Текст книги "Dreamland"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

The far end of the ditch burst with an explosion. Gunny cursed, falling forward and hitting his chin on Jackson’s boot.

“Damn it,” he said, starting to pull himself up. “Down! Down! Incoming!” yelled Jackson.

Something roared above them and the armored car hissed. Red metal flew through the air.

“The Chinook’s moving!” yelped Jackson.

“Go! Go!” yelled Gunny. Above them one of the F-16’s was wheeling through the sky, trying to cover their retreat. The Somalians had temporarily turned their attention to it, throwing everything they had into the sky.

“You got balls,” Gunny told the F-16 as he burned a clip in the direction of the Somies. “Even if you are a pansy-ass Air Force pilot.”

KNIFE WAS OUT OF GBUS AND ABOUT HALFWAY through his store of cannon shells, slashing and dashing the Somalian forces as the Chinook tried desperately to round up the last members of its fire team. The helicopter pilot’s aircraft had been hit and he was worried about making it back to Ethiopia, but the man didn’t want to leave without every one of his passengers aboard.

Somewhere in the past two and a half minutes, Knife had told the pilot that he’d hang in there as long as needed. Somewhere in the past two and a half minutes, Mack had decided he had to stay close and help keep some of his guys alive. And somewhere in the past two and a half minutes, Major Mack “Knife” Smith had realized that he was flying maybe twenty feet over the trees and taking a hell of a lot of risk with all this metal flying through the air, not to mention the damn fireworks from the still-exploding missile stores.

Flames from the two vehicles he had smashed gave him a clear view of the remaining troops firing on his Marines. Smith swooped in for a low-level cannon attack. The Chinook stuttered to his left as he rode in, the barrels on his M61 beginning to churn. He cut a swath through the Somalians, then picked up his nose to bank around for another pass. As he did, he saw a pair of wheeled vehicles moving forward behind the far building. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw an H-shaped shadow at the top of one of the vehicles—a missile launcher maybe, but he was beyond it too fast. His RWR stayed clean.

“Poison One, this is Poison Three, we are moving to engage four bogies at this time,” snapped the lead pilot of the second group of F-16’s. “Repeat, we have company. MiGs. Possibly Libyan. They’re coming south and they are hot!”

“Copy,” said Knife. It was past time to call it a day. “Pelican, get the hell out of there,” he told the Chinook pilot. “Go! Now! Go!”

He banked around to cover the helicopter’s retreat. He hunted the shadows for the two vehicles he’d seen, his forward airspeed dropping toward two hundred knots. He saw something loom on his left; by the time he got his nose on it a tongue of fire ignited from the top.

Missile launcher. Probably an antitank weapon or something similar, but he felt sucker-punched as the missile sailed toward the helicopter. He began to fire his cannon, even though he wasn’t lined up right; he pushed his rudder to swing into the shot, but was too high and then too far to the right. He thought he heard a stall warning and went for throttle; rocketing upward, he realized he was low on gas.

The helo was still hovering. The missile had missed.

His RWR bleeped. The MiGs were on them already. Shit.

“Pelican! Get the fuck out of here!” he screamed.

He plunged his aircraft back toward the remaining vehicle, again firing before he had a definitive target. Meanwhile, Poison Three called a missile launch; things were getting beyond hot and heavy.

Knife reached to put the throttle to the redline, already plotting his escape southwest toward Poison Two.

Something thudded directly behind his seat. He felt the Viper’s tail jerk upward, and in the next instant realized the control stick had stopped responding.

“I’m hit,” he snapped. And in the next instant he pulled the eject handles, just before the plane tore into a spin, its back broken by not one but two shoulder-fired SA-16’s.

GUNNY AND JACKSON WERE STILL FIFTEEN YARDS FROM the Chinook when it started to pull upward. But the old sergeant had been prepared for this—he’d removed the flare pistol from his vest pocket to signal them.

Before he could fire, something exploded above him. He jerked his head back and saw the plane that had been covering their escape erupt in a fireball. Something shot into the air; a second or two later he realized it was the pilot.

Gunny turned around.

“Gunny, Sarge, shit. Helo’s this way,” said Jackson, grabbing his arm. “Come on.”

“We got to go get that pilot,” Gunny said.

“Fuck that.”

“Here,” Gunny said, pressing the flare gun into his point man’s hand. “I’ll catch up.”

“The hell you will,” said Jackson. The corporal tugged the older man around.

“I’m giving you an order to get the hell out of here,” said Gunny.

“If you’re stayin’, I’m stayin’. I got point,” said the Marine, pushing past in the direction of the parachute blossoming in the firelit sky. It was falling over the low hill to his right, away from the Gulf of Aden.

It was probably a moot point by now, since the Chinook was thundering off in the distance. Still, Gunny appreciated the sentiment.

“I hope to hell that pansy-ass pilot’s got a radio,” he grunted, following up the hillside.

IV

Whiplash

Dreamland

21 October, 2000 local

COLONEL BASTIAN WALKED THE TWO MILES FROM HIS office to the base commander’s “hut,” the wind chilling his face. He’d shipped the summary of his report via the secure e-mail link and packed off the full package, committing himself before he could change his mind. You were supposed to feel good when you followed your conscience, but he felt as if he’d just stabbed a friend.

A lot of friends. Not to mention himself.

Dog paused near the entrance to the low-slung adobe structure that was his temporary home at Dreamland. The guard assigned to his premises had taken shelter in a blue government Lumina parked a few yards away; Dog nodded in his direction, then turned his eyes toward the old boneyard that began twenty or thirty yards away. Surplused aircraft and failed experiments sulked in the darkness, watching him with steely eyes. Among the planes were craft once considered the nation’s finest—a B-58 Hustler, some ancient B-50 Superfortress upgrades, three or four F-86 Sabres. They were indistinguishable in the shadows, tarped and in various stages of disrepair. But Dog felt their presence like living things, animals driven to cover.

Time moves on, he thought to himself.

He waited for something more profound before finally shaking his head, realizing he was freezing out here. The desert turned cold once the sun was gone. He trotted toward his front door, deciding to throw himself into bed and rest up for the inevitable storm tomorrow.

The phone was ringing inside as he opened the fiberglass faux-wood door. He picked up the handset, bracing himself for an angry blast from one of the many generals and government officials connected with the F-119 project.

But the caller was his own Sergeant Gibbs.

“Colonel, we need you back at the office,” said Ax. “What’s going on?”

“You need to make a secure call back to D.C.,” said the sergeant. “Whiplash has been activated.”

“Does Danny know?”

“Captain Freah is on his way here,” said the sergeant. “He had to round up his men.”

“Send a car.”

“It should be there in about ten seconds,” said Ax.

Dog put down the phone. While in theory the team could be headed anywhere, even a training mission, Dog realized it must mean things had popped in Somalia. More than likely, that was why Washington wanted to talk to him.

Better that than the JSF.

He took a moment to pull on his old leather flight jacket, then went back outside, where a Humvee was waiting for him.

Danny Freah was at the wheel.

“Whiplash has been activated,” said Freah as Dog pulled himself into the seat.

“Ax just told me. You have transport?”

“I was hoping you could expedite something. They want us in Africa yesterday. There’s a C-5 en route from back East.”

“A C-5?”

Freah smiled and shrugged. His team consisted of only six men; they carried their forty pounds of equipment on their backs. The big Lockheed transport planes could move the better part of a company.

Freah quickly lost his smile. “Word is, two of our pilots went down in Somalia. And two or three Marines stayed back to help them. One of the pilots was Major Smith.”

“Shit.”

“A rescue operation is being planned.”

“That C-5 will take eighteen hours to get you there.”

“At least,” said Danny.

Bastian folded his arms across his chest. ISA and Madcap Magician would have its own units nearby, but obviously they were anticipating serious trouble.

“Maybe we can wedge your boys into the backseats of our SR-71s,” he joked.

“We only have one on the base,” said Freah, who didn’t seem to be joking. He pulled the Humvee in front of the Taj. “What about a Megafortress?”

“An EB-52?”

“Major Cheshire says Fort Two could make the run in less than twelve hours.”

“Fort Two is a test bed. They nearly crashed a week ago.”

“I know that,” said Freah. “I also know the Somalians have this thing about dragging soldiers through the streets after they kill them.”

Dog got out of the truck and walked into the building, barely pausing for the security scan. Danny caught up in the elevator; neither said anything as the car began its slow descent.

Africa was a damn long way to go in a plane that typically never left the protected airspace over Dreamland.

On the other hand, there was at least a rough precedent. Another EB-52 had been used in Central America during the Maraklov/James fiasco some months before. The plane had acquitted itself quite well.

But it had also been flying with a full crew.

Fort Two was more than a transport. If he was going to send it halfway around the world, he should send it with a full weapons load. It’d be invaluable.

Hell, it’d be the star of the show. Demonstrate what Dreamland could do.

That wasn’t what this was about. They had to get Smith and the others out.

“Ax, get Major Cheshire over here right away,” he said as he stormed into his office.

“She called a few minutes ago to say she’s on her way,” said the sergeant. “ETA in zero-five. Your burger should be here by then as well,” added Ax. “Fries too. Got one for Captain Freah as well. Coffee’s on the boil.”

Northern Somalia

22 October, 0525 local

MACK SWAM MINDLESSLY, EYES CLOSED, BODY buffeted by the waves. A fish or something had attached itself to his chest, clamping powerful jaws around his ribs. He gasped for air, then realized he wasn’t swimming at all—he was hanging by his parachute harness. Every part of his body ached, but his ribs hurt most of all; he guessed some were broken.

He’d lost his helmet somewhere. Undoubtedly he’d taken it off himself, but he couldn’t remember doing so. He was suspended about thirty feet up the side of a jagged hill, the top of his chute snagged around a tree or rock. One of his hands had somehow tangled in his lines, and his legs were roped against each other. He faced a sheer cliff.

There was a knife in his speed pants. He tried to bend his body, and felt himself starting to fall. Desperately he tried to grab the rock; he rolled sideways, still caught.

Smith tried leaning toward his leg, but found he was stuck. As he craned his head upward he saw someone else on the hill above him.

It was a woman. Her dress fluttered.

No. The parachute.

He was in shock, close to losing it. He was going to die here.

Mack told himself to calm down. All he had to do was get off the hill, get his radio. They’d be looking for him by now. The sun was already up.

Shit. His wingman hadn’t been nearby. They’d have only the vaguest idea of where he was.

Not like when Zen went down.

He felt a twinge in his legs. They hurt, but nowhere near as bad as his ribs. A good sign, right?

Smith had a pocketknife beneath his vest, secured there by a lanyard clip. Steadying himself against the rock face with his left hand, he managed to thread his other arm free from the tangle. Then he slid his fingers beneath the vest to feel for the knife. He had to lever his elbow around, and felt a fresh twinge from his ribs as he grasped the clip and worked the knife free. He brought it back and pulled it open, only to have it slip from his hand. Dirt and small rocks slid all around him as he grabbed helplessly for it.

Shitfuckinhell. This can ’ t be happening to me. Not me, goddamn it. I ’ m too fuckinggoddamngood a pilot to have my fanny waxed and end up snagged on a stinkinggoddamnfuckinghell hillside. It ’ s a goddamn joke.

Smith took as deep a breath as his injured chest would allow, then pushed his right arm in the direction of his tangled legs. He felt himself start to slip, but kept going; he tumbled sideways again, but snagged, crashing against the rocks as he grabbed his leg with his right hand. He got the knife, then realized his legs were pinned together, not by the parachute line, but by the metal buckles on the lower straps, which snugged the pant legs above his boots. He levered the long knife blade behind one of the straps and freed himself, carefully gripping the knife this time. As he straightened out he began to drop again; he managed to swing his elbow against the rocks as he slipped down about five or six feet before the chute once more snagged. As he stopped he smacked the side of his face, scraping his cheek and nose.

When the burn subsided, he realized he could simply slip himself out of the harness and drop free. Problem was, the ground was still a fair distance.

Twenty-five feet? Maybe only twenty. There were bushes at the bottom of the ravine.

Long way to fall, even if the pigmy trees broke his fall. Better to slip down some more, even though the scrapes hurt like hell.

Knife swung his legs forward and back, gently at first, then harder, trying to nudge himself down. A sharp knob on the rock poked his forearm. Dirt and pebbles shot down the hill, but he stayed put.

His gut began to retch. Bile came up into his mouth and his ribs screamed with pain.

Stinkingfuckshithell. How the hell can this be happening to me? Me!

Knife clawed at the wall next to him. Maybe it would be easier to climb up it. He lodged his knife into the webbing of his vest, then tried digging his feet into the cliff side. He levered himself up a few feet, one step, two steps, a third. He managed to pull himself up enough so that the lines hung free. He stepped to the right, trying to avoid getting tangled. He took one step, then slipped and fell, sliding two or three feet before managing to grab on and stop.

Nothing to do but let himself fall.

But as he reached to unclasp his harness restraints, the rock or tree or whatever it was holding him began to give way. He pushed himself close to the face of the hill, trying to squeeze into the dirt and rocks as he slid. He clawed and slipped the whole fifteen feet to the ground, crashing through foliage so sharp he thought he had fallen into a spear pit.

Finally on the ground, Mack lay back, trying to blink away the pain—trying, in fact, to blink away everything: Africa, the mission, the shoulder-fired SAMs that had hit him.

Had to be shoulder-fired SAMs. He’d had no warning and they’d gotten his tailpipe. But Mack Smith wasn’t supposed to be the kind of pilot who got his fanny nailed like that, was he?

Finally, Knife rolled over and got to his feet. He removed his Beretta from the vest, checking to make sure the weapon was loaded. It felt heavy in his hand, a little greasy, as if it were covered with oil.

The ejection-seat survival kit and life raft sat at the very base of the hill a few yards away, looking as if someone had come and set them out for him. Besides flares, water, some candy bars, and other odds and ends, the kit included a PRC-90 survival radio, backing up the one he carried in his vest.

As he bent to open the kit, he heard something crashing through the bushes a few yards away. He slid to one knee, slowly raising the pistol to eye level.

Something moved and he fired.

There was a squealing, subhuman noise, a half growl. “I’m sure as hell glad that wasn’t me,” said a voice behind him.

As Smith jumped back, something grabbed his pistol hand. He began to fight back, found himself wrestled to the ground.

“Relax, pilot, we’re on your side.”

A green and black mask contorted over him.

It wasn’t until the teeth flashed white and gold that Knife was certain the figure was human.

“I’m Sergeant Melfi. My point man Jackson is around here somewhere. We’re Marines. Come on, Captain, let’s get the fuck out of here. Shooting that pig may have felt good, but it’s gonna bring a bunch of Somies runnin’.”

“Pig?”

“Whatever. Fuck, maybe it was a lion,” said Melfi. “Come on, Captain, let’s go.”

“I’m Major Smith.”

“Whatever. Come the fuck on. We have to get on the other side of these hills and find some real cover.”

Dreamland

21 October, 2030 local

DOG STOOD OVER HIS DESK, STUDIOUSLY IGNORING THE blinking light on his telephone. The light indicated that someone from Deborah O’Day’s office was holding—and had been holding now for at least ten minutes.

“The thing to do is split the Whiplash team between two planes,” he told Cheshire and Freah. “This way we can crew them. They’ll arrive loaded for bear.”

“We don’t have two planes ready,” said Cheshire. “Only Fort Two is in shape to fly. Raven’s computer and fly-by-wire systems are still being upgraded to take care of the problems Fort Two encountered. We should have them on-line by tomorrow night.”

“What about Plus?” Bastian asked, using the nickname for Megafortress One, officially carried on the books as EB-52-DT1A Megafortress Plus. Plus had been used a few months before to help recapture the stolen DreamStar experimental aircraft, flying all the way to Nicaragua.

“The wings are still being refitted. It will be at least a week before it’s ready. Raven’s the one to go. The ECMs will blast out anything the Iranians have.”

“They’ll overheat first,” said Rubeo.

Proposed as the next-generation electronic-warfare set, the xAQ-299 admittedly had some heating issues. But having decided to send the Megafortresses, Bastian was in no mood to let Rubeo’s dour puss derail him.

“All right, let’s do this,” he said. “Use Fort Two to take Whiplash to Africa. We’ll expedite the work on Raven, pack the two other crew members and more weapons in it, and ship it out as soon as it’s done. How soon can you take off?”

“Actually, Colonel, I think it would be better if I take the Raven,” Cheshire told him. “I’ve been flying it and its voice-command system has been trained for my voice. Besides, given the ECMs, it’s more likely to be the one that would see action.”

“Who flies Fort Two?”

“I took the liberty of alerting Captain Stockard,” Cheshire said. “She should be on base within a half hour.” Dog nodded, then glanced at his phone.

“Danny, this sound good to go?”

Freah nodded.

“Let’s do it,” said Bastian.

“Colonel, I must note that you’re sending a test aircraft into a war zone,” said Rubeo.

“I don’t believe it’s an official war zone yet,” said Bastian dryly. “I’m sending it as a transport. Both planes are going as transports.”

“Semantics—”

“Doc, I appreciate your coming, truly I do,” said Bastian. “I don’t know why you thought it important to show up, but I appreciate it.”

Dog held up his hand, cutting off himself as well as the scientist.

“Out, everyone,” he said as he picked up his phone. “This is a classified call. Go!”

* * *

BREANNA URGED THE SMALL HONDA FASTER, PLUNGING through the desert night toward the base. She was glad to escape, glad to run from the disaster that had become her life. On some level she knew Jeff’s attitude was just a phase, a plateau on his way to coping with his disability, adjusting to his new life. But on another level, she was starting not to care. There was only so much she could take.

The counselors had tried to prepare her for this; they’d been hopeful, predicting that it would soon pass. They all felt Zen would come back stronger than ever, his true nature winning out.

But how did they know? They all had perfect spines, working legs. None of them had been top-dog test pilots with blue-sky careers ahead of them.

He suspected her of seeing Knife? Jesus. Where the hell did that come from?

Major Cheshire hadn’t said what was up, but she did promise a helicopter would be waiting to whisk Bree from Nellis to Dreamland. Obviously something big was brewing.

Thank God. She needed a diversion.

MS. O’DAY HERSELF WAS ON THE LINE WHEN DOG picked up the phone.

“Colonel, I think you’ve lost your mind.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Madame Advisor,” he replied.

“Don’t Madame Advisor me. I read your e-mail. Do you know what you’re up against on the JSF?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He heard a loud sigh from the other end of the line. He imagined the petite woman shaking her head back in her office, rolling her eyes before scrunching herself over the desk. She’d pull up the sleeves of her white blouse—O’Day always wore white blouses to work.

“Dog, are you damn sure about this?”

“The F-119 is not a workable design as presently configured,” said Bastian, repeating the bullet line of his memo. “It can be, but the changes it needs will mean missing the interservice target.”

“They’re going to come after you on this, Tecumseh,” O’Day said. Rarely if ever did she—or anyone, for that matter—use his given name. “Wait until morning.”

“I know.”

“I’ll back you up, if this is your considered opinion.”

“It is.”

“It may mean Dreamland closes.”

“I weighed the consequences.”

“All right. You’ve heard about Somalia?”

“Yes. We have a team getting ready for transport.” Dog debated whether to tell her exactly how he intended on supplying that transport, but decided it was best not to. If she didn’t know, she couldn’t order him not to.

Not that she could order him to do anything, at least not directly.

If he was so afraid of telling her, why do it in the first place?

“I may call on you to look over some estimates. It will have to be back-channel,” she said.

“Understood.”

“This is going to dominate things around here for a few days,” she added. “It will take some of the heat off you and the JSF. I suggest you use it to line up the ducks.”

“The ducks?”

“And next time my office calls, Colonel, don’t keep me on hold,” she said, hanging up.

DANNY FREAH CAUGHT A RIDE OUT TO THE Megafortress hangar with Lieutenant Greenbaum, whom he was leaving in charge of base security in his absence. He spat out directions machine-gun style, warning Greenbaum about a dozen details that could snap up and bite him in the butt if he didn’t watch them. But all the time he talked, Danny was shaping his mission plan in his head. He had his go-bag in the back, along with a silenced MP-5 equipped with a laser sight. Four other members of his team would be similarly equipped; the other two carried M-16A2/M203 grenade-launcher combos.

The M40A sniper outfit had a special metal box all to itself. Along with a set of custom-tailored carbon-boron protective vests, it was waiting with the team in the hangar. There was also a line-of-sight discrete-burst com set developed by another of Dreamland’s experimental labs. While the gear technically wasn’t cleared for operational use, Klondike had cleared it for “field testing.”

She’d also warned there’d be hell to pay if they lost it. But Danny didn’t plan on letting that happen.

According to the orders he’d received, Whiplash’s prime duty would be to crew a Pave Low tasked to transport and support a Delta assault team. But the Whiplash operators were trained to crew everything Air Force Special Operations flew; they could eat snakes, jump from planes, and leap tall buildings with a single rappelling line. They might be called on to do any or all of those once the fun started.

Greenbaum pulled up in front of the hangar. A ground crew was already working furiously on the big black bomber inside.

“Okay, now as far the duty rosters go,” Danny told his lieutenant, “you do have some flexibility.”

“Captain, no offense, but you’ve gone over the rosters maybe five times already? Seriously, sir, I do think I can handle it. The only tough part is going to be controlling my jealousy.”

Freah laughed. “I hope you’ll still feel that way in a week.”

“I’m sure we will, sir.”

Freah looked at the young man’s face. Greenbaum looked like a jayvee kid who’d been told he wasn’t making the trip to the big bowl game. He also looked to be all of fifteen, not twenty-three.

Of course, Freah wasn’t much older. He just felt like he was.

“Okay, Greenie. Kick some ass.”

Freah’s men were waiting in the hangar. Lee “Nurse” Liu and Kevin Bison were at the entrance, copping smokes, while the others huddled near the big black plane’s tail, watching as the ground crew prepped the aircraft.

Freah had selected the Whiplash response team himself. All of the men were qualified as parajumpers with extensive SAR experience, cross-trained to handle each others’ responsibilities. Freah had organized them roughly along the lines of a Green Beret “A” team for ground operations.

“Looks like they lost two planes about twenty miles apart,” Perse “Powder” Talcom told him. Powder was the team point man and intel specialist; he had gathered satellite maps and some briefing information before reporting to the hangar. “One to MiGs and the other to ground fire. Roughly, they went down here.”

Talcom pointed to large swatches of the Somalian coast.

“Got to figure they got SAR units out there already,” he added. “Navy task force coming up from this direction. Few days away, though.”

Freah nodded. Talcom had recently been promoted to tech sergeant—obviously because he had relatives in the Pentagon, according to the others, who were all staff sergeants.

“What you’re saying is, fun’s going to be over before we get there,” said Bison, coming in from his smoke.

“There’s a lot of other shit going down,” said Freah. “Libya’s getting involved. There’s talk of Saudi Arabia being declared a no-fly zone.”

“Good,” said Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd, the team com specialist. “I’m getting bored around here.”

“What’s a no-fly zone mean to us?” asked Liu.

“It means you don’t fly there, Nurse,” said Powder.

“Nurse was thinking of strapping on a rocket pack and taking on the ragheads by himself,” said Bison. Liu had earned the nickname “Nurse” because he was the team medic.

“I’d like to try a rocket pack someday,” said Geraldo “Blow” Hernandez. Hernandez was the tail gunner and supply specialist, as well as the team’s jumpmaster.

“Yeah, Blow, I bet you would,” said Freddy “Egg” Reagan, adjusting the elastic that held his thick eyeglasses in place around his bald head. Reagan was the squad weapons specialist, and could handle everything from a Beretta to an M-1 tank. Rumor had it he was learning to fly an Apache helicopter on the side.

“All right, we may end up with something important to do, but at the moment our assignment is straightforward,” Freah told them. “There’s a Pave Low en route from Germany. We take over for the regular crew, yada-yada-yada. You guys know the drill.”

“Hey, Captain, we invented the drill,” said Blow.

“Is it a DeWalt or a Bosch?” said Powder.

“That’s supposed to be a joke, right?” asked Liu.

“If I have to explain it, it’s not,” said Powder.

“No shit, Sherlock,” said Egg.

“Captain, what are we really doing?” asked Blow.

“Whatever they tell us to do,” said Freah. “That good enough for you?”

“They wouldn’t call us out if they didn’t want us playing snake-eaters, right?”

“Maybe,” said Freah, who suspected that Madcap Magician did have some covert ground action—aka “snake eating”—in mind.

“Captain Freah?”

Freah turned to find Captain Breanna “Rap” Stockard standing in full flight gear behind him. She extended her hand and he took it.

She had her old man’s grip. “Looks like we have a problem here.”

“What would that be?”

“You have one man too many. I was told your team had six members.”

“It does.”

“I count seven.”

“Six and me.”

“We have only six seats in this aircraft, besides mine and my copilot’s,” she said. “And frankly, that’s not a particularly comfortable configuration, since it means I’m flying without a crew.”

“Major Cheshire said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I didn’t say it was a problem,” said Breanna. She had her old man’s snap as well. “I said it wasn’t comfortable. I’m traveling without a navigator or a weapons specialist a damn long way into a particularly difficult environment. What that means is—I’m in a pissy mood. Now, who’s staying behind?”

She was in a pissy mood, Freah thought, but there was no way he was backing down.

“Everyone’s coming,” he told her. “I’ll sit on the floor.”

“This isn’t a 707,” said Breanna.

“A plane this big can’t fit another person?”

“He could sit in the nav jump seat,” said one of the crewmen nearby.

Breanna shot him a drop-dead glance, then turned back to Freah.

He couldn’t resist smiling. “See?”

“If we were to set you up in a jump seat, there’d be no way to egress the plane,” she told him.

“You can’t just walk out the door?” asked Powder.

“If there’s an emergency, there’s no way to eject,” Breanna told the sergeant. She had her father’s anger, all right—it was barely under control. “Captain, come here a minute.”

Freah followed her outside the hangar.

“Look, I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” she said. “Just pick one of your men to stay behind.”

“Major Cheshire said it was doable.”

“I’m sure Major Cheshire thought six meant six, not seven.”

“Look, I’ll take the jump seat,” said Freah. “The nav thing. I can bail out if there’s a problem.”

Breanna rolled her eyes. “You’re talking about a folding seat in the bottom of the plane. If there’s a problem, you’re going out a tiny hatch—or the bomb bay. And that’s if I can slow the plane to 275 knots. You know how fast that is?”

“It’s slower than I’ve done HALO jumps,” said Danny.

Breanna looked at him. HALO stood for High Altitude, Low Opening; it was typically done from C-141 ‘s. He’d actually only done it three or four times, but at this point he wasn’t admitting anything that might argue against him.