The detector had spotted the radar associated with the mobile missile launchers, and gave an approximate direction—south, just off the nose of Shooter Three. The radar had been switched on and off quickly—most likely to avoid being detected.

Turk hunted for the launcher, zooming the optical sensors. The center crosshair hovered over a gray and very empty desert.

“I see it,” said Beast. He pushed his nose ten degrees east, cutting in Turk’s direction as he gave him the location. Turk, nearly two miles behind Beast and a little higher, couldn’t see it.

“Two launchers. One up farther east just getting into position,” said Beast. “I’ll take the one with the van—Turk, take the missiles.”

“Roger that.”

Turk didn’t see the truck. In the Tigershark it would be labeled neatly for him, and the computer would prompt him if directed. But adapting wasn’t a hardship—he took his cue from Beast’s course and pushed toward the closer target.

He’d rehearsed the weapons procedures several times before taking off, and had of course used them many times during his earlier stint testing the A–10E. But as he closed in and got ready to pickle his weapons, his mind blanked. Fingers hovering over the buttons that controlled the Tactical Awareness Display, he momentarily couldn’t recall how to set it up.

Just like the A–10C. Slew the target by using the control on the throttle.

The cursor started moving. He edged it into position, “hooking” or zeroing in on the tanklike launcher on the ground.

Digital Weapons Stores. Move quickly. Let’s go!

He brought up the screen on the display. Turk felt the sweat pouring down the sides of his neck. His hands were wet and sticky inside his gloves. He thought of taking them off but there was no time. Time in fact was disappearing, galloping away.

The firing cue was rock solid in the HUD.

Big breath, he reminded himself. Big, slow, very slow, breath.

Someone on the ground was firing at him with a machine gun. He could see tracers.

Far away. Ignore them.

Both the cue and the launcher seemed to shrink.

Shoot the bastard.

The target was dead on in his sights. Turk pressed the trigger, pickling an AGM–65E2/L laser-guided Maverick missile.

The missile popped off the A–10E’s wing. The infrared seeker on the missile homed in on the laser target designated by the A–10. A little under four seconds later, 136 pounds of shaped explosive burrowed through the body of the middle SA–6, igniting inside the chassis of the launcher. A ball of fire leapt skyward. Turk shuddered involuntarily, banking to his right and starting to look for whatever had been firing at him earlier.

“There’s another radar unit flashing on to the south,” said Beast. “Straight Flush. Has to be pretty close.”

The Straight Flush radar was used to control the SA–6s. Turk pulled back on his stick and started to climb in Shooter Three’s direction, covering his back while he hunted for the radar.

The radar flicked off.

Beast cursed.

“Still there somewhere,” said Turk.

“They have an optical mode. Be careful.”

The surface-to-air missiles could be launched and guided by camera. In that case the range was some eighteen miles.

“Gotta be down there behind that hill,” said Beast. “On the right. See it?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Probably just the radar. But watch yourself. We’ll swing in from the south,” added Beast, already starting to bank. He didn’t want to come straight over the hill; if there was a launcher set up in its shadow, it could fire before he saw it.

Turk closed the gap with his leader as he came around north with him. A cluster of houses appeared off his right wing as he turned.

A lump grew in his throat.

“Oh yeah. I see him,” said Beast. “All mine.”

By the time Turk spotted the launcher, Beast had already fired. Turk watched the missile hit, a geyser of smoke, vapor, and pulverized metal erupting upward. A half second later there was a flash of white and then orange, then little flicks of red in a black cloud that seemed to materialize above the launcher.

“Scratch one SA–6 launcher,” said Beast, recovering to the west. “You want to get that radar van?”

“I see it on my left,” said Turk, finally spotting the telltale antennas.

“All yours.”

Turk steered gently to his mark, fired on the truck, then came back to join Beast. The A–10E trucked along contentedly.

“Let’s do a racetrack here,” said Beast, suggesting that they circle in an orbit above the desert. “Come up to twelve thousand.”

They were at 5,000 feet. The climb to twelve in a laden A–10A could take a while, but with the uprated engines it was easy for the A–10E. Turk spun upward while Beast called in the kills to both the controller and Ginella, who was still working with her wingman on the tanks.

Ginella and Paulson had discovered another group of tanks just to the south. She told Beast to stand by while they went and checked them out.

“We can be down there in a flash,” said Beast.

“Just hold your horses. You’ve done enough for now.”

“Got plenty of arrows left.”

“Stand by.”

“Roger that, boss lady.”

Beast was now in an almost jaunty mood, his tone much more animated. The strike on the radar and missiles had been his first ever hits in combat. He called out the altitude markers as they rose, clearly enjoying himself.

“So did this feel as good as taking down those Mirages the other day?” he asked as they circled.

“It was OK.”

“Just OK? I’d think better than this even.”

“This was good. Doing a job. I’m a little unfamiliar with the plane,” admitted Turk. “I kept thinking I was going to screw up the weapons system. So it was good to kind of get past that.”

“Just about foolproof,” said Beast. “But I bet it’s easier in your Tiger, huh?”

“The Tigershark can target by voice,” said Turk. “Or by pointing.”

“See, that’s not flying.” Beast was almost gleeful. “That’s push button. Don’t even need a pilot. This is flying. This is fighting. Right?”

“They’re both good.”

Traffic on the channel spiked as another group of aircraft came nearby. Beast switched over to a different radio channel so they could talk plane-to-plane. The Hog pilots spun out a little wider to survey the area, making sure there were no further threats. Everything looked clean.

“I’ll bet those Frenchies we met yesterday are eating their hearts out about now,” said Beast. “We just made the skies safe for them.”

“So I guess we’re out of the doghouse, huh?”

“Oh, that’s the thing with G. Her bark is worse than her bite. You take care of business, she’ll give you a long leash.”

“She was right. We kinda got carried away.”

“Ah, don’t let her fool you. I bet she was pleased as hell. Hearing that a pair of zipped-do-my-dah fancy French whiz jets got their fannies smacked by two of the ugliest planes in the Air Force? She loved it. Especially since one of ’em was flown by a nugget and the other by a retard? Ha.”

“I guess I should be glad I’m not the retard, huh?”

“Oh, you’ll like G eventually,” said Beast, laughing. “She’s a good leader.”

A few minutes later Ginella hailed them on the main squadron frequency, telling them to come north.

“All tanks splashed,” she added.

“We still got some missiles here,” said Beast. “What do you want us to do with them?”

“Oh, I have something you could do with them,” answered Paulson.

“Settle down, munchkins.” Ginella called into their airborne controller, telling him that they had accomplished their task.

“If you have nothing for us, we’re going to fly the prebriefed course home,” she told him. “And per our brief, we’ll strike any—”

“Standby Shooter One. Standby,” interrupted the controller.

“That’s a good sign,” said Beast. “He’s looking up some trouble for us in a hurry.”