Retribution

by Dale Brown

  “Negative,” said Danny. “Radio traffic is picking up, though.”

  “Mmmmm,” said Dancer. She gazed toward the coast, probably thinking it would be a good thing to get the warheads out as soon as possible.

  He was thinking about other things—none of which were military.

  Dancer unfolded a small sketch map with an X drawn at each of the verified warhead locations. Four more warheads, all Indian, had been spotted; Dancer reviewed their locations, pointing to two at the very northern edge of her map. Six more missiles had to be found.

  “The warheads at I-6 and I-8 are going to be much harder to retrieve,” she told Danny. “I wonder if you’d lead that team.”

  “Be glad to.”

  The warheads she’d referred to had crashed about two hundred miles to the east in Pakistani territory. The Pakistani army had a decent-sized military post less then thirty miles away, and the Indians had an unmanned listening post ten miles south. The electronic surveillance equipment there was thought to have been fried by the T waves, but a truck was spotted in the area, and it was suspected that the Indians were working hard to get it back on line.

  “You coming with us?” asked Danny.

  “I have my work cut out for me here,” Dancer told him. “And hopefully we’ll be launching another mission as soon as the other warheads are found.”

  “Shame,” said Danny, feeling as if he’d been turned down for a date.

  White House Situation Room

  2010, 16 January 1998

  (0610, 17 January, Karachi)

  MOST OF THOSE IN THE SITUATION ROOM REGARDED Robert Van Houton as little more than a political hack, and so eyes glazed over when he warned that China would be extremely interested in the nuclear warheads the U.S. had punched out of the sky. It didn’t help that his monotone voice made it sound as if he was simply repeating vague concerns others had voiced earlier in the meeting. Even Jed Barclay, not a dynamic speaker himself, realized Van Houton wasn’t coming across very well as he briefed the cabinet members on the latest developments.

  “We’re not going to attack the Chinese,” said Defense Secretary Chastain finally.

  “I’m not suggesting that,” said Van Houton defensively. “What I’m saying—”

  “I’ve spoken to Tex Woods,” said Admiral Balboa. “He concurs that there’s no need to get into a conflict with the Chinese. The aircraft carrier Khan is out of it—they can’t even launch aircraft. Of course, if they attack our people, we’ll defend ourselves.”

  “Um, it’s not the Khan we h-h-have to worry about,” said Jed. “The Ch-Ch-Chinese may be helping terror groups.”

  “Not that old bugaboo,” said the Secretary of State. “With all due respect, Jed, every time there’s a conflict somewhere, you guys bring up terrorists. Thank you, but the Pakistanis and Indians are quite capable of blowing up the world on their own.”

  “There have been interceptions from the NSA,” said Jed’s boss, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman. “There is talk going on between some of the radical Sunni groups and the Chinese. Some of this involves the bin Laden group.”

  “Nonsense,” said Balboa. “Navy intelligence says that’s impossible. The Pakistanis think the weapons were destroyed. The terrorists take their lead from them.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Iran is the country we have to worry about when it comes to terrorism,” said Balboa. “Tell the NSA to find some evidence from that direction, and we’ll bomb Tehran back to the stone age.”

  Vice President Ellen Christine Whiting rolled her eyes. She was chairing the meeting while the President flew to New York to address the UN.

  “Anything else, gentlemen?” she asked, looking around. “The warhead removal mission is continuing, and we should have most of the warheads out by noon our time tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” said Jed and Balboa simultaneously.

  Jed felt his face turn red. Balboa’s scowl made it clear that he resented him even being here; there were no other aides at the session.

  “I’m sure the President will be very pleased with this update,” said Whiting. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time.”

  Diego Garcia

  0630

  IN SOME WAYS, DIEGO GARCIA WAS A HAVEN FROM THE world at large, a beautiful gem dropped in an azure sea. Palm trees swayed ever so slightly on a soft breeze, and the sand and sky made the place look more idyllic than Tahiti.

  Of course, if she was going to be on an island paradise, Jennifer Gleason thought, she would have preferred being alone with her lover, rather than sharing him with a force that now topped two hundred. She also would have greatly preferred that he paid more than scant attention to her.

  Her C-17 had beaten Dog’s Megafortress to the island by several hours, which made it possible for her to greet him when he arrived. But instead of the joyful hug she’d envisioned—or even a lousy peck on the cheek—Dog merely grunted a hello and went off to bed.

  Alone.

  Now, roughly twelve hours later, he seemed more irritable than ever. He was holding court in his room, growling rather than speaking to the crews of Dreamland Bennett and the Cheli, the recently arrived EB-52.

  “We don’t know how long their defenses are going to be knocked out, so we have to make the most of the time we’ve got,” said Dog. He looked up and saw her at the door. “Ms. Gleason, can we help you?”

  “I brought you some coffee, Colonel.”

  “Thanks, I already have some.”

  Dog turned his attention abruptly to the others. Jennifer felt as if she’d been slapped in the face.

  “I have a lot to do,” she said. She squatted down and placed the cup on the floor, then walked away.

  EVEN THOUGH HE HAD SLEPT FOR MORE THAN TEN HOURS after getting back to Diego Garcia, Dog felt anything but rested. He certainly had more energy, but it was an unsettled energy, vibrating wildly inside him. At the same time, his body felt as if it were a heavy winter coat wrapped tightly around him, making it harder to move.

  “The rest of the missile sites are believed to be in the east,” he told the others. “We’ll have two missions. Number one, attempt to verify the remaining sites using the Flighthawks for low-level reconnaissance. And number two, we’ll be providing air cover for the teams operating to the west of Base Camp One. The Navy planes can back us up, but they’re a little too far from the Lincoln to stay on station around the clock. Everybody got it?”

  The pilots and crewmen nodded.

  “Sparks, brief us on the Anacondas,” Dog said, turning the floor over to Captain Brad Sparks. The Megafortress pilot had worked extensively with the missiles during their development and testing.

  “Hardest thing about using them,” said Sparks, “is pressing the button.”

  Everyone laughed. Sparks was a bit of a cowboy and an occasional ham, but he was playing to a friendly audience.

  As the briefing continued, Dog found his thoughts drifting to Breanna and Zen. They still hadn’t been found. Given how much time had passed since they went out, things didn’t look good.

  No debris from the wreck of the plane had been found, but the Navy had investigated two slicks on the waves in the search areas. It was possible that the stricken EB-52 went straight under. But it was also possible that the plane crashed farther west of the search sites. If so, Breanna and Zen might still be alive. Dog knew that all he could do was hope for the best.

  “All right,” he said as the briefing broke up. “Let’s get dressed and do a preflight at the hangar. We want to be in the air very quickly,” he added. “So come ready to roll.”

  He got up from his chair, signaling the end of the meeting. As the others were filing out, he asked Lieutenant Englehardt to stay behind.

  “What’s up, Colonel?”

  “Mike, I’m going to take the pilot’s seat on the Bennett today.”

  “That’s my spot.”

  “You slide over. Sully gets bumped,” said Dog. He meant that Englehardt would sit in a
s copilot, with Sullivan remaining behind.

  “Listen, Colonel, if you have a problem with me—”

  “Why are you flying off the handle, Mike?”

  “I’m not flying off the handle,” said Englehardt, his voice giving lie to his words. “It’s just that I figured I’d be flying this mission. I earned it.”

  “You’re acting like a two-year-old.”

  “I can pilot that plane, Colonel.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

  “Everybody’s going to take it that way, like this is a demotion, like I’m not good enough.”

  “If you’re so concerned about that, maybe you shouldn’t be flying for Dreamland at all. Tell Sullivan he’s bumped. I’ll meet you at the plane.”

  “The hell with this.”

  Englehardt’s face had turned red. Dog sensed the pilot knew he’d made a mistake and wanted to find a way out gracefully. Maybe on another day he might have found a way to help the younger man; he thought Englehardt was a good pilot, and though at times tentative, had a bright future. But he wasn’t in a helping mood.

  “You have a problem, mister?”

  “Maybe Sullivan should fly instead of me, then,” said Englehardt.

  “Good,” said Dog. He grabbed his small flight bag and strode from the room.

  An atoll off the Indian coast

  Time and date unknown

  ZEN SLEPT LIKE A BABY, EVERYTHING AROUND HIM MUFFLED, his body surrendering to unconsciousness. He had no dreams that he could remember, and the rocks that made up his bed had no power to jab him or stick in his ribs. The makeshift tent covered him like a grave, keeping him not just from the elements, but from worries.

  And then he woke.

  His body felt as if it were tied up, bound in heavy cable.

  He heard his wife next to him, her breaths shallow and sounding like moans.

  He patted her gently, then crawled from the tent, his stomach rumbling for food.

  The wood he’d brought back sat nearby, a pathetically small assortment of bleached branches and sticks. He flipped them over, hoping the sun would dry the bottom parts out better. Then he tried the radio.

  “Major Stockard to any American force,” he began. “Stockard to American force. I’m a crewman from Dreamland EB-52 Levitow, lost over the Indian peninsula, lost in the Indian Ocean.”

  Zen continued, giving what he thought their approximate position had been when they jumped. He repeated his message several times, pausing to hear a reply, but none came.

  Was it possible that their attempt to stop the war had failed? If so, much of India and surely all of Pakistan would have been wiped out by nuclear attacks. Very possibly the U.S. and China were at war right now. And if that was true, who would hold back?

  The possibilities were too awful to contemplate.

  Zen knew the EEMWBs had worked; they’d lost contact with the Flighthawks the moment the missiles exploded. But he had no idea what happened afterward.

  Hope for the best, plan for the worst. But what was the plan now? He was an invalid on a bleak island, alone with his unconscious, possibly dying wife.

  He could give in. He could throw himself into the tide and let himself be swept away. He could give in.

  But he knew that instead he’d start the fire in a few hours, once the sticks dried in the sun a bit. And try and figure out something for food in the meantime, something more filling than the few bars he’d salvaged from their survival vests.

  There might be fish in the shallow water near the pinched middle of the atoll, Zen thought. If so, he could spear them with his knife, or better, kill them with rocks. He’d get a bunch of little fish and fry them in the fire.

  Zen leaned back into the tent, checking on Breanna. Had he examined her for injuries when they landed? He couldn’t remember now. He must have—but he couldn’t remember, and so he checked again, gently loosening her flight suit, still damp, and running his hands over her skin. It was clammy and cold, sticky; it seemed to belong more to the sea than to Breanna.

  There were bruises, but he didn’t see any gashes, and if bones had been broken, the breaks weren’t obvious.

  “I’ll be back,” he told her after zipping her back up. “I’ll be right back.”

  Aboard the Abner Read

  0700

  STORM PRACTICALLY DANCED A JIG AS THE OSPREY APPEARED over the horizon.

  “All right now, men! Look alive! Jason, Josh—clear the deck there. Look alive! Look alive!”

  The Osprey—a black, cannon-equipped Dreamland special operations version—swept in over the forked tail of the Abner Read, her arms steady. The craft matched the ship’s slow pace, then began to rotate. The helipad on the Abner Read was tiny, and the Osprey had to face toward the stern so its cargo could be off-loaded.

  The aircraft lurched to port as she descended. Storm’s heart lurched with it. But the pilot quickly got it back under control, setting down on the narrow confines of the Abner Read’s deck.

  “Very good! Very good,” shouted Storm as the rear hatchway opened. “Look alive! Look alive! Let’s get those missiles assembled and into the bow tubes!”

  “Captain?”

  Storm turned. His executive officer was standing in the portal to the robot helicopter shed, which had been cleared as a temporary loading and work area.

  “Eyes. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine, Captain.”

  “Ready for full duty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eyes looked like he was going to say something—an apology probably. Storm held up his hand. “No explanation necessary. We’re all burning the candle at both ends.”

  Storm stepped back as a work crew brought the first missile crate out of the aircraft.

  “What exactly are we planning to do next, Captain?” asked Eyes.

  Surprised that Eyes hadn’t gone back to work, Storm turned around. “Next? That’s up to the Chinese.”

  Eyes didn’t reply.

  “Well, get back to your station,” said Storm. “Get down to Tac. Go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dreamland

  1800, 16 January 1998

  (0700, 17 January, Karachi)

  BECOMING A CHIEF MASTER SERGEANT IN THE AIR FORCE— or achieving a similar rank in any of the services, for that matter—requires an unusual combination of skill, knowledge, hard work, and determination. A man or woman who becomes a chief arrives at that position with an impressive range of information at his or her fingertips.

  Part of this is the result of sheer longevity and experience; it can accurately be said that a chief master sergeant doesn’t just know where the bodies are buried, but buried a good number of them himself.

  Another part is due to the network of friends, informers, and other hangers-on an enlisted man builds during his career. And, of course, initiation into the rites of chiefdom brings a new chief into contact with the elder members of the tribe, who view each new member as an important link in the chain that holds the Air Force together. Chiefs may not necessarily get along, but they can always be counted on to rally to the side of a fellow chief master sergeant in matters both large and small, aware that the cause is greater than any personal animosity.

  Dreamland’s administrative side was run by a chief among chiefs, Sergeant Terence Gibbs. Ax, as he was universally known, had served as Colonel Bastian’s right-hand man since prehistoric times. The colonel thought he had pulled strings to get Ax transferred to Dreamland with him when he took over the command, but in truth it was Ax who pulled the string that needed to be pulled. Letting Colonel Bastian believe otherwise was a strategy Ax had taken from page one of the chief ’s handbook.

  Though only at the base for two years, Ax knew more about Dreamland than anyone, with the possible exception of Greasy Hands Parsons, who was, after all, a fellow chief.

  Ax’s intelligence network extended far beyond Dreamland and even the Air Force. Information was a chief ’s currency, in many cases as valu
able as money or even tickets to the Super Bowl—several of which Ax managed to procure and distribute each year. There was generally not a facet of Air Force life that Ax did not know once he decided it was important. He’d put considerable effort into building an efficient early warning system, capable of alerting him to the slightest pending move that would affect him or his command.

  So it was amazing—dumbfounding, even—that when Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson (aka Terrill the Terror, in some circles) was appointed to be Dreamland’s new commander, Ax did not know it until several hours after the fact. Worse—far worse, as far as he was concerned—he didn’t know that Samson had decided to forgo protocol and play a surprise visit to the base several days ahead of schedule until Samson was well on his way.

  In fact, Ax learned this so late that he didn’t arrive at the helicopter landing strip until the general and his staff were stepping out of their helicopter under the watchful eyes of the base security team. It was an intelligence failure of monumental proportions, though Ax would not be at leisure to contemplate its implications for several hours.

  “General Samson, good to see you sir,” he shouted loudly. “You’re, uh, several days ahead of schedule.”

  “I move on my own schedule,” growled Samson.

  “Yes, sir. Major Catsman is waiting for you.” Ax stiffened and pumped a textbook salute, as stiff and proper as any he had delivered in the past ten years—which was damning with faint praise, since he had perhaps saluted twice.

  Samson returned it with a scowl.

  “Why isn’t the major here herself, Chief?” demanded the general.

  “Begging the general’s pardon, but there’s a Whiplash action under way. Things get a little—hectic.”

  Samson frowned. Ax smiled ever so faintly in response, then turned his head toward the two airmen he had shanghaied to carry the general’s bags. Within a few minutes he had the security team placated and the general and his people en route to the Taj Mahal, the nickname for the base’s administrative center.