As he approached, Turk turned to get in line with a highway that ran through the area. The annual rains and an underground water supply combined to make the foothills suitable for agriculture, and a patchwork of tiny farm fields appeared under his nose. The squares were groves of citrus and olive trees, planted and tended by families that had lived here for generations. A little farther out were circles of green, round patches fed by pivot irrigation systems.

There was a flash of red in the far right corner of Turk’s screen. He pointed his hand and told the computer to magnify.

It was a house, suddenly burning in a hamlet about four miles from the tank base. A black shadow passed overhead.

Sabre Four.

“What the hell?” sputtered Turk.

He watched in disbelief as a missile was launched from under the wing of the aircraft. The missile flew level for a few hundred feet, then dove down into the roof of what looked like a large barn. The building imploded immediately, setting up a huge cloud of dust and debris.

“Abort, abort, abort!” said Turk. “Sabre command computer, abort all attacks. Return immediately to base. Repeat, abort!”

“Authorize?” Direct command confirmation was necessary to override the preset attack plan.

“Authorization Captain Turk Mako.”

Turk added a stream of curses even as the planes complied. He saw Sabre Four pull up and continue south, away from the settlement. Farther west, two other UAVs rose from their attack runs, missiles still clinging to their wings. The synthesized image included small tags under each, showing their IDs: SABRE 2 and SABRE 3.

He couldn’t see the other plane. Where was it?

“Sabre One, status,” said Turk.

“Optimal status,” responded the computer. “Responding to abort command.”

“Locate visually.”

“Grid A6.”

Turk glanced at the sitrep map in the left-hand corner of his screen. The aircraft was flying to the south.

“Sabre One, wingman mode,” Turk ordered, telling the aircraft to shadow the Tigershark.

“Sabre One acknowledges,” replied the computer.

He turned his attention back to Sabre Four, the aircraft that had fired its missiles on the village. The plane was rising in a wide arc to his south.

“Sabre Four, wingman mode,” Turk told the computer, making absolutely positive it was responding.

“Sabre Four acknowledges.”

Turk started to climb.

I hope to hell it doesn’t decide to take a shot at me, he thought. It’s a long walk home.

2

Sicily

Senator Jeff “Zen” Stockard wheeled himself past the row of parked F–35As, admiring the creative nose art employed by the RAF. No traditional shark mouth or tiger jaws for them—the first, on an aircraft nicknamed, “Show Time,” featured a woman suggestively riding a bomb into battle, and they got less politically correct from there.

Zen was amused—though he also couldn’t help but think about his young daughter. She was still in grammar school, but the images convinced him she wouldn’t be allowed to date anyone from Great Britain until she was forty.

Pilots were completely out of bounds.

Zen pushed himself toward a pair of parked Gripen two-seat fighters. Their paint schemes were austere to a fault: the very respectable light gray at the nose faded to a slightly darker but still eminently respectable darker gray.

His interest was drawn to the forward canards, flexible winglets that increased the aircraft’s lift at takeoff and landing speeds, as well as increasing its payload. The airplanes had only just arrived on the island as part of the multination peacekeeping force; they had not seen combat yet.

“Peacekeeping” was something of a misnomer in practice, though the alliance was trying to get both sides to the negotiating table. A month before, several European nations had acted together to condemn attacks by the Libyan government on civilians, and in essence begun supporting the rebellion. The U.S. had been asked to assist. Publicly, its role was limited to support assets, more or less what it had said during the 2011 war to oust Gaddafi. And just like that conflict a few years before, the U.S. was heavily involved behind the scenes, providing the unmanned aircraft and sensors that were doing much of the work.

As Zen stared at the fighters, he was hailed by a short man in jeans and a leather flight jacket. Few people spotting the man on the runway would give him a second glance, but Zen immediately recognized him as Du Zongchen, formerly one of the most accomplished pilots in the Chinese air force.

Zongchen was a native of Shanghai, but spoke English with an accent somewhere between Hong Kong and Sydney, Australia.

“Senator Stockard, once more I meet you on a tarmac,” said Zongchen with a laugh. “I think perhaps you are considering flying one yourself.”

“Du! Not a chance with any of these,” said Zen brightly. “Though I wouldn’t mind sitting in the backseat of one of those Gripens. I’ve never been up in one.”

“Perhaps the UN can arrange for an inspection.”

“You’d pull strings for me?”

“For the greatest fighter pilot of all modern history, nothing would be too good.”

Zen smirked. Upon retiring as a general, Zongchen had entered government service as a representative to the United Nations. He had recently been asked by the UN General Assembly to inspect the allied air operation. As a neutral observer, Zongchen had considerable influence with just about everyone.

“If I were going to fly an airplane,” the retired general confessed, “I would ask to try one of those.”

He pointed across the way to a pair of F–22Gs, recently enhanced and updated versions of the original F–22 Raptor. The aircraft were single-seat fighters, which made it highly unlikely that Zongchen would get a chance to fly one—the Air Force wasn’t likely to entrust what remained the world’s most advanced interceptor to a member of a foreign government that still had occasions to act hostile toward the U.S.

“As soon as they get a two-seat version, I’ll personally recommend you get a flight,” said Zen.

“And then I will fly you in the backseat of a J–20,” laughed Zongchen. Not yet operational, the J–20 was a Chinese stealth aircraft, more bomber than fighter. It, too, was a single-seat only plane, at least as far as Zen knew.

“How goes your inspection tour?” he asked.

“Very interesting,” said Zongchen. “Much talk. Pilots are the same the world over, no matter who they fly for.” He smiled. “Very full of themselves.”

“Present company excepted.”

“You are not. I am another story,” said Zongchen. “I still think I am the best pilot in the world, no?” He patted his midsection, which though not fat was not as taut as it would have been a decade before. “The years affect us all. And the fine cooking. That is one thing I will say for NATO—good cooking. I hardly miss home.”

“This isn’t quite NATO,” said Zen. It was a sensitive issue, since for all intents and purposes it was NATO—NATO countries, NATO command structures, the squadrons NATO would call on in an emergency. But the complicated politics required that the countries use a separate command structure called the “alliance,” rather than admitting they were NATO.

“If you want to keep up the facade, that is fine with me,” said Zongchen. “But other than that, the air forces are very professional.”

“As good as Chinese pilots?”

“Chinese pilots are very good.”

“I can attest to that.”

“Senator?”

Zen turned and saw his aide, Jason Black, trotting toward him. Jason was his all-around assistant, in some ways more a son or nephew than a political aide.