Howe tucked downward momentarily, half-rolling his wings and then cutting back, making the slinky Berkut into a skyborne corkscrew. The maneuvers were far tighter than anything the MiG-a decent knife fighter itself-could manage, and within a few seconds the plane appeared above and then beyond his canopy. The MiG driver pushed right, but Howe wasn’t about to let him turn inside him; he stayed glued to his tail.

If the North Korean had just put the pedal to the metal, he probably could have escaped. But he didn’t realize Howe was working with only one leg, and as he cut back to the left in a kind of modified scissors escape, the American pilot laid on the trigger. His first shots flew wide right, but he stayed with it, nudging his nose and the stream of bullets into the starboard wing of the enemy fighter. Something flashed, and then his target disappeared.

“You going to leave some for the rest of us?” asked one of the F/A-22 pilots, finally reaching the area.

“Only if I have to,” he answered.

“Ivan, be advised Koreans are turning south. You’re clear. You’re clear.”

“Ivan acknowledges,” said Howe. “Bring that tanker up. I’m getting mighty thirsty.”

The Korean troops were caught completely by surprise; the Americans destroyed their lead and rear trucks before the enemy could organize their return fire. But there were at least a dozen men in each vehicle, and two-thirds of Tyler ’s people were spread out along the road well beyond the trucks, not in a position to attack.

Tyler saw two Koreans advancing with rifles and immediately shot both, catching them mid-body with bursts from his AK-47. He jumped up and ran to the roadway, covering another member of the team who was firing at the men near the last intact truck. Something hit the vehicle and it exploded, flames bursting skyward in a bright arc of yellow and orange. The light silhouetted four Korean soldiers; by the time Tyler turned his gun on them the other SF soldier had gunned them down.

Tyler ran to a large rock at the right side of the road, sweeping the ditch with gunfire and then jumping down. The position allowed him to cover the road ahead of the convoy and gave him an angle on the trucks as well. The Koreans, meanwhile, were shouting in confusion. They knew there were soldiers around them but they weren’t sure where exactly the enemy was; their return fire was disorganized, but it was return fire. A heavier weapon began firing from near the wrecked lead truck, set up by two or three of the Koreans and hidden from Tyler ’s side.

We should have taken them out when they were on the road ahead, Tyler thought to himself as he took out a Russian-made antipersonnel grenade. I fucked up again.

He pulled the pin and did a half step, whipping the grenade as if it were a baseball at the side of the truck. The grenade exploded with a loud echo because of the hills, but the machine gun continued to fire. Cursing, Tyler reached for another grenade and was just rising when another grenade, thrown by someone else from his patrol, exploded by the truck. He ducked down, then realized he’d already pulled the pin. He threw the grenade anyway, and this time saw it land behind the cab-or thought he saw it, because as it fell he tossed himself down for cover, and besides, everything around him was a blur. A stream of bullets ripped across the road in front of him, and the major found himself eating dirt, unsure for a moment where his rifle was, even though it was in his hand. Someone screamed something in English that he couldn’t understand. Tyler began crawling forward along the trench, parallel to the road. A flare went up-obviously from the Koreans-and a fusillade of bullets rained on the three trucks, which were now mere wrecks.

“All right,” said Tyler over his com system, “I’m in the ditch. I’m in the ditch on the south side of the road. Let’s get positions. Sound off.”

He got a garbled reply. Tyler leaned across the dirt, trying to puzzle out how many Koreans were left and where they were. When he couldn’t see any soldiers who were still firing, he started to crawl up from the ditch. The two men he’d shot earlier were sprawled nearby, their uniforms thick with blood. Only one man had a rifle; Tyler kicked it back toward the ditch, then continued toward the trucks. Something moved at the far end; Tyler saw the squat figure raise his weapon at him and fired a burst. The man crumpled downward, a house whose foundation had evaporated.

“All right, all right,” he heard someone say. The gun-fight was over. “All right, all right.”

He turned around, not realizing at first that he had been the one who’d spoken.

There was no way to hide this, and Tyler didn’t bother. His immediate concern was two casualties. One of the men had been shot in the shoulder; the wound was relatively light and the sergeant joked about having had bee stings that hurt more. Tyler appreciated the lie.

The other man had been shot through the face and was dead. The A team captain took his shirt off and wrapped it around the dead man’s face; Tyler thought he should have been the one to do this.

“We’ll take him out with us,” he said softly. One of the others had already begun to set up a litter.

Warrant Officer Litchfield looked at him but said nothing. He didn’t have to.

Tyler ’s orders dictated that he call in about the firefight. The reply was brief: Proceed to Pickup Zone 1 as planned.

They did.

“Where are we landing?” asked his passenger about twenty minutes out of Japan.

“Misawa,” said Howe. The Korean had been so quiet, he’d almost forgotten about him.

Almost.

“Misawa. I thought it might be there. Or Okinawa.”

“ Okinawa ’s a bit far for us,” said Howe.

“Misawa will do very well.”

Howe laughed. The Korean didn’t know what he was in for. A team of debriefers was undoubtedly waiting on the tarmac, anxious to get at Dr. Park. He was going to be a very popular man for the next few days, and probably a good many months after that.

With the island in sight, Howe fought off his fatigue by concentrating on the plane. It had performed extremely well, one more example of the value of NADT and its diverse expertise. The organization was important.

So, did that mean he should take the job after all?

The strip came up wide and fat, his approach a gentle, easy glide that contrasted starkly with his landing in Korea. Howe felt his tires hit the concrete, the plane settling around him like a tired horse falling from its gallop after a hard run around the track.

It wasn’t quite home, but it would do for now.

He trundled off the runway and was met by an SUV with a blue flashing light. He popped open the canopy and breathed the fresh air, following the truck as it led him away from the main area of the airport, past a pair of hangars isolated from the others to a wide expanse of concrete near a perimeter fence. It was obviously meant as a security precaution, but there were no support vehicles in sight, not even a tractor to haul him into one of the hangars. Howe wasn’t exactly in a position to argue, though, and hell, he just wanted to get to bed.

Howe powered down. Two men, both in Japanese Self-Defense Force uniforms, got out of the SUV and trotted toward the plane. Until now, this had been a U.S.-only project, but they were in Japan and the Japanese tended to be slightly touchy over protocol. Lights approached in the distance: Obviously the U.S. Air Force team was uncharacteristically running a little behind the timetable.

Something popped behind him, an engine or something. He couldn’t hear well with his gear on.

“All right, my friend, taxi ride is over,” Howe said, removing his helmet and starting to push up from the ejection seat.