I…I think he’s drunk, sir.”

      “Checking,” the stern voice replied. There was a short pause. “Negative. The on-board sensors show no trace of alcohol in the atmosphere of the plane.”

      Glancing at the surrounding array of controls, the captain was astonished. They had hidden sensors for that? Air Defense didn’t miss a trick! But that didn’t change the situation.

      “Request instructions,” Steloriv said in a tight voice.

      “Under the circumstances we have no choice,” the voice commanded tersely. “Our standing orders are clear. Authorization is given to fire. Shoot him down.”

      “My own commander?” Steloriv gasped. “But, sir—”

      “We’re over the city!” Petrovich added tersely. “The wreckage could kill hundreds of civilians!”

      “We understand. You have twenty seconds to comply before we launch missiles,” base stated harshly. “Nineteen and counting.”

      A salvo from the Rocket Defense would probably take out all three MiGs just to be sure of getting the right one, Steloriv realized. No choice then.

      “Weapons systems armed,” the captain intoned emotionlessly. He paused for a second, then engaged every missile on board. This was a one-shot deal. “Lasers have a lock.”

      “Captain, no!” Petrovich begged. “Surely there must be something we can try. Perhaps we could disable the MiG with our cannons…”

      “Fire,” Steloriv whispered with a hollow feeling in his belly. His hand tightened on the joystick as he pressed the trigger button.

      The MiG-29 shuddered as all eight wing-mounted missiles dropped. When they were clear of the MiG, the solid-state rocket engines exploded into flames and they streaked away.

      Pulling back on the stick, the captain banked his plane hard to get away from the blast. Even with the “iron bathtub” a MiG pilot sat in for protection from small-arms fire, shrapnel often penetrated a canopy to kill a pilot. Come on, baby, come on…he urged.

      The third MiG stayed at his flank, and together they climbed for the sky, the turbofans screaming from the effort. On the radar screen, Steloriv saw the nine images move together just as a flight of missiles shot upward from the SAM bunker on the ground. Goddamn Rocket Brigade! he swore. A moment later the lead MiG vanished in a series of thundering explosions that grew in volume and fury as the ground-based missiles arrived a heartbeat later.

      Strolling casually through Red Square, people looked up at the terror noise in the sky, then began screaming as flaming wreckage started to rain upon them only a few blocks from the mighty Kremlin.

      “Alpha Flight, return to base,” the voice on the radio commanded. “Beta wing has already been launched.”

      “Confirm,” Steloriv said woodenly, leveling his trim and starting a sweep to the east. A million jumbled thoughts filled his whirling mind. Everything happened so fast. One moment they were joking about women and the next…

      Casting a glance at the radar screen, Steloriv frowned. Could the major actually have died of a heart attack? It seemed highly unlikely. Their medical examinations were most through. Nobody with any weaknesses flew air patrol above a major city, especially Moscow! Even a slight heart murmur could get a fighter pilot grounded these days. But what else might have happened? What could possibly harm a perfectly healthy man inside an armored jet at a thousand feet above the ground? It was impossible, absurd, ridiculous, and had just happened before his very eyes. The idea of a heart attack, or perhaps a stroke, seemed to make sense as there was no other logical explanation.

      Not unless somebody detonated a neutron bomb above Moscow, the pilot noted sourly, and we all forgot to notice.

      Stony Man Farm, Virginia

      PROCEEDING DOWN THE CORRIDOR, Price and Brognola passed several blacksuits, one of them working on an air-conditioner vent, another pushing a cart stacked with cases of shiny new shells, each about the size of a tube of toothpaste.

      “When did we acquire a Vulcan minigun?” Brognola asked curiously as they got into the electric cart that would take them to the Annex.

      “That’s not for the Vulcan. Those are 25 mm rounds for the new Barrett rifle.”

      “Rifle?” Brognola repeated. “Barrett has invented a 25 mm rifle? How new is that?”

      “Couple of months.” Price almost smiled. “Cowboy is bench-testing one at a rock quarry a couple of miles from here. Our gun range was too small for this monster. If it passes his approval, then it will be added to the arsenal of both teams.”

      “A 25 mm rifle?”

      “Cowboy says it shouldn’t be harder to control than a Barrett .50-caliber.” She paused. “Or getting kicked in the groin by a Mississippi mule. But you know Cowboy.”

      “Yeah,” Brognola agreed. “He should know.”

      “Or so he says.”

      Reaching the entrance to the Annex, Price and Brognola exited the cart and proceeded on foot to the Computer Room.

      Inside, the atmosphere of the room was cool and quiet. A coffeepot burbled at a coffee station and muffled rock music could be heard coming from somewhere.

      Several workstations faced an array of monitors on the wall. One of the screens showed a vector graphic map of the world, blinking lights indicating the state of military alert for every major nation. Another monitor swirled with ever-changing weather patterns of the planet as seen from space. The remaining screens were dark.

      Four people occupied workstations: a powerfully built man in a wheelchair, a young Japanese American wearing earbuds, a middle-age redheaded woman and a distinguished-looking black man with wings of silver at his temples.

      “Aaron, where are the teams?” Price asked, heading for the Farm’s senior cyberexpert.

      “In the ready room checking over their equipment and weapons,” Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman said, turning to face the mission controller. “When Hal arrives without advance notice, I figure we’re in deep shit.”

      “You figured correctly,” Brognola grumbled, placing the laptop on Kurtzman’s desk.

      “Is Striker in trouble?”

      “Everybody is in trouble,” Price answered brusquely.

      “Meaning?” Kurtzman demanded with a frown.

      “Do you know about the crash of VC-25?”

      He frowned. “No.” The 747 had crashed? Obviously the President was okay because Hal hadn’t called the plane Air Force One. “Was it shot down? Rammed in midair?”

      “There’s no mention that anything happening to the jumbo jet on the news services,” Huntington “Hunt” Wethers announced. A pipe jutted from his mouth, but no smoke rose from the briarwood bowl.

      “Nobody