Colonel Johns checked the navigation display. He had a choice of Doppler, satellite, or inertial, plus the old-fashioned plotting board that he still used, and still insisted that all his people learn.

Two miles, zero-four-eight.

Roger. Willis eased off on the throttle.

For this training mission, an honest-to-God fighter pilot had volunteered to be trucked out to the boonies, where another helicopter had draped a parachute over a tree to simulate a genuinely shot-down airman, who had in turn activated a genuine rescue-beacon radio. One of the new tricks was that the chute was coated with a chemical that fluoresced on ultraviolet light. Johns did the copilots job of activating a low-power UV laser that scanned ahead, looking for the return signal. Whoever had come up with this idea deserved a medal, PJ thought. The worst, scariest, and always seemingly the longest part of any rescue mission was actually getting eyeballs on the victim. That was when the gomers on the ground, who were also out hunting, would hear the sound of the rotor and decide that they might as well bag two aircraft on the same day. . . . His Medal of Honor had come on such a mission over eastern Laos, when the crew of an F-105 Wild Weasel had attracted a platoon of NVA. Despite aggressive support from the Sandy team, the downed airmen hadnt dared to reveal their position. But Johns had coldly decided not to go home empty, and his Jolly had absorbed two hundred rounds in a furious gunfight before getting both men out. Johns often wondered if hed ever have the couragelunacyto try that again.

I got a chute at two oclock.

X-Ray Two-Six, this is Papa Lima; we have your chute. Can you mark your position?

Affirmative, tossing smoke, tossing green smoke.

The rescuee was following proper procedure in telling the chopper crew what sort of smoke grenade he was using, but you couldnt tell in the dark. On the other hand, the heat of the pyrotechnic device blazed like a beacon on the infrared display, and they could see their man.

Got him?

Yep, Willis answered, and spoke next to the crew chief. Get ready, we have our victim.

Standing by, sir. In the back the flight engineer, Senior Master Sergeant Buck Zimmerhe and the colonel went way back togetheractivated his winch controls. At the end of the steel cable was a heavy steel device called a penetrator. Heavy enough to fall through the foliage of any forest, its bottom unfolded like the petals of a flower, providing a seat for the victim, who would then be pulled back up through the branches, an experience which remarkably enough had never quite killed anyone. In the event that the victim was injured, it was the job of Sergeant Zimmer or a rescue paramedic to ride it down, attach the victim to the penetrator, and take the elevator ride himself. That job sometimes entailed physically searching for the victim, often under fire. It was for this reason that the people who flew the rescue choppers treated their crewmen with considerable respect. Nothing so horrifies a pilot as the idea of being on the ground, with people shooting at you.

But not this time. Since it was peacetime and safety rules applied, training or not, the pickup was being made from a small clearing. Zimmer worked the winch controls. The victim unfolded the seat-petals and hooked himself securely aboard, knowing what was to follow. The flight engineer started hoisting the cable, made sure that the victim was firmly attached, and so notified the flight crew.

On the flight deck, forward, Captain Willis immediately twisted the throttle control to full power and moved upward. Within fifteen seconds, the rescued fighter pilot was three hundred feet over the ground, hanging by a quarter-inch steel cable and wondering why in the hell hed been so fucking idiotic to volunteer for this. Five seconds later, the burly arm of Sergeant Zimmer yanked him into the aircraft.

Recovery complete, Zimmer reported.

Captain Willis pushed his cyclic control forward, diving the helicopter at the ground. Hed climbed too much on the extraction, he knew, and tried to compensate by showing Colonel Johns that he could get back down to the safety of the treetops very quickly. He accomplished this, but he could feel the eyes of his commander on the side of his head. Hed made a mistake. Johns did not tolerate mistakes. People died of mistakes, the colonel told them every goddamned day, and he was tired of having people die.

Can you take it for a minute? Willis asked.

Copilots airplane, Johns acknowledged, taking the stick and easing the Sikorsky down another foot or so. You dont want to climb so much winching the guy in, not with possible SAMs out there.

At night youd expect more guns than SAMs. Willis was right, sort of. It was a hard call. And he knew the answer that would come.

Were protected against small-caliber guns. The big ones are as dangerous as SAMs. You keep it closer to the ground next time, Captain.

Yes, sir.

Other than that, not bad. Arm a little stiff?

Yes, sir.

It might be the gloves. Unless your fingers fit in just right, you end up gripping too hard, and that translates back into the wrist and upper arm after a while. You end up with a stiff arm, stiff movements on the stick, and sloppy handling. Get yourself a good set of gloves. My wife makes mine for me special. You might not always have a copilot to take the airplane, and this sort of thing is tough enough that you dont want any more distractions than you gotta have.

Yes, sir.

By the way, you passed.

It wouldnt do to thank the colonel, Captain Willis knew. He did the next best thing after flexing his hand for a minute.

I got the airplane.

PJ took his hand off the stick. Pilots airplane, he acknowledged. By the way . . .

Yes, sir?

Ive got a special job coming up in a week or so. Interested?

Doing what?

Youre not supposed to ask that, the colonel told him. A little TDY. Not too far away. Well be flying this bird down. Call it Spec-Ops.

Okay, Willis said. Count me in. Whos cleared to In simple terms, nobody is. Were taking Zimmer, Childs, and Bean, and a support team. Far as everybody knows, were TDY for some practice missions out on the California coast. Thats all you need to know for now.

Inside his helmet, Williss eyebrow went up. Zimmer had worked with PJ all the way back to Thailand and the Jolly Green days, one of the few enlisted men left with real combat experience. Sergeant Bean was the squadrons best gunner. Childs was right behind him. Whatever this TDYtemporary detached dutyassignment was, it was for-real. It also meant that Willis would remain a copilot for a little while longer, but he didnt mind. It was always a treat flying with the champion of Combat Search and Rescue. That was where the colonel got his call sign. C-SAR, in PJs lexicon, it came out Caesar.

Chavez traded a look with Julio Vega: Jesucristo!

Any questions? the briefer asked.

Yes, sir, a radio operator said. What happens after we call it in?

The aircraft will be intercepted.

For-real, sir?

Thats up to the flight crew. If they dont do what theyre told, theyre going swimming. Thats all I can say. Gentlemen, everything youve heard is Top Secret. NobodyI mean nobody! ever hears what I just said. If the wrong folks ever learn about this, people will get hurt. The objective of this mission is to put a crimp in the way people move drugs into the United States. It may get a little rough.

About fucking time, a quiet voice observed.

Okay, now you know. I repeat, gentlemen, this mission is going to be dangerous. We are going to give each of you some time to think about it. If you want out, well understand. Were dealing with some pretty bad folks. Of coursethe man smiled and went on after a momentwe got some pretty bad people here, too.

Fuckin A! another voice said.

Anyway, you have the rest of the night to think this one over. We move out at eighteen-hundred hours tomorrow. There is no turning back at that point. Everybody understand? Good. That is all for now.

Ten-Hut! Captain Ramirez snapped. Everyone in the room jumped to attention as the briefer left. Then it was the captains turn: Okay, you heard the man. Give this one a real good think, people. I want you to come along on this onehell, I need every one of youbut if youre not comfortable with the idea, I dont want you. You got any questions for me? There werent. Okay. Some of you know people who got fucked up because of drugs. Maybe friends, maybe family, I dont know. What we have here is a chance to get even. Those bastards are fucking up our country, and its time we taught em a little lesson. Think it over. If anyone has any problems, let me know right away. If anybody wants out, thats okay. His face and tone said something else entirely. Anyone who opted out would be seen by his officer as something less than a man, and that would be doubly painful since Ramirez had led his men, shared every hardship, and sweated with them through every step of training. He turned and left.

Damn, Chavez observed finally. I figured this was going to be a strange one, but . . . damn.

I had a friend died of an OD, Vega said. He was just playing around, yknow, not a regular user like, but I guess it was bad stuff. Scared the shit outa me. I never touched it again. I was pissed when that happened. Toms was a friend, mano. The fucker sold him the shit, man, I wouldnt mind introducin him to my SAW.

Chavez nodded as thoughtfully as his age and education allowed. He remembered the gangs who had been vicious enough in his early childhood, but that activity seemed almost playful in retrospect. Now the turf fights were not the mere symbolism over who dwelt on what block. Now it was over marketing position. There was serious money involved, more than enough to kill for. That was what had transformed his old neighborhood from a zone of poverty to an area of open combat. Some people he knew were afraid to walk their own streets because of other people with drugs and guns. Wild rounds came through windows and killed people in front of televisions, and the cops were often afraid to visit the projects unless they came with the numbers and weapons of an invading army . . . all because of drugs. And the people who caused it all were living high and safe, fifteen hundred miles away. . . .

Chavez didnt begin to grasp how skillfully he and his fellowseven Captain Ramirezhad been manipulated. They were all soldiers who trained constantly to protect their country against its enemies, products of a system that took their youth and enthusiasm and gave it direction; that rewarded hard work with achievement and pride; that most of all gave their boundless energy purpose; that asked only for allegiance in return. Since enlisted soldiers most often come from the poorer strata of society, they all had learned that minority status did not matterthe Army rewarded performance without consideration to ones color or accent. All of these men were intimately aware of the social problems caused by drugs, and were part of a subculture in which drugs were not toleratedthe militarys effort to expunge its ranks of drug users had been painful, but it had succeeded. Those who stayed in were people for whom the use of drugs was beyond the pale. They were the achievers from their neighborhoods. They were the success stories. They were the adventurous, the brave, the disciplined graduates of the mean streets for whom obstacles were things to be overcome, and for whom every instinct was to help others to do the same.

And that was the mission they all contemplated. Here was a chance to protect not only their country, but also the barrios from which they had all escaped. Already marked as achievers within the ranks of the Armys most demanding units, then given training to make them prouder still, they could no more decline participation in this mission than they could deny their manhood. There was not a man here who had not once in his life contemplated taking down a drug dealer. But the Army was letting them do something even better. Of course theyd do it.

Blow the fuckers right out of the sky! the squads radio operator said. Put a Sidewinder missile right up his ass! You got the right to remain dead, sucker!

Yeah, Vega agreed. I wouldnt mind seeing that. Hell, I wouldnt mind it if we got to go after the big shots where they fucking live! Think we could get them, Ding?

Chavez grinned. You shittin me, Julio? Who you suppose they got working for them, soldiers? Shit. Punks with machine guns, probably dont even keep em clean. Against us? Shit. Maybe against what they got down there, maybe, but against us? No chance, man. Im talking dead meat. I just get in close, pop the sentries nice an quiet with my H and K, an let you turkeys do the easy stuff.

More Ninja shit, a rifleman said lightly.

Ding pulled one of his throwing stars from his shirt pocket and flicked it into the doorframe fifteen feet away.

Smile when you say that, boy. Chavez laughed.

Hey, Ding, could you teach me to do that? the rifleman asked. There was no further discussion of the missions dangers, only of its opportunities.

They called him Bronco. His real name was Jeff Winters, and he was a newly promoted captain in the United States Air Force, but because his job was flying fighter aircraft he had to have a special name, known as a call sign. His resulted from a nearly forgotten party in Coloradohed graduated from the United States Air Force Academyat which hed fallen from a horse so gentle that the animal had nearly died of fright. The six-pack of Coors had contributed to the fall, along with the laughter that followed from his amused classmates, and one of themthe asshole was flying trash-haulers now, Winters told himself with a tight smileassigned him the name on the spot. The classmate knew how to ride horses, Bronco told the night, but he hadnt made the grade to fly F-15-Charlies. The world wasnt exactly overrun with justice, but there was some to be found.

Which was the whole purpose of his special mission.

Winters was a small man, and a young one. Twenty-seven, to be exact, he already had seven hundred hours in the McDonnell-Douglas fighter. As some men were born to play baseball, or to act, or to drive race cars, Bronco Winters had entered the world for the single purpose of flying fighter planes. He had the sort of eyesight to make an ophthalmologist despair, coordination that combined the best of a concert pianist and the man on the flying trapeze, and a much rarer quality known in his tight community as SAsituational awareness. Winters always knew what was happening around him. His airplane was as natural a part of the young man as the muscles in his arm. He transmitted his wishes to the airplane and the F-15C complied at once, precisely mimicking the mental image in the pilots mind. Where his mind went, the airplane followed.

At the moment he was orbiting two hundred miles off the Florida Gulf Coast. Hed taken off from Eglin Air Force Base forty minutes earlier, topped off his fuel from a KC-135 tanker, and now he had enough JP-5 aboard to fly for five hours if he took things easy, as he had every intention of doing. FAST-pack conformal fuel cells were attached along the sides of his aircraft. Ordinarily they were hung with missiles as wellthe F-15 can carry as many as eightbut for this evenings mission the only ordnance aboard were the rounds for his 20mm rotary cannon, and these were always kept aboard the aircraft because their weight was a convenience in maintaining the Eagles flying trim.

He flew in a racetrack pattern, his engines throttled down to loitering speed. Broncos dark, sharp eyes swept continuously left and right, searching for the running lights of other aircraft but finding none among the stars. He wasnt the least bit bored. He was, rather, a man quietly delighted that the taxpayers of his country were actually foolish enough to give him over $30,000 per year to do something for which he would have been grateful to pay. Well, he told himself, I guess thats what Im doing tonight.

Two-Six Alpha, this is Eight-Three Quebec, do you read, over? his radio crackled. Bronco squeezed the trigger on his stick.

Eight-Three Quebec, this is Two-Six Alpha. I read you five by five, over. The radio channel was encrypted. Only the two aircraft were using the unique encoding algorithm for this evening; all that anyone trying to listen in would hear would be the warbling rasp of static.

We have a target on profile, bearing one-nine-six, range two-one-zero your position. Angels two. Course zero-one-eight. Speed two-six-five. Over. There was no command to accompany this information. Despite the secure radios, chatter was kept to a minimum.

Roger, copy. Out.

Captain Winters moved his stick left. The proper course and speed for his intercept sprang into his mind unbidden. The Eagle changed over to a southerly heading. Winters dropped the nose a touch as he brought the fighter to a course of one hundred eighty degrees and increased power a fraction to bring his speed up. It actually seemed that he was abusing the airplane to fly her this slow, but that was not actually the case.

It was a twin-engined Beech, Captain Winters saw, the most common aircraft used by the druggies. That meant cocaine rather than the bulkier marijuana, and that suited him, since it was probably a cokehead whod mugged his mom. He pulled his F-15 level behind it, about half a mile back.

This was the eighth time hed intercepted a drug runner, but it was the first time hed be allowed to do something about it. On the previous occasions hed not even been allowed to call the information in to the Customs boys. Bronco verified the course of the targetfor fighter pilots anything other than a friendly was a targetand checked his systems. The directional radio transmitter hanging in the streamlined container under the fighters centerline slaved itself to the radar tracking Beech. He made his first radio call, and flipped on his landing lights, transfixing the small executive aircraft in the night. Immediately the Beech dived for the wave tops, and the Eagle followed it down. He called again, giving his order and getting no response. He moved the button on the top of his stick to the guns position. The next call was accompanied by a burst from his cannon. This started the Beech in a series of radical evasive turns. Winters decided that the target was not going to do what it was told.

Okay.

An ordinary pilot might have been startled by the lights and turned to evade a collision, but an ordinary pilot would not do what the druggies did. The Beech dived for the wave tops, reduced power, and popped his flaps, slowing the aircraft down to approach speed, which was far slower than the F-15 could do without stalling out. This maneuver often forced the DEA and Coast Guard planes to break contact. But Broncos job wasnt to follow the guy in. As the Beech turned west to run for the Mexican coast, Captain Winters killed his lights, added power, and zoomed up to five thousand feet. There he executed a smart hammerhead turn and took a nose-down attitude, the Eagles radar sweeping the surface of the sea. There: heading due west, speed 85 knots, only a few feet over the water. A gutsy pilot, Bronco thought, holding that close to a stall and that low. Not that it mattered.

Winters extended his own speed brakes and flaps, taking the fighter down. He felt to make sure that the selector button was still in the guns position and watched the Head-Up Display, bringing the pipper right on the target and holding it there. It might have been harder if the Beech had kept speed up and tried to maneuver, but it wouldnt really have mattered. Bronco was just too good, and in his Eagle, he was nearly invincible. When he got within four hundred yards, his finger depressed the button for a fraction of a second.

A line of green tracers lanced through the sky.

Several rounds appeared to miss the Beech ahead, but the rest hit right in the cockpit area. He heard no sound from the kill. There was only a brief flash of light, followed by a phosphorescent splash of white foam when the aircraft hit.

Winters reflected briefly that he had just killed one man, maybe two. That was all right. They wouldnt be missed.

Meeting Engagement.

SO? ESCOBEDO EYED Larson as coldly as a biology professor might look at a caged white rat. He had no special reason to suspect Larson of anything, but he was angry, and Larson was the nearest target for that anger.

But Larson was used to that. So I dont know, jefe. Ernesto was a good pilot, a good student. So was the other one, Cruz. The engines in the aircraft were practically newtwo hundred hours on each. The airframe was six years old, but thats nothing unusual; the aircraft was well maintained. Weather was okay all the way north, some scattered high clouds over the Yucatan Channel, nothing worse than that. The pilot shrugged. Aircraft disappear, jefe. One cannot always know why.

He is my cousin! What do I tell his mother?

Have you checked with any airfields in Mexico?

Yes! And Cuba, and Honduras, and Nicaragua!

No distress calls? No reports from ships or aircraft in the vicinity?

No, nothing. Escobedo moderated somewhat as Larson went through the possibilities, professional as ever.

If it was some sort of electrical failure, he might be down somewhere, but . . . I would not be hopeful, jefe. If they had landed safely, they would have let us know by now. I am sorry, jefe. He is probably lost. It has happened before. It will happen again.

One other possibility was that Ernesto and Cruz had made their own arrangements, had landed somewhere other than their intended destination, had sold their cargo of forty kilograms, and had decided to disappear, but that was not seriously considered. The question of drugs had not even been mentioned, because Larson was not really part of the operation, merely a technical consultant who had asked to be cut out of that aspect of the business. Escobedo trusted Larson to be honest and objective because he had always been so in the past, taking his money and doing his job well, and also because Larson was no foolhe knew the consequences of lying and double-dealing.

They were in Escobedos expensive condominium in Medellin. It occupied the entire top floor of the building. The floor immediately under this was occupied by Escobedos vassals and retainers. The elevator was controlled by people who knew who could pass and who could not. The street outside the building was watched. Larson reflected that at least he didnt have to worry about somebody stealing the hubcaps off his car. He also wondered what the hell had happened to Ernesto. Was it simply an accident of some sort? Such things had happened often enough. One reason for his position as flying instructor was that past smuggling operations had lost quite a few airplanes, often through the most prosaic of causes. But Larson was not a fool. He was thinking about recent visitors and recent orders from Langley; training at The Farm didnt encourage people to believe in coincidences. Some sort of op was about to run. Might this have been the opening move?

Larson didnt think so. CIA was years past that sort of thing, which was too bad, he thought, but a fact nonetheless.

He was a good pilot? Escobedo asked again.

I taught him myself, jefe. He had four hundred hours, good mechanical skills, and he was as good on instruments as a young pilot can be. The only thing that worried me about him was that he liked flying low.

Yes?

Flying low over water is dangerous, especially at night. It is too easy to become disoriented. You forget where the horizon is, and if you keep looking out of the windows instead of checking your instruments. . . . Experienced pilots have driven their airplanes right into the water that way. Unfortunately, flying very low is fun and many pilots, especially the young ones, think that it is also a test of manhood. That is foolish, as pilots learn with time.

A good pilot is a cautious pilot? Escobedo asked.

That is what I tell every student, Larson replied seriously. Not all of them believe me. It is true everywhere. You can ask instructors in any air force in the world. Young pilots make foolish mistakes because they are young and inexperienced. Judgment comes with experiencemost often through a frightening experience. Those who survive learn, but some do not survive.

Escobedo considered that for a few seconds.

He was a proud one, Ernesto. To Larson it sounded like an epitaph.

I will recheck the maintenance log of the aircraft, the pilot offered. And I will also review the weather data.

Thank you for coming in so quickly, Seor Larson.

I am at your service, jefe. If I learn anything, I will let you know.