But his shouts of frustration echoed pointlessly across the sky, and Jean-Paul raced onward, without concern. The dogfight had delayed the French Agent, and while the five planes had ravaged each other, Jack and Martin had flown by unheeded, their stealthy plane soaring far ahead to carry on its mission of mercy.

Well, you conspiring bastards, thought Jean-Paul, your mission of mercy be damned.

There was a stirring behind him as Serge Latral started to come to, and with utter contempt for the other pilot and his entire race, Jean-Paul ripped a small piece of metal from the underside of his chair and slung it over his shoulder with massive force. The jagged metal slammed into Serge’s neck just under his chin, semi-decapitating him and pinning his head back against the chair. The man never knew what had hit him. His blood spurted from under his lolling head, spraying the back of the cabin with thick red spurts.

The final beats of the man’s heart sent gobs of it up to splatter the glass dome. Jean-Paul flew onward, a smear of gore behind him to symbolize the death in his wake as he closed in on Martin and Jack.

* * *

Major Jack Toranssen crouched in the rear section of the B-2’s flight deck and tried to reason with the recently awoken pilots that still lay bound there. He understood their anger more than they could know, but his patience was starting to wear thin. He had explained their situation to them as clearly and concisely as he could, but he was moments away from knocking them out again, anything to stop their insistent shouting and bickering.

“Look,” he said, trying to keep his frustration under check, “it boils down to this: you can be angry all you like. You can shout and scream and force me to knock you out again. Or you can accept that something has happened that pisses you off royally, but that a decorated US Air Force major from your own unit is telling you that it is more justified than you can possibly grasp, and is trying to give you a chance to face this awake and conscious, instead of in a dribbling lump on the flight deck floor. Either way, I am afraid I don’t give a shit anymore. I have to get back to the mission, so here is your choice … either shut the fuck up or I will knock you the fuck out.”