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as the sound of the aircraft slowly faded. Finally, the noise of the jungle returned. Flaherty felt what he always felt on infiltration after the friendly noise of the chopper disappeared into the distance: abandoned in Indian Country. He took comfort from the presence of Dane and Thomas. Tormey he didn't feel much about either way. The man would have to earn his place.
    They were all clustered together on the steep hillside, under the cover of trees just off the clearing. Castle made a low whistle and the men gathered closer.
    “We go over this ridge, then down to a river on the other side. The crash site is just across it. Then we follow the river for four klicks north, re-cross, and move back east about six klicks to our pick up zone.”
    Flaherty pulled out his compass and looked at the glowing needle. His eyes widened. The needle was spinning.
    “Your compasses won't work,” Castle said, noticing what the team leader was doing.
    “Why not?” Flaherty asked.
    “Let's get out of here,” Dane said in a low voice. “This is real bad.”
    Flaherty reached out and grabbed the collar of Castle's t-shirt. “What's going on?”
    “You were told,” Castle said. “We're here to recover pieces of the SR-71.” He peeled Flaherty's hands off his shirt.
    “How do you know the compasses won't work?” Flaherty asked, trying to get back under control.
    Castle shrugged, but he didn't quite pull off his attempt at nonchalance. “That's what the pilots were saying as we came in. Their instruments were going nuts. Maybe there's a large ore deposit nearby. I don't know.”
    “Call a Prairie Fire,” Dane said. He hadn't even heard what Castle said. Dane was looking about, his expression extremely worried.
    Flaherty rubbed his hand along the green rag tied around his neck as he considered Dane’s words. Prairie Fire was the code for an emergency exfiltration to CCN headquarters. The CIA bird might have brought them here, but Flaherty's ace in the hole was that CCN took care of its own. He knew if he called in a Prairie Fire, a CCN chopper would be inbound, weather permitting. Or should be inbound. They might be so far over the fence now that CCN couldn't give authorization to fly. Hell, Flaherty cursed to himself; he didn't even know exactly where they were.
    Flaherty looked at the circle of faces. Dane's fear was evident. Thomas was Thomas, his face inscrutable, but Dane's words were having an effect as the large black man was nodding in agreement to Dane's suggestion. Tormey also looked scared, but this was his first time across the fence. The issue for Flaherty was Dane. The man was solid. They'd been in firefights together and the weapons sergeant had always done his share and more.
    Flaherty tapped Thomas on the arm. “Get up on the radio and call in a Prairie Fire. I want exfiltration ASAP. We can guide them in using radio direction off our set.”
    Castle was shocked. “You can't do that. We have to recover the black box off that SR-71.”
    Flaherty ignored him. “Let's get a perimeter here. Dane, there. Tormey, you cover downslope.”
    Castle leveled his CAR-15. “We have to go over into the valley and get to the plane.”
    Dane was looking at the ridgeline as if he could see the valley on the other side. “You go over there and you'll never come back.”
    “What the hell is he talking about?” Castle demanded.
    “I don't know, but I trust him,” Flaherty said. He was trying to ignore the CAR-15, but Castle looked ready to lose his cool.
    “You're just security and pack mules to bring back the equipment,” Castle said. “We've got imagery of the area. There's no sign of VC or NVA.”
    “Put the weapon down,” Flaherty said.
    Dane had his M-60 trained roughly in the direction of the CIA man's stomach.
    Castle reluctantly lowered the muzzle. “Foreman will have your asses,” he said.
    “He can have our asses,” Flaherty said. Hell, he was going home in less than a week and trading in his uniform for