Franken studied the threat display. They knew the position of the nearest SA-10 site—it just wasn’t transmitting yet. At two thousand feet, they were right at the edge of lethal coverage at this range. They could descend well below the missile’s engagement envelope, but then risk being heard from the ground. Only government and military aircraft were allowed to fly at night over Libya, and a big plane like a B-52 flying low to the ground well away from an airport would certainly attract attention. “Let’s leave it here for now,” Franken replied. “We’ll give it a few minutes and then—”

Suddenly a female voice from the threat warning receiver spoke: “Caution, search radar in acquisition mode, nine o'clock, thirty-seven miles, Patriot SAM."

“The Egyptian Patriot got us,” Lindsey said. “If the Libyans detect the Patriot system fired up, they’ll fire up their own radars.”

“Stepping down,” Franken said. He hit the voice command button on his control stick: “Set clearance plane to one thousand.”

“Clearance plane set one thousand feet, pitch mode auto TF," the flight control computer responded. Just then the computer reported, “Warning, Patriot SAM tracking, nine o'clock, thirty-six miles. . . Patriot SAM acquisition mode... warning, Patriot SAM tracking, nine o 'clock, thirty-five miles...”

“Dam it, he got us, he locked on,” Lindsey reported. “Let’s step it down to five hundred feet.”

“Caution, Patriot SAM acquisition mode...” But that brief lock-on, just three or four seconds, was all it took for the Libyan air defense sites to be alerted. “Caution, SA-10 SAM at ten o'clock, thirty miles, acquisition mode... warning, SA-10 SAM height-finder at ten o'clock, thirty miles...”

“Trackbreakers active,” Lindsey verified. “Let’s take it down to two hundred.”

“I didn’t expect to be flying hard TF so far out,” Franken said. “Here we go.” He issued commands, and the big bomber rumbled down until it was two hundred feet above the Mediterranean Sea.

“SA-10 SAM in acquisition mode," the computer reported.

“He knows we’re out here, but he can’t find us ... yet,” Franken said. “Linds, where are those fighters you saw earlier?”

Reeves activated the laser radar for a few seconds. “They’re on their way now,” she said. ‘Three aircraft headed our way at six hundred thirty knots, twenty-nine thousand feet. Less than six minutes out. No identification yet.”

“Not exactly burning up the program here, are we?” Franken deadpanned. “So much for the stealthy approach. We might end up fighting our way in.” There was no response from Lindsey—and when Franken turned to find out why, he noticed Lindsey vomiting into her barf bag. He reached across and grasped her shoulder. “You okay, Linds?”

Her eyes were wet with tears—obvious even in the dim red glow of the EB-52’s cockpit. “I... I don’t know,” she said weakly. “I’m ...”

“I need you, Linds. I can’t do this without you.”