Zen shook his head.

"You were on that island as long as I was," she said. Her face had flushed, her hands were on her hips, and her eyes had narrowed into slits. Zen knew she was mad, but he was furious as well.

"I wasn't knocked out in a coma," he told her.

"I'm better now. If you don't like it, tough." She turned and began stomping toward the hangar. Suddenly she stopped, spun around, and said, "And it's good to see you, too."

The people nearby tried pretending they hadn't noticed. Zen wheeled forward, angry that his wife was here, but not sure what he could do about it.

The door to the Command trailer opened, and he turned back as Colonel Bastian came down the ramp.

"Did you see her?" asked Zen.

"Who?"

"My wife."

"Breanna's here?"

"She's copiloting Boomer."

Dog frowned but said nothing.

"You think that's OK?" he asked.

"Did she check out medically?"

"She claims she did."

"It's not up to me," Dog said finally. "Come on. We have to get in the air."

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0015.

ALIN VODA KNELT NEXT TO THE PUMP HOUSE, HOLDING HIS son against his body to warm the boy. He was feeling the cold himself. At first adrenaline had kept him warm, then fear; now neither was sufficient as the temperature continued to drop toward freezing.

The dogs were below them, near the creek. He wasn't sure how much longer it would be before they picked up their scent and started up the hill. But even if the dogs couldn't track them, Voda knew that sooner or later the soldiers would begin a large-scale search through the woods. The sounds of trucks moving in the valley below filled the hills with a low rumble. There must be dozens if not hundreds of potential searchers.

The Americans had promised to help. Voda wasn't sure what that promise would yield, but at the moment it was all he had.

"They're coming up the hill," said Mircea. "What do we do?"

This was as far up the property as either of them had gone; Voda had no idea what was beyond. But they clearly couldn't stay here; if they did, they'd be discovered.

"Let's keep climbing," he said.

"Papa, I'm too tired," said Julian.

"You've got to get up!" shrieked Mircea, almost out of control and far too loud. "You've got to!"

"Sssshhh," said Voda. He leaned down and hoisted the boy up onto his back. It had been years since he'd carried him this way, long years.

"Are we going to die, Papa?"

"No, no," said Voda, starting to walk. A tune came into his head and he began to hum, gently, softly. He'd gone at least a dozen yards before he realized it was the old folk song that had started him on this path.

Iasi Airfield, Romania

0020.

COLONEL BASTIAN'S FATIGUE LIFTED AS HE WATCHED THE ground crew top off the Bennett's fuel tanks. Dog gave them a thumbs-up, then ducked under the belly and watched as the ordies-the bomb ordinance specialists-removed the safety pins and made sure the last Scorpion AMRAAM-plus was ready to be fired. There were four Scorpions and four Sidewinders on the revolving dispenser.

"How's it lookin', boys?" he asked.

"Ready for action, Colonel," said one of the crew dogs. "You want missiles on the wingtips?"

"No time. We have to get into the air."

"Yes, sir."

Not one of the three ground-crew members was legally old enough to drink, but each had a huge responsibility on his shoulders. Dog and the rest of the members of EB-52 Johnson were putting their lives in their hands.

"Ready for your walk-around, Colonel?" asked Technical Sergeant Chance Duluth.

"Where's Greasy Hands?" Dog asked. Parsons was the crew chief; Chance was his a.s.sistant.

"Chief Parsons is over straightening something out with Boomer, Colonel. He sends his regrets."

"Along with how many four letter words?" Dog asked, walking toward the front of the plane.

"Quite a few."

Chance-his name inevitably led to many poor puns-had worked under Parsons for many years. He had inherited the chief master sergeant's fastidious attention to detail, if not his gently cantankerous manner. Where Greasy Hands would frown, Chance would turn his head sideways, smile, and say, "Hmmm."

Dog was anxious to get airborne; the Osprey had already taken off, and the B-1s would shortly. He moved quickly through the preflight inspection, examining the exterior of the plane from its nose gear to the lights atop its V-shaped tail. In truth, he trusted the crew implicitly, and probably could have skipped the walk-around without feeling any less safe. But the inspection was as much ritual as examination, and it would have somehow felt disrespectful to the ground crew not to look over their work.

"d.a.m.n good job," said Dog loudly when he was done. "d.a.m.n good."

"Thank you, Colonel," said Chance. He'd probably heard that particular compliment a few hundred times, but his face still flushed with pride.

Dog was just about to go up the ramp into the belly of the plane when Zen rolled up.

"Beauty before age," Dog told the Flighthawk pilot.

"Oh yeah," said Zen, backing into the special lift hooks fitted to the ladder. "I'm feeling real beautiful tonight."

As Zen disappeared into the belly, Dog heard Breanna calling behind him. He turned around. She had her helmet and flight gear under her arm.

"Aren't you supposed to be getting ready to take off?" Dog asked her.

"They had a glitch and had to repack the computer memory. I have five minutes to..."

Her voice trailed off.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"I just wanted-to talk to Zen."

"You have something to say to Zen, you better hurry. I'm taking off as soon as I buckle my seat belt."

"Thanks, Daddy." She kissed him and scampered up the ramp.

Dog shook his head. He hated when she called him Daddy while he was working.

ZEN LOOKED UP, STARTLED TO HEAR HIS WIFE'S VOICE behind him.

"What are you doing here?" he said. "Come to see how the other half live?"

"I don't want you mad at me," said Breanna. "I don't want to go on a mission with things between us-with things the way we left them."

"I'm not mad," he said.

"Yes you are. You think I should have stayed home. In bed."

"I do think that," he said.

"And you're mad. I can hear it in your voice. It's angry."

"I'm not mad." But even while saying this, Zen heard his tone. She was right; he did sound angry. "I'm mad a little."

"Just a little?"

He started to laugh. That was the problem with being in love with Breanna-you just couldn't be mad at her, no matter how hard you tried, or how justified you were.

"I guess I'm mad at you, but I'm not really mad at you," he told her. "I do love you. A lot."

She came close and hugged him, wrapping her arms around his head.

"What's with the parachute gear?" she asked, noticing that his emergency equipment was different.

"It's the new gizmo Annie Klondike worked up. I told you about it. MESSKIT."

"Is it ready?"

"More than ready," he told her. "Come on, now, get lost. We gotta get goin'."

"I'm out of here. Kick some b.u.t.t."

Breanna smiled at him, then disappeared down the ladder to the tarmac.

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

0030.

THE MIG PILOT, CONFIDENT THAT HE'D SHAKEN THE FLIGHTHAWKS and knowing that the Romanian air defenses could not touch him, backed off on his speed in order to conserve fuel for the long trip home. He was at 15,000 feet, descending gradually, no doubt intending to glide right at his target, Starship thought, pop up as he pickled his bombs, then gun north over the border and head home.

As long as he stayed on his present course, Hawk Four would meet him exactly eight miles from his target-roughly a mile and a half before the MiG was in range to fire the air-to-ground missiles. And as an added bonus, Hawk Three would come back into Starship's control a few seconds later. The enemy plane would be caught between the two Flighthawks, its escape routes cut off.

A perfect plan, except for the fact that the Bennett was jinking hard to duck a pair of radar-seeking missiles.

The Russian weapons were Kh-131A radar-seeking mini-Moshkits. Based on the air-to-ground Kh-31P, the large anti-radiation missile used two stages: a standard solid-rocket engine for the first stage, with a jet engine taking over for the final stage. The jet engine was no ordinary power plant; it gave the missile an enormous burst of speed on its final approach, propelling the warhead to Mach 4.5. The acceleration was designed to make the missile more difficult for antimissile systems such as the Patriot to intercept.