Enemies

ONE

Greek Captain Antipodes Spiros flipped his American-built Tomcat into a tight barrel roll. He tilted his head back, braced against the ejection seat and stared up through the canopy above — no, below — no, above — hell, it was outside, that was all that mattered. Swaths of green earth that ran between ancient ruins and brown craggy low hills swapped places with a sky so blue it hurt his eyes. Spiros squinted his eyes until the colors ran together, until everything outside his cockpit dissolved into streamers of color and light.

“Enough!” his backseater howled.

Spiros ignored him, concentrating on the delightfully befuddled feeling creeping into his inner ear. A few more rolls and he’d be… there. It hit him all at once, the dizzying disorientation as the fluid in his ears roiled and bubbled against the delicate aural bones. He switched his gaze to the instruments, thoroughly disoriented, and eased the aircraft back into level flight.

Rolling, rolling, his mind insisted. Still turning, banking now, descending, ascending. A series of confused and inconsistent messages, each one increasingly urgent, each one dead wrong. Spiros watched the artificial horizon, the altimeter and accelerometer, and let his instruments convince him that he was in level flight.

“Why do you do this?” his backseater demanded. “Every time, every flight. If I vomit, you will clean it. Not me.”

Spiros chuckled. Irritating his backseater was just an added bonus. He could have explained, he supposed. It wouldn’t have hurt him to do so, nor would it have kept him from rolling himself sick at some point during every flight. Little did his backseater know that it was as much to keep his whining guy-in-back safe as it was to amuse a bored pilot.

Barreling his brains out came under the heading of preventive training. It was a habit he’d adopted during Tomcat pipeline at an American air base when a close friend of his had inadvertently stalled out, lost control of his aircraft in a flat spin, and been unable to recover. Spiros had listened over tactical as Kapi had screamed out his corrective actions, sobbing and wailing, damning the horizon that rotated around him and defied his Kapi’s best efforts to stabilize his aircraft. Finally, the backseater had punched them out, but they’d been too close to the ground. Neither had survived.

During the solemn debrief that’d followed, the IP — instructor-pilot — had been brutal in his conclusions.

“He got fixed on the horizon. His instruments were telling him the truth, but once you get disoriented, you can convince yourself real easily that the instruments are wrong. You start going with what you see instead of what the aircraft is telling you. Then you lose the bubble. Then you make an uncontrolled descent to the ground.” The IP had hammered out the narrative in a hard Texas twang, his voice a monotone. He’d stopped then, stared at the deadly quiet class.

“Every man in here believes it won’t happen to him. Well, it will. At some point, you’re going to get disoriented. You might have a head cold, an inner ear infection, or you might just be doing your damnedest to get away from some MiG on your ass. Whatever the cause, you’re going to lose it. If you’re not prepared for it, if you don’t believe what your instruments are telling you, you’re going to die just as surely as if you’d gotten a Sidewinder up your ass.”

In the days after that, the IPs had hit them particularly hard with in-flight emergencies, spins, loss of power, everything they’d been over in the preceding fourteen weeks. Haunted by the memories of Kapi’s last transmission, Spiros had sworn that he’d never, ever forget the lesson.

Hence the barrel rolls, the spins, constant aerobatics. By now he’d learned how to recognize when he was disoriented, how to rely on the instruments. And he’d come to believe that whatever else might happened to him while he was a pilot, he wouldn’t kill himself and his backseater by losing the bubble.

Mercifully, the RIO was too busy trying not to puke to continue berating him. If Spiros ignored the gagging sound, he could almost believe he was in a single-seater aircraft, alone in the sky, unencumbered by a wingman or lumbering transport to escort, with a straightforward mission to execute, one that required little more than what he loved to do best — flying.

Even the surveillance center was leaving him alone tonight. While the ground radar site was Greece’s first line of defense in the ongoing conflict with Macedonia, it could be a real pain in the ass for a pilot, particularly if the ground control intercept officer got nervous over a few barrel rolls. From the way they complained, you’d think that there was no need for airborne patrols.

But while the GCI’s long-range radar covered more sky than the radar mounted in this export model F-14 Tomcat, it had one major disadvantage. Contacts showed up as green-painted lozenges on scope, accompanied by an IFF identification if they were carrying the proper transponder. It might even break with a mode four IFF code, indicating that it was a friendly aircraft, a military one at that.

But even the finest radar could not put eyes on target, could not check the status of a wing loadout nor verify that a mode four aircraft was not actually an enemy fighter. While mode four was supposedly an infallible method of telling friends from foe, there were still instances in which daily crypto codes had been stolen and given to the other side.

Nowhere was the problem of fraternal treason more difficult than between Greece and Macedonia. The two countries were brothers, bound by blood ties stretching back thousands of centuries, into the mists of time before even Alexander the Great. In 1991, a misguided United Nations had recognized a small landlocked area the size of Belgium as the Republic of Macedonia. Spiros snorted in disgust. Macedonia was part of Greece, no matter how she manipulated the sentiments of foreign nations into thinking otherwise, no matter how the land had been apportioned following the world war. Even the name — Macedonia — belonged to Greece, not to some part of the artificial state that had been called Yugoslavia.

Why couldn’t they at least call it Skopja, the correct ancient name for the region? Or some name that incorporated Macedonia? That had been the Greek government’s latest capitulation in the face of overwhelming international pressure.

Personally, Spiros found that as much of an insult as calling it the Republic of Macedonia. No, it should go by its proper name, Skopje.

“Fifteen minutes,” his backseater called out, evidently now sufficiently recovered to resume his tiresome reminders. As if the fuel gauge were not mounted right in front of Spiros, as if the pilot could not see the seven-day clock ticking off the minutes. He knew they had fifteen minutes — fourteen now — before they commenced their return to base. He’d given himself just enough time to completely recover from the barrel rolls before he’d be on final approach. Spiros clicked his mike twice in acknowledgment and returned to his train of thought.

Not that it was entitled to independence anyway. Aside from the fact that it was historically wrong, it set a dangerous precedent. A large portion of the Greek coast on the Aegean was referred to as Greek Macedonia. This upstart mongrel country would soon make a move on that as well — indeed, they’d started already, claiming that Greece was abusing its ethnic Macedonian citizens.

The whole conflict had exploded when the smaller nations of the UN, each with its own independent agenda aimed at ensuring the rights of smaller countries, had began funneling weapons and aircraft into Macedonia. A few fighter aircraft, some anti-air batteries, and within a few months the renegades had staged a threatening presence on the border along Greek Macedonia. Access to the Aegean Sea, that’s what they wanted. And these patrols along the border were designed to ensure that the rebels didn’t get it.

As if a pilot ought to have to care about history. All Spiros wanted to do was fly, strap this sweet aircraft onto his ass once or twice a day and slip the surly bonds of earth. There were other people whose job it was to worry about history.

The general, for instance.

Spiros slid the Tomcat into a tight, hard turn, watching the stars pirouette above him. Yes, the general understood history. But in fact, if the truth be known, Spiros suspected that the general was more interested in making history than understanding it.

“Tomcat 101, requests a status report.” The voice of the ground intercept controller interrupted Spiros’s train of thought. He sighed and toggled the microphone on. Always, there was someone who wanted to interrupt his moments of communing with the open sky.

“Ground, 101. All systems normal. No contacts.” Spiros waited, knowing that the inquiry had been merely a preliminary to a request from the controller.

“Roger, 101. Request you vector 230 at best speed to intercept contact designated possible hostile,” the controller said. “Ground control radar to the north holds contact and will provide locating data.”

Spiros perked up. Actual work to do — now that would be a change of pace. After weeks of chasing radar ghosts or some flight of fancy on the part of the ground controller, a real contact, even if it only proved to be a commercial air contact off course, would be worthwhile.

He shoved the throttles forward to full military power and put the Tomcat into a gentle climb. Altitude was always a good thing to have plenty of, and in this case, it would increase his radar range. “How far away is it?” he asked, studying his own radar scope. No sign of anything so far, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. This particular Tomcat’s radar set was notoriously unreliable, as bad as the rag tag airframes the Macedonians flew.

“Sixty miles,” Ground replied. “Contact is on heading 050 making 80 knots over ground.”

Eighty knots. Not a fighter aircraft, then. Probably a helicopter, maybe a corporate or news camera team that had decided there was no need to file a flight plan ahead of time. Or maybe a Macedonian combat helo, making one of its rare nighttime forays into Greece, dropping off provocateurs and spies. Not that they flew that often at night… no, probably a news helo. ACN had established a particularly visible presence along the border, and seemed to feel that it had the right to fly anywhere and anytime it chose, with no regard for proper flight plans.

Well, they would learn differently tonight. The entire span of airspace along the border between Skopje and Greece was tightly controlled, ostensibly as a matter of safety of flight. In reality, everyone knew that the air corridor control measures were designed to prevent freedom fighters from reinforcing and to stifle the little economic activity that there was in Macedonia. Everything had to be routed through official Greek channels, absolutely everything.

“Roger, ground. 101, vectoring to intercept now.” Spiro toggled his radar control selector to the widest range possible, waiting for his first glimpse of the helicopter.

Two hundred miles away, at the ground facility in Greece, General Dimitri Arkady was weighing the possibilities. In all probability, the helicopter contact — and that’s what it appeared to be, based on its speed — was either an international news team or part of UN forces in the area. Both sets of intruders were as unwelcome as the plague.

Why was it so difficult for other countries in the world to understand the nature of the problem with Macedonia? Surely many others of them had ethnic enclaves within their own nations, small communities of zealots that were at odds with most of the people? It was an internal matter, purely internal. A Greek problem that could be solved by Greeks without outside intervention. No edict from the UN could change that.

He sighed, contemplating the problem of busybodies on the international scene. No sooner had the first news photos hit the wires than the United Nations had begun passing resolutions. Each one was aimed at creating the illusion that the UN had power to force the parties to a settlement, that the collective wisdom of the states of the world could solve this problem of nationalism.

No matter that many of them were experiencing similar problems within their own borders. In fact, that was all the more incentive for other nations to advocate a UN presence in Greece. With the meager UN forces tied up meddling in Greek affairs, there was less chance that they’d be dispatched to deal with other problems. Like the Kurds in Toronto. Like the Indians and Mexico. Like Taiwan and China.

No, instead they were in Greece, ranged along the border between Macedonia and the rest of the country, spending the UN member — nation contributions on a problem they couldn’t solve.

And wasn’t that the problem that most often faced the UN these days? There were no global threats, not unless you counted China, still the sleeping giant, barely flexing her muscles in the Pacific Rim now. Or the United States, although the latter was often shocked to discover that the rest of the world regarded her as a threat on par with the former Soviet Union.

No, there were truly no world threats. Thus, to justify their own existence, the world’s militaries tried to insert themselves in places that they didn’t belong. Yes, there was a place for the United Nations, when world powers such as Germany or the Soviet Union threatened with overwhelming force to destabilize the rest of the world, or when states disintegrated into warring nations and factions. Then, perhaps, an outside adjudicator of the claims and merits of each side might be needed.

But not for a matter such as this. Not for internal matters, no.

And particularly not for Greece.

“Make certain the pilot obtains a visual identification on this contact,” General Arkady said. “In fact, have him execute a close pass on the contact. A very close pass. It’s time we made our displeasure evident to these intruders.” He glanced over at the ground controller to make sure he understood what the general intended.

The ground controller nodded. He picked up the microphone and called 101.

Now this was more like it. Not only VID, but a fly-by as well. Ah yes, the general’s intent was perfectly clear, at least to Spiros. Time to shake things up a little bit with something besides aerobatics. At least this would give his backseater something to do besides whine and complain.

Spiros clicked the mike twice to acknowledge the orders. He could see the helicopter now, a faint blur on the horizon. Ungainly, a collection of flying parts that had no business being airborne together.

Well, he’d show that pilot just what it meant to be an aviator. He made a slight correction in the course, flying by visual rather than radar now, and nudged the Tomcat into afterburner.

ACN correspondent Pamela Drake listened to the argument raging within the helicopter. Everyone was shouting, not because emotions were running high, but because it was the only way to be heard over the distinctive sound of the helicopter blades. So far, she’d heard the argument cycle through four familiar arguments, and she was waiting for the fifth one to surface on schedule.

It wasn’t that she had no interest in the argument, not at all. It was just that she’d been through it so many times, had heard both sides of each question repeatedly thrashed out, and was tired of it. In the end, she had no real opinion on the conflict or the merits of the arguments between Macedonia and Greece. There were merits to both sides, and problems with each position as well.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Her job was to report the news, not make it.

Although, she had to admit there’d been times in the not-so-distant past when it seemed that she was part of the story rather than her network’s most aggressive, on-the-spot international reporter. Like in Cuba, where she’d been taken hostage by the military in revolt. And Turkey, were she’d been the one to spot the first signs of the subterfuge by Russia. And other times as well, too many to count.

She sighed, shifted in her seat, and listened to the other two correspondents move on to the next point. They were glancing at her occasionally, as though wondering why she did not join one side or the other. Hell, even the camera guy had an opinion on the conflict, for what it was worth.

“Creating a state requires the consent of the people,” Brett Fallon said. He stabbed his finger at Mike Carne, the French reporter along with them. “You study political science — you at least ought to understand that.”

Mike shook his head. “It’s not so simple as that. Geography drives a lot of it, you know. What works in the United States, with the U.S. being so isolated from the rest of the world by two oceans, doesn’t work in Europe. Here, nations overlap, history blurs the boundaries. You’ll never get the consent you need to make a state out of a nation here, because the nations are too overlapped. And in the end, being a state is about a nation controlling it’s own land. You people think the two terms, nation and state, are synonymous.”

Brett’s voice cycled a notch higher. “Nationalism. Nothing more than leftover tribal instincts.”

“It runs deeper than that. Study your cultural anthropology for a change instead of just current events,” Mike argued. “People have always formed into clans, groups, based on things that they have in common. They are fundamental things, beliefs that run so deep that no externally imposed concept of statehood can overcome them. Look at Northern Ireland and England.”

“My point exactly,” Brett shot back. “So you’re saying the answer is to simply give up in Northern Ireland?”

Mike shook his head again, now clearly irritated at the others obtuseness. “Not at all. But England’s tactics won’t work, not in the long run. You can’t force statehood on a country that doesn’t want it. Even a country where half of the population doesn’t want it.”

“So we just give up?” Brett asked.

Mike nodded. “And that’s the fundamental things that people like you don’t understand. Sometimes there are no answers, at least no answers that work. There are only degrees of bad.”

Frustrated, Brett turned to Pamela. “So whose side are you on?”

Before she could start to frame her answer, the pilot broke in over the ICS. “Looks like we’ve got company, people. If you’re not strapped in, do it now. Sometimes these Greek fighters play rough.”

Pamela was the only one with her seat belt still in place. She learned through hard experience that it always paid to be prepared for turbulence. Mike and the cameraman reached for their belts. Brett ignored the suggestion and continued the argument. “I mean, you’re the one who’s supposed to be the expert, Pamela.” There was something ugly and suggestive in his voice.

Pamela debated whether or not to recognize what he was insinuating, then decided against it. Brett’s ambition was a well-known fact within ACN. To answer what he was implying would simply lower her to his level, and there was no need for that.

She twisted around in her seat until she could see forward to the gap between the pilot and the copilot. The other aircraft was visible now, a Tomcat by the looks of it. The canted vertical stabilizers and swept-wing silhouette were a dead giveaway. After covering so many military conflicts, Pamela could recognize most of the major airframes on sight from any angle.

Must be one of the Greek fighters dispatched on regular intervals to patrol the border. Part of Greece’s solution to Macedonia’s independence had been to close trade routes and crack down on air space violations, in an attempt to cut off the landlocked nation’s international commerce.

Standard border war tactics — or at least what the rest of the world called the border. Greece itself refused to admit that there was any border between Macedonia — or Skopje, as they called it — and Greece.

“Any indications of a radar lock?” she asked the pilot, ignoring the rest of the news team. A deep, sick feeling was starting in her gut. Too many times she’d had to rely on her instincts to survive when reporting combat situations, and she’d come to trust that feeling that told her that something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong.

“How should I know?” the pilot answered. “It’s not like I have a threat receiver in this cockpit. He doesn’t look too friendly, though, does he?”

Pamela shook her head. “No, he doesn’t.” The Tomcat was closing on them at top speed, and Pamela could see the fire gouting out of its tail from the afterburners. How fast was he going? Max speed of the Tomcat was well over Mach two. She squinted, trying to see if the forward edge glove vanes were extended, but couldn’t make out the details. At speeds above Mach one, the glove vanes moved the aerodynamic center of the aircraft forward and reduced the load on the tail.

But surely he wouldn’t conduct a fly-by at those speeds? The wake turbulence of his wake could be deadly to lighter aircraft and helos, and the Tomcat pilot had to know that. It would be pure insanity, dangerous conduct of the most egregious kind, particular when aimed at a neutral party.

But was the press ever really a neutral party these days?

So fast, approaching so fast. She could see the outlines of the canopy now, see the two figures seated inside. “I think we’d better—”

Just as she started to make a suggestion, the helicopter pilot decided on his own that they were in a very unhealthy bit of airspace. He shoved the collective forward and headed for the deck.

The nose of the helicopter pitch down at a hard angle, throwing her forward against her seat belt and harness. Loose gear in the cabin rolled forward, creating a cloud of debris.

The cameraman screamed. “What the hell is—?”

The Tomcat’s wake smack into the light helicopter with the force of the tsunami. The helicopter rolled immediately, and kept rolling, unable to bite into the air with its rotors inverted half the time. Pamela grasped the side of her seat, felt her mouth open to scream as she watched the world spinning through the window to her side, blue sky replaced by a tree canopy, blue sky again, then more trees. The uneasy feeling she’d been experiencing turned into serious nausea. She bit down hard with her back teeth, forcing herself not to vomit.

Brett had other things to worry about. He hadn’t manage to get his seat belt fastened, and the first roll threw him violently against the overhead. He slid down it as the aircraft careened onto its side, and smashed into the other side. Blood streaked the Plexiglas. His mouth was open but his screams were drowned out by the noise of the rotors and the shriek of disintegrating airframe.

The pilot was screaming now too, shouting orders to the copilot as they desperately tried to regain control of the helicopter tumbling through the air.

It wasn’t going to work. In the first few seconds of the roll, Pamela knew that was a certainty.

Is this how it ends? Not with a bullet, not with a missile shot in Cuba, but in a stupid, stupid accident? No, I won’t let it. It’s not going to happen like this.

The helicopter was falling now, the roll dampened out by the downward motion. She felt it wrench hard to the left, counter to the motion of the roll as the pilot applied maximum rudder in an effort to stabilize the airframe. Amazingly, the engines were still screaming, although the sound had a sick, unhealthy undertone to it. Then the engines sputtered, coughed twice, and died.

The silence was deafening. She could hear the wind now as it sought out the cracks and crevices in the once-solid airframe, feel it spinning through the passenger compartment and cockpit. At least they were upright, and she could hear the pilot and copilot frantically trying to restart the engines, trying anything to slow their downward descent.

“Auto rotate,” the pilot screamed. “If we can just get a little bit of power, we can…”

Auto rotate. Not a chance. While at least in theory the ground effect and rotation of the helicopter blades might soften the impact, this helicopter was too far out of control to even consider it as a possibility. At least the roll had stopped as gravity took control. They were nose down, maintaining some forward speed as they plummeted through the night air.

Pamela grasped frantically at straws. They were upright. That gave them a chance, since the helicopter was built to take impact on its undercarriage. There was a chance, at least a chance, that they could survive.

“Into that bare spot,” the copilot shouted, gesturing off to his right. “Not very big, but if we can just clear the treetops, we might make it.”

The helicopter jerked hard to the right as the pilot forced it into a shuddering turn. The front windscreen was gone and wind tornadoed through the cockpit, battering her with loose gear. She could see blood trickling down the side of the pilot’s face. A grim, determined expression was on his face. The noise was unholy, atmosphere shrieking mixed with the screams of metal shattering under forces it was never designed to bear.

“Brace yourselves,” the pilot shouted. Brett lay moaning on the floor of the helicopter, barely conscious. Pamela leaned forward to try to pull him up into his seat, then stopped. Depending on how badly he was hurt, moving him could simply make matters worse. After the battering he’d taken inside the compartment, there was no telling whether or not he could survive the crash at all. Or if any of them could. Better to let him die where he lay rather than torture him by moving him to the illusion of safety in his seat.

The cameraman and Mike were holding on to their armrests, stark white faces gleaming dimly in the moonlight. Had she been given a choice, this was not the company she would’ve chosen to die with. No, if she had a choice, she would have died with…

Tombstone. For a moment she tasted the name in her mouth, heavy with memory and regret. What they had had, what had mattered then… she would never know now, would she? She had screwed up, screwed up badly, and there would never, ever be a chance to make it right.

The helicopter approached the clearing in the forest, its rate of descent increasing. It passed over the first line of trees, then the front skid caught on the tip of a pine tree. It wasn’t a large tree, but given the helicopter’s instability, the impact was enough to flip it tail over nose in an airborne summersault. Pamela’s last vestige of hope vanished, just as the face she saw in her mind was beginning to seem so real.

Tombstone. Oh, Stony. What have I done? Then the world disintegrated into noise and blackness.

General Arkady slammed his hand down on top of the radar set. The picture wavered, went blank, then reappeared, the contacts slightly offset from their previous locations. Clearly a transmitter alignment problem, one that the operator would have to correct later. But for the moment, in the face of General Arkady’s rage, no one dared move. Not the watch officer in charge of the ground control center, not his supervisor, not the officer of the day, not even General Arkady’s chief of staff, Colonel Zentos.

“I gave an order,” Arkady howled. “A simple, direct order. ‘Conduct a fly-by.’ You all heard that, didn’t you?” He glared at the assembled men and women. A chorus of nods answered him.

“You,” he said, pointing at the officer of the day. “What went wrong?”

The officer of the day tried to stammer out an answer, aware that by selecting him as the scapegoat for the entire incident, General Arkady had just terminated the OOD’s career in the Army, unless he could find a way to reverse the situation. The OOD thought frantically.

Finally, it dawned on him. An old military adage, one as true today as it had been in the days of the Pelleponesian wars. Shit rolls downhill. If ever there were a time when he needed that to work, it was now.

“The pilot,” the OOD began uncertainly. He saw General Arkady’s eyes shift slightly, and felt more confident. “Yes, General, the pilot. He disobeyed your orders. I distinctly heard you give the order, sir. It is clearly the pilot’s fault. An almost treasonous act, I would call it.” By now the OOD’s voice was strong, and he felt the mood of the crowd begin to shift.

It seemed an eternity, but General Arkady’s expression finally thawed slightly. “Yes, of course,” the general said. “Have him return to base immediately. And bring him to me. I will deal with this matter personally.”

The airfield stretched out before him like a giant game of tic-tac-toe. Spiros banked the Tomcat gently, slowly bleeding off air speed and altitude. Touching down on a land-based airfield was child’s play compared to his experiences as an exchange student with the United States Navy. The carrier landings… he shuddered at the memory, the black, clawing sea, the shifting deck and uncertain winds. How they manage to do it every day, every night, he would never know. He still had nightmares about his last night trap.

This, however, was simple — maybe too simple. He made a slight correction in the course, lining up on the runway now. Anyone could do this. For a moment, just a moment, he realized he missed the challenge of trying to wrestle tons of aircraft onto the deck of an aircraft carrier.

The touchdown then, light and gentle. He rolled out smoothly, taking up more runway than he actually needed. He used his nose wheel steering gear to turn the jet toward the flight line. A yellow “follow-me” truck appeared.

After he had completed his post-flight shutdown checklist, Spiros unstrapped from his ejection harness and swung out over the side of the aircraft. His feet sought out the familiar pattern of the boarding ladder, and he jumped lightly to ground. His backseater was still in the aircraft, stuffing charts and kneeboards into his flight suit.

Colonel Zentos was waiting for him, much to his surprise. Spiros snapped off a hasty salute, stammered out a greeting.

“Sir?” Spiro stammered. “Did you want to see me?” Of course he does, you idiot. That business with the helo — it’s your fault, you know. You’ll be lucky if you’re still flying after this. He felt a wave of regret, a rush of sympathy for the helo pilot. He hadn’t intended to swat them out of the air like an insect, but it had happened.

“The general wants to see you,” the colonel said finally. “You will come with me immediately.” He turned and led the way back to his vehicle. The driver had kept the engine running.

“But my aircraft,” Spiros began. “My RIO.”

Without turning back, the colonel said, “You alone. The flight line crew will take care of the aircraft. Come immediately.”

Spiros glanced back at the plane captains who had taken charge of his aircraft. The senior-most nodded reassuringly, giving him a thumbs-up. They probably thought that the general was going to honor him in some way, Spiros thought. None of them knew what had happened.

Spiros managed a jaunty wave, and strode off after the colonel, who was already seated in the back of the vehicle.

“What did I tell you?” the general demanded. “What were you thinking, in the name of all that is holy?”

Spiros stood braced at attention, his hand shaking alongside his legs. This was bad, worse than he’d ever thought possible. The possibility that he might somehow keep his wings had now completely vanished, and Spiros was now wondering whether or not he would be in the army by the time the day was over.

“General, I… it was unintentional, sir,” Spiros finally choked out. “I didn’t mean to get so close.”

“Intentions don’t matter. I hold you responsible for your conduct,” the general said. “About-face, soldier. I cannot stand to look at your stupid, cowlike face.”

Spiros executed a shaky about-face by sheer reflex, and stood at attention with his back to the general. The shaking had spread from his hands down the spine now, and he could feel his leg muscles dancing as though he’d just run ten kilometers. A court-martial, perhaps. Time in military prison, disgrace to his family. Spiros heard a soft, slithering sound behind him. His panicking brain tried to make sense of it. Then cold metal touched the back of his neck, just at the spot where his spine met his skull.

“I do not tolerate excuses,” Arkady said calmly. The general pulled the trigger.

The bullet shattered Spiros’s spinal cord, then tore out most of his neck, severing his head from the body. Before the head had a chance to fall away from the torso, the bullet cracked through his brain, ricocheted off the interior of his skull, and reduced the remaining flesh to bloody pulp. Spiros was dead long before his head bounced on the hardwood floor of the general’s office.

For moment, no one moved. The general held his pose, arm outstretched in front of him, staring down at the decapitated body of the pilot. Finally, he let his arm fall to his side. He replaced the gun in his holster and gazed at the rest of the officers. No words were necessary. They all heard his unspoken comment: Let this be a lesson to all of you.

The general walked back around his desk and took his seat again. He started riffling through the papers centered on the highly polished wood in front of him. Without looking up, he said, “Have someone clean that up.” He reached into his desk drawer, took out a pen, and began signing his name to the papers.

Colonel Zentos was the first to react. He stepped forward, picked up Spiros’s bloody, staring head, and glanced at the officer of the day. “You heard the general.” Zentos placed the head on top of the body. “Get the cleanup crew in here. Now.”

The room exploded into a flurry of activity. No one wanted to be the next target of the general’s temper.