She had her old man’s grip. “Looks like we have a problem here.”

“What would that be?”

“You have one man too many. I was told your team had six members.”

“It does.”

“I count seven.”

“Six and me.”

“We have only six seats in this aircraft, besides mine and my copilot’s,” she said. “And frankly, that’s not a particularly comfortable configuration, since it means I’m flying without a crew.”

“Major Cheshire said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I didn’t say it was a problem,” said Breanna. She had her old man’s snap as well. “I said it wasn’t comfortable. I’m traveling without a navigator or a weapons specialist a damn long way into a particularly difficult environment. What that means is—I’m in a pissy mood. Now, who’s staying behind?”

She was in a pissy mood, Freah thought, but there was no way he was backing down.

“Everyone’s coming,” he told her. “I’ll sit on the floor.”

“This isn’t a 707,” said Breanna.

“A plane this big can’t fit another person?”

“He could sit in the nav jump seat,” said one of the crewmen nearby.

Breanna shot him a drop-dead glance, then turned back to Freah.

He couldn’t resist smiling. “See?”

“If we were to set you up in a jump seat, there’d be no way to egress the plane,” she told him.

“You can’t just walk out the door?” asked Powder.

“If there’s an emergency, there’s no way to eject,” Breanna told the sergeant. She had her father’s anger, all right—it was barely under control. “Captain, come here a minute.”

Freah followed her outside the hangar.

“Look, I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” she said. “Just pick one of your men to stay behind.”

“Major Cheshire said it was doable.”

“I’m sure Major Cheshire thought six meant six, not seven.”

“Look, I’ll take the jump seat,” said Freah. “The nav thing. I can bail out if there’s a problem.”

Breanna rolled her eyes. “You’re talking about a folding seat in the bottom of the plane. If there’s a problem, you’re going out a tiny hatch—or the bomb bay. And that’s if I can slow the plane to 275 knots. You know how fast that is?”

“It’s slower than I’ve done HALO jumps,” said Danny.

Breanna looked at him. HALO stood for High Altitude, Low Opening; it was typically done from C-141 ‘s. He’d actually only done it three or four times, but at this point he wasn’t admitting anything that might argue against him.

“Good fucking luck,” she said.

“I’m willing to take the risk, Captain.”

“It’s a hell of a lot simpler to leave one of your men on the ground. He can come later with Raven or find another ride.”

“We get there with five men, I may not be able to do my job,” Freah said. “That may mean Smith doesn’t come back. You want to take that responsibility?”

Breanna’s face turned red.

“Hey, listen,” said Freah, “your dad approved this.”

“Fuck my dad,” said Breanna, spinning away.

“Lady is pissed,” said Blow when Freah returned to the group.

“Let’s get going, no screwin’ around,” Danny told them, ignoring the titters. “We’re not flying fuckin’ TWA.”

Somalia

22 October 1996, 0620 local

MACK BIT HIS SLEEVE AGAINST THE THROB IN HIS RIBS as he slid to his knees. His heart pounded in his ears and his chest throbbed. He barely managed to stifle a cough.

They were in scrubland on the side of a hill, maybe a mile or two south of where he had landed. Where exactly that placed them in the larger world Knife had no idea. There were people nearby, though it wasn’t clear whether they were soldiers or even exactly where they were. Sergeant Melfi had just hit the dirt a few yards ahead and lay motionless, studying something nearby.

Knife reached his right hand to his holster. Something moved behind him and he realized it must be Jackson, catching up.

At least, he hoped it was Jackson. He managed not to jump as the Marine touched his shoulder.

“What’s up?”

“He just stopped,” Smith said, nodding toward Melfi. “He’s not too bad at point,” said the Marine. Then he added, “You want that morphine?”

Smith shook his head as vigorously as he could without jostling his ribs.

“You look pretty bad.”

“Drugs’ll put me out,” Knife told him. “You’ll have to carry me.”

Mack wasn’t even tempted. The pain told him he was alive.

They watched Gunny crane his neck upward, then duck back down. Finally, the sergeant came back to them.

“Village maybe twenty yards away from where I was,” hissed Melfi when he returned. “Damn shacks are built out of old trucks and steel signs mostly. Damn. People live like that?”

Neither Smith nor Jackson spoke.

“Ground’s nice and flat,” added Gunny. “I think there’s a road beyond it.”

“Helicopter could use the village as a locator,” Smith told them. “If there is a road, it could land there.”

“Yeah.” Gunny, balanced on his haunches, considered it. “Let’s move that way, try and flank it,” he said finally. He threw his head around suddenly. Jackson quickly brought his gun up.

“Getting paranoid,” said Gunny when nothing appeared. “How much time until the next transmission, Major?”

Smith looked at his watch. “Five minutes.”

“All right. Let’s get a little further back, make it harder for them to see or hear us, then we’ll move around that way. See where I’m pointing to?”

Knife nodded.

“You know what? Let’s get behind those trees and you make your radio call now,” said Gunny. “Yeah. We can all take a break. For one thing, I got to pee. Getting too old for this shit. Go for it, Jackson. You got the point again.”

Melfi gently rested his hand on Smith’s shoulder, holding him back as Jackson moved out. The two Marines had emphasized battle separation several times, but while Knife wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with the concept—fighter aircraft practiced it, after all—something innate wanted him to keep close to the two men and their M-16’s.

When Gunny finally released him, Mack heaved himself forward. He waddled low at first, moving sideways and then finding a stride that kept him balanced as well as close to the ground. The point man was moving a bit quicker, the distance between them gradually spreading from five to ten and then fifteen yards. All things considered, Smith was pretty damn lucky—not only had he managed to avoid capture after bailing out, but he had a Marine escort to help lead him to safety.

Going to take a hell of a lot of ribbing about that.

Jackson had almost reached the copse ahead when Knife caught the sound of a prop-driven plane approaching from the south. He grabbed the Prick ninety, cursing himself as he realized he’d neglected to turn the radio’s dial back to off after his last transmission. There was no time to worry if that might have hurt the battery or not—he held it up and began broadcasting, starting with the call sign he had used while flying.

“Poison One to Project Command, to any allied aircraft. Do you read me?”

He snapped off the transmit button, looking upward. The plane he had heard was nearly overhead, relatively low, though he couldn’t see it yet. From the sound, it was driven by a prop. That could mean it was a Bronco-type observation craft—Madcap Magician had at least one of the ancient but dependable OV-10’s in its stable.

On the other hand, it could be nearly anything else. “Poison One to all aircraft, do you read me?”

He flipped over to the second rescue band and retransmitted. There was no response.

The airplane above passed without him being able to see it. He guessed it was between one and two thousand feet. But it seemed to be flying in a straight line.

“What do you think?” Jackson asked, crawling next to him.

“If it’s one of ours, it should have heard us,” said Smith. He pressed the radio to his ear. It was also equipped with a small earphone, but he thought he got more volume without it. Smith tried broadcasting again, this time pointing the antenna in the direction of the plane. “Nothing?” asked Gunny when he came back.