ZEN SWUNG HAWK ONE AROUND THE EDGE OF THE complex, gunning for Raven’s wing. He was at bingo fuel. It was a long way back to base; if they didn’t set sail soon the Ospreys would be towing both UM/Fs home.
But at least they’d be able to. The Roland was off the air. And the stream of antiaircraft fire had finally run dry.
“I need to get home or refuel, Nancy,” Jeff said, punching the intercom. “You know what? As soon as that flight of F-14 Tomcats gets here, let’s set course for that emergency base in Greece. My fuel won’t be so tight. I’ll meet you at fifteen thousand, okay?”
“I don’t know that we can make fifteen thousand,” answered Breanna. “We’re chewed up pretty bad, Jeff. Triple-A chewed through the fuselage while we were trying to get under the SAMs. Nancy got hit, and she’s at least unconscious, if not worse. I’m still assessing damage up here.”
“Are you okay, Bree?”
He felt his heart leaping out toward the front of the plane. He felt like he was a million miles from her, as if he were here and she were back at Dreamland.
“I’m intact,” she said. “How about you?”
“As intact as I get,” he managed. His hands were starting to shake; he gave control over to the computer, settling the Hawk into a shadow trail.
“Hey, Bree?”
“Yeah, Jeff?”
“I love you.”
“Me too, baby. Me too.”
Tripoli
24 October, 0955 local
AS THEY GOT OUT OF THE HELICOPTER, FLAMES erupted from the building behind them. Tripoli was apparently under attack; the Imam’s Allah had apparently stopped smiling at him.
One of the guards turned quickly, ducking with his weapon. The other pushed Mack down toward a set of cement steps that led to a long dock. Pleasure craft were arrayed in a marina to the left.
To the right, an ancient Piaggio flying boat strained a mooring at the end of the wooden gangplank. Mack took a step toward it, then threw himself down as a pair of F/A-18’s screamed less than a hundred feet overhead, en route to a target further inland.
The Imam pulled him to his feet. His voice remained resolute, but for the first time since Somalia he made it obvious that he had a pistol in his loose-fitting sleeve.
“Into the airplane,” said the Iranian.
“Who’s flying?” asked Mack.
“You,” the Iranian said, motioning toward the seaplane. The Piaggio’s cockpit sat in front of a high wing flanked by two overhead engines. “There has been a change of plans.”
“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 ask 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 you 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 problem 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 to the rumble of the Pratt & Whitneys, but 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’ve 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 lights 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 is better than nothing,” said Jed.
“We’ll catch up at some point,” Jeff told him. “Things are getting busy here.”