So I crawled into the sack, and we snuggled together, arms and legs intertwined. The sheets were cool and crisp, the pillow and mattress were firm, and so was Kate Mayfield. This was better than nodding off in my chair in front of the TV.

The big brain was falling asleep, but the little brain was wide awake, which sometimes happens. She got on top of me and buried the bishop. I totally passed out at some point, and had a very realistic dream about having sex with Kate Mayfield.

Asad Khalil watched the countryside slip by beneath the aircraft as the old Piper Apache cruised at 7,500 feet through clear skies, heading northeast, toward Long Island.

Bill Satherwaite informed his passenger, "We have a nice tailwind, so we're making good time."

"Excellent." The tailwind has stolen some time from your life.

Bill Satherwaite said, "So, as I was saying, this was the longest jet fighter attack mission ever attempted. And the F-lll isn't exactly comfortable."

Khalil sat quietly and listened.

Satherwaite continued, "The fucking French wouldn't let us fly over their country. But the Italians were okay-said we could abort in Sicily if we had to. So, in my book, you guys are okay."

"Thank you."

Norfolk, Virginia, was passing beneath them, and Satherwaite took the opportunity to point out the United States naval facility off the right wing. "Look-there's the fleet-you see those two aircraft carriers in their berths? See them?"

"Yes."

"Navy did a good job for us that night. They didn't see any action, but just knowing they were out there to cover us on our way back from the attack was a big confidence booster."

"Yes, I can understand that."

"But as it turned out, the chickenshit Libyan Air Force didn't follow us out after we'd completed our attack." He added, "Their pilots were probably hiding under their beds, pissing in their drawers." He laughed.

Khalil recalled his own episode of incontinence with shame and anger. He cleared his throat and said, "I seem to remember that one of the American aircraft was shot down by the Libyan Air Force."

"No way. They never got off the ground."

"But you lost an aircraft-correct?"

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, "Yeah, we lost one aircraft, but a lot of us are pretty sure that the guy just screwed up his attack-he got too low and hit the water on his run-in to the beach."

"Perhaps he was shot down by a missile, or by antiaircraft fire."

Again, Satherwaite glanced at his passenger. He said, "Their air defenses sucked. I mean, they had all this high-tech stuff from the Russkies, but they didn't have the brains or the balls to use it." Satherwaite reconsidered this remark, then added, "But there really was a lot of Triple-A and SAMs coming up at us. I had to take evasive action from the SAMs, you know, but with the Triple-A, all you can do is charge on, right through it."

"You were very brave."

"Hey, just doing my job."

"And you were the first aircraft to fly into Al Azziziyah?"

"Yeah. Lead aircraft… hey, did I say Al Azziziyah?"

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah?" Satherwaite didn't recall using that word, which he could hardly pronounce. "Anyway, my wizo-weapons officer-Chip… can't use last names-but he tosses four, scores three directs, and fucks up the last one, but he hit something."

"What did he hit?"

"I don't know. After-action satellite photos showed… maybe some barracks or houses-no secondary explosions, so it wasn't what he was supposed to hit, which was an old Italian munitions storage building. Who cares? He hit something. Hey, do you know how we get a body count? Satellite recon counts arms and legs and divides by four." He laughed.

Asad Khalil felt his heart beating rapidly, and he prayed to God for self-control. He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. This man, he realized, had killed his family. He saw images of his brothers, Esam and Qadir, his sisters, Adara and Lina, and his mother, smiling at him from Paradise, enfolding her four children in her arms. She was nodding, and her lips were moving-but he couldn't hear what she was saying, though he knew she was proud of him and was encouraging him to finish the task of avenging their deaths.

He opened his eyes and looked at the blue sky ahead of him. A single brilliant white cloud hung outside at eye level, and somehow he knew this cloud held his family.

He thought, too, of his father, whom he barely remembered, and said silently to him, "Father, I will make you proud."

Then, he thought of Bahira, and it suddenly struck him that this monster sitting next to him had actually been responsible for her death.

Bill Satherwaite said, "I wish I'd had the Gadhafi run. That was Paul's target, the lucky bastard. I mean, we weren't sure that Arab asshole would be in that military compound that night, but our G-2 guys thought he was.

You're not supposed to assassinate heads of state. Some kind of stupid law-I think that pussy Carter signed the law. Can't try to kill heads of state. Bullshit. You can bomb the shit out of civilians, but you can't kill the boss. But Reagan had a ton more balls than pussy Carter, so Ronnie says, 'Go for it,' and Paul draws the hot ticket. You understand? His wizo was this guy Jim, who lives on Long Island. Paul finds Gadhafi's house, no problem, and Jim puts a big one right on target. Bye, bye house. But fucking Gadhafi is sleeping in a fucking tent out back or someplace-Did I tell you this? Anyway, he escapes with nothing more than shit and piss on himself."

Asad Khalil drew another deep breath and said, "But his daughter was killed, you said."

"Yeah… rough break. But typical of how this fucking world works. Right? I mean, they tried to kill Hitler with a bomb, a bunch of people around him get pureed, and fucking Hitler walks away with a singed mustache. So, what's God thinking? You know? This little girl gets killed, we look bad, and the head scumbag walks away."

Khalil did not reply.

"Hey, the other hot ticket was drawn by another squadron. Did I tell you about that? This other squadron has some targets right in Tripoli, and one of the targets is the French Embassy. Now, nobody ever admitted to that, and it was supposed to be a mistake, but one of our guys plants one right in the backyard of the French Embassy. Didn't want to kill anybody, and it was early A.M., so nobody should be around there, and nobody was. But think about that-we hit Gadhafi's house, and he's in the backyard. Then we hit the backyard of the French Embassy on purpose, but nobody's in the embassy anyway. See my point? What if it had been reversed? Allah was watching over that asshole that night. Makes you wonder."

Khalil felt his hands trembling, and his body began to shake. If they had been on the ground, he would have killed this blasphemous dog with his bare hands. He closed his eyes and prayed.

Satherwaite went on, "I mean, the French are our good buddies, our allies, but they went pussy on us and wouldn't let us fly over their territory, so we showed them that accidents can happen when flight crews have to fly extra hours and get a little tired." Satherwaite laughed hard. "Just an accident. Excusez moil"

He laughed again and added, "Did Ronnie have balls or what? We need another guy like that in the White House. Bush was a fighter pilot. You know that? Got shot down by the Japs in the Pacific. He was an okay guy. Then we get that ball-less wonder from East Chicken Shit, Arkansas -you follow politics?"

Khalil opened his eyes and replied, "As a guest in your country, I do not make comments on American politics."

"Yeah? I guess not. Anyway, the fucking Libyans got what they deserved for bombing that disco."

Khalil stayed silent a moment, then commented, "This was all so long ago, yet you seem to remember it all quite well."