Colt slammed his fist against the canopy in frustration, then looked down at his Panoramic Cockpit Display to assess his fuel state. If they continued flowing north, he would run out of gas before he could recover at Point Mugu, and he knew Jug’s situation was even more dire. “Jug, what’s your state?”

There was a pause. “Not good. I’m on fumes.”

Looking at his moving map, he selected the closest base. “Can you make North Island?”

“I don’t think so.”

Jug took his jet out of afterburner, and Colt angled his jet to rendezvous on Jug’s left side, closing to within a mile. He couldn’t believe how close he had come to shooting the darkened Joint Strike Fighter out of the sky. And now he needed to somehow convince Alpha Whiskey they weren’t a threat so he could get them to an airfield and land before fuel starvation caused them to flame out.

Dividing his time between flying formation and coming up with a solution, he looked down at the moving map display again and saw the narrow island representing the northern portion of the Southern California Offshore Range. The auxiliary landing field on the north end of San Clemente Island was their best bet.

“Let’s circle back and descend for San Clemente,” Colt suggested.

“They’re not gonna like it.”

Colt double-clicked the microphone switch to let Jug know he’d heard him, then did his best to assuage the cruiser crew’s concerns. “US Navy warship, this is Devil Two. We are emergency aircraft descending to land at San Clemente Island. Do not fire on us. I say again, do not fire!”

The response was immediate. “Devil Two, if you turn south, you will be engaged. Continue flowing north.”

Dammit!

Colt asked Jug, “What do you think, brother?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been shot at tonight.”

Click. Click.

Colt fell back in trail and allowed Devil One to take the lead. Jug began a right-hand turn and descended for the airfield only thirty miles behind them. In most situations, he would have felt comfortable with where they were, but with the glowing FUEL LO caution staring him in the face from the Integrated Caution, Advisory and Warning System, he knew he was in an even more precarious position than his wingman.

“Buzzer on,” Jug said.

Here we go.

52

Santa Cruz Island, California

When the flashlight turned on and illuminated a dark-haired woman dressed in camouflage, Punky reacted on instinct and shifted the pistol’s front sight post to center mass. Out of habit, she shouted a command for the woman to freeze, but when she recognized the stubby submachine gun in her hand, she pressed back on the trigger.

But at the exact moment when she felt the trigger break, the flashlight shifted up the hill and blinded her in its brilliant beam. The gun recoiled in her hand, and she let the trigger reset but held off on firing a second round. Even without looking right at it, the white light had washed out her night vision goggles, and she lost sight of her target. She could only hear the soft scampering of feet retreating down the hill.

“Federal agent!” she yelled again, still blinded but hoping her command voice was enough to encourage the woman to stop.

Instead of surrendering, her target responded by letting loose a fusillade of submachine gun fire on full automatic, and Punky heard the sharp cracks of supersonic rounds impacting the hillside around her. She dove to her right, vaguely recalling that part of the slope being clear of jagged rocks, and hit the ground hard. The impact jarred the night vision goggles from the makeshift bracket, then she bounced, and her body plummeted down the hill.

But at least she managed to hold onto her pistol in the tumble.

After several seconds of falling, she finally came to a stop. Dizzy and disoriented, she rose on unsteady legs and scanned the darkness around her. Without the night vision goggles, she struggled to make sense of the scenery and couldn’t tell up from down or north from south. Her ears rang from the gunfire, but she could just barely make out a few other distinct sounds. The bass drumbeat of a helicopter’s rotor blades, ocean waves crashing ashore in Smuggler’s Cove, and the faint crackle of twigs breaking under the weight of a boot.

She spun toward the sound with her eyes wide, searching for movement in the shadows. But all she saw was the inky black of night. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she felt her skin flush from her body’s fear response, but she inhaled slowly through her nose to avoid giving in to the budding panic. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, letting her ears build a picture in her mind.

The helicopter’s sound echoed from both over her shoulder and directly in front of her, and she looked up at the tapestry of stars that came to an abrupt end in a jagged line. She must have tumbled into the narrow valley on the east side of the ridgeline. The sound of the waves beating against the southern shore reached her right ear first, confirming that she was still facing east.

Snap.