The radio crackled and spat with an endless flow of chatter, air-to-air, ground-to-air, reports from the AWACs flying miles above them. Clare checked the airspeed, yawed the rooters another ten degrees so that they were looking at the ground through the windscreen. Drying fields. Irrigation pumps. And there, the narrow Nile green river that led to the town. She picked up speed. “Target coordinates in. Unlocking missiles.” “Confirmed. Range five hundred,” her copilot said. Clare tapped her mic. “Alpha Tango, this is Bravo Flight five two five, ranged three hundred meters from one-three Company Foxtrot. Do we have a confirm to go hot?” Her helmet’s headset blared. “Bravo Flight five two five, you are confirmed to go hot.” “Roger, Alpha Tango.” She flicked the switches. “Missiles on.” The radio cracked again. “Bravo five two five, this is the one-three Foxtrot. Not to rush you or anything, but where the hell are you?” “We’ll be on top of you in two minutes, one-three.
