Turk shrugged. “Sure.”

Back at the Tigershark and Sabre hangars, Turk discovered that the guard had been doubled. The men were visibly tense, and not only asked for his ID card but examined it carefully.

“Hey, Billy, what’s up with all this?” Turk asked one of the security people he’d grown friendly with.

“Big honchos from D.C. are tearing apart the airplane,” said the sergeant. “How you holding up, Cap?”

“I’m good. What honchos?”

“Pinhead types.” The sergeant shrugged.

“Dr. Rubeo?”

“Couldn’t tell you. They drove up in a couple of SUVs, had attaché cases—kinda like the Men in Black movie. You ever see that?”

“Not in a long time.”

“We’re not supposed to go inside even because of the security.”

“No shit?”

The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they think we’ll see that it’s put together with rubber bands.”

“It’s actually paper clips,” said Turk.

Inside AC–84a, the Tigershark had been stripped of much of the top of her skin. A large scaffolding ladder sat over her nose, and two mobile platforms extended over her wings. Several other ladders, ranging from four to sixteen feet, were arrayed next to various parts of the aircraft.

Gear was spread all around her. Men dressed in white suits dotted the aircraft. They looked like surgeons. Several others, wearing blue suits similar to the scrubs a hospital surgical team would use, manned a portable computer and other sensor screens at three different workbenches set up on the far side of the plane.

Another group of men and women were standing at the side of the hangar behind a velvet rope, as if the Tigershark were a nightclub and they were waiting to get in.

“Captain Mako,” said Ray Rubeo, walking over to him from behind the plane. He was wearing blue scrubs. “What can we do for you?”

“I just thought I’d see if the Tigershark was ready to fly.”

“It will be a few days,” said Rubeo. “I’m sorry, Captain. As I told the investigators this morning, this has nothing to do with you, or anything you did.”

“Thanks for that,” said Turk.

Rubeo stared at him.

“I just wanted to make sure the plane is OK,” said Turk.

“So do we,” said Rubeo.

“What do you think happened?”

Rubeo sighed. It was a loud sigh—Turk had heard it described by Breanna and others as a horse sigh.

“I cannot speculate,” said the scientist. “Even if I was given to speculation, which I am not, in this case, I simply can’t.”

“You think it was the Tigershark?”

“It must be ruled out.”

“Guess I’ll go take a nap,” he told Rubeo.

Turk wasn’t about to take a nap, though in truth he wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. He headed toward the headquarters building, thinking he might at least check in with the duty officer and see if there was an assignment he could rouse up. If not, maybe he would follow Ginella’s suggestion and check out some of Italy. She made it sound pretty alluring.

Maybe a nice tour of the country would divert him. Even better, maybe he’d find a nice Italian girl, one who’d whisper some sort of Italian come-on in his ear.

Ciao. Bene.

He was nearly at the building when he was flagged down by one of General Talekson’s aides. Talekson, an RAF officer, headed operations for the coalition; he was giving a briefing to the squadron leaders and wanted to know if Turk could detail his encounter with the four Mirages.

“Be glad to,” said Turk, happy to finally have something to do.

The session had already started by the time they got there. The general sat at the front of the large conference room, frowning. An RAF major on his staff—the intel officer, whom Turk had met only once—was giving an overall situation report. He flailed at a map projected on the large screen in front of him, waving his laser pointer around as he spoke of the government concentrations. The rebellion had started in the area of Benghazi, northern Libya, and slowly spread west and south. The government forces had done a good job moving their equipment down, and clearly had more of it ready to use than had been suspected.

“The airfields marked A3, A6, A7, and A8 have been hit this morning,” said the major. He used the laser pointer in his hand in a highly impressionistic way, barely pausing at the spots he referred to. A3 was the airfield at Ghat, where the Mirages had launched from the day before.

“The fields are only marginally usable. This is a double-edge sword,” added the major. “It means we will be delayed from making them usable when the rebels take them over.”

“Quite,” said the general.

The intelligence officer continued, saying that he didn’t believe the government could launch any more aircraft, as they were only in possession of two more airfields, neither of which was long enough for the fighters still in their possession. Nonetheless, the allies would have to be mindful, as he put it. The Libyan government still had upward of eighty fighters.

“Most are obsolete Mirages and older MiG–23s, –25s, and –27s,” said the general, interrupting. “But there are MiG–29s, and we have heard rumors of at least six Sukhoi Su–35s. We have not located them. Which frankly is more than a little worrisome. If they exist.”

The intel major smirked, and a few of the squadron leaders did as well. Clearly, they didn’t think the planes would materialize.

The general looked over at Turk.

“Captain Mako is here. Perhaps he can tell us about the Mirages he encountered.”

“Glad to.” Turk glanced around. “I don’t have the gun video—I’m kinda doing this off the top of my head. But there really wasn’t much to it, I guess.”

He ran through the encounter. It seemed pretty simple now that he recounted it.

Line ’em up and shoot ’em down.

Turk didn’t say that, but he certainly thought it. The squadron leaders asked about his aircraft and the weapon. The questions were mostly technical: how much was automated, how far away was he when the engagement began and ended. But one, from a German oberst, or colonel, completely surprised him.

“What did you feel when you shot the planes down?” asked the Luftwaffe commander.

“I don’t know that I felt anything,” said Turk truthfully. “I just, you know, went with my training.”

“Ah.” The officer was a member of Jagdgeshwader 73, the 73rd fighter wing, and headed a four-ship group of Eurofighters. The fighters had not yet been in combat. “So you feel nothing?”

“I just, uh, just didn’t think about it really.”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, Turk thought that it was the wrong thing to say. Everyone seemed to stare at him.

He felt . . . good about getting the kills. He felt triumphant. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to feel? It was a win—a big one, four of them in fact. And each one of those bastards was trying to kill him.

Damn, of course he felt good. What else was he supposed to feel?

Bad because he’d won? That made no sense.

And then the Sabre had gone off course. How did he feel about that?

That was the real question, and the truth was, he couldn’t really answer.

It was terrible that the plane had gone off course and struck the wrong target. He felt bad that people had died. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

And there was a limit to how much he could feel. He didn’t cry or get sick or anything like that. Was that what was supposed to happen?

He certainly didn’t feel guilty—he hadn’t been responsible. Truly, it wasn’t his fault.

So he felt bad, but clearly not bad enough, as far as anyone seemed to think he should.

The briefing continued. Turk felt out of place, but it seemed too awkward to leave. The commanders recounted some of the basic protocols, some of the SAR arrangements in case things went wrong, and reiterated the need to call in for permission to blow your nose . . .