Enemies

SIXTEEN

Greek Army Captain Simeon twisted in his cockpit, unable to hold still under the force of the clear, burning rage coursing through his body. He’d known Helios since their earliest days in the Air Force, had gone through all phases up to and including advanced combat fighter tactics together. They’d fought together, drank together, and chased women for the better part of seven years.

All that ended now, Helios’s life snuffed out in the most cowardly attack that he’d ever witnessed.

Not that he’d actually seen it. Helios had been at the tail end of the Greek wave of aircraft. Just as the base had made the first report of the American’s treachery, there’d been a brief, confused sputter from his own ESM gear. His backseater had been howling and he’d slammed his own aircraft up into as steep a climb as he could coax out of the Tomcat. Altitude meant room to maneuver, and while diving for the deck might be an acceptable counter-missile technique, no pilot he knew ever wanted to start an engagement so short on elbow room.

Now, with the rest of his aircraft sorting themselves out, their orbit intervals and altitude separation gradually obtaining some semblance of order, Simeon had a few moments to think.

“You saw it?” he asked his backseater over the ICS.

“I think so. Something that looked like a missile anyway. But General Arkady, he said it came from the American ship. The bearing was all wrong — it was coming from further inland, not from the sea. Besides, if it had been from the ship, I would have seen it for much longer time.”

“Inland? You’re certain?”

“Yes. But the detection was so short”—Simeon could hear the mental shrug—“I could be wrong. I probably am. If the generals says…”

If the general says it came from the sea, then it did. Neither of us would survive reporting data that contradicts his orders. Simeon knew that was exactly what his backseater was thinking.

“A malfunction in your radar,” he announced.

“Yes, of course,” the backseater said quietly. “But Simeon, these orders… do we truly want to attack the Americans now? After they’ve just flown a mission with us?”

More than anything in the world, Simeon did not. Yet caught between the Americans behind him and General Arkady ahead of him, there simply was no choice. Better to die here than to face what would greet him on the ground if he returned without following the general’s orders.

Or trying to obey them, at least. Simeon had no great illusions about the damage he could do to the men and women in the aircraft behind him. Americans had built the Tomcat, knew its power and capabilities better than any other nation on earth. Their aircraft would be just as potent — even more so, since there were certain capabilities built into the American aircraft that were not available on the export models. The Greeks had tried to make up for that by cobbling together some systems they’d bought from Russia, but the results had been far from satisfactory and had resulted in intermittent errors just like the one he’d concocted to explain his backseater’s missile detection.

Simeon heard silence on the tactical circuit as the rest of the men orbited and waited for him to decide what to do.

As though he had a choice. He took a deep breath and toggled the microphone on. “You heard the general’s orders. Maintain separation and avoid interfering with each other’s shots. Weapons free on all American targets.”

Someone snorted and did not identify themselves, although Simeon thought he could identify the person. “Weapons free. Which weapons would that be exactly, Lead?” They’d left the airfield with a minimal antiair loadout, configured as Bombcats for this particular mission. Each aircraft carried one Sidewinder and one Sparrow, along with a full magazine of rounds for the gun.

The general hadn’t thought of everything, now had he?

At least the American Tomcats were in no better shape. And at least they knew what sort of fight to expect. Except for the Hornets… now there was a nasty little addition to the problem. The Tomcat airframes were heavy and powerful, and they’d be forced by wing loading considerations to fight the same fight. The lighter, more maneuverable Hornets were a different problem altogether.

“We use what we’ve got,” Simeon announced. “Call your target.”

From the intelligence compartment next to TFCC, Lab Rat watched the Greek fighters peel out of their strikes waves. Before they’d even formed up into fighting teams, he tapped the TAO on the shoulder. “Call Admiral Wayne. Tell him it’s urgent.”

Tombstone Magruder was flanked by six guards as he entered the command post. The look on his face would have caused most officers to break out into a cold sweat and start planning their civilian careers. Yet General Arkady merely waved a congenial greeting and beckoned him over to stand before the radar screen.

“What is the meaning of this?” Tombstone demanded, his voice even colder than the expression on his face.

Arkady glanced up, then surveyed the guards as though slightly surprised to see them there. “I wanted you to see this. Under the circumstances, I thought you might need some persuasion.”

“Persuasion? You mean like placing the rest of my officers and troops in custody and assigning guards to keep them in one room? You’ve got the wrong idea about how allies behave toward one another, General.” Tombstone stalked into the room as though it were his own squadron spaces. “Unless my people are released within the next ninety seconds, I’m withdrawing all American forces from participation in UNFORGREECE. And just in case you think I don’t have the power to do that, you just try considering exactly who those men and women will obey if it comes right down to it.”

“Which is exactly why I’ve put them all together for safekeeping,” Arkady said, his pleasant expression broadening into a smile. “Yes, I understand your American forces far better than you think I do.”

“You understand nothing,” Tombstone spat. “Nothing at all. Not about fighting this war, not about the UN, much less about any of us.”

Arkady’s face froze for a moment, then the smile faded into an expression far more menacing. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me.”

“Like you’ve done us?”

Arkady shook his head, the menace fading away as he did so. “Look at your disposition of forces first. Then tell me I don’t understand your people.”

Tombstone could see the tactical picture as clearly as though he’d charted it out himself. The American aircraft, both Tomcats and Hornets by their symbology numbers, were arrayed in an orderly formation leaving the area of their last strike. Ahead of them, a disorderly gaggle of Greek aircraft were breaking away from a fighter sponge and forming up into pairs of twos, one taking high station and the other taking low. The loose-deuce fighting formation, a two-on-one combo that rarely failed to give the Americans a distinct advantage over other nations more accustomed to fighting under the direction of a ground controller.

“Why?” Tombstone asked finally as he watched the two waves of aircraft approach each other. Two even lines, sets of twos — at least the lead American pilot had gotten the idea and was reconfiguring his forces into fighting pairs. “Why any of this?” The six guards crowded in closer to him as his fingers curled into fists.

“Because this is an internal problem.” Arkady paused for a moment to let Tombstone consider his words. “As we’ve said from the very beginning, there is no place for the rest of the world in resolving this matter. But you Americans have become accustomed to simply barging in anywhere in the world that your misguided sense of knighthood seems to tell you that your presence is needed.” Arkady’s calm facade was cracking now, revealing the insanity underneath it. “My people were making sophisticated battle plans, inventing the very sciences that you use today when your ancestors were still worshipping trees. We don’t need the world to solve our problem for us any more than we needed the friendship of the Romans all those centuries ago.”

The Greek general turned to stare at the screen again, and watched with satisfaction as the two waves of aircraft merged into a fur ball. “And now we’ll teach the world one more lesson — to stay out of our country.”

Thor put the Hornet in as steep a climb as he could manage without going into afterburner. Even before the engagement began, fuel was already his limiting factor. A bad thing anytime, but particularly so when your opponent was a Greek Tomcat carrying more pounds of fuel after a bombing run than you could at max load.

The thin whine of the ESM gear filled the cockpit. A lock. Thor glanced at his HUD. A Sidewinder probably — the IR guided antiair missile was the weapon of choice with the Hornet’s tail pointed almost directly at the oncoming Tomcat.

Why had the Tomcat picked him? The question beat in the back of his head as he flew upward, gauging the exact moment when he’d have to take evasive action.

“I’m on him, Thor,” his wingman said. Cassidy “Hopalong” Kramer, a nugget still less than one year out of the Fleet Replacement squadron but one of the best natural pilots Thor had ever run across. “Break right when I say.”

One the HUD, Thor could see Cassidy’s Hornet streaking in from above, diving and pivoting in midair to cut back in behind the Greek Tomcat in perfect killing position. It had better be quick — Thor could feel his airspeed bleeding off, the knots clicking down as the altitude crept up. The hair on the back of his neck started to prickle, and his hand reached for the throttle. Low fuel or not, in a few seconds he was going to need that extra power to keep him out of the stall envelope.

The ESM warning shifted upward in tone, indicated a solid lock. Then it broke into an excited chatter. Thor reached for the controls — missile launch — no way he was waiting, he had to get the hell out of Dodge now.

“Now!” Hopalong sang out as though echoing his thoughts and Thor broke hard right.

“Where’s the missile?” Thor demanded as he let gravity take hold, bolstering his airspeed and preparing for evasive action. “Where is it, dammit?” He tapped the afterburners, accelerating the Hornet well into a comfortable flying attitude.

“Fireball caught it,” Hopalong crowed. “Got that bastard on guns! Man, splash one Tomcat!”

“Where’s his wingman?”

“He’s just… wait, he’s… shit, Thor, he’s on me! Cut back around me and nail him. I’m going rolling scissors.” Hopalong spun his Hornet onto his back and went into a hard, spiraling horizontal roll. The wingman started to follow, then evidently recognized the trap. If the Hornet could trap the less-maneuverable bird into a horizontal game, the Hornet won. Sooner or later, Cassidy would have cut inside the Tomcat’s turning radius and either stitched a line down its side with gunfire, hoping to hit a fuel tank, or pickled off a heat-seeking missile locked hard on the Tomcat’s tailpipe.

But this Tomcat pilot wasn’t that stupid. He exploited the Tomcat’s greater thrust to wing ratio and grabbed for altitude, clearly intended to pace the Hornet from above and force the game into the vertical.

Thor pulled up his own dive for the deck when his airspeed was well within the envelope again. He still had five thousand feet on the climbing Tomcat, but the range… could he make it in time to slip in behind him? He considered it for just a second, then slammed into afterburner and closed the horizontal distance between them.

The Tomcat pilot caught on just as his vertical ascent passed through the horizontal plane of Thor’s airspace. The massive fighter twisted in midair, fighting against inertia and gravity to slew the glaring tailpipes away from Thor and to bring the Vulcan Phalynx cannon mounted under the left wing root to bear on the smaller aircraft.

But the Greek pilot was fighting more than two pissed off Hornet pilots — he was up against the laws of momentum and mass, and he didn’t stand a chance. Thor saw it before the Greek did and waited as the Tomcat started pulling out of the vertical climb and turning to face Thor.

Just as the clear canopy of the other fighter swung into view, but before the Tomcat could bring its own guns to bear, Thor toggled off a short burst from his gun. So maybe he couldn’t shoot the Macedonians on either side of Murphy when he’d wanted to, not that time, but guns and rounds were something that every Marine aviator schooled in the tenets of close air support understood very, very well.

The rounds, every tenth one a tracer, spat out across the front of the Tomcat. The canopy shattered, large chunks of plastic and metal supports streaming back from the cockpit along with a fog as the cockpit depressurized. Thor continued the stream of gunfire to the right, taking a few precious microseconds to do it, then slammed into afterburner while simultaneously turning hard to the left. His last few rounds caught the engine intake and the right engine exploded into flames.

Get out! You’ve got time! Against all sense, Thor screamed at the doomed aviator in the crippled plane, shouting at him to eject before the flames raced up the fuel lines and detonated the rest of the fuel.

The pilot in the cockpit was motionless. As Thor flashed by, he caught a glimpse of the shattered helmet, the spreading redness coating the inside of the cockpit.

Just as he cleared the other aircraft, it erupted into flames. The force of the explosion buffeted him as he swept by, tilting the tail of his Hornet up slightly.

“Two of them,” Hopalong shouted, victory plain in his voice. “Ain’t nothing can mess with a Marine Hornet, nothing. Specially not no Tomcat.”

Despite the jubilation in his wingman’s voice and the sheer relief of being free of the fighter on his tail, Thor felt a creepy sensation. Splash a Tomcat — not something he’d ever thought he’d hear a Hornet pilot say. Tomcats were American aircraft, or owned by America’s allies across the world. You fought side-by-side with them, not against them.

“Where’s everybody else?” Thor asked, scanning his own HUD and answering the question even as he asked it.

“To the west,” Hopalong answered. “Hot Rocks and Lobo are taking on the one that’s left in their pair, and the rest of them are out of action.”

“Maybe. So where the hell did they go?” Thor asked. He looked down at the fuel gauge and groaned. The two short spurts on afterburner had been critically necessary, but he’d expended over half of his remaining fuel. “And more importantly — where the hell are we going to go? For some reason, I find myself awful reluctant to head back to the airbase we just left.”

“Not to worry, Thor.” Lobo’s cool, sardonic voice came over the circuit just as the final enemy Tomcat burst into flames. “That’s the good thing about carrier aviation. You take your airfield with you. Jefferson’s putting gas in the air and they’ve got a green deck. Let’s go home, boys — now follow mama.”

“What about the rest of our people?” Thor asked. “We can’t just leave them back there.”

“We can and we will,” Lobo snapped. “What exactly did you plan to do, strafe the airfield then dive bomb on your empty fuel tanks?”

“Marines don’t leave Marines behind,” Thor countered.

“They do when there’s no other way. Now get your ass into formation and let’s plug and suck. We’ll pick up some reinforcments and be back. And this time, we’ll be ready for them.”

Thor clicked his mike twice in acknowledgment. Cassidy moaned softly and said, “Man, I love it when she talks dirty.”

By the time the air was crowded with aircraft overhead, Pamela had covered another one hundred yards. The wall of trees loomed up at her another forty feet away, dark and alluring as the waves of noise and destruction washed over her. The pain in her shoulder, the same one she’d injured before, was gnawing at her consciousness now, insisting that life would be so much easier if she’d just stop moving for a few moments — maybe a minute, no longer, just enough time to let it ease up some. A short rest, that’s what she needed. Very short. And then she’d go back to crawling on gouged and bloody hands and knees toward the forest so far away.

She’d just started to let herself sink down to the ground when two arms clamped down around her waist. They lifted her, taking the weight off her screaming shoulder, and just for a moment she thought she was flying through the air again, experiencing those pain-free moments she’d had before hitting the ground.

Then the bottoms of her feet found the ground underneath them and the arms slid up higher, rucking her blouse high around her armpits. “Come on, lady, you can walk. Get moving.”

Through a blur of pain and disorientation, she stared at the face. Familiar, she knew him… where had she…?

Murphy. The last few minutes and hours came crashing back down on her, sending her reeling in his arms. “Come on,” he said, and swore quietly. “We got to get out of here.”

She stumbled along, regaining her balance as she went, with one of Murphy’s arms still around her waist. It went faster now, and she could see that the tree line was just in front of them. She wiggled in his arms, twisting back around for a look at the aircraft in the sky. Two were just breaking to either side of the camp, low enough that she could see the markings on the tail assemblies as they climbed away from their targets.

Greek. She squinted back toward their course and saw the second wave. More Tomcats — Greek? No, the lighter aircraft just behind them were Hornets, so the Tomcats were probably American. And probably off Jefferson.

“Damn you, can’t you stop for a single moment?” With a vicious jerk on her injured shoulder, Murphy dragged her into the stand of trees. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

She pulled free of him, cutting off the low moan that rose involuntarily in her throat as pain shot through her shoulder. “Yes, I get it. If I didn’t, I’d still be back in the camp.”

With Xerxes. The unspoken thought cut through her like a knife, blocking out the pain for a few moments. She felt the sickness start deep in her stomach and vault up to the back of her throat. She turned away from him retching, and fell to her knees.

“Easy,” he said, and forced a canteen up to her lips when she’d emptied her stomach. “You’re safe now.” The ground shuddered under them as secondary explosions from the first wave of bombs tore through the structure she’d just been in. Panic reeled through her. A thin laugh broke out from her lips. Safe — as if she’d ever be safe again, as if the term had any meaning whatsoever with five hundred pound bombs pulverizing the ground so close by.

As if reading her thoughts, Murphy said, “We’ve got to keep moving. They get off course a little, we’re toast.”

Pamela drew in a deep, shuddering breath and fought for her self-control, reaching deep for reservoirs of strength she wasn’t certain she had. Somewhere inside, she found an iron core of determination founded on the realizations she’d had on her role in the world. “I’m okay now.” She looked up into his battered face, then down as his bare feet. “Thanks. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

He looked away. “It’s okay. Just don’t do anything stupid and get me killed, all right?”

She nodded. “Can you walk?” she asked, pointing at his bleeding and battered feet.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Let’s go, then. Which way?”

He pointed deeper into the woods, and said, “We’ll break out before long, but right now the only thing I care about is getting away from ground zero, you know? We’ll worry about making our way back into Greek territory after the bombing stops.”

“Okay.” She looked back toward where she’d come from and saw that she’d managed to drag her camera all the way along with her. “I need that.” Without waiting for his agreement, she covered the forty feet separating her from her gear, snatched it up with her good hand, then ran back into cover with him. “We can go now.”

He shook his head in disgust. “Like I said — you never stop, do you?”

She started to explain, then settled for, “You’re right. I don’t.”

The stand of trees proved to be far too small to even be called a copse. Instead, it was a narrow strip running between two cultivated fields and the larger stretch that held what had been the Macedonian’s camp. They broke out on the other side of it only four minutes after they started walking.

“Which way?” Pamela asked.

He pointed back in the direction the fighters had come from. “That way. We can stay in cover for a while longer and at least we know we’re traveling in the right direction. I’ll recognize some of the landmarks as we go, although they’re going to look different from ground level than they did from the air.”

They moved more slowly now, conserving their strength. The sound of the explosions gradually grew fainter, not as much due to any great distance that they covered but simply from the screening effect of the trees. Within a few minutes it started to sound like distant thunder again.

One wave of aircraft stormed by, ascending and clean winged just as the second wave rolled in, still low to the ground and moving more slowly with their wings laden with bombs. They stopped for a moment and watched, felt the power echoing down in their bones at the sound and fury so close by overhead.

The two waves of aircraft passed each other by, the Greek Tomcats climbing harder now when all at once the orderly formation broke into shards as aircraft peeled off in every direction save the one they’d originally been headed.

“What the hell?” Murphy stormed forward to the edge of the tree line and stared up at the disorder. “They’re in combat spread, or at least trying to get there.” The separate aircraft were reforming into recognizable pairs, one high, one low, and starting hard climbs to higher altitudes. “What the hell spooked them? They’ve got to have cleared the area before they started in.”

Just then Pamela saw it. At first she thought it was a cloud in the distance, but the odd spiraled shape to it grew steadily longer, arcing up across the brilliant blue sky so clear that it hurt her eyes. She pointed up at it. “Missile.”

“Stingers,” Murphy said, then swore.

She watched as it corkscrewed its way across the sky now, moving impossibly fast toward the closest Tomcat. The pilot dodged and jinked, desperately trying to shake it. At the very last second, she saw the canopy pop up and wretch back behind the Tomcat in its slipstream. The two ejection seats, the back one first by only a millisecond, shot out at angles intended to rocket their occupants clear of the airframe. Just as they cleared the Tomcat, the missile found its target and the aircraft exploded in a brilliant flash.

The first chute opened, then twisted around the tumbling ejection seat, wrapping the risers into a tangled mass. The silk streamed out above the aviator, fluttering impotently, following him down to the ground.

The second chute bloomed then, at first looking precariously lopsided in the sky, then catching the air and filling. The aviator started his gentle descent to the ground when a chunk of flaming debris from the aircraft cut through one riser on its way to the ground. Then a second fragment tore through the fragile fabric itself.

“They’ll be after our people next,” Murphy said, his voice hard with anger. He traced back the path of the missile to a hillside less than a mile away. “I’m not going to let that happen.” He started off at a broken trot, limping badly.

“Wait,” Pamela said. “Just hold up a minute, would you?”

He kept going, and threw the words back over his shoulder at her. “I thought you didn’t choose sides, Drake.”

“I don’t. I just have to reload.” She slid the pistol out of her camera pack and a clip out of a side pocket configured to hold film canisters.

He was back by her side almost instantly. “I’ll take that.” His hands closed around the gun, easily prying hers off. She let go and stepped back.

Murphy popped the clip in and chambered a round. “Got any more?” She pulled out two more clips from her bag and held them out to him.

“No sides doesn’t mean being stupid,” she said. She hoisted the still camera. “Now — lead on.”

Anyone watching them would have immediately dismissed the floundering pair as posing any possible threat unless the watcher was close enough to see the nine millimeter tucked into Murphy’s waistband or the ugly expression on his face. They were moving slowly, awkwardly trying to keep to cover when they could, stumbling across open patches of field when they had to. It took them almost twenty minutes to make their way to the base of the hill. It was grassy and gently sloping along the sides, but the summit was a rugged crag of weathered rock and gnarled trees.

“How are we getting up there?” she asked. “Can we make it?”

He led her around the base, studying the slopes and the summit. “We have to go up this side. He’s got the other side covered.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s the direction facing the flight path. And no one’s shot us yet. You stay down here — I’m going up.”

“No way.”

“Listen, you’ll just slow me down. You’re not trained in this — you’ll make noise, give our location away, and he’ll pop us both before we get within range. You want that, risking those guys lives just so you can play soldier?”

She pointed at his waistband. “I’m doing my part already. Besides, you’re not going to shoot me to keep me from going. It’d make to much noise.”

“How about if I just tie you up?”

“I’ll scream the second you touch me.”

Murphy sighed and seemed to give into the inevitable. “Okay. Come on up here, then. You stay to my right and slightly behind. You got that?”

Pamela scrambled up the lower slope, her balance more sure than his had been. “Got it.”

“One other thing. You see that tree over there? That’ll be our emergency rendezvous spot.” He pointed at a gnarled oak at the edge of the last strip of trees. She turned to make sure she had the landmark fixed in her mind.

Just as she looked away, she caught an impossibly fast flicker of movement. There was a second of pain as his fist found the side of her head, a flash of light, and then she slid to the ground unconscious.

The first one hundred yards was easy going. Lush grass clung to the sides of the slope, interspersed with boulders jutting up ancient gray and weathered. Murphy’s American mind came to an immediate conclusion — difficult to now. No way you’d get a riding mower up here, either. This would be strictly a hand job, probably with a rope belayed off the boulders just the way you weren’t supposed to do it.

Further up the hill, with his injury now draining his strength and the soil increasingly rocky under his bare feet, he saw why the Greeks used the field as grazing for goats. The incline was steeper now, and he had to use the boulders to steady himself on occasion. Be rough going if you were trying to get up here with a pack and a couple of weapons, but certainly not impossible. If you had boots. If you weren’t hurt.

He paced himself, keeping one eye on the summit for any sign of movement or activity. Nothing so far. Bad field craft, not having a roving lookout to cover your six. Two possibilities — it was either one man alone, or two damned sloppy ones. He patted the pistol. Either way, the odds looked pretty good to him.

By the time he reached the smooth rocks capping the hill, he was feeling pretty bad. Not so bad that he couldn’t carry on, of course, but pretty bad. He paused for a moment with his back to a boulder, looking downhill and shielded from sight from the top of the hill. He let his lungs build back up the oxygen reserve in his tissue, sweep away the fatigue and lactic acid that had been building up, making sure that he was where he needed to be for the final push. He pulled the pistol out, checked to make sure a round was chambered and reviewed the plan: sneak up on the guy and shoot him. No explanations, not even if the guy spoke English. No second thoughts, no listening to pleas for mercy. After all, this Stinger guy hadn’t shown any mercy to the pilot he’d downed, had he? It’d probably been a buddy of his that had forced Murphy himself to punch out of his aircraft. Besides that, there wasn’t any point in taking chances. Kill them all and let God sort them out, that was the Marine Corps theory.

He was feeling better by the minute, now that he’d had a little rest. Took more than a banged-up leg to slow down a Marine, a hell of a lot more. He flexed his muscles, trying to keep from tightening up, and edged around the boulder to start his last move up the hill. This last bit was tricky, steep and mostly rock. He tucked the pistol back in his pocket for easy access and to free up both hands. No sounds of anyone moving, no indication that his approach had been detected. He slipped around the ancient rock, moving quietly on bare feet.

The muzzle of an AK-47 stared directly at him.

Pamela rolled over on the ground and vomited. Her head throbbed as though she’d punched it through a wall of rock. Her hand went up to the side of her head, touched swollen pulsating flesh, and pain seared through her. She groaned, rolled over on her side, and willed her vision to clear.

What the hell had happened? She remembered the bombing, getting clear of the building, then… Murphy. Situational awareness came flooding back. He had her gun and he’d gone up to take out the Stinger jockey.

Her head was starting to clear, although it still hurt fiercely. Her vision was a bit blurry — concussion, she decided, and swore that Murphy would pay for that when she caught up with him. She rolled over on her stomach, fighting down another wave of nausea, and shoved herself with her good arm up to her knees. The world spun around her for a moment, then settled down.

Where the hell was he? How long had she been out? She stared up the hill and squinted, trying to make out moving figures among the shadows and rocks there, but it was no use. Her vision was still too blurred.

She struggled up into a standing position and stretched experimentally. Nothing else seemed to be broken, and apart from the pounding in her head, there were no new injuries to catalogue. She reached for her camera and slung the strap around her neck. She’d need her good hand to steady herself on the way up.

Murphy’s mind was calling up every synonym he’d ever heard for stupid. Most of them were obscene, and not a few involved his mother. Still, none of the phrases really seemed sufficient to cover this particular situation.

“You are noisy,” the man said finally in clear English. “Like a goat.”

“And you’re lucky,” Murphy said.

Pamela paused just below the summit. A sheer rock wall made it almost a vertical climb to the relatively flat summit. She couldn’t make it. Murphy would have managed it with no problem, even injured. On most days, she could have kept up.

But today was not most days. “You’ll never get away with this,” she heard Murphy say.

It figured. Whenever he had planned had gone badly wrong. Had they been working together, he might have had a chance. But now… she swore silently at the stupid bullheadedness of the man.

She gazed up at the rock wall above her and ruled out trying to climb it. Even if she could find the strength to pull herself up, she would make so much noise that all she would accomplish would be getting them both shot. For now, for whatever reason, at least they were both alive.

And why hadn’t the Macedonian already killed Murphy? He had had no compunctions about shooting down American aircraft, had he? So why keep the Marine alive for one second longer than necessary?

More importantly, what could she do about it?

She squatted down next to the rock and leaned up against it. The heat-soaked rock felt good against her sore muscles. She opened her camera bag and dug through it just on the off chance that there would be something in it she could use as a weapon.

Normally the truth is my weapon. Or at least the truth as she saw it, she silently admitted. More and more it was becoming clear to her that there was more than one way to look at the truth.

Her fingers brushed against a cold plastic shape that her mind recognized immediately. She closed her hand around it then pulled it out of the pack, careful to avoid making any noise. At this angle from the other two, it was unlikely they would be able to hear her, but there was no use taking the chance.

Finally, she had it out of the bag. It laid bare in her palm like a small, black lifeline. She punched the power button and waited for a dial tone. Ever since the Black Sea conflict, she’d known the private number to CVIC on-board Jefferson. Known it, and had been saving it for some very special occasion. This looked like it qualified.

Five bars appeared on the LED screen, indicating that she had a good signal. She wedged herself in between two rocks, hoping that she was right about the other two not being able to hear her, and punched out the numbers.

The intelligence specialist who answered the phone had been in the Navy for ten years. During his time working CVIC, he’d come to know and appreciate the arcane pathways through which information traveled. Aircraft carriers now had instant access to the Internet, email, and a highly classified Web on which sensitive intelligence data was distributed. He himself was the designated Webmaster for USS Jefferson.

So when the voice on the other end of the telephone line announced itself in a breathless, hurried tone as “Pamela Drake — ACN News. I have to speak to Commander Busby immediately,” he was only mildly surprised. He debated for an instant hanging up on her, and even reached out to the cradle to cut the connection when caution stopped him. He doubted Commander Busby wanted to talk to this woman, not after what she had put this ship through so many times. Still, it was not a decision he wanted to make for his boss. Besides, Commander Busby had been looking glum recently. Maybe yelling at a reporter and filing some sort of complaint against her network would cheer him up.

So, instead of hanging up on her, he said, “Wait one minute.” Then he put her on hold.

He ambled back to Commander Busby’s office himself, which took another ten seconds. Maybe the commander would let him listen in as he blasted the reporter they’d all come to despise.

The technician had heard that Admiral Magruder used to be involved with Drake, and he shook his head over that. How a squared-away pilot like Tombstone could see anything in a woman like that was beyond him. But then, a lot of what admirals and pilots did didn’t make sense.

“Commander?” he asked from the doorway to Lab Rat’s office. “Pamela Drake on line one for you, sir.” He smirked.

An annoyed expression flitted across Lab Rat’s face, to be replaced by resignation. He sighed. “Fine, I’ll take it. Thank you.” Lab Rat lifted up the receiver then turned to look at the intelligence specialist. “Thanks.”

The technician got the hint. He turned and left, and heard Lab Rat shut the door behind him.

“Busby,” he said into the phone. A faint hiss of static and occasional burble of noise indicated that the connection was far from solid. “Miss Drake?”

“I can’t talk very loud. They’ll hear me. Write this down — Hill 802. There’s a Macedonian terrorist on top of it who just shot the down a couple of American Tomcats. A Marine went up after him — Murphy, the Marine they got the first round. Something’s wrong… I think Murphy screwed up. Is there anything you can do?”

Lab Rat’s blood ran cold. “Captain Murphy? Are you sure of that?”

“Of course I’m sure,” the voice on the phone snapped back. If he had had any doubts about the identity of the caller, that convinced him. “He’s been held as a POW by the Macedonians. Listen, you have to get somebody out here right away. That Macedonian is going to shoot him.”

“Hill 802? And what’s your cell number?” Lab Rat asked, scribbling the numbers down on the sheet of paper. “Okay, thanks. I’ll see what I can do.” He started to hang up, then thought better of it. “Stay on the line — we’ll keep this connection open. I may need you for a spotter.”

Silence, then she said, “I’m a reporter.” For the first time, he heard a note of uncertainty in her voice.

“You chose sides when you called in this report, Miss Drake,” he said coldly, tired of her equivocations over the years. “Now make up your mind — are you going to let Murphy die to preserve your precious neutrality? Or are you going to finish what you started?”

“Fuck you. Fuck you all.”

Busby waited for the click to indicate that she’d hung up. The line remained open. Finally, he said, “I’ll be right back.”

For a moment, Pamela was tempted to pitch the telephone down the hill. Only two things prevented her. First, the possibility that the noise might alert the two above her. And second, the very faint possibility that Lab Rat might be able to do something. At least he had taken her call — she hadn’t been sure he’d do that.

The pilot of the SAR helo listened to the transmission from USS Jefferson and then turned to his copilot. “Did we even bring it?”

“Yep. Seemed like a good idea, being over land and all.”

“And I suppose Chief Rodgers knows how to work that thing.”

The copilot smiled. “Oh, he knows. He’s always wanted to be a combat gunner instead of an air-sea rescue guy.”

Pamela heard a buzz behind her, and swiped at it with her hand. The damn mosquitoes — that’s all she needed on top of everything else. She turned around, intending to catch it and crush it. So maybe she couldn’t get her hands on the Macedonians, at least she could kill their insects.

There was nothing there. Puzzled, she checked around her, then realized what she was hearing. A smile broke out on her face. It was still a long way off, and her hearing was still dulled from the bombing, but she could recognize it now. The helicopter.

Murphy was quicker to recognize the sound than Pamela had been, trained as he was as an aviator to recognize the sound of help on the way. But he kept his eyes fixed on the Macedonian face, willing his own expression not to give anything away. He studied the man’s features for a moment, wondering why he had let him live this long.

The realization, when it came, struck him like a thunderbolt. Something about the man’s features, something a beard had covered earlier. Realization dawned. “I know you,” Murphy said wonderingly. “I’ve seen you before.”

The man shifted the gun slightly, dropping from Murphy’s face to his midsection. “I was waiting to see if you would realize that,” he said calmly. “When you didn’t recognize me immediately, I knew we were still safe.”

“Oh, I certainly do,” Murphy said, now completely convinced. “You’re not a Macedonian at all. I’ve seen you, but not at the POW camp. You’re on General Arkady’s staff.”

Fifteen feet below, Pamela heard Murphy’s voice, the anger hard and cold. The words were almost indistinguishable — almost. She lifted the phone to her mouth. “Are you still there?” she whispered.”

“Commander Busby is arranging for some assistance, ma’am,” a new voice said. “I am Petty Officer Barker.

“Find Busby right now,” Pamela said. “Tell him the terrorist that shot those Tomcats was Greek, not Macedonian. You got that?”

“But the Greeks are—” he began.

“Don’t waste my time,” she snapped. “Just go tell him. And do it now.”

The pilot pointed to the hill looming before them. “Hell of a spot, but that’s got to be it.” Beside him, the copilot studied the chart. “Yeah, that’s it. They’re on the east side.”

“Fine. We’ll come up behind them from the west. It doesn’t look like they’ll be able to get a line of sight on us until we’re right in front of them.”

Line of sight — that was the issue. Stingers wouldn’t go chasing them around the terrain.

The pilot put the bird into a gentle bank around the hill, staying low and keeping the massive rock formation between the helo and the people he was looking for. When they were fifty feet from the formation, hovering unsteadily, he glanced back at the crewman. “You ready?”

Pamela stared at the helicopter hovering so close, joy leaping in her heart. Never had she been so delighted to see an aircraft with the American flag painted on its fuselage. She pointed up, then made a broad sweeping motion, indicating that they should go around the rock. By now, there was no chance that the two men at the summit did not know the helicopter was here. But she hadn’t heard any shots yet, so Murphy might still be alive. The helicopter pivoted smoothly in midair, wobbled for a moment, then moved slowly around hill. As it turned, Pamela saw the open hatch on the right side of the helicopter. Safety-strapped to one side of the hatch, a young man in a flight suit was holding a weapon. He raised his hand in greeting, then dropped it down to the stock and pulled the weapon tight against his shoulder.

A machine gun. Pamela felt the sick dread invade her chest. Just how were they going to distinguish between Murphy and the Greek with a weapon like that?

Maybe they didn’t intend to. And if anyone could understand, it would be a Marine. Sometimes the life of one had to be sacrificed for the lives of many.

She had always known the military had to make those sorts of choices, had agreed in a way. But that had been when it was an abstraction, just a principle.

Not when it was someone she knew. She wasn’t even sure she liked Murphy all that much, but she did know him. And that made all the difference in the world.

The noise decreased slightly as the helicopter disappeared from view around the ancient hill. Well, maybe she couldn’t go straight up, but she certainly could go sideways. As it was, if Murphy were going to die, she bore partial responsibility for making the call to Lab Rat. The least she could do would be to be there to witness it and take pictures.

As the helicopter swung into view, the Greek soldier lunged for Murphy. He grabbed him, tried to hook his arm around Murphy’s neck while still holding on to his weapon. “This is why I kept alive,” he said. “They can’t hit me without hitting you. And I do not think they are willing to take that chance.”

As the Greek moved around his left side and his arm settled around the Marine’s neck, Murphy saw his chance. He stepped back with his left leg, way back around behind the Greek. He bent over slightly, transferred his weight to his back knee, and straightened up abruptly. At the same time, he slammed his left elbow into the Greek’s gut, then followed up with a hammer smash to the groin.

The elbow found its target. The Greek grunted loudly and folded over. The groin shot missed, and Murphy felt his hand hammer into the man’s upper thigh. While not incapacitating, the blow was enough to further distract the Greek. Murphy followed up by pivoting to his left, grabbing the man’s long hair with both hands, and smashing his face down into Murphy’s knee. He felt the nose give way, then teeth scrabbled to take a bite out of his leg.

The weapon — where is the weapon? Murphy nailed the Greek with two more solid shots to the gut, then a hook into the jaw. The man stumbled back, not yet unconscious, but clearly not able to follow all that had happened in a few short moments. He held the weapon loosely in his right hand, the barrel pointing well away from Murphy.

With a roar, Murphy leaped for him, letting his weight do the work to carry the man to the ground. The Greek rolled, still surprisingly agile. Murphy’s pounce hit the Greek’s midsection and all at once they were rolling across the rocky summit. Stones slashed at Murphy’s back as he rolled, and sudden pain slashed through his shoulder.

Murphy kept his grip on the Greek, trying to clamp one arm down around his neck as his free hand fumbled for the weapon. He felt the Greek’s knee rise up between his legs, and turned at the last moment to avoid the blow.

“Both of you cease immediately,” a voice boomed out from the helicopter. “Stop now, or I’ll shoot.”

Murphy was on his back now, with the Greek over him. “You’ll pay for this. Pay, and pay again,” the Greek shouted, aiming a punch at his face. Murphy shoved and turned, barely avoiding the blow, and countered with his own assault.

Gunfire stitched the ground just three feet from them, spraying loose rock shards and dirt all over both of them. Something hard and sharp dug into Murphy’s thigh, but he could barely feel the pain. They were close to the edge now, too close. Murphy backpedaled, trying to get away from the edge of the cliff, but the Greek still had hold of his shoulder. Murphy brought his forearm down in a smashing blow across the other’s arm, and just succeeded in pulling the Greek closer. The iron grip remained unshaken.

“Shut your eyes,” a higher voice ordered them imperiously. “Murphy, shut your eyes now!”

The Greek turn slightly to snarl at the intruder. Murphy, on the other hand, did what any good Marine would do. He shut his eyes.

Even behind his closed eyelids he could see the brilliant flash that lit up the area. The Greek howled, and Murphy felt the iron grip on his shirt loosen. He kicked hard at the Greek’s kneecap, grabbing for the weapon with both hands. For a moment, they played tug-of-war, and Murphy kicked again. Finally, his strength and training made the difference. The weapon came free.

He snugged it up to his shoulder in one motion, a reflex borne of years of training. His hand slid automatically over the well-worn stock, down the trigger guard, and applied exactly the right amount of squeeze to the trigger. Squeeze, don’t pull — they’d taught him that for years.

The gunfire, when it came, seemed almost anticlimactic. It spattered the rocks, filling the air with a mass of flying fragments. Pamela hunkered down in a crevice to avoid the deadly hail of bullets, ricochets and stone shards. She heard tiny metal pings as the helo slid sideways into its own field of fire.

Between the noise of the helicopter, the howling from the Greek whose dark-adapted eyes were in pain from the brilliant flash of Pamela’s camera, and the beating he’d taken from Murphy, he didn’t have a chance. He cried out one last time more, clasped his hands to his chest, and fell back.

Murphy stood for moment, frozen in firing position. Another round? He waited to see if there were any signs of life.

“You want to help me up?” Pamela demanded from down below. Still Murphy did not move.

“Come on, Murphy. Get me up there. Haven’t I earned it?” Still Murphy watched the Greek’s body, waiting for any signs of life.

Gradually, it began to seep into his mind that it was all over. He was alone with the dead Greek terrorist and a SAR helo hovering nearby. Still holding the weapon pointed at the body, he walked slowly up to the body and kicked it. Blood was pouring out of three holes, soaking into the deteriorated rock and pooling in nooks and crannies. The man’s eyes were open, lifeless, and slightly rolled back.

Even with earphones and a headset on, the noise inside the helicopter was deafening. The aircrew was plugged into the interior communications set, but there were no spare jacks for their passengers. Pamela could see the flight engineer’s lips moving and knew he was talking to the pilots up front. From the expression on his face, the news wasn’t pleasant. She saw him mouth something about hydraulics but couldn’t make out the rest of the sentence.

His injuries and the final battle had finally taken their toll on Murphy. He was slumped down across two seats, his eyes shut. Whether he was unconscious or had simply fallen asleep, Pamela couldn’t tell. But she saw the air crewman check him several times, and she knew that they were trained in first aid. Evidently whatever he found satisfied the air crewman, because he let Murphy sleep undisturbed.

Her own injuries and exhaustion were starting to make themselves known. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate, and she could feel her own eyes drifting closed. After a cursory exam, the crewman had patted her on the shoulder — the good one — and gently assured her she’d be fine. “Nothing that the docs back on the carrier can’t fix,” he shouted, just before they had taken off.

The extraction — the most remarkable display of airmanship she’d ever seen, the pilot edging the helicopter over to the rocks, gently hovering right at the edge of the cliff and holding the aircraft steady. Unbelievable. They’d used safety lines, of course, but it had been almost as easy as stepping onto the helicopter from solid ground. Any closer, and rotors would have scraped the rock outcroppings that loomed over them.

She glanced at the body of the Greek soldier, now secured in the aft of the helicopter with nylon straps to the deck. He lay sprawled lifeless on the steel deck, his head thumping occasionally as the helicopter maneuvered.

“We have to take him,” Murphy had insisted. “He’s our only proof.”

“Won’t they take your word for it?” she had asked.

Murphy shook his head. “They might. But there’s a lot on the line here. We’re talking about an act of war by an ally. That’s going to upset more apple carts than I even want to think about. No, I want hard proof. Something I can show them.”

Even though she understood the necessity for it, there was something unsettling about having the dead body in the helicopter with them. The way the head lolled, the arms loose and floppy, even the stink as his bodily functions had let loose at the moment of death. Yes, she’d seen men dead before, but it had usually been in the heat of battle when she’d been hot on the trail of her story.

Then, her priority had been to stay alive. There had not been time to watch the dead and wounded. It was only later, during those moments when the medical and treatment units had already taken charge, that she actually saw them.

And not like this. Not freshly killed. She shuddered, unable to take her eyes off the dead body.

Murphy’s eyes popped open. He fumbled with his blouse pocket for a moment, then withdrew a green wheel book and a stub of pencil. He scribbled, tore the sheet out of the booklet and passed it across the aisle to her.

She looked down at it and read, “That could have been me. Thank you.”

She shook her head, unable to comprehend. Murphy had been the one who saved himself.

She shivered, knowing that if the picture turned out the way she thought it would, the two men silhouetted against the dark sky with the light from the helicopter playing over them, that there would be an award in it for her.

But you told him to close his eyes, one part of her mind insisted.

Yeah, stupid move, that. Better to have him looking straight at the camera, capture the entire expression on his face. Now that would’ve been worthwhile.

You told him to close his eyes.

And just why had she done that? It had been instinctive, with everything happening so fast she couldn’t really break the time apart into discrete moments. The helicopter, the climb around the edge of the cliff, the mad, driving passion to get the photo, to finish the story. That had been what was on her mind. Not Murphy.

You told him to close his eyes.

Murphy passed her the pencil. She thought for a moment, and scribbled “You’re welcome.”

Somewhere over the horizon was safety, safety in the middle of the ocean where none existed on land. USS Jefferson, the world’s most powerful nuclear aircraft carrier, lay waiting. As many times as she had schemed to get on board, done everything in her power to force the Navy to admit her to their innermost sanctums, had sworn and cursed at the massive ship, had damned the Navy for taking Tombstone Magruder away from her, it was to the Jefferson she was forced to turn for safety.

Pamela Drake leaned forward in the helicopter and strained her neck to see out the scratched and blurred window. Was that it out there, on the horizon? She squinted, trying to make the shape out, but what she had thought was Jefferson remained simply a ragged patch on the horizon. She turned to the air crewman. “How far out is she?”

He smiled and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Forty miles, maybe a little further. We’ll be on board in about twenty minutes. Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”

Pamela started to shoot back a harsh reply, angered that he could think she was concerned about her own safety. She bit off the words before they formed in her mouth, suddenly uncertain. If truth be known, she was afraid — more so than she had ever been in her life before.

“Peacock, get everyone strapped in.” The pilot’s voice over the ICS carried that hard, laconic note that Pamela had learned to associate with a pilot under pressure. She’d heard it too often in Tombstone’s voice to be mistaken.

“What’s going on?” she asked, even as the air crewman pressed her back in her chair and double-checked and tightened the seat harness. “What’s happening?”

“Seems we got a little company out here,” the pilot’s voice came back, calm and casual. “Nothing to worry about yet. Listen to Peacock — he’s going to review ditching procedures with few. You’ve been on a helicopter before, haven’t you, Miss Drake?”

“Ditching procedures?” She repeated his words in a stunned tone of voice. “Who is this company you’re talking about?”

There was a long pause, then the pilot said, “There are three groups of fighters inbound on our location. From the IFF and link picture, they’re Greek, Macedonian, and American. Right now, I suspect they’re more interested in each other than they are in us. But when elephants dance, helicopters get out of the way.”

Peacock knelt down before her and began reviewing ditching procedures. “Find a handhold, know where it is in relationship to the nearest exit.” He pointed to the hatch at the side. “That will be yours. Stay in your seat until all motion ceases. We may sink quickly, but just because there’s water in the cabin, don’t try to leave it. You have to stay until the water slows the rotor blades down or they’ll cut you to pieces as you leave. Got that?” Pamela nodded, remembering previous helicopter safety briefs.

“Once all motion ceases,” Peacock continued, “unstrap yourself and pull yourself toward the exit. We may turtle — flip upside down. We usually do. Don’t let that disorient you. Keep one hand holding on to something at all times.” He held up the small air canister with a face mask attached. “I will be right here in case you get in trouble. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out.” He flashed her a cocky grin. “Haven’t lost a passenger yet.”

“Do you have comms with the carrier?” Pamela asked.

Peacock nodded. “Yes, this close we should be fine. But we’ll be there in—”

“This can’t wait.” She pointed at the man lying motionless on the helicopter deck. “There’s something they have to know immediately.”

Batman stared at the small symbols converging on each other just off the coast. “I don’t like this, not one little bit. Tell that helicopter to get the hell out of the way. Where are his fighters, anyway?”

“They were running out of fuel, Admiral,” the TAO said. “Should be finished with the tanker in just a moment. Bad news on the helo, too. He’s got a hydraulics leak. Can’t tell how bad yet. He’s still got all controls, but pressure to the system is slowly dropping.”

Batman stood and began pacing in the small compartment. “Why the hell are the Macedonians doing this, anyway? It’s not like they have a chance.” He pointed at the screen. “Are they completely insane? Between the Greeks and our own forces, they’re so badly outnumbered that there’s not a chance in hell that—”

“Home plate, Angel 103,” a voice came over tactical.

Batman brushed aside the TAO and picked up the microphone. “I’ll tell him myself.” He keyed the mike. “This is Admiral Wayne. You need to be at wave top getting the hell out of there because—”

“Admiral, with all due respect, sir, this can’t wait. There’s something you need to know immediately.” The pilot’s voice was calm and unbothered by the fact that he had just interrupted the admiral in command of the battle group. There was a strange rustle over the speaker, then the pilot’s voice, sounding distant now, said “Go ahead, Miss Drake.”

Every face in TFCC turned up to stare at the speaker. Batman’s jaw dropped, and he felt the blood rush to his face. Just as he started to speak, Pamela cut him off.

“Admiral Wayne, we found the sniper who was taking shots at your Tomcats. Both of us recognize him. He’s on Admiral Arkady’s staff.”

“What sort of nonsense is this?” Batman snapped. “He’s not Greek — he’s Macedonian. I realize that they may all look alike to you, Miss Drake, but mistaking our allies for the enemy is understandable under the circumstances.”

“Give me that,” a new voice said in the background. Another rustling noise, then a new voice on tactical. “Admiral, this is Captain Buddy Murphy, Marine Corps. Drake is right. I recognize him. The Greeks are shooting at our aircraft, Admiral. They’re probably the ones who shot me down as well.” There was no mistaking the anger in the Hornet pilot’s voice.

“Greek?” Batman turned to air at the tactical display. The three waves of aircraft were now only fifty miles apart. His mind raced furiously. With aircraft spoiling for a fight and wings loaded with weapons closing in on one another, there remained one critical, all important question left unanswered: Just who the hell were the bad guys?