“Bud, this is Zero. Is our tail clear? We’re losing our electronic countermeasures system. What’s your status?” No reply. “Where are they, Gonzo?”

“No sign of ’em,” Wickland replied.

“What?” Tanaka switched one of his multifunction displays to the LADAR tactical view. There were no aircraft at all within fifty miles. “Oh shit, they’re gone. All of them—the fighters and the Dragon. They must’ve taken each other out.”

“They’re dead?” Both men fell silent. Then Wickland checked his display again. “Holy shit—a target in the air, but almost hovering. I’m getting another LADAR shot.” Wickland activated the laser radar again, then magnified the new target. Neither of them could believe their eyes—it was the first time they had ever seen something like this on a laser radar display. “My God, it’s a parachute! Someone in a parachute! I can’t believe it! What do we do? What can we do?”

“We turn around and follow it down, then hope there are some friendlies we can send into the area in case it’s one of ours,” Tanaka said. “I have a feeling it’s one of our guys— judging by how slow it’s going down, I’ll bet it’s Lindsey Reeves. At this rate, she’ll be falling all night. My God, I wonder what went wrong.. .

OVER THE PRESIDENTIAL PA LAC E, TRIPOLI, UNITED KINGDOM OF LIBYA

THAT SAME TIME

“Twenty right,” Hal Briggs said. The pilot of the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor assault aircraft banked in response. Briggs was studying the data display on the electronic visor of his Tin Man battle armor’s helmet, watching the range and bearing of his objective countdown as they flew closer. They had followed the clear path of destruction created by the second Megafortress and had zoomed in at treetop level right to the Presidential Palace, virtually unmolested. “Five more right.. . hold it. Range point four hundred meters ... three hundred ... steady at three hundred . .. steady at three hundred.”

“Matches range to the rooftop,” the copilot reported, checking the range straight ahead displayed on his targeting visor. After checking the range, he switched his targeting visor to slave the chin turret and infrared sensor and used the twenty-millimeter Gatling gun in the turret to force down any small-arms fire from security units on the roof he could see.

“Make a couple holes,” Briggs said. “Night Stalkers, stand by.”

The pilot activated his weapons panel and selected “HELLFIRE.” Two weapons pods unstowed themselves from the left and right landing gear sponsons. He activated the missiles and squeezed a trigger. One Hellfire laser- guided missile from each weapon pod shot out from its canister, and together the missiles and their twenty-pound penetrating warheads blew a large hole in the roof of the Presidential Palace. The pilot swung the MV-22’s nose to the right, and he made a second hole about fifty feet from the first with two more missiles.