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expense, or just an organization you sent your tax money to, but never your sons. To men
     like Pedro Matos, who came out of the most abject poverty that his homeland, Puerto Rico, had to offer, the military was home,
     family, friends, life itself.
    Matos worked hard at his duties, studied his manuals, watched what he said, never bucked the chain of command, expressed opinions
     only when asked, and carried out all orders with enthusiasm and without hesitation. Outwardly, he was sure he was getting
     it all right, but inwardly, he prayed to San Geronimo that he wouldn’t be passed over for promotion. One pass-over could mean
     the end of his military career, especially in a peacetime Navy.
    Loomis’s voice jarred him out of his reverie. “Navy three-four-seven, do you have target acquisition?”
    Matos glanced down at his radar screen. “Negative, Homeplate.”
    “Roger, Navy. Keep us informed.”
    “Will do.” Matos kept an eye on the radar screen as he let his mind drift back to the larger problems. Matos was certain that
     the results of this test would determine how the rest of his life would run. The test was secret. That much he was told. It
     was also illegal. That much he had figured out for himself. What he could not figure out was why they had chosen him to fire
     this missile.
    The new AIM-63X Phoenix missiles rode on the belly mounts of his F-18. For this test, the missiles were fitted with dummy
     warheads of stainless steel and titanium, and the target was a supersonic military drone launched several hundred miles away
     by a Navy C-130 Hercules turboprop. Except for those facts, thought Matos, he could have been aiming a pair of live missiles
     at an attacking Tupolev bomber or a Chinese MiG-21. Of course, both Russia and China were friends of the United States at
     the moment—but like most military people, Matos knew that friends like these could turn into foes in a heartbeat.
    Matos glanced down at his radar screen. No target yet. Today’s mission was a maximum-range exercise to test the updated maneuverability
     of the new weapon. The radar’s normal 200-mile range had been modified to accept a 500-mile limit. Once launched, the new
     Phoenix would require none of his usual follow-through guidance. His orders were to fire the first missile, wait for it to
     stabilize, fire the second missile, then turn 180 degrees and proceed at top speed away from the combat area. The new self-guidance
     system would seek out the target and continue to track it with no further assistance from Peter Matos.
    Tactically, this missile was much safer for a combat pilot. Before the enemy craft knew they had been attacked, the fighter
     was gone. Matos wasn’t sure he liked this innovation. It called for less personal skill than guiding the missile from the
     F-18, and it was not as . . . manly . . . as remaining in the area. Too, there was no longer even a remote possibility of
     seeing the hit. But none of that was his business.
    He focused on the radar. An electronic blip began to track across the outer fringes of his screen. He pressed the radio button
     on his control stick. “Homeplate. Three-four-seven has preliminary target acquisition.” His voice was cool, almost laconic.
     He smiled at the image of those German and Japanese pilots on the late-night movies screaming into their aircraft’s radio,
     while the American and British pilots always sounded so bored as their craft was falling apart around their ears. Cool. “Do
     you copy, Homeplate?”
    “Roger, three-four-seven. Preliminary target acquisition. Proceed. Out.”
    Lieutenant Matos punched a console button, then raised his eyes toward the firing control processor. An electronic symbol
     slewed to the target’s blip. Matos watched the screen for a few seconds. Suddenly, another blip appeared. Matos blinked. He
     looked again. The second blip looked weaker and smaller. It was directly behind the first one.
False image
, Matos thought.
Some screwy