“Come now,” said his uncle.

Amara got out of the car and waited as the other man retrieved his bag. The driver closed the trunk, nodded, then left.

They descended a long flight of stairs to Penn Station. Two National Guardsmen in battle dress were standing against the wall, M4s ready.

Amara wondered if they had ever used them in battle. Neither man had the hard glance that he associated with tested warriors.

His uncle led him down the long hall of shops, past stores and stalls. Amara’s nose was assaulted from every direction; his stomach began to call for food.

They stopped in a crowd of people. His uncle turned toward a large board with the names and numbers of trains.

“We’re just in time,” he told Amara, reaching into his pocket. “Here is your ticket. Your track is at the end of the hall. Take the elevator on the right. Number twelve. Go.”

Amara made his way to the train, an Amtrak Acela bound for Washington, D.C. He settled into a seat and tried to relax as the train pulled out of the station, running through the long tunnel to New Jersey. Within a half hour he had dozed off, exhausted by the travel.

He saw Li Han’s face in his dreams. It was exactly as he had seen him in Sudan: a mixture of sneering and respect, kindness mixed with disdain.

In the dream, Li Han began lecturing him about how to fly the UAV. Amara tried to pay attention, but there was one major distraction—the hole in the middle of Li Han’s skull where he’d shot him.

Somewhere in Delaware a conductor shook Amara awake.

“Did you have to get off at this next stop?” asked the man.

Amara jerked upright in his seat. He looked around—he wasn’t sure where he was.

“Do you have your ticket?” asked the conductor.

Amara pulled it from his pocket.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the conductor, examining it. “You’re Union Station. All the way in D.C. I apologize. I must have gotten you confused with someone else.”

He handed the ticket back. As he took it, Amara realized that he’d been given two tickets.

A message.

He glanced up at the man. He was almost white: Iranian, Amara would guess, or perhaps Iraqi.

There was a phone number on the second ticket. Amara understood he was to call that number when he arrived at Union Station. He tucked it into his pocket, then leaned against the side of the train, hoping to fall back asleep.

Chapter 8

Sudan Base 1

Five miles southwest of Duka

Melissa pulled out her satellite phone as soon as the repaired Osprey reached the new operating base Danny had set up southwest of Duka. She was well overdue to check in.

It was still early. Harker might be sleeping.

It would serve him right.

“What?” her boss said gruffly, answering the phone.

“This is Ilse. The flight computer is not in Duka.”

“No kidding.”

“Our best bet is that it’s south in the mountains, with the Sudan Brotherhood. One of their members left the city, probably after killing Mao Man.”

“You told me that yesterday, Melissa. This is old information.”

“We need permission to search the camp. Can we?”

“That’s not up to me. You’re sure it’s not in Duka?”

“We’ve looked everywhere, believe me.”

“And it wasn’t at the crash site?”

“God, what do you think? I’m a fool? You do.”

“You have to watch these Whiplash people,” said Harker. “They’re trying to screw us.”

“How so?”

“There’s all sorts of political bullshit back here. You’re sure it’s not in Duka?”

“I’m sure.”

“Did you personally check every one of the hiding places? Or did Whiplash?”

“Personally?”

“You heard me. Did you?”

Screw you, thought Melissa, hanging up.

Danny patted the repaired engine cover of the Osprey. Dented and crumpled, the skin looked like a piece of paper that had been wadded up and then pressed flat. But it was tougher than it looked—the whole aircraft was. Despite its shaky early history, the Osprey had proved its worth in countless high-risk situations, and not just for Whiplash.

“She’s good for another ten thousand miles,” said one of the pilots, admiring the aircraft from the other side of the wing. “I was thinking maybe I’d dent up the other engine housing so they look like a matched set.”

“Probably not a good idea,” laughed Danny. He pointed to the crew chief and the two maintainers who’d been flown in to help put the aircraft back together. “Those guys might give you grief.”

Pretending to notice them for the first time, the pilot spread out his arms and bowed to them. It was a joke, of course, but it reminded Danny of a truism he’d learned back at Dreamland—you did not want to mess with the men and women who maintained the aircraft.

Nor underestimate them. These aircraft sergeants—both were men, and both tech sergeants—had been personally selected by Chief Master Sergeant Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons, who, though retired, arguably knew more about every operational aircraft in the Air Force inventory than any man or computer. Parsons was always going on about how good a job his people and the Air Force technical grunts in general were; it would have been bragging if it weren’t true.

“Colonel, this aircraft will take you to hell and back,” said one of the sergeants. “But I have to say, sir, your choice in pilots leaves quite a bit to be desired.”

Even the pilot laughed.

Danny walked over to the combination mess/command tent, thinking this might be a good moment to catch a brief nap.

Melissa met him just inside. Her eyelids drooped; she had what looked like thick welts under both eyes.

“When are you going to the Brotherhood camp?” she asked.

“I don’t know for certain that we are,” said Danny. “But it’ll be tonight at the earliest.”

“I’m going with you.”

“All right.”

“You’re agreeing?”

“Yeah. I need all the help I can get.”

“Oh.” Her body seemed to deflate. Danny sensed that she had been prepared to argue with him. But he saw no reason to keep her away; she’d proven herself. And it was at least still partly her mission. “Good.”

“The Sudanese army is escorting a bunch of ambulances and relief workers to Duka,” he told her. “They should be there inside an hour.”

“Oh?”

“Your friend Bloom arranged it. She’s going with them. She is a spy, huh?”

“Used to be.”

Danny nodded.

“You oughta get some rest,” he told her.

“Yeah,” she said. “I should.”

Chapter 9

Ethiopia

Milos Kimko woke on the cot, his head pounding as if he had a hangover. He had no idea where he was, but he could tell from just the smell that he wasn’t in Sudan anymore. The aroma in his nose was less meaty, drier.

He forced his eyes to focus. He was in a canvas tent. He started to get up, only to find that his hands and legs were shackled together.

“You’re awake,” said a voice in Russian behind him.

Kimko leaned over on the cot. A man dressed in a pair of nondescript green fatigues stood near the flap door. There was another man with a rifle behind him.

“What?” said Kimko.

“Do you prefer English or Russian?” asked the man, still in Russian. He was short, though he had a muscular build.

“Your Russian is atrocious,” snapped Kimko. It was an exaggeration—the words were certainly right if a little formal, though his pronunciation could use a little work. But Kimko did not want to give the man the satisfaction.