Cyclops One

Chapter 1

Of all the people Howe might have expected to greet him in the dimming light as he stepped down from the F/A-22V after arriving in Alaska, Jemma Gorman rated close to the last.

“Colonel Howe.”

“Colonel Gorman.”

“You can call me Jemma.”

“Yeah,” said Howe.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“Privately.”

Howe looked around. The nearest person, one of the airman tasked to look after the jet, was a good fifty feet away and wearing ear protection besides. But Gorman was already walking down the ramp.

Elmendorf, the large air base near Anchorage that served as the home drome for the 3rd Wing, was overflowing with units associated with the tests. Because of that, Howe, Timmy, and the RC-135 had been sent farther north to a somewhat sparser base that once prepared spy planes for flights near — and in a few cases over — the old Soviet Union. The base now housed a hearty squadron of F-16s, A-10As, and assorted support and reconnaissance craft, as well as accommodated a variety of transients and the occasional stray. It didn’t seem particularly busy at the moment, and in fact most of its resident aircraft were off participating in an exercise with RAF and Canadian aircraft.

Though it was summer, the air temperature was dropping through the forties; even seventy would have been a severe shock after Florida. Howe followed Gorman along the edge of the tarmac, curling his arms in front of his chest as the chill started to eat through his flight suit.

“The plane that went down in China, during the Indian-Pakistani exchange. I don’t believe it had the Cyclops weapon in it,” said Gorman.

“Fisher said that.”

“Yes, well, even Mr. Fisher is occasionally correct.” Gorman continued to walk. “I know you’ve been assigned to look for laser emissions during the ABM tests,” said Gorman finally. “I want to work with you. We’re not technically part of the ABM tests, but I want to make sure that the laser plane doesn’t show up — or, rather, if it does, that we know about it.”

“That’s not up to me,” said Howe.

“That’s true,” said Gorman. She stopped, seeming to find something in the distance interesting. “I still think it’s likely the Russians took the airplane. But we have no evidence, and while Mr. Fisher’s conspiracy theory appears to be yet another of his wild goose chases, I have to admit that it cannot be easily dismissed.”

Her words could be interpreted as trying to talk him out of the theory that Fisher had: that the laser had been stolen by an “inside” group. Then again, they weren’t necessarily wrong. It still made more sense to Howe that a “traditional” enemy had taken the weapon: China if not Russia, even Pakistan or India, someone with considerable resources. He knew from McIntyre that the CIA people also still thought that.

“My mission is to recover the weapon, wherever it is,” said Gorman. “It doesn’t matter to me where it is or who took it. I want to get it back.”

“Me too.”

Her hands bounced as she emphasized her point. “I have broad authorization to carry out my mission. I can shoot down the plane if I see it, or do what I have to to capture it. I can go anywhere—anywhere—to get that done. I can call on just about the entire military if I have to.”

“Uh-huh,” said Howe.

“I want you to work with me voluntarily,” she added.

“Doing what?”

“Coordinating your search. I’ll have support assets, fighters, whatever else we need.”

“The plane probably isn’t going to show,” said Howe.

“We can’t take a chance.”

Howe could see her breath in the cold air. Her face behind it was blocky, not attractive in the least. She was very different from Megan.

If this was a guy standing in front of him, would Howe consider how ugly he was?

No. He wouldn’t be thinking about Megan, either.

“Look, Tom, we want the same thing here. Andy — Mr. Fisher — he comes up with these conspiracy theories all the time. He goes off on a tangent, gets burned, comes back. Occasionally he’s right, but more often he’s wrong. In the meantime he wastes a lot of time and resources.”

“I’m going ahead with the monitoring during the test,” said Howe. “I have orders.”

“Yes, I agree.” Gorman pitched the top half of her body forward. “Some people might interpret what you and Mr. Fisher did in Washington as an end run around me — around my task force and my authority. A political move.”

“I’m not interested in politics.”

“Everybody’s interested in politics.”

“I’m not.”

Gorman studied his face. “Okay. I’m going to be part of the operation.”

“It’s not my call,” said Howe.

“That’s right. Look, we can do more than just sound the alarm if the light goes on in the dark. I want to make sure you have the resources to get the job done,” she told him.

“Usually when somebody talks to me about resources, my budget lines get cut.”

“I want to plan the operation together.”

Howe shrugged.

“All right. Have it your way. I can play hardball too.”

Chapter 2

Brooklyn, New York, was in many respects exactly the same as Alaska: It had a colorful cast of exotic animals, the natives were eccentric though in general tolerant, and the scenery could be breathtaking.

“So you got on the wrong plane?” said Karl Grinberg. The special agent was an expert on the Russian Mafia and, in times gone past, the KGB. “I would’ve thought the taxis gave it away.”

“They have taxis in Alaska,” said Fisher. “It’s just their drivers actually speak English.”

“Old joke, Fisher. If you really do have to catch a plane, get to the point.” Grinberg glanced up at the waitress, motioning for more of the muddy dregs they claimed was coffee. “I for one have to get some work done today.”

“Here’s the thing — you figure Borg would miss?” asked Fisher.

“Never.”

“You think he would work for the Russian government?”

Grinberg started to laugh.

“That’s funny?”

“Well, Borg would kill anybody if there was money in it.”

“So he would?”

“No fuckin’ way. He hates the Russians.”

Borg was, of course, Russian. He was also one of the top four or five contract killers in the country, and he’d been tracked as the probable shooter in Fisher’s bank parking lot. Through a rental car, no less.

“How about if it were a renegade group, old-line commies or something?”

“Only thing he hates worse than the Russian government are Russian commies.”

Fisher leaned back in the seat as the waitress poured the coffee into his cup. He reached into his pocket and took out the digital photo from the bank’s surveillance camera, which Doar had politely faxed to him.

“That him, you think?”

“Jeez, Fisher, if you can even ID this as a human being you get points.”

“I don’t think it was really Borg.”

“Not if he missed.”

“Well, he might have been paid to miss. Thing is, I don’t have much time, and I want to track him down.”

“You’re out of your mind. He’ll chew you up.”

“You have an address?”

“I can give you a couple of hangouts. Fisher, seriously, Borg’ll have you for lunch.”

“Hope the food’s better than here.”

Rostislav had been a duke of Moravia in the ninth century, but why he had given his name to a social club in Brooklyn was unknown, even to Grinberg. Nor had the FBI special agent supplied Fisher with much information about the club itself, except for the obvious.

Then again, Fisher would have gone in through the kitchen anyway, especially when he saw the only thing between him and the open doorway was a barbed-wire fence. He scaled it, flashed a laser pointer at the video surveillance camera to blind it, and then walked in, nodding at a man in checked chef pants who was sipping a drink near the burners. A kid with some kitchen garbage and a large knife turned near the door but froze as soon as he caught sight of Fisher’s Bureau ID, which he was holding out in his hand.

That, or the pistol in his other hand.

The kitchen opened into a dining room on the left and a hallway to the right. Fisher went to the right, pushing open the second door on the left and entering the bar. There he found himself eye to eye with a six-foot-six bartender who had a blackjack in his left hand.

“Magnum,” said Fisher, holding the.44 Ruger under the man’s nose. “I’m just here to talk.”

The bartender said something in Russian regarding Fisher’s ancestry.

“Actually, I was adopted,” said Fisher. “Borg, I need a word.”

A dozen eyes in the dimly lit room were blinking at him. For a second Fisher feared his Hollywood entrance had been totally wasted on a collection of Mob honchos.

“Da.Who the fuck are you?”

“Guy you tried to kill.” Fisher stepped past the bartender, his pistol still aimed at the man’s head. That probably didn’t bother Borg much, but the hit man wouldn’t kill Fisher without giving him a chance to clear up the slur on his reputation.

Then, of course, he’d kill him.

“No one I try to kill lives,” said Borg. He was short, five six or eight at the most, and looked more like an out-of-work accountant than a paid killer, undoubtedly one reason he was so successful.

Fisher pulled out the photo of his would-be assassin. “This son of a bitch wants me to think he’s you. He used one of your pseudonyms and a credit card from a job you did to rent a car. That’s the license plate. You can run down the paperwork yourself.”

Fisher slid the paper along the bar.

“There was another hit a few days back near D.C., not quite your style,” said Fisher. “I thought you might have some ideas about who did it.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, I think it was probably this asshole,” said Fisher. “And for another, I hear you’re a nice guy who always cooperates with federal agents.”

Borg snorted.

“Looked like an accident,” said Fisher. “Like a guy got out of a tub and slipped. But it was definitely a hit.”

“Don’t know him.”

“Dead man’s name was Bonham. Mean anything?”

“Nyet,”said Borg.

“Accident thing remind you of anybody?”

Borg shook his head.

“Well, all right,” said Fisher. “I’d like to stay for lunch, but I have to get going.”

As Fisher was talking, the bartender had started sidestepping toward the end of the bar. He was now about two feet from the door.

“You know, the thing that pisses me off is the paperwork involved if I shoot this thing,” said Fisher leveling the pistol. “I mean, I shoot one bullet, I empty the gun, just about the same amount of work. I shoot you or I shoot everybody, I still have to fill out a fistful of paper. Kind of pisses me off, you know what I’m talking about? At least the bullets make nice big holes.”

The bartender stopped. Fisher pushed up the panel at the far end and walked toward the door at the front of the room that led to the street.

“You decide you know who that is, let me know. My number’s on the paper,” he said. “Thanks are not necessary.”

Chapter 3

Within two hours of their conversation, Jemma Gorman had managed to tug her connections hard enough to get a terse directive sent directly to Howe, designated for his eyes only: COOPERATE w/TSK GP.

It was signed by the head of the Air Force.

Was Gorman just protecting her turf? Or something else?

Bonham’s death, Megan, Gorman pulling strings…Who could Howe trust?

Himself. Timmy.

Fisher?

Not necessarily, but maybe.

Not Gorman, certainly.

McIntyre?

Maybe McIntyre. Although it might be possible that the shoot-down and rescue had all been set up.

It was a snake maze, one question suggesting a dozen others.

Howe tried to push away the questions and doubts, concentrating on planning the mission. With the tests now roughly twenty-four hours away, he presided over a briefing session to go over the basic layout of his plan with Gorman and her team leaders. The main furniture in his borrowed office consisted of a pair of desks that seemed to date from the discovery of aluminum as a workable metal; he pushed them together as a crude map table and had the others crowd around while he outlined his skeletal game plan. Gorman, flanked by two stone-faced intelligence officers, stared at the map impassively, listening as he went over the main points of the mission.

One thing he had to give Gorman: She had serious resources at her beck and call. All of the assets she’d amassed for the surveillance around Russia were available for the mission. That meant not only a radar plane and a full squadron of F-15s but three air tankers and assorted support personnel. She also had Army Special Forces units ready for any contingency.

Definitely a first-team operation, though whether it was on his side or not was an open question.

They set up the mission carefully. The RC-135 and F/A-22Vs, along with any support craft detailed to them, would be part of the overall test operation, though their actual role was “covered” by a story that they were conducting tests of the F/A-22V radar systems in conjunction with the missile firings, not looking for lasers. The cover was unlikely to fool anyone who knew much about the aircraft, or what was going on, but given the fact that Cyclops One had not even been officially “found” in China yet — or Canada, for that matter — it would at least give a spokesman something to tell the press if asked.

In summary, the plan was extremely simple: The RC-135 with its monitoring gear would fly a figure-eight pattern around an arc at the northwest side of the test area, which Howe had concluded would be the most likely place for a laser plane to fly, given the location of the Navy ships launching the cruise missile targets and monitoring the tests. Gorman’s two telemetry gathering aircraft would also be airborne, positioned to cover a northern approach to the test site.

“I want a Special Forces strike team in the air with you, ready to follow the aircraft,” said Gorman when he finished going through the highlights. “The laser plane has to land somewhere. We take it as soon as it lands.”

“What if it goes back to Russia? Or China?”

“Then we’ll take it there.”

“It’s not going to be in Russia. Or China.”

Howe looked up from the table. Andy Fisher had arrived and was standing at the door with one of Gorman’s security policemen, looking as if he’d just wet his pants.

“Tell my buddy here he’s not getting detention, Jemma,” said Fisher.

Gorman nodded and the man retreated.

“You don’t have to worry about Russia or China,” said Fisher, coming over to the map.

“So where should we be?” Gorman asked sarcastically.

“Jeez, Jemma, you want me to do everything for you? Hey, Colonel,” Fisher said to Howe. “Sorry I couldn’t answer your phone calls — I was too busy getting shot at. Crimped my schedule.”

“Another satisfied ex-lover,” said Gorman, “or just someone who objected to you smoking?”

“Act still needs some polish, Jemma, but you’re getting there.”

Fisher bent over the map, putting his nose so close to the paper he could have sniffed it. He studied it for a long time, then looked up. “That dotted line there is you?” he asked Howe.

“Yes.”

“Long flight, no?”

“It is,” said Howe.

Fisher snapped back up straight so fast, Howe thought he’d get a nosebleed.

“You’re going to fly around out there the whole time?” Fisher asked.

“Pretty much.”

Without saying anything else, the FBI agent left the room.

Of the many human activities Fisher did not fully comprehend, the insertion of polished steel into cork surely rated among the most mysterious. The preliminaries themselves were relatively transparent: One wound up the body with appropriate consumption of alcohol. But the unleashing of the steel — what was this, some primitive throwback to prehistoric hunting?

As a trained detective, Fisher knew only one way to discover the secret of this arcane art: He went to the dart line in the base club and asked one of the participants to explain.

After getting his attention by tapping his back.

“Shit, you made me miss the dartboard completely,” said the man, a Special Forces captain named Kenal Tyler.

“Guess I owe you a beer,” said Fisher. “Come on and I’ll pay up.”

“Damn it,” Tyler groused as the Air Force major he’d been playing retrieved the darts and went to the line. He nonetheless walked over toward the bar, where Fisher was catching the attention of the airman who served as bar-keep.

“Make it a pitcher,” said Tyler. “I have to keep my boys happy.”

“Not a problem,” Fisher told him. “I’m Andy Fisher. FBI.”

“So?”

“You’re leading one of the assault teams tomorrow. I want to come with you.”

“What?”

The bartender came over with the glasses of beer Fisher had ordered, then went back to get the pitcher. Tyler’s “boys”—all sergeants who looked to be in their thirties and older than the captain — drifted over to see what was going on.

“I was looking at the way they plotted out the mission, and you guys are going to make the arrest,” said Fisher. “So I want to be there.”

The captain gave him a dubious look, then left to take his turn at darts. One of the sergeants — a tall, skinny black guy with a Midwestern accent named Daku — asked if Fisher was the Fisher.

“Probably,” said Fisher. “You here to subpoena me?”

“You were with Duke and his team,” said the sergeant. “Right? In Kashmir?”

“My summer vacation.”

The sergeant started laughing, then told the others that Fisher had been involved in the rescue of McIntyre. “He got a truckload of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee flown into Afghanistan. Met them on the tarmac,” added the sergeant.

“If you’re going to have coffee, go for the best,” said Fisher.

“Did you get doughnuts too?” asked one of the soldiers.

“Boston Cremes. I thought they weren’t stale enough,” said Fisher. “But you know, war zone, you make sacrifices.”

“Hey, Captain, is Fisher riding with us?” asked Daku when Tyler came back.

“We don’t need no FBI guy watching over us,” said the captain. “Aren’t you supposed to be on Colonel Gorman’s plane?”

“Do I look like a masochist?”

“This guy’s all right,” said the sergeant, who proceeded to give a thumbnail account of Fisher’s Kashmir adventure.

“This true?” Tyler asked. “You worked with Duke?”

“Duke’s all right,” said Fisher. “For a guy who doesn’t smoke.”

“How do you know where the action’s going to be?” asked Tyler.

“I used one of those fortune-teller machines at the airport,” said Fisher.

Tyler frowned.

“Ah, let ’im come, Captain,” said the sergeant.

“Isn’t up to me,” said Tyler.

“That’s true,” said Fisher. “I can just assign myself.”

“Bullshit you can.”

“Or I can work through channels, have my general call your general.”

“This is Colonel Gorman’s operation,” said Tyler.

“You really going to let a blue suit tell you what to do?” asked Fisher.

Tyler made a face.

“Tell you what,” said Fisher. “I’ll play darts for it. I win; you take me.”

“I can’t do that,” said the captain.

“You can’t beat me or you can’t take me with you?”

“I can beat you.”

“Bring the dartboard outside and let’s see,” said Fisher.

“Outside?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to hurt nobody.”

The others laughed. Tyler agreed, and the entire barroom soon assembled outside. At Fisher’s suggestion the dartboard was mounted on a post overlooking an empty bog.

“You go first,” said Tyler.

“Nah, you go,” said Fisher. “Throw all your darts.”

Shaking his head, Tyler went ahead. He got one bull’s-eye and put the others inside the next ring.

“My turn,” said Fisher. “Stand back.”

“You don’t have the darts,” said Tyler.

“Don’t need ’em,” said Fisher, drawing his revolver. His first bullet obliterated the dart as well as the red dot at the center of the board, and the others followed through cleanly. “See you in the a.m. I’ll bring the joe.”

Chapter 4

Megan hesitated a moment, her hand resting on the throttle. They’d built roughly thirty minutes of leeway into her schedule, but only thirty minutes, and once they were airborne her options became extremely limited. She’d have no update on the position of most of the American aircraft involved in the operation.

The plan itself was solid. Even if the monitoring aircraft did something unusual or unanticipated, she’d be able to recover.

In, out. Once back, she and the crew would board the cigarette boat and be gone. A long vacation awaited.

General Bonham’s death had shaken her, even though the Web sites were reporting it as an accident. Segrest had sent a BS E-mail to her in response: “Stay with the general’s game plan” was the gist of it. She’d thought of contacting her cousin to get the real story but decided it was safer not to: There was no way to contact him directly using their encrypted system, which deposited J-PEG files on a server in Austria, and any clear text message would inevitably be read by several people before it got to him. Better at the moment to follow through with the plan, such as it was. Once she arrived in Argentina she could begin untangling what was going on.

Megan held the plane against its brakes one last time as she revved the engines, giving the plane its final check. The chief of the three-man crew that had served as the barebones ground team gave a quick salute and began running from the edge of the runway, crossing down the dusty access ramp. The crew’s boat was waiting in the cove less than a mile away; whatever happened from this moment on, she and her weapons officer were on their own.

“All right,” she said over the plane’s internal radio system. “You’re ready?” she asked the weapons officer.

“Very ready.”

“Rogers?”

“Anytime, beautiful.”

The Amos/X, an enhanced version of the standard long-range Russian air-to-air missile, added over one thousand pounds to her heavily altered Blackjack’s weight. Given the aircraft’s size and design, the additional weight might have seemed relatively insignificant, but the short, rough runway complicated the takeoff. Even without the missile, the plane typically dipped off the edge of the island and came perilously close to the waves in a light headwind; Megan guessed there was perhaps a 30-percent chance now that she would crash into the water.

But then it would be over, wouldn’t it?

She could accept that. She’d have done her duty.

She nodded to herself, then slapped the throttle bar, revving the engines for takeoff. The time for contemplation was long past: Action was what was needed now.

Chapter 5

Though the sea was nearly flat, there was no way for the speedboats to keep up with the two Mi-28 attack helicopters, and every so often the man at the helm cursed and gave his throttle a little jab, as if the combination might give him a few more knots of speed. Luksha found the man’s curses somewhat amusing but said nothing. The driver was a paratrooper, not a seaman, and seemed unduly anxious about his job; Luksha feared any distraction might be catastrophic.

The island was now ten miles away; he could see the outline of the abandoned oil derrick with his night glasses.

Four other men were crammed into the small boat; a total of twenty-three had been chosen personally by Luksha to accompany him. He had reviewed the records of the crews in the Mi-28s; both pilots had served in Chechnya, and their reputations were impeccable.

If things went well, a Navy patrol vessel with another two dozen men would join them on the island an hour after they landed. A transport helicopter, as well as two large cargo airplanes, could land there within two hours of receiving his command.

The general leaned forward on the seat, his hand braced against the aluminum strut at the side of the boat. It had been years since he had been personally involved in an action like this — so long that it had a surreal quality, as if it were a pleasure outing.

And yet, the stakes were extremely high. Within an hour he should know if the American superweapon was located here.

He might also have it, or at least parts of it, in his possession. But that was being wildly optimistic.

His analysts had mapped out possible mines near the main landing area and gun emplacements on the north and south portions of the island. They also thought it possible that there were antiship missiles as well. Only by landing would they discover if these were all realities or fantasies of overparanoid minds.

In their favor, the analysts had concluded that there were no more than two dozen people there. His force was big enough to overcome them, assuming that the layout of the facility had not been altered. Luksha and his men would feed disabling gas into the bunker ventilation system and then cut the power, entering through two narrow emergency exitways that could not be sufficiently protected. There had not been time to rehearse the operation, but the men with him had a great deal of experience in such matters, and he had no doubt they would succeed.

In the hours since returning from Moscow, Luksha had come to believe the theory that the CIA was hiding the weapon here for future use. Its precision would allow it to be used for many things — including, Luksha thought, targeting the North Korean army. Why they would do that from here rather than a normal base, he could not say.

“Five minutes,” said the man at the wheel.

As Luksha fine-tuned his focus on the island, a small pinpoint of light flared on the right. It burst brighter and larger, streaking from right to left, then climbing.

“Hold!” he said. “Hold all the boats!”

Luksha nearly lost his balance as the helmsman threw down the power. In the distance, the aircraft that was taking off continued to climb, its exhaust circles shaping into long ovals.

It was turning.

Luksha put his glasses down and waited. They could all hear the aircraft now.

The men knew of the weapon’s capabilities and knew that its heat could burn a hole in the boat, even though it was on the surface of the ocean.

Or it could explode the gas tank or melt the metal rivets. Death had many possibilities.

They waited, listening to the roar of the jet as it overwhelmed the sound of the water knocking against the gun-wales of the slightly overloaded vessels.

“Low-power surface radar,” said one of his men, monitoring the warning receiver. “Northeast side of the island, probably mounted on or near the derrick.”

Luksha nodded. The aircraft was still nearby, though the sound of its engines was receding. They weren’t to be targeted after all.

The most critical part of his mission had just been accomplished; he was sure now that their guesses were correct.

He would go ahead, take care of the small contingent on the island, wait for the plane to return. It would be easier once it landed; it would be out of fuel, vulnerable. He could hide his forces on the island, have the helicopters rush in.

Luksha would take the weapon. He would be honored beyond his imagination.

Unless it was now headed on a mission over Russia. In that case, he would be considered a bungler who arrived ten minutes too late.

“Signal that we are going ahead,” Luksha told his communications man. “Tell the helicopters to remain as reserves. We may not need them until the plane returns. The less attention we draw now, the better chance we will have for surprise afterwards.”

He pointed his finger toward the island for the helmsman and leaned toward the spray as they picked up speed.

Chapter 6

Howe and Timmy launched at precisely 0400 local time, the two F/22Es rocketing into the blue twilight with the studied precision of a pair of synchronized swimmers. They climbed out to twenty thousand feet as they arced westward, drawing a sweeping semicircle over the Bering Sea. The Aleutian islands spread out to their left as they flew; the Fox Islands, a small group about midway in the chain, marked the launch point for the test.

The test area was already being patrolled. Howe exchanged pleasantries with a pair of Navy jocks as they pushed south, riding a wide curve that had them roughly parallel to the northern Kuril Islands, a thousand miles off their right wings. The Velociraptors hit the southernmost point of their patrol area, then swept back toward the rendezvous with a tanker. They’d just topped off when the RC-135 with the monitoring gear came on station. There were still two hours left before the first test launch; Jolice’s turn was scheduled for two hours after that.

Howe believed there were two possibilities for detecting a plane. The most likely was with the RC-135 equipment, which presumably would catch the laser shot during the test. But he also thought they might find the aircraft prior to the test as it moved into position. Since they knew Cyclops’s range and capabilities, they also knew where the plane would have to position itself to fire. The “box”—more like a long rhomboid with rounded edges — ranged nearly a thousand miles, depending on the altitude the laser plane flew and the altitude it engaged its target at. But they thought the position of the Navy ships cordoning off the test area probably narrowed it a great deal — they couldn’t be sure, since they didn’t know the details of the radar profile — and so the long box was only a hundred miles wide.

Still a lot of area to cover, but not an impossible haystack.

The Navy had two Hawker E-2C radar aircraft covering the southwestern portion of the test zone; an Aegis-equipped cruiser with its powerful SPY-1B phased-array radar and associated systems complemented the airborne radar planes and their carrier group, tracking through an arc of roughly 250 miles. An array of smaller ships, aircraft, and drones formed a thick picket around the area.

Howe answered a query from one of the Hawkeye controllers. Timmy exchanged a few good-natured insults with the Navy jocks. Otherwise their flight south and then back north was almost eerily quiet.

Driving the entire circuit in supercruise took just over an hour, the finely tuned P&Ws humming. A Russian monitoring ship had taken up station at the southwest corner of the test area under the shadow of an American destroyer. Two monitoring aircraft, also Russian, were flying out from Siberia. These were tentatively ID’d by the AWACS as Myasishchev M-55 Geofizia twin-boom spy planes. Known as Mystic Bs in the West, the planes were advertised as high-altitude “environmental research” aircraft and could fly somewhere over 65,000 feet for four or five hours. Odd-looking creatures with swept-back wings and tails vaguely reminiscent of North American Broncos, their capabilities were somewhat comparable to early-model U-2s.

Two F-15s were tasked to shadow the Mystics—shadow being the operative word, since the Russian aircraft, though slow and not particularly maneuverable, could operate comfortably several thousand feet higher than the Eagles. Howe didn’t envy the F-15 pilots — or the F/A-18 pilot tasked with checking out a small boat spotted at the southern end of the test range by one of the drones a few minutes later.

“Just about an hour to go,” said Timmy as they spun back to the south.

“How’s the hangover?”

“How do you know I have a hangover?”

“Maybe the fact that you’ve said three words the whole flight.”

Fisher unfolded the large chart on his lap, studying the red X’s that were supposed to designate the approximate locations of the surface ships around the test range. He had another small map of the test area that showed the approximate positions for the intercepts, as well as a folder of satellite photos.

None of it was worth very much, though it seemed to impress the Air Force people flying the C-17. Fisher had been granted a seat on the flight deck, which, he gathered, was considered an honor. It was not only padded but swiveled, and if you didn’t get too anal about restraints and watched what you were doing, you could stretch your feet against the back of the copilot’s seat and a panel on the far right, making for a position nearly as comfortable as the back of a Honda Civic flattened in a rear-end collision.

His headset was not only plugged into the plane’s intercom, or “interphone,” system but had what looked like an old-fashioned transistor radio wired in that could select any of the myriad frequencies, though it wasn’t clear to Fisher what combination of buttons he had to push to actually communicate with anyone.

Fisher looked at his watch. There was now just over a half hour before the test.

He didn’t know what was going to happen, but whatever it was, he figured it should have happened by now.

So he was wrong again. Bitch of a losing streak.

Howe listened as a controller in one of the Hawkeyes exchanged a few choice words with a crewman aboard the cruiser about a contact flying out of the south toward the aircraft carrier and test area. The airplane — it appeared to be a civilian airliner, but its Ident gear wasn’t working properly — didn’t answer hails but finally took a sharp turn southward away from the test area. Howe broke in to request the Hawkeye to detail an aircraft to visually inspect the airliner: It was, after all, at least theoretically large enough to house the Cyclops weapon. The Navy controller replied somewhat sharply that he already had a plane en route.

The seaman at the display of the Aegis air defense system aboard the cruiser started throwing a series of numbers and acronyms out over the air. It sounded almost as if he were speaking in tongues.

“Five minutes to test,” said the mission controller, who was aboard a Navy ship just off the Aleutians. Though presented as a simple statement, the words were actually a command:

Shut up and let’s get to work.

Howe felt himself starting to relax. Maybe Fisher was wrong about everything — maybe the wreckage had contained the laser after all.

“Religion?” Megan laughed at him.

“Yeah. Are you religious?”

“Are you?”

“You sound religious.”

“I believe in things.”

“I don’t see how you can be a pacifist and be involved in a military program.”

“How am I a pacifist?”

“You want to end war, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s not pacifism?”

“See, the word is all fucked up.”

Howe laughed.

“It is.”

“That word seems strange coming out of your mouth.”

“Kiss me, then, and make the strangeness go away.”

“I love you.”

Had he said that?

He couldn’t remember now. He must have said it; he must have told her. But he couldn’t remember.

She was starting to fade away.

“Asset Mike-Charlie is off the air.”

The words seemed to break through a fog, rays of sun separating the clouds.

“Repeat, Asset Mike-Charlie is off the air.”

Howe fought against the adrenaline that jerked through his veins. “Monitor, do we have a fire?” he asked the RC-135, which was looking for the laser burst.

“Negative, Bird One. No shot, Colonel.”

Voices filled every circuit. Mike-Charlie was a UAV patrolling the southeast quadrant of the test area. Two Navy fighters selected afterburners, hustling in that direction; two others swept around to back them up. The Hawkeye closest to the area reported no contacts. One of the surface ships had a possible visual sighting but then lost it.

The mission boss stopped the ABM launch at T-minus 2:31 as the patrol vessels and aircraft scoured the area where the UAV had been. After a few minutes with no fresh contacts and the covering aircraft now mustered around the area, he let it proceed.

“Still clean,” Monitor told Howe as the countdown returned.

“Bird One,” acknowledged Howe, starting a bank as he reached the southernmost point of his patrol area.

Chapter 7

Megan was now much too far away from the drone to know if the Amos/X missile she’d launched scored a hit or not. She could tell from her passive radar receiver that at least one of the aircraft over the test area was reacting; she took that as a hopeful sign.

She was already too committed to turn back. Following the precisely computed flight plan, she selected afterburner and began to rise from her track fifty feet over the waves. The weapons officer meanwhile acknowledged that the weapon was operational and prepared to fire.

“We have a launch,” said the weapons officer. “Their target is airborne.”

“Radar’s clean,” said Rogers.

Megan didn’t reply, concentrating on flying her aircraft. The more they climbed on this course, the closer they got to the AWACS radar. She suspected that they would be detected before the ABM missile was fired; she just hoped it was close enough so the launch couldn’t be aborted.

Her hand steadied against the stick. Megan thought of her uncle and his last mission over Tokyo. The way he described it, he’d been an automaton, more mechanical than a flight computer.

She was that way now.

“ABM launch,” said the weapons officer. “I need ten miles.”

He gave her more directions, asking her to take a hard turn to the east and continue climbing. There was no doubt now they would be detected. Megan pushed the stick, making the correction. The maneuver bled speed off the wings, but the plane moved precisely as she wanted, still rising in the air.

“Preparing to fire. I’m locked,” said the weapons officer.

Megan reached forward, her thumb edging toward the button that turned control of the plane over to the automatic pilot circuit, allowing the weapon to fly the aircraft on a very straight and predictable path as it fired. She hesitated — it felt almost like a surrender — but there was no way for the laser to fire without pushing that button.

Go,she told her thumb.

A thick bar flashed at the top of her HUD and an icon appeared in the lower part of the screen. Megan leaned back, a passenger in her own jet.

“Firing!” reported the weapons officer. His excitement seemed to shake the aircraft, though it was actually the discharge of the weapon, ramping through the system and unleashing through the clear glass at the tail end.

To fly through that smoke over Tokyo, to kill all those people — you could justify their deaths in the end, add them up in the awful calculus of human survival. But if you didn’t resolve to get beyond those grim equations — if you didn’t work to end all war — weren’t you as guilty as the butchers who had started it all?

That had been her uncle’s and her father’s arguments. It was her birthright, her debt.

Paid now.

“The missile hit,” said the weapons officer.

He said something else but the words garbled in her ears, too far from her thoughts to penetrate. Megan took back control of the aircraft from the computer, rolling her wings and tucking back to the west in a twisting dive that put nearly 9 g’s of stress across the frame, overloading even the overengineered Russian design. The Blackjack groaned but held, possibly unaware of the fate that awaited her a little over an hour and a half from now — assuming, of course, they made it back to the base.

Megan pushed the engines into afterburner. Fuel gushed into the engines, taking the semistealthy Blackjack from just under three hundred knots to over nine hundred. Megan had to assume she’d been spotted, and so she needed every second’s worth of acceleration to get away. But she could sustain her burst for merely a minute; otherwise she’d consume too much fuel and risk ditching. Megan punched her watch’s preset; her arms moved like levers as the time drained to zero.

“Looking good,” she told Rogers as she backed off power. “We’re on the home stretch.”

Chapter 8

“Bird One, Bird One! We have a positive fire! Positive fire!”

Howe’s heartbeat jumped, chasing away the fatigue that just a few moments ago had been pushing him low in the seat.

“Location?” he said, consciously trying to slow his tongue down.

“Working on that.”

Howe hailed the AWACS controller, who was reporting a contact to the northwest, maybe 350 miles from the track the ABM target had taken. Meanwhile the mission boss reported the ABM missile had struck home.

“Monitor, you have that vector?” Howe asked the RC-135.

“Definitely north of you,” said the crewman. “He should have been out of range, though.”

“I’m going north.”

“Screw that,” said someone over the circuit. “Head toward the Kurils. Got to be.”

Howe clicked his mike to ask who had said that, then realized it was Fisher.

“The UAV was a deke, a fakeout,” said Fisher. “Don’t worry about where they were: Worry about where they’re going.”

“How do you know where they’re going?”

“I don’t. We just take our best guess and see what happens.”

“Fisher—”

“Don’t give up on me now, Colonel.”

Howe hesitated for a second, then banked into a turn that would take him in the islands’ general direction off the coast of Russia.

Fisher gripped the map and folder in his hand as he worked his way down the ladder to Tyler.

“Has to be one of these three places,” he told the Special Forces captain, pointing at the map. He had the satellite pictures at the top of the folder and took them out. Only two of the islands looked as though they had landing strips, but the photo interpreter had assured Fisher that the third had a long, flat surface as well. In fact, he seemed to feel that what looked like a rock line and hills at the northeast were in fact painted shadows. Like the other two sites, the reconnaissance satellites did not cover the island 24/7, and their schedule could be pinpointed by someone in the know.

“My guess is it’s this one with the phony oil rig and the Escher painting in the middle that looks like hills,” Fisher told Tyler, pointing at the third and explaining the camouflage. “But they’re all long enough. We can land anywhere they can.”

“How long will it take?”

“Pilot says a little over an hour,” said Fisher.

“I have to talk to Colonel Gorman,” said Tyler.

“Tell her I said hello. Hey, are there smoke detectors down here?”

The Velociraptors’ long-range scan remained clean. Howe was now roughly three hundred miles from the nearest of the small islands Fisher had claimed the laser plane would be heading toward; he should have it in sight in less than twenty minutes.

Had the laser plane escaped? Or had Fisher simply been wrong?

He checked his course. The Kurils stretched in a semicircle toward the Russian coast, a scythe pointing toward the northernmost island of Japan. Many of the islands were uninhabitable atolls, but a few were large enough for small fishing villages and settlements. Perhaps a dozen or more were somewhere in between and at various times had been used for military installations. Fisher had ID’d three as possible targets, including two that had been used by the Soviet Union during the Cold War.

Howe would sweep over the northernmost target and arc south with Timmy on his tail. He had a search pattern laid out, and they’d already worked out a rendezvous with one of the tankers, which would take up a station to the west.

A flight of F-15s were heading north from Japan to join in the search. They hadn’t contacted Howe yet; at last report they would be near the target area about fifteen minutes after he got there, and would probably be too low on fuel to hang around for very long.

The radar kicked up a contact at extreme range, flying at roughly thirty thousand feet; after a few seconds the contact disappeared, their courses taking them in diverging directions.

“Think that was our boy?” asked Timmy.

It was possible, but if so, the plane was heading over Russia. Howe told him to ignore it, and a few minutes later they fell onto the course he’d plotted to overfly the first island. The AWACS plane accompanying the task force was a good distance behind them, and even the nearest Navy aircraft was well outside radar range. They would have little warning if the Russians managed to spot them and decided to jump them.

Chapter 9

It took Blitz a few seconds to understand exactly what was going on as the transmissions from the augmented-ABM test barraged into the small secure videoconferencing booth. He turned to McIntyre, who seemed to be in a daze.

“Mac, Fisher was right.”

“Yes,” said the NSC aide, his voice still far away — probably on the ground in Kashmir, where it had been since his return. Blitz was going to insist on a long rest — and possibly psychological counseling for post-traumatic stress disorder — as soon as this was over.

“Get on the line to the FBI director and tell him to proceed with the shutdown of NADT. We want everything,” he added, though the command was superfluous.

“Fisher was right,” said McIntyre.

“As incredible as it seems,” said Blitz, turning back to the communications board and punching up Colonel Gorman’s circuit. “You have full authority to proceed,” he told her. “You’re answering to the President on this.”

Chapter 10

Just as the island started to grow in her windscreen, Megan’s radar warning receiver flashed to life, picking up transmissions from two planes approaching at high speed. The direction surprised her: They were coming out of Russia.

Her weapons officer ID’d them as Su-35s, afterburners blazing. But at just under a hundred nautical miles away, they weren’t going to catch her, not today.

“Prepare for landing,” she told Rogers. As she cut her speed and settled into the landing pattern, the wings of the big jet swung outward. The extension increased the radar profile exponentially, but it was immaterial now: They had the lead needed. In less than fifteen minutes the plane and the weapon would be smoldering, and she and the others would be in the water.

“I have something else.” The radar operator’s voice was practically a yelp.

Megan, lined up and descending toward the runway, glanced at her own radar display and saw the helicopters that were just coming over the edge of the island from the water. But it was too late: She was nearly out of fuel and committed to landing.

“Shit,” she said. “Rogers, what is this?”

“Damned if I know,” said the copilot. “Russians?”

“Just hang tight,” Megan told him, pushing the wheels onto the hardened-lava runway.

Chapter 11

Howe finally got a plane on the radar, landing at the third site, sixty-three miles south of him. The AI circuits in the tactical radar targeting system focused their beams and scratched their silicone heads, tentatively I Ding the contact as a Blackjack bomber.

“I have it,” said Howe.

“I copy,” said Timmy. “More contacts: Su-35s.”

The planes appeared on his tactical screen, their approximate speed and altitude computed for him. The Russian planes had not yet found the American jets, but if they stayed on their present course, they would beat them to the island.

A combat escort? Or something else?

Another pair of contacts rose near the atoll: helicopters.

Howe tried but couldn’t reach Gorman’s command plane, or any of the other aircraft in her task force. He gave it another try; when he came up blank he told Timmy they’d shoot over the atoll where the Blackjack had landed and have a look.

“What do you want to do about the Russians?” asked his wingman.

“Tell them to stand off, that we’re conducting a test mission.”

“Yeah, and when they laugh at us, then what?”

“Splash them if they get in our way.”

“What I’m talking about.”

Chapter 12

Megan trundled through the dust at the far end of the camouflaged strip, heading back over the area she’d just landed on. The explosives were rigged in a grid at the edge of the narrow ramp that led to the hangar elevator; they could not be detonated unless the plane was sitting on one of the large metal plates at the mouth of the elevator. As she approached, a whirlwind kicked across her path. Rocks flew into her nose and smacked hard against the thick glass of her windscreen.

Not rocks: bullets.

The whirlwind turned back. It was a helicopter gunship, a cannon at its chin. The dark green and brown fuselage of an Mi-28 Havoc materialized out of the maelstrom, continuing to fire at her as she rolled. Megan ducked involuntarily as bullets crashed into the right side of the fuselage and wing. She had trouble finding the turnoff but stayed on the hardened ground, pushing the nose around at the last minute but still managing to get in the middle of the plate.

“Out!” she shouted. “Out! Out!”

She fumbled with the lock on her restraints, finally snapping it off as the topside hatchway hissed open. Megan curled over the side, throwing her legs over and then down, releasing herself to the ground. She rolled as she landed, getting up to her feet as one of the helicopters streaked overhead.

Chapter 13

Howe saw the helicopters fluttering over the plane as it stopped. They were Russian choppers, Mi-28s or something similar, gunships that might support assault troops. He was moving too fast to target anybody; he began a turn south, hoping to use the time to sort out what was going on down there.

“Bird One, this is Cyclops Control,” said Gorman. “Be advised: Several Russian interceptors are approaching you.”

No shit,he thought.

“The laser plane is down,” Howe told her. Words rattled from his mouth like bullets from the Gatling in the F/A-22V’s starboard wing root as he gave her the GPS coordinates, ID’d the plane as a Blackjack with a V-shaped tail and other mods, and then told her about the helos.

“Assault team has an ETA of minus thirty minutes,” she said. “We’d like to recover the aircraft if possible. If not, destroy it.”

Before Howe could acknowledge, Timmy shouted a warning.

“Missiles in the air! Missiles in the air! Those crazy Russian fucks are gunning for us.”

“Can you assess the situation on the ground?” Gorman asked, unable to monitor the communications between the two Velociraptors.

“We’re under fire,” said Howe, dishing chaff and taking evasive action.

“From the Russians?”

Howe was too busy jinking to make any of the dozen or so retorts that occurred to him.

Chapter 14

The dust felt like heavy sackcloth, covering her face. Megan choked as she tried to get up, rubbing her eyes to clear enough grit away so she could get her bearings. She saw her three crewmen collapse behind her, falling as the helicopter made another pass.

Definitely a Russian. The bastards had figured it out somehow — as she had predicted.

“Rogers, blow up the plane,” she yelled to her copilot, who was lying next to her. When he didn’t move, she pulled at the pocket of his pant leg where the radio detonator was. “Do it! Do it!”

“I can’t,” he said. “Segrest told me not to blow the plane.”

“What?” She didn’t believe him, taking the radio device out anyway and pressing it. Nothing happened.

“He wants the laser,” said Rogers. “The detonator’s not rigged.”

“You bastard, these are Russian helicopters. This is Segrest?”

“No,” said Rogers. “I don’t think so.”

“Fuck, come on.”

“Where?”

“We can’t let them get the plane. We have to blow it up.”

“The detonator’s not set.”

“So help me set it.”

As she started to run, something popped in the air a few feet away. There was a roar and a rush of air. Megan felt herself pushed to the ground. One of the helicopters passed somewhere behind her, the ground shaking. Megan scratched forward a few feet, then got up and started to run again. She could hear the crackle of small-arms fire, felt her body becoming wet. She pressed the button on the detonator again and again as Rogers fell on top of her and rolled off, howling in pain, then awfully silent.

Luksha steadied his AK-74 automatic rifle at the fallen figure as he ran. It was the pilot. He had something in his hand, a radio no doubt. The pilot fumbled with it, trying to turn it in his hand.

Luksha kicked it under the jet, then pulled the man away, back to the side of the runway.

Not a man: a woman. The pilot was a woman.

Just like the Americans.

Luksha’s men swarmed over the aircraft. There was more gunfire, some shouts; for a moment he feared that more troops had been hiding on the island and they were about to be overwhelmed. The drumming of the helicopters rose and the wind swirled around him.

Then the chaos began to recede. There were no other troops, and there had been only four crewmen, three of whom were now dead. Only the woman remained alive.

Success. All of his planning, the decision to wait until the aircraft took off and returned from another flight — it had all paid off. They were his, considerably more easily than he had hoped.

“Call in the transports and technical crew,” Luksha told his communications specialist. He turned to his sergeant, who’d just run up next to him and was hunched over, collecting his breath. “Secure this woman. She is our prisoner, and a very valuable one.”

Chapter 15

Howe had little trouble ducking the Russian’s Alamo missile, a semiactive radar home that had been launched from outside its optimum range. But his defensive maneuvering took up time and forced him to turn to the east; before he could recover and sort out the situation, four more Russian fighters, all MiG-29s, had appeared over the horizon. They had their pedals to the metal as they came to help out the two Super-Flankers that had launched the attack.

Howe’s computer buzzed as Timmy fired an AMRAAM at one of the nearby Russians, the missile track dotted in the HUD hologram.

“I have the bandit at the south,” Howe told his wingman, starting a turn to cut toward its tail. “Watch out for the four Johnny-come-latelies.”

“Oh yeah, copy that. Bring those suckers on,” said the wingman. “Got your back.”

Howe and the Sukhoi were separated by about five miles, just outside of a good Sidewinder shot. Howe went for more power, needing to accelerate but wary, anticipating that the enemy fighter would try to pull him into a quick turn. He blew a wad of air into his mask. His hand curled tightly on the stick, waiting for the sensor in the missile head to growl at him, indicating that it was ready. Howe told himself to ease off, to relax, to just follow. The missile got a good strong scent of the enemy plane and began screaming at him, telling him to fire. Howe waited a few more seconds, confident now he had him, confident he was gaining sufficiently on the enemy jet.

“Fire,” he told the computer.

The missile ripped out from the side bay of the Velociraptor, plunging downward momentarily and then pushing its nose too far to the left as the Sukhoi pilot came hard right. But the circuitry in the all-aspect Sidewinder, refined after generations of dogfights, quickly corrected, driving the missile back toward the big Russian jet and its hot tailpipe. The Sukhoi started to jink east just as the warhead exploded; shrapnel ripped through the left engine and severed the controls to the tailfin, leaving the pilot no option but to bail.

By that time Howe was already turning northward to meet the newcomers.

Timmy swept into the battle eagerly, his hand gripping the stick with the sort of gentle firmness he’d use to guide a date to bed. The encounter shaped up as an almost textbook four-on-two dustup, with the Russian MiG-29s blustering forward, seemingly oblivious to the approaching F/A-22Vs. The two Velociraptors were at fifteen thousand feet, a good five thousand below the MiGs, but that was their only disadvantage; they had an intercept from the east, and even thirty miles away the Russians seemed not to know where they were.

“I’m going to save one of my AMRAAMs in case the laser plane gets off,” Howe told him. “I have that lead one on the left.”

“Yeah, roger that. I have number two.”

Timmy’s HUD hologram had the target plane boxed and tied with a bow. He fired about a half-second after Howe, sliding around to get into position for a tailpipe shot on the last two MiGs in the formation. Belatedly, the MiGs began throwing chaff and hitting ECMs.

“Yours on the right,” said Howe as the bandits divided.

Timmy started to follow but quickly lost his Russian, who’d taken out a hammer and nailed his throttle on the last stop, burning through his relatively limited store of fuel in his bid to get back home in one piece. Timmy pulled off, circling to the south and looking for Howe.

The Velociraptor’s radar system was light-years beyond the primitive scopes that fighter pilots of old had to decipher as they rode their steeds into battle; the unit could select its own modes, interpret its contacts, fight off electronic countermeasures, and paint a three-dimensional picture of the battlefield, all with minimal input from the pilot. But no gee-whiz technology could eliminate the effects of high-g turns, mission fatigue, and what planners referred to as the fog of war. The pilot’s instincts and his ability to think clearly under stress were far more important than the convenient cues projected in glorious 3-D on his HUD, or the melodious warning tones of his RWR. Timmy pushed left; then, for some reason he couldn’t have explained, he jerked his stick and threw the Velociraptor the other way. The maneuver put him four miles behind one of the MiGs.

“I’m on him,” he told Howe.

He had a good closure rate on the enemy, who was just starting to accelerate after a series of maneuvers. The Sidewinder’s sensor began to growl; Timmy waited a second or two more, then fired, alerting Howe and once again breaking away, knowing he was northeast of the target island but not sure exactly where.

“Good shot, Two,” said Howe as the second Sidewinder tallied. “I want you to come south now. How’s your fuel?”

Low,thought Timmy, without even looking. He found Howe three miles southeast of him. The island was roughly ten miles away.

He’d splashed three planes in the space of what, five minutes? Four?

Shit.

Super shit.

Between India and this, he’d lived the life of twenty fighter pilots inside a week. His heart raced in his chest, and his head wasn’t more than a half-stride behind.

Shit.

Super shit.

Like winning the Super Bowl, this. People’d be parading him all around, buying drinks. Women — God he was the man,the man.

Not that he hadn’t been before.

Shit.

Super shit.

“Fuel, Timmy,” prompted Howe.

He took a breath and got back to dealing with reality.

“Bird One, what’s your situation?” asked Jemma Gorman.

Howe laid it out for her, emphasizing their rapidly diminishing fuel states. The tanker was a little closer than he thought — five hundred miles — but even so, they had at best five minutes before having to head back. A pair of F-15s from the task group had tanked and were coming west, but they were still roughly a half hour away. The Eagles scrambling northward from Kadena were a little closer but still wouldn’t be in sight for about twenty minutes, maybe a little less.

Which, in his mind — and in any reasonable mind — meant the assault team should hold off.

“We need to be on that island now,” said Gorman. “I need the assault team down there. Take out the helicopters so they can land. Your tanker is en route.”

“It’s too far,” he told her. “Even if we left now, we’d be on a bingo profile. We’re way low on fuel.”

“Bail out or land on the damn island if you have to,” she told him. “Just take out the helicopters and cover the assault team.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“We need the laser,” said Gorman. “We’ve already tried contacting the Russian forces by radio and they’ve refused to acknowledge. They’re hostile.”

“Yeah, no shit they’re hostile,” said Howe. “I’ll take out the plane. I have two small-diameter bombs.”

“Take out the helicopters. My orders are to recover the laser intact if we can, and we can. My people want a look at that plane and what mods they’ve made.”

Howe squeezed the side stick, as if that might force the anger from his body. He needed to get rid of the emotion so he could think logically, figure this out.

It was damn easy for Gorman to tell him not to worry about refueling.

“Colonel, please acknowledge,” said Gorman.

Howe’s fingers were now so tight that his pinkie felt numb, and he’d started to grind his teeth. His head, though, remained clear: He had one of the helicopters hovering off the tip of the island, five miles away. He could go guns, sweep in, and nail it.

“Two, I want you to hang back and try and conserve fuel,” he told Timmy. “I’m going to take that chopper there on my left and then see if I can gun out the other bastard quick. Get a fresh ETA from the C-17 with the assault team, see what they’re up to.”

“Two,” acknowledged Timmy without comment.

Howe clicked his arms selector over to Gun and slid into the attack, still too far to fire.

Hitting a helicopter with the cannon could actually be quite difficult, depending on the circumstances; the F/A-22V’s speed advantage turned into a liability as it closed for the attack. As Howe pushed into a shallow dive, the chopper spit right. He began to fire, though he was still a little far off; the bullets trailed downward and well behind the helicopter. He let off of the trigger and came around wide, in effect backing off for a better pass. The helicopter, meanwhile, threw out flares and jinked toward the sea, obviously expecting a missile attack. Howe’s turn put him in the direction of the helo’s course; he got off a shot but was by too fast and at too hard an angle to score a hit. By the time he recovered, the helicopter was headed back toward the island. That was a mistake: Howe, whose speed had slid down through two hundred knots, lined up easily on the helo’s tail and began pumping it full of lead. The chopper tipped to the left but Howe had it mastered; he put a burst through the engines and then pulled up to avoid the fireball.

“Missile in the air!” warned Timmy.

Howe shot flares and jinked right. The shoulder-launched SS-16 was a potent little missile, at least arguably the equal of an American Stinger. It caught a whiff of one of the flares as well as the Velociraptor’s tailpipes; confused, it decided to explode. Shrapnel from the small warhead flew in an elongated mushroom through the air; two small red-hot pieces struck the back end of Howe’s aircraft, though they did little except dent the metal.

The pilot felt nothing, not even aware that the missile had exploded until Timmy told him. He continued to climb, checking his tactical display and then working quickly through his indicators, making sure he remained intact.

“That second helicopter is lifting off,” said Timmy.

Howe looked up. The helicopter rose in the right quadrant of his windscreen.

“I have it,” Howe said. He switched back to the missiles, deciding at this point there was no reason to save the last Sidewinder: The Backfire was making no sign of getting ready to take off, and he still had the AMRAAM.

The helicopter fired at him as he came in from the west, loosing not only an air-to-air missile but its cannon. Howe had already started a turn, swinging first to the south but then quickly northward, guessing that the helicopter might try to turn inside and take another missile shot; his maneuver would keep the heat-seeker well off his tail. But instead the helicopter ducked back east. It took Howe a few seconds to pick it out, but when he finally did he was almost in perfect position for the Sidewinder shot. He started to close, launched, then pulled back around amid a cascade of flares, anticipating that the bastards on the ground would be taking another shot at him.

“C-17 is less than two minutes off,” said Timmy. “I have a boat on the surface, high-speed. Don’t think it’s ours.”

“Take it,” said Howe.

“What I’m talking about.”

Timmy put the Velociraptor into a shallow dive, letting the patrol boat grow in his sight. Four fat ship-to-ship missile launchers dominated the rear half of the ship, massive gray suitcases jammed into the hull. Timmy lit his cannon, lacing the water as he worked to get the spray into the front quarter of the ship. His bullets found the bow as the twin 30mm AA gun began sparkling; he rode the stream into the gun housing, then the superstructure, tearing across the bridge and off the boat’s starboard side.

He dished flares and chaff, starting to recover. The Velociraptor’s tail wagged behind him, responding sluggishly to the control inputs. As Timmy got his nose up, warning lights started to pop; he’d taken some hits along the rear fuselage and tailplane. Before he could sort it out, something red flashed in front over him: an SA-N-12 from the patrol boat. Timmy started to turn away, only to be bracketed by two explosions from barrage-launched SA-N-5s, low-altitude heatseekers. The pilot struggled to hold his aircraft.

“Got a problem,” he told Howe.

“Come east, Timmy,” Howe told him. “Break ninety: Turn, damn it! You’re running back into his gunfire.”

Timmy couldn’t get the plane to turn fast enough to avoid the bubbling black mass as it rose in the sky. Wings peppered by flak, he fought desperately just to stay level. It didn’t matter how hard he pushed against the stick or throttle — the controls were electric, not hydraulic — but he muscled them anyway, as if his strength might somehow flow out to the control surfaces and buoy the plane.

From super shit to stuck in shit, all in less than sixty seconds. The cockpit looked like a Christmas display, warning lights flashing. Timmy heard something howling in his ears.

“Out,” Howe was saying. “Out!”

“Yeah, baby,” said the pilot.

He put his hand down to grab the yellow and black ejection handle. As he gripped it the last SA-N-5 from the patrol boat exploded just under the back end of the plane. Timmy pulled the handles. but it was already too late: He felt a sudden surge of heat behind him; then the world turned black and incredibly, instantly cold.

Howe saw his wingmate’s plane explode and felt his hand once more tighten involuntarily around the stick. He stared at the hurtling ball of metal, plastic, and fire, waiting, hoping, expecting the canopy to shoot off and the seat to appear, Timmy hurtling away with his good-ol’-boy chuckle. Howe got ready to note the location, follow the chute down, vector the SAR assets in.

Slowly he realized that wasn’t going to happen. The stricken Velociraptor disintegrated before his eyes, imploding from its many wounds. Howe flew on, finally forcing his eyes down to the tactical screen, pushing his head back into the game where it had to be.

The Russian ship was dead in the water, two miles from the island. Black smoke unfurled from the middle of the vessel. He pushed down, looked at the cue in the holographic HUD, the computer automatically drawing the dotted line for him.

“Fire,” he said, pressing the trigger as well.

One of his first bullets hit the Styx launcher on the port side; by the time he let off the trigger and began to climb, the rear half of the boat had vaporized.

“The helicopters and patrol boat are down,” he said over the shared frequency for the C-17. “If you’re coming, now’s the time to do it. I’ll rake the field.”

Chapter 16

Fisher leaned over the seat on the flight deck, trying to hear what Tyler and the pilots were saying.

“Once around to see what the layout is,” suggested the Special Forces captain.

“That just gives anyone on the ground a shot at us,” said the pilot. “Best bet is either parachute in or land right away. One or the other. They fired at least one missile at the Velociraptors. We’re a much easier target.”

“We’ll land, then,” said Tyler. The captain turned to Fisher. “We’re going to land.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

Tyler looked at him as if he hadn’t understood, then pushed past to go down to his men. Fisher took his place.

“Hey! Don’t touch anything there!” said the copilot, proprietary all of a sudden.

“Stay away from the plane,” Fisher told the pilot. “They probably have it rigged for explosives.”

“Okay,” said the pilot. “But there’s not too much to work with. Strip’s narrow and short.”

“Sounds like a personal problem to me,” said Fisher.

Chapter 17

Luksha cursed as the transmission from the patrol ship ended in a hiss. The American jets had obviously found the boat; the helicopters had not been able to lead them away.

He suspected that his reinforcements were under fire as well. He’d heard nothing from the transport or its escorts; he had to assume it had turned back.

He still had the four small speedboats they’d used to get to the island, as well as the helicopters waiting on the island thirty miles away, but none of them were big enough to carry off the weapon.

“The pilot,” he told his sergeant. “Get her and bring her here.”

As the sergeant ran off toward the boat landing, two of the men who were working on dismantling the laser emerged from the plane, carrying a large gray box housing computer gear. Luksha ran to them; one of the men, an engineering specialist, began to explain the significance of the box but Luksha cut him off.

“Put it back in the plane. We’re going to fly out of here.”

“General—”

“Throw it back in the plane,” demanded Luksha. “Then get down to the boats.”

One of the Russians jerked Megan to her feet. For a second she thought he was going to push her over the side of the rocks to the water ten feet below; instead he tugged her up the trail back toward the landing strip.

The plane sat exactly where she had parked it over the charges. If she had a few minutes, she might be able to figure out how to set them by hand, or find a backup device.

She could just as easily grow wings and fly away. Two Russian paratroopers met her guards, forming a cocoon around her as she walked. Rather than going to the bunker as she expected, they took her toward the aircraft.

There were planes overhead: Velociraptors, she thought.

Howe?

God, what if it was him?

The two men in front of her stopped abruptly, standing aside as a Russian officer approached. It was the same one who had informed her earlier she was a prisoner.

“This is Russian land. You are a trespasser,” he told her. His accent was thick and it took her a second to cut through it. “You are subject to serious penalties, including death.”

Megan guessed what was coming and said nothing.

“Fly us out of here and you are free. You have ten seconds to decide,” said the Russian. He reached to his belt and unholstered his pistol.

It was a gift, really: She could take off and crash the plane.

“We need fuel,” she told him. “There is an underground pumping system. It’s automated, though. We can do it easily. All right?”

His answer was drowned out by the roar of an aircraft approaching the runway.

Chapter 18

If they were going to have any chance of getting the weapon and plane intact, Howe had to be careful about where he used the bombs. He didn’t have much of a target anyway: As he came across the island, he saw perhaps a dozen soldiers scurrying toward the parked Russian jet. There were boats on the other side of the island, but he decided to leave them alone; no sense cutting off their escape if what he really wanted was for them to leave.

Howe gave a few winks from his gun and shot off flares, hoping to suck off any shoulder-launched SAMs they might have left on the ground. He cruised over the strip at roughly seventy-five feet.

“Dozen or so ground people, maybe more,” he told the C-17 and Gorman. “They didn’t fire any SAMs at me, but that’s no guarantee.”

“We can get down on the ground and hold them there,” said Tyler, the assault team leader. “I can’t guarantee that they won’t blow up the plane, but the C-17 will block the runway and they won’t get off.”

“Good. We have reinforcements right behind you,” said Gorman. “No more than an hour away.”

“Tell them to move faster,” said Tyler.

“I’m going to go down again, then lead you in,” said Howe. He could see the big transport as it headed in from the northeast. “Once you’re down, you’re on your own.”

In Fisher’s experience, landings were always the worst part of any flight. The movie was over, drinks were cut off, and the anticipation of that next cigarette built like the swelling music in a 1930’s melodrama, without a violin section. He steadied himself at the side of the plane behind the SF team, admiring their weapons and bulletproof vests. The landing would take them down the runway away from the concentration of Russian troops; according to the satellite photo, they would have some cover at that end of the atoll from a short run of rocks. But to get to that cover, they would have to run roughly thirty yards.

Then again, he’d run farther when ducking the boss back at headquarters. This would be child’s play.

The rear deck of the aircraft opened as they began their descent. The rushing air sucked and pushed him; he felt cold and for some reason wet, as if he’d been thrown into the water. Daku and James, standing at the back of the plane, began dumping smoke grenades as the plane’s wheels hit the hard-packed dirt. Flares were being launched by the aircraft. Someone had started to shoot. Bullets ripped through the cargo compartment. The smell of burning metal mixed with the grit.

It was a thirties movie.

The plane veered hard to the right, then back, then hard right again.

Someone shouted. The plane resounded with the thump of a grenade launcher being fired.

“Go!” yelled Tyler. “Go!”

Fisher waited a second, then followed outside, crouching protectively to make sure his cigarette stayed lit in the wind. Smoke was everywhere, laid down by the commandos to cover their movements. Fisher looked to his left and saw the pilot and copilot crouching beneath the plane, holding M16s. Impressed, Fisher worked his way back around the other side of the plane, trying to figure out what the hell was going on beyond the thick haze of smoke and dust. The commandos had gone forward to the left but seemed to be holding their fire. The plane that held the laser weapon, meanwhile, was back at the far end of the strip, presumably guarded by the Russian assault team that had landed here ahead of them.

These interagency busts could be a real bitch and a half.

Fisher began trotting in the general direction of the SF team, bending his head down as a concession to the situation, though at the moment no one seemed to be firing. He found Daku at the edge of what looked like a haphazardly formed rock wall. The soldier thumbed him up toward the main group, which had taken position in some rocks about fifty or sixty yards ahead.

Fisher began trotting toward it. One of the SF soldiers grabbed him and nearly threw him down. Stumbling, Fisher caught his balance on the side of a crouched commando, who turned out to be Tyler.

“What the hell are you doing, Fisher?” asked the captain.

“I have to make the arrest,” he said.

“Those Russians’ll perforate you.”

“Won’t be the first time,” said Fisher.

Tyler grabbed hold of his suit jacket. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Careful of the material,” said Fisher. “Five of Sears’ finest squirrels labored to make this suit.”

The captain scowled but let him go.

“Give me the bullhorn,” said Fisher. “Let me talk to them.”

“You can speak Russian?”

“Only the four-letter words.”

Before the soldier carrying the bullhorn could come up, one of the Russians announced in fairly decent English that they were on Russian soil and would be treated as hostile aggressors if they didn’t take off immediately.

“Actually, this is Japanese territory,” Fisher yelled back, still waiting for the bullhorn. “And we’re in pursuit of stolen U.S. property. Which we want back. And also, I’m arresting the people who were flying the plane. Hang on a second, I have to read something to you.”

“You aren’t fucking going to Mirandize them,” said Tyler.

“Got to. Or anything they say won’t hold up,” said Fisher, pulling the small laminated card from his pocket. He took the bullhorn from James, who’d had it in his pack.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” said James.

“That and I’m having a nicotine fit,” answered the FBI agent, bringing the megaphone to his mouth. “All right. You have the right to remain silent….”

Chapter 19

The combat with the helicopters, the tangle with the patrol boat, and the flyovers to clear the field had all taken their toll on Howe’s fuel. He was now well into reserves, and there was no way he was going to make the task force tanker. A second tanker from Kadena was likewise a good way off.

He was just about to break out a map to see about diverting down to Honshu or northern Japan, when he realized he had his own personal divert strip sitting below him. The three thousand feet was usable, thanks to the F/A-22V’s wing design. With the C-17 off to the side at the far end, Howe figured he’d have no problem stopping before his feet got wet.

Assuming they could secure the field.

The smoke had cleared somewhat; Howe could see a group of men near the Blackjack, and another group about fifty yards from the C-17. A third group was moving down the southern side of the island, possibly seeking to flank the Russians. From what he could see, nobody was firing.

When he failed to reach the SF troops on the frequency they’d been assigned, he went over to the command channel and asked Gorman what was going on.

“They have them pinned down by the aircraft,” she said. “At the moment they’re still trying to size up the situation. We have reinforcements en route.”

“You think I could land there if I had to?”

They discussed the possibilities as he recalculated his fuel. Depending on how he managed it, he had about a half hour in the air.

The two F-15s sent up from Kadena appeared above him. Howe could divert and land — and in fact he absolutely should do so.

But somehow it didn’t feel right to turn off. As he circled northward he caught sight of some debris in the water. Timmy’s plane had gone in somewhere nearby.

“Colonel, I can’t tell you what to do with your aircraft,” said Gorman.

Howe started to laugh.

“Thanks, I’ll remember that,” he told her before punching over to the frequency the new arrivals were using so he could brief them.

As the American FBI agent continued to ramble, Luksha signaled to his communications man. The sergeant ran forward with his satellite radio, wheezing from the dust.

“We’ll go down to the boats. Call in the helicopters,” he told him. “Tell them we’ll be pursued.”

“Yes, General.”

Megan heard the jet pass again and knew it was the F/A-22V.

It was him. He’d come for her.

To kill her?

He’d hate her by now. He’d think she was a traitor.

“This way,” said the Russian, grabbing her wrist.

“Wait, I can fly it,” she said. “If we put the fuel in, just enough to get away.”

“Don’t be absurd. They’ll gun us down. Come on.”

“No.” She pushed her shoulders down, as if clamping her arms to the sides of her body would somehow cement her to the spot.

“It is not an option,” said the Russian, and she felt a pair of arms grab her from behind.

“You got that out of your system?” asked Tyler as Fisher finished reading the Miranda warning.

“Hey, the lawyers say you gotta do it.”

Davis, on point, waved. The other team had taken up their position at the end of the runway across from the jet.

“All right, let’s move out,” Tyler told his men. “If that’s okay with you, Fisher.”

“I’m right behind you,” said the FBI agent.

Luksha heard the pop of the smoke canisters behind him. He had decided he would not run: This was, after all, Russian land, disputed or not. Nonetheless, he quickened his pace as his last two soldiers trotted behind him. Up ahead, the men had tied a rope around the American pilot and had begun to lower her down the cliff.

He grabbed the rope. An acrid taste rose from his stomach and burned his chest: He’d been defeated by unlucky circumstance, cheated, and now was being forced to run away with nothing to show for his efforts.

The man to his left slipped on the rocks. Luksha grabbed his arm, pulling him to safety. He saw the fear in the man’s eyes.

Yes,he thought to himself.

He smiled, helping the paratrooper grab on to the rocks.

“Another day,” Luksha said loudly, before starting downward.

Unable to stop herself from swinging because her hands were tied, Megan banged against the rocks so sharply she lost her breath. She wheezed as she reached the sand, collapsing into the shallow water. Someone picked her up and threw her into the boat. Voices screamed above her, people yelling at her.

She thought of the fire and smoke her uncle had flown through.Never again, she thought.

And if the Russians had the weapon too? What then?

They didn’t, though. They were leaving without it.

The boat rocked. An engine roared, then another. She thought of trying to throw herself out, then felt a sharp pain in the back of her neck as someone stepped on her as he scrambled into the boat.

Luksha did not realize until the boats had started to back away from the island that some of his men had been cut off by the Americans at the end of the runway. But he was committed now; there was no option but to retreat.

He held on to the rail at the side as the small boat began to pick up speed. The woman pilot was crumpled on the floor beside him. Luksha reached over and helped her into the hard-backed seat.

“We have much to discuss,” he told her.

Her mouth moved but she said nothing. Belatedly, Luksha realized she was trying to spit at him.

He raised his hand to slap her but started laughing at her instead.

Howe finally found the right frequency for the SF ground team as he swept across the northern side of the atoll, his speed held back so he could get a good view of what was going on. A cloud of smoke and dust separated the main groups of fighters, or at least seemed to; though he was low and slow, it was still difficult to pick out exactly what was going on. There was movement near some rocks at the base of the island; as he moved past he caught sight of a boat.

“I think you have a group escaping in a boat,” he told the ground team as he banked around.

If there was an acknowledgment, it got lost in the general scramble of things as Howe positioned for another pass. The overlong mission had heaped fatigue on the pilot’s head like steel weights; his eyes burned and even his most mechanical, practiced motion felt awkward.

“Two boats — three. Coming out of the island. There’s another there,” he told the commandos as he started toward the island.

He had his gun selected, and the cue lined up in the HUD.

“They have one of the people from the plane, a woman,” said the SF commander, taking over from the communications man.

A woman?

Megan.

The realization froze him, as if he’d been hit by a taser. His hands moved; he flew the plane past the island and into a bank.

I can kill her.

I will kill her.

Fisher scrambled to the edge of the rocks and grabbed the line. It wasn’t that far down but he didn’t want to risk jumping into the water, since he couldn’t tell how shallow it was.

He also couldn’t swim.

“Where the hell are you going?” yelled Tyler, running to catch up.

“They have my suspect,” the FBI agent told him. He pulled off his jacket and wrapped the cloth around the line to keep his hands from burning as he went down. “I want her back.”

“We’ll never catch up.”

“We will if we don’t overload the boat.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Fisher, stepping off the rocks.

By the time Fisher got the boat started, Tyler and one of the SF men had made it down as well. Three others stood at the top of the rocks.

“This is all we’re taking!” yelled Fisher. “Throw down the megaphone.”

“What?” shouted one of the men.

“The loudspeaker!”

Fisher grabbed at the megaphone as it flew through the air. He deflected it into the water but managed to grab it before it sank, just as the boat started in pursuit of the Russians. He dumped the water out and tested it. The squawk seemed a little off-key but it was working.

“You really think they’re going to stop?” Tyler asked him.

“If we threaten them, they may throw her overboard.”

“How are we going to threaten them?”

Fisher thumbed toward the sky.

“We don’t have a radio with us to order in a strike,” said Tyler.

“You gonna tell them?”

Tyler nodded. “We’ll take this as far as we can,” he said. “But we’re not going to get ourselves killed.”

“Sounds like a plan. Want a cigarette?”

“The Russians are not important,” Gorman told Howe. “We have the laser. We have Navy assets en route and we’re landing a fresh team on the island. You can let them go.”

“Tyler and Fisher are in pursuit,” Howe told her, relaying the word the SF people had sent. “The Russians have at least one of the aircraft’s crew members.”

“He’s not important,” said Gorman. “We’re trying to reach Fisher and tell him to turn back. Leave them.”

Howe’s radar indicated that there was a helicopter approaching from the northwest. The F-15s had also spotted it; they kicked toward it to check it out.

He could shoot up the boats, no problem. At this point no one was going to question what happened. The whole scrum was too confusing, too fluid.

No one would criticize him for killing a traitor. On the contrary, Fisher and the others were trying to stop her. He was completely justified.

The boat sat in the center of the target box, held there by the computer. He could kill the bitch, have revenge or whatever it was — vent his rage.

She had betrayed his country and everything he believed in.

She had betrayed him.

He pushed his side stick, closing in.

He really did love her, in ways he hadn’t understood at the time. And now it was gone. It had shot past him, the way a meteor traveled once through the atmosphere and burned up.

His finger rested lightly on the gun trigger. But something held it back.

Love? Duty? Fear?

He couldn’t sort it out. He had loved her, and then hated her, and now, as his plane rushed toward the earth, he decided — unconsciously, without words, with thoughts that were fragmentary and fleeting — that it was what he had thought that mattered, and what he did now that was the important thing. Not Megan: She had made her choice; she was gone. Tearing up the boat, killing her — that wasn’t where his duty lie. Revenge, anger — they weren’t who he was or who he would be.

Howe banked the plane sharply in front of the escaping Russian boats. He was less than fifty feet from the surface of the water.

“I have a fuel emergency,” he told the SF unit on the island. “I need to land.”

Megan watched the F/A-22V as it flew across their path, so low it almost touched the waves. It was Howe — it had to be.

The others ducked as the plane flew by. She stood and stared at him, trembling with sadness.

She could easily throw herself out of the boat; they were concerned with their pursuers, busy trying to reach their helicopter, lining up their weapons on their enemies. She could go over the side, escape.

But there was no real escape for her; she’d known that when she’d agreed with Bonham’s original plan, as safe as he had made it sound. There were things worth dying for, and she remained convinced she’d chosen correctly.

The question she couldn’t answer was whether there were things worth giving up love for. She’d made the decision before she met Tom Howe, when she had the luxury of not facing the question. Her fate was set with her first decision, with the stories her uncle had told; her beginning became her end.

It tugged at her, though. If duty was more important than love, why did every part of her inside feel choked?

Eliot had said something in “East Coker,” his meditation on religion, about your beginning being your end, fate set as duty and meditation. It had been his answer for The Waste Land.

Not her answer, but a comfort nonetheless.

She remembered reading The Waste Land to Tom once, joking with him at first, then growing serious. The end of the poem came to her now as she stared at her destiny. Eliot had ended by repeating the Sanskrit word for peace, as if he’d had a premonition of Julius Robert Oppenheimer standing at the atomic bomb test, invoking the god of destruction in an effort to find peace.

Peace.

It was possible.

Shantih.

Peace peace peace.

One of the Russian paratroopers jostled against her. The man had slid his pistol back into his holster.

The second she saw it, she threw her whole body toward it.

Luksha saw the bodies tumbling together out of the corner of his eye. He spun toward them, not yet comprehending as the boat slapped hard against the waves. Then he realized that the American was grabbing for his sergeant’s gun.

He pressed the trigger of his rifle. The first slug hit her in the side and spun her toward him. There was an explosion: She’d taken the gun from the holster. He fired again, finger nailed on the trigger.

Red and black and cold, cold — the smoke over the city as it burned filled her nose with the acrid scent of things dying, objects burning that were never intended to burn: rocks, dirt, human flesh.

It would never happen again. War had been made obsolete.

Megan felt herself falling into the black abyss. At the last second she recognized it as peace, and closed her eyes.

Fisher saw the bodies falling, one into the back of the boat, the other into the water.

“Aw shit,” he said out loud. He threw his cigarette into the ocean. “There goes my case.”

The others were silent as they slowed and pulled over to the lifeless body. He reached over and pulled her up with one hand, sliding her onto the boat. He knelt down and, for form’s sake, checked her pulse to make sure she was dead.

Howe got his plane down with maybe three ounces of fuel left in the tanks. A planeload of Marines landed right behind him; two minutes after they touched down another group of SF soldiers from Gorman’s task force came in a Hercules. Though tired as hell, he found himself supervising the operation to secure the Russian aircraft; not only did it seem flyable but the C-17 pilot had checked it out and thought—knew—he could get it off the ground and down to Kadena himself. It seemed a better option than waiting for the Russians to send reinforcements over the horizon, especially once the troopers found that there was fuel in the underground tank farm.

There were also charges set to explode. Taking no chances, the demolition experts made everyone move to the far side of the atoll while they neutralized them.

Which meant that Howe had a good view when the boat with Megan landed. Tyler called for a stretcher, and for a second Howe thought she was alive. His heart began to pound; then her arm dropped off the side, and he realized he didn’t have to worry about what he would say to her or how he would feel when she walked past.

“Sucks,” said Fisher, walking up from the small dock where they’d tied up.

“Yeah,” said Howe. “Sucks.”