End Game by Dale Brown

He’d do the same if the aircraft flew as if it would crash into him. But the pilot gave him a half-mile buffer, flying below and off his right wing, close enough to win some sort of bragging rights back home but not quite enough to justify an aggressive reaction.
    Dog saw Mack adjusting course to make a pass at the MiG just as it cleared from the Megafortress. Mack cut things considerably closer than the MiG driver did, not only twisting the Flighthawk to within a hundred feet of the Yemen plane, but shooting flares as he did. His timing was a little off, but the other pilot, either confused or panicked, jerked hard to the north and dove a few seconds after the encounter.
    Part of Dog thought the Yemen idiot had gotten what he deserved: most likely, a pair of speed pants that needed some serious laundering.
    Another part of him was angry as hell at Mack for acting like a two-year-old.
    â€œ Hawk Two , get your nose back into formation.”
    â€œOh, roger that, Colonel,” said Mack, just about chortling. “Did you see him?”
    Luckily for Mack, the commo panel buzzed with an incoming transmission from the Abner Read on the encrypted Dreamland communications channel. As soon as Dog keyed in the communication, the face of Lt. Commander Jack “Eyes” Eisenberg appeared on the screen.
    â€œBastian, we have a possible submarine approximately two hundred miles south of us. It just launched an attack on an Indian destroyer. We’d like you to help locate it with your Piranha unit.”
    â€œWe’re not carrying Piranha,” Dog told him. The undersea robot had not been ready when they took off, and it hadn’t made sense to delay the patrol—facts that Dog had already explained. “Piranha will be aboard the next plane out. We have sonar buoys—we can drop those.”
    â€œAffirmative, good. Also, Werewolf has been following an aircraft just north of there. Airplane appears to be civilian but hasn’t answered any hails. May be a smuggler. We’d like to find out what it’s up to. Send one of your Flighthawks to pursue the aircraft.”
    â€œBit of a problem there, Abner Read ,” responded Dog, doing his best to ignore the sailor’s haughty tone. “The Flighthawk has to stay within twenty miles of us. We can’t be in both places at the same time.”
    â€œI don’t understand. How come the Werewolf can be so far from us?”
    â€œThe control and communications systems are different,” said Dog. “Basically, the Flighthawks are considerably more difficult to fly and require a greater bandwidth than the Werewolf.”
    They also represented an older generation of technology—much had changed in the three years since they began flying.
    â€œAll right. Stand by.” The line snapped clear.
    â€œDish, how close do we have to get to detect a periscope?” Dog asked the radar operator.
    â€œGoing to depend on too many factors to give you a guarantee,” Captain Peter Mallack answered. “Specs say we should be able to nail him at fifteen miles, though. Of course, if he’s on the surface—”
    â€œWhat if he isn’t using his periscope?”
    â€œWe won’t find him without sonar buoys, or until Piranha’s operating.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œBastian, what’s your problem?” snarled Storm, appearing in the communications panel.
    â€œPhysics. I can’t be in two places at one time,” said Dog. “I can look for the sub or inspect your unknown aircraft, but not both.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous—send one of your aircraft after this flight, and then get your butt down south and find this submarine. Drop your buoys. Jee-zus, Bastian. Since when do I have to tell you your job?”
    Same old Storm, thought Dog, looking at the captain’s red face.
    â€œThe Flighthawks were designed to stay close to the Megafortress,” said Dog, keeping his