Danny patted the repaired engine cover of the Osprey. Dented and crumpled, the skin looked like a piece of paper that had been wadded up and then pressed flat. But it was tougher than it looked — the whole aircraft was. Despite its shaky early history, the Osprey had proved its worth in countless high-risk situations, and not just for Whiplash.
“She’s good for another ten thousand miles,” said one of the pilots, admiring the aircraft from the other side of the wing. “I was thinking maybe I’d dent up the other engine housing so they look like a matched set.”
“Probably not a good idea,” laughed Danny. He pointed to the crew chief and the two maintainers who’d been flown in to help put the aircraft back together. “Those guys might give you grief.”
Pretending to notice them for the first time, the pilot spread out his arms and bowed to them. It was a joke, of course, but it reminded Danny of a truism he’d learned back at Dreamland — you did not want to mess with the men and women who maintained the aircraft.
Nor underestimate them. These aircraft sergeants — both were men, and both tech sergeants — had been personally selected by Chief Master Sergeant Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons, who, though retired, arguably knew more about every operational aircraft in the Air Force inventory than any man or computer. Parsons was always going on about how good a job his people and the Air Force technical grunts in general were; it would have been bragging if it weren’t true.
“Colonel, this aircraft will take you to hell and back,” said one of the sergeants. “But I have to say, sir, your choice in pilots leaves quite a bit to be desired.”
Even the pilot laughed.
Danny walked over to the combination mess/command tent, thinking this might be a good moment to catch a brief nap.
Melissa met him just inside. Her eyelids drooped; she had what looked like thick welts under both eyes.
“When are you going to the Brotherhood camp?” she asked.
“I don’t know for certain that we are,” said Danny. “But it’ll be tonight at the earliest.”
“I’m going with you.”
“All right.”
“You’re agreeing?”
“Yeah. I need all the help I can get.”
“Oh.” Her body seemed to deflate. Danny sensed that she had been prepared to argue with him. But he saw no reason to keep her away; she’d proven herself. And it was at least still partly her mission. “Good.”
“The Sudanese army is escorting a bunch of ambulances and relief workers to Duka,” he told her. “They should be there inside an hour.”
“Oh?”
“Your friend Bloom arranged it. She’s going with them. She is a spy, huh?”
“Used to be.”
Danny nodded.
“You oughta get some rest,” he told her.
“Yeah,” she said. “I should.”
Chapter 9
Milos Kimko woke on the cot, his head pounding as if he had a hangover. He had no idea where he was, but he could tell from just the smell that he wasn’t in Sudan anymore. The aroma in his nose was less meaty, drier.
He forced his eyes to focus. He was in a canvas tent. He started to get up, only to find that his hands and legs were shackled together.
“You’re awake,” said a voice in Russian behind him.
Kimko leaned over on the cot. A man dressed in a pair of nondescript green fatigues stood near the flap door. There was another man with a rifle behind him.
“What?” said Kimko.
“Do you prefer English or Russian?” asked the man, still in Russian. He was short, though he had a muscular build.
“Your Russian is atrocious,” snapped Kimko. It was an exaggeration — the words were certainly right if a little formal, though his pronunciation could use a little work. But Kimko did not want to give the man the satisfaction.
“English is fine for me,” said the man. “What did you do with the UAV?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do.”
“Who are you?”
“It’s not important who I am. Where is the UAV? Did Li Han give it to you?”
“Li Han. Who is Li Han? I don’t know him. Who are you? Why have you taken me here? You’re an American — I can tell from your accent. Are you CIA? Who are you?”
“It’s who you are that’s important. You’re a Russian gun dealer, violating UN sanctions. You’re a criminal.”
“I’m not a criminal.”
“Do you really think the SVG is going to get you off, Milos? The reality is, they washed their hands of you years ago. When you first turned up with a drinking problem. And when your boss wanted to screw your wife.”
Kimko couldn’t help but be surprised by the amount of information the man knew. He tried to make his face neutral but it was too late.
“Of course I know,” said the other man. “I know everything about you. You were on the scrap heap before they brought you out for this assignment. You thought you hit rock bottom, but it’s amazing how much further you had to fall.” The man reached into his pocket and took out a small, airplane-size bottle of vodka. “This will make you feel a lot better.”
Kimko started to reach for the bottle, forgetting the chains. The man laughed at him and shook his head.
“Where is the UAV?”
Kimko lowered his head, trying to regroup. He had to do better — if he was going to survive, he had to do better.
But he wanted that vodka. The American was taunting him. He knew every weakness.
He had to do better.
He slapped the bottle away. But the man, lightning fast, grabbed it before it fell.
“Good reflexes,” said Kimko.
“Thank you.”
“Tell me your name,” Kimko said. “Tell me your name, so I know who I’m talking with.”
“John. You can call me John. Where is the UAV?”
“In the city somewhere.” Kimko raised his head. “He said he had it and would show me a picture.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Nuri. He pocketed the vodka bottle. “I’ll be back.”
Outside the hut, Nuri had MY-PID replay the conversation. Analyzing the voice patterns, it judged that the Russian had been telling the truth.
He was weak, though. He truly wanted a drink. With a little effort and patience, Nuri knew he could undoubtedly elicit a great deal of information, everything the Russians were trying to do in Africa.
But he didn’t care about any of that. He needed to know where the Raven flight computer was — and that seemed to be the one thing Kimko couldn’t tell him.
Surely he knew something. The only question was, how much vodka would it take to find out?
The little bottle Nuri had shown Kimko was his entire stock. It had been in his luggage, a souvenir from his
