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transistor or diode a tenth of a degree too warm. Something like that
. He’d experienced these electronic aberrations before. So had most of the fighter pilots in his squadron. Glitches, or angels,
     they were called. False images. Echoes. Bounceback. Reflections from some other radar set. Reflections from the surface of
     the sea. Apparitions with no more substance than a vapor cloud. Vaporware, in the parlance of modern-day computer-speak.
    Matos pressed a button on his console. He twisted a knob to adjust the screen’s resolution setting. The aft target began to
     fade. Then it disappeared. It appeared to have merged with the original, stronger blip, which he was certain was the target.
     He pressed his radio talk button. “Homeplate, Navy three-four-seven has the target in good resolution. Distance is four hundred
     and eighty miles. Over.”
    Loomis’s voice was flat, neutral, like every radio operator’s in the military. “Roger, three-four-seven.”
    Matos hesitated. He thought about mentioning the glitch, but decided against it. If there was one thing they didn’t want to
     hear about, it was nonexistent problems. He looked back at the radar screen. Good target. He flipped a safety switch, then
     lifted a cover that guarded the firing trigger. He was about to fire the longest air-to-air missile shot ever attempted. He
     pressed his radio button. “Fire number one.” He waited a second, took a deep breath, then pressed the triggering button.
    The AIM-63X Phoenix missile dropped away from the F-18’s supporting structure. For a brief moment the missile appeared dormant
     as an electronic delaying device allowed the weapon to clear itself from any potential conflict with Matos’s aircraft. When
     the proper interval had passed, a microvolt was internally induced. Flowing down a maze of printed circuit boards, the current
     reached its goal—the proper solenoids were activated and the rocket engine was ignited.
    A stream of orange flame roared out of the Phoenix’s tailpipe. Within seconds the missile accelerated to twice the speed of
     the F-18.
    Matos saw the missile streak off. He was about to begin the launch sequence for the second Phoenix. He glanced down at his
     radar screen. The target had again split into two images.
Two targets
. Matos pressed the console resolution buttons. No change. He pressed them again. Still the same.
Two distinct targets. If one was the target drone, what was the other one? Jesus Christ
. The self-guided missile that he had already launched was completely out of his control.
    The Phoenix’s self-guiding system was working on the problem. The conflict between the two electronic images presented the
     missile with a quandary. In keeping with a logic and priority array that had been formulated in a conference room thousands
     of miles away, a trickle of voltage moved down yet another decisive path. The AIM-63X Phoenix, with its enhanced tracking
     and maneuverability, made a slight adjustment in its course. It steered toward the larger of the two targets.

2
    J ohn Berry stared at the reflection of his face in the mirror of the first-class lavatory. He ran a finger through the streaks
     of gray in his brown hair. There were a few wrinkles around his eyes. Still, at forty-one, he looked good.
    Some of the women he knew from the country club or at work used words such as “interesting,” “charming,” and “solid” to describe
     him. He knew that he was supposed to make a move toward these women, but he could not work up the enthusiasm for it. Except
     once. A saleswoman at the office. And that had been a disaster.
    John Berry thought about his father, as he did more and more these days. At forty-one his father had had a loving wife, four
     loyal children, his church, his community, his country, his own small business that he enjoyed. But that was in another time,
     another country almost. John Berry had none of those things, and at forty-one would never have them. Still,