interceptor, only to nearly collide with one of the Flighthawks.
“Zen, Jesus!” she managed as she punched the plane lower.
“Targeting MiG. Bay,” called the weapons officer. “Fox One!”
He’d launched a Scorpion radar missile.
Zen cursed to himself as he brought Hawk One back under control. The flight computer had become confused by the mother ship’s maneuverings, almost fatally. He had to go to bird’s-eye view on the main screen to sort it all out, dropping speed on both planes. To make things worse, his left forefinger began to cramp; he went to voice control on the throttle for Hawk One. He needed the computer’s help to get both planes in their set positions, a half mile behind the Raven’s wings. By that time, the Pchelka was well off the screen.
“Splash one MiG!” declared the weapons officer. His nickname was “Deadeye,” the kind of moniker often applied ironically. From today on, it’d be said with respect.
“Second MiG going west. He’s running hot. My guess is he’s turning tail back for Libya,” reported the radar/navigator. “Whoo – looks like he’s got some friends. More contacts, well north. Unidentified, but definitely not friendlies.”
“Okay, folks, this is where we round up our horses and head out of town,” said Cheshire.
“Major, that was the Pchelka,” said Zen.
“I’ve already radioed their location and direction,” replied Cheshire. “They’re headed into the Navy search sectors.”
“Shit. They’re miles from the nearest patrol route.”
“I have no control over that, Jeff.”
“We can’t leave them now.”
Cheshire didn’t answer. But he could tell she wasn’t turning the plane around either.
“Nancy, damn it.”
“Zen, at this point, there’s nothing we can do. Now get those U/MFs in tow. They’ve got to be at bingo by now. You run out of fuel and there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” said Zen.
Like what?
Like I’m a moron and a fucking cripple, he thought – but he kept his mouth shit. She was right about the planes at ‘bingo’ – a theoretical turnaround point computed to give them enough fuel to return home without running the fuel tanks dry.
“Bandits have turned around. They’re going north. Still looking for us. We’re clean,” reported Bobby. “That Pchelka’s off my screen too.”
“Computer, combat trail, standard offset,” Zen told the Flighthawk computer.
Sudan
23 October, 2000 local
“So, Major, it is you and I then,” said the Imam, standing at the edge of the camp. The Pchelka, with Gunny and Howland, had vanished in the distance. Overhead, the warplanes rumbled; Mack saw a flash in the distance.
“Have you ever been to Tripoli, Major?” asked the Imam. “It is a beautiful city, looking out on the ocean.”
“That were we’re going?”
“Our journey is long,” said Imam. “That is but one stop.”
“I hope we’re not walking.”
The Imam said nothing. As the jets above cleared, Mack head the low drone of a helicopter approaching.
“What’s going to happen to them?” Knife said.
“They will be put on trial, then shot.”
“Same as me?”
“Not yet,” the Imam said. “My superiors have taken an interest in you.”
“Why?” Knife’s ears started to ring – this didn’t sound good.
“At first it was suggested you be punished for attacking one of our soldiers while a prisoner in captivity, which as you know under the Geneva Conventions, is attempted murder, a serious offense. But then we received some interesting information. For some unknown reason, Major Mack Smith, you seemed to disappear from the Air Force roster for a long time. You were flying F-15’s for a time, then you disappeared, then you reappeared flying F- 16’s. Odd.”
The Iranian delighted in seeing Knife swallow nervously.
“Well, Major, are you more than just another swaggering but incompetent fighter pilot?” he went on. “Perhaps you were involved in some secret activities? As you say in your insipid American television commercials, ‘Inquiring minds want to know.’ Inquiring minds in many nations in the Islamic brotherhood, and perhaps beyond. We shall find out what your official records do not tell us.”
“What do the Geneva Conventions say about taking prisoners of war to another country?” Smith asked. “You seem to apply the law only when it suits you.”
“And what of your country? An undeclared war against a peaceful nation? You forfeited your right to protection under the law when you accepted this unlawful mission.”
“Do whatever you want with me. I’m not talking to you or your so-called brotherhood.”
The Iranian smiled but said nothing.
Mack snorted with contempt. It was about all he could do – besides the manacles on his hands, there were four guards flanking him with their AK-47’s.
He felt like making a run for it anyway. In the long run, it probably didn’t matter – if anything, it was at least arguably better to be shot here, before they could use him for whatever propaganda extravaganza they were cooking up.
One thing was certain, this wasn’t exactly helping his military career. So much for being part of the A team.
“Major, you find me amusing?”
“No. I’m laughing at myself.”
“Good. This is the first step on the road to enlightenment. You will be assisted on the second step,” he added, grinning at his joke as a Jet Ranger whipped in for a landing.
Ethiopia
24 October, 0400
For the first time since he’d begun rehabilitation, Jeff wished he had a self-propelled chair. As he rolled from Raven to the waiting truck, his arms began to feel like thin pieces of glass, ready to break; his shoulders became uncoordinated pieces of meat, barely able to propel them. The Ethiopian base drummed with activity. Army engineers had added nearly a thousand feet to the runway, as well a second parking area. Four new C-130’s had arrived, and there were at least five times as many vehicles as when they’d left. Things were popping.
That was a bad sign. They were starting to plan for long-term operations, not quick-hit emergency actions.
He’d been so damn close.
The problem was that he couldn’t use both planes together. It was too difficult to keep track of them. But the computer couldn’t be trusted – it had nearly nailed Raven.
They could fix that. Jennifer was already working on the adjustments.
So he hadn’t screwed up on the accident either. The computer had just gotten confused.
He knew that. He’d always known that.
Damn, his arms were beat.
An M44 six-by-six truck sat at the edge of the tarmac. Major Cheshire trotted ahead and asked the driver if they could have a lift to the terminal building, where she was due to brief Hal Briggs.
“Y’all hop on in,” said the driver, an Army Ranger with a Texas accent that seemed to sprawl all the way back to the State.
“I’ll take the back,” said Zen. He pushed around toward the rear, where he spotted another Ranger.
“Yo, Corporal. Think you can boost me up?”
