Arctic Storm Rising

Two

All three U.S. Air Force crewmen aboard the downed aircraft were dead. Confirming that had required Zalewski and Camarillo to painstakingly work their way into the half-buried nose of the big cargo turboprop, first digging through compacted sand and then carefully cutting through jagged layers of impact-crushed metal. Once they’d gotten close to what was left of the C-130’s cockpit, they’d spotted the broken remains of its two pilots and loadmaster wedged in amid the twisted wreckage of instrument panels, wiring, consoles, and seats.

“How’s it look, Zee?” Flynn asked when Zalewski wriggled back outside to report.

Stretching cramped shoulders, the big pararescueman shook his head gravely. “Bad, sir. A real mess. It’s gonna take a hell of an effort to get the bodies out.” He stripped off his helmet and gloves, then rubbed a weary hand through his short-cropped, sweat-drenched hair before taking a long swallow through the tube of his hydration pack. Under the late afternoon sun, it was well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and it was even hotter inside the C-130 wreck’s tight, confined spaces.

Flynn nodded. He lowered his voice. “So what do you think? Was this crash an accident? Or enemy action?”

Zalewski’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “If I was a betting man, sir, I’d put my money on bad guys,” he said at length. “The Herc’s forward section is all torn up. Even more than I’d expect from the impact when it smacked into this sand dune.”

Flynn frowned. “Like maybe the plane was hit by a missile?”

“Either that, or else somebody set off a bomb right behind the cockpit,” Zalewski suggested. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the C-130’s tail section. “Once we get ’em back to the tech experts, info from the flight data and cockpit voice recorders should pin down exactly what happened.”

“Yeah.” Flynn glanced away along the top of the massive, miles-long dune, which rose a couple of hundred feet above the crash site. His jaw tightened. About a hundred yards away, a handful of figures in white robes and head coverings crouched on the crest, watching all the activity around the wrecked airplane with undisguised curiosity. The first locals from the nearby oasis had appeared while Camarillo and Zalewski were cutting their way into the cockpit. More seemed to be arriving with every passing minute. He turned back to the big PJ. “You know, I think it’d be a good idea if you and Camarillo got those black boxes out soonest. Before this place turns into Grand Central Station at rush hour.”

“That will not be necessary, Captain,” someone said from close behind him.

Flynn turned around to find one of the civilians who’d flown in ahead of them aboard the unmarked Mi-17 helicopter. The other man was almost skeletally thin. He’d introduced himself earlier as Anderson White — a name that was almost certainly fake, but which certainly matched his pale, washed-out eyes, gray crew cut, and thin, almost colorless lips. Whoever he really was, he was definitely the one calling the shots for the black ops team.

“And why is that, Mr.… White?” Flynn asked, adding a deliberate pause to show that he wasn’t buying the other man’s obvious alias.

“My team will retrieve those data recorders and make sure they get to the right people,” White said flatly, ignoring the dig. “I suggest your people focus on recovering those remains. It would be best if you leave everything else to us. This is not your show.”

Flynn didn’t like the sound of that at all. He deliberately allowed a little more of his native Texas drawl to slide into his voice. “Maybe y’all are forgetting this was a U.S. Air Force C-130.”

“Flying under my agency’s orders,” White countered smoothly. “And carrying a cargo we provided. Which makes everything on that aircraft aft of the cockpit solely our jurisdiction.”

Flynn fought down a scowl. Virtually the only piece of information the OGA black ops team had provided was that the Super Hercules had been coming in so low over this part of the desert because it was on approach to an old Libyan Air Force runway south of the Wath Oasis. A quick check of the map and data files loaded into his field tablet showed that was part of a base Gaddafi had built inside the Aouzou Strip — a sixty-mile-wide swath of territory along Chad’s border with Libya. Rumored to be rich in uranium deposits, the Strip had been the spark for nine years of military clashes between the two countries back in the late 1970s. It was just the kind of disputed turf that seemed likely to draw in some of the world’s bad actors, especially those interested in acquiring potentially fissionable ores for full-fledged nuclear weapons or improvised dirty bombs.

Right after they’d landed, he’d grabbed a quick look inside the C-130’s largely intact cargo compartment. Within a couple of minutes, one of White’s tough-looking paramilitary security personnel — whose tats and beard marked him as ex — Special Forces — had not so gently backed him out again. But not before Flynn got the chance to check out a few of the crates the big turboprop had been carrying, discovering what looked like a shitload of Russian-made small arms, ammunition, RPGs, and land mines.

He raised an eyebrow at White. “Your jurisdiction? Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning that you’re going to stand back and let my team complete its work without further interference,” the other man replied. He checked his watch. “From what I’ve been told, they should be done rigging the cargo and the aircraft with explosives in approximately one hour.” His lips thinned even further. “Which is why I suggest you rev your own unit into higher gear and get those bodies out, ASAP. Once our charges are set, we’re not going to sit around waiting on you and your people.”

Flynn stared at him. “You’re going to blow the wreck up?”

White nodded. “We’re going to sanitize this site, Captain. And thoroughly. This mess needs to be cleared up before any more unwelcome visitors arrive — say the international press, or members of several of the factions who claim they’re in charge of this godforsaken region.”

“Because otherwise they’d find evidence that you’ve been running guns to a different splinter group? Here in Libya? Or south in Chad?” Flynn said pointedly.

“A provocative assertion,” the other man acknowledged. His voice took on an edge of its own. “But since the matter is highly classified, I strongly suggest you let it drop. Here and now.”

“Or what? You’ll have to kill me?”

White smiled narrowly. “You’ve been watching far too many bad movies, Captain Flynn. We don’t kill people to protect our secrets these days. Well, not often, anyway.” He shrugged. “We prefer nonlethal measures.”

“Like what?” Flynn pushed with a wry smile of his own. “Amnesia drugs? MiB-style memory zappers?”

“Nothing so technical,” the other man said coldly, dropping any pretense at affability. “Now we rely on leaks to our allies in the media. We can count on them to shit all over people’s careers and reputations until everyone who matters is convinced our targets are either crazy or dirty.” His pale eyes glittered. “Trust me on this — you really do not want to find out what it’s like being on the receiving end of one of our smear operations. So just back the fuck off.”

Flynn stiffened and then felt Zalewski’s big hand land on his shoulder.

“The guy’s not worth the trouble, sir,” the PJ murmured. “Let it go. For now.”

Reluctantly, Flynn let himself be guided away. He glanced up at the technical sergeant. “You’re not going to give me some heartfelt lecture on the perils of wrestling with a pig, are you?”

“Hell no,” Zalewski said. He grinned. “I’m a suburban kid. Bacon and pork chops are as close as I ever get to pigs.” Then he nodded back over his shoulder toward where White stood watching them walk away. “But I’ve got a pretty good built-in detector for creepy sacks of shit. And that guy’s pegging the top of the meter.”

“What’s your read on his security detail?”

The PJ shrugged. “Mostly solid. Definitely ex — meat eaters.” He used the slang for Special Forces troops who took part in dangerous combat missions instead of training allied soldiers and local militias. “I figure their new Secret Squirrel bosses pay a lot more than ours do, though.”

Flynn thought about his monthly check with all its assorted deductions and nodded. “Safe bet, Zee.” He checked the crest of the dune again. Another couple of robed men had appeared and joined the others observing them. His eyes narrowed. “Can you make that hour deadline to get the bodies out?”

“It’ll be tough,” Zalewski admitted.

“What if I give you a hand? I’m checked out on some of your extraction gear.”

The PJ shook his head. “Appreciate the offer, sir. But it’s real tight inside that part of the wreck. As it is, me and Mike are having to take turns clearing a good-sized opening into the cockpit.” He followed Flynn’s gaze and nodded. “Anyway, I kinda figure we could use a good pair of eyes out here. Watching the watchers, if you get my drift.”

“Yeah, I’m not real happy about having an audience, either.” Flynn was uncomfortably aware that they didn’t have enough spare personnel to maintain a secure perimeter around the crash site. Most of the OGA black ops team was busy around the C-130’s cargo compartment. And Wizard One-One’s flight crew — Dykstra, Kasper, and Wade — were fully occupied watching over their own helicopter. The same went for the Mi-17’s two pilots. White had posted one of his ex — Special Forces contractors on guard near the tail section of the downed plane, but otherwise there was just him.

Flynn’s subconscious had started sending up flares the moment Zalewski confided his suspicions that this crash wasn’t an accident. Well, he decided, it was high time he started paying attention to those danger signals from his lizard brain. Whoever had brought the cargo plane down might have bigger plans — plans that could prove dangerous to the health of Mama Flynn’s dark-haired boy… and every other American in the vicinity. Which made it imperative that he take a long, hard look at their surroundings and tactical situation.

So, as soon as the PJ squeezed back inside the C-130’s damaged forward fuselage, Flynn made the long trudge upslope to the top of the dune. Loose sand slid out from under his combat boots with every step. By the time he made it, he was drenched in sweat. Little swirls of sand danced along the knife-edge-like crest, kicked up by occasional gusts of wind that were as hot and dry as if they had come straight out of a bake oven. His shadow stretched away to the left, lengthened by the sun slanting lower in the west.

Squinting against the glare, he raised his binoculars and scanned across the sea of dunes toward the Wath Oasis. Its tiny cluster of buildings marked the only source of water for more than sixty miles in any direction. Any trouble was likely to come from that direction.

There were tracks down the nearest slope off to the south, heading this way. They continued across the desert floor, coming to an end among a small herd of camels tethered down at the base of this sand dune. They were about a couple of hundred yards from his position on the crest. Two more of the white-robed locals squatted close to the camels, evidently guarding them.

Flynn focused in on them. Under those head wrappings, it was hard to get a good look at their faces, but they appeared to be young and fit, certainly not more than thirty years old. The hard work needed to survive in this waterless, harsh climate aged people fast.

Slowly, he lowered the binoculars. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any women or children among those who’d arrived to gawk at the wrecked Super Hercules and the Americans working the crash site. Nor had he noticed any of the elders who ordinarily controlled the daily life of this region’s seminomadic clans.

A flash of movement off to the south caught his eye and Flynn got his binoculars back up just in time to catch sight of another white-robed man stationed high up on the next dune over. He was vigorously waving at a rider mounted on a camel that had just lumbered over the crest. Unlike the others, this rider was dressed in the bright-colored clothes favored by local women. Obediently, she turned the head of her beast around and disappeared down the other side again. Apparently satisfied, the watcher sank back on his haunches.

“Crap,” Flynn muttered. Somebody out there was definitely controlling access to this area — making it off-limits to any but able-bodied young men. That almost certainly spelled trouble. Turning quickly, he half trotted, half slid back down the dune’s loose slope.

He found White supervising his team’s activity near the tail of the wrecked C-130.

“What is it this time, Captain?” the gray-haired intelligence officer snapped in exasperation. “I thought I made it clear that this is my bailiwick, not yours.”

With an effort, Flynn controlled his temper. “We may have bigger problems than jurisdictional squabbles, Mr. White,” he said evenly.

“Such as?” the other man asked skeptically.

Rapidly, Flynn ran through his observations and his reasoning. “It’s likely this aircraft was deliberately brought down here, either by a missile or a bomb. And my bet is that whoever’s responsible is gathering a force to finish the job,” he concluded. “Which means we’re all in the crosshairs.”

“And you’re basing this remarkable theory solely on the absence of women and children watching us work?” White said in disbelief. “For God’s sake, man, get a grip. The nearby clans are primitive herdsmen. They’re also devout Muslims. So it’s hardly surprising that they’re discouraging their wives and young children from mingling with armed infidels like us — especially since as far as they know we’re recovering the mangled victims of an air crash.” His lip curled slightly. “I suggest you calm down. The last thing any of us need is for you to go off half-cocked and provoke some unfortunate incident.”

With that parting shot, he waved a hand in dismissal. “Consider your concerns noted, Captain. Now, if you don’t mind, I have serious work to do.” Then he turned away to confer with one of his paramilitary contractors who’d been planting demolition charges.

It took almost every ounce of self-control Flynn possessed to stop himself from just hauling off and decking the black ops team leader. Instead, he took a deep breath, spun on his heel, and headed toward the landed HH-60W at a rapid clip. If, as he suspected, shit was about to get real here, he needed to make sure Dykstra, Kasper, and the others were clued in and alert.

He came around the tail section of the C-130 and saw the gray-painted helicopter sitting peacefully on its landing gear. The soles of Bill Wade’s boots were visible through the open side doors. While they were grounded, the flight engineer had some equipment panel popped up to run a routine maintenance check. But Dykstra and Kasper weren’t hanging out near the cockpit, where he’d expected to see them.

Instead, the two pilots had moved off a few yards nearer to the edge of the massive sand dune — ostentatiously positioning themselves between the bird and some of the white-robed tribesmen who were now drifting closer down the slope while talking loudly and exchanging broad, cheerful gestures. Both Dykstra and Kasper had their hands on the M4A1 carbines slung from their battle gear. They were very carefully not pointing them at the locals. Yet. But they were clearly focused on any possible threat from the men approaching the helicopter.

Which was why neither of them had noticed the tribesman in bulky robes coming around the other side of the Jolly Green II’s fuselage. Unlike the others, this man was anything but casual in his movements. He was walking slowly, but very deliberately, toward the helicopter’s open cabin.

That is so not good, Flynn thought, feeling abruptly cold despite the bone-dry heat. He increased his pace to intercept the tribesman. “Alsalam ealaykum ya sidiqi. Hal yumkinuni musaeidatuk bashi’an?” he called out politely in Arabic. “Peace be upon you, my friend. Can I help you with something?” The local Teda clans had their own Nilo-Saharan language, Tedaga, but he didn’t speak it. And Arabic was the de facto lingua franca throughout North Africa.

Surprised, the robed man swung toward him and stopped. “Ah, la. Ah, no,” he said hesitantly. “Shukrana jazila. Ana jidi. Thank you. I’m fine.”

Fine, my ass. Flynn could hear that the tribesman’s voice was slurred. He’d also gotten close enough to see that the other man’s pupils were dilated. The son of a bitch was drugged, he realized. Bad. Bad. Very bad. His right hand dropped to the Glock 19 pistol he carried in a chest rig on top of his armor. “‘Akhraj min hna! Alan!” he snapped. “Get out of here! Now!”

The tribesman’s eyes widened in sudden panic. He fumbled at the opening to his robe, pawing for something inside.

Flynn caught a split-second glimpse of wires and a bulky vest. He reacted instantly. With his left forearm, he slammed the other man’s hands aside. And in that same action, he drew his pistol, slid his finger inside the trigger guard as he swung it on target, and fired twice. Both 9mm rounds hit the tribesman squarely in the face, tore through, and exploded out the back of his skull. Already dead, the would-be suicide bomber dropped to his knees and then slumped to the ground.

With the ear-splitting crack of the two shots he’d fired still ringing in his ears, the world around Flynn seemed to blur into slow motion as adrenaline flooded his system. He slid the Glock back into his chest holster and grabbed his M4A1 carbine instead.

Through the HH-60W’s open door, he could see Bill Wade looking back over his shoulder at him in stunned surprise. On the other side of the helicopter, Dykstra and Kasper were doing the same thing, caught completely off guard by the sudden eruption of violence.

Beyond them, the group of white-robed men who’d been ambling down the sandy slope had also frozen in their tracks. But they were no longer smiling. Instead, their expressions were taut, with their eyes narrowed and intent — the look of men determined to kill.

“Hostiles! On the dune!” Flynn yelled as he sprinted forward at an angle to get a clear shot. “Take cover and engage, for Christ’s sake! This is an ambush!”

Now the remaining tribesmen were grabbing the weapons they’d hidden under their robes, awkwardly dragging out a mix of Soviet-era AK-47s and AKMs. One of them yelled an order, waving his arm wildly toward the grounded American helicopter.

Oh my God, Flynn realized. That smart bastard wanted to just overrun them. It was a good plan. If the attackers got in close enough to overwhelm them with superior numbers, it was all over. So he needed to stop their assault before it started. He dropped to one knee, brought his sights onto the shouting tribesman, and squeezed off three quick shots. Bright red splotches blossomed across the man’s white robes, and he went down hard.

The enemy doesn’t have body armor, Flynn thought, fighting to stay in control. Score one for the good guys.

For a second or so, the white-robed men stared down at the body of their leader in shocked surprise, but then they threw themselves prone and started firing downhill. Most of their 7.62mm rounds went high and smacked into the helicopter’s bullet-resistant armor panels, ricocheting off in all directions. One hit Bill Wade in the stomach as he scrambled out through the door. The combination of Kevlar and ceramic plates stopped the bullet from penetrating, but the impact knocked the flight engineer down. Another round ripped through his leg as he fell. More AK rounds tore up sand around where Dykstra and Kasper had already gone prone.

The two pilots shot back. Neither was an expert marksman, but they both had enough training to avoid the rookie mistake of aiming too high when firing up a slope. One more tribesman slumped over, drilled through the head. His assault rifle fell from his lifeless hands.

Suddenly, a blinding flash — brighter than the red-tinged afternoon sun — lit up the crash site.

WHAMMM.

And a huge shock wave slammed Flynn face-first into the ground with enormous force.

Blearily, he spat out blood and grit and raised his head just high enough to see a fire-laced cloud of oily black smoke rising beyond the wrecked C-130. Someone, probably another suicide bomber, had just blown the hell out of the black ops Mi-17.

Trailing smoke, a rocket-propelled grenade skimmed just over the downed Super Hercules and arrowed on to impact a couple of hundred yards beyond the HH-60W. It went off in an orange flash and a fountain of sand. The sight dragged Flynn out of his daze. Somebody out there on the other flank had an RPG launcher. And if they scored a hit on this last intact helicopter, he and the other Americans still alive at the crash site were royally screwed. Their enemies weren’t going to sit on their asses and wait while the Air Force flew another search-and-rescue helicopter all the way from Egypt.

His hearing was coming back a bit, just enough to let him pick up the harsh, staccato rattle of automatic-weapons fire coming from the other side of the downed cargo aircraft. Some friendlies over there must have survived the suicide bomber’s detonation.

On this side, the surviving white-robed attackers were also starting to stir, recovering from their own daze. Another few seconds and they’d be back in action.

Flynn scowled. The longer this fight went on, the worse it was going to get. It was time to end this — at least here. Rolling over, he tugged a ball-shaped M67 fragmentation grenade from one of his equipment pouches. Quickly, he flicked its safety clip away with his left thumb, twisted the pull ring, and yanked it out to release the pin. One swift glance over his shoulder showed him his target. Without hesitating, he reared back and lobbed the grenade high into the air, rolling back onto his stomach with the same fluid motion.

“Frag out!” he screamed, hoping like hell that Dykstra and Kasper could hear him through their own blast-deafened eardrums.

As soon as the grenade left his hand, its safety lever flipped open and fell away. The grenade itself soared on through a smooth arc until it thudded down high up on the dune, several yards above and beyond the little knot of prone tribesmen. Then gravity took over and it rolled downhill, right into their midst.

Flynn buried his face in the sand again.

Craaack! The grenade exploded, sending lethal, razor-edged fragments sleeting through a fifty-foot radius.

Flynn looked up. Through a small puff of dirty gray smoke drifting downwind, he saw the results. Three of the five remaining attackers were motionless — ripped into blood-soaked corpses by dozens of pieces of steel. Two staggered upright. Scarlet streaks down their faces and shredded robes showed that they hadn’t escaped the blast unscathed, but they still clutched AK-47s in their hands.

He grabbed his M4 again. “‘Iisqat al’aslihat alkhasat bik! Drop your weapons!” he shouted.

Instead, they whirled toward him, apparently still determined to carry on this fight.

“Assholes,” Flynn muttered. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed off six more rounds. Hit multiple times, the two white-robed men crumpled to the sand and lay still. They were either dead or dying, he decided. Painfully, he scrambled back to his feet.

The sound of gunfire from the other side of the C-130 seemed to be trailing away — fading from a near-continuous crackle of shots to isolated pop-pop-pops. With his carbine up and ready to fire, he moved warily off in that direction.

Greasy black smoke from the burning Mi-17 made it difficult to see much. Bodies, some in white robes, others in camouflage uniforms, were scattered in all directions. He spotted White’s gray-haired, skeletal form lying huddled near the shrapnel-torn tail section of the wrecked Super Hercules. Whether the man was dead or simply unconscious wasn’t clear, and Flynn wasn’t inclined to go check… not just yet.

At least one of the former Special Forces contractors was still alive, though seriously wounded and pretty clearly in shock. He was trying to apply a combat tourniquet to his own mangled right thigh… but his blood-soaked hands were shaking too badly.

“Hang on, trooper,” Flynn murmured, kneeling beside him. He set his M4A1 down. “I’ve got this.” Quickly, he slipped the tourniquet band through the buckle, pulled it tight, and wrapped it around the man’s leg. Then he carefully twisted the tourniquet rod, further tightening everything down until the blood pulsing out through gashed flesh slowed and then stopped.

“Thanks, man,” the wounded man said weakly. “Thought I was fucked.” But then his eyes widened as he saw something looming over Flynn’s shoulder.

Crap. He desperately grabbed for his weapon and whirled around, already knowing it was probably too late. One of the tribesmen had emerged from the thick black curtain of smoke, with a rictus grin like the Angel of Death plastered across his face, and an AKM pointed straight at Flynn’s head. The Libyan’s finger was already tightening on the trigger.

Crack.

The tribeman’s chest exploded, torn apart by a 5.56mm round fired at close range. He fell in a boneless heap and bled out across the sand.

Zalewski appeared out of the smoke, still holding the short-barreled carbine he’d fired one-handed. The big PJ’s left arm, apparently broken, hung limp at his side. Flecks of dried blood were spattered across his camouflage and body armor. Grimly, he prodded the Libyan he’d shot with the toe of his boot. “Pretty sure that was the last of ’em,” he said softly.

Flynn breathed out. “Sure hope so, Zee.” Slowly, he got back up. “And… thanks.”

Zalewski looked away from the dead tribesman and toward him. Lines of pain and exhaustion were drawn across his broad face. “What are your orders, sir?” he asked. “That we’re bugging out, I hope.” He nodded at the burning helicopter. “Because if there are more of these bastards out there, that smoke’s going to draw ’em like flies to rotting meat.”

The big man’s warning agreed with Flynn’s own somber assessment. They might have destroyed this first band of attackers, but there was no telling how many more enemy fighters were lurking at the nearby oasis — waiting to see the results of their carefully planned ambush. And with so many dead and wounded of their own, the smart move for Wizard One-One’s survivors and what little was left of the black ops team was to abandon this crash site… and fast.

Thirty minutes later, Nick Flynn sat with his legs dangling outside the open door of the heavily loaded HH-60W helicopter. Rotors beating hard, the CSAR bird lifted slowly off the ground, fighting for altitude as it flew east into the darkening sky. Bone-tired, he held on tight to the doorframe, craning his head to scan the desert rippling past below them — watching closely for any sign of another enemy ambush. Behind him, injured men were crammed into every available space inside the Jolly Green II’s cabin. There hadn’t been room or payload capacity to bring away any of their dead.

Between them, the black ops team and Wizard One-One’s crew had lost more than half their strength. Bill Wade would probably lose his leg. Mike Camarillo was dead, gunned down by the terrorists just outside the wrecked C-130. Zalewski’s arm was fractured, snapped when he’d been tossed around inside the downed turboprop’s crumpled fuselage by the suicide bomb blast. Most of the ex — Special Forces veterans working for White had been killed, some by the bomb, the rest during the ensuing close-quarters gun battle — but they’d gone down hard, taking most of the attacking tribesmen on that flank with them.

White himself was still alive, though he’d been shot in the chest. Apparently, the AK round had missed his heart, assuming he actually had one. Right now, the intelligence officer was propped up against the rear bulkhead, swathed in bandages, but conscious and glaring at Flynn.

“Fast movers at ten o’clock high,” Dykstra reported over the intercom.

Flynn looked up and spotted twin contrails arrowing westward across the sky, coming their way.

“Wizard One-One, this is Hammer Three-Five,” a crisp voice called over the radio from one of the two U.S. Air Force F-15E Strike Eagles vectored to this location. “Can you confirm the target is clear?”

“Wizard One-One confirms the target is clear, Hammer Three-Five,” Kate Kasper replied. “Anyone still breathing down there is a bad guy.”

“Copy that,” the Strike Eagle pilot acknowledged. “Target locked.” And then. “GBU Thirty-eights away.”

Flynn blinked, not sure if he’d actually seen several small specks falling off the distant F-15s or not. GBU-38s were five-hundred-pound gravity bombs converted to precision-guided munitions by bolting on control surfaces and combined inertial guidance — GPS systems. Once released at high altitude, they were capable of steering themselves to targets up to fifteen nautical miles away.

He leaned farther out the door, staring to the west and silently counting seconds. It should be any moment now—

“Impact,” the Strike Eagle pilot reported.

Orange flashes rippled across the desert in rapid succession as bomb after bomb plummeted down out of the sky and detonated. Huge clouds of smoke, sand, and debris billowed high into the air. When they drifted away, there were only overlapping craters where the wrecked C-130, its cargo of illicit weapons, and the burned-out black ops helicopter had once been.

Flynn sat back with a sigh.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Captain,” White said bitterly. “Your recklessness triggered this disaster. And I’m going to make sure you don’t just walk away from the mess you’ve created.”

For a moment, Flynn stared back at the pale-eyed intelligence officer. Was the other man really serious? Or just desperately hunting around for someone else, anyone else, to take the fall for his own obvious failure? Then he shrugged and looked away. Let White stew in his own rage and pain. There wasn’t any point in arguing with the man right now. There’d be time enough to make sure the facts were straight when they were all debriefed. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the door, steeling himself for the long flight to an emergency extraction point deeper in the Sahara.

But deep inside, Nick Flynn couldn’t quite shake a growing sense of unease… and the uncomfortable awareness that not all enemies necessarily wear different uniforms or speak different languages.