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Perry shrugged. “I’m not great with distances, Dew.”

“Take a guess, college boy.”

“Maybe a mile? Maybe a bit less.”

Dew relayed the information, waited, then laughed. “You’ve got to be s.h.i.+tting me, L.T.”

He listened, then nodded. Apparently Murray wasn’t s.h.i.+tting him.

Dew tucked the satphone back in his flak jacket. “We’re going to put down and secure the LZ. Then Murray is going to fly in another Margo-Mobile set behind us. They’ve lost contact with Margaret and Otto, so he thinks their trailers were destroyed.”

“Is Margo dead?”

“I doubt it,” Dew said. “They had plenty of warning. Otto is a sharp guy, so let’s hope for the best.”

“Well, where are we landing, then?”

Dew smiled a s.h.i.+t-eating grin. “Perry, my boy, you’re going to love this landing field. The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.”

“What? Where are we landing?”

Dew kept smiling and shook his head. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

He thought this was funny. Funny. They were heading into a firefight, Detroit was burning, Margaret might be dead, and Dew was laughing.

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” Dew said. “This might be the last time you ever fly in one of these things.”

Perry sat back and hoped that was true. But he hoped it would be because they walked away and just never got on one again—not because they crashed and died.

12:42 P.M.: Ogden’s Plans

General Charlie Ogden made another mark on his paper map of Detroit. He’d lost contact with the men at the 94/75 intersection. They’d done their job, but the fact that he’d lost contact meant two more men gone. Fifty minutes into the attack and losses were higher than he’d expected.

Those low-flying A-10s were a real pain in the a.s.s. Small-arms fire just wouldn’t take them out. He’d had only ten Stingers to begin with—five for the various airports and five in the city. Three of the latter set had already fired—two misses and a hit, bringing down an Apache right on Woodward Avenue. He’d ordered the last two Stingers held in reserve. It was possible, however improbable, that Ogden had missed something. Giving up air superiority wasn’t an issue. What he couldn’t handle was troops on the ground. His men were too spread out, too dispersed to repel infantry.

Ogden could sense it now. He could sense how close they were. Thirty-two minutes, give or take, and the hatchlings would activate the gate.

The angels would descend upon Detroit.

He was in the Globe building with Corporal Kinney Johnson, a sorry excuse for a communications man. Just the two of them, the hatchlings busting a.s.s to finish the gate and Chelsea still sitting inside the Winnebago. Mr. Burkle continued to run in and out, finding whatever material he could for the hatchlings.

“Sir,” Johnson said, “we’re getting reports of ma.s.sive air traffic off Belle Isle, less than a mile up the river. A-10s, Apaches, even F-15s, flying low.”