“What about Egypt?” said Zen.

The commander made a face. “We don’t have permission for overflights.”

“All the more reason to watch it.”

“Zen, please,” said Briggs.

“We’re aware of the possibility,” said the Navy commander. “We’re compensating to some degree, but obviously there are limits. We have some under-the-table help from the Israelis.”

“Where’s the Kennedy?” Cheshire asked.

“That’s one of our problems,” admitted the commander. “All of these planes are operating at the far end of their range. It’s dicey, I don’t deny that.”

“Major Cheshire, you have this swatch here,” said Briggs, pointing to the southernmost area of the Sudan. He then turned to the F-16 commander. “Havoc Flight’s F-16’s will patrol here and here. We’re waiting for a KC-135 inbound to refuel you.”

“Excuse me,” said Cheshire, “but with our range, it would make a hell of a lot more sense for us to take that area. Then Havoc won’t need to tank.” She grinned at the F-16 flight leader. “Unless you want to try refueling off a C-130.”

“We’ve done it,” he said.

“I’ve pissed in my pants, but I wouldn’t want to repeat it,” said Zen. The C-130 in question was rigged for helicopter refueling. The type’s extreme versatility and the pilots’ attitudes couldn’t make up for the fact that the Herky Bird was considerably slower than the F-16.

“We may have the KC-135 on board by then,” said Briggs. “In any event, I don’t want to risk the Megafortress anywhere near Libya.”

“That’s a good six hundred miles south of Libya,” said Zen. “And with all due respect to the F-16’s, they’d be ten times as vulnerable as Raven and the Flighthawks.”

“We’re not sending the Flighthawks,” said Briggs.

“What are Flighthawks?” asked the Navy commander.

“UM/F-3’s,” said Zen. “They’re unmanned fighters that can be used as reconnaissance craft. They’ll widen the search cone exponentially.”

“They’re experimental drones,” said Briggs. “Unpiloted craft.”

“They are piloted. They fly by remote control. They’re as capable as F-22’s,” Stockard told the naval officer, aware that he was violating the protocol about the program’s classified status. “The Flighthawks can beam real-time video and electronics back to Raven. They’re armed with cannons and can shoot down anything Qaddafi can throw at them. The only difference between sending them and the F/A-18’s is that no one’s risking their life.”

“If we have unmanned aircraft that we can use, I’m all for it,” said the naval officer. “That is serious Indian country out there.”

“Those are experimental aircraft,” said Briggs.

“No, they’re developmental aircraft,” said Jeff. “There’s a big difference.”

“I think they can do the job,” said Cheshire.

“What do we do if one goes down?” Briggs’s voice made it seem more a certainty than a question.

“It’s not going down,” Zen said.

“I can’t afford to be optimistic.”

“If there are problems, I blow it up. Look, the classified stuff is all aboard Raven anyway. That’s the plane we have to won-y about. The fact that it’s here—shit, don’t you think we have to use the best stuff we have? Why let anyone—anything, I mean—go to waste?”

“I don’t think there’s much of an argument,” said the Navy commander. “If you’re confident these craft can do the job, I say go for it. I’ve seen what Pioneers—”

“These are nothing like Pioneers,” snorted Zen.

“I’m on your side, Major,” the commander snapped. “I say we slot them north, Hal.”

“Agreed,” said Briggs finally. He looked up at Cheshire. “Major, we’d like you off the runway as soon as possible. We want you in the area before dark.”

“We’ll be there,” said Cheshire.

Zen followed her out of the conference area. “Hey, Nancy,” he said as she reached the door. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Jeff. I agree with you—it’s safer to risk the Flighthawks than a pilot.”

“I meant thanks for standing up for me.”

“Oh, you stand up for yourself just fine. Where do you figure the rest rooms are around this place?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to guess they won’t be handicapped-accessible.”

“And I won’t be surprised if there’s only a men’s room.”

“I’ll guard the door for you, if you do the same for me.”

“Deal.” Cheshire grinned.

SINCE SHE WAS A WOMAN, THE SPEC OPS SUPPORT team had offered Breanna a separate room to sleep in—a closet down the hall from the large, open warehouse room that had become an ad hoc dormitory. She’d turned them down. Not because she didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else, but because she was so damn tired she couldn’t contemplate taking one more footstep than necessary. She took off her boots and dropped onto the narrow cot fully dressed, hunkering under a blanket without a pillow. She fell right to sleep.

And woke less than two hours later. The place was quiet, except for Chris, snoring several cots away. A dull blue light filtered through the windows high on the wall, but it wasn’t the light or the snores that distracted her. The mission kept playing over and over in her head, bits and pieces of it swelling her mind with ideas of what she might have done differently. She felt the hard seat of the Megafortress pinching her butt as she took the g’s ducking from the MiGs. She saw the flames on the ground, felt the air rumbling with the cannon fire. She saw the small airplane they’d all missed until it was too late.

So close. She could have rescued Mack and the others.

After an hour of tossing and turning, Breanna finally gave up and went in search of food. Besides MREs, the makeshift kitchen was offering two specials of the day: instant oatmeal and fresh boar.

“Boar?” Bree asked the Green Beret sergeant who was standing over the tin pots.

“Boar, ma’am. I caught it, I skinned it, I cooked it.”

“You bullshitting me, Sergeant?”

“Ma’ am?”

“Okay. I’ll take some.”

“You won’t be sorry.” He removed a steel lid on one of the pots, sending an acrid smell into the air. “And you can trust the water too. Treated and boiled for good measure. Sweet potato?”

“Why not?” said Bree, momentarily wondering if she should resort to the MREs.

“Full complement of your vitamins, ma’am. Nice flyin’, by the way. Heard you did a kick-ass job.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, still dubious about the food as she walked to the nearby table area.

Her opinion remained in flux through three or four bites. The meat had a taste somewhere between fresh pork and week-old beef. And the sweet potatoes: Forget about it.

The water, at least, was good. She took a long sip—then almost spat it out as her husband wheeled into the room.

“Jeff?”

“Hey, Bree,” said Zen, rolling toward her. “How you doing?”

“I’m fine. What the hell are you doing here?”

“The Flighthawks are going to join in the search.”

“You’re crazy,” said Breanna.

Major Cheshire appeared at the front the room with the rest of the crew from Raven, as well as her navigator and weapons operator. Breanna managed to hold her disbelief in check while the others went for food.

“Jeff? The Flighthawks?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re pushing them past the limit. Not to mention yourself.”

“I don’t think so,” he snapped. “I slept the whole way over.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I heard you were in action.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Listen, Captain.” Jeff had his major’s face on, and it wasn’t pretty. “You’re cute and all, but I don’t answer to you.”

“Jeff. Come on, be realistic.”

“This chair has nothing to do with my abilities.”

“I’m not talking about your abilities.” Breanna heard her words echoing harshly in the room. Her face flushing hot, she repeated the sentence, though softer this time.

“I’m not talking about your abilities.”

“I’m hungry. That was a great dinner, by the way. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”