"What?"

"The only Roman monument still standing in Tripoli. The Arch of Marcus Aurelius. Second century A.D."

Satherwaite stifled a yawn.

"If anybody hits it by mistake, they're in big trouble. It's a UN designated world heritage site. Were you paying attention at the briefing?"

"Chip, why don't you chew gum or something?"

"We begin our attack just west of the Arch. I hope I get a glimpse of it. That kind of stuff interests me."

Satherwaite closed his eyes and exhaled in an exaggerated expression of impatience.

Chip Wiggins returned to his combat thoughts. He knew that there were a few Vietnam vets on this mission, but most of the guys were untested in combat. Also, everyone from the President on down was watching, waiting, and holding their breath. After Vietnam, and after the Pueblo fiasco, and Carter's screwed-up rescue mission in Iran, and a whole decade of military failures since Vietnam, the home team needed a big win.

The lights were on in the Pentagon and the White House. They were pacing and praying. Win this one for the Gipper, boys. Chip Wiggins wasn't going to let them down. He hoped they wouldn't let him down. He'd been told that the mission could be aborted at any time, and he feared the crackle of the radio with the code words for abort-Green Grass. As in the green, green grass of home:

But a little piece of his mind would have welcomed those words. He wondered what they'd do to him in Libya if he had to bail out. Where did that thought come from? He was starting to think bad things again. He glanced at Satherwaite, who was making an entry in his log. Satherwaite yawned again.

Wiggins asked, "Tired?"

"No."

"Scared?"

"Not yet."

"Hungry?"

"Chip, shut up."

"Thirsty?"

Satherwaite said, "Why don't you go back to sleep? Or better yet, I'll sleep and you fly."

Wiggins knew this was Satherwaite's not-too-subtle way of reminding him that the Weapons Systems Officer was not a pilot.

They sat again in silence. Wiggins actually considered catching a nap, but he didn't want to give Satherwaite the opportunity to tell everyone back at Lakenheath that Wiggins slept the whole way to Libya. After about half an hour, Chip Wiggins looked at his navigation chart and instruments. In addition to his job as Weapons Systems Officer, he was also the navigator. He said to Satherwaite, "At nine o'clock is Cabo de Sao Vicente- Cape Saint Vincent."

"Good. That's where it belongs."

"That's where Prince Henry the Navigator set up the world's first school for sea navigation. That's how he got his name."

"Henry?"

"No, Navigator."

"Right."

"The Portuguese were incredible mariners."

"Is this something I need to know?"

"Sure. You play Trivial Pursuit?"

"No. Just tell me when we're going to change heading."

"In seven minutes we'll turn to zero-nine-four."

"Okay. Keep the clock."

They flew on in silence.

Their F-lll was in an assigned position in their cruise flight formation, but because of radio silence, each aircraft maintained position by use of their air-to-air radar. They couldn't always visually see the other three aircraft in their flight formation-code named Elton 38, Remit 22, and Remit 61-but they could see them on radar and could key off the flight leader, Terry Waycliff in Remit 22. Still, Wiggins had to anticipate the flight plan to some extent and know when to stare at the radar screen to see what the lead aircraft was doing. "I enjoy the challenge of a difficult mission, Bill, and I hope you do, too."

"You're making it more difficult, Chip."

Wiggins chuckled.

The flight of four F-111s all began their turn to port in unison. They rounded Cabo de Sao Vicente and headed southeast, aiming right for the Strait of Gibraltar.

An hour later they were approaching the Rock of Gibraltar on the port side and Mount Hacho on the African Coast to starboard. Wiggins informed his pilot, "Gibraltar was one of the ancient Pillars of Hercules. Mount Hacho is the other. These landmarks defined the western limits of navigation for the Mediterranean civilizations. Did you know that?"

"Give me a fuel state."

"Right." Wiggins read the numbers off the fuel gauges, commenting, "Remaining flight time about two hours."

Satherwaite looked at his instrument clock and said, "The KG-10 should be rendezvousing in about forty-five minutes."

"I hope," Wiggins replied, thinking, If we somehow miss the refueling, we'll have just enough fuel to get us to Sicily and we'll be out of the action. They had never been out of range of land and if they'd had to, they could jettison their bombs in the drink and put down at some airport in France or Spain and casually explain that they'd been on a little training mission and had run short of fuel. As the briefing officer had said, "Do not use the word ' Libya ' in your conversation," which had gotten a big laugh.

Thirty minutes later, there was still no sign of the tankers. Wiggins asked, "Where the hell is our flying gas station?"

Satherwaite was reading from the mission orders and didn't reply.

Wiggins kept listening for the code signal over the radio that would announce the approach of the tankers. After all this time in the air and all this preparation, he didn't want to wind up in Sicily.

They flew on without speaking. The cockpit hummed with electronics, and the airframe pulsed with the power of the twin Pratt and Whitney turbofans that propelled the F-111 F into the black night.

Finally, a series of clicks on the radio told them that the KG-10 was approaching. After another ten minutes, Wiggins saw the contact on his radar screen and announced the approach to Satherwaite, who acknowledged.

Satherwaite pulled off power and began to slide out of the formation. This, Wiggins thought, was where Satherwaite earned his pay.

In a few minutes, the giant KG-10 tanker filled the sky above them. Satherwaite was able to speak to the tanker on the KY-28 secured and scrambled voice channel, which could be used for short-range transmissions. "Kilo Ten, this is Karma Five-Seven. You're in sight."

"Roger, Karma Five-Seven. Here comes Dickey."

"Roger."

The KG-10 boom operator carefully guided the refueling nozzle into the F-1l1's receptacle, just aft of the fighter's cockpit. Within a few minutes the hookup was completed, and the fuel began to flow from the tanker to the fighter.

Wiggins watched as Satherwaite finessed the control stick in his right hand and the engine throttles in his left to maintain the jet fighter in exact position so that the refueling boom would stay connected. Wiggins knew this was an occasion for him to stay silent.

After what seemed like a long time, the green light near the top of the tanker's boom flicked off and an adjacent amber light came on, indicating an auto disconnect. Satherwaite transmitted to the tanker, "Karma Five-Seven clearing," and eased his aircraft away from the KC-10 and back toward his assigned spot in the formation.

The tanker pilot, in acknowledgment that this was the last refueling before the attack, transmitted, "Hey, good luck. Kick ass. God bless. See you later."

Satherwaite responded, "Roger," then said to Wiggins, "Luck and God have nothing to do with it."

Wiggins was a little annoyed at Satherwaite's too cool jet-jockey crap and said to him, "Don't you believe in God?"

"I sure do, Chip. You pray. I'll fly."

Satherwaite tucked them back into the formation as another jet peeled off for its refueling.

Wiggins had to admit that Bill Satherwaite was a hell of a pilot, but he wasn't a hell of a guy.

Satherwaite, aware that he'd ticked off Wiggins, said, "Hey, wizo," using the affectionate slang term for a weapons officer, "I'm going to buy you the best dinner in London."