Dreamland

“Nah. Wrong direction. We’re still way north. We’ve been heading west.” Gu

“Maybe,” he said. He let Melfi pull him up; he sat on the floor, waiting for the blood to stop rushing to his head. “Did he die?” Mack asked.

“Did who die?” Gu

“The guy I hit.”

“Don’t know,” said the sergeant. “The raghead guy’s still alive, if that’s who you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t hit him,” said Mack. “I hit one of the guards. A Somalian.”

The door to the bus opened up front. Two Somalian soldiers came up the steps, followed by an American in a flight suit—Captain Stephen Howland, one of the F-117 pilots. The Imam was behind him. The soldiers stepped aside and let the pilot pass. He walked toward them slowly, eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t seem to be injured, beyond some bruises to his eyes.

“I see Major Smith has recovered,” said the Imam mildly. “There will be no more episodes, Major. They make our task that much more difficult. Our hosts get bothered.”

“You could just let us go,” said Gu

The Iranian had already started off the bus. The others followed, leaving them to the two Somalian guards and driver at the front.

“They’re taking us to Libya,” said the pilot as the driver started the bus.

“Libya?” asked Johnson.

“Yeah. The Iranians have declared a Muslim coalition against the West,” said Howland. “Libya, Sudan, Iran, now Somalia. Iraq is cheering them on.”

“The usual shitheads,” said Gu

“I don’t know,” said Howland. He sat in the seat opposite Johnson. “They’re gloating about Saudi Arabia and Egypt. They think they’re coming in with them. Something about air bases. Probably they didn’t give our planes permission to land.” The pilot shook his head. “There’s a whole lot of shit going down and we’re right in the middle of it.”

“Aw, come on,” said Gu

“Unless you slip and fall in it,” said Howland.

“Jeez, Gu

“My plane,” said Howland. He looked down at Mack. “They must have been waiting for me to open the bay and pickle. I got the warning and started doing evasive maneuvers, but like an idiot I flamed out.”

“You were just unlucky,” said Mack.

“What happened to you?”

“I fucked up,” said Knife.

“Ah, bullshit on that,” said Gu

“Wasn’t good luck,” said Mack.

“No, sir. No fuckin’ sir,” said the sergeant as the bus lurched forward. “But it sure as shit wasn’t a fuck-up.”

Mack fought off the swelling pain in his head to acknowledge the thank-you with a nod.

Northeastern Ethiopia

23 October, 0300

BREANNA PULLED BACK ON THE CONTROL STICK DESPITE the warning from the computer that they hadn’t yet reached optimum takeoff speed. She pushed down on the throttle bar with her other hand, as if the extra force might somehow squeeze more oomph out of the four power plants, which were already at max.

She was also mumbling a Hail Mary. Couldn’t hurt.

Despite the computer’s disapproval, Fort Two caught a stiff wind in her chin and lifted off the mesh runway extension, clearing the trees at the far end of the runway with a good two inches to spare. Brea

What happened next depended on the Somalians and the Iranians who were helping them. According to the satellite photos, a ZSU-23 antiaircraft gun sat at the northwestern corner of the complex. It would be nice to eliminate the gun before the MHV-22 Ospreys arrived with their assault teams. On the other hand, the Zeus had a limited line of sight toward that end of the base, so attacking it wasn’t a priority if other defenses had been installed along the southern edge of the old school grounds.

Unfortunately, there was only one sure way to discover if there were additional defenses there—the Megafortress would have to show itself and see if anyone took a potshot at it. It could then use its JSOWs on them.

The EB-52’s ECMs could automatically ID all known Soviet-era detection and targeting radars, buzzing bands from Jaybird to DesiLu, as Chris liked to joke. At the same time, it could automatically note the source of the radars, supplying the data for the targeting lobe of its multifaceted brain. On the other hand, Fort Two could not preemptively wipe out radars and signal radios like Raven, for example, nor was it equipped to deal with the next-generation gear found in more sophisticated Western systems. They’d have to punt if they came up against any.

“Vector One and Vector Two are airborne,” said Chris. Pushed to top speed, the tilt-wing rotorcraft transports could approach four hundred knots, more than twice as fast as “normal” helicopters. They were coming in right behind the Megafortress.

Brea

Jeff had told her about the first time he’d been in combat, flying over Iraq. He’d tried to keep calm by counting slowly to himself as he looked at each instrument in his F-15C, counting it off.

That was Mack Smith who’d told her that. Jeff hadn’t flown Eagles in the Gulf.

“Interceptor radar ahead,” said Chris.

Brea

“We have a MiG-29, two MiG-29’s,” said Chris, working with the computer to ID the threats. At this point they used only passive sensors—active radar would be like using a flashlight in a darkened room. “They’re well out of range. Seem to be tracking north. Thirty miles. Thirty-two. Other side of the border.”

“Keep an eye on them for the Ospreys,” Bree told him. “Gotcha, Captain.”

Brea

“Lost the MiGs,” said Chris. “Think they were from A-1?”

“A-l’s supposed to be too small for anything bigger than a Piper Cherokee,” said Brea

“Maybe from Sudan then. Or Yemen. They have to be working at the very edge of their range.” Chris checked through the paperwork, double-checking their intelligence reports and satellite maps, making sure the MiGs couldn’t have landed anywhere nearby.

“Mark Two in zero-one minutes. Border in zero-one minutes,” the computer told Brea