Raven Strike

“Sure. You setting up your own tent?”

“You got that right. I’m not sleeping with those pervs. No way, Colonel.” She thrust her finger at Nuri in mock warning. “And you watch yourself, too, Mr. Lupo.”

Sugar exploded with laughter and sauntered away.

Da

“How likely are they to move the UAV, you think?” he asked Nuri.

“I have no idea. We don’t even know who has it. If it’s one of these groups, they won’t bother. They have no place to go with it. If it’s just someone moving through—which I doubt—they’ll probably wait until nightfall and start out again. In that case, they’ll be easy to take on the road. Shoot out the driver, grab the bird, and go home.”

“What about Li Han?”

“It could be him,” said Nuri. “This isn’t a Brother village, though. He’d be a fish out of water.”

“Isn’t he already? Being Chinese?”

“True. Maybe we should go in and nose around a bit.”

“Just walk in?”

“Drive in,” said Nuri. “I’ve been here before. I’ll use my old cover. We can plant some bugs for MY-PID to use. Augment the feeds from the Tigershark.”

“OK.”

“Hell, I may be able to buy the damn thing,” added Nuri. “Save us a lot of trouble.”

“Buy it?”

“We’re in Africa, remember? Everything’s for sale.”

“Not to us.”

Nuri laughed. “I’m a gun dealer. I had some dealings with a man named Gerard, trying to sell him some guns. If he’s involved, it’ll be for sale. And if he’s not, he’ll tell us who is.”

“That’s safe?”

Nuri laughed again, this time much harder.

“Of course it’s not safe,” he said when he regained control.

Chapter 2

Over Sudan

With the UAV located and the CIA officer recovered, Turk’s job settled into a sustained fugue of monotony. He had to orbit above Duka, watching to make sure that the rebels or whoever had grabbed the UAV remained in the warehouse building with it. He had two problems: conserving fuel and staying awake.

The second was by far the hardest. Turk had a small vial of what were euphemistically known as “go pills” in the pocket of his flight suit, but he preferred not to take them. So he ran through his other, nonprescription bag of tricks—listening to rap music tracks and playing mental games. He tried to trace perfect ellipses in the air without the aid of the flight computer, mentally timing his circuits against the actual clock.

His eyes still felt the heavy effect of gravity.

He was at 30,000 feet, well above the altitude where anyone on the ground could hear him, let alone do anything about him. As far as he knew, his only job now would be to circle around until the Raven was recovered. At that point he could land, refuel, and head home.

Maybe with some sleep in there somewhere.

Turk amused himself by thinking of places he might stop over. The Tigershark had been at a number of air shows—the aircraft had been built as a demonstration project and toured before being bought by the Office of Special Technology—so as long as he could get Brea

Maybe Paris. They said the women were pretty hot there.

Italian women. Better bet. He could land at Aviano, find some fellow pilot to show him the city . . .

“Tigershark, this is Whiplash Ground. How are you reading me?”

“I read you good, Colonel. What’s our game plan?”

“We’re thinking of sending someone into the city to scout around. If we have an operation, we’re not going in until tonight.”

“What’s the status on that tanker?”

“We’re still waiting to hear.”

A tanker had been routed from the Air Mobility Command, but it wasn’t clear how long it might be before it would arrive. Not only had the mission been thrown together at the last moment, but Whiplash’s status outside the normal chain of command hurt when it came to arranging for outside support. Tankers were in especially short supply, and finding one that didn’t have a specific mission was always difficult.

“I can stay up where I am for another two hours, give or take,” said Turk. He glanced at the fuel panel and mentally calculated that he actually had a little more than three. But it was always good to err on the low side. “If the tanker isn’t going to be here by then, it might be a good idea for me to land and refuel at your base. Assuming you have fuel.”

“Stand by.”

Turk gave the controls over to the computer and stretched, raising his legs and pointing his toes awkwardly. This was the only situation where he envied Flighthawk pilots—they could get up from their stations and take a walk around the aircraft.

Not in the B-2s that were controlling the UAV fighters now, of course, but in the older Megafortresses and the new B-5Cs. Then again, most remote aircraft pilots didn’t even fly in mother ships anymore; they operated at remote bases or centers back home, just like the Predator and Global Hawk pilots.

Scratch that envy, Turk thought.

“Tigershark, we have a tanker en route. It’ll be about an hour,” said Colonel Freah, coming back on the line.

“I’ll wait,” he told Da

“Stand by.”

Chapter 3

Western Ethiopia

Nuri needed to gear up to go into Duka. The first thing he needed was better bling. An arms dealer could get away with shabby clothes, but lacking gold was beyond suspicious. At a minimum, he needed at least a fancy wristwatch. Transportation was critical as well.

Most of all, he needed American dollars.

Which was a problem. The CIA had temporarily closed its station in Addis Ababa, the Ethiopian capital. The nearest officer was in Eritrea somewhere.

“Use the cash the existing operation has,” said Reid. “I’m sure they have plenty.”

Reid seemed grouchy, probably because of the hour. D.C. was eight hours behind eastern Africa, which made it close to two in the morning there.

“I’m not getting a lot of cooperation,” said Nuri.

“Shoot them if they don’t cooperate.”

It didn’t sound like a joke.

“Get back to me if there’s still a problem,” said Reid before hanging up.

Melissa had gone to rest in her quarters, one of the smaller huts farthest up on the hillside—not a coincidence, Nuri thought, as she had undoubtedly chosen it for the pseudo status its location would provide.

From a distance, all of the buildings looked as if they had been there for ages. But up close it was obvious they were recent additions—the painted exterior walls were made from pressboard, relatively rare in this part of Africa.

Even rarer was the door on Melissa’s hut, all metal. Nuri knocked on it.

“What?” she snapped from inside.

“You awake?”

“I’m awake,” she said, pulling open the door. Her right arm was in a sling.

“Can we talk?”

Melissa pushed the door open and let him in. There was a sleeping bag on the floor. A computer and some communications gear sat opposite it, pushed up against the wall. The only other furniture was a small metal footlocker. A pair of AK-47s sat on top, with loaded magazines piled at the side. A small, battery-powered lantern near the head of the sleeping bag lit the room.