Free Fortunes of War by Stephen Coonts

veterans, reasoned that the plane’s electronic suite was the heart of the weapons system, the technological edge that made the new Zero the best fighter on earth: the airframe, engine, and wings existed merely to take the system to a point in space where it could be employed against the enemy. The never-voiced assumption almost seemed to be that the enemy would fly along straight and level while the Japanese pilots locked them up with radar, stepped the computer into attack, and watched the missiles ripple off the racks and streak away for the kill.
    The senior officer in the air arm had been quoted as saying, “Dogfighting is obsolete. We have put a gun in the Zero for strafing, not shooting at other airplanes.” Indeed, the heads-up display—HUD—did not feature a lead-computing gunsight.
    Jiro Kimura didn’t think air-to-air combat would be quite that easy. Whenever they were not running practice intercepts, he had been dogfighting with his flight members. They didn’t get to do this often; still, they were learning quickly—even Sasai.
    They should be able to handle the Russians.
    Ah yes, the Russians. This morning at the weekly intelligence briefing, the wing commander had given them the word: Siberia, two weeks from now. “Study the Russian air force and be ready to destroy it.”
    â€œTwo weeks?” someone had murmured, incredulous.
    â€œNo questions. This information is highly classified. The day is almost upon us and we must be ready.”
    Jiro raised his helmet visor and used the back of his glove to swab the perspiration from his eyes. After checking the cockpit altitude, he removed his oxygen mask and used the glove to wipe his face dry.
    He snapped the mask back into place and lowered his visor.
    â€œIt will be a quick war,” Ota had predicted. “In two days they will have nothing left to fly. The MiGs, even the Sukhoi-27s, will go down like ducks.”
    Jiro Kimura said nothing. There was nothing to say. Whatever was going to happen would happen. Words would not change it.
    Still, after he had suited up in his flight gear, before he and Sasai went out on the mat to preflight their planes, he had called Bob Cassidy at the American embassy in Tokyo. Just a short chat, an invitation to dinner three weeks from now, and a comment about an alumni letter Jiro had received from the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.
    He dismissed Russia and Cassidy from his mind so he could concentrate on the task at hand. The clouds ahead over Honshu looked solid, so he and Sasai were going to have to make an instrument approach. Jiro signaled his wingman to make a radio frequency change to air traffic control; then he called the controller.
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    Three men were waiting for Bob Cassidy when he came out of the back entrance to the embassy. At least he thought there were three—he arrived at that number several minutes later—but there might have been more.
    As he walked along the sidewalk, they followed him, keeping well back—one behind, one on the other side of the street, and one in a car creeping along a block behind. The guy in the car was the one he wasn’t sure of for several minutes.
    This was a first. Cassidy had never before been openly followed.
    He wondered about the timing. Why now?
    The one behind him on his side of the street was about medium height for a Japanese, wearing glasses and some sort of sport coat. His stride proclaimed his fitness.
    The one across the street was balding and short. He wore slacks and a dark pullover shirt. Cassidy couldn’t see the driver of the car.
    If there were three men he knew about, how many were there that he didn’t?
    Undecided as to how he should handle this, he walked the route he always took toward his apartment. When he’d reported to the embassy fifteen months ago, he’d had the choice of sharing an apartment inside the embassy compound or finding his own apartment “on the