Dreamland

“Vector leader, here’s our situation,” she said, laying it out.

“We’re en route,” snapped the Delta commander. He patched in the pilots as Breanna had Chris sketch the base and approach.

“We’ll take out the Zeus as you come in,” Breanna said. “The hangar with the aircraft will be three thousand meters beyond it, close to the water.”

“We’ll hit it, take out the planes, and look for our guys.”

“Roger that.”

“ETA five minutes,” said the lead pilot. The two Ospreys were rushing through the mountain passes, heading for their target. “We’re going silent com.”

“Fort Two,” acknowledged Bree. She turned toward her copilot. “Hold one missile in reserve for the hangar if they can’t reach it.”

“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.” Chris added. Then sighed so loud her earphones practically shattered. He sounded like a horse that had just lost its chance to run in the Derby. “Listen, I’m sorry about that emotion thing I said. I didn’t mean it.”

“We’re both tired,” she said, worried that his crack had been all too true.

Northern Somalia

23 October, 0445

The Osprey wheeled out of the hills just as the big antiaircraft gun at the edge of the base exploded. Skipping forward, the MHV-22 plopped herself down a few feet from the DC-8 at the edge of the ramp. Danny jumped from the rear of the plane behind Powder, and saw two figures running toward him; he pushed his trigger on his sub-machine gun and then men crumpled immediately.

“Fuel truck! Fuel truck!” Liu yelled behind him. Danny saw the tanker under the airliner’s wing. Bison had thrown himself in a crouch, aiming his SAW grenade launcher at the easy target.

“Don’t blow it! Don’t blow it!” Freah yelled. They were tasked with searching the plane before destroying it, in case the pilots and Marines were aboard already.”

“Somebody in the cockpit!” shouted Hernandez.

Gunfire erupted to his right, a short burst of automatic fire. Danny threw himself down as a flare ignited overhead. He heard the rumble of a heavy machine gun at the far end, saw the silhouette of an Osprey, the other Osprey, descending near the hangar.

There was a boarding ladder near the fuselage of the DC-8 less than twenty yards away. The door was open and there didn’t appear to be any soldiers or guards between them and the aircraft.

“On the plane! On the plane!” screamed Danny, jumping to his feet. Talcom and Hernandez were already at the ladder cart, exchanging gunfire with someone at the top. “Use the concussion grenades!” he shouted as he ran. “Knock them out! Don’t hurt our guys!”

His men didn’t need to be reminded of such basic procedure, but Danny yelled them anyway. Talcom and Hernandez had managed to get inside the plane in a few seconds it took for him to reach the ladder. He took the rungs two at a time, a concussion grenade in his hand. He slipped his thumbnail beneath the tape, ready to toss it in.

“We’re clean! We’re clean!” Talcom was yelling. “Somebody’s in the cockpit!”

Danny threw himself into the airliner, rolling on the rubber-matted floor. The plane shook with a nearby explosion. Something burned on the other side of the base, faint red flickers mixing with the predawn twilight. Danny pulled out his small penlike flashlight, playing its narrow tungsten-lit beam carefully across the interior. The airliner was configured as a bare-bones passenger transport with fifteen or sixteen rows of seats between the boarding door and the flight deck. Talcom and Hernandez were huddled near the cockpit, their heads next to the closed door, listening to see what was happening on the other side. Freah spun around, checking the rear of the plane. There were maybe another dozen rows of seats back to a curtain. He got to his feet and ran back, ducking into the last row of seats.

He took the concussion grenade from his pocket, held it up so the others could see.

Talcom gave him a thumbs-up. Freah pulled the pin and rolled the grenade under the curtain. In the next moment his men at the front fired off the lock on the cockpit door. Danny waited for the boom of the grenades, then dove up and over the seats, rolling into the gallery.

No one was there. A cargo compartment lay beyond the gallery. He tried the door, found it locked. He stood back, fired at the recessed handle. It still wouldn’t budge. He threw himself against it, his flashlight slipping from his hand and clanking so loudly against the counter that for a split second he thought it was a gunfire.

“Captain! Captain!” yelled Hernandez.

Danny spun back to see a dazed man with vaguely Middle Eastern features being herded down the aisle by his two sergeants.

“Guy’s the pilot. They were just ready to take off, I think,” said Hernandez. “Head’s scrambled or maybe I just can’t understand what the hell he’s saying.”

“APC coming up from the other end of the base,” added Talcom. “Egg’s holding him off.”

Freah grabbed the pilot. “Where are our men?”

The man shook his head as if he didn’t understand. Freah tightened his grip and pushed him against the seat.

“My people!” he demanded.

The man said something unintelligible.

“Captain, our grenade probably beat shit out of his eardrums,” said Powder. “Even if he understands English, he probably can’t hear. sucker’s lucky he wasn’t killed.”

“Patrol boat?”

“I have it designated. We can take it out at will. Machine-gun fire on the north side of the base. I think they’re shooting at us. No SAMs. No radar.”

Breanna continued around, edging the Megafortress over the water. They were within the lethal envelope of a shoulder-fired missile like a Stinger or the SA-16, the Russian equivalent; she had to be ready to pull evasive maneuvers at any second. Still, she found her thoughts wandering, drifting down to the assault teams, wondering if they had found Mack.

Why did she care? Why had Jeff accused her of having an affair with him?

“Bree?”

“Take it out,” she snapped, her unconscious alerting her to the fact that the patrol boat had snapped on a scanning radar. Her hands were already prodding the Megafortress away.

“Missile away,” said Chris. “Scope is now clean.”

The boat had turned off its radar, but nonetheless began firing its weapon, a large-bore cannon. The air below them crackled and popped with the explosions.

Suddenly it smoothed out and the horizon glowed.

“Got the motherfucker,” said Chris. “Big fucking burn. Go baby, go baby.”

“Good one.” Breanna checked her warning screens, making sure Fort Two hadn’t been hit. They were clean, systems in the green.

“APCs launching an attack,” said Chris, back on the FLIR.

“Can you take them out?”

“I can get one, if you can spin us back so I can get a better look. After that, we’re down to our last missile. You still want to save it?”

“Yeah,” she said, beginning to bank.

“APC near the hangar or the airliner?”

“Hangar,” said Breanna.

“Here’s something for you to take home to the Ayatollah,” said Chris as he pickled the missile off.

Breanna’s laughed was interrupted by the RWR buzzer. The two MiG-29’s they’d scared off earlier were on their way back.

Northern Somalia

23 October, 0445

The bus stopped near the gate, allowing the flatbed with the plane to get by. As the Imam walked up the steps, something exploded about a mile away.

“We are under attack,” the Iranian said calmly. “You will follow me off the bus.”

“No, we won’t,” said Mack. This was a gift – now it made sense to stall.

“You will follow me off the bus,” A trio of fresh explosions rocked the vehicle even as he spoke, though they did not affect his manner.

“Maybe we better,” said Howland. “We’re going to get blown up here.”

As if to underline his words, the top of the bus was perforated by machine-gun fire. Outside, men were yelling and screaming. Smith heard the sound of tank and truck motors roaring nearby. The whomp of descending helos – or maybe Ospreys – filled the air.

“You will follow me now, said the Iranian, disappearing out the front. The two Somalians trained their weapons on the Americans.

“What do you think?” Gunny asked.

Bullets sprayed nearby, sending dirt and rocks against the side of the bus.

“I say let’s move,” said Howland. “And at least get ourselves out in the open where we can make a run for it.”

“Yeah,” said Mack finally.

They didn’t move fast enough for the Somalians – one of them raised his rifle and sent a quick burst through the roof of the bus. The four Americans flinched, but kept moving, walking deliberately to the front and then down the steps. Somalian soldiers crouched nearby; one or two men ran and others yelled, though they seemed confised, perhaps panicked. It was unclear where the attack was coming from or even what was attacking them. a large jet zoomed ahead, its hull dark against the moon. One of the soldiers stood and emptied his AK-47 at it.

Idiots might as well shoot at the star, Mack thought.

The Imam had begun walking toward the back of the terminal building a few feet away. One of the guards went to Mack and prodded him to follow, pushing with the barrel end of his rifle. As Mack began to walk, there was a fresh burst of gunfire behind him. A machine gun began firing nearby, shaking the ground and air with a jackhammer thud.

Mack felt something sharp flick him in the face. He thought it was a bug at first; reaching up, he found his face wet with blood. A bullet had chipped a piece of cement up and nicked him below the cheekbone.

The guards pushed the Americans toward a knot of soldiers at the side of the terminal building, urging them to run and occasionally firing into the air. It wasn’t clear whether they were shooting at the plane or planes attacking, or just trying to scare them; neither made much sense.

Mack was only vaguely aware of the other following behind him. Despite his chains and his resolve to go slow and look for a chance to escape, he was trotting, moving quicker than he wanted.

The Imam was waiting at the back corner of the building.

“Into the plane,” the Iranian commander. A few yards away, three soldiers pulled a black tarp off a small, high-winger aircraft in the field behind the building. The twin-engined, boom-tailed craft was an ancient Antonov An-14 ‘Clod’ – a Soviet-era transport used mostly as a civilian plane thirty years ago. As the cover was removed, a man ran to the rear of the fuselage, yanking open a set of clamshell doors and ducking inside. The small plane rocked with his footsteps as he leapt into the cockpit; the engines started almost instantly, revving with a high-pitched grumble.

“Quickly,” said Iman.

“No,” said Mack.

“You will come now,” said the Iranian. He raised his hand, revealing a pistol. Before any of the Americans could react, he fired point-blank into Jackson’s forehead. The Marine’s head snapped back and them seemed to disintegrate; his body fell almost straight down beneath it.

“The sergeant will be next,” the Iman added, quickly pushing his gun into Gunny’s face. One of the guards had already grabbed the Marine from behind.

“Into the plane, Major, or your sergeant will die,” said the Imam. “You and the captain will be dragged aboard anyway. I will not kill you, even thought that is plainly what you desire.”

Meekly, Mack bowed his head and started for the plane.

Northern Somalia

23 October, 0455

Danny fell headfirst over the seat, barely hanging on to his submachine gun. A hurricane seemed to descend around him; his nostrils burned with the smell of plastic and metal burning.

“Captain! Captain! Captain!”

He couldn’t locate the voice. He tried to stand, felt his throat revolting. He threw himself down to the floor. Instead of landing against the carpet, he kept going, his head and shoulders falling into the open air.

The side of the plane next to him had been blown away. Hanging on by his feet, he flailed back toward the aircraft. The he saw that the skin of the plane had been twisted into something like a ramp; it would be easier to climb down. As he turned around and began to try to do so, an arm came out of the thick smoke in the plane. He yanked it over him, pulling a man out of the hole, pushing him to climb down. He only realized it was the Iranian pilot as the body slipped and then rolled to the ground.

Another explosion erupted to his left. Danny felt a surge of air against his face, found another body rolling against his. He grabbed it and pushed it toward the tarmac. He rolled down after it, saw it was Talcom.

“Where’s Hernandez? Where the fuck is Hernandez?” he screamed.

Powder, dazed, maybe unconscious, didn’t answer. Danny clambered back up the jagged side of the plane, prodding through the acrid brown stench. He reached the floor of the passenger compartment, got to his feet, and near nearly fell backward as flames erupted in his face. The heat was so intense he could only retreat, tumbling over backward and falling out of the plane headfirst. He managed to grab a piece of metal, slowing himself but ripping his uniform and cutting his arm as he pirouetted around. He fell next to Talcom, who as trying to stand; both men slammed down and flattened the still-dazed Iranian pilot.

It would have been comical had the fuel truck nearby not erupted.

Somehow, Danny managed to pull Talcom and the pilot away. All three collapsed about twenty yards from the jetliner, gasping for breath and feeling the hot flame of the tanker truck.

“Hernandez, we lost Hernandez,” said Freah when Liu grabbed him.

“No, he’s in the Osprey,” said the medic. “Come on. We have to go. Fighter are coming. Let’s go. They blew the hangar.”

Danny shook his head clear, bolting to his feet. He’d lost his MP-5, but he seemed okay; he didn’t think he’d been hurt.

Sunburned maybe. Damn fire was hot.

“My team,” he shouted, twisting back.

“We’re all here!” yelled Liu. “Come on, Captain.”

A massive black cloud hung over the hangar at the other end of the field. The Delta Osprey was taxiing away from it, toward them. An APC was rumbling thirty yards away.

Danny stood motionless as the armored personnel carrier’s turret began to revolve in the direction of the Delta Osprey. Then he started to run toward the APC with all his strength.

“Captain! Captain!” shouted Liu.

As Danny ran. He reached into his pocket for the grenade.

Nothing but MP-5 clips.

Cursing, he kept running. He remembered he’d used the grenade in the airplane and reached for the other pocket, retrieving a stun-grenade. The grenade wasn’t powerful enough to do anything to the exterior of the vehicle; it would have to be thrown inside.

He fumbled with the taped pin as he bolted atop the APC. It was an ancient vehicle, a BTR-60P with an eight-wheeled chassis and a 12.7mm gun mounted in a turret at the front. The gun barrel lurched back, firing toward the Osprey. Danny grappled with the hatch, but there was no way to open it once locked from the inside. He threw himself on top of the gun turret, thinking he might stuff the grenade through the gun opening, but he saw there’d be no chance of that as the gun fired again; desperate, he pulled his Beretta out and stuff the barrel against the small viewing slot at the side of the front of the truck; Danny fell to the ground. The Osprey was revving its rotor furiously, pulling away. Danny rolled the grenade beneath the APC and ran back for his own craft, expecting at any moment to be shot. The ground rippled near him and he felt himself flying into the air.

Liu and Hernandez caught him just before he hit the ground, stumbling but managing to keep their balance as their Osprey lurched backward toward them. The others grabbed them and Danny felt himself suddenly pulled upward, the rotorcraft taking off with its bay open.

“We’re in! We’re in!” yelped Talcom.

Bison stood near the open doorway, firing his SAW. The APC continued to fire at them.

“Shit,” said Freah.

Chapter 5

TV time

Ethiopia

23 October, 1540

You could smell a combat base. Part of it was the sweat in the air. Part of it was spent fuel, and the ammo being packed.

Another part was fear.

Zen smelled it as he worked his way down the Megafortress;s stair ramp, levering himself sideways down each step, aware that he was being stared at – or actually, that people were pretending not to stare at him. He used his arms and shifted his weight carefully as he lowered his butt; he wanted to come down on his own power, but he also didn’t want to fall on his face.

It had been more than five years now since he’d been on a combat base, not counting his brief rotation in Turkey to enforce the no-fly zone in Iraq. This felt different for all kinds of reasons. For one thing, he’d probably had more sleep on his flight over than his whole time during the Air War.

And for another, well, he hadn’t had to use his arms quite so much.

Sergeant Parsons held the wheelchair for him on the tarmac. Zen came off the side into it, managing to swing himself upward and fall perfectly – almost perfectly – onto the chair.

“I’m getting too heavy,” he told Parsons. “Have to lay off the ice cream.”

“You find ice cream here, you let me know,” said the sergeant. “Let me go check on our birds.”

Parsons ducked under the wing to examine the Flighthawks, which were attached to the inner wing spars of Raven. Zen pushed himself a few feet away, taking stock of the crowded air base. Tensions had continued to escalate during the night. There had been raids against bases in Northern Somalia. The Iranians had sunk a ship in the Red Sea. Two U.S. aircraft carriers were steaming from the western end of Mediterranean. The Saudis and Egyptians were furious about U.S. overflights and reconnaissance missions, to say nothing of the President’s decision to use Israeli airports as refueling stops.

Four C-130 Hercules, two painted black and two in dark green jungle camouflage schemes, were lined up near the Megafortress. Beyond them were a parcel of Blackhawk and Huey helicopters, along with a pair of large Pave Lows. Three F-117’s and five F-16 were also lined up at the edge of the strip, parked dangerously close together.

The runway had been expanded, but Cheshire had still had to dump fuel before landing. Taking off was going to be a bitch; Jeff wondered how the F-117’s managed it, since the bat planes typically needed a good long run to get off the ground.

“God, Zen, is that you?”

Zen spun his chair around and saw Hal Briggs, hands on hips, frown on face, standing behind him.

“Hey, Major.”

“You brought the Flighthawks?” said Briggs. “You’re here to fly them?”

“Who’d you think would fly them?” Rubeo?”

Briggs frowned, but at least he didn’t offer the usual ‘sorry about your legs’ routine. Zen waited while Briggs greeted Sergeant Parsons and the others. Major Cheshire came down onto the runway; Hal began filling her in on the situation, walking with her toward his Humvee. Zen followed, listening to Briggs explain why he believed the captured Americans were in the Sudan. They were mounting a comprehensive search mission, he told her; Raven would be an invaluable part. Briggs and Cheshire got into the vehicle. Zen pushed to follow.

“Whoa! Whoa!” he yelled as Briggs started without him. “Yo! I’m not in yet.”

“Uh, sorry, Major,” said Briggs. “There’s food and a lounge inside this building here. We’re going over to our command center.”

“Yeah, no shit. that’s where I’m going.” Jeff pulled open the rear door, working the wheelchair as close as possible. It was too long a stretch, but at this point he didn’t care.

“Well,” started Briggs. “No offense, but –”

“I’m in charge of the Flighthawks,” Zen told him. “Since I’m going to be working the major part of the mission, I sure as shit ought to be in on the planning, don’t you think?”

“First of all, the drones aren’t in the game plan.”

“They’re not drones,” said Zen. “They’re scouts and escorts.”

“I agree that Major Stockard ought to be involved,” said Cheshire.

Briggs, obviously pissed, said nothing. Zen pulled himself up into the Hummer, pushing and yanking his body along. Major Cheshire got out of the Humvee and folded his wheelchair for him, handling it inside. Zen answered her weak, apologetic smile with a curt nod, pulling the chair nearly on top of himself. He wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he would be goddamned if he was going to admit it.

This is better than pity, he thought to himself. I can deal with this.

When they stopped, Jeff managed to slam the chair out and then slide into it without any help. Not that it was a pretty.

Nor was it easy getting into the building. Fortunately, there was only one step and it was barely two inches high. Zen managed to get up by coming sideways, building a little momentum, and practically jumping upward. For a moment he thought he was going to land on his head.

He took the fact that he didn’t as a good sign. He wheeled through the door, teeth grinding but determined to get past the frowns and stares. Moving quickly , Jeff followed Cheshire toward the large map tables where the commander of the operation were clustered. Briggs introduced them, then turned over the briefing to a Navy commander, who was coordinating the search components.

“The Antonov was tracked approximately to this point,” he said, dispensing with preliminaries as he poked his thumb on a topo map of northeastern Africa. “We estimate the plane’s range before refueling at one thousand miles, which gives us this semicircle here. You’ll note that’s a wide area. A lot of Sudan is involved. We have relatively high confidence that the aircraft did not take off after landing. We believe they’re waiting for nightfall. F/A-18’s and a Hawkeye from the Kennedy will be responsible for this area here,” he added, his pinkie circling a crosshatched swatch of northern Sudan near Egypt. “Another flight will patrol Libya. That leaves southern Sudan, below the Libyan Desert. It’s low-probability area, but it has to be covered.”

“What about Egypt?” said Zen.

The commander made a face. “We don’t have permission for overflights.”

“All the more reason to watch it.”

“Zen, please,” said Briggs.

“We’re aware of the possibility,” said the Navy commander. “We’re compensating to some degree, but obviously there are limits. We have some under-the-table help from the Israelis.”

“Where’s the Kennedy?” Cheshire asked.

“That’s one of our problems,” admitted the commander. “All of these planes are operating at the far end of their range. It’s dicey, I don’t deny that.”

“Major Cheshire, you have this swatch here,” said Briggs, pointing to the southernmost area of the Sudan. He then turned to the F-16 commander. “Havoc Flight’s F-16’s will patrol here and here. We’re waiting for a KC-135 inbound to refuel you.”

“Excuse me,” said Cheshire, “but with our range, it would make a hell of a lot more sense for us to take that area. Then Havoc won’t need to tank.” She grinned at the F-16 flight leader. “Unless you want to try refueling off a C-130.”

“We’ve done it,” he said.

“I’ve pissed in my pants, but I wouldn’t want to repeat it,” said Zen. The C-130 in question was rigged for helicopter refueling. The type’s extreme versatility and the pilots’ attitudes couldn’t make up for the fact that the Herky Bird was considerably slower than the F-16.

“We may have the KC-145 on board by then,” said Briggs. “In any event, I don’t want to risk the Megafortress anywhere near Libya.”

“That’s a good six hundred miles south of Libya,” said Zen. “With all due respect to the F-16’s, they’d be ten times as vulnerable as Raven and Flighthawks.”

“We’re not sending the Flighthawks,” said Briggs.

“What are Flighthawks?” asked the Navy commander.

U/MF-3’s,” said Zen. “They’re unmanned fighters that can be used as reconnaissance craft. They’ll widen the search cone exponentially.”

“They’re experimental drones,” said Briggs. “unpiloted craft.”

“They are piloted. They fly by remote control. They’re as capable as F-22’s,” Stockard told the naval officer, aware that was he violating the protocol about the program’s classified status. “The Flighthawks can beam real-time video and electronic back to Raven. They’re armed with cannons and can shoot down anything Qaddafi can throw at them. The only difference between sending them and the F/A-18’s is that no one’s risking their life.”

“If we have unmanned aircraft that we can use, I’m all for it,” said the naval officer. “That is serious Indian country out there.”

“Those are experimental aircraft,” said Briggs.

“No, they’re developmental aircraft,” said Jeff. “There’s a big difference.”

“I think they can do the job,” said Cheshire.

“What do we do if one goes down?” Brigg’s voice made it seem more a certainty than a question.

“It’s not going down,” Zen said.

“I can’t afford to be optimistic.”

“If there is a problem, I blow it up. Look, the classified stuff is all aboard Raven anyway. That’s plane we have to worry about. The fact that it’s here – shit, don’t you think we have to use the best stuff we have? Why let anyone – anything, I mean – go to waste?”

“I don’t think there’s much of an argument,” said the Navy commander. “If you’re confident these craft can do the job, I say go for it. I’ve seen what Pioneers –”

“These are nothing like Pioneers,” snorted Zen.

“I’m on your side, Major,” the commander snapped. “I say we slot them north, Hal.”

“Agreed,” said Briggs finally. He looked up at Cheshire. “Major, we’d like you off the runway as soon as possible. We want you in the area before dark.”

“We’ll be there,” said Cheshire.

Zen followed her out of the conference area. “Hey, Nancy,” he said has she reached the door. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Jeff. I agree with you – it’s safer to risk the Flighthawks than a pilot.”

“I meant thanks for standing up for me.”

“Oh, you stand up for yourself just fine. Where do you figure the rest rooms are around this place?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to guess they won’t be handicapped-accessible.”

“And I won’t be surprised if there’s only a men’s room.”

“I’ll guard the door for you, if you do the same for me.”

“Deal.” Cheshire grinned.

Since she was a woman, the Spec Ops support team had offered Breanna a separate room to sleep in – a closet down the hall from the large, open warehouse room that had become an ad hoc dormitory. She’d turned them down. Not because she didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else, but because she was so damn tired she couldn’t contemplate taking one more footstep than necessary. She took off her boots and dropped onto the narrow cot fully dressed, hunkering under a blanket without a pillow. She fell right to sleep.

And woke less than two hours later. The place was quiet, except for Chris, snoring several cots away. A dull blue light filtered through the windows high on the wall, but it wasn’t the light or the snores that distracted her. the mission kept playing over and over in her head, buts and pieces of it swelling her mind with ideas of what she might have done differently. She felt the hard seat of the Megafortress pinching her butt as she took the g’s ducking from the MiGs. She saw the flames on the ground, felt the air rumbling with the cannon fire. she saw the small airplane they’d all missed until it was too late.

So close. She could have rescued Mack and the others.

After an hour of tossing and turning, Breanna finally gave up and went in search of food. Besides MREs, the makeshift kitchen was offering two specials of the day: instant oatmeal and fresh boar.

“Boar?” Bree asked the Green Beret sergeant who was standing over the tin pots.

“Boar, ma’am. I caught it, I skinned it, I cooked it.”

“You bullshitting me, Sergeant?”

“Ma’am?”

“Okay. I’ll take some.”

“You won’t be sorry.” He removed a steel lid on one of the pots, sending an acrid smell into the air. “And you can trust the water too. Treated and boiled for good measure. Sweet potato?”

“Why not?” said Bree, momentarily wondering if she should resort to the MREs.

“Full complement of you vitamins, ma’am. Nice flyin’, by the way. Heard you did a kick-ass job.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, still dubious about the food as she walked to the nearby table area.

Her opinion remained in flux through three of four bites. The meat had a taste somewhere between fresh pork and week-old beef. And the sweet potatoes: Forget about it.

The water, at least, was good. She took a long sip – then almost spat it out as her husband wheeled into the room.

“Jeff?”

“Hey, Bree,” said Zen, rolling toward her. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. What the hell are you doing here?”

“The Flighthawks are going to join in the search.”

“You’re crazy,” said Breanna.

Major Cheshire appeared at the front of the room with the rest of the crew from Raven, as well as her navigator and weapons operator. Breanna managed to hold her disbelief in check while the others went for food.

“Jeff? The Flighthawks?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re pushing them past the limit. Not to mention yourself.”

“I don’t think so,” he snapped. “I slept the whole way over.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I heard you were in action.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Listen, Captain.” Jeff had his major’s face on, and it wasn’t pretty. “You’re cute and all, but I don’t answer to you.”

“Jeff. Come on, be realistic.”

“This chair has nothing to do with my abilities.”

“I’m not talking about your abilities.” Breanna heard her words echoing harshly in the room. He face flushing hot, she repeated the sentence, though softer this time. “I’m not talking about your abilities.”

“I’m hungry. That was a great dinner, by the way. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

Zen wheeled up to the end of the line, smirking at the Green Beret chef’s obvious discomfort. Hell, he was starting to like being a one-man freak show attraction.

Breanna’a attitude didn’t surprise him. At least she’d finally come out and admitted it.

One of the Delta operators had told him while he was waiting to use the john that she’d kicked butt on her mission. He was happy for her, damn proud in a way, even if she hadn’t given him a chance to tell her so.

They could be friends. He wanted that maybe, or something like that.

“Wild boar,” the Green Beret behind the makeshift lunch counter was saying. “I caught it, I skinned it, I cooked it. Of course, you could have an MRE. Or oatmeal.”

“That boar. You catch it with your bare hands?” asked Zen.

“Sir? You think I’m nuts?”

“No, just making sure it’s sanitary,” said Zen. “Dish me up a heap. Come on, let’s go,” he added. “I have some planes to fly.”

“You fly planes?”

“Two,” said Zen. “At the same time.”

The sergeant spooned the food onto the dish carefully, undoubtedly convinced he was dealing with a psycho.

Which, Zen thought, might not be too far from the truth.

Sudan

23 October, 1540 local

The Russians called the Antonov An-14 ‘Pchelka,” which meant, ‘little bee.’ NATO called it ‘Clod.’

Both names were equally appropriate. The small but sturdy aircraft flew at just over a hundred knots, skimming the hills and rugged valleys of eastern Sudan. There were eight seats, including the pilot’s, but the Iranians had crammed seven soldiers in along with the prisoners, the pilot, and the Imam. The plane lumbered through the air, obviously complaining about its heavier load – which was all the heavier because it had been outfitted with bladder tanks in metal rigs that looked like blisters on the fuselage. Mack’s fatigue kept him from getting more than a rough idea of where they were; it was obvious they were flying west, but he couldn’t be sure whether they had gone beyond Ethiopia, and if so, how far. He kept dozing off, jostled back to consciousness by his guards and the pain in his side, though by now his ribs had hurt so long he was almost used to the ache. Finally they reached wherever they were supposed to reach; six soldiers in light brown uniforms met them as they taxied along what seemed to be a dirt road in front of some tents on a flat plain well beyond the mountains they’d gone over. While Mack and the others were hustled out of the Antonov, brown camo netting was thrown over the plane. A nearby group of scraggly cattle were herded around. The emaciated animals – they weren’t cows, exactly, at least not as Mack knew them – poked their noses toward the men curiously, but quickly lost interest.

The prisoners were led to a tent. Gunny and Howland lay down on the dirt floor, immediately curling up to sleep. Mack sat with his arms huddled around his knees, watching the shadows outside. Two guards sat in front of the tent; two others sat at the rear corners. Men and animals moved around them, seemingly at random.

Land this flat probably meant they were somewhere in Sudan. If what Howland had said was true, their next stop would be Libya. Most likely, they were hiding out until night, when the small, low-flying plane would harder to detect.

Once they got to Libya, they’d be put on trial in an attempt to whip up public support for the Greater Islamic League, perhaps fomenting revolutions in Egypt and Saudi Arabia, or at least intimidating their government sufficiently to get them to join the Iranians.

Damn unlikely.

Maybe not. Impossible for him to know. In any event, what happened in the wider world was largely irrelevant; what happened to him was what mattered.

Knife pulled his arms around his knees, digging the chain into the flesh. It made no sense to think about things he couldn’t control. But what else was there to think about?

Dreamland. The JSF. His career. Breanna Stockard. Zen.

Poor dumb Zen. Crippled.

Maybe Stockard hadn’t screwed up. Maybe he had been a good enough pilot, and just been nailed by bad luck.

Like Mack.

Was it just luck, though? He’d never put much stock in luck, preferring to trust ability and effort. What a shock now to find they might not matter at all.

“You should rest, Major,” said the Imam. “You and I have a long journey ahead.”

Startled, Knife jerked around. The Iranian had come into the tent without his guards. He’d moved so silently he seemed almost to have materialized there.

“We will be leaving at dusk,” said the Iranian. His hands were folded in front of him; it was possible, probable, that he had his pistol in his sleeve, but it was not visible. In fact, he gave the impression not merely of being unarmed, but of being far removed from any conflict – far removed from here, as if he were in a mosque, preparing to pray or more like to preach.

“How did it feel?” Smith asked.

The Imam’s eyes gave nothing away, yet he obviously knew that Mack was talking about shooting Jackson, for he answered. “Within Allah’s grasp, all is justified.”

“How do you know you’re in his grasp?”

“I know,” said the Iranian confidently.

“Why him and not me?” Mack asked.

“Your role has been ordained.” The Imam nodded, as if he had actually answered the question. He gazed at Mack as if he were a penitent seeking guidance. “You should not question fate. You must learn to accept it.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You are feeling guilty that your soldier died. But he would have died eventually.”

“I’m not feeling guilty about anything.”

“When you can say that truthfully, you will be at peace,” said the Imam. He nodded again. “I pray the day will come.”

Mack felt a surge of anger, but something seemed to hold him in place, fatigue or perhaps something else. He wanted to ask how a murderer could have the gall to cite God as his justification, to pretend to be holy and wise. But he stayed fixed in place, unable to move.

“Submit yourself to your fate, and to the will of Allah,” said the Imam. “Then you will find peace.”

He stepped backward, leaving the tent.

Dreamland

23 October, 0800 local

As reamings went, it was first class. Four general tag-teamed Bastian during the conference call, chewing him out relentlessly for sending the Megafortress to Africa.

And all he could say in his defense was – a second was on the way, with even more untested top-secret weaponry and a civilian scientist aboard.

Magnus especially was angry. “I spoke to you less than twenty-four hours ago,” said the general who’d earlier congratulated him for his JSF report. Though influential, he was actually the junior member of the chew-out team. “You sure as hell could have given me a heads-up.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“You, Colonel, should not think,” Magnus snapped.

Bastian was being treated as if he were a green-grilled tadpole airman, not the commander of the country’s most advanced weapons-testing facility. He bridled, but he kept his cool, holding his tongue as the generals continued to berate him. Because he knew – and they knew – that in the end, he’d been right. The Megafortress had made it possible for the downed F-117 to be destroyed. And, according to preliminary intelligence, Whiplash had just barely missed snatching the pilots back – again, thanks largely to the Megafortress. One major Somalian base had been smashed, two Iranian MiGs had been shot down, and two others apparently forced to ditch. The Iranian plan for a pan-Islamic rebellion against the West was falling apart, largely because he’d decided to send an ‘experimental’ aircraft as a transport.

Well, more or less.

“The bottom line here, gentleman,” said Ms. O’Day, finally rejoining the conference call after the others had vented for nearly twenty minutes, “is that we have a continuing situation. Colonel Bastian has helped us considerably. You and I may not approve of what he has done – and undoubtedly we may consider sanctions in the future. But at the moment, well, let’s make some lemonade here. His aircraft and personnel are under operational control of the Madcap Magician commander. I believe that’s where they should stay – with the local commanders, who are in the best position to know what they need to get the job done. Now if you want to reverse that, it’s possible. I will carry the recommendation personally to the President. I won’t support it, but I will relay it.”

“We can relay it ourselves,” snapped General Gold, the Air Force Chief of Staff.

“Your call, Martin,” said O’Day.

Dog wished the conference call had been made via video. He’d give anything to see his bosses fuming at O’Day.

On the other hand, they might see him gloating. And that would be fatal. Assuming he wasn’t already cooked.

“I don’t think we should reverse it,” said Magnus. “Frankly, between you, me, and the lamppost, Tecumseh, I would have done the same thing.”

“Then you’d be out of line,” snapped General Alcane.

“In line, out of line, the bottom line is results. We’ve got them,” said Magnus. “What we need now is for Madcap Magician to pull the pilots out. if that takes Megafortresses and robot planes, I’m all for it.

“What we need now it to nuke Iran,” said Alcane.

“If that’s your recommendation, I’m sure the President will want to hear it personally,” said O’Day coolly.

“Gentlemen, Ms. O’Day, there’s no need to discuss this further with Colonel Bastian,” said Gold. “Colonel, you have a difficult assignment at Dreamland. You’re trying your best and doing better than expected, but I realize that you may be slightly in over your head.”

“I hope not,” said Bastian.

“Brad Elliott is still well thought of around here,” continued Gold. “And he supports you.” Gold laughed. “Hell, he thinks you should have sent more. But – and this is an important but – we have a chain of command that must be followed. Granted, your situation is special. But from this moment on, you are to report directly to General Magnus. That pertains to everything – testing, operations, budget, latrines. Keep him informed. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dog. Before he could say anything else, his end of call was shut down.

“How’d you do?” asked Ax, barging in a millisecond after Bastian hung up.

“Well, I got my head chewed off and threatened with unspecified sanctions. Then about twelve layers of bureaucracy above us were cut away, and the only general in the Air Force who thinks I’m worth anything was just made my boss. The Chief even said I was doing a good job.”

“Not bad,” said Sergeant Gibbs. “You’re learning. Keep going and in a couple of weeks you may be ready to take over for me when I go on vacation.”

Ethiopia

23 October, 1820 local

They used an old SAC trick to help Raven get airborne with a full load of fuel, firing the Flighthawks in sequence with the main engines, as if the U/MFs were rocket-assist packs. They then refilled the Flighthawks’ fuel tanks in-flight, siphoning off fuel from the Megafortress. Between the takeoff and the tanking procedures, Jeff felt drained; fortunately they had a lull before he was due to drop the Flighthawks.

“It’ll be easier next time,” said Gleason as he pulled off his heavy helmet. She was sitting next to him in the converted weapons station.

“You think so, don’t you?” Zen joked.

“I hope so.” Briggs had tried to keep Jennifer from flying the mission because she was a civilian, but her protests and Cheshire’s insistence had kept her aboard. Zen was glad she’d come.

“We are twenty minutes from Alpha,” said Cheshire. “You want to break open your snacks, go for it.”

“I thought I’d grab a brewski,” said Zen.

“Make mine a Sam Adams.”

“I’m in for a Chardonnay,” said Cheshire.

Zen reached for his mission folder, laying out the latest overhead photos and the grid map that showed the area they would be surveying. Their search pattern looked like an upside-down W with a backward Z on the last leg; they would start about ten miles northwest of Malakal, heading for the Libyan border. The Flighthawks would fly ahead roughly five miles, about seven miles apart. While the Flighthawks would vary their attitudes between six and twelve thousand feet depending on conditions, Raven herself would stay above 25,000 in a warm and dry layer of air unlikely to produce contrails. The altitude would give the plane a considerable buffer against triple-A and shoulder-fired SAMs likely to be in the area. Anything large would have to be jammed once detected; until then, they would fly without the powerful radars activated, hoping to get in and out unnoticed.

“Zero-five to Alpha,” announced Cheshire.

Zen looked up in shock – had he just dozed off? He glanced at his controls; they were indeed five minutes from the drop point.

“Initiate C³ self-test sequence on Hawk One,” he told the computer as he pulled on his helmet.

“Test sequence begun. Test sequence complete,” announced the computer.

“Initiate C³ self-test sequence on Hawk Two.”

The computer came back quickly, showing all systems in the green. Cheshire had already pushed the nose of the Megafortress upward; they would launch in a shallow dive, the pilot initiating a zero-alpha maneuver at release. The wind shear across the Megafortress wing surface would help accentuate the separation. They’d then repeat the process again for the second plane. Although technically it was possible to launch both at the same time, Stockard had never done so.

Zen selected Hawk One’s infrared view for his main visor screen, ghosting the flight instruments and data in it as if it were a HUD. The world looked dark and cold from the U/MF’s nose.

“Alpha,” said Cheshire.

“Computer, launch sequence on Hawk One. Count-down from five.”

The computer took up the chant, counting down in its mechanical voice as the engines ignited. Prodded by the Megafortress’s 480 knots of airspeed, the turbine spun hot and ready. Zen let the computer proceed as it automatically released Hawk One.

“Maintain programmed course,” he said after a quick review of the instrumentation indicated all systems were good. “Main viewer optical from Hawk One. Begin Hawk Two launch sequence. Countdown form five.”

Hawk Two’s turbine stuttered. Zen nearly pulled the trigger button o his left joystick, which in launch mode automatically stopped the takeoff. But the graphics hit green and he let the Hawk go, this time maintaining personal control over the plane.

Good launches, quick and smooth. Better by far than either of his drops at Dreamland.

It was like flying, and it wasn’t. it was like riding in the back of a roller coaster, imaging you had control.

In the dark, the total dark.

Plus with your left hand.

“Infrared view, Hawk Two,” he said, staying in Hawk Two’s cockpit. The screen snapped into a yellowish red haze. Hawk One’s tailpipe glowed at the top of the left end of the screen. Zen prodded Hawk Two gently to the right, gliding and quickly building momentum. He check the instruments, then gave control to the computer, skipping over to U/MF. It was easier there, maybe because he was right-handed. Like playing baseball and batting from the right side, even though you’d learned to switch-hit.

“Computer, split top viewer, add optic feed from Hawk Two on left.”

The computer complied. He now had a panoramic view of the twilight. Both planes descended at near-Mach speed, running through clear, dry air.

“We’re green and growing,” he told Cheshire.

“Roger that.”

“Feeding infrared views to flight deck,” said Jennifer. The Flighthawk feeds came through the test system. She punched something on her console. “They’ll get the FLIR no matter what you select. I can feed them radar and optics too, if they ask.”

“Looking good back there,” Cheshire told them.

Baseball. This was ten times more difficult than switch-hitting – you were going at it from both sides of the plate at once, facing two different pitchers. Zen felt as if his mind were splitting in half; sweat began creeping down his neck.

A Sudanese city – or what passed for one – loomed in the view projected from Hawk One as Zen began leveling the planes off at ten thousand feet. A group of low-slung concrete buildings sat above a shantytown of trailers, discarded metal containers, and ancient vehicles. The computer, working with parameters programmed by Jennifer, studied the different shapes for the possibility of an aircraft. Meanwhile, Raven’s weapons officer scanned for transmission that might indicate their quarry’s presence.

“You have a shape on that northwest quadrant,” Jennifer said. “The computer’s not flagging it as hostile. Grid AA-4.”

“Yeah, I have the quadrant,” said Zen. Holding Hawk One steady toward the Sudanese city, he moved Two lower to check out the unexpected contact off its left wing. The sweat now began to pour in buckets as he rolled the plane into a tight dive, dropping it quickly to five thousand feet. The Hawk’s radar transmitted a detailed image back to the mother ship; Jeff left it to Jennifer to examine as he flew the plane low and fast across the edge of a Sudanese settlement that apparently had been obscured by clouds on the photos. He brought the Hawk lower, picking up speed; he straightened his wings now at five hundred feet, three hundred, sensors blazing.

RWR clear. No SAMs, no defenses.

A building and a shed, if you could call them that. Neither was as big as a cottage back home.

A bus lumbered ahead. Zen began to pull it off, then saw something flash to his left. Not sure what it was, he stayed on his course, accelerating.

Another vehicle, this one an ancient pickup. He nailed his throttle down, streaking past before rocketing back upward, hewing right. He pushed his left hand toward him, riding Hawk Two closer to the other half of his mind, which was just passing the Sudanese city.

“Whoo, that was fun,” said Jennifer. “Initial analysis clear. I’m playing the optical sensors back to recheck those buildings.”

Zen shut her out. It was difficult enough being in the Flighthawks.

It hadn’t seemed this hard when he flew them before the accident. And yet he’d been controlling three planes then – his own as well as the two U/MFs.

His head felt like it was going to break in half.

“Clean,” announced Jennifer. “No visible life-forms, Dr. Spock.”

When Zen didn’t respond, she added, “Our ten-year mission, to explore new worlds –”

“Yeah, I got the joke,” he snapped.

“Sorry.”

Zen saw a small truck off the side of the road, then another.

Hawk One screen, right? They were starting to blur together, despite the purple separator line.

The trucks weren’t significant, he decided. The Hawks crossed the Wadi al Mado, a trench that emptied into the Nile much further to the east. He couldn’t tell if there was water in it or not as he passed, holding both Flighthawks at eight thousand feet.

They were invisible, dark birds in the desert night, riding the wind. He selected both FLIRs in the top screen, trying to get more comfortable. They came up toward the east-west railroad line that perforated Sudan; he took the Flighthawks down it to nearly the limit of their safe separation distance before edging back.

Maybe he shouldn’t think of them as if they were two planes. Maybe they were really one, a coordinated being, an extensions of himself. Like is arms or eyes, working together.

There was a rhythm; once he found if he’d be fine.

Once he found it.

“We’re coming to Bravo,” Cheshire told him. “We’ll follow your turn.”

“Roger that, thank you, Raven,” Jeff said.

“Hawk Two at Bravo,” the computer told him.

Thought a basic element of formation flying, coordinating a parallel turn was tricky, and even experienced pilots could have trouble doing it. It was not easy to hold position, and the pilots had to coordinate their maneuvers carefully. In some ways it was even harder with the Flighthawks, since he couldn’t – or didn’t want to – use the throttle to cover any mistakes. But Zen didn’t need to; he had the planes moving in tandem, perfectly balanced against each other, working like the hands of a prizefighter prodding his enemy. He came around to the new bearing southeastward with the Hawks nailed on beam precisely seven miles apart. He allowed himself a brief exhale of congratulations and relief.

A boxer probing his opponent. This one was a cipher, without noticeable weaknesses. The desert went on forever, admitting no secret. Finding Smith in it would be impossible.

If it weren’t for the fact that there were other people with Knife, Zen wouldn’t mind missing him completely.

The idea snuck up from behind, curling around his spine as if it had risen through the sweat beneath his flight suit.

He hated Smith.

Because of the accident? Or because of Bree?

He wanted her back. And not to be friends. He was wrong about the divorce. He had to fight for her.

How the hell did you do that in a wheelchair? He couldn’t even do his goddamn job without sweating buckets.

A herd of cattle materialized on the right side of the viewer, crowding out his thoughts about his wife, bringing him back to the Hawks. The warm bodies milled back and forth in the rapidly cooling desert air. There were some tents, a vehicle.

“Nomads,” said Jen.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged.

Something moved in the far corner of the left end. Zen pushed his attention toward it, realized he was seeing a gun emplacement.

“Ground intercept radar active,” warned the computer. information spat at him – ID’ing a pair of twin 35mm GDF antiaircraft weapons controlled by a Contraves Skyguard system. The Swiss-built system was relatively sophisticated, though its maximum range was well under twenty thousand feet. According to the threat screen, the Flighthawks had not been locked, though the radar was active.

“I’m going to get close and personal,” he told Cheshire after filling her in.

“Copy. We’ll hold to our flight plan.”

Zen looped Hawk Two into a turn about three miles from the radar source. He changed the main viewer from optics to FLIR. It was a military installation. The guns were mounted at the northern edge of a complex that included several dug-in shelters and four tanks. Several vehicles were parked at the southern end; the Flighthawk camera caught a soldier on guard duty smoking a cigarette. The U/MF passed within two miles of the radar unit without being detected.

“No aircraft,” said Jennifer.

“Yeah,” said Zen, concentrating on returning the Flighthawk to its briefed flight path. The fact that the antiaircraft weapons used a Western-made radar could mean that it was a rebel unit opposed to the pro-Libyan government – or not. In any event, their Anotonov didn’t seem to be there.

Exhausted, Zen returned to the programmed course. he had to have a break; reluctantly he turned the controls over to the computer and reached down for his Gatorade. He was so thirsty he drained it and had to reach for his backup, sitting in a case on the floor by his feet.

“Hard work, huh?” asked Jennifer.

“Yeah.”

“You’re doing good.”

“Yeah.”

“You want some advice?”

“Advice?”

“You’re doing a lot of the routine stuff the computer can handle,” said Gleason.

Anger welled inside, but before he could say anything, Gleason reached over and touched him on the shoulder. It felt electric, almost unworldly – his mind was still out with the Flighthawks. As if he were actually in their cockpits.

“You’re doing fine, Major,” she said. “Let the computer do the routine stuff. That’s what it was designed for. You do what’s important. You’re trying to control both planes at the same time.”

Zen glanced at the instrument screens, making sure the U/MFs were operating fine, then pushed up the helmet to see her.

“It’s almost like you’re afraid the computer’s going to take your job.” Jennifer said. “I know we haven’t had a chance to run many flights with two planes since you’ve been back, but you’re getting twitchy. You’re not letting the computer fly like you used to.”

“It’s my job to fly them,” he told her.

“Absolutely,” said the scientist. “But you can’t split yourself in half. You can trust the computer.”

“I do trust it,” he said.

Jennifer smiles. Jeff wasn’t sure what to say. In the old days, before the accident, had he let the computer do more/

Maybe.

Maybe he didn’t trust it because of the accident. And maybe she was right – maybe he was worried it would take his job, leave him with nothing to do but sit in a corner and gather dust all day.

Wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t a fucking cripple, legs be damned.

“Zero-ten to Delta,” said Cheshire, announcing the upcoming turn.

“Flighthawks acknowledge,” he told her, pulling the visor back on. “Zero-ten to Delta.”

“Scopes are clean, everything is looking very good,” said Cheshire. “Flighthawks are doing a slam-dunk job, Zen.”

“Yeah.”

“I know it’s a needle-in-a-haystack country down here,” she added. “But the Navy planes have the most likely territory. Nothing lives down here except sand.”

Zen got ready for the new turn. Cheshire was right – the ground they were covering hadn’t seen rain in eons. Devoid of water, there were only a few sparse settlements, and no nomads to speak of.

Except for the ones they’d seen a short while before, who’d been parked in the middle of sand.

Grazing animals over sand?

“Bobby, do me a favor, would you?” he asked the navigator. “Look at where our nomads were. They over a water hole?”

The navigator took a few minutes to get back to him. “Not on the map, but maybe those guys know where the water is.”

“Yeah. We got a satellite map that detects underground water sources?”

“What do you think this it, the library?” said the navigator with a laugh.

“Just checking.”

“There’s got to be water there,” said Bobby. “The cattle have been there for at lest two days.”

“Two days?”

“More. They’re on the U-2 photo and the satellite image Madcap Magician gave us, which is at least three or four.”

Stationary nomads over a dry patch of land.

“Computer, hold Hawk One on the preset course,” said Zen. “Hawk Two, power to ninety percent.”

“What’s up, Zen?” asked Major Cheshire, who’d heard his conversation with Bobby.

“Stationary nomads – sound odd to me,” Jeff told her. “I think I can just skirt close enough to them on your programmed course.”

“I’ll shift two degrees and it’ll be easy.”

“Make it one and I can keep Hawk One where it is.”

“I told the computer to plot a new one,” said Jennifer. “Just in case.”

“Input it,” Zen told her.

“I-band interceptor-type airborne radar detected, active, source beyond range,” yelped Bobby over the aircraft’s interphone. The Megafortress’s passive detectors had picked up two MiG-25’s at nearly fifty thousand feet. “These babies are running, not walking,” he warned. “Mack 2. We’ll be within their theoretical detection envelope in thirty seconds. We can jam at will.”

The Soviet-era active radars on the MiGs had a detection range of roughly fifty miles. But with its stealthy profile, it was likely – though not certain – that the MiGs wouldn’t pick up the Megafortress until they were less than ten miles away.

Which would happen in two minutes at present course and speed. The Flighthawks, on the other hand, were too low and too small to be detected. Their own threat screens, powered by less capable sensors, were blank; they hadn’t picked up the MiGs.

The I-band radars used by early models of the Soviet-era MiG-25 had been compromised years before; Raven’s ECM gear would have no problem defeating them. But that would alert not only the MiG, but potentially the people they were looking for, that they were in the air. It was better to try to pass undetected.

“Prepare for evasive maneuvers,” ordered Cheshire. “We’ll hold on to our ECMs and missiles until they’re necessary. Bobby, watch their detection envelope for us.”

“Bandits are positively ID’d as MiG-25’s, probably with Acrid AA-6’s,” he reported. “They’ll be in range to see us – let’s call it ninety seconds. Ducking them’s a crapshoot, Major.”

“Hawk Leader?”

“I say duck them,” Zen said. “Get down in the ground clutter and odds are they’ll go right by. Even if they catch a sniff, it’ll take them time to find us, let alone lock. In the meantime, I can check that camp.”

“I agree, we’ll chance it. Hang tight,” said Cheshire, rolling the Megafortress. “Way down.”

Zen told Hawk One to double back and initiate one of its preset routines, closing on Raven to fall into trail off the mother plane’s right wing. Then he concentrated on Hawk Two.

Nothing but desert showed in the FLIR screen. His body started to shove sideways with the Megafortress’s evasive maneuvers; it felt odd with the Flighthawk flying level. His bearings started to slide out of whack, his equilibrium upset.

Zen fought the creeping dizziness, pushing the nose of the Flighthawk down. As he dropped below three thousand feet, voice began shouting above and behind him – Cheshire and the crew barking instructions back and forth, the MiGs coming on. The U/MF’s threat screen plotted the I-band radar’s detection envelope as a wavy line of yellow floating above it.

An ocean of hot orange appeared in front of him, the cattle or whatever in the camp moving around. The shadows moved like silent eddies.

A trio of tents sat to one side. Something else, relatively hot, was half buried in the sand, or maybe behind the sand.

Or sandbags with a tarp.

Optics. Nada.

Back to FLIR. A truck motor maybe?

He was past it. One of the MiGs was almost directly overhead. The threat screen went completely red, then blank.

He could pop up behind the SOB and nail him. The Libyan would never know what hit him.

“Alert – approaching maximum operational range,” warned the computer.

Zen pitched the Flighthawk back toward the Megafortress. He lost sight of the camp.

“They’re turning. They’d behind us,” Bobby warned. “They may know we’re here. We were close. Suggest we break and run.”

“Negative,” said Cheshire calmly. “Staying on course.”

Zen pushed the others away, pushed himself back into his own cockpit – he banked hard in the direction of his target.

Nothing. The FLIR blanked with interference – sand or something, a fog of some type, was being kicked up, and that was all he could see.

An aircraft?

“Active radar,” he ordered. “Ground-attack mode. Max filter.”

“Zen!”

Something edged out of the sandstorm, lumbering into the air.

He pushed to follow. He was the Flighthawk now, not its pilot – his body moved with the plane, his head, his eyes, his hands, even his dead legs.

“Alert – approaching maximum operational range,” warned the computer.

“Radar to scan and search, low-altitude, maximum aperture,” demanded Zen. “Synthetic radar view.”

“Disconnect in five seconds at present course. Auto-recovery to mother ship. Fail-safe lever one. Three seconds to level two.”

He saw it for a second, the heat source hot now, then buried in the cloud of dust. An aircraft, definitely an aircraft.

“Two, one –”

Zen pulled the joystick back, ducking just close enough to the Megafortress to retain control. He lost he aircraft that had taken off from the Bedouin camp in the ground haze. The Flighthawk was barely twenty feet from the ground and the computer began spitting error codes.

“You have to get higher and close,” Jennifer broke in. “We’ve lost the laser-communication mode completely, and the radio error coefficient’s climbing. Jeff! Jeff!”

He was out there with it, beyond the tether. He went back to the FLIR view screen and saw the Pchelka dead ahead, its two antiquated engines churning a whirlpool of dust as it lumbered over the dunes.

His thumb clicked on the weapon-select button, toggling over to arm, then designate.

He didn’t want to shoot it down.

Fly over it. Force it down.

Zen eased back on the throttle, nudging the weapon-select toggle back to safe as he began to pull the stick back, gaining altitude even as his forward airspeed slowed.

And then everything went blank, the command link snapping.

“Shit!” he cursed.

“I know, I know,” yelled Jennifer. “It’s okay, it’s okay; it dropped into fail-safe. Damn. We’re maneuvering too violently at too far a distance. We’re under attack.”

Zen pushed his head back, realizing for the first time that they were under fire.

“Take the son of a bitch that fired the missiles out,” Cheshire ordered as she snapped the Megafortress onto a new course heading. The Libyans were somewhat better armed than they had been led to believe – semi-active radar missiles and Lark look-down radar. But they had no clue what they were up against; Raven’s EVMs quickly jammed the four missiles that had been fired – and every radar within two hundred miles for good measure.

She still had her hands full. The interceptors could go nearly three times as fast as the Megafortress with its antique power plants. And they were behind her – if they closed fast enough, they could use their heat-seekers, which were immune to Raven’s ECMs.

As the lead MiG closed, Cheshire swooped to the left, hoping to get the enemy planes to overtake her and provide an easy-rear quarter shot for her own weapons officer.

No dice. One of the MiGs dropped back while the other cut south. Cheshire tried turning into the second interceptor, only to nearly collide with one of the Flighthawks.

“Zen, Jesus!” she managed as she punched the plane lower.

“Targeting MiG. Bay,” called the weapons officer. “Fox One!”

He’d launched a Scorpion radar missile.

Zen cursed to himself as he brought Hawk One back under control. The flight computer had become confused by the mother ship’s maneuverings, almost fatally. He had to go to bird’s-eye view on the main screen to sort it all out, dropping speed on both planes. To make things worse, his left forefinger began to cramp; he went to voice control on the throttle for Hawk One. He needed the computer’s help to get both planes in their set positions, a half mile behind the Raven’s wings. By that time, the Pchelka was well off the screen.

“Splash one MiG!” declared the weapons officer. His nickname was “Deadeye,” the kind of moniker often applied ironically. From today on, it’d be said with respect.

“Second MiG going west. He’s running hot. My guess is he’s turning tail back for Libya,” reported the radar/navigator. “Whoo – looks like he’s got some friends. More contacts, well north. Unidentified, but definitely not friendlies.”

“Okay, folks, this is where we round up our horses and head out of town,” said Cheshire.

“Major, that was the Pchelka,” said Zen.

“I’ve already radioed their location and direction,” replied Cheshire. “They’re headed into the Navy search sectors.”

“Shit. They’re miles from the nearest patrol route.”

“I have no control over that, Jeff.”

“We can’t leave them now.”

Cheshire didn’t answer. But he could tell she wasn’t turning the plane around either.

“Nancy, damn it.”

“Zen, at this point, there’s nothing we can do. Now get those U/MFs in tow. They’ve got to be at bingo by now. You run out of fuel and there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” said Zen.

Like what?

Like I’m a moron and a fucking cripple, he thought – but he kept his mouth shit. She was right about the planes at ‘bingo’ – a theoretical turnaround point computed to give them enough fuel to return home without running the fuel tanks dry.

“Bandits have turned around. They’re going north. Still looking for us. We’re clean,” reported Bobby. “That Pchelka’s off my screen too.”

“Computer, combat trail, standard offset,” Zen told the Flighthawk computer.

Sudan

23 October, 2000 local

“So, Major, it is you and I then,” said the Imam, standing at the edge of the camp. The Pchelka, with Gunny and Howland, had vanished in the distance. Overhead, the warplanes rumbled; Mack saw a flash in the distance.

“Have you ever been to Tripoli, Major?” asked the Imam. “It is a beautiful city, looking out on the ocean.”

“That were we’re going?”

“Our journey is long,” said Imam. “That is but one stop.”

“I hope we’re not walking.”

The Imam said nothing. As the jets above cleared, Mack head the low drone of a helicopter approaching.

“What’s going to happen to them?” Knife said.

“They will be put on trial, then shot.”

“Same as me?”

“Not yet,” the Imam said. “My superiors have taken an interest in you.”

“Why?” Knife’s ears started to ring – this didn’t sound good.

“At first it was suggested you be punished for attacking one of our soldiers while a prisoner in captivity, which as you know under the Geneva Conventions, is attempted murder, a serious offense. But then we received some interesting information. For some unknown reason, Major Mack Smith, you seemed to disappear from the Air Force roster for a long time. You were flying F-15’s for a time, then you disappeared, then you reappeared flying F-16’s. Odd.”

The Iranian delighted in seeing Knife swallow nervously.

“Well, Major, are you more than just another swaggering but incompetent fighter pilot?” he went on. “Perhaps you were involved in some secret activities? As you say in your insipid American television commercials, ‘Inquiring minds want to know.’ Inquiring minds in many nations in the Islamic brotherhood, and perhaps beyond. We shall find out what your official records do not tell us.”

“What do the Geneva Conventions say about taking prisoners of war to another country?” Smith asked. “You seem to apply the law only when it suits you.”

“And what of your country? An undeclared war against a peaceful nation? You forfeited your right to protection under the law when you accepted this unlawful mission.”

“Do whatever you want with me. I’m not talking to you or your so-called brotherhood.”

The Iranian smiled but said nothing.

Mack snorted with contempt. It was about all he could do – besides the manacles on his hands, there were four guards flanking him with their AK-47’s.

He felt like making a run for it anyway. In the long run, it probably didn’t matter – if anything, it was at least arguably better to be shot here, before they could use him for whatever propaganda extravaganza they were cooking up.

One thing was certain, this wasn’t exactly helping his military career. So much for being part of the A team.

“Major, you find me amusing?”

“No. I’m laughing at myself.”

“Good. This is the first step on the road to enlightenment. You will be assisted on the second step,” he added, grinning at his joke as a Jet Ranger whipped in for a landing.

Ethiopia

24 October, 0400

For the first time since he’d begun rehabilitation, Jeff wished he had a self-propelled chair. As he rolled from Raven to the waiting truck, his arms began to feel like thin pieces of glass, ready to break; his shoulders became uncoordinated pieces of meat, barely able to propel them. The Ethiopian base drummed with activity. Army engineers had added nearly a thousand feet to the runway, as well a second parking area. Four new C-130’s had arrived, and there were at least five times as many vehicles as when they’d left. Things were popping.

That was a bad sign. They were starting to plan for long-term operations, not quick-hit emergency actions.

He’d been so damn close.

The problem was that he couldn’t use both planes together. It was too difficult to keep track of them. But the computer couldn’t be trusted – it had nearly nailed Raven.

They could fix that. Jennifer was already working on the adjustments.

So he hadn’t screwed up on the accident either. The computer had just gotten confused.

He knew that. He’d always known that.

Damn, his arms were beat.

An M44 six-by-six truck sat at the edge of the tarmac. Major Cheshire trotted ahead and asked the driver if they could have a lift to the terminal building, where she was due to brief Hal Briggs.

“Y’all hop on in,” said the driver, an Army Ranger with a Texas accent that seemed to sprawl all the way back to the State.

“I’ll take the back,” said Zen. He pushed around toward the rear, where he spotted another Ranger.

“Yo, Corporal. Think you can boost me up?”

“Sir?” The kid looked a little like he was talking to a ghost. The driver had hopped from the cab; Jeff wheeled himself around to make it easier for them to hoist him.

“I’m thinking of losing weight,” he said to the corporal, who hopped up after him.

“No problem, sir.” The soldiers threw his boot against the wheel as they started up, bracing his arm against the side.

“Human brake, huh?” Zen said to him.

“Yes, sir.”

Zen started to laugh. A few weeks before – hell, yesterday – the man’s seriousness would have convinced Jeff that he was being condescending, pitying him. Today, it just struck him as funny.

“I’m not going to roll off,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The soldier kept his foot in place.

“You in the 10th Mountain Division?” Jeff asked, noticing the soldier’s patch.

“Yes, sir.”

“Damn good unit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The corporal never cracked a smile.

Hal Briggs met them outside the terminal building.

“Good job,” Hal boomed, helping the corporal lower Jeff to the pavement. “We were able to track the plane.”

“Really?”

“The Hawkeye was waiting off the coast. It caught it coming north, thanks to your information,” Briggs said. “We’re ninety percent sure where they’re taking them.”

“Ninety percent?” said Major Cheshire.

“Navy like numbers,” said Briggs. He smiled and held his hands out apologetically. “This is their baby now; we’re back to being, uh, consultants. Come on inside, I’ll fill you in.”

Madcap Magician and its associated Special Ops units were now a tiny part of an operation that included three aircraft carriers and a Marine Expeditionary Unit in the Mediterranean. The strikes on the Silkworm missiles had been successful. Two Iranian MiGs had been shot down; the Megafortress had accounted for one Libyan MiG-25. And as Hal had said outside, planes from the JFK had tracked the Pchelka believed to be carrying the pilots and Marines to a bunker site just outside Tripoli.

The situation room had been tidied up some; there were now neat clusters of men gathered around tables and laptop computers. wires snaked everywhere. A thick pair led to the rear of the building, where portable generators the size of soda trucks were humming. Their vibrations played a mamba back through the building and up through the floor so violently one of the armrests on Zen’s chair rattled.

Hal led them to a corner of the room that had been set off by sandbags. A large table with maps sat behind the bags; half a Satcom and a large laptop computer were tucked against its legs. There were no chairs.

“The President has authorized an operation to retrieve the hostages,” Briggs told them. “But only if it can be launched within the next eight hours.”

“Why eight hours?” Jeff asked.

Briggs nodded, agreeing with the implied criticism of the deadline. “The UN Security Council is due to meet then, apparently, Washington wants to avoid any possibility of a condemnation – or worse, offers of mediation. They want a fait accompli. The Saudis and the Egyptians are up in arms, but the Iranians are hesitating. Retrieving our men will take their last cards away. Moderate elements in the Iranian government –”

“There are moderates in Iran?” said Cheshire.

“The politics really aren’t my business,” said Briggs. “But the way I read it, the Iranians and Libyans think their best bet is to hold a trial. The NSC analyst who’s been helping us thinks the Islamic League is teetering on collapse and will fold if we prevent that. As far as that goes, I think he’s right. The Iranians really have been the driving force here; Libya, Sudan, the Somalians – bottom line is they’re followers. Now if Egypt were to get involved – that’s a different story. In any event, we want to cut that all off. And we will. Or rather, the Navy will. With our help.”

“You’re not launching an assault from here,” said Jeff, trying to shake off his fatigue. “We’re twenty-five-hundred miles away.”

“No. Two SEAL groups will make the actual assault from the Mediterranean. A marine MEU is taking care of a diversionary raid. We’re sending our Delta operators and Whiplash to man some SAR points in the mountains to the south. Both of them are loading up now. Nancy, if you’d brief the Osprey pilots on what’s out there, I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

“Okay. We found an antiair battery that wasn’t in our briefing. Beyond that, it was pretty clean. Except for the MiGs.”

“Good,” said Hal.

“Drop the other show,” Zen told him.

Cheshire turned to Jeff.

“I’ve played poker with Hal too many times not to know he wants something else,” Jeff explained. “He wants us to do more than brief the roto pilots. He’s explained too much. He doesn’t ante in on that last round unless he thinks he can win. Then he talks to you and tries to get you to help sweeten the pot.”

“The SEALS need some real-time surveillance of the Tripoli bunker complex,” said Briggs. His voice was flat – he could have been playing poker, sitting on a full house with nothing showing. “They’re talking about using F/A-18’s, but I think it’s too damn risky. There’s one Pioneer UAV with the MEU, but that bunker has more SAMs around it than the Kremlin. It won’t last. And besides, the Pioneer would be useful for the diversion.”

“We can do it,” said Jeff. “We can use the test circuits to transmit optical and infrared views to a satellite uplink. If you’ve got JSTARS on the other end, they can relay it.”

“Zen, that’s a damn long flight,” said Cheshire. “Any we haven’t slept.”

“I slept on the way over. I’ll be fine,” said Jeff.

“You look like you’re tired as shit,” she answered. “And you’re sweating buckets.”

“Sorry if I stink,” he said.

“That’s not it.”

“I don’t want to push anybody beyond their limit,” said Hal. Now he wasn’t bluffing or playing poker – he was damn sincere. “But that bunker is a bitch. We have the plans from the Italian company that built it, because we were worried about the Libyans using it. There’s a way in, but it’s going to be tight. They need to know where the guards are sixty seconds before they land.”

“Piece of cake,” said Zen. “Show me the plans and a map.”

“You okay with this, Major?” Hal said to Cheshire.

Cheshire hesitated, but then nodded her head. “Raven cap wipe out the ground radars for the assault teams. It makes sense.”

“You’re not too tired?” Hal asked.

“No, damn it.”

Briggs nodded, then reached for his Satcom. But as he started to click into the line, he looked up at Jeff. “I was wrong,” he said. “I apologize.”

“Not necessary,” lied Zen. Then he added, “So you were sitting on four aces, huh?”

“Just two.”

Their well-earned rest had done nothing to lift the Whiplash team’s mood. Danny’s men were pissed that they had just missed the pilots and Marines. That they’d barely managed to escape without anything worse than a broken fingernail only added to the bitterness. And the fact that they were taking a decidedly secondary role in the new operation was about the last straw.

“SEALS just want the effin’ glory,” groused Bison as the Osprey lifted off. Freah could see it was going to be a long flight.

“I don’t see why we don’t take out the bunker ourselves,” said Hernandez. “While they’re going in the front door, we sneak in the back.”

“Goddamn Navy’s gonna screw it up.”

“The bunker is about seventy-five miles from Eagles Nest,” Talcom pointed out. “A hop, skip, and a jump. We can nail it in five minutes.”

“We could have packed into a C-fucking-17 and dropped in,” said Hernandez.

“You find a C-17 over here, you let me know,” said Danny, settling into his seat.

“We also serve who sit and wait,” said Liu.

“Screw you, Nurse,” said Talcom.

“I suggest you guys either get some sleep or play some cards so I can get some sleep,” said Danny finally. He snugged his pack beneath the seat, taking care not to unsafe the special quick-burn device. Besides a NOD and more ammunition than a normal platoon could use in a year, his rucksack contained maps and satellite photos of every Libyan base in the northern part of the country. As Hal had told him before they took off, it always paid to be prepared.

“You have to stand down,” Breanna told Major Cheshire as she gulped her coffee in the mess area. “You need a rest, Nancy. You’re dead on your feet.”

“Raven has to take the Flighthawks,” insisted the pilot as she gulped her coffee. It was the second cup she’d had since walking into the cafeteria area a few minutes before. “Fort Two isn’t set up for them.”

“I can fly Raven. Chris too. We’re both fresh.”

“It’s my responsibility,” said Cheshire.

“It’s going to be your responsibility if you crash the plane into the desert. Jeff, tell her.” Breanna glanced toward her husband. He looked worn as well, with deep creases on his forehead. And his flight suit was soaked through around his neck and shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“What don’t you know?” She wanted to scream at him – he was her husband, he should be supporting her.

But maybe that was why he wasn’t.

“Nancy, you can’t fly,” she said, turning to Cheshire.

“I can and I will,” said the major. Her eyes locked on Bree’s, and suddenly Breanna understood.

It was the woman thing. No way she could back down or out. she had to be as tough as the men.

Even though she was exhausted.

Against her best judgement, against her will even, Bree nodded.

“But maybe we should rotate the crew a little,” said Cheshire, eyes still locked on hers.

Bree jumped at it. “Yes, I’ll take the copilot slot. Sibert and Jones will fill the weapons and navigator positions.”

Cheshire started to shake her head.

“No, Bree’s right,” said Zen, finally coming to her defense. He looked up into her eyes as he spoke. “She should fly Raven. You’re beat.”

“She’ll fly copilot,” said Cheshire. She jumped up quickly, draining her coffee. “We’ll use Sibert and Jones. Rap is my copilot. That’s it.”

She marched off to get more coffee.

“Why the hell didn’t you back me up?” Breanna said to Jeff as soon as Cheshire was out of earshot.

“I did.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bree. I did back you up. Nancy’s fine.”

Her eyes caught his. He’d always believed in her before – encouraging her to pursue her career, to push herself into different planes. Now his faith had wavered. She could see doubt in his eyes.

“You’re beat yourself,” she told him.

“I’ll take greenies if I need to stay awake,” he said.

“Oh, and that’ll make you real sharp,” said Breanna, who knew that even that was a lie – Jeff wouldn’t take aspirin except at gunpoint. She got up and went to check on the plane.

Over the Mediterranean

24 October, 0600 local

“Okay, kid, you want to make yourself useful?” asked the Major.

Jed Barclay looked up from the bench chair in the ‘lounge’ compartment, a bulkhead in front of the ‘business’ area of the JSTARS jet. They’d been airborne now for nearly twelve hours – a routine assignment for the command and control aircraft, which had undergone extensive engine work following the Gulf War to make sure it could fly for more than a full day without coming down. The long gig had allowed them to keep track of developments in Libya and Egypt. Libya’s armed forces were now on full alert; Egypt remained on the fence, though some of its air units seemed to be a high degree of readiness – a good or bad sign, depending on how you wanted to interpret it.

“What do you need?” Jed asked.

“I need someone to handle communications with an Air Force unit called Raven,” said the major. “They’re part of Madcap Magician. My guys have enough to do with the Navy end.”

“Sure. They’re F-111’s?”

“From what I’ve been told, it’s a B-52.”

Jed nodded, guessing but not telling the Army officer that the plane must be an EB-52 – quite a different beast. The Megafortress’s existence was still technically classified. Hal Briggs had reported that two had been ‘loaned’ to him, ostensibly as high-speed transports. But Briggs obviously had found their capabilities irresistible.

The plane originated from a base near Las Vegas where he believed his cousin Jeff Stockard was stationed. Small world.

“All you have to do is sit at a console and talk to them. They won’t be on station for two or three hours, at show time,” added the major. He sounded almost apologetic. “And look, don’t touch anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hey, lighten up. I’m kidding. Besides, we got baby locks on the medicine cabinets.”

Near Tripoli

24 October, 0700 local

The Iranians pushed Gunny and Captain Howland out of the small plane moments after it rolled to a stop.

They were hustled into the back of an open-bed truck. Large bags of shredded paper and cardboard were thrown on them. a tarp was pulled over the bed and the truck roared away.

“What the fuck do you think this is about?” Gunny asked the pilot.

“Damned if I can guess,” answered Howland.

The truck took a sharp turn. Its wheels bumped over some harsh pavements, then hit a smooth patch. The driver floored it, sending them rolling backward.

“I think I’ll reconnoiter,” said Gunny when he regained his balance. he crawled toward the side of the truck and managed to poke his head up, but it was nearly impossible to see anything; not only was it dark, but they were moving extremely fast. He worked his way around to the tailgate. It didn’t look like they were being followed.

“What do you think, Captain? We’re not being guarded,” said Gunny, sliding back next to the pilot.

“I find that hard to believe,” said Howland. “Maybe we just can’t see them.”

“Yeah.” Gunny pushed himself toward the front of the truck, trying to peek up through the covering there. But he couldn’t find an opening and didn’t want to risk alerting their captors.

“They’re probably sneaking us into one of their prisons,” said Howland. “Maybe they’re staging something near the plane. Whatever that commotion was when we took off from Sudan probably tipped them that they’re under surveillance.”

Gunny wasn’t particularly interested in theories. “We might be able to jump for it,” he suggested.

“Then what do we do?”

“Then we escape.”

“If we’re in Libya,” said Howland, who had worked out their direction en route, “we’re also probably in the middle of the desert. We’ll die of thirst inside a day.”

“Better than dying on TV for them,” said Gunny.

“Maybe,” said the pilot.

Before either of them could say or do anything else, they truck veered sharply to the right. They rolled against each other and then the side. Gunny pushed himself upward just as the truck came to a stop.

“Shit,” he said.

Men were shouting. The tarp and bags were whisked off. Two spotlights clicked on, blinding the Americans.

“This way. Out of the trucks. Quickly,” said a man holding a pistol. “Into the shelter or you will enter as dead men.”

Gunny and the pilot were pulled down by three of four Libyan soldiers, who pushed them toward a set of cement stairs. Perhaps they were in the middle of a desert, but the stairway smelled like a swamp. At the bottom, two men without weapons but with arms the size of elephant trunks muscled them into a room barely the size of a closet. There were no furniture; two bare lightbulbs in steel cages were shone down from the ceiling, eight feet above.

One of the men pointed to the floor, indicating they should sit. Gunny lowered himself reluctantly, wondering if he ought to fight. But even if they made it past these gorillas, there were at least six soldiers with automatic rifles in the hallway outside.

A soldier – this one short and frail-looking – entered carrying two trays of food. Each tray had a large bowl of fruit, another of mushy buckwheat, a third of grilled lamb. There were pitas and large bottles of cold water.

Howland picked up one of the bottles as the steel door slammed shut. They were alone.

“They’d just shoot us,” the pilot told Gunny as he drained about half the bottle. “They wouldn’t waste poison.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right,” said Gunny, still eyeing the food. “Assuming this shit is edible.”

“It’s probably pretty good,” said Howland, poking the meat with the bread. “The condemned always eat well.”

“Yeah. That’s one way of looking at it.” Gunny picked up what seemed to be an orange, peeled away the skin, and took a bite.

It was an orange, or close enough. He devoured it. Then he ate some of the fruit and two pieces of the pita bread. Satiated, he put his back against the cement wall. He’d caught some z’s on the plane and didn’t think he was particularly tired, but he began to drift off. At one point he woke to Howland’s loud snore, then nodded off again.

At some point, he dreamed that the door reopened. The man who had brought them the food reappeared, taking the trays. Then the gorillas appeared and pulled both Gunny and Howland roughly to their feet, pushing them back into the hallway. Gunny seemed to fly to a narrow flight of stairs, descending down another passage covered on all four sides with a thick brown coir carpet.

At the end of the hall, Gunny saw that Howland was with him. They stepped into an eight-by-eight room with smooth whitewashed plaster walls and a thick tan wool carpet. The room had been turned into a television studio – two chairs were set up beneath a lighting bar. Two cameras with camera operators stood opposite them. Monitors were positioned so anyone sitting in the chairs could watch themselves. the six soldiers who had been escorting them filed in behind.

“You will sit in the chairs and respond when questioned,” said a voice from above. “Your trial will begin shortly.”

“Am I dreaming?” Gunny asked Howland.

“No. They’re going to televise this,” said the pilot. “This is happening.”

“Shit,” said Melfi, shaking his head, trying to get his wits back. He was truly awake, all of this was real. “And I always wondered what it would be like to be on TV. Shit.”

Libya

24 October, 0929

It took nearly four hours to cover the roughly two thousand miles from their base in Ethiopia to southern Libya, not counting the aerial refuel shortly after takeoff. Jennifer Gleason and Jeff spent the entire time running through a set of changes for the Flighthawk programming that would keep the U/MFs separated from their mother ship during fail-safe mode. Jennifer’s fingers dashed over the small keyboard at her station, stopping only so she could wade deeper into the notes she’d made on her yellow pads. Jeff helped read back some of the commands and numbers. Most of it was in machine-code assembler level; he didn’t have a clue what he was reading.

Jennifer also had an idea about adding to the compression routines in the command system, in essence widening the communications bandwidth and lengthening the distance they could operate from the mother ship. At one point she started to explain it, but Jeff just waved her off.

“Tell me what to do,” he said. “I don’t have to understand it. There’s not time.”

She gave him a tap on the shoulder and went back to work. They completed the work with fifteen minutes to spare before the drop point.

Jeff climbed aboard the Hawks, running through the preflight checks. He was so tired now that fatigue felt like a piece of clothing around his upper body, heavy and warm.

“Drop point at zero-two,” said Breanna over the Megafortress’s interphone circuit.

“We’re here already?” answered Jeff, honestly surprised.

“Looks like it.”

They ran through the flight and weather data, following their launch protocol precisely. With everything dash-one, Cheshire put the plane into a zero-alpha maneuver, nosing it as she accelerated. The Flighthawks dropped off the wings on cue and Zen began working them onto their flight paths, roaring downward across the still-peaceful Libyan countryside. The sun glinted in his view screen as the planes picked up speed. They were at eighteen and twenty-two thousand feet respectively, well separated in the cloudless sky.

“SEAL commander on the circuit,” advised Cheshire. “Along with Cascade.”

“Hawks are green,” said Zen.

“So’s Big Bear,” said the SEAL commander, using the SEAL team’s call sign.

“Acknowledged.” Jeff thought the voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it belonged to Cascade, a crewman aboard the JSTARS electronic command plane in the southern Mediterranean. Cascade was communicating with Raven and the SEALs through a secure satellite system, linking the feeds from the Flighthawks to the Navy commandos. “Silent com until zero-two.”

The line snapped clear. The gear seemed to have a way of scrubbing sound right out of the wires, as if the airwaves were erased.

Jeff clicked the button to get back to his intercom circuit.

“Twenty minutes,” he told the crew. “Smoke ’em if ya got ’em.”

“As long as they’re not your sneakers,” answered Breanna.

Jeff laughed. She used to say that all the time.

The Osprey’s tilt wings began pitching upward as the craft banked toward the mountain pass. Danny could feel the heat of the desert through the skin of the plane as he waited for it to land. The plan had called for them to land on a small plateau on the other side of the hill, but the pilot had seen someone there as they approached.

Talcom gripped his SAW so tightly Danny thought he was going to snap his fingers through it. He reached over to the sergeant and gently put his hand on the machine gun.

“Nice and easy,” he told Powder.

Sand and pebbles began whipping against the body of the Osprey. Talcom and some of the others winced, obviously thinking it was rifle fire.

“Nice and easy,” Danny repeated to his men as the rear door began to open.

Breanna kept one eye on her instrument panel and the other on her commander. Cheshire was definitely tired, but she was on top of her game. She’d held Raven steady through the Flighthawk release, performing the launch maneuvers flawlessly and without help from either Rap or the Megafortress’s autopilot. She continued to work carefully, reviewing nav data and making a minute adjustment to her course.

The radar-warning receivers in Raven had several times the range and about ten times the selectivity of Fort Two’s. They were now within a hundred miles of two large ground-intercept radars just south of Tripoli; the threat screen showed that Raven could get within twenty miles and still look like a misplaced seagull to the ground radar; after that, the computer painted a ‘path of least observance’ that would take the EB-52 to within about five miles before it was likely to be detected.

The real value of the fancy gear would come when the assault started. Raven would put its custom-made gallium arsenic chips to work jamming the sensors, adding its fuzz to the electronic noise from a pair of Navy EA-6 Prowlers. Every radar and most of the TVs in North Africa would be toast.

“Hawks are zero-five from commitment. We’re green all around,” said Jeff.

Breanna, who always had a hard time thinking of herself as a copilot, began to click her mike button to respond, then let go as Cheshire acknowledged. The major gave her a smile, then turned back ahead, studying the clear sky.

Jennifer Gleason said something to Jeff about one of the computer readings. Breanna felt the muscles in her back tense at the girlish lilt in the scientist’s voice. If she ever washed out as a scientist, Gleason would have no trouble finding a job doing telephone sex.

“We’re picking up some interesting transmission,” said the weapons officer. “Have something in grid B-2 just beyond the mountains.”

“Radar?” asked Cheshire.

“No. Some sort of microwave, but I can’t quite pin down the source from this distance. It’s encrypted. Lot of data, like it’s a video feed. It’s coming from the middle of nowhere. You want me to record it?”

“Negative,” said the pilot. “Don’t waste your time.”

“I’m also getting audio for a video feed that’s being beamed out of Tripoli,” he added. “I think it’s our trial.”

God, thought Bree. Poor Mack. His parents would hear him, probably see him, on CNN. The tape would be shown over and over and over.

“Yeah, shit. I have a sound track. Getting a location. I can pinpoint it. Hang on.”

The sophisticated tracking in Raven allowed him to plot a radar source within .0003 meters – roughly a tenth of an inch – once he locked and tracked it. The process took anywhere from forty-five seconds to five minutes.

“You want to hear this? Damn, it is the trial. It’s in English.”

“No,” snapped Breanna.

“Neither do I,” said Cheshire. “Run through the emergency tanker locations and frequencies for me.”

It took Bree a second to realize Cheshire was talking to her. She turned her eyes to the right instrument panel, where the fuel burn as well as the reserves were projected. Personally serviced by Greasy Hands before takeoff, the ancient TF33-P-3’s were humming better than the day they left the shop in 1962.

“We’re running a few hundred pounds ahead,” she told Cheshire. “So I don’t think we need to –”

The major turned her head toward her without saying anything.

“I’m sorry,” said Breanna, reaching for the data on the tankers.

Danny hit the ground a few feet behind Talcom, not sure whether is sergeant had seen something or was just being cautious. They were still a good twenty feet from the plateau, approaching from the blind side.

“Team, hold,” he said, speaking softly but distinctly so the communicator pinned to his collar could pick up his command. Bison was about five yards behind him. Liu and Pretty Boy were working their way around the other side.

“Thought I saw something,” whispered Talcom.

Danny had contemplated sending the Osprey around from the front to draw the attention of any Libyans while they came around from the flanks. He’d rejected the idea, however – if the aircraft was shot down they were in serious trouble.

“I’m coming to you,” he told Talcom, raising his body. He took a crouching step toward the sergeant’s chocolate-chip fatigue, then another, then trotted ahead and slid in.

“I can get over them,” said Talcom, pointing upward. A jagged rock face rose above nearly fifty feet. There looked to be few if any handholds.

“Hell of a climb.” said Freah.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said the sergeant. “We’ll trade weapons. You just cover my ass if they come for me.”

Danny eyed the rock wall doubtfully, but then gave Talcom the MP-5, which was shorted and much lighter than the SAW. He helped him snug it against his back.

“Wish I brought my climbing shoes,” said the sergeant, starting upward.”

“Powder’s going to try to get some height on them,” Freah told the others. “Liu, you and Floyd hold on until Powder’s up. Nurse, you on the circuit?”

No answer. The Dreamland-engineered radio system had a good range, but perhaps they were asking it to do too much with the jagged terrain.

“Hernandez, you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Cap.”

“You see Liu?”

“I can see them, but I can’t hear them,” Hernandez hissed into the miniature microphone. “Nothing, Captain,” he said finally.

“Can you get close enough to tell them to hold on until Powder’s in position?”

“Gotcha, Cap.”

Danny glanced at the firing mechanism of the gun, as if reorienting himself to the machine gun. Powder had already climbed nearly halfway up the rock. Slowly, Freah began to crawl to his right, coming around the face where he could have an angle at anyone trying to attack his man.

The communicator suddenly cracked with an ungodly noise. A submachine gun began firing from the other side of the hill and something exploded upward. Danny pitched up the barrel of his gun, and had already begun firing at the dark shadows above before he realized what was going on.

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” he said.

The crackle over the radio was laughter.

“Buzzards,” Powder was saying. “There’s a fucking nest of vultures on the ledge. Liu toasted three of them, but another got away.”

“I thought he had a marksman badge,” somebody said with a laugh as Danny’s hearbeat returned to normal.

Zen was in Hawk One’s cockpit now, barely twenty feet over the tallest building in downtown Tripoli. He flung himself back toward the outskirts of the capital, feeding live video back to the JSTARS and from there to the SEALS, already en route from the Mediterranean. The route had been carefully chosen, with intricate zigs and zags to avoid defenses; whoever had laid it out had done a damn good job, because he didn’t notice anything deadlier than a water pistol. Nudging his sticks left, Zen put himself on a direct line to the bunker, now less than three miles away.

As critical as the video was for the SEAL team following him in, a good hunk of Jeff’s attention was pasted on the threat indicator in the bottom left visor screen. He was whizzing through green and yellow fingers, ducking an array of radars as he came in. the jammers weren’t set to go on until the SEALs were almost overhead.

A large ring of concrete appeared on his left. A lollipop of a road led to it, lined with tanks and missile launchers.

“SA-6 radar active, attempting to lock,” warned the computer. “Scanning.”

Thirteen seconds to his turn point. He had to crisscross the to of the bunker, catching two air-exchange units with the camera. Then he’d jump to Hawk Two, concentrating on antiair guns at the west end of the complex.

The computer continued to count down the programmed course for him. He took the turn, pushing the throttle for the last ounce of thrust.

Everything was a gray blur, even the bunker facility. He clocked past, noted a set of missiles that hadn’t appeared on the satellite.

“Computer, Hawk Two optical feed in visor,” he said, pushing the computer disengage switch at the stick base as he did. “Computer, take Hawk One on programmed course.”

The images instantly switched, and he saw the world again, as if he’d jumped back in time, not location. A large 57mm gun loomed straight ahead, turning. A row of antiaircraft weapons were arrayed at ten o’clock in the view screen, looking like sewer pipes in a supply yard.

“Team One is inbound. Thirty seconds,” reported Cascade.

The guns started to move.

“Jamming now,” said Raven’s operator.

“They’re firing,” reported Jeff.

Two Navy Prowlers as well as Raven clicked on their fuzzbusters. The interference was so severe the U/MF control computer immediately complained, giving him a red light on the radar altimeter and then warning that it was having trouble maintaining the connection with Hawk One.

“Raven, I need us closer to the Flighthawks,” said Jeff, switching back into Hawk One as Two completed the run of the antiair guns. He flew up the coast, the plane responding well to his controls despite the computer’s admonitions that the signal was degrading.

Somewhere offshore in the JSTARS, the operations coordinators were studying Zen’s feed to make sure they had all of the SAM sites properly targeted. They were like defensive coordinators sitting in the press box during a football game, checking to make sure the blitz they’d called would work.

It did. With a vengeance.

Jeff caught the shadows of laser-guided missiles closing in on the SAM sites as he began to turn Hawk One south. The Libyans hadn’t had a chance to launch.

Secondaries.

Turbulence.

A lot of shit down there.

He was between the two planes, spreading out over the coast. Fuel good, heavy air, almost stormy. His controls felt a little sloppy. Maybe it was the computer reacting to the wide spectrum of ECMs.

He could handle it. Zen nudged the stick up. The signal bar on Hawk One flittered into the red area, got strong again.

“Jeff, they’re asking for another pass on the bunker,” said Jennifer. Her voice seemed to descend from the clouds.

Zen told the computer to bring Hawk One closer. Then he pulled Hawk Two back in the other direction, away from Raven under a heavy cloud of black smoke and exploding tracers. Helos were coming from the northeast; he saw a pair of Sea Cobra attack helos letting loose with rockets on an official building a half mile from the bunker. Jeff hunkered down, pushing his head into the windscreen, backing off the throttle, slowing down for the longest possible look at the bunker.

The east side of the facility was defended only by an armored car. He tilted his wing and banked off, the assault helicopters right behind.

He circled, watching them land. Raven was almost overhead now, beginning to orbit back. Hawk One flew in its set position behind the left wing. Jeff pushed Two around, came in on the bunker once more as the SEALs blew the cover on the southwest air-exchange portal. They immediately began disappearing down the large vertical shaft.

A second Seahawk came in over the back entrance of the bunker. An armored car moved toward them.

Zen was nearly lined up for a shot with the U/MF’s cannon. He prodded the throttle slide but before he could activate his cannon, one of the Sea Cobras obliterated the vehicle.

“They’re in!” shouted someone over the command circuit.

“How’s the trial going now?” said Breanna sarcastically.

“It’s still going,” said the weapons officer, surprised.

Zen saw the main entrance to the bunker implode as he began a fresh circuit. Three satellite dishes collapsed with the dust as the front half of the football-side-sized upper building collapsed.

Had he said the trial was still going?

He pushed Hawk Two into a rolling dive to reverse course and overfly the bunker again.

“Missiles launched! Flak batteries are shooting unguided in grid A-1. Evasive maneuvers,” said the weapons officer.

“Losing control connection for Hawk Two!” warned the Flighthawk computer.

“Nancy, we need to double back,” said Zen as he struggled to put Hawk Two’s camera on the bunker complex. He jerked his right hand instead of his left, cursed at the infinitesimal delay.

“We have SA-2’s in the air,” said Cheshire calmly.

“Jam them.”

“We are. But we’re not taking any unnecessary risks now that the team is down. Evasive maneuvers.”

Zen felt himself being pushed sideways as the Megafortress beamed the SAM site’s pulse-Doppler radar. He lost Hawk Two and had to throw One’s throttle to the firewall to try to keep up with the EB-52. The Libyans had launched no less than twelve of the high-altitude surface-to-air missiles at them. while the Megafortress’s ECMs had no trouble thwarting their radars, there were an awful lot of them in the air, just dodging the debris was a chore.

Sixty 57mm antiaircraft guns were filling the air below the missiles with lead and cordite. The flak rose in plumes, hot coals for Raven and the U/MF to dance across.

The computer brought Hawk Two into a wide arc south of Raven as Jeff flew Hawk One to the east, cutting back on an intercept as an SA-2 exploded overhead. Sweat poured from Jeff’s neck and back as the small U/MF began to jitter up and down, buffeted by a second explosion he hadn’t seen or anticipated. He gunned the throttle, but got no response; the plane suddenly began nosing down and he tasted metal in his mouth, felt his stomach go sour with a wave of dread. For a moment he thought he was going in – he saw ground loom and shapes dance, and his head began to spin. Then the U/MF picked herself up and he had only blue sky in front of him; he was clear, accelerating and climbing. The Megafortress was a bare two miles ahead.

“SEAL teams have secured the perimeter,” reported Cascade. “SEAL teams are inside, encountering only token resistance.”

“The prisoners aren’t in the bunker,” said Zen. He was on the interphone; only the others aboard Raven could hear him. “Where was that encrypted video transmission?”

“About fifty miles, south by southeast,” said the weapons officer.

“Jeff?”

“Bree, get us back there. That’s where Smith and the others must be.”

“No offense, Major, but I’m flying this plane,” said Cheshire.

“I’m sorry, Nancy. The bunker is a bluff. The trial broadcast didn’t stop when the satellites were hit.”

“He’s right,” said the weapons officer.

“Why do you think it’s coming from that site and not somewhere else in Tripoli?”

“It’s just a guess. Intuition,” said Jeff. The computer noted that Hawk Two was now ‘fully communicative,” and he acknowledged, though leaving it under the computer’s command in the trail position. “The Navy’s covering Tripoli. Let’s go.”

“Jeff, you’re talking about deviating from our flight plan based on a hunch,” said Cheshire.

“I trust hunches,” said Breanna. “And I trust Jeff.”

Thanks, babe, he thought as Cheshire jerked the Megafortress onto the new course.

Over the Mediterranean

24 October, 1050 local

Jed sat back at the JSTARS console while Ms. O’Day left her desk in the White House Situation Room to take another call. The attack on Tripoli, planned by Madcap Magician and carried out mostly by the Navy, was still proceeding. But already Saudi and Syrian governments had taken to the back channels to assure Washington that they had no interest in the Greater Islamic League.

It helped that they trusted neither the Iranians nor the Libyans. It also helped that America was demonstrating how easy it was to obliterate nearly a billion dollars’ worth of military equipment.

Now if they could only complete the rescue.

“Jed, are you still there?” asked Ms. O’Day, coming back on the line.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, sitting back at the console. The major was waving at him – he was needed on the other lines, where he was helping the SWAT team and Raven in contact with each other.

“Do they have our men?”

“Not yet,” he told her.

“When?”

“Maybe soon,” he said. The major was waving violently. “Ms. O’Day, I’m sorry, I have to go,” he said, cutting her off by switching the simple twist knob that controlled the circuit input on the panel in front of him.

Felt weird. He’d never cut off his boss before.

What if the President had been listening in?

“Cascade, this is Big Bear. Can you get Raven to give us a feed on the base area?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” he said. He looked around for the major, but he’d gone off to help someone else. “Hang on.”

The screen before him was a live situation map. It showed Raven heading south, away from Tripoli.

Shit. Why the hell were they doing that? And where the hell were their prisoners?

Obviously not in the bunker, if Big Bear was looking for a feed.

“Bear, I’m going to have to get back to you,” said Jed, twisting into the Megafortress’s frequency.

Libya

24 October, 0955 local

Even with the Steiner glasses, they were much too far from the action to see anything, not even smoke on the horizon, though all of the Whiplash members fixed their eyes in the direction of the coast. The Osprey pilot had moved the rotorcraft to the foot of the hill and was monitoring the raid via the SATCOM circuit back to the JSTARS command plane. He’d alerted Danny when the raid started; laconic to a fault, he remained silent as the attack continued.

The desert before them gave a little hint of the battle raging seventy miles away. The sand seemed permanent, uncaring; the only sign of mankind was a highway about twelve miles to the northeast, as barren and destitute a stretch as Danny could imagine.

“Captain Freah, Raven is hailing you,” said the Osprey pilot over the com set.

“Patch me through.” Freah stood and looked directly down over the side of the cliff, as if that would somehow help the pilot turn and switch and allow the connection.

“Raven proceed.”

“Danny, this is Breanna Stockard. Are you on the line?”

“Affirmative,” said Freah. He could feel his heart pounding now in every part of his body, worried that the Megafortress had been hit.

“Stand by for Major Stockard,” Bree told him.

“Captain, we have an encrypted microwave signal being beamed to a satellite from a grid in B-2, we think about eight miles easy of you. What do we have there big enough to house a transmitter?”

“Stand by.”

Freah dropped to his knees, carefully pulling the maps and satellite images from his rucksack. There were only two candidates. One was a small military post, the other an abandoned railroad depot with some old warehouses and support buildings. The sites were separated by about a mile and a half. He gave the positions.

“What do you think of checking them out?” Zen asked.

“We’re en route,” said Danny, not even waiting for the explanation as he signaled his men to reboard the Osprey.

The broadcast had ended a few minutes ago, before they were able to pinpoint it; both sites were close enough to have been the source. Zen worked Hawk Two ahead toward the coordinates of the military base that Freah had supplied. It seemed logical to start there.

The threat screen was blank. Gray asphalt rose beyond the desert sand, bounded by trenches and a ramshackle fence. Two long, dull yellow buildings stood at the far right; a pair of ancient antiair guns were behind sandbags in the middle of the installation. Behind one of the buildings was an earth station, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence.

“Losing command link!” warned the computer.

“Jen, I thought you said we increased our control distance.” Zen throttled back. The signal-indicator bar slowly began to climb. “I’m having trouble at seven miles now.”

“I’m not sure what the problem is,” she yelled, working over the control. “We should be fat.”

“Yeah, Raven, can you bring our distance parameter on the U/MFs to within five miles?”

“Affirmative,” said Cheshire. “We’re dropping to ten thousand feet, staying on your programmed flight path. Cascade is trying to hail us. What should I tell them?”

“The truth – we’re on a wild-goose chase.”

Jeff started Hawk Two on a slow orbit around the base perimeter. Hawk One, meanwhile, was approaching the abandoned railroad warehouse. He toggled the view, saw nothing, went back to Two.

This sure did look like a wild-goose chase. Dust blew across the military base. Place looked like it hadn’t been occupied since World War Two. He scanned for a radar dish, saw nothing.

Hawk Two’s indicated airspeed dropped past two hundred knots, still falling. Zen walked over the gun emplacements. Damn things looked like they were rusted. Good trick in the desert.

Probably left by the Germans. Rommel had been out here, right?

He told the computer to take Hawk Two back to trail, and flipped back into Hawk One just as it closed to within two miles of the old railroad depot. He slipped down the throttle. Raven was five miles away, closing fast.

The terminal building’s roof was missing, but the warehouses looked intact as he approached. One of the smaller houses was just a collection of debris. There were two fairly large ones, maybe a hundred feet long apiece, at the edge of the track area. Between them there was a smaller, gray building, low-slung in the desert. It seemed to have collapsed or been swallowed by the terrain.

But was that a microwave dish next to it?

Zen pushed the throttle to close in. As he did, the roof of the nearest warehouse began to disintegrate. The thing seemed to be alive.

The radar-warning indicator flashed red. In the next instant, the sky perforated with explosions. Zen had walked into a minefield. A bank of antiaircraft artillery weapons had been hidden beneath the carefully camouflaged fake roofs of the warehouses.

“Whiplash, Target Two is hot. Hotter than hell! yelled Jeff, goosing the throttle.

They rode toward the volcano, watching the massed fury of two dozen antiaircraft erupting upward. Raven jammed the radars, but the gunners flailed anyway. Danny, hunched over the pilots on the Osprey flight deck, saw the small Flighthawk ducking and weaving in the sky ahead, spinning back and forth like a peregrine falcon eyeing a kill. Major Stockard was trying to keep the gunners’ attention focused on the miniature plane, not the rapidly approaching assault team.

“Ten seconds,” said the Osprey pilot. “Target building is dead ahead. I see a stairway down. Shit! I’ll get you as close as I can.”

“Okay! Okay!” Danny shouted. He spun back to his men, trying to hold down the bile and adrenaline. “We got stairs down to a bunker, I’m guessing.”

“Vehicles coming up out of a ramp near the warehouses!” yelled the copilot.

“Get us down! Get us down!” Danny insisted. He was wearing the com device, but he yelled anyway. The Osprey pitched and weaved, swirling in the air. A second volcano opened up just to their right, bullets hissing like team. The rear door began opening even though the Osprey was still ten feet off the ground. Power leaped out.

“TV time!” yelled Danny, jumping out with Liu.

“Take him out! Take him out! There’s a machine gun on the steps! Shit! Duck! Duck!” Powder screamed.

Gunny heard the rumble of the antiaircraft batteries above. The entire complex shuddered.

“About fucking time,” he said to the pilot on the metal chair next to him. “Hey, you got any more questions before we go?” he called to the disembodied voice that had been questioning them from unseen speakers.

In the next second, the complex went dark. One of the camera technicians screamed.

“Hit the deck!” shouted Gunny. He reached to pull Howland down, got nothing but air. He found the captain on the ground.

“What now?” said Howland.

“Find a Sommie and get his gun,” said the Marine, crawling toward the door.

Raven took out the first battery with a pair of JSOWs, even though they were nearly on top of it. Zen barely managed to get Hawk One away from the second bank of ZSUs as the roof of the warehouse opened and the flak dealers began peppering the air.

“Wing damage, Hawk Two,” warned the computer.

Zen could feel it. Hawk Two began to wobble, threatening to yaw out of control.

Time to eject.

Shit, he yelled at himself. I’m half a mile away.

The computer helped stabilize the plane, but the damage was severe, and went well beyond the wing. Zen opened the warning/status screen; he had multiple hits, pending systems failures in the control and engine sections. Power was dropping rapidly.

Destroy the Flighthawk?

Better to land if he could. Whiplash could take it with them, lashing it beneath the Osprey.

He cold always hit the self-destruct switch later.

Jeff did a quick check on Hawk One, just to make sure the computer had it under control; then he jumped back into Hawk Two. She was jerking up and down, wrestling with the air instead of gliding through it. he fought the wings level and aimed toward a nice flat piece of sand a quarter mile ahead. As gently as he could, he put her down on her belly, skidding and then spinning to a stop.

“We have the location marked,” Jennifer said.

“Yeah,” said Jeff.

He put himself into Hawk One, pulling the plane over him as the new image kicked into the top of his screen.

“JSTARS is sending reinforcements,” said Cheshire.

“You have to keep me close,” he told her, pushing the Flighthawk lower and back toward the flak.

Danny turned as a grenade whizzed from Liu’s launcher. There was a low, dull explosion and everything started moving in slow motion. He ran toward the building, ignoring the canvas-backed truck that had come out from the other side. There was a stairwell down; he grabbed the red metal pipe blocking off the side and swung himself down into the hole.

Powder had beaten him there. He was standing in front of the doorway inside a small alcove. He waved his right hand at Freah to stay back, then gripped his SAW at the handle. The door swung out toward them.

A set of metal steps led downward. Freah, leaping ahead of Talcom, took two at a time. A metal door at the bottom gave way as soon as he butted it with his machine gun; he stopped stooped and rolled in a concussion grenade.

If they’d had a chance to plan this, to work the whole thing out, they’d probably by going in with masks, smoking the bastards out.

But hell, if they’d a chance to plan the damn thing out, they wouldn’t be the ones doing the attack.

“I got ya, I got ya,” said Powder, taking a covering position as Danny plunged into the dark hall.

Nothing. No fire. nothing. He ran for all he was worth.

“Door!” he heard himself yell. Powder was on top of him, throwing him down and in the same instant punching the door with the machine gun, ducking, rolling.

Two men fell out behind the doorway.

Light up ahead.

“We’re taking fire up here,” said Liu over the com set.

“Hold your positions.”

“We are. Delta’s en route.”

“Room’s empty,” yelled Powder. Danny started moving down the hall. The boron-carbide vest gave him a dangerous sense of invulnerability – a foolish sense, since he knew that while the vest could stop point-blank machine gun fire, it covered less than fifty percent of his body.

They came to a T. Both hallways were dark. Smoke curled at his nostrils, made him sneeze.

“Which way we goin’?” asked Powder.

“You that way. I’m this way,” Danny said, wiping his nose.

“And I’ll meet ya in the mornin’,” said Powder, pushing forward.

Gunny grabbed the soldier’s leg, yanking him to the ground. He grabbed for a gun, cursing as he realized he’d found one of the unarmed camera people instead of a soldier.

“This way. They’ve all left,” the pilot was shouting. “Stay low –”

“Damn Air Force. Bunch of know-it-alls,” grumbled the sergeant as he scooted for the doorway.

“Missiles!” Jeff yelled as his RWR lit up. A Libyan Roland mobile antiaircraft batter had just activated its radar from inside a disguised post at the south end of the complex.

“We’re out of JSOWs!” warned the weapons officer.

“Evasive action,” said Cheshire.

“No!” yelled Zen. “I can nail them! Keep me close. I’ll get them with the Flighthawk’s cannon.

“We’re too vulnerable here, even with the ECMs.”

“The Roland will take out the Delta Osprey if I don’t nail it,” said Zen.

Someone shouted something back, but he’d stopped listening. He was in the U/MF now, butt tied to its seat, pushing for the dish spiking the mother ship.

The tanklike launcher sat behind a low wall a mile ahead. Its two-armed turret twisted toward the Flighthawk, its parabolic head spinning as it got a lock.

“Weapon,” he told the computer.

The cannon bar appeared at the top of the screen.

Yellow, yellow. Red.

Locked.

Too soon, Jeff told himself, remembering how optimistic the gun radar was. Wait until you can’t possibly miss.

The Roland seemed to move downward. There was a puff of smoke.

It had fired a missile.

The bar suddenly went yellow. His targeting radar was being jammed, probably by Raven itself.

“Boresight,” Jeff ordered. He’d fire manually. The site cleared to a manual cross with a square aiming cue.

He was too high. He nudged, now less than a quarter mile away, moving incredibly fast through the haze.

Zen squeezed, saw the line of bullets move out ever so slowly, impossibly slowly toward the tank, saw the first one get the dish, saw the second, the third begin to unzip the metal as he nudged his aim point lower, the metal hissing.

Nailed the son of a bitch.

Breanna felt the Megafortress slipping from their grip as they were buffeted by a wave of flak. Two missiles were in the air behind them; there was so much going on it was impossible to keep everything sorted.

“Roland on our butt!” yelled the weapons officer. “I’ve handed off the ECM to auto mode, but we’re not shaking it. Watch the flak! We’re too damn low!”

Cheshire cursed, cranking the Megafortress into a tight turn, once more trying to beam the missile’s persistent guidance system. The fact that the German-built antiair weapon was a known commodity wasn’t making it easy to evade. The ECMs were blaring, there was more tinsel in the air than on a dozen Christmas trees, and still the damn thing was coming for them.

“Hold on,” barked Cheshire.

In the next second she slammed the Megafortress in a full-bore dive, plunging straight for the earth. Finally confused, the Roland continued on for ten yards – but ten yards only. Realizing it had missed, its onboard circuitry lit the warhead.

Raven was shaken, but unbowed. Cheshire rolled out at two thousand feet.

Right into a wall of flak.

Rap heard the pops next to her, the sound of an old-fashioned percolator kicking up a fresh pot of coffee. Something flashed in front of her.

For a second she blanked. Then she realized she was shaking her head, her hand on Raven’s yoke. The plane followed her nudge to the right.

“Jesus, that was close,” she told Cheshire.

The major didn’t answer. Bree glanced to the right and saw the pilot slumped forward in he seat. A good portion of the cockpit and fuselage lay beyond her had been mangled by triple-A.

Danny pushed his back against the wall as he edged further into the complex. The com unit had gone dead; the guns seemed to have stopped. The hallway was filled with a dull red light, perhaps from an emergency lighting system further on.

A shape loomed ahead. He leveled the MP-5 at it, saw something flash.

A bee whizzed by him in the hall. Something ripped the floor next to him.

He squeezed off a burst. The shadow fell backward.

When nothing else came from behind the shadow, Danny slipped further along the wall. The Libyan soldier had fallen face-first, his AK-47 beneath him. Freah kicked the man, making sure he was dead.

He heard something ten yards ahead. He slid down, holding his breath.

Two shadows appeared, hugging the far wall. He raised his gun in their direction.

“I sure as shit hope you’re a fuckin’ American,” said a low grunt.

“Hands up and move forward, fast!” he ordered.

“Gunnery Sergeant James Rocardo Melfi,” announced the first shape, lunging toward him. “And this is Captain Howland.”

“Where’s Smith?” asked Danny.

“We haven’t seen him since Sudan,” said Gunny. “What the hell took you girls so long?”

“We had to do our hair,” said Danny.

Zen swung Hawk One around the edge of the complex, gunning for Raven’s wing. He was at Bingo fuel. It was a long way back to base; if they didn’t set sail soon the Ospreys would be towing both U/MFs home.

But at least they’d be able to. The Roland was off the air. And the stream of antiaircraft had finally run dry.

“I need to get home or refuel, Nancy,” Jeff said, punching the intercom. “You know what? As soon as that flight of F-14 Tomcats gets here, let’s set course for that emergency base in Greece. My fuel won’t be so tight. I’ll meet you at fifteen thousand, okay?”

“I don’t know that we can make fifteen thousand,” answered Breanna. “We’re chewed up pretty bad, Jeff. Triple-A chewed through the fuselage while we were trying to get under the SAMs. Nancy got hit, and she’s at least unconscious, if not worse. I’m still assessing damage up here.”

“Are you okay, Bree?”

He felt his heart leaping out toward the front of the plane. He felt like he was a million miles from her, as if he were here and she were back at Dreamland.

“I’m intact,” she said. “How about you?”

“As intact as I get,” he managed. His hands were starting to shake; he gave control over to the computer, settling the Hawk into a shadow trail.

“Hey, Bree?”

“Yeah, Jeff?”

“I love you.”

“Me too, baby. Me too.”

Tripoli

24 October, 0655 local

As they got out of the helicopter, flames erupted from the building behind them. Tripoli was apparently under attack; the Imam’s Allah had apparently stopped smiling at him.

One of the guards turned quickly, ducking with his weapon. The other pushed Mack down toward a set of cement steps that led to a long dock. Pleasure craft were arrayed in a marina to the left.

To the right, an ancient Piaggio flying boat strained a mooring at the end of the wooden gangplank. Mack took a step toward it, then threw himself down as a pair of F/A-18’s screamed less than a hundred feet overhead, en route to a target further inland.

The Imam pulled him to his feet. His voice remained resolute, but for the first time since Somalia he made it obvious that he had a pistol in his loose-fitting sleeve.

“Into the airplane,” said the Iraina.

“Who’s flying?” asked Mack.

“You,” the Iranian said, motioning toward the seaplane. The Piaggio’s cockpit sat in front of a high wing flanked by two overhead engines. “There has been a change of plans.”

“Why don’t we just stay with the helicopter?” Mack asked. He guessed that it didn’t have the range to go where they were going – they’d had to stop several times along the way to refuel.

“You asked too many questions, Major. Go.”

“I don’t know that I can fly it,” Knife told him.

The Imam lifted his arm, placing the gun next to Mack’s ear.

“I’ve never flown a seaplane before,” said Mack, half hoping to see a Marine – maybe even Gunny – pop up from the water. “I can’t remember the last time I flew anything with a propeller.”

Mack was telling the truth, but as a pair of attack jets screamed overhead, he realized he couldn’t stall much longer.

The Imam’s guards were up by the road; they weren’t coming aboard the plane. Climb in, take off, then find some way to dump his captor.

“I’m telling the truth,” said Mack, ducking as another jet screamed overhead. “I don’t know if I can fly this thing right.”

“I will pray that it all comes easily to you,” said the Iranian, gesturing with his pistol.

“Well in that case, let’s go for it,” said Knife, starting down the dock.

Libya

24 October, 1020

Raven was mangled, but flyable. The right stabilizer was missing a good stretch of skin. One of the leading-edge flaps on the right wing had locked itself into a two-degree pitch, but the Megafortress’s fly-by-wire controls were able to compensate for the problems so well that Breanna hadn’t realized it until Jeff brought the Flighthawk up to examine the battle damage. Jennifer Gleason, meanwhile, had come up and helped Major Cheshire, cleaning her wounds and making her comfortable, or as comfortable as someone could be while staring at a mangled cockpit wall. The wind roared at the jagged gash in the hull, adding a squeal t o the rumble of the Pratt & Whitneys, as long as they kept their altitude and speed relatively low, Rap didn’t think they’d have a problem. She set course for Greece, the Flighthawk pushing ahead like an Indian scout checking the area for an approaching wagon train.

“Raven, this is Whiplash leader, understand you took some serious hits,” said Danny Freah, punching into their line from the Osprey.

“Affirmative,” said Breanna. “We took a lickin’ but we are still tickin’.”

“Glad to hear it,” replied Freah. “Your Flighthawk is secure. A Navy CH-46 is inbound to transport it. I left two teams of SEALS standing guard.”

“You trust ’em?” joked Rap.

“Hey, I had to give them something important to do,” answered Danny. “We would have brought it along ourselves, but we have to expedite our passengers. We’re diverting to Greece.”

“We’ll escort you,” Breanna told him. She had his position on the God’s-eye-view screen; the Osprey was running just to the southwest, booking at close to four hundred knots – about fifty miles an hour faster than the stricken Megafortress. “That’s where we’re headed.”

“Figured as much,” said Freah.

The black bat-tail of Hawk One danced in the left part of her windshield, about a half mile off – the small size of the plane made it difficult to judge its distance without resorting to the screens.

“Hawk One, this is Raven. You copy Captain Freah’s transmission?”

“Hawk,” he said, acknowledging.

“Got your six,” she said.

Kind of funny to be following behind Jeff when he was sitting behind her, she thought.

The rush of adrenaline that had pumped through everyone’s bloodstream was starting to give way. It was a dangerous time – they were still nearly a hundred miles deep over Libya. While there were no enemy SAM sites left operating this side of Tripoli, Breanna realized they were far from home.

“Has Smith been recovered yet?” Freah asked from the Osprey.

“Mack?” He’s not with you?” Breanna shot back.

“Negative. The site has been searched. He was separated from the other prisoners back when they landed near Tripoli. We’re been trying to get through to JSTARS directly on this. Can you?”

“Jeff –”

“Yeah, I heard,” her husband told her.

“Poor Mack. I have to relay this to Cascade.” One of the warning digits on the master caution panel came on. She asked the computer for specifics; it failed to respond. Unsure whether it couldn’t understand her or was malfunctioning, she tapped the keypad for the error code.

“We’re having some electrical problems,” Breanna told the crew tersely. “I’m going to switch through some circuits. And please stay on oxygen, obviously.”

“I’ll talk to Cascade,” Jeff volunteered.

“Thanks, hon.”

Jeff waited for Jennifer to set up the transmission, which had to be routed through a backup circuit because of the damage to Raven. It seemed to take forever.

“Go,” she told him.

“Cascade, this is Hawk Leader.”

“Hawk Leader?”

“With Raven.”

“Damn, your voice sounds familiar,” said Cascade.

“So does yours.”

“Jeff?”

“Shit, Jed,” said Stockard, recognizing his cousin through the synthetic rendering. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Long story, cousin. What’s up?”

Jeff relayed the information about Smith.

“Well, two thirds are better than nothing,” said Jed.

“We’ll catch up at some point,” Jeff told him. “Things are getting busy here.”

“You guys okay?”

“We have damage, but we’re flying,” Zen told him. “Later.”

“Later.”

Jeff hunkered over his joystick, concentrating on the view projected by the forward video camera aboard the Flighthawk. There were a number of civilian airplanes in the air, including several rented news helicopters and airplanes from Europe, sent to investigate. Flights from the [n]Nimitz[/I] and JFK were challenging each aircraft. At the same time, Navy helos were doing the same with boats.

Zen found the coastline, turning ahead of the Megafortress. An F-14 approached from the west; he waited for the pilot’s challenge. Instead, the two-place Navy fighter ducked off to the south.

“Hawk One to Tomcat bearing 320, at grid AA-5,” he told the airplane. “Have you visually.”

“Hawk One, this is Shark Flight Leader. Not reading you on radar.”

Zen gave him his heading. The Tomcat acknowledged, though his voice seemed so hesitant Jeff wasn’t sure he really did see him.

“We’re checking out some civilians,” said Shark leader. “Do you require assistance?”

“Negative. Just checking positions.”

Zen pushed the Hawk closer to the water. The Med glowed a greenish blue, the water a gentle ripple edged with sun-reflected light. Twenty or thirty boats lay ahead, apparently unaware of the rampage that had taken place a few miles further west. He checked back with Bree, who was already starting to look for the tanker. The Osprey was clearing the coast.

Zen punched through the Navy circuits, listening to the aircraft challenge flights in the vicinity. His attention was starting to flag; he had a long way to go and needed something to keep him awake.

One of the exchanges suddenly did the trick.

“Dreamland Playboy One, acknowledging,” said a faint American voice. “We are following a filed flight plan.”

The voice sounded a little hesitant, but the Tomcat acknowledged and cleared the craft to proceed.

Dreamland? Dreamland?

Playboy One?

Playboy One was Knife’s old call sign, the one he’d used the day of Mack’s accident.

Coincidence?

No way in the world.

“Shark Leader, request data on Dreamland Playboy One,” Zen said, bolting upright.

“Hang on,” said the Navy pilot. He gave him over to his pitter, or radar and weapons system operator, in the backseat of the plane.

“Italian flying boat,” said the Navy captain. The backseater had lists of civilian flights to check against.

“Was his call sign filed as Dreamland Playboy One?”

“Unknown. We’re not the FAA here. But it’s definitely on our list. Civilian plane, registered to an Italian fishing and tourist company.”

“Can you give me his last position?”

“No offense, Hawk Leader, but I’m a little busy.”

“That’s why I’m going to double-check him myself,” answered Zen.

Mack steadied his hand on the split throttle, trying to even our the engines. The Piaggio wasn’t particularly difficult to fly, though it did feel weird as hell. It wasn’t so much because the controls and instruments dated from the late 1940’s; they were classic stick and rudder jobs, dials and toggles. You went where you pointed.

But the props were mounted above and behind him, pushing instead of pulling. They sounded like a pair of lawn trimmers, and he just couldn’t seem to get them at the same rpm. No matter how he played with the controls, the plane continued to pull slightly but definitely to the right, pushed by a stronger engine on the opposite side.

Worse, he felt like he was walking over the water. Or crawling. The Italian flying boat went incredibly slow, even though it had two engines.

Walking on the water. The Imam would like that.

The Iranian had been vague about where they were heading, but it was obviously Egypt. Mack guessed the Iranian had made some sort of deal with the Egyptian Air Force to escort them over to the Red Sea if necessary.

Or turkey. Could be Turkey. Plenty of fuel. But Turkey was pretty friendly with the U.S.

Egypt was too, though. Or at least it had been.

Mack had blown it when the Navy plane challenged him, not expecting that the Iranian or Libyans or whoever had set the plane up had actually filed a flight plan. The damn Tomcat pilot was off the air so fast Mack couldn’t think of any way to tip him off.

Dreamland Playboy One. The old call sign had shot into his mind when the Imam poked him in the neck with his gun.

Those were the days, huh?

Would have been easier if the Tomcat had gotten down in his face. Then there might be a chance of getting out of this thing.

Now the best he could hope for was to take the Imam out with him. The question was, should be crash in the water or on land?

Zen found the Italian seaplane hugging the Libyan coast.

“Come on, Bree. Tighten it up,” said Jeff as the meter began sinking downward.

“I’m doing my best, Jeff. We have a hold in the fuselage, remember? And about two thirds of an electrical system. Push it and you’re going to be lighting candles back there.”

“I don’t have candles.”

He eased the throttle back a notch, concentrating on making sure he was well inside the optimum control range. Then he clicked into the frequency the Navy plane had used to hail the Piaggio.

“Dreamland Playboy One, this is Hawk Leader. I am an American fighter monitoring your flight. Acknowledge, please.”

There was no answer.

“Dreamland Playboy One. Identify yourself and give your flight heading.”

“Hawk Leader, Dreamland Playboy One acknowledges. We are following on our filed flight plan. Stand by for compass headings and position, as requested.”

Son of a bitch. There was no mistaking that smooth, full-of-himself voice. Mack was flying the plane.

Jeff clicked the transmit button to dial into the JSTARS command frequency.

Jed had just reconnected with Ms. O’Day when the major did his arm waving thing routine again. Jed asked her to stay on the line this time, then clicked to find his cousin.

“We have Smith,” said Jeff.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Jed.”

“Hang on,” Jed told him, desperately trying to flag down the major so he could patch both lines together.

Turned out all it took was pushing a button near the switch.

“Hawk Leader, please repeat what you told me,” Jed told his cousin when the connection was set.

“We have Smith in a plane heading east over the Mediterranean. We’re not sure whether we can force him down or not, but we can try.”

“Jed, I need to talk to you alone, please,” said Ms. O’Day. “A single secure line. Now.”

He pushed the button quickly and got the knob back, holding on to the D.C. scrambled satellite transmission.

“The plane has to be stopped at all costs,” O’Day told him. “No pilot. No trial in Iran.”

“They’re on it,” he said.

“Jed, listen to what I said. No trial. And this does not come directly from e, do you understand? You’re not running tape.”

“Well, of course not.”

“Hawk Leader probably is.”

“Boss, are you telling me to terminate the pilot?” asked Jed, finally understanding what she had told him.

The National Security Advisor didn’t answer.

“Ms. O’Day?”

“Jed, a trial now will prolong a crisis that you know must be ended quickly.

“I –”

“Why do you think you’re there, Cascade?” she said.

Before he could say anything else, the line snapped clear.

Danny Freah and the rest of the Whiplash assault team practically whooped as they cleared the coast and headed out over the Mediterranean.

The ex-hostages didn’t seem too disappointed either.

“Yo, hold it down,” yelled the pilot. “We got a situation. I’m trying to hear what the hell Raven’s doing.”

Danny got up from the rack seat and made his way forward to the flight deck area. He leaned across the small bulkhead to speak to the pilot.

“We’re still available for SAR,” he told the lieutenant. It was a command, not a question.

“Raven and Hawk One are tracking a seaplane,” said the pilot. “They think Major Smith is aboard.”

“Shit,” said Freah. “Get us there.”

“Captain, hang on.” The pilot pressed his hand against his earphones. “Task force is directing us to an assault ship. It’s about ten minutes away, dead north.”

“Where’s the seaplane?”

“That way,” said the pilot, pointing back toward the coast. “Captain, seriously.”

“Seriously, get us there,” insisted Danny.

“Hey, cousin,” said Cascade, snapping onto the line.

The scrambled line gave voice a synthetic, machine-like sound. Even so, Jeff heard a tremble in his cousin’s voice.

“Hawk here, Cascade,” he said.

“Jeff, I got bad news. That seaplane. It has to be stopped.”

“We’re working on it. Can you verify there are Egyptian fighters en route? Raven has them now maybe thirteen, fourteen minutes away on their present course.”

“Yeah, we got that. they’re not on our side. They are, but not in the way we need them to be.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We need the seaplane stopped. At all costs.”

“All costs how?”

“All costs.”

“Jed – you’re telling me to waste Mack Smith?”

“I’m telling you. I’m telling you there are four F-14 Tomcats en route with orders to shoot it down. I gave them the orders myself.”

“Shit. You gave orders?”

“Cuz, you have your orders.”

“Fuck. Jed what the hell is going on?”

There was no answer. Cascade had broken the circuit.

Mack tried to will his heart to slow down, afraid the thumping would tip off his captor.

Zen’s voice had sounded so foreign, so wild, it had seemed like a hallucination, a last dream before dying. But it was definitely real.

Fate? Allah?

Holy shit. Talk about luck.

Maybe. Could go the other way too. The Imam still had his aura. And his pistol.

Mack worked the controls calmly, frowning in the general direction of the fuel gauge. He’d build a pretense to land. Get down in the water, wait for the Navy to arrive. Or whoever was coming behind Stockard.

“What is the problem” demanded the Imam.

“The engine, the right engine sees a little flaky,”

Knife told him. “And I’m starting to run out of gas.”

The Iranian slid his neck back against the seat. “Both engines are fine. You have plenty of fuel. Continue on your course.”

“Good think you’re a pilot,” said Mack. “You can take over if I have a heart attack.”

“You will not die of a heart attack today. That I guarantee,” said the Imam, moving the pistol out so there was no doubt that it was aimed at Mack’s head.

“Didn’t think so,” said Smith. “I try to watch what I eat.”

By the time the Osprey had the Italian seaplane in view, they were barely ten minutes from Egyptian airspace.

“The Egyptian are scrambling planes,” Breanna told Danny. “They may try and shoot you down.”

“That’s the least of our problems,” said Zen, who was plugged into the same line.

“Easy for you to say,” Danny shot back.

“We have to take them down before the Egyptians get there,” said Zen. “And if we don’t, four Tomcats from the Nimitz will. You’re the only chance we have to get Mack out alive. I’ll make them ditch, you pick him up.”

“It’s a long shot, Major,” Danny told him. “They go down in the water, maybe we fish him out, maybe we don’t. better to have them surrender and follow us into Greece.”

“Not going to happen,” said Jeff.

“You sure you don’t want us to fly over them and jump on the plane?” said Freah. The pilot glanced at him as if he were being serious.

Danny wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t.

“If you think you can make it, sure,” said Zen.

“No fucking way,” said the Osprey pilot.

“I think I can take out their engines without completely destroying the plane,” said Stockard. “You guys jump in once they’re in the water.”

“What do you think his guards are going to think of that?”

“Hopefully we catch them by surprise. Maybe we offer to let them go. I don’t know. I do know that the plane has to be stopped, one way or another.”

“One way or another.”

“I can take out the engines. I guarantee it.”

“How many soldiers does he have in there with him, Jeff?” asked Freah.

“Hold on and I’ll find out.”

Danny turned back to his men. “Liu, get the snipe gear.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. He jumped up and went to grab the kit.

“I don’t know if I can hold us still enough for a sharpshooter,” said the Osprey pilot.

Danny nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think so either.”

Jeff pushed the throttle to max, whipping the Flighthawk downward in a screaming beeline at the Piaggio’s bow. He pulled hard, cutting a near-ten-g turn almost on top of the seaplane’s windshield.

The airplane stuttered downward. Mack’s voice, obviously shaking, screamed a strong of obscenities over the radio.

Jeff didn’t answer. It was pretty stupid of Mack to transmit. In fact, he should have used the diversion to knock out his captors – or jump from the plane.

Right.

Did he want to die?

“Two people, both in the front,” said Jennifer, reviewing the video at ultra-slow motion. “One on the right has got some clerical-type clothes.”

“Hopefully Mack hasn’t converted,” said Jeff, relaying the information to Danny.

The gun was against his neck.

“Honest to God. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on,” repeated Mack. “They must have fired a missile at us. I just barely got the hell out of the way.”

“If anything else attacks us, if you divert from the course I have set for you, you will die,” said the Imam. “The border is ahead. When the Egyptian planes challenge you, fall in behind them.”

One target. With any other weapon, it’d be impossible.

Buy gray-haired ol’ Anna Klondike’s magic gun?

Child’s play, no? She’d said it could shoot through glass.

Too bad she wasn’t here to take the shot herself.

Danny took the gun in his hand. Powder was the best shot, but he took forever to aim. On a quick see-’em, nail-’em, Liu was the man to go to.

Or Danny.

Had to be Danny. He couldn’t let one of the other guys live with missing.

Because he was going to miss. They’ be moving, his target would be moving. They would be no closer than three hundred feet. He’d have an instant to aim and react.

Ha.

Danny pulled on the visor, clicked the edge to get it active. Then he edged toward the Osprey’s rear door.

“All right, lower it,” he said after strapping a belt around one of the toggle restraints.

“Let me take the shot, Captain,” said Powder. “I can make it.”

“Piece of cake with this gear,” Danny told him.

“We’re going to have maybe a half second when Major Stockard blows out the engines and we pass in front of them,” said Powder. “No offense, Cap, but you know I’m a better shot.”

The Osprey began bucking as the door was opened.

“Hold it steady!” Danny screamed. “This is going to be hard enough!”

“Fuck you. I’m trying,” said the pilot over the com unit.

No way he was making the shot.

Zen waited for the Osprey pilot to tell him he was ready. The Egyptian fighters were now less than thirty seconds away, as was their country’s border. The Tomcats were about sixty seconds behind.

Sweat poured from every pore in his body, from his forehead to his back to his toes. His mouth felt like a smelter’s forge.

“We’re ready,” said the Osprey pilot.

Did he want to kill Mack, get his revenge? He could, easily. Hell, he’d essentially been ordered to.

No one would know he’d done it on purpose. All he had to do was stay on the trigger a hair second too long as the Flighthawk swooped in, or give just a hiccup’s worth of rudder the wrong way.

Or miss altogether. Let the Tomcats take the blame for killing him.

Jeff didn’t want to kill him. Just cripple him.

True revenge.

He couldn’t. Too many things prevented him. Duty. His conscience. Bree, in an odd way.

“We’re ready,” repeated the Osprey pilot, and Zen nailed the Flighthawk down, zooming toward the Piaggio, nudging the right engine into the right boresight.

An inch the wrong way.

He squeezed. A thin line of smoke appeared behind the propeller on the right engine. Before the line turned into a wedge he had leaned ever so slightly left, put three rounds into the second engine, depriving the Piaggio of power.

Danny bent his legs against the Osprey’s momentum as the rotocraft shot forward. The seaplane seemed to stop in midair, its nose falling right beneath him.

He saw the bastard Iranian, right through the glass. The man had a gun, but Danny didn’t see that, saw only the wide base of his neck above the canopy edge.

He squeezed the trigger.

There was a pop, the sound a champagne cork makes.

So this is what fate sounds like, Mack thought. this is what it feels like to die.

Then he realized he wasn’t dead at all.

Mack pulled on the controls, trying to hold the seaplane in an unpowered guide into the water.

In the next instant he slammed forward, waves lapping and someone screaming in his ears. He heard himself say he was alive and he heard someone, maybe the Imam, maybe Jeff Stockard, maybe his own conscience, tell him it was more than he deserved.

Dreamland

24 October, 0700 local

By the time Colonel Bastian was able to get time on the secure satellite line to Greece, he’d seen the CNN report on the raids twice. In the sonorous words of the overpaid commentator, the ‘Greater Islamic League is defunct and peace is once more assured.’

Dog wasn’t so sure. True, the Iranian mullahs had officially withdrawn with threat to attack shipping in the Red Sea and Persian Gulf. And since they no longer had Silkworm missiles or MiGs, perhaps their pledge to ‘work with the UN and OPEC’ on ‘important matters of commerce’ could be taken at face value.

And true, the Libyans had been so decimated by the attacks on their facilities that their exalted leader would have to dip into his dress allowance for at least a decade to restock supplies.

Only two U.S. servicemen had died in combat, and another killed by his captors while a prisoner in Somalia. All other U.S. personnel were safe, including Mack Smith. The downed stealth fighter had been destroyed, preventing – at least for now – further spread of the technology.

Still, the conflict had proven exactly how volatile the post – Cold War world really was. This small-scale conflict had taken several aircraft carrier battle groups, a Marine MEU, and units from Delta Force to resolve. Not to mention Dreamland.

Of course, some might argue that without Dreamland it might not have been resolved at all.

Some. Not him. Not directly anyway. He didn’t have to – not with Magnus steering things above him.

“Colonel, that you?” snapped Danny Freah over the phone line.

Dog slid back in the chair at Dreamland’s secure conference center, ordinarily used for reviewing projects and teleconferencing. With a few changes, it might work as a decent command bunker; it had a large projection screen at the front of the room that could be fed from the secure video, phone, and satellite lines.

At the moment, the screen was blank. It sometimes took a while for the video code to make its way down.

“Well done, Captain,” said Bastian. “I hear congratulations are in order all around.”

“We kicked butt,” agree Freah.

“Daddy?”

The video finally snapped on. Breanna stood front and center, her soft features and tired eyes staring upward at the camera. Danny was holding a phone receiver behind her. Stockard was near the back of the room, talking with an enlisted man. Jennifer Gleason and one of the Megafortress crew members were also looking on, sitting on steel folding chairs. Gleason had a sixty-four-ounce bottle of Pepsi in her hand.

But Dog saw only his daughter.

“Hi, baby,” he said.

“Mission accomplished,” she said.

“Good job, Captain,” he said. He stood up, realizing that they were seeing him too. “Major Stockard, everyone, very good job. How’s Major Cheshire?”

“She’s okay,” said Breanna. “She lost a lot of blood, but the doctors say she’s in no danger. Mack is okay too.” She began to laugh. “Last we saw him he was arguing with the doctor about whether he was dehydrated or not.”

“What’s Raven’s status?”

“It’s going to take a few days to button up the cockpit properly,” said his daughter. “Sergeant Parsons is on his way up from Ethiopia to assess the damage. We could get it home right away, but it seemed foolish to take the chance.”

“No, I don’t want you to take any unnecessary risks, not at this point,” said Bastian.

He didn’t really want her to take necessary ones either, he thought.

“I’ve had some good news about Dreamland – and Whiplash – in the last half hour,” Bastian said quickly, hoping she wouldn’t see the concern in his face. “We’ve god funding. We’re definitely in the budget. And Whiplash is going to be up-rated to active squadron status.”

“What exactly does that mean?” asked Freah.

“Whiplash is going to make use of Dreamland technology, working with some of the advanced systems,” said Bastian. “In much the same way you did in Somalia and Libya. Only, we’re going to plan for it from now on. There are a few details to work out,” he added. “Well, a hell of a lot of details. But we have a green light, and serious support at the command level. And beyond.”

“Congratulations,” said Freah.

“You guys get all the credit,” said Dog. “So listen, since you’re all in Greece, and since it’ll be a few days before your plane is ready to leave anyway, I suppose a few days’ R&R would be in order. I hear there are some nice ruins to inspect.”

“I’ve had my fill in ruins,” said Freah. “I’m up for the beaches.”

“Me too,” said Bree.

“Personally, I like ruins,” said Jeff, rolling forward. “But the only sight I feel like seeing for a while is a nice thick mattress.”

Breanna put her hand down to his shoulders. It was nice seeing people so committed to each other, Bastian thought. Good that they could survive all the adversity they’d seen.

And wouldn’t Gleason look good in a bathing suit?

“My satellite time is almost over,” said Dog. “If you need anything, you know where to get me.”

“The hell with that,” said Freah. “We’ll just get hold of Sergeant Gibbs.”

“Dreamland Command, signing off,” said Dog.