“Yes,” said Rubeo, coming back fully to the present. “Let’s find a place.”

3

Over southern Libya

Grizzly’s plane was ahead of Turk, to his right, just below eleven o’clock. It looked OK, rising in the sky.

He escaped.

He got lucky.

A black smudge appeared on the left side of the plane. It grew exponentially, surrounding the engine.

Flares floated below. Smoke trailed down to them, black and gray billowing in a mad stream.

“Grizzly! Get out!” Turk yelled over the radio.

“I have the plane,” replied the other pilot.

“Your left engine—there’s black smoke pouring out of it.”

“Yeah, I got a problem there. You get those guys?”

“Negative.” Turk was in no position to take a shot at them and wasn’t about to leave the other pilot simply to get revenge.

“I told you to watch those people on the hill.”

“They were kids. They weren’t the problem.”

“I’m coming through one thousand feet,” said Grizzly. “Still climbing.”

“Think about getting out,” said Turk. “Are you sure you got it?”

“I got it.”

Turk told the controller what was going on. He wanted the helicopter that had just made the pickup to stand by in case the Hog went down.

Grizzly jettisoned the last of his missiles, lightening his load. He was at 3,000 feet, still climbing, though slowly.

He had sky under his wings. Maybe he could make it.

He’s going to make it, Turk told himself.

Besides the engine, the A–10 had been hit in the wing and tail. There was damage to its control surfaces. Grizzly reported a small leak in the hydraulic system. He’d also taken a few splinters to the side of his windscreen.

“Nice little spiderweb on the left side,” he told Turk. “Almost artistic.”

Turk plotted a course farther east that would get them away from most of the government forces. The trade-off was that it would increase the amount of time it would take to get home.

“I’d rather take my chances in a straight line,” said Grizzly. “If we go too far east, I’m going to run out of fuel anyway.”

“Be better if you could get higher,” Turk told him.

“No shit. I’m trying.”

Turk rode in and took a look at the left wing. He was stunned at what he saw—it looked like something had taken a bite out of the last five feet. The rest of the metal was ripped and gouged.

“You got a bunch of holes,” was how he described it to Grizzly. “How’s your fuel?”

“Gauge says I’m good.”

“The tank on the left wing?”

“Full.”

Turk doubted that the reading was correct. He hesitated to say anything, however—for all he knew, the aircraft itself didn’t know, and saying something would break the spell.

“I think it’s optimistic,” he said finally.

“You see fuel coming out?”

“Negative.”

“Bladders might have contained the damage.” The A–10’s tanks were equipped to stop leaks.

“Maybe. We’re coming up toward the Castle,” Turk added. “You’re gonna have to cut east. There’s no way you’re going to make it. You’re still way under ten thousand feet.”

The Castle was a government-held town that had gained its nickname early in the conflict because it was so well armed. While the antiaircraft launchers stationed there had been bombed repeatedly, it was thought that the government still had a number hidden in the city. Besides those weapons, there were ZSU antiaircraft guns, which posed a serious threat to a low-flying aircraft.

The air boss had vectored a pair of Spanish F–16s south to provide cover. Turk checked in with them, giving them a rundown of the situation. They could deal with a major antiair site, but Turk was more worried about a MANPAD or even an overachieving triple-A battery. By the time one of those was spotted, it might be too late.

“You have to come more east,” he told Grizzly.

“I’m working on it. Having a little trouble steering. It’s really fighting me.”

“Copy.”

“I don’t want to have to bail out,” added Grizzly.

“I know. I’m with you.”

“I don’t like the idea of parachuting, Turk. The only times I’ve done it, I puked.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“I don’t know.”

Turk realized that the other pilot was worried his plane would fall apart if he stressed it at all, even in a slight bank. While he sympathized, he couldn’t see an alternative.

“We gotta turn, Grizzly. You aren’t gonna make it otherwise.”

“I should have some sort of wise-ass comeback here, shouldn’t I?” asked Grizzly. He put the Hog into a gentle bank eastward.

Grizzly made the turn. The plane stuttered, but leveled off. A few minutes later, still south of the Castle, Turk noticed its rear tail surface was shaking up and down.

“Grizz?”

“I’m going to have to get out,” answered the other pilot. “I’m sorry. We just aren’t going to do it today.”

“It’s cool.”

“I’m going to try to get a little farther north.”

“Don’t hold it too long,” said Turk.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

The helicopter that had picked up the last SAS men was about ten miles farther east, and the AWACS controller had another SAR helicopter coming south. The F–16s had been joined by a flight of Eurofighters for air cover. And Shooters One and Two, having just completed their refuel, were heading in their direction as well.

Turk got a radar indication. Something at the Castle was beaming them.

“You see that?” he asked Grizzly.

“Yeah. Bitchin’.”

The radar was a SURN 1S91 “Straight Flush” used for target acquisition by SA–6s—not particularly welcome under the circumstances.

The F–16s immediately went to work. But that didn’t make the sweat factor any less for Grizzly or Turk. They flipped on ECMs, hoping to confuse any missile that might be launched.

But Grizzly had other problems.

“My other engine’s ramping down,” he said.

“I’m seeing smoke from the right side,” said Turk, noticing a wisp near the wing root.

“Ah, shit, I got a lot of problems here,” said Grizzly. “Panel looks like a goddamn Christmas tree. Controls not responding. Damn.”

Something flew off the right wing.

“Grizzly—out! Now! Your wing’s coming apart,” said Turk. He was shouting over the radio. “Time to get out. Go! Go!”

“Left engine failing. I think the fuel pump or something is going.”

There was the understatement of the year, thought Turk. “Time to bail, damn you.”

“I want a couple more miles.”

“Get out now while you can. I’m seeing flames.”

“Got another warning.”

“I’m going to shoot you out if you don’t pull that damn handle,” cursed Turk.

The answer was a small explosion from the aircraft as Grizzly abandoned his plane. A second later the A–10E’s right wing flew apart. The plane jerked hard to the left, then fell into a spin as flames enveloped the fuselage.

Turk banked, watching the parachute descend. As he took his first turn, he got a launch warning—a trio of SA–6s had been fired in his direction.

His first thought was to get away from the parachute—he didn’t want Grizzly to be hurt by the missiles. It wasn’t necessarily rational—the odds of the missile hitting the pilot were exceedingly small—but he nonetheless reacted automatically, pushing away from the falling canopy. He then turned to try and beam the missile’s radar—putting the plane on a ninety degree angle to lessen the odds of it tracking him. He fired metal chaff, accelerating, and finally pushing down hard on his wing.

One of the missiles tanked, pushing down into the desert, where it blossomed in a mushroom of dirt and spent explosive. The other two sailed well past the Hog, losing it in the fog of electronic countermeasures.