“Missile away,” said Chris. “Scope is now clean.”

The boat had turned off its radar, but nonetheless began firing its weapon, a large-bore cannon. The air below them crackled and popped with the explosions.

Suddenly it smoothed out and the horizon glowed. “Got the motherfucker,” said Chris. “Big fucking burn. Go baby, go baby.”

“Good one.” Breanna checked her warning screens, making sure Fort Two hadn’t been hit. They were clean, systems in the green.

“APCs launching an attack,” said Chris, back on the FLIR.

“Can you take them out?”

“I can get one, if you can spin us back so I can get a better look. After that, we’re down to our last missile. You still want to save it?”

“Yeah,” she said, beginning the bank.

“APC near the hangar or the airliner?”

“Hangar,” said Breanna.

“Here’s something for you to take home to the Ayatollah,” said Chris as he pickled the missile off.

Breanna’s laugh was interrupted by the RWR buzzer. The two MiG-29’s they’d scared off earlier were on their way back.

Northern Somalia

23 October, 0445

THE BUS STOPPED NEAR THE GATE, ALLOWING THE flatbed with the plane to get by. As the Imam walked up the steps, something exploded about a mile away.

“We are under attack,” the Iranian said calmly. “You will follow me off the bus.”

“No, we won’t,” said Mack. This was a gift—now it made sense to stall.

“You will follow me off the bus.” A trio of fresh explosions rocked the vehicle even as he spoke, though they did not affect his manner.

“Maybe we better,” said Howland. “We’re going to get blown up here.”

As if to underline his words, the top of the bus was perforated by machine-gun fire. Outside, men were yelling and screaming. Smith heard the sound of tank and truck motors roaring nearby. The whomp of descending helos—or maybe Ospreys—filled the air.

“You will follow me now,” said the Iranian, disappearing out the front. The two Somalians trained their weapons on the Americans.

“What do you think?” Gunny asked.

Bullets sprayed nearby, sending dirt and rocks against the side of the bus.

“I say let’s move,” said Howland. “And at least get ourselves out in the open where we can make a run for it.”

“Yeah,” said Mack finally.

They didn’t move fast enough for the Somalians—one of them raised his rifle and sent a quick burst through the roof of the bus. The four Americans flinched, but kept moving, walking deliberately to the front and then down the steps. Somalian soldiers crouched nearby; one or two men ran and others yelled, though they seemed confused, perhaps panicked. It was unclear where the attack was coming from or even what was attacking them. A large jet zoomed overhead, its hull dark against the moon. One of the soldiers stood and emptied his AK-47 at it.

Idiots might just as well shoot at the stars, Mack thought.

The Imam had begun walking toward the back of the terminal building a few feet away. One of the guards went to Mack and prodded him to follow, pushing with the barrel end of his rifle. As Mack began to walk, there was a fresh burst of gunfire behind him. A machine gun began firing nearby, shaking the ground and air with a jackhammer thud.

Mack felt something sharp flick him in the face. He thought it was a bug at first; reaching up, he found his face wet with blood. A bullet had chipped a piece of cement up and nicked him below the cheekbone.

The guards pushed the Americans toward a knot of soldiers at the side of the terminal building, urging them to run and occasionally firing into the air. It wasn’t clear whether they were shooting at the plane or planes attacking, or just trying to scare them; neither made much sense.

Mack was only vaguely aware of the others following behind him. Despite his chains and his resolve to go slow and look for a chance to escape, he was trotting, moving quicker than he wanted.

The Imam was waiting at the back corner of the building.

“Into the plane,” the Iranian commanded. A few yards away, three soldiers pulled a black tarp off a small, high-winged aircraft in the field behind the building. The twin-engined, boom-tailed craft was an ancient Antonov An-14 “Clod”—a Soviet-era transport used mostly as a civilian plane thirty years ago. As the cover was removed, a man ran to the rear of the fuselage, yanking open a set of clamshell doors and ducking inside. The small plane rocked with his footsteps as he leapt into the cockpit; the engines started almost instantly, revving with a high-pitched grumble.

“Quickly,” said Imam.

“No,” said Mack.

“You will come now,” said the Iranian. He raised his hand, revealing a pistol. Before any of the Americans could react, he fired point-blank into Jackson’s forehead. The Marine’s head snapped back and then seemed to disintegrate; his body fell almost straight down beneath it.

“The sergeant will be next,” the Imam added, quickly pushing his gun into Gunny’s face. One of the guards had already grabbed the Marine from behind.

“Into the plane, Major, or your sergeant will die,” said the Imam. “You and the captain will be dragged aboard anyway. I will not kill you, even though that is plainly what you desire.”

Meekly, Mack bowed his head and started for the plane.

Northern Somalia

23 October, 0455

DANNY FELL HEADFIRST OVER THE SEAT, BARELY hanging on to his submachine gun. A hurricane seemed to descend around him; his nostrils burned with the smell of plastic and metal burning.

“Captain! Captain! Captain!”

He couldn’t locate the voice. He tried to stand, felt his throat revolting. He threw himself down to the floor. Instead of landing against the carpet, he kept going, his head and shoulders falling into the open air.

The side of the plane next to him had been blown away. Hanging on by his feet, he flailed back toward the aircraft. Then he saw that the skin of the plane had been twisted into something like a ramp; it would be easier to climb down. As he turned around and began to try to do so, an arm came out of the thick smoke in the plane. He yanked it over him, pulling a man out of the hole, pushing him to climb down. He only realized it was the Iranian pilot as the body slipped and then rolled to the ground.

Another explosion erupted to his left. Danny felt a surge of air against his face, found another body rolling against his. He grabbed it and pushed it toward the tarmac. He rolled down after it, saw it was Talcom.

“Where’s Hernandez? Where the fuck is Hernandez?” he screamed.

Powder, dazed, maybe unconscious, didn’t answer. Danny clambered back up the jagged side of the plane, prodding through the acrid brown stench. He reached the floor of the passenger compartment, got to his feet, and then nearly fell backward as flames erupted in his face. The heat was so intense he could only retreat, tumbling over backward and falling out of the plane headfirst. He managed to grab a piece of metal, slowing himself but ripping his uniform and cutting his arm as he pirouetted around. He fell next to Talcom, who was trying to stand; both men slammed down and flattened the still-dazed Iranian pilot.

It would have been comical had the fuel truck nearby not erupted.

Somehow, Danny managed to pull Talcom and the pilot away. All three collapsed about twenty yards from the jetliner, gasping for breath and feeling the hot flame of the tanker truck.

“Hernandez, we lost Hernandez,” said Freah when Liu grabbed him.

“No, he’s in the Osprey,” said the medic. “Come on. We have to go. Fighters are coming. Let’s go. They blew the hangar.”

Danny shook his head clear, bolting to his feet. He’d lost his MP-5, but he seemed okay; he didn’t think he’d been hurt.

Sunburned maybe. Damn fire was hot.