Jennifer Gleason said something to Jeff about one of the computer readings. Breanna felt the muscles in her back tense at the girlish lilt in the scientist’s voice. If she ever washed out as a scientist, Gleason would have no trouble finding a job doing telephone sex.

“We’re picking up some interesting transmissions,” said the weapons officer. “Have something in grid B-2 just beyond the mountains.”

“Radar?” asked Cheshire.

“No. Some sort of microwave, but I can’t quite pin down the source from this distance. It’s encrypted. Lot of data, like it’s a video feed. It’s coming from the middle of nowhere. You want me to record it?”

“Negative,” said the pilot. “Don’t waste your time.”

“I’m also getting audio for a video feed that’s being beamed out of Tripoli,” he added. “I think it’s our trial.”

God, thought Bree. Poor Mack. His parents would hear him, probably see him, on CNN. The tape would be shown over and over and over.

“Yeah, shit. I have a sound track. Getting a location. I can pinpoint it. Hang on.”

The sophisticated tracking gear in Raven allowed him to plot a radar source within .0003 meters—roughly a tenth of an inch—once he locked and tracked it. The process took anywhere from forty-five seconds to five minutes.

“You want to hear this? Damn, it is the trial. It’s in English.”

“No,” snapped Breanna.

“Neither do I,” said Cheshire. “Run through the emergency tanker locations and frequencies for me.”

It took Bree a second to realize Cheshire was talking to her. She turned her eyes to the right instrument panel, where the fuel burn as well as the reserves were projected. Personally serviced by Greasy Hands before takeoff, the ancient TF33-P-3’s were humming better than the day they left the shop in early 1962.

“We’re running a few hundred pounds ahead,” she told Cheshire. “So I don’t think we need to—”

The major turned her head toward her without saying anything.

“I’m sorry,” said Breanna, reaching for the data on the tankers.

DANNY HIT THE GROUND A FEW FEET BEHIND TALCOM, not sure whether his sergeant had seen something or was just being cautious. They were still a good twenty feet from the plateau, approaching from the blind side.

“Team, hold,” he said, speaking softly but distinctly so the communicator pinned to his collar could pick up his command. Bison was about five yards behind him. Liu and Pretty Boy were working their way around the other side.

“Thought I saw something,” whispered Talcom.

Danny had contemplated sending the Osprey around from the front to draw the attention of any Libyans while they came around from the flanks. He’d rejected the idea, however—if the aircraft was shot down they were in serious trouble.

“I’m coming to you,” he told Talcom, raising his body. He took a crouching step toward the sergeant’s chocolate-chip fatigues, then another, then trotted ahead and slid in.

“I can get over them,” said Talcom, pointing upward. A jagged rock face rose above nearly fifty feet. There looked to be few if any handholds.

“Hell of a climb,” said Freah.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said the sergeant. “We’ll trade weapons. You just cover my ass if they come for me.”

Danny eyed the rock wall doubtfully, but then gave Talcom the MP-5, which was shorter and much lighter than the SAW. He helped him snug it against his back.

“Wish I brought my climbing shoes,” said the sergeant, starting upward.

“Powder’s going to try to get some height on them,” Freah told the others. “Liu, you and Floyd hold on until Powder’s up. Nurse, you on the circuit?”

No answer. The Dreamland-engineered radio system had a good range, but perhaps they were asking it to do too much with the jagged terrain.

“Hernandez, you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Cap.”

“You see Liu?”

“I can see them, but I can’t hear them,” Hernandez hissed into the miniature microphone. “Nothing, Captain,” he said finally.

“Can you get close enough to tell them to hold on until Powder’s in position?”

“Gotcha, Cap.”

Danny glanced at the firing mechanism of the gun, as if reorienting himself to the machine gun. Powder had already climbed nearly halfway up the rock. Slowly, Freah began to crawl to his right, coming around the face where he could have an angle at anyone trying to attack his man.

The communicator suddenly cracked with an ungodly noise. A submachine gun began firing from the other side of the hill and something exploded upward. Danny pitched up the barrel of his gun, and had already begun firing at the dark shadow above before he realized what was going on.

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” he said.

The crackle over the radio was laughter.

“Buzzards,” Powder was saying. “There’s a fucking nest of vultures on the ledge. Liu toasted three of them, but another got away.”

“I thought he had a marksman badge,” somebody said with a laugh as Danny’s heartbeat returned to normal.

ZEN WAS IN HAWK ONE’S COCKPIT NOW, BARELY twenty feet over the tallest building in downtown Tripoli. He flung himself back toward the outskirts of the capital, feeding live video back to the JSTARS and from there to the SEALS, already en route from the Mediterranean. The route had been carefully chosen, with intricate zigs and zags to avoid defenses; whoever had laid it out had done a damn good job, because he didn’t notice anything deadlier than a water pistol. Nudging his sticks left, Zen put himself on a direct line to the bunker, now less than three miles away.

As critical as the video was for the SEAL team following him in, a good hunk of Jeff’s attention was pasted on the threat indicator in the bottom left visor screen. He was whizzing through green and yellow fingers, ducking an array of radars as he came in. The jammers weren’t set to go on until the SEALs were almost overhead.

A large ring of concrete appeared on his left. A lollipop of a road led to it, lined with tanks and missile launchers.

“SA-6 radar active, attempting to lock,” warned the computer. “Scanning.”

Thirteen seconds to his turn point. He had to crisscross the top of the bunker, catching two air-exchange units with the camera. Then he’d jump to Hawk Two, concentrating on antiair guns at the west end of the complex.

The computer continued to count down the programmed course for him. He took the turn, pushing the throttle for the last ounce of thrust.

Everything was a gray blur, even the bunker facility. He clocked past, noted a set of missiles that hadn’t appeared on the satellite.

“Computer, Hawk Two optical feed in visor,” he said, pushing the computer disengage switch at the stick base as he did. “Computer, take Hawk One on programmed course.”

The images instantly switched, and he saw the world again, as if he’d jumped back in time, not location. A large 57mm gun loomed straight ahead, turning. A row of antiaircraft weapons were arrayed at ten o’clock in the view screen, looking like sewer pipes in a supply yard.

“Team One is inbound. Thirty seconds,” reported Cascade.

The guns started to move.

“Jamming now,” said Raven’s operator.

“They’re firing,” reported Jeff.

Two Navy Prowlers as well as Raven clicked on their fuzzbusters. The interference was so severe the UM/F control computer immediately complained, giving him a red light on the radar altimeter and then warning that it was having trouble maintaining the connection with Hawk One.

“Raven, I need us closer to the Flighthawks,” said Jeff, switching back into Hawk One as Two completed the run of the antiair guns. He flew up the coast, the plane responding well to his controls despite the computer’s admonitions that the signal was degrading.

Somewhere offshore in the JSTARS, the operation coordinators were studying Zen’s feed to make sure they had all of the SAM sites properly targeted. They were like defensive coordinators sitting in the press box during a football game, checking to make sure the blitz they’d called would work.