"I'm slipping." Moseby turned, looked toward the far hill. "They're coming."

Rakkim had already heard the engines. They had time. He lightly touched the undamaged section of the jet-the USAF insignia looked new. "Must have been quite a sight in the old days seeing these things in formation over the cities. Sky pilots, I think they called them." He ran his fingertips over the insignia. Gave him chills. Just like Sarah said, there was magic in the idea of that nation, the greatest power on earth for a while. Who didn't wonder what it would be like for those days to come again? Reunification…

"They relied too much on airpower," said Moseby. "All the countries did. Now that nuclear weapons are outlawed, wars are won in the dirt."

"Now they are."

After the satellite surge destroyed the air forces of both the Republic and the Belt, other nations redesigned their own systems, spending billions to buffer their avionics from electromagnetic discharges. It had worked until the Chechen Alliance attacked Russia, hacking into the Russian military command center. In ten minutes the Russian air force was destroyed by the Chechen abort virus-those planes in the air fell to earth like dead sparrows, and those on the ground were locked down and useless. The virus spread rapidly from the Russian command center to every nation with which it had reciprocal relations. The Chechens didn't care, they had no air force to speak of, but within an hour, airpower had ceased to be the dominant military strategy.

It took years for the major nations to rebuild their fleets, yet again. Since modern aircraft were utterly dependent on their computer systems, the choice was made to delink their air wings from command and control centers. While this squadron-based structure was inefficient, it prevented the whole air defense system from being destroyed by an enemy virus. Like Moseby said, wars were won in the dirt. Until a year ago.

Last year, the Nigerians had developed a supposedly unhackable command and control center, the Kabilla-9, which allowed the tactical coordination of all air units. Frightfully expensive, its purchase considered a provocative act, the Kabilla-9 had so far only been bought by the expansionist regimes of Ukraine, Brazil and the Aztlan Empire.

"They're getting closer." Moseby took a deep breath. "You have the credit chip?"

Rakkim handed the chip over. He could see sweat beaded across Moseby's forehead.

Moseby looked west, saw headlights coming through the trees. "Do you want to…?" Rakkim was gone. Moseby stepped out onto the tarmac, waited for Corbett. He didn't have to wait long.

The two vehicles burst out from the trees, the one in the lead a large van with traction tires, riding low on its shocks, the other an old Cadillac limo with the roof sawed off. Corbett waved from the passenger seat of the limo.

Moseby unslung the flechette auto-pistol, his finger on the trigger.

The two vehicles skidded to a stop, sent up a cloud of dust that billowed across Moseby. "Sorry about that." Corbett swatted the driver. "Big Mike likes to make a big entrance."

"No problem," said Moseby, caught in the glare of the headlights.

Corbett jumped out, a short, skinny cracker with thinning hair, one cheek puffed out with chaw. He stalked toward Moseby, bib overalls barely reaching the tops of his cowboy boots.

Big Mike stayed behind the wheel, engine running. He fired up a cigar, peering at Moseby through a blue haze.

Corbett shook hands with him. "You got the funds?"

"Let me see the war wagon," said Moseby.

Corbett led him over to the van, banged on the hood. Both front doors opened, and two men stepped out. They leaned against the front wheel wells, arms crossed. "Four-wheel drive, of course. Armored all over, including the floorboards. Puncture-proof tires. Lead-foil paneling and leaded glass all around, cuts down radiation by ninety percent. You want to have kids someday, you should still wear a rad-suit, which I can supply."

"I've got my own," said Moseby, peering inside the van.

Corbett spit tobacco juice. "Good for you." He pointed at the large air compressor on the roof. "My own design, and proud of it too. Close to a sealed system, but even if there's a leak, you're going to have a constant one hundred and ten percent air pressure inside, so nothing out is coming in. You're going to appreciate that when you get to D.C., 'cause there's some nasty shit there you don't want to breathe." He turned up the interior lights. "You sure you want to go into the city by yourself? It's no pleasure cruise, I'll tell you that."

"I don't like company."

"Yeah, I had a cousin like that," said Corbett. "Regular hermit, he was, although you ask me, he just didn't trust his fellow man."

"What else this thing have?"

"All business, okay, that's fine with me," said Corbett. "Got roentgen counters inside and out, so you know when you're approaching a hot spot. D.C.'s not the same all over. That rad counter starts pinging faster than a twenty-dollar mouth whore, you scoot." He grinned at Moseby. "I want you back as a repeat customer."

"You said there was a decontamination area," said Moseby.

"In the back," said Corbett, beckoning.

Moseby whipped around as one of the men stepped away from the wheel well. "Tell these two to stay where they are."

"Easy now," Corbett said to Moseby. "We're all friends here." He spit again. "Boys, you stay put. Don't want Mr. Moseby to get his bowels in an uproar and shoot one of you." He looked at Moseby. "Happy now?"

Moseby kept his finger on the trigger.

Corbett opened the back door. Showed off the compartment inside. "This is what you're really paying for. Specially designed for treasure hunting, not sightseeing. See…you sit down on the jumpseat, close the door and press this button here." He pointed. "See it? Takes sixty seconds to cycle out the dust and air, pipe in fresh. That way you don't track radiation or toxins into the main compartment when you come and go. Pretty nifty, huh?"

"Yeah."

Corbett put his hands on his hips. Made him look like a banty rooster. "Most folks are more impressed."

"I thought this was the first one you made," said Moseby.

Corbett licked his dry lips. "Right. You…you're the first person who's had the money to pay for it. Most folks just kick the tires and say they'll come back later…but they never do." He wiped a line of brown spit that had run down his chin. "So, you got the funds?"

Moseby pulled out the chip Rakkim had given him.

"Good." Corbett handed him a remote credit tablet. Waited while Moseby slid the chip through. Checked the transaction. Nodded. "Congratulations. You're the proud owner of a grade-A war wagon, Mr. Moseby." He shook hands, held on.

Moseby tried to free himself.

Corbett looked toward the crashed F-77 interceptor, still squeezing Moseby's hand. "Do it. What are you waiting for?"

Moseby jerked free. Tossed Corbett the starlight scope. "I think this belongs to you."

Corbett dropped the scope, backed away. He turned and started running.

The two men pushed off from the van, reaching into their jackets. One pulled a revolver as his head exploded. The other almost got a shot off before he was knocked off his feet, brains everywhere. Big Mike jumped out of the limo, shotgun firing wildly before being brought down by a controlled burst from Moseby's flechette auto-pistol, the tiny, jagged projectiles almost cutting him in half.

Corbett dashed among the abandoned planes, seeking out the shadows, zigging and zagging through the night. He kept low, shifting his speed until he was out of sight.

Moseby checked the dead, put away his weapon. He looked up just as Corbett burst from the brush at the top of the ridge, running flat out. Corbett spun around at the same instant Moseby heard the gunshot, fell facedown in the moonlight. Another head shot. "That wasn't necessary," said Moseby.