“Why don’t we just stay with the helicopter?” Mack asked. He guessed that it didn’t have the range to go where they were going – they’d had to stop several times along the way to refuel.
“You asked too many questions, Major. Go.”
“I don’t know that I can fly it,” Knife told him.
The Imam lifted his arm, placing the gun next to Mack’s ear.
“I’ve never flown a seaplane before,” said Mack, half hoping to see a Marine – maybe even Gunny – pop up from the water. “I can’t remember the last time I flew anything with a propeller.”
Mack was telling the truth, but as a pair of attack jets screamed overhead, he realized he couldn’t stall much longer.
The Imam’s guards were up by the road; they weren’t coming aboard the plane. Climb in, take off, then find some way to dump his captor.
“I’m telling the truth,” said Mack, ducking as another jet screamed overhead. “I don’t know if I can fly this thing right.”
“I will pray that it all comes easily to you,” said the Iranian, gesturing with his pistol.
“Well in that case, let’s go for it,” said Knife, starting down the dock.
Libya
24 October, 1020
Raven was mangled, but flyable. The right stabilizer was missing a good stretch of skin. One of the leading-edge flaps on the right wing had locked itself into a two-degree pitch, but the Megafortress’s fly-by-wire controls were able to compensate for the problems so well that Breanna hadn’t realized it until Jeff brought the Flighthawk up to examine the battle damage. Jennifer Gleason, meanwhile, had come up and helped Major Cheshire, cleaning her wounds and making her comfortable, or as comfortable as someone could be while staring at a mangled cockpit wall. The wind roared at the jagged gash in the hull, adding a squeal t o the rumble of the Pratt & Whitneys, as long as they kept their altitude and speed relatively low, Rap didn’t think they’d have a problem. She set course for Greece, the Flighthawk pushing ahead like an Indian scout checking the area for an approaching wagon train.
“Raven, this is Whiplash leader, understand you took some serious hits,” said Danny Freah, punching into their line from the Osprey.
“Affirmative,” said Breanna. “We took a lickin’ but we are still tickin’.”
“Glad to hear it,” replied Freah. “Your Flighthawk is secure. A Navy CH-46 is inbound to transport it. I left two teams of SEALS standing guard.”
“You trust ’em?” joked Rap.
“Hey, I had to give them something important to do,” answered Danny. “We would have brought it along ourselves, but we have to expedite our passengers. We’re diverting to Greece.”
“We’ll escort you,” Breanna told him. She had his position on the God’s-eye-view screen; the Osprey was running just to the southwest, booking at close to four hundred knots – about fifty miles an hour faster than the stricken Megafortress. “That’s where we’re headed.”
“Figured as much,” said Freah.
The black bat-tail of Hawk One danced in the left part of her windshield, about a half mile off – the small size of the plane made it difficult to judge its distance without resorting to the screens.
“Hawk One, this is Raven. You copy Captain Freah’s transmission?”
“Hawk,” he said, acknowledging.
“Got your six,” she said.
Kind of funny to be following behind Jeff when he was sitting behind her, she thought.
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.