“One of the operators has been tracking our item in country. She’s hurt. We’re going to be en route in a few minutes to her location. We’re wondering if you can take a pass and check on her.”

“Uh, roger that if you give me a location,” said Turk. “I’m just about ten minutes from the target area,” he added, pointing at part of the virtual instrument panel where the course way markers were displayed. “Eight and a half, to be exact.”

“I have GPS coordinates,” said Danny. “Stand by.”

Turk waited while Danny uploaded the GPS tracking channel used by the CIA officer in western Sudan. He then increased the detail on the sitrep panel.

“Colonel, do you know that one of the transponders is moving?” said Turk. “It looks like it’s approaching her location.”

“Are you sure about that, Tiger?”

Turk double-tapped on the GPS locator and told the Tigershark to fly to that spot. Then he went back to the radio.

“Yeah, roger that. Affirmative,” he added. “Be advised I’m unarmed at this time.”

“We copy.”

“Operative got a name?”

“Melissa Ilse.”

“It’s a girl?”

“I already told you it’s a she, Tigershark. And that would be a woman, not a girl. Copy?”

“Roger that. I’ll do what I can.”

Chapter 18

Southeastern Sudan

Melissa heard the truck rattling toward her. She glanced around for cover, but nothing was handy. She decided her only option was to move up the nearby embankment, to get out of easy view.

If they found her, she’d have to make her stand.

Her right arm and shoulder screamed with every step and jostle. She tried to keep it from moving too much by gripping the bottom of her jacket with her hand. The pain was so intense that she couldn’t fold her fingers into a good grip, and had to simply hook her thumb around the cloth.

It was almost ironic. As part of her training for the mission, she’d been put into a rush course as a nurse so she could learn enough to use that as a cover. She had then treated two colleagues for dislocated shoulders during a particularly difficult survival refresher course she’d taken right afterward. Putting their arms back in place didn’t seem like such a big deal.

Being on the other side of the pain gave her an entirely different perspective.

The sound of the truck grew louder. She dropped to one knee, then eased down to spread herself flat against the side of the hill. She was no more than twenty yards from the roadway, if that.

Her headset buzzed with an incoming call on her sat line, but she didn’t answer it—the truck’s headlights swept across the road ahead.

Maybe she could shoot them now. But she’d have to fire with her left hand.

She wasn’t even that good with her right.

God, what a mistake she’d made getting close to the truck. What the hell was she thinking?

The truck jerked to a stop near the bike.

Melissa tried to will away the pain, extending her breathing, pushing the air all the way into her lungs before slowly exhaling.

The men got out of the truck.

Her headset buzzed again. She still didn’t dare answer it.

Twenty thousand feet above, Turk switched to the Tigershark’s enhanced view, trying to get a good read on what was below. The UAV and its CIA operator were roughly twenty yards from each other.

The Tigershark had been designed to carry a rail gun, which could fire metal slugs accurately to twenty miles. It still had some kinks, but would have come in very handy now.

“Whiplash Ground—Colonel Freah, I’m looking at a truck with people getting out of it. Our contact should be nearby. Are these hostiles?”

“We believe so, Tigershark. But stand by. We’re trying to contact her now.”

There was no time to stand by—the men in the truck were spreading out, moving in the direction of the CIA officer. They were carrying weapons. That made them hostile in Turk’s book.

The only weapon he had was the Tigershark itself. He pushed down the nose, determined to use it.

Melissa watched as the men moved up the road. They moved quickly—too quickly. They’re scared, she thought.

A good sign, in a way: their fire would be less accurate.

She’d take the man closest to her, the one going to the bike. Then sweep across left, then back to the truck.

She’d have to reload before she took out the truck.

Her finger started to twitch.

I can do it.

I have to do it.

Melissa took as slow a breath as she could manage, then pulled the gun up. It was awkward in her left hand. She forced her right arm toward the front of the weapon, hoping to steady it. The pain was excruciating. She twisted her trunk, putting her hand, still gripping her shirt, closer to the weapon.

Steadying herself as best she could, Melissa raised the barrel with her left arm, ready to fire.

Suddenly there was a rush of air from above, the sky cracking with what seemed a hurricane. Dirt flew everywhere, and the night flashed red and white. A howl filled her ears. Melissa threw herself down, cowering against the force of whatever bomb was exploding.

Li Han had just started to get out of the truck when there was a vortex of wind and a hard, loud snap directly above him. It didn’t sound quite like an explosion, but the wash threw him back against the vehicle. Dirt and dust flew all around; he was pelted by small rocks.

“Dso Ba!” he yelled in Chinese, even before he got back to his feet. “Go! Leave! They’re firing missiles! Go! Go!”

He pulled at the door. There had been no explosion: whatever the Americans had fired at them had missed or malfunctioned.

“Wo-men! Dso Ba!”

The driver looked at him, paralyzed. Li Han realized he was speaking Chinese.

“Go!” he shouted in English. “Leave! Leave! Get the truck out of here.”

One of the men in the back pounded on the roof of the cab. It was Amara, yelling something in Arabic.

“Go!” he added, switching to English, though it was hard to tell in his accent and excitement. “Mr. Li—tell him go!”

“Go!” repeated Li Han. “Let’s go!”

The driver began moving in slow motion. The truck lurched forward.

“Faster!” yelled Li Han. “Before they fire again.”

By the time Melissa raised her head, the truck had started moving away. The men on the road picked themselves up and began scrambling after it.

What the hell had just happened?

Had someone fired a missile? Or several of them?

But there didn’t seem to have been an explosion, just a massive rush of air.

When the men were gone, she rose slowly. She’d forgotten the pain, but it came back now with a vengeance, nearly knocking her unconscious. She fell back on her rump, head folded down against her chest. The submachine gun fell from her hand.

In a mental fog, Melissa began to gently rock back and forth, trying to soothe her injured arm as if it were a baby. Gradually her senses returned, though the pain remained, throbbing against her neck and torso.

She swung her knees around and rose, trying to jostle her arm as little as possible. Finally upright, she walked down to the road. There was no bomb crater, no debris.

Melissa retrieved her gun. Her ruck was a few yards farther up the hill. She had no memory of taking it off.

The sat phone was on the ground as well, near where she’d been crouched. She picked it up and called Jordan back at the base camp. Instead of Jordan, however, a man with a deeper, somewhat older voice answered.

“This is Danny Freah. Melissa, are you OK?”

“Who are you?”