Morgan, hand over his mouth, willed a thought to Newcombe. The fuck you think you're doing?

Beyond the Mitsubishis and well ahead of Tucker's scout, the darkened outline of the Shenandoah swung back into view, backlit by a thousand stars.

"Turn around, damn it," Newcombe hollered into his transceiver. "Turn."

Morgan watched as Tucker's biplane jagged left, then right, sweeping back towards the Shenandoah's hangar. The first Mitsubishi opened fire. Orange-yellow tracer raked the scout's wingtips, a torrent of flame spewed from its port engine. Tucker's biplane skewed crazily.

"Shit." Newcombe spat out the word.

The cabin filled with light. The Shenandoah loomed before them, all her lights suddenly ablaze. Newcombe jerked the control column forwards.

A dark shadow whipped overhead in a screaming rush.

"What the hell?" Newcombe threw his body to starboard, leaning hard on the stick.

The bright flash of an explosion seared Morgan's vision. The scout was buffeted by a wave of turbulence, tossing him against his restraint. Before them, outlined in red flame, the fuselage of a plane spiralled downwards in a shower of fragments.

"Newcombe, you okay?" A voice crackled over the radio transceiver.

"Tucker, you bastard. I thought you'd bought the farm. What the hell happened?"

"I happened, you dumb fucks."

Morgan looked up to see Rose's scout burst through a cloud of smoke and debris. Its arrester cable swung wildly below it, shredded rope where the hook should have been.

Hardas said, "I don't fucking believe it."

Morgan gave him a confused look.

"Rose was in the hangar the whole damn time," Hardas explained. "When the Shenandoah hit her lights, he could come out as slow as he liked. The japs couldn't see him for glare."

"Come out with what? He had no weapons."

"He had an arrester hook."

Morgan pictured the hook's blade slicing through the enemy pilot's cockpit. He wanted to throw up.

"Hate to break up the reunion, but my port engine's gone," Tucker's voice announced. "I'm losing juice here by the gallon."

"Copy that," Newcombe replied. He manoeuvred the biplane so they were flying above and to the right of the injured aircraft. "I see it. I'll give you some cover."

"Where's that other jap? My radar's out."

"Looks like he's coming back for seconds," Rose cut in.

"We got to climb, climb, climb. Can you do it, Tucker?"

"Negative. Losing power here."

Newcombe swore. Morgan followed his gaze.

Rose's plane had completed its turn and was dropping down to take up Tucker's other flank. The Shenandoah was well behind them now and rising fast. Silhouetted in her light, the remaining Mitsubishi was closing in.

"Think it's time we lightened our load." Tucker's voice, warped by static, almost sounded amused.

"Sounds good to me," Newcombe replied.

Morgan glanced at Hardas who shrugged back at him.

The flames were out on Tucker's scout but thick smoke still surged in its wake. All three biplanes were flying in loose formation.

"Wait for it." The distortion barely hid Tucker's desperation.

The Mitsubishi was slowly gaining on them. Strands of tracer filled the sky as it drew a bead on its prey.

"Now." Tucker's plane dipped and rose in a shower of white. Refuse spun and unravelled in its trail.

Newcombe hit the cargo release and Morgan felt the plane lurch as the cargo doors swung back and snapped away at their hinges. All three of the biplanes began a steady climb. The Mitsubishi was obscured by the expanding cloud of toilet paper that formed behind them.

"Guys, I've got about forty-five minutes usable left." Tucker's voice was strained. "I'm going to have to turn back or ditch."

"Major Kennedy, do you copy? Over." A fresh voice broke into the conversation.

There was a moment's hesitation before Morgan heard the reply.

"Shenandoah, this is Scout One. We copy. Over." Kennedy sounded edgy.

"That was one hell of a show, Major. Suggest you make your course northeast to Clark's Harbour and hole up with the Canadians till the smoke clears. Over."

"Sounds swell, Shenandoah," Newcombe cut in, "but we still have a bandit on our tail. Over."

For long moments there was no response. There was an explosion of feedback and the transmission resumed. "... those other four Mitsubishis returning, now north and east of your position at fifteen thou. Long range is picking up another flight just out of Paterson, heading due west. They're moving a lot faster than those Fuck Yous. My co-pilot thinks they're Mitsubishi FS-Zs, and I'm inclined to agree."

"Interceptors," Hardas said incredulously. "They're sending interceptors."

Newcombe toggled the instrument panel. "Shenandoah, this is Scout Two. Say again. I repeat, say again. Over."

Static, and then: "... bunch of bogeys bearing three-ten degrees, distance twenty-five miles and closing at eight thousand feet. Eagles at ten. Just beyond visual from here. Should make things interesting. Good luck, boys. Over and out."

"Jesus. Where the fuck did they come from?" Newcombe slammed a fist against the canopy. "Those interceptors aren't for us. There's a whole wing of German fighters heading our way. We hold formation and we're caught between them. We break, and Tucker's gone."

Morgan felt faint. The back of Newcombe's head swam in and out of focus. His stomach lurched throatwards as the plane swung a loop.

Tucker's biplane was ahead of them now, its port engine sputtering like a roman candle. Lines of tracer fire hounded their new trajectory like shooting stars. Morgan squinted past them into the glittering night sky. He watched as the trailing Mitsubishi fired a final round and peeled away. Watched as more than a score of lights winked into hazy existence.

Newcombe activated his radio again. "I'm getting multiple signatures here, but I can't get a friend-or-foe ID. I make at least three wings. You see that, Rose?"

"Affirmative. Low and to the west, low observables. No wonder we didn't spot 'em on radar. Friend or foe, my ass, look at that formation. They're Krauts alright. Carrier-based."

"They're coming in low," Newcombe replied. "Making a silent run."

"They're headed for Manhattan," Hardas said.

"Need some quiet here, boys." It was Tucker again. "The major's going to try something."

Kennedy's German was flawless. The response, when it came, was lukewarm by any standard.

Hardas turned to Morgan, peering at him expectantly.

"The major gave them a head's up on the jap interceptors. He told them who we are," Morgan explained. "He asked for sanctuary. They're thinking about it."

The German formation broke. One by one, the lights ahead flickered, then vanished. The Japanese interceptors wouldn't know what hit them.

Newcombe tapped his phones and turned to Hardas, saying, "We've got the green light from the Germans. I've got their coordinates."

"Scout Two, Scout Three, this is Kennedy. We're not going to reach that flotilla, so we're using this cover to head back. We're making for the ranch. You find a faster way to the Rock, you take it. You don't hear from us by the twenty-seventh, you keep on going, and God speed you. Over and out."

Morgan watched as Kennedy's plane began its turn, wondering if he would ever see them again.

"What's the ranch?" Newcombe asked.

"It's a ranch," Hardas replied.

"What's the Rock?"

"It's a goddamned rock."

"How am I supposed to get paid if your boss is hightailing it back to the mainland?"

"I've got your share."

"I didn't count on hooking up with the German fleet."

"I can get you more, once we're down south."

"God bless the CBI," Newcombe said. He leaned back hard on the control column, easing out the throttle. "Let's see what this crate can do."

Morgan turned in his seat to face the rear of the cockpit. There was no sign of the Shenandoah now. No sign of the other scouts either. There was a bright flash in the distance. Then another.

"Air-to-air missiles," Hardas said.

Twin pinpricks of bright flame blinked on and off in a rapid sequence across the sky.

"After-burners," Hardas said.

The night exploded in streaks of fire. The clash of distant thunder and cottonwool bursts of yellow hung in the air like newly formed constellations. Ten minutes later, a final broadcast from Kennedy rattled through the transceiver.

"Looks like they're going to make it," Hardas said with a grunt.

It was two hours before Morgan made out the luminescent V of a carrier's wake.

Scout Three had been climbing for ten minutes. Threads of yellow fire cobwebbed across the night sky below.

"We need to turn around," Shine said. "Escort the major back to the mainland."

"One scout might make it in all this heat," Rose replied. "Two is just too damn risky."

Shine considered coercing the pilot. He said, "I need to go south."

"Where's this ranch supposed to be?"

Shine envisioned the lake's edge, the dense forests, the hot springs where the steam rose in a veil of fine mist. "It's in Arkansas," he replied.

"I'll get you there, but for now the safest place is neutral ground."

"What about the carrier group?"

"No arrester hook, no deck landings. I'm thinking of taking the Shenandoah's advice."

"Meaning?"

"Ever been to Quebec?"

They were flying so low that Lightholler could see the whitecaps form and fade on the ocean's surface. A nor'westerly whipped the choppy swell below them. In the distance a lone lighthouse swept the waters with bright glances. Beyond, the coast rose formless and black on the horizon.

No words had been exchanged since they'd sighted land, and that was twenty minutes ago.

"I'm going to find us a nice patch of highway and set us down," Tucker announced. "I don't much like our chances of getting clearance to land on the Jersey turnpike, and I don't know how much further this bird is going to fly."

Lightholler leaned back in his seat. The shore ahead, jagged and glistening, transformed into an icy glacier beckoning them on.

INTERLUDE.

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations.

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I.