its rotors overhead. After a few minutes, Cam heard the wings squeal on either side. The familiar chopping sound of a helicopter’s blades intensified into the softer blur of an airplane’s propellers. Their speed increased. Somewhere below, General Walls and the others were leaving, too, but their Humvees were already far behind.
Cam had fifty questions for Deborah. She probably wanted at least as many answers from him, but neither felt like talking. They both drowsed. So did Foshtomi, Huff, and Medrano. The drone of the V-22 lulled them, and everyone had been pushed beyond endurance. Nor was there anything to see. The interior of the plane fluttered with shadows and light, which grew more distinct as they escaped the fallout. Sunlight gleamed in the windshield. Cam should have slept, but his thoughts wouldn’t quit. His muscles wouldn’t relax. The best he could manage was a light, waking doze.
His view through the front of the aircraft was blocked by Sweeney, who stood between the two pilots’ seats, keeping his head down with Bornmann and Lang. They expected trouble. It didn’t happen. The Osprey hummed into the west. Sweeney continued to study Rezac’s notes, ruffling through the few pages with nervous energy. He rearranged and folded the paper and scribbled in the margins with a blue pencil.
They’d been flying for twenty minutes when Lang began to chatter in Mandarin. Just as suddenly, he stopped.
They had more than eight hundred miles to go. The Osprey could push as fast as 315 miles per hour, yet Bornmann said he’d keep it at cruising speed, which was closer to 275 mph. He didn’t want to look like trouble. Also, he wanted to conserve fuel. With full tanks and a small payload, the Osprey’s range was over 2,400 miles, but someone must have bled off its fuel for other purposes during the long peace. The tanks were barely half full. Even so, with nothing on board except eight people, small arms, and other gear, Bornmann estimated their max range at 1,500 miles. It wasn’t inconceivable that they could fly into San Bernadino and escape again without needing to refuel. They wouldn’t be able to go far, but that extra margin might make the difference between life or death.
Once they hit a pocket of turbulence. Several times, Bornmann banked through minor course corrections or Cam’s stomach felt the aircraft ease up or down. His impression was they’d never lifted far from the ground and he wondered at one big sweeping turn to the left. Were they avoiding mountains?
The flight became mundane. Medrano excused himself to go to the bathroom by the rear loading ramp. Deborah and Cam each took their turns. Foshtomi passed around water, coarse bread, and dried peppers. Cam reveled in the strong flavor, chewing with his eyes shut. He thought of Ruth. Allison. Everything that could have been.
“Heads up!” Lang shouted, looking back from his copilot seat for Sweeney even he began to jabber into his headset in a much calmer voice.
Someone’s seen us, Cam thought.
“Here we go,” Foshtomi murmured as Lang said,
Beside him, Sweeney said, “You have to give them a name. Here.”
Sweeney pointed to his notes and Lang said,
Cam didn’t think they’d been flying for more than two hours yet. That meant they were still over Arizona or Nevada or just barely inside California’s borders. The game was only beginning.
The NSA had caught and decrypted thousands of exchanges between Chinese aircraft and ground control. Some of those signals were very recent, and Rezac had given Bornmann and Lang as much intel as possible. They could only hope their codes worked. In their favor, China had never been as advanced as the U.S. at data sorting or systems integrity. Even better, the Chinese Air Force had been confused even before the missile strikes. U.S. Command estimated that less than 40 percent of the enemy’s strength consisted of Chinese aircraft. The rest were captured American planes, both military and civilian.
Cam wasn’t sure what Lang was saying, except for what he’d gleaned from hearing the commandos discuss their cover story. They would pretend they were a squad of Shenyang Fierce Tigers, whom Rezac believed were involved in the assault on Grand Lake. Lang would assert that the Osprey had been commandeered to bring the worst of their casualties back to California.
“This was a mistake,” Medrano said.
“Shut up,” Foshtomi snapped. “We can outsmart those fuckin’ Chinamen any day of the week.”
That’s right, Cam thought. He gave Foshtomi an admiring look yet didn’t say anything, touching her arm and then raising one finger to his lips. It wouldn’t help Lang to have Americans chatting in the background.
The silence was anticlimactic. Lang hit two switches above his head. Bornmann continued to fly the aircraft, and, in back, Cam and Foshtomi exhaled at the same time. They were both pleased by the small coincidence. Foshtomi bumped his shoulder with her own in a blunt, sisterly way.
“They bought it,” Sweeney said.
Lang nodded. “They’re a mess. We’re cleared into Bakersfield. Sounds like that’s the nearest base they’ve got operational.”
“What about Edwards or Twenty-Nine Palms?” Bornmann asked.
“Blown away,” Lang said.
“We need a better story before we divert into Los Angeles,” Sweeney said, fidgeting with his notes. “Let’s stick with the idea that we’re a medevac. There’ll be casualties in L.A., too. We can say we have room to evac some of their—”
An alarm sounded in the cockpit. Bee bee bee bee bee.
“Oh fuck,” Bornmann said. “Strap in.”
“Bogies at four o‘clock!” Lang yelled.
The Osprey was already rolling to its portside. Cam banged against the curved wall with Deborah and Medrano on top of him.
Through the tangle, looking forward, Cam saw Sweeney hanging onto Bornmann’s seat. Then Sweeney opened his arms. He leapt for the same area where the rest of them were piled on the wall, which had almost become the floor. Cam felt the port engine screaming somewhere beneath him. The fuselage shuddered as if buffeted by the wind.
“Strap in!” Sweeney yelled. “Strap in! Strap in!”
The Osprey carried no armament. Nor was its top speed any match for fighters, much less ground-to-air missiles. Their only hope was evasive action, and the plane lifted and spun. Cam was still pulling free of the others. He grabbed at a cargo belt but swung away from the wall, wrenching something in his wrist and back. Deborah hung beside him from one hand. Everyone else seemed to be roped to the fuselage above. Huff clawed at his jacket. With that slight help, Cam kept his grip, but the accelerating torque was too much for Deborah. Her arm twisted and then her hand sprung free.
“No!” Foshtomi shrieked, snatching at her. Foshtomi had deftly slid behind two straps. They sawed into her waist — but even bent in a horseshoe, Foshtomi didn’t have enough reach to catch the other woman.
Deborah tumbled away from them. She smashed into the ceiling and then the far wall. Then the dizzying sideways-and-up motion changed as the Osprey plummeted to the starboard. It threw Deborah back into them. Cam was too off-balance to grab his friend even when her leg thumped him in the chin, but Foshtomi seized Deborah’s waist, trusting the straps to hold them both. She’d never lacked for confidence, and Cam felt another glint of admiration for her.
“Here!” Foshtomi yelled. “Here!”
Unbelievably, the aircraft leveled out. The six of them worked to clip themselves down in a furious panic. Cam finished with himself — the canvas belts seemed too thin — and turned to help Foshtomi with Deborah. Somehow they wrestled her in between them. Deborah’s forehead was swollen with a fat goose egg that had been cut open
