“We’ll be there,” said Cheshire.
Zen followed her out of the conference area. “Hey, Nancy,” he said has she reached the door. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Jeff. I agree with you – it’s safer to risk the Flighthawks than a pilot.”
“I meant thanks for standing up for me.”
“Oh, you stand up for yourself just fine. Where do you figure the rest rooms are around this place?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to guess they won’t be handicapped-accessible.”
“And I won’t be surprised if there’s only a men’s room.”
“I’ll guard the door for you, if you do the same for me.”
“Deal.” Cheshire grinned.
Since she was a woman, the Spec Ops support team had offered Breanna a separate room to sleep in – a closet down the hall from the large, open warehouse room that had become an ad hoc dormitory. She’d turned them down. Not because she didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else, but because she was so damn tired she couldn’t contemplate taking one more footstep than necessary. She took off her boots and dropped onto the narrow cot fully dressed, hunkering under a blanket without a pillow. She fell right to sleep.
And woke less than two hours later. The place was quiet, except for Chris, snoring several cots away. A dull blue light filtered through the windows high on the wall, but it wasn’t the light or the snores that distracted her. the mission kept playing over and over in her head, buts and pieces of it swelling her mind with ideas of what she might have done differently. She felt the hard seat of the Megafortress pinching her butt as she took the g’s ducking from the MiGs. She saw the flames on the ground, felt the air rumbling with the cannon fire. she saw the small airplane they’d all missed until it was too late.
So close. She could have rescued Mack and the others.
After an hour of tossing and turning, Breanna finally gave up and went in search of food. Besides MREs, the makeshift kitchen was offering two specials of the day: instant oatmeal and fresh boar.
“Boar?” Bree asked the Green Beret sergeant who was standing over the tin pots.
“Boar, ma’am. I caught it, I skinned it, I cooked it.”
“You bullshitting me, Sergeant?”
“Ma’am?”
“Okay. I’ll take some.”
“You won’t be sorry.” He removed a steel lid on one of the pots, sending an acrid smell into the air. “And you can trust the water too. Treated and boiled for good measure. Sweet potato?”
“Why not?” said Bree, momentarily wondering if she should resort to the MREs.
“Full complement of you vitamins, ma’am. Nice flyin’, by the way. Heard you did a kick-ass job.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, still dubious about the food as she walked to the nearby table area.
Her opinion remained in flux through three of four bites. The meat had a taste somewhere between fresh pork and week-old beef. And the sweet potatoes: Forget about it.
The water, at least, was good. She took a long sip – then almost spat it out as her husband wheeled into the room.
“Jeff?”
“Hey, Bree,” said Zen, rolling toward her. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. What the hell are you doing here?”
“The Flighthawks are going to join in the search.”
“You’re crazy,” said Breanna.
Major Cheshire appeared at the front of the room with the rest of the crew from Raven, as well as her navigator and weapons operator. Breanna managed to hold her disbelief in check while the others went for food.
“Jeff? The Flighthawks?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re pushing them past the limit. Not to mention yourself.”
“I don’t think so,” he snapped. “I slept the whole way over.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I heard you were in action.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Listen, Captain.” Jeff had his major’s face on, and it wasn’t pretty. “You’re cute and all, but I don’t answer to you.”
“Jeff. Come on, be realistic.”
“This chair has nothing to do with my abilities.”
“I’m not talking about your abilities.” Breanna heard her words echoing harshly in the room. He face flushing hot, she repeated the sentence, though softer this time. “I’m not talking about your abilities.”
“I’m hungry. That was a great dinner, by the way. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
Zen wheeled up to the end of the line, smirking at the Green Beret chef’s obvious discomfort. Hell, he was starting to like being a one-man freak show attraction.
Breanna’a attitude didn’t surprise him. At least she’d finally come out and admitted it.
One of the Delta operators had told him while he was waiting to use the john that she’d kicked butt on her mission. He was happy for her, damn proud in a way, even if she hadn’t given him a chance to tell her so.
They could be friends. He wanted that maybe, or something like that.
“Wild boar,” the Green Beret behind the makeshift lunch counter was saying. “I caught it, I skinned it, I cooked it. Of course, you could have an MRE. Or oatmeal.”
“That boar. You catch it with your bare hands?” asked Zen.
“Sir? You think I’m nuts?”
“No, just making sure it’s sanitary,” said Zen. “Dish me up a heap. Come on, let’s go,” he added. “I have some planes to fly.”
“You fly planes?”
“Two,” said Zen. “At the same time.”
The sergeant spooned the food onto the dish carefully, undoubtedly convinced he was dealing with a psycho.
Which, Zen thought, might not be too far from the truth.
Sudan
23 October, 1540 local
The Russians called the Antonov An-14 ‘Pchelka,” which meant, ‘little bee.’ NATO called it ‘Clod.’
Both names were equally appropriate. The small but sturdy aircraft flew at just over a hundred knots, skimming the hills and rugged valleys of eastern Sudan. There were eight seats, including the pilot’s, but the Iranians had crammed seven soldiers in along with the prisoners, the pilot, and the Imam. The plane lumbered through the air, obviously complaining about its heavier load – which was all the heavier because it had been outfitted with bladder tanks in metal rigs that looked like blisters on the fuselage. Mack’s fatigue kept him from getting more than a rough idea of where they were; it was obvious they were flying west, but he couldn’t be sure whether they had gone beyond Ethiopia, and if so, how far. He kept dozing off, jostled back to consciousness by his guards and the pain in his side, though by now his ribs had hurt so long he was almost used to the ache. Finally they reached wherever they were supposed to reach; six soldiers in light brown uniforms met them as they taxied along what seemed to be a dirt road in front of some tents on a flat plain well beyond the mountains they’d gone over. While Mack and the others were hustled out of the Antonov, brown camo netting was thrown over the plane. A nearby group of scraggly cattle were herded around. The emaciated animals – they weren’t cows, exactly, at least not as Mack knew them – poked their noses toward the men curiously, but quickly lost interest.
The prisoners were led to a tent. Gunny and Howland lay down on the dirt floor, immediately curling up to sleep. Mack sat with his arms huddled around his knees, watching the shadows outside. Two guards sat in front of the tent; two others sat at the rear corners. Men and animals moved around them, seemingly at random.
Land this flat probably meant they were somewhere in Sudan. If what Howland had said was true, their next stop would be Libya. Most likely, they were hiding out until night, when the small, low-flying plane would harder to detect.
Once they got to Libya, they’d be put on trial in an attempt to whip up public support for the Greater Islamic
