Enemies

TWELVE

Bird Dog ran through the prelaunch checklist, calling out the steps as he went. From the backseat, Gator double-checked him at every step. It seemed to Bird Dog that his RIO was moving slower that usual. Was Gator pissed at him? He ran back through the last few days, trying to see if there was a reason for it.

Nothing as far as he could remember, and neither of them had had enough time off to get drunk enough to forget something truly significant.

“Hey, what’s up with you?” Bird Dog asked. “You on the rag or something?”

Gator snorted. “Right. And I suppose you’ve been doing your usual sterling job of paying attention at briefings?” He read off the next step in the checklist and waited for Bird Dog’s response.

“I was there. And I took notes, too.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And you’re entirely satisfied with the mission planning?”

Bird Dog could tell from Gator’s tone of voice that there was a right answer to the question, and it wasn’t “yes.” “Maybe,” he said. “I might have done it a little differently, but I’m not on staff anymore. I’ve got an ingress route and a place to drop ordnance — what’s not to like?”

“And what did you think about Tombstone’s concern over those SAM sites?” Gator pressed. “Bothered you a little?”

Of course not. Just one of the hazards of naval air, shipmate. “Sure it did. But Arkady seems pretty certain he’s gotten it taken care of. Hell, his boys are going in first. You think he’d do that if there was a reason to worry?”

“Ah. I see. You’re willing to risk your ass — and mine as well, I might point out — based on the word of a Greek general that you’ve never worked with before. Even over Admiral Magruder’s objections.”

“Tombstone didn’t put a kibosh on the mission,” Bird Dog said, now feeling a bit defensive. What the hell was the big deal about one SAM site more or less? They’d been up against them before and gotten out all right.

“I know he didn’t. But he’s not in command right now. Let me put it this way. Based on what you observed at the briefing, do you think Tombstone would have tanked this mission if he’d been running the show?”

“You’re so smart, you tell me.”

“He would have,” Gator answered, no doubt in his voice.

“And so what? You saying we should have sniveled out of this one just because of a SAM site when our own skipper says its good to go?”

Gator fell silent for a moment, sighed, then said, “No, of course not. You just be careful, that’s all I’m asking. Pay attention to your RIO from time to time.”

Bird Dog read out the next couple of steps on the checklist, verifying that his altimeter setting was correct and his backup hydraulics were working. In the back, he heard Gator bringing his gear on line in standby mode. “You think those SAM sites are still there, don’t you?”

“Yes. Don’t you?”

“Probably.” The plane captain in front of them was giving Bird Dog the start-engines signal and the conversation terminated as the low, throaty grumble of the engines starting up drowned them out. The plane captain ran them up to full power, then signaled for a final check of control surfaces. Bird Dog obliged and was finally turned loose to taxi and take his place in the waiting line of aircraft. He turned slightly out of the straight line approach to avoid the jet wash from another American Tomcat.

“You listen up if I start yelling, you hear?” Gator said over the ICS. “No hotdogging.”

“I hear.” Bird Dog taxied forward, pivoted to his left and saw the broad expanse of runway stretched out before him. A few moments later, the tower cleared him for takeoff. He slid the throttles forward smartly and let the Tomcat accelerate smoothly through one hundred and forty knots. Finally, as he could feel her straining for the sky, the sensation of the wheels light underneath him, he pulled back and eased her into the sky. As soon as he was clear, he retracted the landing gear, slammed the throttles forward and headed for the open sky.

“They’re coming, Pamela.” Xerxes touched her gently on the arm. “We need to take cover.”

She pulled away from him. “We’re far enough away from headquarters for it not to matter.” She glanced around the lush hills. “Besides, there’s nothing around here that would keep a five hundred-pound bomb from killing us. Let’s keep going.”

She’d spent the last hour trekking back toward the camp, still furious at Xerxes for dragging her out in the boonies. Getting the little woman to safety — god, would this crap ever end? What, he didn’t think she’d be able to get away from him, figure out where she was and get back some way? Short of hog-tying her, there was no way that they could stop her. After a few vehement protests, including a pointed reminder that he’d evacuated his own staff, Xerxes had finally given up. He’d tossed her in an all-terrain vehicle, hopped in the driver’s seat, and simply taken off. As soon as he’d stopped, she’d jumped out of the truck and started hiking back toward the camp. Xerxes followed, alternately pleading and threatening.

There was a grumble off in the distance, like thunder over the horizon. Pamela paused, straining to hear. As it grew louder and more distinct, she nodded authoritatively. “Tomcats. Couple of sections at least.”

“You’re right. Please, Pamela… at least until the attack is over, let’s stop.”

“Are you kidding? This is the perfect time. Come on, that hill over there. We’ll get some altitude, maybe see them make their run.” She set off at a brisk trot, her Nikon banging against her leg. Maybe she couldn’t shoot rolling footage, but a couple still shots right at the exact moment would have to do.

Xerxes kept pace with her easily, leading her to reassess her earlier guess of his age. They trotted up the gentle lower slope of the hill in tandem, slowing only at the steeper craggy slope near the top. Finally she had a good view of the surrounding countryside. She turned to glare at the Macedonian commander. “You could have told me we weren’t that far away.”

He shrugged. “You know how long the ride was out here. Can I help it if you didn’t notice we went in circles?”

She swore silently, acutely aware that she’d been distracted. Xerxes, the ass. Why had she let him get her talking, started sharing some of his own stories about Greece with her? It’d been a ploy, all of it. If she’d been paying attention, she wouldn’t have spent the first two hours lost, would have known how to get back to the camp.

The Tomcats were visible on the horizon now. They were coming in low, nap of the earth stuff, flying that Tombstone had always said was the best thing since Disney World. Automatic terrain navigation capabilities enabled the Tomcat to stay a set distance from the ground, relying on its auxiliary radar to hold the aircraft in position. She watched them porpoise in over the low hills, eerily following the exact contours of the terrain.

The camp — yes, that was the target. Good intelligence — they knew exactly where they were headed. Tomcats first, four of them. Thirty seconds behind, the smaller form of the Hornets boring in. Then more Tomcats. Then…

She held her camera up and focused in on the campsite area spread out below her. It was well camouflaged, with netting and brush spread over every part that could conceivably be seen from above.

All to no avail. The aircraft clearly knew exactly where they were going. Unhesitatingly, they inchopped the valley between two hills and seemed to pass over her so close that she could make out the pilots’ faces.

The first two went by, their thunder washing over her like a storm. She looked up to gauge their speed and when they’d be over target, and noticed the tail markings — the Greeks first, it seemed. Well, that made sense. It was their fight, after all.

When it started, the spitting hum of antiair rounds were almost swallowed up by the sheer fury of the Tomcat engines. At first she thought it was an insect, then turned to see the tracers spiking up from the trees on the opposite hill.

The lead Tomcats were well out of range, but not so the Hornets immediately in the Tomcats’ wake. The first Hornet cartwheeled in the sky, tumbling forward along its former course completely out of control. She saw the canopy fly off in a different direction, then the chute emerge. So close to the ground — could it possibly open? It did, billowing out against the blue sky, lines invisible from this distance but not the green figure suspended below the chute as though by magic. For just a moment, she thought they might make it.

Then the chute completed the arc it had been making, swinging its cargo up and over it. The pilot hung overhead for a moment, suspended above his parachute. Then he descended on the opposite side, pulling the parachute over with him and spilling the air out of its folds.

She cried out a warning, knowing already that it was too late. The pilot was still alive, waiting, knowing that any second he would start that last fatal uncontrolled descent to the ground. At least a thousand feet up — was there any chance he could survive it?

Suddenly the distance between the pilot and the chute increased dramatically. He’d cut the useless chute off and was deploying his backup. But was there time for it to deploy, to fill with air and brake his descent? She watched as the chute streamed down through the remaining eight hundred feet, never completely billowing out.

Maybe it had been enough. It had to have been.

The second Hornet was jinking around the sky, weaving and bobbing as it tried to evade the antiair fire while still remaining on course and on time for its mission. She watched it maneuver, wondering whether the pilot would make it.

Thor swore automatically while he mentally worked out the trajectory of the antiair fire. That hill over there — he double-checked his memory and kept swearing. It was the same one that Tombstone had questioned Arkady about.

So much for the effect of letting the Greeks go first. Whether they’d needed time to acquire the targets, had had a start-up fault or what, the antiair site had let the first two aircraft pass without attacking, lulling the Americans that followed into a false sense of security. His wingman, Marine Captain Buddy Murphy, had just paid the price for that false sense of security.

The Hornet was a light aircraft, much nimbler than the Tomcat. It was also a single-seater, and the primary reason that Thor had chosen to go Marine rather than Navy out of the Academy. There was something primal about fighting the battle alone, even surrounded as he was with a host of sophisticated electronics, the LINK picture, and all the decision and targeting aids embedded in the complex black boxes that lined the interior of the fuselage.

He pulled the Hornet into a hard turn, held it for two seconds, then cut back in the opposite direction and slammed the afterburners in. The Hornet cut hard arcs in the sky, dancing through the SAM site airspace like a running back. A low hill off to his left — he remembered it from the briefing. A quick visual told him what he needed to know, that it was probably large enough to shield him from the site if he could get behind it.

But where was the IP? Could he maneuver that far off the ingress route and still get ordnance on target?

Like he had any choice. If he didn’t find some cover from the SAM site, his ordnance would still be on his wings when he hit the ground nose first.

He porpoised up two hundred feet, then back down, cutting back and forth as he changed altitudes, careful not to fall into a rhythm with it. Two more seconds — if he could just get a few more knots of speed, he might just…

The ESM warning system screamed that he was out of time. Missile launch… and Thor was the closest target.

Thor dove for the deck, pulling up just fifty feet above the ground. He’d traded his altitude for speed and distance, but the ground now posed almost as much of a threat as the missile. He kept his eyes glued to the earth racing by below him. At least this far out from civilization there weren’t any telephone wires or gondola cables to run into.

Wait for it, wait for it — now! Thor toggled off two chaff canisters and three flares, hoping to sucker the missile in. If it were IR or dumb homing radar, it might go for it.

Another second. He pulled up, trying to avoid the missile’s path but desperate for some altitude. He needed another fifty feet to clear the hill unless he wanted to go around, and he didn’t think he had time for the scenic route. Whoever was at the controls at the SAM site already had one Hornet to his credit — Thor wasn’t going to let him make it two. Besides, there was a little matter of payback for Murphy.

The missile symbol was sprinting across his heads-up display, homing in on the hard metallic target that his aircraft represented to most targeting systems. Just as it reached the point at which he’d ejected the chaff and flares, Thor cut hard to the right, rolling the Hornet into right angles with the ground. He circled back around now heading one hundred and eighty degrees off his previous course.

He could see it now, the real missile instead of just the radar paint on his HUD. It was coming for him at an impossible speed, too fast and too hard to evade. There was no time, no more at all. He jerked the Hornet up and away from the chaff and flares and waited.

A hard buffet rocked the Hornet as the missile took the decoys, the noise drowned out by the scream of his engines.

Bingo. Fire and black smoke scarred the sky, and a few small pieces of flaming chaff shot out from the main fireball. Thor turned hard back to his base course heading to avoid FODing his engine and headed for the hill.

Two seconds later, he topped the summit of the low, rounded him and dove down. The ESM warning cut out as the earth shielded him from the radar waves saturating the air.

How far off course and time was he? He made a hasty mental calculation, popping up briefly from behind the hill to take a visual on the rest of the strike. Forewarned by the destruction of Buddy’s Hornet, a Prowler had toggled off a HARM missile at the radar. The HARM sucked down radar waves, following them back to their sources before detonating, and was the weapon of choice against a radar or SAM site.

The rest of the strike was scattered along the ingress route, still maintaining their precision spacing but dispersed along the straight-line course they’d planned on. They were regrouping quickly, though. Part of every standard navy preflight briefing was to expect the unexpected.

The hill that housed the disguised SAM site exploded into an inferno of smoke, flames and shattered foliage. The fire spread down from the crest, pumping heavy black smoke into the air and degrading visibility.

“Strike leader, Devil Dog 220,” Thor said over the common circuit. In a few words, he outlined his position. “I saw a chute, repeat, had visual on a chute. Request permission to rejoin in tail position on third wave.”

“Negative, Devil Dog 220,” the accented voice of the Greek Tomcat strike leader came back. “RTB at this time.”

RTB? Now why the hell should I turn tail and return to base when I’ve still got weapons on the wings? If anything, he ought to order me to orbit overhead Buddy until SAR gets in. But I’m not hearing anything on his PRC and I saw the chute streaming. This is fucked, totally fucked.

“Strike leader, nothing heard. Out.” Thor clicked the mike off, hoping that the American leading the third wave had heard him and got the message. He wasn’t landing wings heavy, no way. And if the Greeks didn’t like it, they could kiss his scarlet and gold ass.

Thor pulled out from behind the hill and vectored in on the last incoming wave. He maintained separation, but caught a wave of welcome from the third wave leader. He gained altitude to maintain separate then turned back in behind the last Tomcat, easing into station as though it were part of the briefed strike plan.

The ground thundered past below, mostly clumps of trees and fields. There was no sign of human structures past a few shacks clearly intended for occasional use. He debated turning back on the radio, but decided that he might as well continue to experience “radio difficulties” until after he’d made a few Macedonians rue the day they’d ever even thought about such things as SAM sites. For Buddy — this one was going in hot and sweet for his wingman. And if he couldn’t hear anyone ordering him back to base, well, then how could he be accused of disobeying an order? It was always better to ask forgiveness rather than permission.

Pamela watched the second Hornet spoof the missile shot then dart behind a hill. There was no sign that he was bugging out — another wave, then, and maybe — yes, there it was. The missile shot hard and true through the air and found its target. Seconds later, another strike wave loomed on the horizon.

The pilot, the one that had ejected. Where the hell’s the SAR? They never fly a mission without it. Someone will be coming.

But when?

She started scrambling down the slope, ignoring the inbound strike aircraft and Xerxes’s protests. Maybe if she got to him in time… he could bleed out before a rescue helo could get to him, even with the SAM site destroyed. It might make a difference — maybe just enough of a difference for the man to survive.

Or the woman. The Marines were now letting women fly close air support in their Hornets.

Where had she seen him? Over to the left a little, right near that taller clump of trees. She remembered seeing a shack — goatherder or something — nearby. She got her bearings, changed course slightly and headed into the hills.

Xerxes caught up with her easily and snagged her by the elbow. She tried to jerk away, but it was as though he were planted in the ground on which he stood. “You’re not going there,” he said, stating it as a fact. “It is too dangerous.”

“There’s a man hurt over there. Maybe dead.”

He pulled her back toward their earlier location. “Perhaps. We’ll find him eventually.”

“Listen, you can’t do this. What if we can do something to save him? We’ve got to try — we can’t just leave him there.” She was panting now, twisting and pulling and trying to break the iron grip on her elbow. “Let me go, dammit.”

“This isn’t your fight.”

“He’s an American, you ass. If he were one of yours, would you leave him there? And if you would, what makes you any better than the Greeks?”

He didn’t loosen his grip on her elbow, but he did stop pulling her away. “Do you know these men?”

“Yes,” she said. Probably. I’ve been on Jefferson enough times that I ought to. And if I don’t know this particular guy, then I know someone just like him. “It’s personal to me. It’s a friend.”

He rubbed his chin with his free hand for a moment, clearly troubled. Whether it was from the possibility that she actually did know the pilot or thoughts of how she might eventually report this entire incident, she couldn’t tell. And didn’t care. As long as she could get away, maybe try to make a difference.

The cameraman… I didn’t even ask his name.

“You follow me,” he said finally. “My way, you understand.”

She nodded. It was better that way. He knew the terrain, probably could pinpoint exactly where the man went in. They’d save time, precious time. “Hurry.” She followed him at a trot, rummaging through her backpack as she did, hunting for the first aid kit. It was small, mostly intended for traveler’s stomach and minor injuries, but she remembered stuffing a couple of bottles of painkillers in there as well. That, and some bandages if he needed a tourniquet or something of that nature. With a sinking feeling, she realized she hadn’t actually checked on the condition of the material inside the kit since Xerxes had returned it to her. That it had survived the crash and she actually had it seemed miraculous.

A miracle. Just one, please, God. Whoever you are, wherever you are, let me get to this pilot in time. Maybe it will make up for…

Her thoughts veered away from thinking about the whole question of her objectivity. Later, when there was time. Maybe.

She patted her camera. Either way, it would be a hell of a story.

Out in front of him maybe two miles, Thor saw two people running across the long field laid out along their ingress path. A man and a woman, judging by the way the smaller one was running. Their presence registered long enough for him to notice that the woman was rummaging in a pack of some sort as she ran.

Stingers. The ubiquitous antiaircraft missiles were the weapon of choice for terrorists like the Macedonians. They were easily obtainable on the international arms market and were effective for close in air defense.

Maybe they weren’t part of the resistance force. After all, it was pretty normal to see people running away from the projected location of an air strike. Nothing wrong with that.

Except they were running the wrong way. People ran away from aircraft, not directly across the ingress path. And the pack—

He swerved slightly off course, just enough to bring them into line with his gun.

“Run!” Xerxes shoved her from behind then locked one arm under hers and dragged her along with him. She lost her balance but couldn’t fall, not with his arm locked under hers. He was carrying her, practically dislocating her shoulder in the process.

“They’re ours,” she screamed back as she moved her feet, trying to keep some of her weight off her shoulder. It was like a controlled fall. “They’re American.”

“They don’t know who you are,” he said, moving faster than she thought possible. “Those rocks — hurry, it’s our only chance.”

She saw them now, a dingy set of gray boulders cropping up along one edge of the field. She glanced up, saw the Hornet was now nose on to them. Xerxes was right — the Hornet had seen them and was not too pleased about it.

I’m only trying to help. Shit, the one time I try to do the right thing…

“Get down!” Xerxes tossed her over the boulder head first then followed her himself. He landed on top of her. She heard an odd, sickening snap and pain radiated through her rib cage.

Xerxes was still on top of her, holding her facedown in the small field of rocks and debris surrounding the boulders. He crossed his arms over the top of his head and tucked his chin in, digging it into her back.

There was a sound like a buzz saw, a moment’s pause, then another spate of sound. Rock chips flew up over them, arcing off from the side of the rock facing the aircraft. Pamela screamed, the noise muffled by the dirt being ground into her mouth.

Then the aircraft was almost directly overhead, the hard beat of its jets drowning out everything else in the world. The ground underneath her shook as it beat against her body, penetrating skin and muscle to resonate in her very bones. Xerxes’s weight, the pain in her side, all of it was insignificant compared to the overwhelming blast of sound energy. It went on for seconds, minutes, hours it seemed.

Then the sound down dopplered and dropped in volume. It was now mere noise, not the world-ending fury she’d felt before. She tried to move, but the Macedonian commander held her down. The pain returned, harder and more demanding now.

Finally, she felt him roll off of her. He laid on his back for a moment, breathing heavily, Then he levered himself up to his feet, dusted off the front of his uniform and said, “We have to go. He’ll be back, and then he’s going to have time to take another run on us. This time, we were lucky.”

Pamela started to stand, then let out a yell as the pain lanced through her. A hot knife, gleaming dull red, was turning in her chest. She tried to speak, then felt the world go dim gray around her.

“You cannot do this,” Xerxes said. He knelt down beside her and with no regard for any sort of personal privacy, ran his hands exploringly over her body, searching for the injury. He paused as his fingers skated over her ribs. Pamela let out a moan. He prodded her rib cage, sending new flashes of agony arcing up her spine. She tried to roll away, make him stop the torture, but his free hand held her firmly clamped in position.

“Cracked ribs,” he announced. “You’ll feel better once you stand up.” He grabbed her under the armpits and hauled her into a standing position. “Come on.”

Pamela put one hand on the boulder for support, now certain that she was near passing out. “I can’t walk.”

“Sure you can. I’ve had plenty of cracked ribs. As long as you’re not having trouble breathing, you’re okay for now. And you’re breathing just fine. So come on.”

“I can’t.”

He continued walking without turning around. “You said this was important. Or is that only when it’s convenient?”

Pamela bit back a harsh reply. If he could do it, then she could. “It’s important. Hold on, I’m coming.”

Thor swore as he saw the bullets digging a deadly furrow in the rich earth. The rounds tracked into the rock, blasting off the front face of it. Maybe some of the shrapnel got them, but he didn’t think so. They’d found just the right angle behind it to shield themselves from the gunfire.

Maybe he could go around, circle back behind them and keep hammering at them until he either got them or blew their rock to gravel. He considered that option for only a few moments before rejecting it. He might pull some crap with the Greeks over this RTB bullshit, but that Tomcat driver would never buy it.

He veered back into the formation, bringing up the rear. There was a chance they hadn’t even noticed his strafing run, although the plane captains certainly would when he brought the Hornet back in with rounds expended. Not that that mattered — his plane captains were Marines, and they’d understand.

On the way back there might be time. That is, if they were stupid or wounded. At least he hadn’t had to dodge a Stinger, if that’s what she’d been pulling out of that pack.

Now that he thought about it, the pack wasn’t really long enough to accommodate the bulk of a Stinger missile tube. But if that’s not what it had been, then why had they been running into the path of the oncoming strike.

Buddy. The thought rang icy cold in his mind.

They were after his wingman.

He started to turn back, but the strike wave was already descending for their final run in on the target. He divided his attention between the IP ahead and trying to crane his head around to see if he could still see them, then realized that was a hell of a good way to get killed. Who knew what else was around the IP? And not paying attention at this altitude was sheer insanity.

Like a good Marine, he made his choice. Dump ordnance, then break off and orbit over Buddy’s location. Ninety seconds from now he’d be headed back in, and to hell with any Tomcats who tried to force him to RTB. No way he was going anywhere, not until he saw a SAR helo taking off from an LZ with Buddy in it. One way or another.

Hard choices, harder answers. But with the decision made, he locked the question of his wingman out of his mind and concentrated on flying the aircraft.

Ninety seconds. Then he’d settle that score.

Pamela ran with her hands wrapped around her, trying to hold the shattered rib in place. Each breath was agony, piercing and hot. She bit the inside of her lip, determined not to make a sound. Now that the first shock of being injured was over, she was learning how quickly one could learn to live with pain.

“This way.” The Macedonian shoved aside some bushes, took a quick look, then put out one arm to hold her back. “No. They are always armed. If he doesn’t know who you are, he will shoot before you can explain.” He pulled her behind a tree. “Tell him now.”

She took a deep breath automatically in preparation for shouting at him, then let out a low moan as the pain intensified. She stifled it just as it started, shutting her eyes for a moment to paste her iron control back in place. When she opened her eyes, she saw a grudging respect in the Macedonian’s eyes.

“Hornet pilot, my name is Pamela Drake. The reporter on ACN. Can you hear me?” She waiting, holding her breath. There was no answer.

“He’s unconscious,” she said.

“Or pretending to be. I would. Wait until you come to check, then take a better shot.”

“Could you tell which way he was facing?” she asked.

He shook his head. “His feet were toward me. I could not tell if he was conscious or if his eyes were open.”

“Well, then, I’ll just have to find out.” She raised her voice and said, “You’ll recognize me as soon as you see me. I’m not armed. I’m going to step out so that you can see me, okay?”

There was no answer. She started to move away from the bulk of the tree, but Xerxes stopped her. “You know that he was going to bomb my people. If he’s alive, he’s a prisoner of war.”

She nodded, oddly uneasy at having the point made clear to her. If she convinced the pilot to give up his side-arm, Xerxes would take him prisoner. So was she committing treason by not telling him that the Macedonian was hiding here behind the tree? The words from an old training film she’d watched one night while onboard Jefferson came back to her. Aid and comfort to the enemy, something like that?

But at least he’d be alive. They’d treated her injuries, hadn’t they? They’d probably treat him all right, maybe set up a prisoner exchange. It wasn’t like he’d be a POW in Vietnam. As soon as this all blew over — unless they needed to make a point to the United States. Then what better example than an American pilot held prisoner?

They’d be misjudging the American psyche if they thought that. The reaction to Americans shot down during Desert Storm had been overwhelmingly supportive of the military.

“I’m coming out now. You’ll see me if you look over your feet, I think. Just take a look… you’ll know who I am.” She started out again, and this time Xerxes let her go.

Thor could feel the briefed path stretching out before him like a yellow brick road leading him straight down to Oz. So far, there was no sign of antiair activity, not even of a Stinger squad, much less anything more sophisticated.

That worried him, but not too much. Maybe they’d only had the one truck-mounted site left and Arkady’s men had destroyed the rest.

But Stingers? Everyone had Stingers. Even the most impoverished rebel forces could find some larger power somewhere that would be glad to supply them in exchange for the opportunities created by internal turmoil in a country. Russia, China, even Italy — plenty of ways to get them if you wanted them.

The seconds were slipping by quickly now, along with the ground under him. The lead Tomcat was almost in position… there. The first aircraft in this wave jolted up as the bombs left his wings, then banked hard away from the IP. They continued on in, each one lofting the bombs in on target from slightly further away to avoid being blinded by the debris thrown up by the earlier aircraft.

It was his turn now. His internal clock was counting down the seconds. Maybe twenty seconds since he’d left the two stretched out on the ground behind the rock. He hadn’t seen them move — maybe he’d gotten lucky and nailed them, but he didn’t think so. Still, it was always better to be lucky than good.

Three, two, now. He pickled off the bombs and broke hard to the right as he accelerated away from the danger. The Hornet carried fewer bombs than each Tomcat did, but he’d made certain that his counted.

He reached out for the radio switch, then hesitated. No — not now. He’d see if he could locate Buddy and the two terrorists after him first. He wasn’t sure he could. The trees looked pretty thick back there, and Buddy could be hidden under any one of them. Hell, if he’d survived the ejection, he was probably in deep cover by now, waiting for the SAR helo.

But there was no chatter on the Military Air Distress, or MAD, frequency. No single tone locator beacon or mayday call from Buddy. The radio could have been broken in the ejection, or he could be unconscious. There was no way to tell from here.

He vectored back in over the rock he’d shot up and started expanding search pattern over the area.

Pamela stepped out into the open, holding her hands over her head. “Can you see me?” She waited for an answer, but there was none. She took a step closer to the body stretched out on the ground. “Look, you can see me now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

There was an odd stillness to the figure, and it took her a moment to quantify what she was seeing. When it finally hit her, she darted forward, ignoring her own pain, and knelt down next to the pilot. He wasn’t breathing.

Oh, god, how long has it been? Four minutes before there’s brain damage — maybe he was breathing when he hit and I can do CPR. Where the hell is the damned SAR extraction helo?

Xerxes was on the ground next to her now. He’d moved silently, simply appearing there.

Pamela ripped down the zipper on the front of the man’s flight suit, then bent over to press her head to his chest while her fingers sought out the pulse point in his neck. She thought she felt the vein flutter under her fingers. He still wasn’t breathing, though.

She tilted his head back, holding her ear close to his mouth. Still no breath sounds, but if his heart were still beating, he had a chance. A big if… she was finding it hard to distinguish between the shaking of her own hands and his pulse.

Shock. It’s starting to set in now from the ribs. I can’t afford it — this can’t happen now.

Xerxes was watching her, his face impassive. She glared at him. “Do something.”

He shook his head. “It won’t matter.” He pointed at the blood coming out of the pilot’s ears. “Even if he starts breathing, he’s too badly hurt. He’ll never survive.”

She swiped at the blood. “It’s just a slash on his ear. There’s still a chance.” She administered the first deep life-giving breath of artificial respiration, then another, inflating his lungs and saturating them with oxygen. She stopped, waiting to see if his own breathing reflex returned.

Suddenly, the aviator gasped. He sucked down a deep lungful of air, then started coughing. Pamela hovered over him, praying that he’d keep breathing.

Spluttering and hacking, he did. The breaths were irregular for a few moments, then finally settled down into a steady rhythm. After another minute, he opened his eyes and stared up squinting and trying to focus on her face.

“What happened?” His voice was a harsh croak.

“You punched out,” she said. “Your parachute got fouled and you came down hard.”

“Where am I? Where’s the bird?” Murphy, or so the name patch on his uniform said, was regaining situational awareness at an astounding rate.

“The helo is on its way,” Pamela said reassuringly, not knowing whether it was true or not. Even if it had been nearly on top of them, she wouldn’t have heard it. Not too far away, the strike was pummeling the ground with hard iron bombs. The noise this distance from the strike still made it hard to even be heard.

That seemed to satisfy him. His eyes fluttered, then started to close.

“Keep him awake,” Xerxes said. “If he has a concussion, he must not sleep.”

She touched the pilot gently, not wanting to risk injuring him further. “Murphy — Murphy, wake up. You’ve got to stay awake.”

His eyes opened but his gaze was unfocused. “I’m so tired.”

“I know, but you can’t go to sleep. Not now.” Pamela looked over at the Macedonian. “We can’t move him.”

“We have no choice.”

“I do. Have a choice, I mean.”

“No. You don’t. You’re going back to the alternate camp. Whether or not you wish to bring this man with you is irrelevant. You knew the price from the beginning. Now he must be moved.”

“We went through all that to get here and now you’re going to risk killing him?” she asked incredulously.

“If the helo shows up, they will try to kill me. It is a simple choice.” He leaned over and slapped the pilot hard. “Stay awake. You must stand up now.”

The pilot moaned, then tried to move. His arms and legs seemed uncoordinated at first, but he quickly gained control of his limbs. A few moments later, with Pamela’s help, he was on his feet.

“Come, now — quickly.” Xerxes prodded her from behind and pointed to the north. “I’ve got responsibilities to attend to. There’s another detachment there, and I do not see any flames. We will go there.”

Pamela draped Murphy’s arm over her shoulders and let him lean his weight on her. “Can you walk?” she asked, already aware of a deepening pain in her own body. “It’s not too far.”

Murphy nodded. He moved mechanically. He’d evidently recognized her and decided to rely on her. She felt another twinge of conscience as she realized that.

They skirted the edge of the cleared field, edging through the trees and occasional rocks to try to keep to a northerly course. But the field ran northeast, and it became clear to her that they’d have to cross in the open soon.

The noise from the air strike was louder now, especially the sound of the aircrafts’ engines. They were returning, she realized, and felt a frisson of fear. That Hornet pilot — he’d be looking for his wingman. It didn’t matter who it actually was, she knew with a deep certainty that he’d be back.

“We wait,” Xerxes said, and drew them further into the cover. “They will be gone shortly, then we will assess the damage.”

At that, Murphy stiffened. Pamela had the distinct impression that he was far less disoriented and groggy than he’d let on. She started to speak, to reassure him once again, but realized that anything she said now would just make her own situation worse.

The sound like thunder grew stronger now, the distinctive howl of the Tomcats mixed with the slightly lighter whine of the Hornets. Murphy was fully alert now, though masking it for the benefit of the Macedonian. She felt him tense up, his muscles shaking under the effort. Then without warning, he broke free from her supporting grasp and started staggering toward the open field, arms waving and shouting as he stared up at the aircraft.

Pamela caught up with him twenty yards later. By that time he’d expended his reserve of energy and was moving slowly, still headed directly into the path of the oncoming aircraft. She joined him in waving her arms, signaling to the other pilots. The sole Hornet in the group peeled off and headed directly for them.

“Murphy,” Thor shouted. He flipped back on the radio and said over the common circuit, “It’s a friendly. That’s my wingman.”

“Roger, Devil Dog,” the American Tomcat pilot said. “SAR is inbound at this time. Remain in orbit over him pending pickup.”

“Roger, copy all. Interrogative ETA of the SAR bird?” Thor asked.

“So you have repaired your radio?” another voice broke in. Thor recognized the voice of the Greek strike leader. “Then join on my wing. We will make sure that you are within visual communications range until we land.”

There was a short pause, then the American Tomcat pilot said, “Negative, strike leader. Devil Dog 202 must remain on station to protect the landing zone.”

“Any threat to the landing zone has already been neutralized,” the Greek shot back. “Obey my orders immediately.”

Thor didn’t even bother answering. There was no way he was going to leave his wingman, no way. He shouldn’t have left him the first time, but the seconds and the miles had flashed by and he’d been over the IP. He felt a wave of regret and shame. If he’d orbited over Murphy’s position, he might have been able to keep them off of him.

And just who the hell were they, anyway? One of them was a soldier by the looks of him, outfitted in green camouflage uniforms. The other, he wasn’t so sure. In a fight like this, just being a woman didn’t earn her any points. They were just as dangerous as the men.

And where was the guy, anyway? The woman was standing in the field with Murphy, waving like a mad dog. But the guy — was he off in the brush to the side, sighting down on Thor with a Stinger even at this moment?

Probably so. Thor took on some altitude, not enough to put him out of range but enough to give him some maneuvering room. Or at least the illusion of it. His odds of getting away form a Stinger at this range were nil

“Devil Dog, helo inbound in three mikes. How copy?”

“Copy three mikes. Advise the helo that the LZ may be hot.”

“That woman with him?”

“There was a man with her earlier, military.”

Silence then, and Thor knew what the Tomcat lead was thinking. The woman, out making happy faces and enticing the aircraft in with the downed pilot. The man, ready in the bushes as soon as a target came within range. It was a trap, pure and simple. And without forces on the ground, there was no way to extract Murphy, not without risking the SAR helo.

“I can hose down the area to either side,” Thor said finally. “Lay down some suppressing fire.”

“Roger, I’ll advise the helo. Do you have communications with Murphy?” Tomcat lead asked.

“Negative. That’s him, though.”

Another long silence. Without communications, there was no way to direct the pilot to a safer pickup area. They were playing a come as you are game, and in a dangerous situation.

“Roger, Devil Dog. Be advised that SAR helo is standing off one mike out waiting for clearance to the LZ. You take the left side — I’ll take the right. If anything’s standing after we’ve expended our rounds, you owe me a drink.”

“Roger, copy all. Murphy will know what’s up and he’ll stay put.” Thor had been orbiting overhead, and now he descended again, pushing the Hornet into a maximum rate of descent. He pulled up hard, cut back on the power, and walked a stream of rounds down one side of the LZ while the Tomcat took the opposite side. Just as they reached the midpoint, a figure broke out of the cover and headed for the center of the field — and for Murphy.

“Get him,” Thor shouted. “Now, lead!”

The ground around the running man exploded as the bullets rained down on it from the Tomcat. Thor tried to maneuver around to get a shot at him himself, but he couldn’t do so without fouling the Tomcat’s field of fire. He took another pass down his side of the field, hoping to scare out another tango.

“That’s Thor,” Murphy shouted as the Hornet passed down the side of the field. “The helo is here — look.” He pointed off in the distance at a helicopter well out of range. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Stop them,” Pamela screamed. “You’ve got a radio, don’t you? You’ve got to stop them.”

“Why the hell should I?” he snapped, the earlier confusion and apparent weakness now completely gone. “They don’t clear the LZ, we don’t get out of here.”

“You’re leaving. I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not,” she repeated. “I’m not military… I’m a civilian.”

Suddenly a figure broke of the tree line and started running toward them. He danced across the open field, zigging and zagging in an attempt to foil the targeting of the Tomcat. The rounds stopped falling as he came closer to them, and when he stopped he grabbed them by their arms and held one on either side of him.

Murphy was reaching into a pocket on his flight suit, and Pamela could see the outline of a handgun pressed up against the fire-retardant cloth. He fumbled as he pulled it out, and Xerxes’s hand closed around his wrist. He shook Murphy’s wrist once, then twisted his arm up behind him. “No guns. It’s her fault I’m even here, and I’m not getting shot for my troubles.”

Murphy yelped, then dropped the gun as Xerxes’s fingers dug deep into the bone. The Macedonian scooped it up and deposited it in his own pocket.

“They won’t come in if you’re here,” Pamela said, her words slightly slurred. It was getting harder and harder to stay focused — the shock creeping up on her, she supposed.

“That’s the idea.” The Macedonian pulled her hard up against him. “They’re not coming in.”

“We can leave,” she said. “We go back into the trees, let the helo come in and pick him up. They won’t shoot at me.”

“You’ve got the wrong idea again about who will shoot at who and why. Right now, he’s our only protection,” Xerxes said, shaking the pilot lightly. “We let him go and they’ll kill us both. You see what they did to the land on either side of us?”

“Murphy would tell them who I am,” she insisted. “They won’t take the chance of hitting me.”

“I think you’re missing the whole point of this. They’re supposed to be shooting at me — and I’m supposed to be keeping them from doing that. Now let’s get moving.”

“Weapons tight, weapons tight! We’ve got friendlies in the area.” Thor was shouting now, venting his frustration over the circuit. “Dammit, they’ve got Murphy. I saw them go into the trees.”

Silence greeted his demand. They all knew the score.

“Break off, Devil Dog. We can’t take the chance,” the Tomcat lead said finally. “RTB.”

Every Marine is a ground soldier first, and Thor was no exception. His hands ached for a rifle, a sniper scope, anything that would be useful in picking off the two terrorists that had custody of his wingman. The Hornet was a powerful weapon, but it was a blunt one. This situation called for precision fire, something he couldn’t produce no matter how much he wanted to. To watch his wingman being led away, moving slowly and awkwardly in the custody of the two Macedonians was almost more than he could bear. Sheer impotent rage swept through him and he howled his frustration and anger in the cockpit, the scream echoing off the canopy around him.

But the Marine Corps habit of obedience under the most dangerous of circumstances was already reasserting itself, taking over. He was gaining altitude, falling back into position on lead, maintaining a rock steady formation flight position even as every atom of his being ached to stay overhead, waiting, hoping for some chance to kill the two captors.

“If your pilots had followed the flight plan, there would have been no danger.” General Arkady’s voice was implacable. “Yet they chose to deviate from it. They put themselves at risk.”

Tombstone watched him impassively, hiding the wild rage storming through him. “No mission goes exactly as planned,” he said. “That’s why we brief contingencies. So pilots will know how to compensate for the unexpected.”

Arkady shrugged. “In combat, one must learn to expect losses. Do you know how many men I have lost in the last six months before the United States so generously decided to come to our assistance?”

“You could have told me about the SAM site,” Tombstone said. His voice was harder and colder than it had been a moment before.

“I thought it had been destroyed. We only learned otherwise this morning. If we had deviated from the briefed plan, we would have put sensitive intelligence assets at risk. Once they are burned, they are no longer of any use, are they?” Arkady asked, as though his reasoning were eminently clear with it to anyone with the slightest common sense.

Shock and horror settled over the room, among both Greek, American and other foreign aviators alike. Tombstone glanced around room and saw that only Arkady’s general staff failed to react. One man had the good grace to look ashamed.

What’s his name? Colonel Zentos. I’ve seen that look on men’s faces before.

“The point of intelligence is to save lives of pilots,” Tombstone said. “At least in my service.” General Arkady met his harsh glare without the slightest trace of regret on his face.

“Many men have died, Admiral. Many more will before this is over. And not just men — women, children, the very old. How easy it is for us so far away to panic over the first loss of life.” He gestured to encompass the entire room. “Ask my men how many we’ve lost? Then tell me that I should risk my sensitive intelligence assets that are now making a difference.

“And may I point out, I sent my own men in first. Had your pilots stayed with the plan, followed their strike leader, they would have been home even now.” General Arkady settled back into his chair and made a dismissive gesture. “Now, for tomorrow’s strike, we will—”

“You will disclose every bit of intelligence you have.” Tombstone leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the table, splaying his fingers and nailing down the edge of the paper Arkady was reading. “Do I make myself clear? Every bit of it, General. Or my forces don’t fly.”

Arkady looked up, quiet amusement on his face. “You forget yourself, Admiral. They’re no longer your forces. They’re under my direct operational control. You’re here as a matter of courtesy—my courtesy in allowing an advisor from America to participate in command decisions. Perhaps that is the mistake.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Perhaps I should have you removed.”

“If I go, so do my people.”

“Are you so sure?” Arkady asked. “I think before you make such rash statements, you should consult your authorities at home. They may have other ideas.”

“Come on,” Tombstone said, gesturing to the assembled Americans. “I want talk to you — alone.”

Arkady waved them away. “You have my permission to consult with my forces, Admiral. But don’t forget who owns the firepower around here. They’re my men and women — not yours.”

The Americans, without exception, followed Admiral Magruder of the conference room and down the hall to an unused ready room that had been assigned to them for temporary usage. Away from the other nationalities, the stolid veneer they had all applied to their faces cracked and shattered. The skipper of the VF-95 slumped down in the front chair and buried her face in her hands. Tombstone sat down next to her, resisting the urge to place an arm around her shoulders. “I know how you feel,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, we’ll get them back.”

Tomboy looked up, anguish on her face. “Admiral — Tombstone — what he said is true. I chopped to his command and control yesterday — didn’t Batman let you know? Except for administrative matters. If he tells me to fly mission, I have to or face the consequences. How am I supposed to explain court-martialing Smith if I pick and choose what orders I’m going to obey?”

Tombstone nodded. “I know. But no one back home had this in mind when they did that. It was political maneuvering of the worst possible sort, an attempt to curry world favor by placing forces the Greeks can’t begin to imagine at their disposal. If they had had any idea that Arkady would be wasting lives like this, it never would have happened.”

“Are you so sure?” Tomboy shot back. “Hell, I don’t know what to believe right now. Maybe that’s all we are anymore — cannon fodder.”

Tombstone stood now, and addressed the assembled man and women. “Any of the rest of you feel like that?” he asked. A few guilty nods, eyes averted, answered him. He felt something crumple and die inside his chest. “If that’s the way you feel, that’s all you’ll ever be. But you’ve got it wrong, every last one of you.” He strode to the podium in front of the room and turned to address them. “What you are is the world’s most elite fighting unit. Sure, the Greeks have Tomcats. You’ve seen how they maintain them — and how they fly them. Is there a single pilot among you who doesn’t know deep down in his heart that he’s better than anyone they can field?”

The expressions were brighter now, the aviators leaning forward on the edges of their seat. Tombstone continued, “I won’t lie to you and tell you that I like the situation we’re in here. But it’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last time. We’ve all been in tough situations before. But what American pilots do, they do better than anyone else in the world. I don’t like the command structure we’re in here. Nor will I tolerate any of you disobeying General Arkady’s orders. It’s my job to get this mess straightened out, and I promise you, I will. Until then, I need you to hold together. Just for a day, maybe two. Once JCS and the president hear about this little incident, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

And there would be hell to pay, but not exactly in the manner that Tombstone had envisioned. Nor were the results to be anything he could’ve anticipated.