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Three F/A-18Es lined up beside the AV-8s and saluted Toad and his wingman. Toad acknowledged the salute from the naval aviators with a wave. Navy dweebs. At that moment, he loved every damn one of the sons of bitches. They would take over the duty of sweeping for the V22. The Super Hornets peeled away from the formation. Toad radioed the tanker to stand by. It was unlikely he’d make it unless the tanker could meet him inside Indonesian airspace. As it was, he’d be flying on fumes, and his wingman was in the same shit.

* * *

As the Indonesian coastline slid behind the V22, its passing was acknowledged by the Australians with relief. But the news wasn’t all good. Curry was dead. Beck had been out of his seat as soon as the plane had stopped bouncing through the sky. He’d worked feverishly by Curry’s side for a minute but couldn’t do anything for him. Shrapnel from one of the exploding shells had entered his skull behind the ear, severing the spinal cord before exiting.

Suryei looked on helplessly. There was no justice in it. The man was an easy victim, held down by straps in the stretcher so that death couldn’t miss. She looked up at the flapping fabric around the holes in the aircraft’s ceiling and tempered her criticism of the fates. Most, if not all of them, had been bloody lucky. They could easily have been blown out of the sky, or a shell could have found her. Joe opened his eyes and forced a smile. ‘The feature over yet?’ he asked, sweat sheening his forehead.

Joe was always ready with a quip, thought Suryei. She liked that. Mostly, she reminded herself. ‘How you feeling?’

‘Only hurts when I breathe.’ Joe shifted slightly in his seat, the pain disfiguring his face.

‘You want another shot?’ she asked.

‘No thanks. Gives you bad dreams. Been in a plane crash, shot at… Bloody scary.’ The aircraft hit a pocket of turbulence jolting Joe in an awkward way. The pain almost made him pass out. ‘Well, maybe a bit later,’ he said, grunting with the effort needed to keep the pain under control.

Wilkes returned to his seat, sliding in beside Suryei. He was angry about losing Curry. Angry at himself, although he knew that wasn’t very logical. What could he have done? It was just bad luck. At least Curry would have died instantly.

Wilkes reflected on the mission. It had already taken on the perspective of a dream half remembered. The whole thing seemed surreal, vicious.

Suryei was frowning, examining the blood and dirt crusted on Wilkes’s face. He felt her eyes on him. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, before she could ask. He’d completely forgotten about his own wound. His nerve endings were still numb from the shock. ‘Cut myself shaving.’ Wilkes looked across at the bodies of Curry and Gibson, rocking gently with the motion of the aircraft. He recalled their faces. Gibbo and Curry. They’d been mates. All the men in his section were mates. They risked their lives together, drank together, lived and died together. It was difficult losing people you were close to, but he’d lost them before and, no doubt, he’d lose more in the future. But that knowledge did nothing to ease the regret.

More than a few men had died on this day, and not just Australians. The Indonesian soldiers and airmen — they were just doing their job. It was their territory and they were just defending it against uninvited intruders.

McBride appeared beside Wilkes. Neither of the men had their headphones on. There was now a lot of noise in the cabin caused by the airflow ripping through the holes in the fuselage. The cacophony gave them privacy. ‘Everyone else okay, mate?’ shouted the captain.

There’s that word… ‘mai-yt’. Jesus, the Yanks sure knew how to murder the English language. There was something about this captain that didn’t fit, things he’d said. McBride had known his identity when they’d arrived at the carrier — so right from the first, something had been wrong about this bloke. Also, he seemed more informed about the mission and what had led up to it than a captain in the Marines had a right to be. We’ve got a proper military sat on this for you now… Wilkes was not even aware that the satellite intelligence he had in his possession was anything other than military. And then there was that comment as they’d come aboard just now: Joe Light, alive! Amazing! What was so special about Joe? Wilkes decided to go fishing. ‘What have you got to do with all this, McBride? You’re not a Marines captain, are you?’

McBride’s smile disappeared, as if a cloud had passed over his face. He held Wilkes’s stare. ‘Yes. And no.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s not important.’