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the Marine, thrusting out his hand. “A lot of people just call me Cowboy.”
    â€œWhy Cowboy?”
    â€œ ’Cause they think it’s funny that a Swede wears cowboy boots,” said the other pilot, coming over. “Don’t let his sloppy uniform fool you. He’s the best executive officer in the whole damn Marine Corps. My name’s Rogers.”
    â€œTurk Mako.”
    â€œSo what’s your gig, Turk?” asked Cowboy.
    â€œI’m going to be working with you guys as the ground air controller.”
    â€œCool. You’re Air Force.”
    â€œThat’s what it says on the uniform.”
    Cowboy laughed. “My bro’s in the Air Force. Tech sergeant. He is stationed in California, the lucky bastard. Gets a lot of surfing in.”
    â€œYou’re into surfing?”
    â€œIsn’t everybody?”
    â€œCowboy!” shouted a voice from back near the planes.
    â€œThat’s our C.O.,” said Cowboy. “Kind of, uh,well, I’ll let you form your own opinion.” He smirked.
    â€œCowboy. What are you doing?” said the commanding officer as he walked toward them. His tone wasn’t exactly friendly. “Is your aircraft squared away?”
    Cowboy winked at Turk, then spun around to meet his boss. “Not yet, Colonel. Just making the acquaintance of our Air Force liaison.”
    â€œWell get your aircraft taken care of, then deal with your social duties.”
    Turk braced himself. The snarl of a commander a little too full of himself was universal, but the gait seemed not only unique but all too familiar.
    No way, he thought.
    But it was—the C.O. of “Basher” squadron was none other than Lt. Colonel James “Jocko” Greenstreet, the man who had commanded the F-35s at Red Flag.
    Of all the stinking bad luck.
    â€œI’m Lieutenant Colonel Greenstreet,” barked the pilot, stopping about ten feet from Turk. “Who are you?”
    â€œTurk Mako.” If Greenstreet didn’t remember him, he wasn’t volunteering the memory.
    â€œWhat’s your rank?”
    â€œI’m a captain.”
    Greenstreet frowned in a way that suggested an Air Force captain was too low for him to waste breath on.
    â€œWe’ll brief when we have our aircraft settled,” said Greenstreet.
    â€œCan’t wait,” said Turk as the colonel strode away. He couldn’t tell if Greenstreet had recognized him and didn’t think it was worth acknowledging, or if he was simply extending the same warm and fuzzy feelings they’d shared at the Air Force exercise.
    â€œYou meet the Marine squadron leader?” asked Danny, walking over.
    â€œJocko Greenstreet,” Turk told him. “Lieutenant colonel. Real piece of work. Don’t call him Jocko,” added Turk.
    â€œYou know him?”
    â€œUnfortunately, yes,” Turk explained.
    â€œI assume you’ll keep your personal feelings to yourself,” said Danny.
    â€œAbsolutely,” said Turk. “I’m sure he will, too—not that it will make any difference at all in how he behaves.”
    T WO HOURS LATER Danny, Turk, and Trevor Walsh—the Whiplash techie who was going to handle the local monitoring gear—joined the Marine Corps pilots and some senior enlisted men in one of the trailers for a presentation on the UAV.
    â€œThis is what we’re interested in,” said Danny, starting the briefing with blurry images of the UAV in action. “While your primary mission is still to assist the Malaysians, we appreciate any help you can give us. We’re very, very interested in finding out what exactly this UAV is and who’s flying it. We expect that it may fly into your area.”
    â€œYou ‘expect,’ or it will?” asked Colonel Greenstreet sharply.
    â€œI can’t make any prediction,” said Danny, who didn’t mind the question or the tone. “Unfortunately. But when the