Another of the enemy's aircraft exploded.
The remaining gunships began to abort their turns. Instead of trying to close with their tormentors, they were trying to escape.
Wrong decision, Taylor thought coldly. "All stations, right wheel," he called, slipping unconsciously into an old cavalry command.
Two of the enemy's surviving gunships exploded in tandem, as though they had been taken out by a doublebarreled shotgun.
Only two enemy ships remained. Taylor knew what they were feeling. The terror. The recognition that it was all over battling with the human tendency to hope against hope. And the frantic uncertainty that interfered with those functions it did not completely paralyze. But the knowledge did not move him.
They were on the enemy's rear hemisphere now. The attempt to flee was hopeless, since the American aircraft were faster. But the enemy pilots would not know that. At this point, the only thing they would know with any certainty was that they were still alive.
Taylor felt Krebs tense mercilessly beside him. The warrant sent off another succession of rounds.
A gunship spun around like a weathervane in a storm, breaking up even before the fire from its fuel tanks could engulf it. Then the familiar cloud of flames swelled outward, spitting odd aircraft parts.
A lone enemy survivor strained off to the southeast. Taylor could feel the pilot pushing for each last ounce of thrust, aching to go faster than physical laws allowed.
The lone black ship flared and fell away in a sputtering rain of components.
For a long moment no one spoke. The M-l00s automatically slipped back into formation, conditioned by drill. But no drill had given them the language to express what they felt.
The sky was eerily clean.
"All stations," Taylor said finally. "Return to automatic flight controls. Next stop: Objective Blackjack."
Baku.
He took a deep breath.
"Flapper," he said, "I'm going back to have a little talk with our Russian friend."
"I swear," Kozlov said. His mouth was bleeding from Taylor's blow. "I swear I didn't know."
Taylor looked at him grimly. He wanted to open a hatch and push the Russian out into the sky. He did not know whether or not there were sharks in the Caspian Sea, but he hoped nature had not missed the opportunity to put some there.
Taylor felt another rush of fury, and he raised his fist.
"Don't," Meredith said suddenly. "I believe him."
Taylor looked at the S-2 in surprise, fist suspended in midair.
"Look at him," Meredith went on, with as little regard as if Kozlov could not hear a word that passed between them. "He's scared shitless. He's been that way since the refueling site. He didn't have a clue." Meredith made a spitting gesture with his lips. "The poor bastard's just a staff officer with a toothache, not some kind of suicide volunteer. Ivanov set him up too."
Taylor lowered his fist. But he did not unclench it. He glowered. "Goddamnit," he said to Kozlov, "I just want to know one thing. Give me one straight goddamned answer, if you fucking Russians are biologically capable of it. All that shit about the layout of the headquarters in Baku — were you telling the truth? Was that sketch accurate? Or were you just making it all up?"
Kozlov opened his mouth to speak. Two of the bad front teeth had disappeared. The mouth wavered and shut, blood streaming out onto the Russian's chin, streaking down into his uniform. He spit into his sleeve, then tried a second time to squeeze out the words. "Everything… everything is true. You see? I am here with you. I, too, believed."
Taylor shook his head, turning away in disgust.
"I trust him too," Ryder said. It was the first time Ryder had spoken in Taylor's presence since the flight began. Taylor almost snapped at him. But Hank Parker spoke first:
"He's straight, sir. I'd bet my bars."
Taylor suddenly felt like a big cat in a small cage. "Goddamnit," he said, turning back to Kozlov, "your country gets at least as much out of this operation as mine does."
"I understand," Kozlov said cautiously, sick gums still bleeding.
"Then why? Why did Ivanov do it?"
"I don't know."
"Why sell out your only friends? Christ, nobody in the world has any sympathy for you except us. Who else tried to save your asses?"
Kozlov looked down at the deck in shame. "I do not understand." He wiped his chin on his sleeve again. "Perhaps there was a mistake. I don't know."
Taylor punched his blistered hand against a side panel. It hurt. In anger, he tore off the fresh bandage that had been applied before the mission lifted off.
The pain felt right. Good. None of it made sense anymore.
"I don't know, either," Taylor said wearily.
"We need him," Meredith said. "We're going to need him on the ground."
Taylor nodded. "All right." He turned to Kozlov. "But one false step, and I'll shoot you myself."
Kozlov nodded solemnly. He was very pale and the blood smeared over the bottom of his face was very red. He seemed physically smaller now, as if shame had crumpled him, and Taylor felt almost as though he had struck a child.
"And no gun," Taylor added. "You do the guiding. We'll handle the fireworks."
Kozlov nodded again, accepting this further humiliation. Taylor turned to Hank Parker, dismissing the Russian from his immediate concern. He leaned in over the battle control console. Then he straightened abruptly.
"Viktor," he said, facing Kozlov across the small cell. The Russian was feeling in his mouth with his fingers. "I want you to tell me one more thing honestly. Did you…did your people know anything about the Scramblers? Did you choose not to warn us?"
Kozlov wiped his bloody fingers on the side of his trousers. He coughed and his throat sounded crowded with waste. "I didn't know. I knew nothing personally…" He hesitated. Then he continued with a new resolution: "General Ivanov knew something. Honestly, I do not know how much he knew. He said nothing to me until… afterward."
"You people," Taylor said, shaking his head in disgust. The tone of his voice reached an odd pitch between fury and resignation. "Does anybody in your country remember how to tell the truth?"
Kozlov shrugged slightly, drawing his shoulders together as if trying to disappear into himself. He could not meet Taylor's eyes.
Unexpectedly, the strategic communications set sparked to life: a totally unwelcome interruption. A tired voice fumbled through the call signs at the distant end. Even Washington was growing weary.
Meredith acknowledged.
"Is Colonel Taylor at your location?" the communications officer asked from the other side of the world.
"Roger. Standing by."
"Going to visual relay."
"Check."
"Hold for the President of the United States."
Oh, shit, Taylor thought, longing for the days when monarchs were weeks or months away from the soldier's camp.
To everyone's surprise, the familiar face of President Waters did not fill the monitor. Instead, the Vice President appeared, looking handsomely tanned and healthy, except for some tiredness around the eyes. When Taylor stepped in front of the monitor, the Vice President winced. The two men had never met.
Vice President Maddox recovered smoothly and leaned forward again, body language suggesting a generous intimacy.
"Colonel Taylor?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Vice President."
An odd expression passed across the distant man's face. Then he said: "Colonel Taylor, I'm the President now. As of about an hour ago, as a matter of fact. President Waters suffered a fatal heart attack in his sleep this morning."