“Crap,” Flynn muttered. Somebody out there was definitely controlling access to this area—making it off-limits to any but able-bodied young men. That almost certainly spelled trouble. Turning quickly, he half trotted, half slid back down the dune’s loose slope.

He found White supervising his team’s activity near the tail of the wrecked C-130.

“What is it this time, Captain?” the gray-haired intelligence officer snapped in exasperation. “I thought I made it clear that this is my bailiwick, not yours.”

With an effort, Flynn controlled his temper. “We may have bigger problems than jurisdictional squabbles, Mr. White,” he said evenly.

“Such as?” the other man asked skeptically.

Rapidly, Flynn ran through his observations and his reasoning. “It’s likely this aircraft was deliberately brought down here, either by a missile or a bomb. And my bet is that whoever’s responsible is gathering a force to finish the job,” he concluded. “Which means we’re all in the crosshairs.”

“And you’re basing this remarkable theory solely on the absence of women and children watching us work?” White said in disbelief. “For God’s sake, man, get a grip. The nearby clans are primitive herdsmen. They’re also devout Muslims. So it’s hardly surprising that they’re discouraging their wives and young children from mingling with armed infidels like us—especially since as far as they know we’re recovering the mangled victims of an air crash.” His lip curled slightly. “I suggest you calm down. The last thing any of us need is for you to go off half-cocked and provoke some unfortunate incident.”

With that parting shot, he waved a hand in dismissal. “Consider your concerns noted, Captain. Now, if you don’t mind, I have serious work to do.” Then he turned away to confer with one of his paramilitary contractors who’d been planting demolition charges.

It took almost every ounce of self-control Flynn possessed to stop himself from just hauling off and decking the black ops team leader. Instead, he took a deep breath, spun on his heel, and headed toward the landed HH-60W at a rapid clip. If, as he suspected, shit was about to get real here, he needed to make sure Dykstra, Kasper, and the others were clued in and alert.

He came around the tail section of the C-130 and saw the gray-painted helicopter sitting peacefully on its landing gear. The soles of Bill Wade’s boots were visible through the open side doors. While they were grounded, the flight engineer had some equipment panel popped up to run a routine maintenance check. But Dykstra and Kasper weren’t hanging out near the cockpit, where he’d expected to see them.

Instead, the two pilots had moved off a few yards nearer to the edge of the massive sand dune—ostentatiously positioning themselves between the bird and some of the white-robed tribesmen who were now drifting closer down the slope while talking loudly and exchanging broad, cheerful gestures. Both Dykstra and Kasper had their hands on the M4A1 carbines slung from their battle gear. They were very carefully not pointing them at the locals. Yet. But they were clearly focused on any possible threat from the men approaching the helicopter.