Dreamland

She had her old man’s grip. “Looks like we have a problem here.”

“What would that be?”

“You have one man too many. I was told your team had six members.”

“It does.”

“I count seven.”

“Six and me.”

“We have only six seats in this aircraft, besides mine and my copilot’s,” she said. “And frankly, that’s not a particularly comfortable configuration, since it means I’m flying without a crew.”

“Major Cheshire said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I didn’t say it was a problem,” said Brea

She was in a pissy mood, Freah thought, but there was no way he was backing down.

“Everyone’s coming,” he told her. “I’ll sit on the floor.”

“This isn’t a 707,” said Brea

“A plane this big can’t fit another person?”

“He could sit in the nav jump seat,” said one of the crewmen nearby.

Brea

He couldn’t resist smiling. “See?”

“If we were to set you up in a jump seat, there’d be no way to egress the plane,” she told him.

“You can’t just walk out the door?” asked Powder.

“If there’s an emergency, there’s no way to eject,” Brea

Freah followed her outside the hangar.

“Look, I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” she said. “Just pick one of your men to stay behind.”

“Major Cheshire said it was doable.”

“I’m sure Major Cheshire thought six meant six, not seven.”

“Look, I’ll take the jump seat,” said Freah. “The nav thing. I can bail out if there’s a problem.”

Brea

“It’s slower than I’ve done HALO jumps,” said Da

Brea

“Good fucking luck,” she said.

“I’m willing to take the risk, Captain.”

“It’s a hell of a lot simpler to leave one of your men on the ground. He can come later with Raven or find another ride.”

“We get there with five men, I may not be able to do my job,” Freah said. “That may mean Smith doesn’t come back. You want to take that responsibility?”

Brea

“Hey, listen,” said Freah, “your dad approved this.”

“Fuck my dad,” said Brea

“Lady is pissed,” said Blow when Freah returned to the group.

“Let’s get going, no screwin’ around,” Da

Somalia

22 October 1996, 0620 local

MACK BIT HIS SLEEVE AGAINST THE THROB IN HIS RIBS as he slid to his knees. His heart pounded in his ears and his chest throbbed. He barely managed to stifle a cough.

They were in scrubland on the side of a hill, maybe a mile or two south of where he had landed. Where exactly that placed them in the larger world Knife had no idea. There were people nearby, though it wasn’t clear whether they were soldiers or even exactly where they were. Sergeant Melfi had just hit the dirt a few yards ahead and lay motionless, studying something nearby.

Knife reached his right hand to his holster. Something moved behind him and he realized it must be Jackson, catching up.

At least, he hoped it was Jackson. He managed not to jump as the Marine touched his shoulder.

“What’s up?”

“He just stopped,” Smith said, nodding toward Melfi. “He’s not too bad at point,” said the Marine. Then he added, “You want that morphine?”

Smith shook his head as vigorously as he could without jostling his ribs.

“You look pretty bad.”

“Drugs’ll put me out,” Knife told him. “You’ll have to carry me.”

Mack wasn’t even tempted. The pain told him he was alive.

They watched Gu

“Village maybe twenty yards away from where I was,” hissed Melfi when he returned. “Damn shacks are built out of old trucks and steel signs mostly. Damn. People live like that?”

Neither Smith nor Jackson spoke.

“Ground’s nice and flat,” added Gu

“Helicopter could use the village as a locator,” Smith told them. “If there is a road, it could land there.”

“Yeah.” Gu

“Getting paranoid,” said Gu

Smith looked at his watch. “Five minutes.”

“All right. Let’s get a little further back, make it harder for them to see or hear us, then we’ll move around that way. See where I’m pointing to?”

Knife nodded.

“You know what? Let’s get behind those trees and you make your radio call now,” said Gu

Melfi gently rested his hand on Smith’s shoulder, holding him back as Jackson moved out. The two Marines had emphasized battle separation several times, but while Knife wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with the concept—fighter aircraft practiced it, after all—something i

When Gu

Going to take a hell of a lot of ribbing about that.

Jackson had almost reached the copse ahead when Knife caught the sound of a prop-driven plane approaching from the south. He grabbed the Prick ninety, cursing himself as he realized he’d neglected to turn the radio’s dial back to off after his last transmission. There was no time to worry if that might have hurt the battery or not—he held it up and began broadcasting, starting with the call sign he had used while flying.

“Poison One to Project Command, to any allied aircraft. Do you read me?”

He snapped off the transmit button, looking upward. The plane he had heard was nearly overhead, relatively low, though he couldn’t see it yet. From the sound, it was driven by a prop. That could mean it was a Bronco-type observation craft—Madcap Magician had at least one of the ancient but dependable OV-10’s in its stable.

On the other hand, it could be nearly anything else. “Poison One to all aircraft, do you read me?”

He flipped over to the second rescue band and retransmitted. There was no response.

The airplane above passed without him being able to see it. He guessed it was between one and two thousand feet. But it seemed to be flying in a straight line.

“What do you think?” Jackson asked, crawling next to him.

“If it’s one of ours, it should have heard us,” said Smith. He pressed the radio to his ear. It was also equipped with a small earphone, but he thought he got more volume without it. Smith tried broadcasting again, this time pointing the ante