“Need some O2?” asked one of the guards at the hangar. Pure oxygen was a common cure for a hangover among flight crews.

Turk shook his head and went inside. He found Ratha and one of the lead engineers fussing over a pot of coffee at the side bench.

“Sorry I’m late,” he told them.

Ratha shook his head. “It’s just static tests anyway.”

Turk rushed to get into his gear. The Tigershark had been mostly placed back together. His job was to run the controls in a flight simulation mode while the technical people ran a bunch of tests on the interfaces with the Sabres. It was very routine, but it got his mind off the night before.

Some two hours of tests later, the engineers decided they had enough data and helped Turk from the cockpit.

“Figure it out?” he asked.

Ratha just shook his head. He didn’t look particularly pleased.

“Just the man I’m looking for,” said Danny Freah, coming into the hangar. “How are you, Turk?”

“I’m good, Colonel. Yourself?”

“Fine. Step into my office here a second.” Freah motioned him to the side. Turk followed, bracing himself for questions about Ginella.

Deny, deny, deny, whispered a little voice.

Why? He’d done nothing wrong. It was Ginella who would get in trouble, if anyone was going to get in trouble.

Right.

“I heard you did really well yesterday with the A–10s,” said Danny.

“Um, yeah.”

“You really made an impression on Colonel Ginella,” said Danny. “She was singing your praises this morning.”

Turk felt himself flush.

“It was good of you to step up,” said Danny.

“Thanks, I—”

“Colonel Ginella says you rate higher than most if not her whole squadron. She wants as much of you as she can get.”

Turk struggled to find his tongue.

“Hard getting used to the Warthog after flying the Tigershark?” asked Danny.

“Just about night and day,” said Turk.

Danny nodded. “You look like you had a rough night. You all right?”

“Oh, just a little . . . pilot stuff.”

“All done here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Don’t get in any trouble, you hear?” Danny chucked his shoulder, then walked away.

The engineers told Turk he wouldn’t be needed now for several days. He got changed and caught the bus over to the cafeteria to get some lunch. But once inside the serving area, he decided he wasn’t particularly hungry, a decision reinforced by hearing laughter in the seating area that sounded very much like some members of Shooter Squadron. He grabbed two large bottles of water and went back out the way he came.

A small field sat across the road at the back of the building. There were some picnic tables there. He walked over and sat on the top of a table—the benches themselves had inexplicably disappeared. He took a long pull from the water bottle, then leaned back, arms behind him, inhaling and exhaling in long, deep breaths.

A flight of Eurofighters took off with a loud rush, roaring into the air. Turk watched their bodies glow silver as they climbed, melting into a white light as they turned in the sky. Rising into the mid-morning sun, they turned black, vanishing into tiny daggers as they turned once more, this time toward Africa.

As the sound of the jet engines faded, he gradually became aware of the shouts of children. Remembering his soccer game the other day, he got up off the table, hopped the short fence, and walked in that direction.

The day care building was on the other side of the road, just beyond a low-slung barracks type building that was temporarily unused. The shouts were coming from a small group playing tag in the corner of the yard. Turk watched them for a few seconds, deciphering the rules, which seemed unusually free-flowing.

“You have children yourself?”

The woman’s voice startled him. Turk turned abruptly and saw Captain Li Pike, the Warthog pilot from Shooter Squadron. In her arms was a cardboard box so big her chin barely rose above it.

“No, I don’t have any kids,” said Turk. “You?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh.”

He took that to mean that she was married, but when he glanced at her hand, she didn’t have a ring.

“When my career gets under control,” Li added. “Then maybe we’ll see.”

“What’s your husband think?”

“I’m not married.”

“Boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend. No time yet. Like I said, when my career gets under control.”

“Makes sense.”

She smiled, and he felt like a fool—it was the sort of indulgent smile you gave a simpleton.

“What’s with the box?” he asked.

“Oh, we took up a little collection and got the kids a few puzzles and games,” said Li. “It was the colonel’s suggestion. They’re on a limited budget.”

“Really?”

“The shelves are kind of bare. They gave us a tour the first day—I think they saw women in the squadron and thought that’s what we would be interested in. Italians.”

Her smile was so beautiful it was almost a weapon.

“Let me help you with the box,” he told her.

“Oh, it’s not heavy.”

Turk took it anyway, then followed her around to the side of the building. There was no one at the door or in the hallway; they went along to the first classroom. Li knocked tentatively, then inched in.

Some of the children spotted her peeking in and began to laugh. She pushed the door open wide, greeting the teacher and explaining, in English, that they had brought the things they had promised the other day. The colonel, she added, was sorry that she couldn’t come herself.

The teacher’s English was limited and heavily accented, but she greeted Li warmly, and told the children in Italian that the American pilots had brought them some presents. Turk, meanwhile, went over to a table near the front and put the box down.

“Il Americano!” said one of the children, running over. Within seconds Turk found himself surrounded by the soccer players, who were chattering in Italian.

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” he told the boys.

“We will play,” said one of the children. “Football.”

“Soccer,” said Turk.

“They were playing football with you the day two ago,” said the teacher. “You are good, no?”

“No,” said Turk. “They are very good.”

“They want to play with you now. It is almost time for their, how do you say?”

“Game?”

“Yes, game. That is a good word.”

Turk glanced at Li, who stood with her arms folded, a bemused expression on her face.

“You gonna play?” he asked her.

“I have work, Captain. I’m the maintenance officer. I’ll see you later.”

“Sure.”

The boys had retrieved three soccer balls and were already urging him toward the door.

“Just a little while,” he told them. “Five minutes.”

“Cinque minuti,” said the teacher. “Cinque. Solamente.”

“What she said,” Turk told them. “Exactly.”

9

Sicily

The pilot Kharon normally used to get back and forth in Libya didn’t respond to his messages, and not wanting to wait, he booked on a commercial flight to Sicily, flying on Tunis Air, which was doing a booming business ferrying people in and out of the country. Kharon’s final destination was on the east coast, near Catania, but getting a flight there involved no less than three transfers. Renting a car and driving from Palermo made more sense and gave him greater flexibility. It also meant he would be able to arrive armed.

He had determined that Rubeo was at the base by following the movements of his private company plane, whose registration was public. He wasn’t yet sure where the scientist was staying—there were a half-dozen likely possibilities—but that was a solvable problem.