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“f.u.c.kin’-A, Jordan,” Brian said. “Chelsea will love you so much. That was a great shot.”

Private Jordan Willis nodded. He could only hope his actions pleased Chelsea. And it was a great f.u.c.king shot.

“Wait for it,” he said. “I think I double-dipped.”

Fifteen miles away from their position, the A319 trailed a thick, curved column of smoke as its nose dropped toward downtown Detroit. It sailed down into the city. Seconds later, a ball of flame rose into the sky.

“Bonus points,” Brian said. “Nice work.”

“Thanks. Wow, look at all the planes bailing out. I’m betting they aren’t asking the tower for permission to change their flight plans.”

One jet had been approaching and another had been circling, waiting for clearance. Both now turned away from DTW. Those suckers were big beasts, sure, but it looked like they could still haul b.a.l.l.s when they kicked in the engines.

Brian shouldered his own Stinger, looking for just the right target.

“You gonna shoot that thing or just pose with it?” Jordan asked.

“I think I better save it,” Brian said. “The general says they could still try to bring in C-5s or some C-17s. They do that, I’ll hit one on the way in.” He set the Stinger down and picked up one of five AT4 ant.i.tank weapons.

Jordan shook his head. He liked Brian, but sometimes the guy just didn’t think. “That’s an ant.i.tank missile, dumb-a.s.s. Ain’t no tanks here.”

“How about a fuel tank?” Brian pointed to a 747 sitting at a runway’s back edge. “I think that plane was probably going to take off before you shot down the other one. They can move pretty good in the air, but something tells me they can’t exactly turn on a dime when they’re on the ground.”

Jordan looked at the plane, a giant white sitting duck. Huh.

“I should have never doubted you,” Jordan said. “In fact, you’ve inspired me. I think I’ll see if one of these AT4s can hit the tower. I apologize for calling you a dumb-a.s.s, good sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” Brian said as he sighted in on the stationary 747 and pulled the trigger.

12:25 P.M.: Home Base

Clarence, Gitsh, Marcus, Dan and Margaret sat in the computer room of Trailer A. Each of the three computer screens played a different local channel. The left screen showed a live shot of a fire burning just east of Dearborn. The news anchor said a plane had been shot down by a missile. The middle screen showed jittery shots of panicked people rus.h.i.+ng away from the towering Renaissance Center, the broken-gla.s.s top of which belched smoke from some large internal fire. Apparently gunmen had rushed into the center tower, killing everyone in sight, then started shooting the place up with shoulder-fired rockets. The screen on the right showed a bulky A-10 fighter sweeping in, strafing a green vehicle up on the Eight Mile Road overpa.s.s. Even with the poor camera work, Margaret saw the Humvee shake and shudder as bullets tore through it.

“This is insane,” she said. “It looks like footage from Iran or something.”

“I think we stay here,” Gitsh said. “There’s people all over out there, cars whipping down the streets and smas.h.i.+ng into each other. Ogden’s men could spot us anywhere.”

“No, man,” Marcus said. “People all over is why we need to go now. Then we’re just more civvies running around looking for a place to hide our heads.”

“We’re on a railroad track that hasn’t been used in decades,” Gitsh said. “We’re tucked under a f.u.c.king overpa.s.s, man. You can’t even see us from the road. We just stay right here and we ride this out.”