Shitfuckinhell. This can ’ t be happening to me. Not me, goddamn it. I ’ m too fuckinggoddamngood a pilot to have my fanny waxed and end up snagged on a stinkinggoddamnfuckinghell hillside. It ’ s a goddamn joke.

Smith took as deep a breath as his injured chest would allow, then pushed his right arm in the direction of his tangled legs. He felt himself start to slip, but kept going; he tumbled sideways again, but snagged, crashing against the rocks as he grabbed his leg with his right hand. He got the knife, then realized his legs were pinned together, not by the parachute line, but by the metal buckles on the lower straps, which snugged the pant legs above his boots. He levered the long knife blade behind one of the straps and freed himself, carefully gripping the knife this time. As he straightened out he began to drop again; he managed to swing his elbow against the rocks as he slipped down about five or six feet before the chute once more snagged. As he stopped he smacked the side of his face, scraping his cheek and nose.

When the burn subsided, he realized he could simply slip himself out of the harness and drop free. Problem was, the ground was still a fair distance.

Twenty-five feet? Maybe only twenty. There were bushes at the bottom of the ravine.

Long way to fall, even if the pigmy trees broke his fall. Better to slip down some more, even though the scrapes hurt like hell.

Knife swung his legs forward and back, gently at first, then harder, trying to nudge himself down. A sharp knob on the rock poked his forearm. Dirt and pebbles shot down the hill, but he stayed put.

His gut began to retch. Bile came up into his mouth and his ribs screamed with pain.

Stinkingfuckshithell. How the hell can this be happening to me? Me!

Knife clawed at the wall next to him. Maybe it would be easier to climb up it. He lodged his knife into the webbing of his vest, then tried digging his feet into the cliff side. He levered himself up a few feet, one step, two steps, a third. He managed to pull himself up enough so that the lines hung free. He stepped to the right, trying to avoid getting tangled. He took one step, then slipped and fell, sliding two or three feet before managing to grab on and stop.

Nothing to do but let himself fall.

But as he reached to unclasp his harness restraints, the rock or tree or whatever it was holding him began to give way. He pushed himself close to the face of the hill, trying to squeeze into the dirt and rocks as he slid. He clawed and slipped the whole fifteen feet to the ground, crashing through foliage so sharp he thought he had fallen into a spear pit.

Finally on the ground, Mack lay back, trying to blink away the pain—trying, in fact, to blink away everything: Africa, the mission, the shoulder-fired SAMs that had hit him.

Had to be shoulder-fired SAMs. He’d had no warning and they’d gotten his tailpipe. But Mack Smith wasn’t supposed to be the kind of pilot who got his fanny nailed like that, was he?

Finally, Knife rolled over and got to his feet. He removed his Beretta from the vest, checking to make sure the weapon was loaded. It felt heavy in his hand, a little greasy, as if it were covered with oil.

The ejection-seat survival kit and life raft sat at the very base of the hill a few yards away, looking as if someone had come and set them out for him. Besides flares, water, some candy bars, and other odds and ends, the kit included a PRC-90 survival radio, backing up the one he carried in his vest.

As he bent to open the kit, he heard something crashing through the bushes a few yards away. He slid to one knee, slowly raising the pistol to eye level.

Something moved and he fired.

There was a squealing, subhuman noise, a half growl. “I’m sure as hell glad that wasn’t me,” said a voice behind him.

As Smith jumped back, something grabbed his pistol hand. He began to fight back, found himself wrestled to the ground.

“Relax, pilot, we’re on your side.”

A green and black mask contorted over him.

It wasn’t until the teeth flashed white and gold that Knife was certain the figure was human.

“I’m Sergeant Melfi. My point man Jackson is around here somewhere. We’re Marines. Come on, Captain, let’s get the fuck out of here. Shooting that pig may have felt good, but it’s gonna bring a bunch of Somies runnin’.”

“Pig?”

“Whatever. Fuck, maybe it was a lion,” said Melfi. “Come on, Captain, let’s go.”

“I’m Major Smith.”

“Whatever. Come the fuck on. We have to get on the other side of these hills and find some real cover.”

Dreamland

21 October, 2030 local

DOG STOOD OVER HIS DESK, STUDIOUSLY IGNORING THE blinking light on his telephone. The light indicated that someone from Deborah O’Day’s office was holding—and had been holding now for at least ten minutes.

“The thing to do is split the Whiplash team between two planes,” he told Cheshire and Freah. “This way we can crew them. They’ll arrive loaded for bear.”

“We don’t have two planes ready,” said Cheshire. “Only Fort Two is in shape to fly. Raven’s computer and fly-by-wire systems are still being upgraded to take care of the problems Fort Two encountered. We should have them on-line by tomorrow night.”

“What about Plus?” Bastian asked, using the nickname for Megafortress One, officially carried on the books as EB-52-DT1A Megafortress Plus. Plus had been used a few months before to help recapture the stolen DreamStar experimental aircraft, flying all the way to Nicaragua.

“The wings are still being refitted. It will be at least a week before it’s ready. Raven’s the one to go. The ECMs will blast out anything the Iranians have.”

“They’ll overheat first,” said Rubeo.

Proposed as the next-generation electronic-warfare set, the xAQ-299 admittedly had some heating issues. But having decided to send the Megafortresses, Bastian was in no mood to let Rubeo’s dour puss derail him.

“All right, let’s do this,” he said. “Use Fort Two to take Whiplash to Africa. We’ll expedite the work on Raven, pack the two other crew members and more weapons in it, and ship it out as soon as it’s done. How soon can you take off?”

“Actually, Colonel, I think it would be better if I take the Raven,” Cheshire told him. “I’ve been flying it and its voice-command system has been trained for my voice. Besides, given the ECMs, it’s more likely to be the one that would see action.”

“Who flies Fort Two?”

“I took the liberty of alerting Captain Stockard,” Cheshire said. “She should be on base within a half hour.” Dog nodded, then glanced at his phone.

“Danny, this sound good to go?”

Freah nodded.

“Let’s do it,” said Bastian.

“Colonel, I must note that you’re sending a test aircraft into a war zone,” said Rubeo.

“I don’t believe it’s an official war zone yet,” said Bastian dryly. “I’m sending it as a transport. Both planes are going as transports.”

“Semantics—”

“Doc, I appreciate your coming, truly I do,” said Bastian. “I don’t know why you thought it important to show up, but I appreciate it.”

Dog held up his hand, cutting off himself as well as the scientist.

“Out, everyone,” he said as he picked up his phone. “This is a classified call. Go!”

* * *

BREANNA URGED THE SMALL HONDA FASTER, PLUNGING through the desert night toward the base. She was glad to escape, glad to run from the disaster that had become her life. On some level she knew Jeff’s attitude was just a phase, a plateau on his way to coping with his disability, adjusting to his new life. But on another level, she was starting not to care. There was only so much she could take.

The counselors had tried to prepare her for this; they’d been hopeful, predicting that it would soon pass. They all felt Zen would come back stronger than ever, his true nature winning out.