“You’re worried about Howe,” said the President.

“Yes, of course.”

“There’s no question he’s the right man for the job,” said the President. “It comes down to the people on the line. He’s the right man.”

“I don’t disagree,” said Blitz.

“Besides, this will remind him of how important duty is.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’ll take your job,” said the President.

“That’s the least of my worries right now.”

The smile flickered as the mask of command once more took over the President’s face. “Are we set, then?”

“Everything’s in place,” said Blitz. He looked across the room to Colonel Thos and nodded.

“They’re waiting to hear from you at the Pentagon, Mr. President,” said Thos.

The MC-130 banked hard to the right, its wingtips coming within a few meters of the hillside. Turbulence off the rift in the earth pushed the aircraft downward, threatening disaster; the pilot had only a few feet to work with as he slipped the big four-engined craft through a hole in the North Korean air defenses. All the high-tech radar detectors and GPS locators in the world couldn’t overcome the basic laws of gravity and motion, and as the Hercules came through the narrow mountain pass the success of the mission and the lives of two dozen passengers and crew came down to the reflexes of the man at the helm, a veteran Air Force pilot who had passed up a parcel of supposedly better assignments to stay with the Herky birds and the Special Operations soldiers who relied on them.

Back in the cargo hold of the plane, Tyler waited with his team members as the plane stuttered over the terrain. He checked his watch. They had about ten more minutes of flying time before they would reach the drop zone. He knew from experience those would be among the longest minutes of his life.

And the shortest.

He’d been right to insist on the assignment, and lucky to get it.

Of course, if they augered in right now, he’d be neither. The plane’s nose bucked downward and the entire craft seemed to shift to the right, leaving Tyler temporarily hovering in space. His momentum caught up with that of the plane’s a second later, and he felt his boots slap against the metal decking. His stomach sloshed up somewhere around his gallbladder, then pressed against his lungs.

He’d made the right choice. Definitely.

“Almost there!” he shouted confidently to the rest of the team. “Almost there.”

The canopy exploded above him, its cells ripped open by the rushing wind. Tyler fought not so much to control the parachute but to control himself: He had a tendency to pull too sharply on the steering togs.

He could see the others nearby. Good chutes.

He wanted the ground but couldn’t see it. He waited, the hardest thing.

Where the hell was it?

The plane had to crisscross back overhead, flying an extremely narrow corridor where the North Koreans couldn’t find it on radar. A mile either way and not only would it be shot down but Duke and the twenty-two people who’d come out with him would be hung out to dry.

So where the hell was the ground already?

Tyler saw shadows and braced himself, trying simultaneously to relax and brace for the landing at the same time.

It didn’t come. It wouldn’t.

Too fucking long. A lot of guys wanted the jump to go on forever, or so they said; he was always anxious for it to end.

He was off balance now, unsure what the hell was going on.

More shadows. He braced again.

Nothing.

And then the ruck thumped behind him. His right leg touched down a millisecond before the left; he screwed it up, lost his balance, fell to the right instead of walking off like a champ. If this were a training film he’d be the shitful example, tumbling onto the ground, the idiot who did everything wrong, got his head messed up, doubted the equipment, dragged along on the ground as the chute inflated with the wind.

His fingers fumbled against the restraint snaps.

He was eating dirt. His face bashed against the rocks.

Three months in Washington and I’m this far out of it?

Tyler ignored the bumps and bruises, rolling up his chute and trying to hide the damage to his ego.

The team leaders quickly gathered their men together. Besides eighteen Army Special Forces soldiers-one and a half A teams-they’d taken along two Air Force air commandos with special training so they could refuel the aircraft if necessary. They also had two CIA people with them, a female officer and a native Korean agent, who could provide assistance as well. The agent had some familiarity with the terrain and would be useful in case things went very wrong; had the CIA version of the plan been approved, they’d have been here alone.

Tyler wasn’t the only one who had trouble landing. One of the soldiers had broken his arm but insisted he could travel. Tyler ’s first call was whether to let him or not.

An easy call: The man could still walk.

“You’re with us,” said the major. “All right, let’s move out.”

He checked his AK-47. The team had been equipped with Korean weapons and uniforms; most of the men had Asian backgrounds and they might be able to at least temporarily fool an enemy patrol.

Temporarily.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” repeated Tyler. “We have twenty miles to travel tonight.”

HELLO AMANDA

RECEIVED YOUR INSTRUCTIONS. THANK YOU! I WILL GO TO THE AIRFIELD EVERY NIGHT STARTING TONIGHT.

STILL NOT BEING GUARDED.

I HAVE PRAYED TO BE DELIVERED. I LONG TO LIVE IN FREEDOM. GOD BLESS YOU FOR YOUR HELP.

____________________ Headers ____________________

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From the outside, the Berkut looked like a Sukhoi with its wings on backward.

From the inside, it felt like a splinter that could change directions in the wink of God’s eye.

The other man who had flown the plane compared it to a lighter, longer F/A-18; one of the engineers who’d been in the backseat thought it closer to an ancient F-104 Starfighter that could maneuver like an A-10A Warthog. Howe had flown the F/A-18 only once (it was a Navy plane) and had never sat in the cockpit of the Starfighter, which was retired long before he had joined the service. He’d also never flown an A-10A. His main comparison was therefore the heavily modified F-16 that he’d used to familiarize himself with the Berkut before strapping himself inside; the S-37/B was slightly faster and so twisty that it was easy for the plane to get ahead of the pilot during high-g maneuvers, becoming essentially uncontrollable. The nose of the plane had a tendency to shoot up during a hard turn, and despite all of the engineering it remained at least theoretically possible to jam the Berkut so tightly at high speed that the divergent forces of lift, gravity, and momentum would snap off the forward winglets.