“I’m giving you an order to get the hell out of here,” said Gunny.

“If you’re stayin’, I’m stayin’. I got point,” said the Marine, pushing past in the direction of the parachute blossoming in the firelit sky. It was falling over the low hill to his right, away from the Gulf of Aden.

It was probably a moot point by now, since the Chinook was thundering off in the distance. Still, Gunny appreciated the sentiment.

“I hope to hell that pansy-ass pilot’s got a radio,” he grunted, following up the hillside.

IV

Whiplash

Dreamland

21 October, 2000 local

COLONEL BASTIAN WALKED THE TWO MILES FROM HIS office to the base commander’s “hut,” the wind chilling his face. He’d shipped the summary of his report via the secure e-mail link and packed off the full package, committing himself before he could change his mind. You were supposed to feel good when you followed your conscience, but he felt as if he’d just stabbed a friend.

A lot of friends. Not to mention himself.

Dog paused near the entrance to the low-slung adobe structure that was his temporary home at Dreamland. The guard assigned to his premises had taken shelter in a blue government Lumina parked a few yards away; Dog nodded in his direction, then turned his eyes toward the old boneyard that began twenty or thirty yards away. Surplused aircraft and failed experiments sulked in the darkness, watching him with steely eyes. Among the planes were craft once considered the nation’s finest—a B-58 Hustler, some ancient B-50 Superfortress upgrades, three or four F-86 Sabres. They were indistinguishable in the shadows, tarped and in various stages of disrepair. But Dog felt their presence like living things, animals driven to cover.

Time moves on, he thought to himself.

He waited for something more profound before finally shaking his head, realizing he was freezing out here. The desert turned cold once the sun was gone. He trotted toward his front door, deciding to throw himself into bed and rest up for the inevitable storm tomorrow.

The phone was ringing inside as he opened the fiberglass faux-wood door. He picked up the handset, bracing himself for an angry blast from one of the many generals and government officials connected with the F-119 project.

But the caller was his own Sergeant Gibbs.

“Colonel, we need you back at the office,” said Ax. “What’s going on?”

“You need to make a secure call back to D.C.,” said the sergeant. “Whiplash has been activated.”

“Does Danny know?”

“Captain Freah is on his way here,” said the sergeant. “He had to round up his men.”

“Send a car.”

“It should be there in about ten seconds,” said Ax.

Dog put down the phone. While in theory the team could be headed anywhere, even a training mission, Dog realized it must mean things had popped in Somalia. More than likely, that was why Washington wanted to talk to him.

Better that than the JSF.

He took a moment to pull on his old leather flight jacket, then went back outside, where a Humvee was waiting for him.

Danny Freah was at the wheel.

“Whiplash has been activated,” said Freah as Dog pulled himself into the seat.

“Ax just told me. You have transport?”

“I was hoping you could expedite something. They want us in Africa yesterday. There’s a C-5 en route from back East.”

“A C-5?”

Freah smiled and shrugged. His team consisted of only six men; they carried their forty pounds of equipment on their backs. The big Lockheed transport planes could move the better part of a company.

Freah quickly lost his smile. “Word is, two of our pilots went down in Somalia. And two or three Marines stayed back to help them. One of the pilots was Major Smith.”

“Shit.”

“A rescue operation is being planned.”

“That C-5 will take eighteen hours to get you there.”

“At least,” said Danny.

Bastian folded his arms across his chest. ISA and Madcap Magician would have its own units nearby, but obviously they were anticipating serious trouble.

“Maybe we can wedge your boys into the backseats of our SR-71s,” he joked.

“We only have one on the base,” said Freah, who didn’t seem to be joking. He pulled the Humvee in front of the Taj. “What about a Megafortress?”

“An EB-52?”

“Major Cheshire says Fort Two could make the run in less than twelve hours.”

“Fort Two is a test bed. They nearly crashed a week ago.”

“I know that,” said Freah. “I also know the Somalians have this thing about dragging soldiers through the streets after they kill them.”

Dog got out of the truck and walked into the building, barely pausing for the security scan. Danny caught up in the elevator; neither said anything as the car began its slow descent.

Africa was a damn long way to go in a plane that typically never left the protected airspace over Dreamland.

On the other hand, there was at least a rough precedent. Another EB-52 had been used in Central America during the Maraklov/James fiasco some months before. The plane had acquitted itself quite well.

But it had also been flying with a full crew.

Fort Two was more than a transport. If he was going to send it halfway around the world, he should send it with a full weapons load. It’d be invaluable.

Hell, it’d be the star of the show. Demonstrate what Dreamland could do.

That wasn’t what this was about. They had to get Smith and the others out.

“Ax, get Major Cheshire over here right away,” he said as he stormed into his office.

“She called a few minutes ago to say she’s on her way,” said the sergeant. “ETA in zero-five. Your burger should be here by then as well,” added Ax. “Fries too. Got one for Captain Freah as well. Coffee’s on the boil.”

Northern Somalia

22 October, 0525 local

MACK SWAM MINDLESSLY, EYES CLOSED, BODY buffeted by the waves. A fish or something had attached itself to his chest, clamping powerful jaws around his ribs. He gasped for air, then realized he wasn’t swimming at all—he was hanging by his parachute harness. Every part of his body ached, but his ribs hurt most of all; he guessed some were broken.

He’d lost his helmet somewhere. Undoubtedly he’d taken it off himself, but he couldn’t remember doing so. He was suspended about thirty feet up the side of a jagged hill, the top of his chute snagged around a tree or rock. One of his hands had somehow tangled in his lines, and his legs were roped against each other. He faced a sheer cliff.

There was a knife in his speed pants. He tried to bend his body, and felt himself starting to fall. Desperately he tried to grab the rock; he rolled sideways, still caught.

Smith tried leaning toward his leg, but found he was stuck. As he craned his head upward he saw someone else on the hill above him.

It was a woman. Her dress fluttered.

No. The parachute.

He was in shock, close to losing it. He was going to die here.

Mack told himself to calm down. All he had to do was get off the hill, get his radio. They’d be looking for him by now. The sun was already up.

Shit. His wingman hadn’t been nearby. They’d have only the vaguest idea of where he was.

Not like when Zen went down.

He felt a twinge in his legs. They hurt, but nowhere near as bad as his ribs. A good sign, right?

Smith had a pocketknife beneath his vest, secured there by a lanyard clip. Steadying himself against the rock face with his left hand, he managed to thread his other arm free from the tangle. Then he slid his fingers beneath the vest to feel for the knife. He had to lever his elbow around, and felt a fresh twinge from his ribs as he grasped the clip and worked the knife free. He brought it back and pulled it open, only to have it slip from his hand. Dirt and small rocks slid all around him as he grabbed helplessly for it.