They’d taught her more about Iranian airspace than seemed possible. And she’d mastered craft she might be called upon to use to ferry operator and asset out. There were commercial planes—Airbus, Boeing, old Fokker, ancient Tupolev. She was hoping the asset would turn out to be once and for all dead, and all she’d have to do would be fly below radar on a little Sky Arrow with the ISA operator in the back seat.

They’d done what they could to learn the new Russian S-300 antiaircraft system Iran was rumored to have in place. It was laughable, really—they needed a fighter wing for an escort if they were genuinely expected to get out of Iran in a jacked Boeing or Fokker. The best thing would be being lucky enough to find a two-seat training MiG. Maybe the Iranian asset could sit on the operator’s lap.

It had all taken on a hapless quality. Maybe it was because she didn’t believe she’d be chosen over the other pilot. The woman was a punishing competitor. Whenever Mary accomplished a milestone in the training, this girl was sure to tell her that she’d completed it weeks before. When they were at Fort Bragg, it was obvious her rival had passed the eighteen-mile all-night land-navigation course carrying a thirty-five-pound rucksack in record time. Mary had to do the forty-mile march with a ruck lighter than the normal forty-five pounds. She was just too small. This girl could handle the male-required weight. She didn’t let Mary forget it.

A car and a private named Jeff Halliday met Mary at National. She was in full dress uniform. Even after five hours in a seat, the uniform felt stiff and unforgiving in the sun. It seemed hot for a June morning, and, unlike Nellis in Nevada, heavy-clammy.

She’d been occupied much of the flight with thoughts of Frank and her last telephone conversation with Clara. She planned to stay with Clara and the kids tonight, and, depending on her orders and the outcome of this meeting, they’d all visit Frank together as soon as possible. Clara didn’t want Mary to be alone when she made her first visit to him in all these months.

Clara said he’d come in and out of the coma a few weeks ago, but each time he appeared mostly unaware of his surroundings. It wasn’t clear if he could hear. It seemed his sight was intact. But he had not spoken. His motor coordination was poor. He was tube-fed, and his overall condition was guarded. He weighed less than Mary or Clara. “Angela calls him ‘baby daddy,’” Clara had said. “It sounds awful, I know. I can’t get her to stop.”