"Under two minutes now," he said. "It's time."
"No pain, no gain." Peretz flipped on the radio. "USS Glover, we're going to have to ditch. We have a crew of three—pilot, copilot, and navigation trainee."
"We have emergency crews on starboard side, ready to pick you up. Do you have Mae Wests?"
"Life jackets on. Standard-issue yellow. With dye markers and saltwater-activated beacons. We'll—"
"Hawk One, our Traffic guys at Gournes just reported they can't get a positive verify on you."
'Tell them to check again," Peretz suggested matter-of-factly. "Maybe they screwed up in—"
"We'll have them run it through one more time. Routine security. But you've got to keep a three-thousand-meter perimeter till—"
"Dammit, sailor, oil pressure's in the red. We're taking her by your starboard bow. Ready your crews."
Suddenly another voice came on the radio. It was older.
"Israeli Hawk One, this is Tactical Action Officer Vince Bradley. Who the hell are you? We VID you as a Mi-24 gunship."