“What’s going on?” asked Danny, following.

“Iranians. Bree’s got something up her sleeve. Help me.”

Parsons slipped as the C-17 dipped. Danny caught him, holding him upright against the second Osprey.

“We need to get into number two,” said Greasy Hands. He pushed upright and ran to the aircraft nearest the tail. The chief twisted past the retaining strap and squeezed into the cockpit, pushing down into the pilot’s seat.

There were two problems with Breanna’s idea. The Ospreys were transported with their wings folded up over the body, extending toward and over the front of the aircraft. That made it difficult to see through the windscreen. But they wouldn’t have much room to aim anyway; the best strategy would be to fire straight back, hoping to catch the Iranian plane by surprise.

The second problem was more formidable. The computer initiated a systems lockdown when the aircraft was in transport mode. There was a software override, but Greasy Hands had no time to initiate it. Instead, he ducked under the panel and pulled out the master power feed, killing the computer entirely.

“I gotta get power into this panel to get the gun working,” he told Danny. It was a shortcut they’d often used while checking the mechanical systems, but it would still take time to implement. “Tell Bree it’s gonna be a few minutes. She’s gonna have to move in front of the Sukhoi when she wants to fire. She’s aiming. And tell the loadmaster not to open the ramp until I say so.”

“You’re opening the ramp?” said Danny.

“Well I sure as hell ain’t gonna fire through the door,” said Greasy Hands, trying to picture the wiring diagram in his head.

BREANNA TOOK THE TURN AS SLOWLY AS SHE COULD, LETTING the MC-17 drift downward and to the west, edging closer to the border. The F-15s tried another hail but weren’t answered.

The Iranian on her right wing pulled a little closer. She used that as an excuse to duck off to the left.

“Whoa, don’t get so close!” she shouted over the open microphone. “You’re going to hit us!”

“Get back on course,” said the pilot behind her.

“Get that guy off my wing. I can’t fly! I can’t fly!” She put as much panic into her voice as possible.

“Calm down, Yankee.”

“Get him to move off. Please. Please!”

The Sukhoi started away. Breanna checked her watch. The Eagles were about five minutes away. She was a little more than three from the border.

She cut her power again.

“No games!” said the Iranian behind her. He punctuated his message with a few rounds from his cannon. They passed overhead and to her right.

“We’re ready!” said Danny over the interphone. He’d grabbed a headset downstairs.

“Open the hatch, and hang on. I have to dip low—you’ll have about two seconds to nail the son of a bitch.”

“Go for it!”

“Crew, hang on,” said Breanna.

A light on her panel came on, indicating the rear ramp was opening.

“One thousand one, one thousand two—now!” said Breanna. She shoved the aircraft downward, its tail directly in the nose of the Sukhoi.

“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” YELLED DANNY, WHO WAS STANDING ON the skid on the right side of the Osprey, his arms clamped around the spar. He could see the nose of an Iranian plane less than fifty feet away.

Greasy Hands pressed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“Fire!”

Greasy Hands cursed, then slammed his hand on the yoke button. Bullets sputtered from the chin of Osprey, streaming from the belly of the big cargo plane.

The pilot in the Sukhoi couldn’t understand what was happening as the plane swooped and its tail opened. He thought the American might be bailing out. As he started to correct to get back on the MC-17’s wing, tracers flew through the air at him. He pushed hard to his right, tumbling away.

“Flares!” yelled Breanna, slamming the throttle to military power. “Button up down there and hang on!”

She pushed the MC-17 hard left, sliding into a turn toward the Iraqi border. The aircraft fell through the sky, skidding in the air. It wasn’t designed for high g evasive maneuvers like a fighter was; it shuddered and creaked and complained, whining about the forces trying to tear its wings apart.

But it held together nonetheless.

The Iranian pilots circled around to follow. But the surprise gunfire from the rear of their aircraft had thrown them off, and they hesitated before pressing an attack.

Just for a few seconds.

“Missiles in the air!” yelled Frederick, his voice drowning out the alarm from the launch warning indicator. “Heat seekers! Two! Three!”

“More flares,” said Breanna calmly.

The decoy flares shot out around the plane, sucking away the missiles as Breanna pitched the MC-17 into a half turn, feinting north again but pulling back toward Iraq.

“More missiles!”

“Flares.”

The big plane shook and started to drop as Breanna tried a hard jink to the right. The plane began to stall—it simply couldn’t do what she wanted and stay in the air.

Breanna eased back on the controls, dipping the nose slightly to gain a little more speed. The first missile sniffed the decoys and exploded behind them.

The second hit the outboard right engine.

The plane quaked. Breanna felt the shake run up through her hand and into her spine.

She knew exactly how this felt. She’d felt it before, over India, flying an EB-52.

That time, there had been multiple hits. She’d wrestled the plane out over the ocean where they could be rescued.

She’d also been in an EB-52, built to deal with serious abuse. Not a C-17, which generally didn’t encounter anything nastier than a bird strike.

“Going through two thousand feet!” said Frederick.

They were falling.

“Fifteen hundred feet!”

“Help me with the engines,” Breanna told him.

They shut down engine four, trying to compensate by trimming their controls and adjusting the other engines.

“We need more altitude,” warned Frederick.

The F-15s, meanwhile, were coming in range of their AMRAAMs. The Iranians changed course north, trying to get away.

“Globemaster, do you require assistance?” asked the lead F-15 pilot.

“Chase them away. We’ll take care of the rest,” said Breanna.

“Coming through fourteen hundred feet,” said Fredericks, “going to—going to fifteen hundred feet.”

They were climbing. They had it under control.

“Let’s bring it up to three thousand and hold it there,” said Breanna. “Until we catch our breath.”

83

Washington, D.C.

Three days later

SENATOR JEFFREY “ZEN” STOCKARD ROLLED HIS WHEELCHAIR forward as the C-20 taxied up the ramp, lights twinkling in the dim evening haze. The aircraft stopped less than ten yards away; a moment later the forward doorway opened and the stairs popped down.

“Mama, Mama!” cried Teri Stockard, running from her father’s side as Breanna appeared in the doorway.

Teri caught her at the foot of the steps, wrapping her in a bear hug.

“Hey, love, I’m so glad to see you,” Breanna said, returning the hug. “I missed you so much.”

“I’m sorry,” said Teri. Tears were falling from her eyes.

“What are you sorry about?”

“That I yelled at you.”

“It’s OK, baby.” Breanna pulled her closer. “I’m sorry I missed your show. But I promise I’ll be at the next one.”

“It’s OK if you’re not. I understand.”

“Hey there, little girl.”

“Uncle Danny!” Teri hugged him.

“I owe you some bedtime stories, huh?” he said.

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll see you soon.”

The rest of the Whiplash team smiled as they passed by. None of them were married, and their closest family members lived many miles away.