Turk expected the British soldier to tell them what they could do with their orders. But he didn’t reply.

“Coop, follow me down,” she said.

The two Hogs dove toward the roadway, dropping precipitously. They rode in over the pickup trucks, accelerating and jerking away.

Ginella’s idea was clear—she was putting the fear of God, or rather Hogs, into them.

The trucks sped up, continuing past the turnoff for the village.

The two jets cleared north and came back around.

“I’m getting close to bingo,” said Coop.

“Acknowledged,” said Ginella. “Groundhog, what’s your status?”

“Working toward the mosque,” he replied.

“Do you have resistance?”

“Negative.”

They took a few more turns. Finally, Ginella admitted the inevitable.

“Groundhog, my wingmate and I are going to refuel. I’m turning you over to Shooter Three and Shooter Four. You’ll be in good hands.”

“Affirmative. Thanks, mate.”

Ten minutes later the SAS trooper radioed that they were going inside the mosque. He asked the two planes to fly over “loud and low”—exactly the distraction Grizzly had thought of earlier.

“We’re on the way,” said Grizzly. “Ten seconds.”

Turk came in off Grizzly’s right wing, his head swiveling as he searched the ground for some sign of resistance, or even life. The small village seemed completely deserted, with no one on the streets. Ordinarily the small towns had goats, dogs, or other animals wandering about. He saw nothing.

The two planes circled left, pulling up around one of the small hills. As they did, Turk caught a glint off something to his right. He raised himself in the seat, looking back over his shoulder.

“Hey, I think we got those trucks coming back,” he told Grizzly. “Got something on the road.”

“What is it?”

“Turning.”

Turk circled back to get a better look at the trucks. Grizzly contacted the airborne controller, trying to see if the Predator overhead could shift closer for an image. He then tried to contact Groundhog directly, to check on their status.

The Brits said only that they were “good.” By then the trucks had gone off the main highway, moving in a direct line toward the road that led to the village.

“Those the same trucks as before?” Grizzly asked.

“Can’t tell,” said Turk. “What about the Predator?”

“The trucks are a little far from the road for the Predator to spot. He has to stay eyes on the village.”

“By the time they’re in range they’ll be in the hills.” The geography would make it harder to watch the trucks there.

“Let’s get in their faces,” said Grizzly. “See if we can run them off like before. I’ll come in first. They fire at me, light them up.”

“Yeah, all right. Roger that.”

Grizzly led him south before banking and pushing down, his nose angling toward the pickups. Turk waited, giving the other plane enough of a head start so he could react if he saw anything. He tucked down, pushing the Hog through 1,500 feet and picking up speed.

He was on the back of a sleek stallion. The engines rushed behind him, a steady whoosh. He edged his finger on the trigger of the gun, double-checking the panel to make sure the weapon was ready.

The two trucks were no more than thirty yards apart. The lead vehicle was just reaching the road to the village as Shooter Three came in ahead of him, low.

Something winked below Grizzly’s A–10.

Gunfire?

Turk couldn’t tell if it was a muzzle flash or just a reflection from the sun.

Another glint. A flash.

Weapon. Guns. MANPAD!

“Flares! Evade!” yelled Turk, warning the other plane even as he pressed the trigger to zero out the threat.

The big gun in the nose of the A–10 began rotating. The force of the cannon was so intense that it seemed to hold the Warthog up in the sky. The burst lasted not quite two seconds, but in that time, somewhere over one hundred rounds burst from the gun. Nearly every one hit the truck—or would have, if there was truck left there to hit. The heavy slugs tore the front of the truck in half, igniting a huge fireball and vaporizing a good portion of the vehicle.

“Missile in the air!” yelled Grizzly.

Turk’s warning system was bleating as well, but he was too focused to pay attention. He leaned his body left and the jet followed, moving quickly as he lined up his second shot. He was a little too close to get more than a few slugs into the truck before he passed it, but they were more than enough to stop the vehicle.

Turk dished flares and turned hard right, himself a target now. Gravity hit him in the side of the face and chest. He felt the bladders in his flight gear pushing hard against his stomach and his legs. The Hog floated a bit, moving sideways as it struggled to sort out the conflicting demands of gravity and its pilot’s will.

The peak of the hill loomed dead ahead, a jagged slag of red and brown.

“Power, baby,” Turk said, his hand already slamming the throttle. “Power.”

The Hog’s nose pulled up and the aircraft lifted in the sky, almost hopping over the hilltop.

He felt weightless. He wasn’t sure what had been launched at him. He was afraid it was on his tail.

“ECMs,” he said, momentarily reacting as if he were in the Tigershark. He recovered quickly, hitting the panel to activate the electronic countermeasures—a fancy name for a radar jammer.

The Hog continued to climb for a few more seconds before Turk realized that whatever had been launched had missed. Either it had been sucked off by the flares or was unguided to begin with, just a rocket-propelled grenade. He banked back around.

The first truck was hidden by steam and smoke. The second was sitting on the side of the road.

He had it on his nose. He glanced up, locating Shooter Three on his left wing at about ten o’clock, coming up from the south.

“I’m going in on that second truck,” Turk called on the radio.

“Roger that.”

“You OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good, I’m good. Go for it—I got your six.”

The truck was fat in his windscreen. The men on the ground were firing at him—Turk could see their muzzles blinking.

One of his missiles would have wiped out all of the men, but he wanted to save them for the SAS unit. And in any event, he’d already made up his mind on how he was going to attack.

The truck grew large in his pipper. He pressed the trigger, spitting a steady stream of spent uranium into it.

The vehicle disappeared beneath a cloud of smoke. Turk cleared south.

“We’re good, we’re good,” said Grizzly. “Hold south of the village.”

“We need to move back east in case we have to run into the village,” said Turk.

“Yeah, all right, you’re right. Good—let’s get there. Follow me.”

As they pushed their aircraft back into a position that would make it easier to support the ground units, Groundhog checked in, asking what was going on.

“Just smoked two pickups that fired on us,” reported Grizzly.

“Copy.”

“What’s your situation?”

“We’re going through the building.”

“You have subject?”

“Negative.”

“We’re standing by.”

“Copy, Shooter.”

The brief engagement had been more physical than Turk realized. His arms and upper body felt as if he’d been in a boxing or MMA fight, sore and drained.

But his breathing was calm. The action had relaxed him.

Groundhog reported that there were people on the street.

“A lot of watchers,” said the British soldier.

“Threatening?” asked Grizzly.

“Negative. Just watchers. We’re moving to your south.”

A minute or two later he called back.

“We’re on the street,” said Groundhog. “Can you take a pass?”

“Stand by.”

“I’m with you,” Turk told Grizzly.

“Follow me through. Same game plan.”

“Let’s make it fast,” said Turk. “We don’t want to push our luck.”