“No,” said Breanna. “Can you target it?”

“Bay,” said Chris. “No, wait. No. They’re in the hangar. I can’t tell whether it’s concrete or not. I don’t think so. I don’t have a target point.”

Breanna nudged the stick to bank.

“I can’t be sure what that hangar’s made of,” said Chris. “It looks like it’s cement-reinforced.”

“Can you fly the JSOW into the hangar?”

“Maybe,” said her copilot. “The angle’s tough. I can hit it, but the missiles might not penetrate. I don’t know what’s inside, whether it’s all on the surface or if it’s like Dreamland’s hangars, with ramps and elevators.”

“That’s unlikely.”

“Yeah. But what do you figure the odds are our guys are with the plane?”

Instead of answering, Breanna checked the threat scope again. There were no radars active. The Megafortress was slipping through the night undetected.

They might never have a chance like this again. If the wrecked plane was there, odds were their men were too.

On the other hand, there was no telling what sort of defenses the Iranians and Somalians had waiting.

Her instinct said go for it. She clicked the transmit button.

“Vector leader, here’s our situation,” she said, laying it out.

“We’re en route,” snapped the Delta commander. He patched in the pilots as Breanna had Chris sketch the base and approach.

“We’ll take out the Zeus as you come in,” Breanna said. “The hangar with the aircraft will be three thousand meters beyond it, close to the water.”

“We’ll hit it, take out the plane, and look for our guys.”

“Roger that.”

“ETA five minutes,” said the lead pilot. The two Ospreys were rushing through the mountain passes, heading for their target. “We’re going silent com.”

“Fort Two,” acknowledged Bree. She turned toward her copilot. “Hold one missile in reserve for the hangar if they can’t reach it.”

“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.” Chris nodded, then sighed so loud her earphones practically shattered. He sounded like a horse that had just lost its chance to run in the Derby. “Listen, I’m sorry about that emotion thing I said. I didn’t mean it.”

“We’re both tired,” she said, worried that his crack had been all too true.

Northern Somalia

23 October, 0445

THE OSPREY WHEELED OUT OF THE HILLS JUST AS THE big antiaircraft gun at the edge of the base exploded. Skipping forward, the MHV-22 plopped herself down a few feet from the DC-8 at the edge of the ramp. Danny jumped from the rear of the plane behind Powder, and saw two figures running toward him; he pushed the trigger on his sub-submachine gun and the men crumpled immediately.

“Fuel truck! Fuel truck!” Liu yelled behind him. Danny saw the tanker under the airliner’s wing. Bison had thrown himself in a crouch, aiming his SAW grenade launcher at the easy target.

“Don’t blow it! Don’t blow it!” Freah yelled. They were tasked with searching the plane before destroying it, in case the pilots and Marines were aboard already.

“Somebody in the cockpit!” shouted Hernandez.

Gunfire erupted to his right, a short burst of automatic fire. Danny threw himself down as a flare ignited overhead. He heard the rumble of a heavy machine gun at the far end, saw the silhouette of an Osprey, the other Osprey, descending near the hangar.

There was a boarding ladder near the fuselage of the DC-8 less than twenty yards away. The door was open and there didn’t appear to be any soldiers or guards between them and the aircraft.

“On the plane! On the plane!” screamed Danny, jumping to his feet. Talcom and Hernandez were already at the ladder cart, exchanging gunfire with someone at the top. “Use the concussion grenades!” he shouted as he ran. “Knock them out! Don’t hurt our guys!”

His men didn’t need to be reminded of such basic procedures, but Danny yelled them anyway. Talcom and Hernandez had managed to get inside the plane in the few seconds it took for him to reach the ladder. He took the rungs two at a time, a concussion grenade in his hand. He slipped his thumbnail beneath the tape, ready to toss it in.

“We’re clean! We’re clean!” Talcom was yelling. “Somebody’s in the cockpit!”

Danny threw himself into the airliner, rolling on the rubber-matted floor. The plane shook with a nearby explosion. Something burned on the other side of the base, faint red flickers mixing with the predawn twilight. Danny pulled out his small penlike flashlight, playing its narrow tungsten-lit beam carefully across the interior. The airliner was configured as a bare-bones passenger transport with fifteen or sixteen rows of seats between the boarding door and the flight deck. Talcom and Hernandez were huddled near the cockpit, their heads next to the closed door, listening to see what was happening on the other side. Freah spun around, checking the rear of the plane. There were maybe another dozen rows of seats back to a curtain. He got to his feet and ran back, ducking into the last row of seats.

He took the concussion grenade from his pocket, held it up so the others could see.

Talcom gave him a thumbs-up. Freah pulled the pin and rolled the grenade under the curtain. In the next moment his men at the front fired off the lock on the cockpit door. Danny waited for the boom of the grenades, then dove up and over the seats, rolling into the galley.

No one was there. A cargo compartment lay beyond the galley. He tried the door, found it locked. He stood back, fired at the recessed handle. It still wouldn’t budge. He threw himself against it, his flashlight slipping from his hand and clanking so loudly against the counter that for a split second he thought it was a gunfire.

“Captain! Captain!” yelled Hernandez.

Danny spun back to see a dazed man with vaguely Middle Eastern features being herded down the aisle by his two sergeants.

“Guy’s the pilot. They were just ready to take off, I think,” said Hernandez. “Head’s scrambled or maybe I just can’t understand what the hell he’s saying.”

“APC coming up from the other end of the base,” added Talcom. “Egg’s holding him off.”

Freah grabbed the pilot. “Where are our men?”

The man shook his head as if he didn’t understand. Freah tightened his grip and pushed him against the seat. “My people!” he demanded.

The man said something unintelligible.

“Captain, our grenade probably beat shit out of his eardrums,” said Powder. “Even if he understands English, he probably can’t hear. Sucker’s lucky he wasn’t killed.” The plane rocked with a fresh explosion.

“That APC’s going to nail us, whether they’re aiming to or not,” yelled Hernandez from the doorway.

A moment later the front of the plane exploded.

Northern Somalia

23 October, 0445

THE FOUR-BARRELED ZSU-23 VAPORIZED AS THE warhead of the JSOW exploded. Flames lit the night as Breanna continued through her orbit, one eye on the blank RWR screen.

“Vector aircraft are in. They’re at the hangar and on the airliner,” said Chris, who was monitoring the radio transmissions as well as scanning the site with the infrared. “Vehicles back near the terminal building.”

“Patrol boat?”

“I have it designated. We can take it out at will. Machine-gun fire on the north side of the base. I think they’re shooting at us. No SAMs. No radar.”

Breanna continued around, edging the Megafortress over the water. They were within the lethal envelope of a shoulder-fired missile like a Stinger or the SA-16, the Russian equivalent; she had to be ready to pull evasive maneuvers at any second. Still, she found her thoughts wandering, drifting down to the assault teams, wondering if they had found Mack.

Why did she care? Why had Jeff accused her of having an affair with him?

“Bree?”

“Take it out,” she snapped, her unconscious alerting her to the fact that the patrol boat had snapped on a scanning radar. Her hands were already prodding the Megafortress away.