The rush of adrenaline that had pumped through everyone’s bloodstream was starting to give way. It was a dangerous time – they were still nearly a hundred miles deep over Libya. While there were no enemy SAM sites left operating this side of Tripoli, Breanna realized they were far from home.
“Has Smith been recovered yet?” Freah asked from the Osprey.
“Mack?” He’s not with you?” Breanna shot back.
“Negative. The site has been searched. He was separated from the other prisoners back when they landed near Tripoli. We’re been trying to get through to JSTARS directly on this. Can you?”
“Jeff –”
“Yeah, I heard,” her husband told her.
“Poor Mack. I have to relay this to Cascade.” One of the warning digits on the master caution panel came on. She asked the computer for specifics; it failed to respond. Unsure whether it couldn’t understand her or was malfunctioning, she tapped the keypad for the error code.
“We’re having some electrical problems,” Breanna told the crew tersely. “I’m going to switch through some circuits. And please stay on oxygen, obviously.”
“I’ll talk to Cascade,” Jeff volunteered.
“Thanks, hon.”
Jeff waited for Jennifer to set up the transmission, which had to be routed through a backup circuit because of the damage to Raven. It seemed to take forever.
“Go,” she told him.
“Cascade, this is Hawk Leader.”
“Hawk Leader?”
“With Raven.”
“Damn, your voice sounds familiar,” said Cascade.
“So does yours.”
“Jeff?”
“Shit, Jed,” said Stockard, recognizing his cousin through the synthetic rendering. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“Long story, cousin. What’s up?”
Jeff relayed the information about Smith.
“Well, two thirds are better than nothing,” said Jed.
“We’ll catch up at some point,” Jeff told him. “Things are getting busy here.”
“You guys okay?”
“We have damage, but we’re flying,” Zen told him. “Later.”
“Later.”
Jeff hunkered over his joystick, concentrating on the view projected by the forward video camera aboard the Flighthawk. There were a number of civilian airplanes in the air, including several rented news helicopters and airplanes from Europe, sent to investigate. Flights from the [n]Nimitz[/I] and JFK were challenging each aircraft. At the same time, Navy helos were doing the same with boats.
Zen found the coastline, turning ahead of the Megafortress. An F-14 approached from the west; he waited for the pilot’s challenge. Instead, the two-place Navy fighter ducked off to the south.
“Hawk One to Tomcat bearing 320, at grid AA-5,” he told the airplane. “Have you visually.”
“Hawk One, this is Shark Flight Leader. Not reading you on radar.”
Zen gave him his heading. The Tomcat acknowledged, though his voice seemed so hesitant Jeff wasn’t sure he really did see him.
“We’re checking out some civilians,” said Shark leader. “Do you require assistance?”
“Negative. Just checking positions.”
Zen pushed the Hawk closer to the water. The Med glowed a greenish blue, the water a gentle ripple edged with sun-reflected light. Twenty or thirty boats lay ahead, apparently unaware of the rampage that had taken place a few miles further west. He checked back with Bree, who was already starting to look for the tanker. The Osprey was clearing the coast.
Zen punched through the Navy circuits, listening to the aircraft challenge flights in the vicinity. His attention was starting to flag; he had a long way to go and needed something to keep him awake.
One of the exchanges suddenly did the trick.
“Dreamland Playboy One, acknowledging,” said a faint American voice. “We are following a filed flight plan.”
The voice sounded a little hesitant, but the Tomcat acknowledged and cleared the craft to proceed.
Dreamland? Dreamland?
Playboy One?
Playboy One was Knife’s old call sign, the one he’d used the day of Mack’s accident.
Coincidence?
No way in the world.
“Shark Leader, request data on Dreamland Playboy One,” Zen said, bolting upright.
“Hang on,” said the Navy pilot. He gave him over to his pitter, or radar and weapons system operator, in the backseat of the plane.
“Italian flying boat,” said the Navy captain. The backseater had lists of civilian flights to check against.
“Was his call sign filed as Dreamland Playboy One?”
“Unknown. We’re not the FAA here. But it’s definitely on our list. Civilian plane, registered to an Italian fishing and tourist company.”
“Can you give me his last position?”
“No offense, Hawk Leader, but I’m a little busy.”
“That’s why I’m going to double-check him myself,” answered Zen.
Mack steadied his hand on the split throttle, trying to even our the engines. The Piaggio wasn’t particularly difficult to fly, though it did feel weird as hell. It wasn’t so much because the controls and instruments dated from the late 1940’s; they were classic stick and rudder jobs, dials and toggles. You went where you pointed.
But the props were mounted above and behind him, pushing instead of pulling. They sounded like a pair of lawn trimmers, and he just couldn’t seem to get them at the same rpm. No matter how he played with the controls, the plane continued to pull slightly but definitely to the right, pushed by a stronger engine on the opposite side.
Worse, he felt like he was walking over the water. Or crawling. The Italian flying boat went incredibly slow, even though it had two engines.
Walking on the water. The Imam would like that.
The Iranian had been vague about where they were heading, but it was obviously Egypt. Mack guessed the Iranian had made some sort of deal with the Egyptian Air Force to escort them over to the Red Sea if necessary.
Or turkey. Could be Turkey. Plenty of fuel. But Turkey was pretty friendly with the U.S.
Egypt was too, though. Or at least it had been.
Mack had blown it when the Navy plane challenged him, not expecting that the Iranian or Libyans or whoever had set the plane up had actually filed a flight plan. The damn Tomcat pilot was off the air so fast Mack couldn’t think of any way to tip him off.
Dreamland Playboy One. The old call sign had shot into his mind when the Imam poked him in the neck with his gun.
Those were the days, huh?
Would have been easier if the Tomcat had gotten down in his face. Then there might be a chance of getting out of this thing.
Now the best he could hope for was to take the Imam out with him. The question was, should be crash in the water or on land?
Zen found the Italian seaplane hugging the Libyan coast.
“Come on, Bree. Tighten it up,” said Jeff as the meter began sinking downward.
“I’m doing my best, Jeff. We have a hold in the fuselage, remember? And about two thirds of an electrical
