“Coming up on it, Outlaw,” said a voice in my ear. It was the voice of my second-in-command, Bradley “Top” Sims. Combat call sign was Pappy because he was the oldest active shooter in the RTI. Oldest, not weakest or slowest. No, sir.

“Going in,” I said, and I tilted the MotorKite to spill wind. Ghost, dangling from a harness, wriggled against my thighs. He likes this part of it. Idiot dog likes parachutes, hang gliders, and these kites. I, as a rule, do not.

I angled down and followed just behind a wave, my boots less than a yard above the creamy white foam. The wave broke, and I touched down as it began to slide back, landing with short running steps. I made it to the high-tide line and knelt, popping the harness release to let Ghost jump down. He moved off a dozen yards and then stopped, raising his head, ears high, nose sniffing the breeze. I kept my hands on the MotorKite’s controls until I heard a soft whuff.

All clear.

I killed the motor.

“Havoc Actual to Havoc Team,” I said quietly, “down and safe. Split two and two on my three and nine.”

They came in like pelicans, gliding softly, landing on either side of me, switching off their machines. We all detached from the cradles of straps and immediately collapsed the MotorKites. They folded up like beach umbrellas, and we pulled canvas bags, thrust them inside, and buried them quickly in the soft sand farther up the beach.

“On me,” I said, and they clustered around, taking up stations like compass points, looking both ways along the beach, out to sea, and inland. Each one of them murmured an all clear.

“Weapons check,” ordered Top, and there were a few quick movements as guns were unslung, magazines secured. Hands patted the various pockets to make sure nothing had been lost in flight. We’d come armed with a lot of nasty little toys.

I tapped my coms unit to cycle onto the main channel with the TOC—the Tactical Operations Center—where Church, Wilson, Bug, Doc Holliday, and a room crammed with mission specialists were waiting.

“Havoc is on the deck,” I said.

“Copy that, Outlaw,” said Wilson. “Good hunting.”

Unless they had a reason to speak, the TOC would remain quiet so as not to distract us with chatter.

“Jackpot,” I said, using the call sign for Andrea Bianchi, our utility infielder, “get some birds in the air.”