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all the necessary security clearances,” Anderson said. “I want you to show him our operation. Bring him back here when you’re done.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Wondering what this was all about, Luke stashed his flyaway bag with the colonel’s exec and walked Callahan toward the hangar bay.
    â€œI don’t know how much the colonel told you about our detachment—”
    â€œHe indicated you’re one of several recently established forward operating locations. Before that, B-2 crews flew combat missions from your home base at Whiteman AFB, Missouri. Must have made for a helluva long haul.”
    â€œIt did,” Luke admitted. “It also made for a surreal life. A pilot could roll out of bed, kiss his wife goodbye, fly a thirty-to forty-hour combat mission against heavily defended targets halfway around the world and return home in time to take out the trash the next morning. Even with forward basing, we spend a lot of time in the air.”
    Callahan’s glance dropped. “I don’t see a ring. No one to kiss goodbye in the morning?”
    â€œNo one special,” Luke replied, ruthlessly suppressing the image that leaped into his head of a laughing, loving Dayna. He’d had his chance with her and blown it. It was just his own tough luck he hadn’t found anyone else in the years since.
    â€œSo how long does it take to prepare for one of these marathon missions?” Callahan asked.
    â€œIf we’re lucky, we get three or four days advance notice. That gives us time to study the target, plan our ingress and egress routes and adjust our sleep and eating patterns to maximize our alertness in flight.”
    â€œI can see sleep, but eating?”
    â€œThe air force shelled out big bucks to dieticians to determine optimal liquid intake and the best ratio of carbs versus protein to sustain long periods of activity.” Luke had to grin. “All those experts finally concluded we’d found an optimal mix in our traditional bomber dogs. Hot dogs doused in chili,” he explained. “We warm them in the cockpit heater.”
    Shouldering open a door, he led the way into one of the two cavernous hangars the Brits had turned over to the B-2 detachment. The aircraft Luke had just flown occupied center court, being serviced by the ground crews.
    â€œOur birds remain undercover at all times while on the ground. We want to keep their advanced design and special ‘low-observable’ characteristics away from prying eyes. In flight, they’re damned near invisible. Pretty slick, aren’t they?”
    And then some! Mike Callahan had jumped out of plenty of planes during his stint as an army Ranger but he’d never seen anything as lethal as these black boomerangs. They were immense, with a wingspan of at least a hundred-and-fifty feet, yet their flat fuselage and long, sloping cockpits made them appear saucer-thin from the side. The darkened cockpit windows seemed to follow the two men like a predator’s eyes as Harper led the way across a hangar floor painted and buffed to a bright sheen.
    â€œThe B-2’s unique bat-wing shape and the special coating used on its skin are designed to deflect radar waves.” Harper slapped a hand against the cowling of one of the four powerful engines. “And these babies are so quiet they wouldn’t wake your grandma from her afternoon nap if we flew over her house at a hundred feet.”
    A slight exaggeration, Callahan guessed wryly, although Harper’s description of how the engines dispensed their exhaust across the top of the wings to shield the aircraft from heat-seeking missiles below brought the seriousness of its mission into sharp focus.
    As he listened to the pilot explain the details of his unit’s operation, Mike assessed the man behind the uniform. Rogue had stated unequivocally that any feelings she’d once harbored for Harper had died years ago. She was also confident