“We can relay it ourselves,” snapped General Gold, the Air Force Chief of Staff.

“Your call, Martin,” said O’Day.

Dog wished the conference call had been made via video. He’d give anything to see his bosses fuming at O’Day.

On the other hand, they might see him gloating. And that would be fatal. Assuming he wasn’t already cooked.

“I don’t think we should reverse it,” said Magnus. “Frankly, between you, me, and the lamppost, Tecumseh, I would have done the same thing.”

“Then you’d be out of line,” snapped General Alcane.

“In line, out of line, the bottom line is results. We’ve got them,” said Magnus. “What we need now is for Madcap Magician to pull the pilots out. If that takes Mega-fortresses and robot planes, I’m all for it.”

“What we need now is to nuke Iran,” said Alcane.

“If that’s your recommendation, I’m sure the President will want to hear it personally,” said O’Day coolly.

“Gentlemen, Ms. O’Day, there’s no need to discuss this further with Colonel Bastian,” said Gold. “Colonel, you have a difficult assignment at Dreamland. You’re trying your best and doing better than expected, but I realize that you may be slightly in over your head.”

“I hope not,” said Bastian.

“Brad Elliot is still well thought of around here,” continued Gold. “And he supports you.” Gold laughed. “Hell, he thinks you should have sent more. But—and this is an important but—we have a chain of command that must be followed. Granted, your situation is special. But from this moment on, you are to report directly to General Magnus. That pertains to everything—testing, operations, budget, latrines. Keep him informed. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dog. Before he could say anything else, his end of the call was shut down.

“How’d you do?” asked Ax, barging in a millisecond after Bastian hung up.

“Well, I got my head chewed off and threatened with unspecified sanctions. Then about twelve layers of bureaucracy above us were cut away, and the only general in the Air Force who thinks I’m worth anything was just made my boss. The Chief even said I was doing a good job.”

“Not bad,” said Sergeant Gibbs. “You’re learning. Keep going and in a couple of weeks you may be ready to take over for me when I go on vacation.”

Ethiopia

23 October, 1820 local

THEY USED AN OLD SAC TRICK TO HELP RAVEN GET airborne with a full load of fuel, firing the Flighthawks in sequence with the main engines, as if the UM/Fs were rocket-assist packs. They then refilled the Flighthawks’ fuel tanks in-flight, siphoning off fuel from the Megafortress. Between the takeoff and the tanking procedures, Jeff felt drained; fortunately they had a lull before he was due to drop the Flighthawks.

“It’ll be easier next time,” said Gleason as he pulled off his heavy helmet. She was sitting next to him in the converted weapons station.

“You think so, don’t you?” Zen joked.

“I hope so.” Briggs had tried to keep Jennifer from flying the mission because she was a civilian, but her protests and Cheshire’s insistence had kept her aboard. Zen was glad she’d come.

“We are twenty minutes from Alpha,” said Cheshire. “You want to break open your snacks, go for it.”

“I thought I’d grab a brewski,” said Zen.

“Make mine a Sam Adams.”

“I’m in for a Chardonnay,” said Gleason.

Zen reached for his mission folder, laying out the latest overhead photos and the grid map that showed the area they would be surveying. Their search pattern looked like an upside-down W with a backward Z on the last leg; they would start about ten miles northwest of Malakal, heading for the Libyan border. The Flighthawks would fly ahead roughly five miles, about seven miles apart. While the Flighthawks would vary their altitudes between six and twelve thousand feet depending on conditions, Raven herself would stay above 25,000 in a warm and dry layer of air unlikely to produce contrails. The altitude would give the plane a considerable buffer against triple-A and shoulder-fired SAMs likely to be in the area. Anything larger would have to be jammed once detected; until then, they would fly without the powerful radars activated, hoping to get in and out unnoticed.

“Zero-five to Alpha,” announced Cheshire.

Zen looked up in shock—had he just dozed off? He glanced at his controls; they were indeed five minutes from the drop point.

“Initiate C3 self-test sequence on Hawk One,” he told the computer as he pulled on his helmet.

“Test sequence begun. Test sequence complete,” announced the computer.

“Initiate C3 self-test sequence on Hawk Two.”

The computer came back quickly, showing all systems in the green. Cheshire had already pushed the nose of the Megafortress upward; they would launch in a shallow dive, the pilot initiating a zero-alpha maneuver at release. The wind shear across the Megafortress wing surface would help accentuate the separation. They’d then repeat the process again for the second plane. Although technically it was possible to launch both at the same time, Stockard had never done so.

Zen selected Hawk One’s infrared view for his main visor screen, ghosting the flight instruments and data in it as if it were a HUD. The world looked dark and cold from the UM/F’s nose.

“Alpha,” said Cheshire.

“Computer, launch sequence on Hawk One. Countdown from five.”

The computer took up the chant, counting down in its mechanical voice as the engine ignited. Prodded by the Megafortress’s 480 knots of airspeed, the turbine spun hot and ready. Zen let the computer proceed as it automatically released Hawk One.

“Maintain programmed course,” he said after a quick review of the instrumentation indicated all systems were good. “Main viewer optical from Hawk Two. Begin Hawk Two launch sequence. Countdown from five.”

Hawk Two’s turbine stuttered. Zen nearly pulled the trigger button on his left joystick, which in launch mode automatically stopped the takeoff. But the graphics hit green and he let the Hawk go, this time maintaining personal control over the plane.

Good launches, quick and smooth. Better by far than either of his drops at Dreamland.

It was like flying, and it wasn’t. It was like riding in the back of a roller coaster, imagining you had control. In the dark, the total dark.

Plus with your left hand.

“Infrared view, Hawk Two,” he said, staying in Hawk Two’s cockpit. The screen snapped into a yellowish red haze. Hawk One’s tailpipe glowed at the top of the left end of the screen. Zen prodded Hawk Two gently to the right, gliding and quickly building momentum. He checked the instruments, then gave control to the computer, skipping over to UM/F. It was easier there, maybe because he was right-handed. Like playing baseball and batting from the right side, even though you’d learned to switch-hit.

“Computer, split top viewer, add optic feed from Hawk Two on left.”

The computer complied. He now had a panoramic view of the twilight. Both planes descended at near-Mach speed, running through clear, dry air.

“We’re green and growing,” he told Cheshire.

“Roger that.”

“Feeding infrared views to flight deck,” said Jennifer. The Flighthawk feeds came through the test system. She punched something on her console. “They’ll get the FLIR no matter what you select. I can feed them radar and optics too, if they ask.”

“Looking good back there,” Cheshire told them.

Baseball. This was ten times more difficult than switchhitting—you were going at it from both sides of the plate at once, facing two different pitchers. Zen felt as if his mind were splitting in half; sweat began creeping down his neck.

A Sudanese city—or what passed for one—loomed in the view projected from Hawk One as Zen began leveling the planes off at ten thousand feet. A group of low-slung concrete buildings sat above a shantytown of trailers, discarded metal containers, and ancient vehicles. The computer, working with parameters programmed by Jennifer, studied the different shapes for the possibility of an aircraft. Meanwhile, Raven’s weapons officer scanned for transmissions that might indicate their quarry’s presence.