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crimson splash was creeping up the side of the canopy, turning it into a garish stained-glass window that gave a red glow to the cockpit.
    Shepherd scanned the instrument panel: the master caution light was full on; the left engine tachometer was surging erratically, indicating the whirling turbine had ingested metal fragments; the utility pressure gauge had dropped to well below 1,000 psi, which meant the hydraulic system that deployed landing gear and activated speed brakes was also damaged.
    Shepherd shut the malfunctioning engine down, pushed his oxygen mask bayonets tight into the receivers, then did the same to Brancato’s. “Al? Come on, Alfredo, talk to me!”
    “I don’t know, I feel real weird,” Brancato muttered. “Better head home.”
    “We’re past the PNR,” Shepherd replied, making reference to the point of no return, which meant they were closer to England than the United States. “Hang in there,” he said. He thumbed the radio transmit button and began broadcasting. “Four-eight TAC? This is Viper-Two. Four-eight TAC, this is Viper-Two. I have an in-flight emergency. Do you read?”
    “This is Four-eight TAC,” Lakenheath tower replied. “Affirmative, Viper-Two. Go ahead.”
    “Harassed and struck in midair by hostile aircraft. Assume Soviet Forger. My wizzo’s injured. We have frag penetration in the capsule; left engine and utility pump are out. ETA nineteen-thirty zulu.”
    “Copy, Viper-Two. You have an immediate CTL. Repeat, immediate CTL. We’ll monitor.”
    The three Forgers were nowhere in sight now.
    Shepherd brought the wings forward to 16 degrees and set the throttle of the working engine to cruise speed; then he engaged the autopilot and unzipped Brancato’s flight suit, peeling it away from the wound. “How’re you doing?”
    “Nothing a dish of fettuccine wouldn’t cure,” Brancato growled, fighting the pain.
    Shepherd removed his squadron scarf, folded it into a thick wad, and pressed it against the bloody puncture. “That one T or two?”
    “Huh?”
    “How many T sin fettuccine?”
    “Two, dammit. You going to do this all the way in?”
    “Yeah. Somebody once told me it’s impossible for a Sicilian to die while he’s talking.”
    “God.” Brancato groaned, adjusting his position in the flight couch.
    “That big G or little g?”

3
    THAT SAME MORNING in Washington, D.C., while shock waves from the bombing of the TWA jetliner reverberated round the world, armored limousines converged on the White House. They snaked between the concrete barricades, depositing solemn passengers at the South Portico.
    The hastily convened group sat with the president in the cabinet room as he read a memorandum. It listed the names, hometowns, and ages of the four Americans who had been killed. One was a fourteen-month-old child. The president’s lips tightened in anger; then, he set down the memo and looked up at his advisers.
    “Is this Qaddafi’s work?” he asked softly.
    “We can’t prove he gave the order, sir,” National Security Adviser Kenneth Lancaster said, “but we know he did.”
    “I think it’s time to consider an air strike against Libya,” the secretary of state chimed in.
    “Not in my book,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said firmly. “I’m going on record right now as opposed to any military response to terrorism. Frankly, I’m far more interested in talking about the Soviets,” he went on, chafing over the incident with the Forgers.
    “As you very well know, Admiral,” the secretary of state lectured, “a protest has been filed and I expect an apology will be forthcoming. The incident has been overshadowed by these events and I suggest it remain so.”
    “I agree,” the president said. “This is no time to take a hard line with Moscow over an accident.”
    “Yes, sir,” the CJC replied dutifully. “But I respectfully submit we have no justification for attacking Libya.”
    “What we have is a nasty problem,” Lancaster said.