“I’ve blamed myself as well,” said Rubeo softly when the other man was still. “I told her not to work that night, but I should have made her go home. I shouldn’t have let her work. I am tremendously sorry for it.”

“I don’t believe you,” whispered Kharon. The words were barely audible.

“It wasn’t an accident,” said Rubeo. “I know they didn’t tell you the whole story. It’s still classified.”

Kharon didn’t react.

“The accident was actually sabotage,” Rubeo continued. “We had a Russian agent at the base. It was the tail end of the Cold War.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.” Rubeo closed his eyes, remembering Dreamland. Kharon’s mother’s death was just one of several incidents that had eventually led to the shake-up, the threats of closing, and finally the coming of Tecumseh Bastian.

So good did come of it. Though it was impossible to explain that to Kharon. Nothing would ever compensate the ten-year-old who had lost his mother.

“I don’t blame you for not believing me.” Rubeo leaned his head forward, trying to undo the terrible muscle knot forming at the back of his neck. “I think if you ask Breanna Stockard, she’ll tell you. She knew your mother.”

Kharon didn’t answer. Rubeo wondered if he had passed out again, until finally he realized the young man was crying uncontrollably.

6

Sicily

Danny jumped from the Hummer and trotted toward the waiting Osprey. Boston was hanging out the door, waving him on.

The huge propellers, which rotated on their nacelles at the wingtips, whipped overhead, anxious to pull the craft into the air. Danny ran behind the wing to the door, shading his eyes against the dust kicked up by the rotors. Boston grabbed him by the forearm and helped him up. Not a half second later, the Osprey leapt forward, pushing into the stiff Sicilian wind.

“Body armor over there,” said Boston, pointing to the side bench as the hatchway closed behind them. “Gear and weapons.”

“Thanks,” said Danny, going over to suit up.

Across the tarmac from the Osprey, Turk sat at the controls of the Tigershark II, waiting as a long queue of NATO fighter-bombers moved up the taxi ramp to the runway. The com section bleeped; he cleared it, and the image of Danny Freah appeared in front of him.

“Turk?”

“I’m here, Colonel. Just waiting for clearance to take off.”

“Thank you for getting ready so quickly.”

“My pleasure,” said Turk. He meant it—he wanted nothing better than a chance to get back in the air and prove himself.

Again. Which he shouldn’t have to do.

“Dr. Rubeo wears a locating device that tracks his location continually,” said Danny. “The information has been tied into MY-PID, and we’re uploading into your connection now.”

Turk was sitting behind a transport and a tanker, waiting for clearance. As the aircraft in front of him moved forward, he nudged the Tigershark to follow.

The tower gave clearances and directions to a pair of other planes, the controller’s voice drowning out Danny’s.

“You got that?” asked Danny.

“Stand by. I’m queuing to take off,” Turk told him. He reached his arm up and touched the virtual switch to open the map panel. “MY-PID interface.” The computer blinked. “Find Rubeo,” he told his computer.

The map panel flickered. Turk used his fingers to zoom out a bit, getting some perspective—the indicator dot was some eighty miles south of Tripoli. According to the computer, the vehicle was moving at roughly fifty miles an hour on a paved highway toward the city of Mizdah.

“Plot intercept at maximum speed,” he told the computer.

“Nineteen minutes, twenty-eight seconds from takeoff,” said the flight computer. The distance was a little over four hundred miles.

“We can do better than that,” Turk told it.

“Command not recognized.”

“You’re a slowpoke.”

“Command not recognized.”

“Turk?”

“I see it. It’s going to take me about twenty minutes to get there.”

The plane in front of him jerked forward. He was now next in line.

“I need you to get there as fast as you can,” Danny told.

“Yeah, roger that, Colonel.” That was the funny thing about ground officers—they always assumed jets could simply get to where they needed instantly. “ROEs?”

“Avoid contact with the enemy. You’re just scouting.”

“What if they come for me?”

“Let’s play it by ear. We’re authorized to use deadly force to get Rubeo back, if it comes to that.”

“Roger that. Understood.”

The space in front of him was empty. It was his turn to fly.

“Whiplash, I’m clear for takeoff—talk to you in a few.”

Aboard the Osprey, Danny studied the same map that Turk was viewing, using a portable touch computer that accessed MY-PID. It was hard to like anything that he saw. Rubeo was being taken toward a city ostensibly still held by the government.

There was a small army base to the west. A large number of soldiers there had deserted, and the latest intelligence estimated that no more than three thousand were still in uniform and willing to fight. But three thousand was still far more than the Whiplash team was prepared to deal with.

Danny didn’t have enough people to take down a well-guarded house in the city—and guarantee that Rubeo would be alive. If he went into the city, he would have to call for backup. He’d already alerted the U.S. Special Operations Command, or SOCCOM, which had placed a platoon of SEALs at his disposal. They were on a carrier in the Mediterranean; he could send one of the Ospreys back to pick them up if necessary.

Turk would get there in twenty minutes. That would put the truck just outside the city. The Osprey would be roughly an hour away.

He went up to the cockpit.

“Tell Whiplash Osprey Two to double back and rendezvous with the SEAL platoon,” Danny told the copilot. “I’ll talk to the SEALs.”

“We’re still heading south?” asked the pilot.

“As fast you can.”

7

Libya

Rubeo knew his people would be tracking them by now. The best thing to do was to stay alive until they were rescued.

But that was far too passive.

It was true, he wasn’t a soldier. But he wasn’t a wimp either.

Searching the back of the van for something to cut the ropes, he hit on the idea of using the hinge edge. It wasn’t quite sharp enough to cut the rope, but by wiggling the rope against it, he was able to stretch the strands. The pressure on his wrists hurt, cutting off his circulation to the point where his fingers felt numb, but when he stopped, the restraints were loosened. He worked them back and forth, finally getting one free.

He pulled the other out, then went over to Kharon, facedown on the floor.

“Are you all right?” he asked, reaching to the young man’s hands, which were tied behind his back.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to untie you.”

“Why?”

“So we can get the hell out of here.”

“I still hate you.”

“Should I just leave you?”

Kharon didn’t answer. The knot was difficult, but Rubeo kept at it. Finally it came undone. Rubeo slid back, unsure what the other man would do.

Kharon’s arms felt as if they were paralyzed. They’d been behind his back so long that the muscles were stiff and his nerves were tingling, making them feel almost limp. He flexed them, trying to get some circulation back, trying to get control of them.