“We could have packed into a C-fucking-17 and dropped in,” said Hernandez.

“You find a C-17 over here, you let me know,” said Danny, settling into his seat.

“We also serve who sit and wait,” said Liu.

“Screw you, Nurse,” said Talcom.

“I suggest you guys either get some sleep or play some cards so I can get some sleep,” said Danny finally. He snugged his pack beneath the seat, taking care not to unsafe the special quick-burn device. Besides a NOD and more ammunition than a normal platoon could use in a year, his rucksack contained maps and satellite photos of every Libyan base in the northern part of the country. As Hal had told him before they took off, it always paid to be prepared.

“YOU HAVE TO STAND DOWN,” BREANNA TOLD MAJOR Cheshire as she gulped her coffee in the mess area. “You need a rest, Nancy. You’re dead on your feet.”

“Raven has to take the Flighthawks,” insisted the pilot as she gulped her coffee. It was the second cup she’d had since walking into the cafeteria area a few minutes before. “Fort Two isn’t set up for them.”

“I can fly Raven. Chris too. We’re both fresh.”

“It’s my responsibility,” said Cheshire.

“It’s going to be your responsibility if you crash the plane into the desert. Jeff, tell her.” Breanna glanced toward her husband. He looked worn as well, with deep creases on his forehead. And his flight suit was soaked through around his neck and shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“What don’t you know?” She wanted to scream at him—he was her husband, he should be supporting her. But maybe that was why he wasn’t.

“Nancy, you can’t fly,” she said, turning to Cheshire. “I can and I will,” said the major. Her eyes locked on Bree’s, and suddenly Breanna understood.

It was the woman thing. No way she could back down or out. She had to be as tough as the men.

Even though she was exhausted.

Against her best judgment, against her will even, Bree nodded.

“But maybe we should rotate the crew a little,” said Cheshire, eyes still locked on hers.

Bree jumped at it. “Yes. I’ll take the copilot slot. Sibert and Jones will fill the weapons and navigator positions.” Cheshire started to shake her head.

“No, Bree’s right,” said Zen, finally coming to her defense. He looked up into her eyes as he spoke. “She should fly Raven. You’re beat.”

“She’ll fly copilot,” said Cheshire. She jumped up quickly, draining her coffee. “We’ll use Sibert and Jones. Rap is my copilot. That’s it.”

She marched off to get more coffee.

“Why the hell didn’t you back me up?” Breanna said to Jeff as soon as Cheshire was out of earshot.

“I did.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bree. I did back you up. Nancy’s fine.”

Her eyes caught his. He’d always believed in her before—encouraging her to pursue her career, to push herself into different planes. Now his faith had wavered. She could see doubt in his eyes.

“You’re beat yourself,” she told him.

“I’ll take greenies if I need to stay awake,” he said.

“Oh, and that’ll make you real sharp,” said Breanna, who knew even that was a lie—Jeff wouldn’t take aspirin except at gunpoint. She got up and went to check on the plane.

Over the Mediterranean

24 October, 0600 local

“OKAY, KID, YOU WANT TO MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL?” asked the major.

Jed Barclay looked up from the bench chair in the “lounge” compartment, a bulkhead in front of the “business” area of the JSTARS jet. They’d been airborne now for nearly twelve hours—a routine assignment for the command and control aircraft, which had undergone extensive engine work following the Gulf War to make sure it could fly for more than a full day without coming down. The long gig had allowed them to keep track of developments in Libya and Egypt. Libya’s armed forces were now on full alert; Egypt remained on the fence, though some of its air units seemed to be at a high degree of readiness—a good or bad sign, depending on how you wanted to interpret it.

“What do you need?” Jed asked.

“I need someone to handle communications with an Air Force unit called Raven,” said the major. “They’re part of Madcap Magician. My guys have enough to do with the Navy end.”

“Sure. They’re F-111’s ?”

“From what I’ve been told, it’s a B-52.”

Jed nodded, guessing but not telling the Army officer that the plane must be an EB-52—quite a different beast. The Megafortress’s existence was still technically classified. Hal Briggs had reported that two had been “loaned” to him, ostensibly as high-speed transports. But Briggs obviously had found their capabilities irresistible.

The planes originated from a base near Las Vegas where he believed his cousin Jeff Stockard was stationed. Small world.

“All you have to do is sit at a console and talk to them. They won’t be on station for two or three hours, at show time,” added the major. He sounded almost apologetic. “And look, don’t touch anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hey, lighten up. I’m kidding. Besides, we got baby locks on the medicine cabinets.”

Near Tripoli

24 October, 0700 local

THE IRANIANS PUSHED GUNNY AND CAPTAIN HOWLAND out of the small plane moments after it rolled to a stop. They were hustled into the back of an open-bed truck. Large bags of shredded paper and cardboard were thrown on them. A tarp was pulled over the bed and the truck roared away.

“What the fuck do you think this is about?” Gunny asked the pilot.

“Damned if I can guess,” answered Howland.

The truck took a sharp turn. Its wheels bumped over some harsh pavement, then hit a smooth patch. The driver floored it, sending them rolling backward.

“I think I’ll reconnoiter,” said Gunny when he regained his balance. He crawled toward the side of the truck and managed to poke his head up, but it was nearly impossible to see anything; not only was it dark, but they were moving extremely fast. He worked his way around to the tailgate. It didn’t look like they were being followed.

“What do you think, Captain? We’re not being guarded,” said Gunny, sliding back next to the pilot.

“I find that hard to believe,” said Howland. “Maybe we just can’t see them.”

“Yeah.” Gunny pushed himself toward the front of the truck, trying to peek up through the covering there. But he couldn’t find an opening and didn’t want to risk alerting their captors.

“They’re probably sneaking us into one of their prisons,” said Howland. “Maybe they’re staging something near the plane. Whatever that commotion was when we took off from Sudan probably tipped them that they’re under surveillance.”

Gunny wasn’t particularly interested in theories. “We might be able to jump for it,” he suggested.

“Then what do we do?”

“Then we escape.”

“If we’re in Libya,” said Howland, who had worked out their direction en route, “we’re also probably in the middle of the desert. We’ll die of thirst inside a day.”

“Better than dying on TV for them,” said Gunny. “Maybe,” said the pilot.

Before either of them could say or do anything else, the truck veered sharply to the right. They rolled against each other and then the side. Gunny pushed himself upward just as the truck came to a stop.

“Shit,” he said.

Men were shouting. The tarp and bags were whisked off. Two spotlights clicked on, blinding the Americans.

“This way. Out of the truck. Quickly,” said a man holding a pistol. “Into the shelter or you will enter as dead men.”

Gunny and the pilot were pulled down by three or four Libyan soldiers, who pushed them toward a set of cement stairs. Perhaps they were in the middle of a desert, but the stairway smelled like a swamp. At the bottom, two men without weapons but with arms the size of elephant trunks muscled them into a room barely the size of a closet. There was no furniture; two bare lightbulbs in steel cages shone down from the ceiling, eight feet above.