by Dale Brown
“A Chinese frigate fired missiles at one of the Dreamland aircraft. That’s damn threatening.”
“Storm, we’ve been through this. You yourself said that was the result of a misunderstanding.”
“I believe I was wrong.”
“Based on what evidence?”
Storm had no evidence, but he had strong feelings. He strongly regretted arranging the trade for the Chinese pilot—he could have engaged the frigate with his torpedoes and deck gun.
“I’m just convinced,” he told the admiral. “I’m convinced they’re going to try something.”
“Then the Decatur and the Lincoln will deal with her. In the meantime, you have no weapons and must replenish.”
“So let me replenish off the Lincoln. All I need are a dozen Harpoons.”
“The Lincoln has only enough ammunition and stores for its own task force.”
“But if I have to go all the way to Japan, I might just as well head to San Diego. The ship is due back there for full evaluation in three weeks. By the time the contractors get everything together—”
“You…have…your…orders!”
The admiral reached toward his screen, and the image on Storm’s video disintegrated into a tiny blue dot.
The admiral was jealous, thought Storm. Woods couldn’t stand the idea that he and his ship had made history.
Storm decided that Woods must be sending the Decatur to trail the stricken Khan because he was convinced the Chinese weren’t done. The Decatur was a conventional destroyer; if it finished off the Khan, it would take some of the shine off his own accomplishments.
Storm went out into the conference room next to his cabin to pace and consider his orders. The admiral hadn’t ordered him out of battle—he’d ordered him to replenish. Logically, if he could find another way to replenish, he could stay in the fight.
There was a replenishment ship about two days sail to the south, steaming toward the Lincoln task group, and another off the coast of Africa. But the radical design of the Abner Read called for special handlers to load its forward weapon pods, and neither ship was equipped with them. The alternative was to hand-load the littoral destroyer. This would involve taking the missiles from the containers they were transported in, slinging them across the open sea, and then manhandling them—gently, of course—into their launch boxes.
Doable, but not easy, and sure to require higher approval before proceeding. Higher approval meant talking to Woods, and Storm knew how that would go.
There had to be other sources.
Dreamland used Harpoons, didn’t they? Where did they get the missiles?
Diego Garcia.
Storm called his procurement officer, an ensign who told him he’d already checked with Diego Garcia; no Harpoon missiles were available there.
“You’re telling me there are no missiles on that base?”
The answer involved a lengthy explanation of the Navy’s supply system. Storm was in no mood to hear it.
He needed to put a chief petty officer in charge of keeping them armed and supplied, he thought. Someone who knew his way around the regulations, not someone who spouted them to him.
He was about to switch channels when the ensign offered a suggestion: “The Dreamland people may have some to spare. Maybe we could try them.”
The Air Force did use Harpoon missiles, but Storm wondered whether they were compatible. He knew that the ship-launched weapons contained a booster that the air-launched weapons lacked, but wasn’t sure what other differences there might be. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to determine that the missiles should work in the Abner Read, provided they were properly mated with the booster units.
The Abner Read carried six spares.
Storm clapped his hands together, then punched the com unit on his belt. “Communications, get me Colonel Bastian, would you?”
Aboard the Bennett,
near the Pakistan-India border
0640
DOG WATCHED THE TWO PAKISTANI JETS AS THEY SWUNG IN toward them from the east. The aircraft were now about ten minutes away.
“What do you think, Colonel?” asked Englehardt. “Do we take them down or not?”
“They haven’t challenged us yet,” Dog told him.
“Respectfully, sir, if they have bombs, they could do some decent damage to the Marines before we can shoot them down.”
“I don’t intend on letting them get into a position to do that,” said Dog. “They’re not flying an attack profile. Change your course so we can go out to meet them. Plot an intercept so we can come around on their tails. Get us a little more altitude.”
Dog wanted to get the Megafortress close enough so he could see what the diminutive fighters had under their wings before they were in a position to threaten the Marines. But he knew that would make the Megafortress more vulnerable.
Bending over the center power console, he peered through the Megafortress’s windscreen. The two Pakistani planes looked like white pocketknives in the distance as the Bennett began her turn.
“Communication from the Abner Read, Colonel,” said Sullivan. “For you personally.”
“Not now.”
“They claim it’s urgent.”
Dog snapped into the frequency. “Bastian.”
“Colonel, this is Storm. I was wondering—”
“I’m just about to confront a pair of F-6 fighters here, Storm—make it damn quick.”
“I’m looking for some Harpoon missiles,” answered Storm.
“I haven’t got time—”
“Listen, Bastian—”
Dog switched to the Pakistani frequency.
“Dreamland Bennett to Pakistani F-6s. Did you find those Indian Sukhois?” Dog asked, watching the two planes approach.
“Negative, Dreamland USA. You are over Pakistan territory.”
“Acknowledged,” said Dog. “Our operations are to the southwest, over Indian land. We thought it would be prudent to fly over friendly territory as much as possible.”
“They’re trying to transmit the information back to their base,” said Sullivan when the fighters didn’t immediately respond. “Having trouble. The backup generators at the base seem to be giving them fits.”
The two Pakistani fighters spread slightly as the Megafortress turned. Dog watched the God’s eyeview screen on the dash closely—if the planes had any hostile intent, one would attempt to close on the Bennett’s tail, where a shot from the heat-seekers would be difficult to defend against.
“Coming up outside our wings,” said Sullivan.
Dog heard Englehardt blow a large wad of air into his oxygen mask. He’d undoubtedly been ready to flick the stick and call for flares—standard response to a missile launch.
“Pakistan F-6s, this is Dreamland Bennett. Are you free to assist? If so, we would welcome a high CAP,” said Dog, asking the aircraft to patrol above them and protect against high-flying fighters.
“Dreamland USA, we are not at liberty to assist you at this time. We are on the highest state of alert.”
“Acknowledged. Appreciate your taking the time to check on us,” said Dog.
“We just going to let them overfly the missile area?” Englehardt asked.
“At this speed and altitude, they’re not going to see much,” Dog told the pilot. “The Ospreys could be doing anything. We’ll stay with them as they make the pass.”
“No air-to-ground missiles,” said Sullivan, inspecting the aircraft with the Megafortress’s video.
“Power back a bit in case we have to get in their way,” Dog told Englehardt.
“Ready.”
But it wasn’t necessary. The F-6s began a turn northward well before they reached the area where the Ospreys had landed. Clearly, they were under orders to stay out of Indian territory.
“Dreamland USA, you’re on your own,” said the lead pilot. “Radio if you require further assistance from enemy fighters.”
“Roger that, Pakistan F-6. Thanks much.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
northern Arabian Sea
0645
EVERY TIME STORM PERSUADED HIMSELF THAT BASTIAN wasn’t a bastard, a jerk, and worse, the flyboy colonel did something to show him how right his original opinion was.
Here, he had saved his people, just gotten them off the boat, for cryin’ out loud, and all the Dog-haired colonel could do was hang up on him.
Storm waited for his fury to subside, then told his communications specialist to get him the colonel again.
“Bastian.”
“What do you want me to do, Dog? Grovel?”
“What’s up, Storm?”
“I find myself short of Harpoon missiles. I’m told that the Air Force versions can be made to work with my ship’s weapons systems without—”
“Why don’t you resupply off the Lincoln?”
“It’s not quite that simple. Unfortunately, Harpoons are in short supply. I only need six.”
Storm hated the tone in his own voice—weak, pleading, explaining. He was about to snap off the communication in disgust when Dog answered.
“We have some. Have your people check with Captain Juidice on Diego Garcia. I’m not sure how we’d ferry them there; maybe one of the Whiplash Ospreys.”
“I won’t forget this, Dog,” gushed Storm. He could feel his face flush. “I won’t forget it.”
“Bastian out.”
Great Indian Desert
0655
DANNY GLANCED AT THE TWO NAVY EXPERTS BESIDE HIM, then slid his hand down below the bomb casing to the nest of wires.
“Keep the probes away from the wires,” Klondike repeated.
“Yeah, they’re away.”
“I want you to cut them in this sequence. Black, pure red, red with two black stripes—”
“Hold on, all right?” The wire casings were color coded for easy identification. But there were so many different codes that it wasn’t easy to tell them apart.
“I need another flashlight,” Danny said.
He took a breath, then pushed back close to the weapon. One of the sailors was already shining a beam on the wires; it just didn’t seem bright enough.
Danny felt as if someone was squeezing his neck.
“Here you go,” said the Navy expert, turning on another flashlight.
He located the first wire, nudging it gently from the rest of the pack, picked up the pliers with his right hand, pushed the nose toward the wire, then backed off and switched hands.
“How’s it going?” asked Lieutenant Dancer from behind him.
Her voice steeled his fingers and he began cutting, working methodically. Klondike had him move on to the fusing unit.
“What we think is the fusing unit,” she said, amending her instructions as she told him how to remove it.
He could have done without the note of uncertainty in the description, but when he was done, the scientists decided that the bomb was safe enough to move.
Which presented them with the next problem—they wanted time to study it before bringing it aboard the Lincoln.
“Why?” asked Danny.
“Just in case it blows up,” said Klondike dryly.
“So it’s all right to blow us up,” Dancer said sarcastically, “but not the squids.”
“Probably more worried about their delicate airplanes,” said one of her sergeants.
“Well, I’m all for getting the hell out of here,” Danny told them. “Given that the Pakistanis are two miles away.”
“We’ll just keep the weapons with us at P-1 for the time being,” said Dancer, “since we’re setting up camp there anyway.”
Meanwhile, a harness and a set of titanium rods were dug into place under the warhead. A pair of hydraulic jacks with balloon-style wheels lifted the rods up so the warhead could be set into another jack and gingerly rolled over to the Osprey. It took considerable grunt work, but within a half hour the nuclear weapon was being rolled up into the aircraft’s hold, where it was set into a veritable nest of inflatable stretchers and strapped to the walls so it couldn’t move. Danny, one of the Navy bomb people, and two Marine riflemen sat in the rear of the aircraft with the weapon; everyone else flew in the other two rototilts.
“This’ll be a story to tell our grandkids, huh?” said the Navy expert as the Osprey revved its engines.
“If it’s declassified by then,” replied Danny.
Aboard the Bennett,
near the Pakistan-India border
1215
“POSITIVE ID ON THE LAST OF THE PAKISTANI WARHEADS,” Major Catsman told Colonel Bastian.
“Good,” said Dog. He glanced at Sergeant Daly, sitting next to him. The radar operator’s eyes had narrowed to slits, his brows sagging toward the puffy skin below. “I think we’re about to call it a day here.”
“When was the last time you slept?” Catsman asked.
Dog changed the subject, going over the arrangements Catsman had made for handling communications with the U-2s and Marines recovering the nukes on the ground. Then he checked in with Danny, who was helping set up the warhead recovery base in a hilly section of the desert between India and Pakistan. So far, four Indian and two Pakistani warheads had been recovered, all without incident.
“Any word on Major and Captain Stockard?” asked Dog, trying to sound as unemotional as possible.
“Negative.”
“Alert me if there are any new developments,” he told Catsman. “I’ll check back with you when we land at Diego Garcia.”
“Roger that. Get some rest.”
“I will, Major. Thanks for the advice.”
Base Camp One,
Great Indian Desert
1800
BY THE TIME DANNY FREAH HAD A CHANCE TO STOP AND catch his breath, night had begun stealing into the rugged hills around him, casting long shadows over the temporary camp the Marines had hastily erected. Over fifty Marines guarded the perimeter, with additional sentries located to the north and south and a Marine Pioneer unmanned aerial vehicle orbiting overhead to provide constant surveillance. Flights of F/A-18s from the Lincoln were being rotated north to provide air support if any was needed.
For the moment, things were quiet, and neither the Indians nor the Pakistanis seemed to know they were there. The closest Indian troops were border patrol units nearly two hundred miles to the south.
Admiral Woods had decided that the warheads would be transferred to the USS Poughkeepsie. Laid down in the 1960s and designated as an LSD or “landing ship dock,” the Poughkeepsie had a long helicopter deck and could accommodate over two thousand tons of cargo, the ostensible reason for its selection—though the Navy experts told Danny the ship was so old no one in the Navy would care if the nukes took her down, unlike the Abe.
The Poughkeepsie, en route from maneuvers off Africa, was not expected to be in range for more than twenty-four hours. By then, it was hoped, all of the warheads would be recovered and the Marines ready to end their operations.
Danny ambled down the narrow path to the tent area, the fatigue of the long day slowing every step. It was a good kind of tired, he thought, the kind that came from a tough but successful mission. On the other hand, tired was tired.
Dancer met him as the trail gave way to the narrow plain where the Marines had established their command area.
“You look like you could use a good home-cooked meal,” she told him.
“If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”
“This way.”
Danny tried thinking about his wife Jemma. But she was far away, and they hadn’t been getting along too well anyway, and—and Dancer was right in front of him, just begging to be touched.
Somehow he managed to keep his hands to himself as she led him into the mess tent.
“Pot roast,” said Dancer. “Just like mom used to make. Of course, my mom was in the Army.”
She pointed at a tray of squished plastic packages containing vacuum-sealed meat and gravy—a Meals Ready to Eat version of pot roast.
“I thought you were cooking,” Danny said, laughing.
“Oh, I am,” said Dancer. She picked up one of the packages and dropped it into a tray of simmering water nearby.
“Lieutenant, I’m surprised at you,” he said, grabbed a set of tongs and fished the package out of the water. “That’s going to give it that plasticky taste. Come on. Let me show you how it’s supposed to be done.”
He picked up two of the packages and four metal plates, then went outside.
“Most important thing you have to do,” he told Dancer as he walked away from the tents, “is find the proper location.”
Danny picked a spot with a scattering of small and medium-sized rocks. He squatted down and quickly created a miniature fireplace. He made covered casserole dishes by covering a plate’s worth of food with another plate and placing them over the hearth, securing the tops with small stones.
“You forgot the charcoal,” said Dancer.
Danny smiled and took a pencil flare from his tac vest.
“No,” said Dancer.
“Learned this in high school,” he told her. He lit the flare, then set it under the pans. He arranged the rocks to help channel the heat to the food. “I was with the local ambulance squad. We used to do this when we were on standby at football games.”
“You seem more like you would have been playing football than waiting for someone to get hurt.”
“Couldn’t play football that year,” said Danny. “Bad knee. That’s why I became an EMT.”
“How can you parachute if you have bad knees?”
“That was my junior year. They got better.”
Danny had gone on to play—and star—as quarterback the next year, and even played in college, albeit for a Division III school. But he didn’t mention this to Dancer; it would sound too much like bragging.
The food had already been cooked before it was packaged, and long before the flare died out, the scent of warm meat and gravy filled the air.
“Only thing we need now is wine,” he said, pulling the pans off the fire.
