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m they could stand with shoulder to shoulder or disavow as a crazed maverick； whichever way the cookie crumbled。 They would throw him to the sharks without a second thought if they concluded that course looked best。 Too bad； but he always was an officer who couldn't take orders； not a team player。 And after that El Hakim thing； a bad concussion； psychiatrists； he was never right in the head。 Too bad。
These powerful people whose boats would start leaking when the Athena secret came out； what would they do？ Fight。 How？ What would be their weapons？
The dirt escaping his fingers made a sculpted pile。 The wind swirled away a portion of each handful。 The slower the dirt trickled from his fingers； the more of it the wind claimed。
The most probable argument； Jake decided； was that Athena would destabilize the existing East…West military balance。 This argument had finesse。 Athena was too cheap to argue the dollars。 So argue the consequences。 Argue that Athena pushes Russia closer to a first strike。 Argue nuclear war and radioactive ashes and the Four Horsemen。 If you can't dazzle them with logic or baffle them with bullshit； then scare the bejesus out of them。
Jake stood and stirred the pile of dust with his toe。 The wind carried it away grain by grain。
It was late afternoon； on the third flight of the day； and Rita was flying straight legs north and south； each leg one mile farther west of the radar site。 Toad was bored。 He was using the navigation system to ensure she stayed precisely where Captain Grafton wanted her to be。 That was the hard part。 After he had turned on the Athena system there was nothing to do but monitor its 〃operating〃 light。 He did keep an eye on the Athena temp light； so if it came on he could turn off the system in a smart； military manner。 For this the U。S。 Navy was using its best Naval Flight Officer； a professional aerial warrior。 Peace is hell。
Off to the west； down on the desert； was a long shadow cast by the two…story black windowless building that constituted the only structure in the town known as Deegon's Well。 That building was a whorehouse。 Presumably it also contained the office of the mayor and the rest of the municipal employees。 From this distance it appeared to be just a tiny box on the desert。 He knew it was painted black and had two stories and no windows because he had once inspected it from the parking lot in front。 Just a tourist； of course。
He keyed his ICS mike to call Rita's attention to this famous landmark； but thought better of it。
Rita was checking the fuel remaining in the various tanks。 He pressed his head against the radar hood and examined the cursor position。
He heard a whump； a loud； loose whump； and instantaneously the air pressure and noise level rose dramatically。 Something struck him。 He jerked his head back from the hood and looked around wildly。
The wind howled； shrieked； screamed； even through his helmet。 Rita was back against her seat； slumped down； covered with gore； her right hand groping wildly for her face。
A bird！ They had hit a bird。
He keyed the ICS without conscious thought and said her name。 He couldn't hear the sound of his own voice。
The plane was rolling off on one wing； the nose dipping。 He used his left hand to grab the stick between Rita's knees and center it。
Slow down。 They had to slow down； had to lessen the velocity of the wind funneling through that smashed…out left quarter panel。 The bird must have e through there and crashed against Rita as she bent over the fuel management panel on the left console。
He pulled back on the stick to bring the nose up into a climb and concentrated on keeping the wings level。 Higher。 Higher。 Twenty degrees nose…up。 Airspeed dropping： 250 indicated； 240； 230…he should drop the gear and flaps； get this flying pig slowed way down…210 knots。
The gear handle was on the left side of the instrument panel； right under the hole where the plexiglas quarter panel used to be； right under that river of air that was pressurizing the cockpit。
He tried to reach it。 Just beyond his fingertips。 Harness release unlocked。 No go。 Juggling the stick with his left hand； he used his right to release the two Koch fittings on the top of his torso harness。 If the seat fired now he wouldn't have a parachute。 He reached again。 Nope。 He was going to have to unfasten the Koch fittings that held his bottom to the ejection seat With fingers that were all thumbs he released the two catches； then attacked the bayonet fittings on his oxygen mask。 Might as well get it off too。 He jerked loose the cord that went to the earphones in his helmet。
Damn…he was stalling。 He could feel the buffet and the nose pitched forward。 He let it go down and got some airspeed； then eased it back。
He was having difficulty holding the wings level。 Power at about 86 percent on both engines。 That was okay。 But the smell…Jesus God！
The overpowering odor made his eyes water。 He tried to breathe only through his mouth。
No longer restrained by the inertia reel in the ejection seat； he grasped the stick with his right hand and stretched across with his left to the gear handle and slapped it down。
Now for the flaps。 He was lying across the center console； trying to keep his head out of the wind blast as be felt for the flap lever beside the throttle quadrant。 Leave the throttles alone。 Get the flaps down to thirty degrees。 Fumbling； he pulled the lever aft。
Toad was overcorrecting with the stick as he fought to keep the wings level； first too much one way； then too much the other。 Goddamn； those peckerhead pilots do this without even thinking about it。
There！ Gear down and locked。 Flaps and slats out； stabilator shifted。 Hallelujah。
He glanced up at Rita。 She had shit and blood and gore all over her face and shoulders。 Feathers。 They were everywhere！
Her helmet…it was twisted sideways。 Using glances； he tried to wipe off the worst of the crap with his left hand as he concentrated on holding the plane straight and level： 140 knots now； 8；300 feet on the altimeter。 Conditions in the cockpit were a lot better。
Were there any mountains this high around here？ He couldn't remember； and he couldn't see over the top of the instrument panel； bent over the way he was。
First things first。 He twisted her helmet back straight。 The face shield was shattered； broken； but it had protected her face and eyes from the worst of the impact
She was dazed。 She damn well better e out of it quick； because he sure couldn't land this plane。
Her right eye was covered with goo； whether hers or the bird's be couldn't tell。 He wiped at it with his gloved fingers。 The bird's。
Her left eye was clear but unfocused； bunking like crazy。 〃C'mon； Rita baby。 I can't keep flying this thing！〃 In his frustration he shouted。 She couldn't hear him。
Back to the panel： 135 knots。 Maybe he could engage the autopilot。
Yeah； the autopilot。 If it would work。 He jabbed at the switches and released the stick experimentally。 Yeah！ Hot damn！ It engaged。
He devoted his attention to her。 Cuffed her gently； rubbed her cheeks。 She shook her head and raised her right hand to her face。
He got himself rearranged in his seat and held his mask to his face。 〃Rita？〃 Nothing。 No sound in his ears。 Now what？ He had forgotten to plug the cord to his helmet back in。 He did so。 〃Goddamnit； Rita；〃 he roared。 〃Snap out of it。〃
Someone was talking on the radio。 He listened。 He could hear the words now。 It was Grafton。 Toad keyed the radio mike。 〃We took a bird hit。 Rita's a little dazed。 We're going to land at Fallen when she es around。〃
〃Understand you took a bird。 Where？〃
〃Right in the cockpit； CAG。 Hit Rita in the head。 We're going to Fallen when she es around。 Now I'm leaving this freq and calling Fallen on Guard。〃 Without waiting for a reply； he jabbed the channelization switches and called Fallen tower。 〃Fallen tower； this is Misty 22 on Guard。 Mayday。 We're fifteen or twenty mites out。 Roll the crash truck。〃
Which way are we heading？ 120 degrees。 He tugged the stick to the right and settled into a ten…degree turn； which the autopilot held。 Fallen was off to the west here somewhere。 He craned to see over the instrument panel in that direction。
〃Misty 22； Fallen tower on Guard。 Roger your Mayday。 e up。。。〃 and the controller gave them a discrete frequency。
Hey； stupid； look at the radar。 He examined it。 Be patient； Toad； be patient。 You're doing okay； if only Rita es around。 And if she doesn't； well； screw it。 You can figure out some way to eject her right over the runway； then you can hop out。 Too bad those penny…pinchers in the puzzle palace never spent the bucks for a mand ejection system for the A…6。 But you can get her out somehow。 It's been done before。 There…that must be the base there； just ing onto the screen from the right。 He waited until it was dead ahead； then pushed the stick left until the wings were level。 Now he dialed in the Fallen tower freq and gave them a call。
Rita was using her right arm to get her left up to the throttle quadrant。 〃Toad？〃
〃Yeah。 You okay？〃
〃What…〃
〃Bird strike。 All that goo on you is bird shit and gore。 Relax； it ain't you。 Can you see？〃
〃I think…right eye's blurred。 This wind。 Left is red…blood…can't see。。。〃
〃Okay。 I got the gear and flaps down and we're on autopilot motoring toward Fallen。 After a while or two you're gonna land this thing。 Just sit back right now and get yourself going again。〃
She rubbed at her face with her right hand…
The autopilot dropped off the line。 Automatically she grasped the stick and began flying。
〃See；〃 exclaimed Toad Tarkington triumphantly； 〃you can do it！ All fucking right！ We're almost home。 Raise your left wing。〃 She did so and he resumed his monologue； only to pause occasionally to answer a question over the radio。
Rita Moravia flew by instinct； her vision restricted to one eye； and that giving her only a blurred impression of the attitude instruments on the panel before her。 It was enough。 She could feel the plane respond to her touch； and confirmation of that response was all she needed from her vision。 Needed now。 She would need to see a lot better to land。 The wind…it was part of the problem。 The wind wasn't ing into the plane through the shattered quarter panel at 140 knots…the closed cockpit prevented that…but it was ing in at an unfortable velocity and temperature。
Cold。 She was cold。 She should slow some more。
She tugged at the throttles with her left hand。 Her arm was numb： her fingers felt like they were frozen。 The power levers came back； though the engine…RPM and fuel…flow tapes were too blurred to read。 Still she turned her head and squinted with her good eye。 She could make out the angle…of…attack stoplight indexer on the glare shield and trimmed to an on…speed condition。
For the first time she looked outside； trying to see the ground。 Just a blurred brown backdrop。 But Toad could get her lined up。
She tried to make her left thumb depress the ICS button； and after a few seconds succeeded。 〃Where are we？〃
〃e left about twenty degrees and start a descent to。。。 oh； say； six thousand。 Can you see？〃
〃I can see to fly。 Can't see outside very well。 Get me lined up and all and I think I can do it〃
Toad got back on the radio。
She made the heading change and only then retarded the throttles slightly and let the nose slip down a degree or so。 One thing at a time。 She had once had an instructor who liked to chant that to his students； who were often in over their heads。 When it's all going to hell； he used to say； just do one thing at a time。
The plane sank slowly； the altimeter needle swinging counterclockwise with about the speed of an elevator indicator。 So they had all day。 Go down slow and you have an easy transition at the bottom。 Go down too fast and。。。 As she sat there she continued to blink and flex her left arm。 Doesn't feel like anything's broken； just numb。 Maybe the world's most colorful bruise on my shoulder； some orange…and…purple splotch that will be the envy of every tattooed motorcyclist north of Juarez。
She was hurting now。 As the numbness wore off she was hurting。 Her face felt like someone had used a steak hammer on it。 Like she had slid down the sidewalk on her cheekbone for a couple hundred