"Mount up, mount up," Taylor shouted, waving the helmet he still held in his hand.
Flapper Krebs had been quicker to grasp the situation than any of them. The M-l00's engines were already whining to life.
"Merry," Taylor yelled, "get on the horn. Get everybody up in the air."
The large camouflage fans began to withdraw into the M-l00's fuselage.
Taylor shoved Ryder up into the control compartment behind Meredith. He threw his helmet down on the floor, counting heads as he hustled toward the front of the aircraft. Behind him, Parker was already drawing up the ramp.
Taylor glanced furiously at Kozlov, whose face was utterly blank. He almost drew his pistol and shot the Russian on the spot. But he did not have the time to waste.
Taylor shoved the Soviet out of the way and ducked through the hatch that led toward the cockpit.
He jumped into his seat, grabbing his headset as he moved. He gave Krebs a thumb's up.
"Let's go."
The M-100 began to lift into the sky.
Across the horizon two big bursts colored the steppe bright orange, yellow, red. A border of black smoke began to expand above the fires. In quick succession, half a dozen more blasts erupted. Each one came closer to the ship as it struggled to gain altitude.
"Fucking Russians," Taylor growled into his headset. "Fucking goddamned Russians. They fucking set us up."
"Foxtrot one-four. Airborne. Over," the first of the other M-l00s reported in. Then another ship called in, the voice of its pilot reflecting how badly shaken everyone had been by the surprise attack.
A ripple of explosions chased the M-100 into the sky.
"Rockets," the copilot reported drily. "Standoff, air-launched, looks like. Compact conventional explosives and fuel-airs. Couldn't have had too good a fix on us. We'd never have got off the ground."
The goddamned Russians, Taylor thought. They had never had the least intention of sending out refuelers. Instead, they had tipped off the Japanese or the Iranians as to the designated site. But for what? A better deal at the peace talks? For what?
Taylor thought of Kozlov and his mind whitened with anger.
"We've got a bird down." Parker's voice. Through the intercom.
"All stations, report in sequence," Taylor ordered.
"Bird down."
"It's One-five," another crew reported. "He's gone. Fireball."
Underneath the ship, a cushion of explosions buoyed them upward, rocking the cabin. Taylor had to clutch the sides of his seat.
"Altitude," he shouted, jamming his safety harness buckles together.
"I'm giving it all she's got," Krebs shouted back.
Merry's voice came through the intercom, struggling to remain calm. "Verify the loss of One-five. Too slow getting off the ground. She disappeared in the flames."
"All stations," Taylor barked into the mike, "report, goddamnit."
The other M-l00s reported in sequence. Only One-five was missing. Everyone else was above the carpet of fire now.
"Merry," Taylor ordered, "start working on the new exfiltration route. Forget everything else. Hank," he called to the assistant S-3, "let's get back on the flight path. We're heading for Baku."
Krebs looked over at Taylor in doubt.
"Don't worry, Rapper. We've got a new plan."
The warrant officer shook his head.
Behind them, powerful explosions chased their tails with shock waves, bucking the speeding aircraft.
"Hank," Taylor called. "Try to call up some imagery of the spot where One-five went down. See if there's anything left."
"Roger."
Suddenly, the gray sky parted. Ahead of them a scudding green-gray sea stretched toward distant shores. The sight seemed to promise safety.
"You know," Taylor mused bitterly to Krebs, "their system must be in godawful shape. We must've really hurt them yesterday. By all rights, they should've gotten us back there." He could feel the sweat beginning to chill on his forehead. He stared out over the sea. It looked like steel mesh come to life. "The strike was too ragged. They should have hit us with everything at once."
"Imagery up," Parker's voice interrupted.
Taylor looked down at his central monitor. An X-ray radar image erased the flames and smoke to show the wreckage of an M-100 spread across several acres.
"Jesus," a voice whispered through the intercom.
Taylor touched the button that canceled the image.
"Forget it," he said in his coldest voice. "We got off lucky."
Nothing was going to stop him now. Not friendly losses. Not the Iranians or the rebels. Not the Japanese. Not even the Russians.
He slipped off his headset to rise from his seat. He wanted to talk to Kozlov. The sonofabitch had questions to answer.
The sound of Krebs's voice stopped him.
"Oh, fuck me," the old warrant said in disgust. He glanced over at Taylor. But Taylor did not need any further explanation. The flashing monitor made the situation very clear.
"I guess they wanted to make sure," Krebs said.
"Bandits," Taylor called into the command net. "Nine o'clock high."
Krebs began to bank the ship upward to the left.
"I'll fly," Taylor said, grasping the manual controls. "You do the shooting."
Taylor's ops indicator showed the remaining four ships of his raiding force following his lead. But the formation was too neat, too predictable.
"One-one, One-two, this is Foxtrot one-zero. Go high. Work a sandwich on them. One-three, One-four, stay with me. Out."
Meredith's voice came over the intercom. "Good fix.
I've even got voice on them." Then he hesitated for a moment.
"What is it?" Taylor demanded.
"Japanese gunships. The latest Toshiba variant."
"Roger. Execute countermeasures program." The opposing formations were closing rapidly. Forty miles. Thirty-nine. "What else, Merry?"
Again, there was a slight hesitation.
"The voices," Meredith said, "sound like South Africans."
Taylor gripped the controls. Time playing tricks. Above the Caspian Sea.
So be it, he thought.
"Confirm activation of full countermeasures suite," Taylor said. He was determined not to let it shake him. There was nothing special about the South Africans. But he could not entirely resist the flashing images. A cocky young captain winging over the African scrub. Transformed into a terrified young captain. A pistol lifted to the head of a broken-necked boy. Ants at a man's eyes and a river journey through the heart of a dying continent.
Yes. Taylor remembered the South Africans. Suddenly, his battle monitor fuzzed.
"The sonsofbitches," Krebs said. "They've got some new kind of shit on board."
"Merry," Taylor half-shouted, struggling to maintain control. "Hank. Hit them with full power. Jam the fuck out of them."
"Twenty-eight miles," Krebs said. "And closing."
The target-acquisition monitor distorted, multiplying and misreading images.
"Going full automatic on the weapons suite," Krebs said. "Let's hope this works."
Taylor felt sweat prickling all over his body. Frantically, he punched override buttons, trying to clear the monitors. "Twenty-five…"
Taylor strained to see through the windscreen. The battle overlays were little help now. He struggled to pick out the enemy aircraft with his eyes.
"I've got them," Merry called forward. "Clear image."
"Transfer data to the weapons suite," Taylor ordered.
Other ships called in their sudden difficulties with their own electronics.
Remember, Taylor told himself, you're doing the same thing to the other guy. He's as frightened as you are. Stay cool, stay cool.