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there was a way
     out. He could leave Jennifer and make a fresh start of it; just another divorced couple, just like so many of his friends.
     At least then he’d have hope. Whenever he flew the Skymaster he thought about it. But somehow he wondered if he could bring
     himself to do it.
    Berry ran through the conversation he’d just had with the flight attendant. Why had he done that? Who the hell was Sharon
     Crandall? An hour ago, he didn’t know she existed. She wasn’t going to solve his problems. Yet he felt less alienated, felt
     more of a bond with the rest of humanity for having made that contact.
    A light flashed on at the end of his peripheral vision. It was several seconds before he realized that it was the return-to-cabin
     light above the door. Berry knew that the cabin seat-belt lights were on as well. As a seasoned air traveler, he found that
     unusual since the flight was smooth.
Another flight must have reported some chop ahead
, he thought. It did not occur to him that the Straton was the only commercial aircraft using that route and altitude. His
     thoughts were on Sharon Crandall. With the seat-belt sign on, she would probably sit with the other flight attendants. Then
     there would be lunch preparation.
Damn it
. He took his time washing his hands and ignored the return-to-cabin light.

    Lieutenant Peter Matos kept staring at his radar screen, hoping that the second target would disappear. He knew he needed
     to make some sort of report. The seconds were flashing by on his console clock.
They’re waiting to hear from you, Matos
. Reluctantly, he slid his thumb back to the microphone button. “Homeplate, this is Navy three-four-seven.”
    “Go ahead, three-four-seven,” replied Loomis.
    “I . . . I’m having difficulty with target resolution. Will delay second firing. Stand by for updates.”
    “Roger. Out.”
    Matos’s throat was dry. He had evaded the problem. Lied. But if the worst had happened, then nothing could save that other
     aircraft—if that’s what the second radar blip was. On the other hand, if it was only an electronic aberration, then there
     was no reason to report anything more than he’d already said. Trouble with target resolution. They were already probably chewing
     their lips on the
Nimitz. Play it cool, Peter.
    He looked back at the screen, hoping again that it was all resolved. But there were still two targets. The weaker of the two
     crossed in front of the stronger, then disappeared off his screen to the southwest. The stronger blip remained steady on its
     previous course. Again he reminded himself that even if the stronger target began evasive maneuvers, the outcome would be
     the same. The Phoenix AIM-63X’s guidance system had already chosen the larger object—chosen it to die. Phoenix would stay
     with its victim like a hunting bird, stalk it, pursue it, and pounce on it. That’s all it knew. All it had been created for.
    But what was the other target? Who was he? Then it hit him like a fist. It had to be the Hercules C-130.
Jesus Christ
, he thought.
Jesus Christ, I’ve made a navigation error. My fault. My fault.
    Matos turned to the satellite navigation set on the left side of the F-18’s cockpit. He punched in several commands. His hand
     sweated beneath the leather of his flying glove. He hit a wrong button and had to clear the set and start over.
Damn it. Calmete!
    While he fumbled with the navigation set, his memory slid into an unpleasant track. He was seventeen years old and he was
     driving his first car, a ’71 Ford. In the rear of the car were his mother, father, and Grandmother Matos. His sister was seated
     next to him. He had gotten off the interstate at the wrong exit. While his cousin Dolores was being married, he steered his
     angry family through the unfamiliar streets of North Miami. His father had hissed at him through clenched teeth, “
Es tu culpa, Pedro
.”
    He looked down at the navigation display. It verified his position as