Turk pulled the Tigershark higher as he got his bearings. The A–10s were forming up to the north, taking stock and preparing for the flight back home.

All except Shooter One, which was climbing to the east.

At first Turk assumed that Ginella was checking on the tanks, making sure they had been destroyed. He left her, and checked in with Danny, who said they had recovered Rubeo and his gear and were on their way back to Sicily. Then he talked to the air controller, who said frostily that there were no longer any Libyan aircraft in the skies.

“State your intentions,” added the controller, sounding as if he were challenging a potentially hostile aircraft.

“I’m going to escort Whiplash Osprey back to Sicily,” said Turk, setting up a course.

“Acknowledged.”

I bet you’ll be testifying at my court-martial, thought Turk.

He radioed the Osprey pilot. With the Libyan radars now silent, the aircraft was climbing, aiming to get high enough to escape any stray ground fire.

“Stay on your present course and I’ll be with you in zero-five,” said Turk.

The computer estimated he would catch up in two minutes. He checked his instruments, working systematically as he took stock.

The Tigershark had performed well, and according to her indicators was in prime condition, none the worse for having fired more slugs in anger in five minutes than in her entire life.

They could say or do what they wanted about Turk; the aircraft had passed every real-life test thrown at it. As for the Sabres—once whatever had screwed them up was fixed, they too were ready for front-line duty.

He’d proven himself. Whatever he had missed the other day with Grizzly—if he’d missed anything—it wasn’t because he was afraid to fire. He wasn’t a coward or a shirker or anything else.

He was sure he hadn’t missed the weapon. But one way or another, he was sure of his ability to fly and fight.

Turk felt himself start to relax. He tried to resist—it was dangerous to ease up before you landed.

He checked the sitrep map. The French Mirages had shot down one MiG and now, ironically, were helping guide an allied rescue helicopter in. The other government planes had fled south—not to their base, but to Chad.

The pilots were getting out while the getting out was good, Turk thought.

He zoomed the sitrep to check on the Hogs. They had separated. Shooter Two and Three were flying north, heading on a straight line back toward Sicily. Four, meanwhile, was flying west toward Shooter One, which was climbing to the east.

Which seemed odd to Turk.

Given his history with Ginella, he hesitated to ask what was going on. Still, her flight path was almost directly across the Osprey’s.

“Shooter One, this is Tigershark. Wondering if you’re setting up on a threat in Whiplash Osprey’s direction,” he said lightly.

There was no response. Turk tried again.

OK, he thought when she didn’t answer. Be that way. He checked his location; he was about a minute and a half behind the Osprey, catching up fast. Ginella was going to pass just to the north, but would clear the MV–22 by a good distance—she was at 30,000 feet and climbing.

Turk remembered an old joke about the Hogs, to the effect that the pilots climbing to altitude packed a lunch. The new engines took a lot of the punch out of the joke.

He told the Osprey he was coming up on his six. The Osprey pilot asked him what was up with the A–10; there had been no communication from Shooter One.

“I’m adjusting course to the west just to widen the distance,” said the pilot, giving himself an even wider margin for error. “Are you in contact?”

“Negative.”

Not acknowledging his hails was one thing, but not acknowledging the Osprey pilot’s was, at best, extremely unprofessional—so much so that Turk realized something must be wrong with Ginella. He was just about to try hailing her again when Li called on his frequency.

“Tigershark, this is Shooter Four. Are you in contact with Shooter One?”

“Negative, Shooter Four. I have been trying to hail her.”

“Same here. There’s got to be some sort of problem with her aircraft,” added Li. “Can you assist?”

“Stand by.”

Turk talked to Danny and the Osprey pilot, telling them that he thought the Hog was having some sort of emergency. Both assured him that the flight could get back on its own if necessary. A few moments later the flight controller came on, requesting that he help make contact with the Hog.

Turk acknowledged and changed course, accelerating to catch up quickly with the A–10. The aircraft had continued to climb, and was now at nearly 35,000 feet.

“Was Shooter One damaged in the fight?” Turk asked Li.

“She said she got a shrapnel hit but that it wasn’t much. Her last transmission said she was in good shape and going to check on the tanks.”

“Sound giddy?”

“Hard to say. You think she’s OK?”

“I’d say no. I’m guessing hypoxia.”

“Yeah. Or worse.”

Hypoxia was the medical term for lack of oxygen. There was a whole range of symptoms, the most critical in this case being loss of consciousness. Turk suspected that Ginella’s plane was flying itself. With no one at the controls, it would keep going until it crashed.

She might in fact already be dead.

He tried hailing her several times, using both her squadron frequency and the international emergency channel. A pair of F/A–18s were coming southwest from a carrier in the eastern Mediterranean, but Turk was much closer, and within a minute saw the distinctive tail of the aircraft dead ahead.

“Shooter Four, I’m coming up on her six.”

“Four acknowledges.”

Turk backed off the throttle, easing the Tigershark into position over the Hog’s right wing. He zoomed the camera covering that direction so he could look into the bubble canopy of the A–10E. At first glance there seemed to be nothing wrong beyond a few shrapnel nicks in the aircraft’s skin. But when he zoomed on Ginella, he saw her helmet slumped to the side.

Turk radioed Li and the controller, giving his position and heading, then telling them what he saw.

“She’s gotta be out of it,” he added. “Autopilot has to be flying the plane. I don’t know if we can rouse her.”

“Maybe if you buzz nearby,” suggested Li. “Maybe the buffet will wake her up.”

It was a long shot, but worth a try. Turk took a deep breath, then moved his hand forward on the simulated throttle.

Some twenty miles west, Danny Freah listened to the pilots as they attempted to rouse the Hog squadron commander. He’d heard of some similar incidents in the past, including one that had involved an A–10A that was lost over the U.S.

Any pilot flying above 12,000 or so could easily succumb to hypoxia, even in an ostensibly pressurized aircraft, if he wasn’t receiving the proper mix of oxygen, or if something otherwise impeded the body’s absorption of that oxygen.

How ironic, he thought, for a pilot to survive combat only to succumb to a run-of-the-mill problem.

“I knew his mother,” said Rubeo, who was sitting on the bench next to him.

“Who?” Danny lifted the visor on his helmet and turned to Rubeo. “Who are you talking about?”

“Neil Kharon. The man who jumped. His mother worked at Dreamland. It was before your time.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rubeo nodded.

“I was listening to a transmission,” said Danny. “One of the aircraft that was helping us is having a flight emergency. They can’t raise the pilot.”

“I see.”

“Turk thinks she lost oxygen.”

Rubeo stared at him. Danny was about to turn away when the scientist asked what type of airplane it was.

“An A–10E. One of the Hogs I mentioned earlier.”

“Have the Tigershark take it over,” suggested Rubeo.

“How?”

“Give me your com set.”

“It’s in the helmet.”

“Then give me the helmet.”