“I don’t know about that,” replied Turk.

“Probably replace us with laser jets, if not.”

Both ideas were actually plausible. A few years before, that would have sounded like science fiction or maybe fantasy. But there were in fact plans to replace the A–10 squadrons with airborne laser planes. The aircraft, modified from civilian airliners and housing high-energy weapons, could fly at a safe distance and altitude yet make attacks with pinpoint precision. It was almost guaranteed that a fleet of the laser jets, as they were called, would replace the Air Force’s small force of AC–130s in the next eighteen months.

“I think there’s a real need for people in the loop,” said Turk. “But, I don’t know.”

“I hear ya.”

“Everything’s going in the other direction,” said Turk.

“You’re part of it though, right? You’re playing with those little dart jets? Pretty soon they won’t need you either.”

Grizzly was absolutely right. He didn’t answer, though—because of his position, what would have been interpreted as a casual remark by any other person could be seen as a breach of security if he said it.

Maybe the accident would turn things back in the other direction. But it could just as easily be used as an argument against keeping a man in the loop—his being there, or being close, hadn’t stopped the Sabre from making the mistake.

The accident had grounded the Sabres, but not the rest of the UAV fleet. That in itself was statement of how important they were. Right now at least three were operating in the rescue area. Two provided a continuous infrared picture of the ground to the controllers and the team hunting for the pilot. The other was sniffing for his radio and signal beacon.

With a full belly—or more accurately, wing tanks—of fuel, Turk followed Grizzly in a loose trail south as the sun tiptoed toward the horizon. As the light strengthened, he removed the night goggles and left the augmented visor retracted, preferring to see the sky and aircraft as they truly were.

He had plenty of fuel, but this mission couldn’t go on forever. Eventually, the pilots’ fatigue would build to the point where they simply couldn’t trust themselves. To use one of the more formal terms and measures, situational awareness would degrade severely.

That was a problem one never had with computers.

“Shooter One, this is Three,” radioed Grizzly.

“One.”

“We’re about thirty minutes away. Anything?”

“Negative. Still on hold.”

“What do you want to do, G?”

“We’ll go tank when you’re here,” she told Grizzly. “Play it by ear from then.”

“Understood.”

“How’s your wingman?”

“Still there every time I turn around.”

“Four?” Ginella asked.

“Shooter Four is good,” said Turk.

“A little boring for you?” asked Ginella. Her voice had a hint—but only just a hint—of the more familiar tone she used when they were alone.

“I’ll survive.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“We covering the pickup of the search units?” Grizzly asked.

“Not sure yet,” answered Ginella. “Pickup has been delayed.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Just saying.”

The four Hogs joined up, flying in a large circular pattern above the desert. Ginella rebriefed Grizzly on contact frequencies and some of their protocols—all things Grizzly already knew. But he didn’t complain.

“We’ll be up and back as quickly as we can,” she told them. “There’s a flight of F–16s north for backup.”

“Roger that. Have a good trip.”

But before Ginella could check in with the controller, he radioed to tell them there was a flight of Blackhawk helicopters inbound. The IDs on the choppers belonged to the units tasked for the pilot’s rescue pickup.

“Groundhog has located the beacon,” explained the controller. “Stand by to cover a pickup.”

“In that case, we’ll hang down here,” Ginella told her squadron. “We have plenty of fuel for now.”

The A–10Es were vectored southwest, near a small settlement at the edge of a long, open square of desert. They waited until the helicopters were about five minutes away before going down to take a look; they didn’t want to call attention to their presence until absolutely necessary.

Ginella contacted Groundhog for an update on their situation. From the accent of the radioman, Turk guessed that the ground unit was a British SAS commando squad, one of a number of special operations troops operating in the theater. His communiqués were terse, with quick acknowledgments when Ginella responded.

The commandos were in a village isolated from the highway by a narrow winding road through a series of sharp but narrow hills. The village had no more than two dozen houses, and was centered around a pair of unpaved streets that came together in a Y at roughly the center of the settlement. A small mosque and minaret stood near the intersection on the southernmost street.

The helicopters were directed to hold at a position roughly ten miles away from the village.

The SAS troopers had located a very weak signal inside a building on the street north of the mosque. With all of their support elements in place, they were going to storm the building. If things went wrong, they wanted the Hogs in fast.

“Acknowledged, Groundhog,” Ginella told him. “You can count on us.”

Turk studied the image of the village in the multiuse screen. The nearby hills limited their attack approach to an east-west corridor above the main streets.

Once again Ginella split the flight into two elements, but kept both on the east side of the village. All the planes would fly in the same direction on the initial attack. After that, she and Coop would recover south while Grizzly and Turk would go north. The idea was that the two groups would be in position to attack anyone coming from the outside.

“We’ll play it as it develops,” she added.

Groundhog radioed that they were going in.

Turk felt his chest starting to tighten. Sweat began collecting under his gloves.

He told himself to relax, but his heart started thumping. His adrenaline level shot up—he was starting to feel a little jittery, as if he’d had a few pots of coffee. He knew he must be physically overtired, but his body seemed to be overcompensating.

Relax.

Relax, goddamn it.

The commandos used a special short-distance radio to talk among themselves; the Shooter aircraft couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Five minutes passed. The planes circled in the sky, waiting.

“Shooter One, Groundhog here. We’re moving south through the village.”

“Groundhog, say status.”

“We don’t have him.”

“Is he there? What’s going on?”

“We recovered some gear. We’re moving to the mosque.”

“Groundhog, do you require assistance?” asked Ginella.

“Negative. Hold your position.”

“Shooter One acknowledges. Holding position.”

“We oughta take a ‘low-and-slow’ and see what’s up,” said Grizzly. “Just let them know we’re here. At least shake ’em up a bit.”

“Negative,” snapped Ginella. “Just do what they want.”

“I wasn’t saying I was going to do it.”

“Silent coms,” she told him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I have a vehicle on the road, two vehicles,” said Coop. “You see these, Colonel?”

“Yes, roger that,” said Ginella. “Groundhog, be advised we’re seeing two pickup trucks with people in the truck beds. They’re approaching the road to your village.”

“Splash them.”

“Negative, Groundhog. That’s not in my ROEs.”

The ROEs—rules of engagement—permitted the Hogs to shoot at a target only if it presented an imminent danger to friendly forces or themselves. In this case, the men in the trucks would have to be firing at the commandos to justify aggressive action.

“We don’t need company,” said Groundhog.

“Understood, Groundhog. But we’re limited by our orders.”