“That’s how I feel, shit yeah. Doin’ good? Almost got us killed today. Turk had to blow a missile off his back.”

“Almost flew his Hog into the dirt,” said Paulson. “That would have been embarrassing. Dreamland hotshot kicks in the desert because he oversticks his plane.”

Turk was starting not to like Paulson very much, but he tried taking the ribbing good-naturedly. Objecting was the easiest way to guarantee it would continue.

“I have to say, the Hog goes where you point it,” he told the others. “Very nice aircraft.”

“Sure your muscles haven’t atrophied?” asked Paulson.

“I can still make a fist,” said Turk.

“I’m just jokin’ with ya, Captain,” sneered Paulson, getting up and heading toward the bar.

“Do you believe in intervention?” asked Pike.

“I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest,” Turk told her, grateful for the chance to change the subject.

“So what’s the F–40 like?” asked Beast.

“It’s interesting. Some days you forget you’re really in an airplane. It’s real smooth.”

“I don’t think I’d like that,” said Li.

“You get used to it.”

“They blame you for the accident?” asked Beast.

“No. That’s one good thing about all the systems they have in place for monitoring everything. They can see exactly what I did.”

“You think they’ll figure it out?” asked Li. “Soon, I mean.”

“I hope they don’t,” said Ginella, returning to the table after speaking with one of the French fliers. “Because it means we have our friend Turk here for a little bit.”

“You’re staying?” Li asked.

“Well . . .”

“Captain Mako can stay until we have our full complement back,” said Ginella. “As far as I’m concerned, he can stay forever.”

“I’m glad to be here,” said Turk.

The mood lightened as Ginella told a story she’d just heard from the Frenchmen. Turk watched Li, whose expression remained serious the whole time.

The more he watched her, the more beautiful she seemed to become. Her light tan skin was smooth and exotic in the dim light of the club. Her eyes sparkled.

Turk looked away whenever he suspected she was going to turn in his direction. She caught him once and smiled.

He tried to smile back, but he was sure that he must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Paulson returned with a fresh round of drinks. He started bragging about how well he’d done in some Gunsmoke competition a year before. He seemed to be playing to Li, who sipped her drink coolly and avoided looking in his direction.

Turk got up and went over to the window, looking out at the sea. He was starting to feel tired. Everything that had happened over the past few days had worn him down. He decided he ought to find a ride back to his own hotel.

A pair of French pilots came over and introduced themselves. It turned out they’d been nearby when Turk shot down the Mirages, and asked him to recount the engagement. He did so gladly, using his hands to show the different paths the antagonists had taken.

“It was over in less than two minutes,” he said. “I had to be lined up perfectly.”

“He is quite a pilot, isn’t he?” said Ginella, coming over. She threw her hand around his shoulder. “A real ace.”

“Well, not so much an ace,” said Turk.

“You need five planes to be an ace,” said one of the Frenchmen, citing the traditional tally for the honor.

His companion mentioned Célestin Adolphe Pégoud, the French World War One pilot who had first earned the title. Turk confessed that while he had heard of the pilot, he didn’t know much about him. The other man described him as an early test pilot—Pégoud had looped a Blériot monoplane before the war, by legend and common agreement the first man to do so.

As the Frenchmen spoke of some other early aces, Turk realized that Ginella’s hand was lingering on his back. It felt warm, and reassuring.

And sexual, though she didn’t do anything suggestive.

Eventually, the French pilots excused themselves, saying they had an early op. Turk turned to Ginella, whose hand was still on his back.

He hesitated a moment, not exactly sure what to do.

She leaned in and kissed him.

Her lips were lush, much warmer and more moist than he would have imagined. She pressed him gently toward her, her right hand coming up on his side.

He moved his lips to hers, tilting his head to meet hers. He felt her tongue against his teeth and opened his mouth to accept it.

A small part of his brain objected—he would have much preferred kissing Li—but every other cell in his body urged him on. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sweetness of the moment. It had been a long time since he’d had a kiss this passionate.

Finally, Ginella started to move back. Turk did as well, sliding his hands down. She caught them, gripping tightly.

“Problem, Captain?”

“Um, uh, no. No. Not at all.” He glanced behind her. The rest of the squadron had left. In fact, that bar was empty except for the two of them and the bartender.

“Maybe we should continue this upstairs,” she suggested.

“Well, I—”

“Sshhh.” She put her fingers on his lips. “Nothing.”

“Well.”

He was truly undecided. He wanted to go to bed with her, without a doubt. But there were reasons not to.

Like?

They didn’t quite compute at the moment.

“Come on,” she told him.

Turk opened his mouth to say yes, but before he could get a word out, she leaned in and kissed him again.

7

Sicily

The video was very poor quality, and expanding it to fill the fifty-five-inch screen in Zongchen’s conference room further distorted it. But it wouldn’t have been very pretty to look at under any circumstance.

Zen shook his head as the video continued, the camera running with the mob after the Osprey. He saw a glimpse of his wheelchair heading for the aircraft, then saw only the backs of heads and finally the ground. The last shot was the Osprey in the distance.

“They showed us,” said Zen sarcastically. The two men were alone; except for an aide watching the phones, the rest of the staff had quit for the night.

“My government has filed a protest,” said Zongchen. The Chinese general wore a deep frown. “This has been a great disgrace.”

“We should have expected it,” said Zen.

“We were assured complete security,” said Zongchen.

Zen kept his answer to himself. The general was a military man, with high standards and expectations. Like military professionals the world over, he placed a great deal on personal integrity and honor.

Noble assets certainly, traits that Zen shared, and traits one could depend on in the military world, and often in the world at large.

But the world of politics—geopolitics included—was different. Lofty values often held you back. Zen had learned the hard way that the knife in the back from a friend was more common than the frontal assault from an enemy.

“We will pursue our investigation,” said Zongchen. “We will continue.”

“Good.”

“The explanations of how the system works have been most useful,” Zongchen added, nodding to Zen. “We appreciate your candor.”

“And your discretion.” True to his word, Zongchen had not pressed for the technical aspects of the system. Given the animosity between China and the United States, they were working together remarkably well. Part of it was certainly personal—the two old pilots respected each other—but perhaps it was an indication that the two great powers in the world, one young, one not quite so young, might find a way to cooperate going forward.