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green indicator on the display to his front that represented his aircraft’s actual heading aligned with the command-heading indicator that the computer in the aircraft’s navigational system told him he should be on. Even if Martin altered the airspeed or altitude, the navigational system’s computer took this into account, made new computations, and transmitted a new command heading, if necessary, for Martin to follow.
    As easy as that was, the actual bomb run would be, technically, easier. Once he had reached the point where he would initiate his attack, all the pilot of an F-l17 had to do was activate the weapons controls, ensure the laser designator was on its mark, and then let his aircraft take over the bomb run. He would make what the designers called “a hands-off attack,” meaning the firepower control computer, working with the navigational system computer, would do everything. Martin was just there to keep an eye on everything and make sure nothing went wrong. In theory a piece of cake.
    For Martin, however, this mission was anything but a joy ride. Although he was the commander of the 404th, at that moment the only thing he commanded was the aircraft that he was in. And even that point, given all the computers and such, was questionable. In the past, the necessity of flying the aircraft, staying on top of the tactical situation, and keeping track of a wing man occupied the pilot’s mind, leaving little time to dwell on fears, real and imagined. Glancing to his left and then his right, Martin looked at the night sky. He could not escape the thought that somewhere out there eleven other aircraft of his squadron, swallowed up by a bitter cold night sky, were boring down on their designated targets, alone, like his. It was times like this that made Martin regret not having a backseater that he could talk to. Now, Martin thought, if they could only come up with a computer that alleviated the apprehensions and concerns of a commander, he’d be out of a job, which at the moment didn’t seem to be such a bad idea.
    Below him, buried under tons of dirt, rock, and concrete in command and control bunkers and remote missile sites, soldiers of the Ukrainian air defense command sat monitoring their radar screens and sensors, searching for them. It was, Martin thought, a high-tech contest. After all, he and the rest of his pilots were betting that American technology would allow them to win the game of hide-and-seek against the best air defense system in the world. Given that, they had to win the intelligence war. They were betting that American intelligence was good enough to win the information battle, the results of which had been used to program his navigational and weapons-control panel for this attack. In that struggle, American intelligence agencies had to overcome Ukrainian counter-intelligence and operational security measures designed to throw their efforts off far enough so that the real targets were missed. And even if Martin and his men made it to the correct target, there was always the question of whether or not the weapons they carried would do the job. What a waste, he thought, to come all this way just to put a hole in the ground.
    Such thoughts cluttered Martin’s mind as he approached the IP, or initial point, over Mukacevo. The price of failure was not an intangible that he had to leave to his imagination. During the Gulf War, Martin had had more than enough of an opportunity to see, up close and personal, what failure meant. His most vivid memory of the war was the loss of a close friend who misjudged his ability to bring his crippled aircraft home. In the midst of the air war, just when everything was settling down to almost a dull routine, Martin watched as one of the aircraft in the squadron he was assigned to came limping in after a raid over Iraq. Damaged by anti-aircraft fire, the pilot had lost some of his avionics as well as fuel. Still the pilot felt confident that he could make it. And he