Danny checked his watch. The Voice had announced the launching of each crate and Whiplash crew member, along with its estimated time of landing. If he wanted, he could listen to updates on where each was going to land. But he didn’t feel much like listening to a play-by-play, so he told the Voice to alert him only if any of the jumpers or crates was going off course by more than twenty-five yards.

Fifty years before, falling within twenty-five yards of a target would have been considered a reasonable performance, perhaps even an outstanding one. World War II paratroopers struggled with barely steerable parachutes and air crews who often found themselves navigating mostly by instinct. Now the technology was so advanced that packages could be practically delivered to a front door.

Not that skill and human error were completely removed from the equation. The team members had hit a heavy crosswind after deploying their chutes, and struggled to remain on course as they dropped over the last 5,000 feet. Danny, monitoring the team communications channel through the Voice, heard the jumpers cursing and complaining as they coped with the wind. Even with the night vision screens built into their jump helmets, the darkness hampered their depth perception.

“Sounds like they’ve been working together for a while,” he told Boston.

The first cargo chute came down about five yards off target, its winglike canopy making a loud hush as it fell. The second and third hit precisely on their crosshairs, each twelve and a half yards progressively north, each thumping against their protective bottoms with a satisfying cru-ump.

Then came the team members.

Sugar hit first, landing about five yards to the east of her target. Then came Flash, who hit exactly on his target mark, and within .03 seconds of the computed time for landing originally calculated when he left the plane. McGowan came down twenty-two yards from his target, directly due north of Hera’s landing spot. This meant Hera had to steer away to avoid a collision. Her corrections sent her roughly fifty yards off the mark, making her jump the worst of the group.

“Hey jumpmaster,” said Sugar, “looks like you kinda missed, huh?”

“Whoa,” said Flash. “You ain’t telling me the jumpmaster with, like, five hundred years of experience, blew her jump so badly she just about landed in the Atlantic.”

“All right, let’s get moving,” barked Boston. “We have to get these crates unwrapped and packed into the bus.”

Hera folded her parachute, angry but knowing that explaining why she’d had to go so far off course was only going to bring greater derision.

The crates were designed to be broken down quickly. Still, it took over three hours for the team to get everything onto the bus. They fashioned a rack out of the cargo containers for the roof, giving Abul fits as he worried about the lines breaking the frames on the bus’s windows.

“I don’t think the motorcycle will fit in the bus,” said Boston as they finished. “Maybe we should drive it back.”

“And who’s going to drive it?” asked Danny.

“Gee, I don’t know.” Boston smiled. “We could draw straws, or just go by rank.”

“Officers excluded?” said Danny.

“Oh yeah. This is strictly an enlisted thing.”

“What about those of us who aren’t in the Army?” asked Sugar.

“Hey, I’m not in the Army,” said McGowan. “So I oughta get dibs.”

“I’ll ride it back,” said Danny, taking the handlebars. “I think Chief Rockland needs a little time to bond with his people.”

“Thanks,” said Boston.

THE BIKE WAS A DUCATI, REMADE FOR SPECIAL OPERATIONS work under contract to the Technology Office. It had an extra large gas tank, and a heavy duty suspension to accommodate the weight of a soldier with a full complement of gear. It lacked the glossy paint normally associated with Italian motorcycles, and included a few accessories not normally found in street bikes, like a miniature forward-looking infrared radar mounted in the headlight assembly. But it was still a Ducati, and Danny had a blast riding it back to the base, running ahead of the bus. The dirt road was just loose enough to add maneuvering interest as he zipped up the hills.

His fun lasted all of ten minutes, as the Voice announced that a pair of Jeep-sized vehicles were approaching on the road south. The computer calculated that the bus would arrive at the highway within thirty seconds of the Jeeps.

He had the Voice cut into the team radio channel.

“Boston, have Abul stop for a while,” he said. “Two Jeeps are heading our way. I don’t want them to see you.”

“No problem, Cap. How’s the bike?”

“It’s nice. I’m going to get a little closer to the road and have a look at these guys.”

“Roger that.”

Danny leaned on the gas, accelerating so he could get near the road well before the other vehicles. The oversized muffler and heat dissipater turned the trademark Ducati roar into a low moan—a sin, really.

He stopped about a half mile from the road and lay the bike down gently in the dirt. Adjusting the infrared image from the motorcycle, he zeroed in on a rise in the road about a mile to the north and waited.

“Estimate time for the vehicles to pass,” Danny asked the Voice.

“Three minutes, eighteen seconds.”

“Can you identify them?”

“Negative.”

“Are they Sudanese army?”

“The army does not operate Jeeps.”

“They’re real Jeeps?”

“Chrysler Motors, model year 2001.”

“Do these belong to Red Henri?”

“Vehicles are not among types known to be operated by East Sudanese Liberation Crew headed by rebel known as Red Henri.”

The Voice listed three probabilities: two rebel groups that operated to the west, and an aid organization, which was headquartered far to the north. Danny doubted it was the aid group—even do-gooders knew better than to drive out here at night.

The lead Jeep took the hill at about forty miles an hour, cresting into his view. It carried four men; the rear Jeep held two.

They began slowing, and Danny sensed that they were going to turn up the road toward the camp. Sure enough, the lead vehicle stopped abruptly just past the turnoff, then backed up and began climbing the hill. He had the Voice project the image from the Global Hawk into the control unit, watching as the Jeeps continued on the road toward their camp.

“Nuri, you on the line?” Danny asked over the Voice’s communications channel.

“Yeah, I’m looking at them on the laptop.”

“Who are they? Do you know?”

“No idea. I’d guess rebels, but that’s pretty obvious.”

“Maybe you oughta hide up in the rocks.”

“Maybe. Let’s see what happens.”

BACK AT THE BUS, THE WHIPLASH TEAM MEMBERS WERE developing a shared case of cabin fever. They had spent the better part of the last three days traveling, first to report for the assignment and then to get into position to make the jump. None of them, Boston included, liked the idea that they were sitting and waiting in the desert, as if afraid of a couple of locals in old Jeeps.

Hera pushed her feet against the seat back, trying to keep her muscles from going into spasm.

“Hey Chief—when we are we moving?” she asked.

“Soon as Colonel Freah says we’re good to go.”

“When’s that going to be?”

“It’ll be when it is,” said Boston.

“That’s a line of Plato, isn’t it?” said McGowan.

“Who’s Plato?” asked Boston.

“Plato’s that guy in the Popeye cartoons who ate all the hamburgers,” said Flash.

“No, you’re thinking of Pluto.”

“I know who Plato is, asshole,” snapped Boston, but no one heard him—they were too busy trying to remember the cast of the ancient cartoons.

BECAUSE THEY’D HAD TO SCRAMBLE TO PULL THE OPERATION together, Flash, McGowan, Hera, and Sugar had joined Whiplash as provisional members. There was no question that they were qualified; all had proven themselves in covert operations in the past.