Retribution

by Dale Brown

“Sullivan?”

  “Lock on Bandit missile six. Firing.”

  The moment Dog heard the whoosh, he threw the Bennett into the turn.

  “Stinger up,” he told Sullivan. “Get ready in case the Anaconda misses.”

  “Missile five is down. Missile six is closing to ten miles.”

  Dog’s turn slowed the Megafortress, but even had he been going in a straight line, there was no chance of outrunning the remaining enemy missile. At 1,400 knots, it was traveling more than twenty miles a minute.

  “Stinger ready,” said Sullivan, breathing hard.

  “Arm autodefense,” Dog told him.

  “Stinger autodefense.”

  The sky flashed white.

  “Our Anaconda took down the last missile,” said Rager. “Wow.”

  Brian Daly, who’d been silently manning the ground radar station during the entire incident, let out a whoop.

  “All right, guys,” Dog told them. “We still have two more aircraft to worry about. Let’s stay on our game.”

  STARSHIP SURVEYED THE AREA OF THE CRASH, THE VIDEO camera in the nose of the Flighthawk recording the roughly two-mile swath where the missile had crashed. He could make a reasonable guess about what had happened. The missile had scraped against the side of the mountain peak, slammed across the second, causing an avalanche, and then landed—in pieces—on the small plain in front of him.

  But where was the warhead? The debris trail petered out at the edge of a solid plain.

  He’d already pulled his nose up when he realized that the plain wasn’t a plain at all—it was a small lake.

  He also realized something else—people were crouched at the far end, watching the Flighthawk as it zipped by.

  They weren’t just admiring the black shape as it sailed past the full moon either. Something flared from the ground as he passed—a shoulder-launched missile, aimed not at the U/MF, but at the Megafortress almost directly above.

  “STINGER MISSILE!” SAID SULLIVAN, PRACTICALLY SHRIEKING over the interphone.

  “Flares,” said Dog. “Prepare for evasive maneuvers.”

  Dog had dealt with shoulder-fired missiles dozens of times before, but even he felt his heart begin to race as the decoys showered behind the Megafortress.

  The FIM-92 Stinger shoulder-launched missile was designed as an easy-to-use, no-hassle-to-maintain antiaircraft weapon that could be fired by soldiers in the field with minimal training. There were several variants, but this was almost certainly an original FIM-92A model, the type given to mujahideen rebels in Afghanistan to use against the Russians there, and then later sold to terror groups around the world.

  Once launched, the missile homed in on the heat source its nose sensor had locked onto, flying over the speed of sound and able to climb to about three miles. At 2.2 pounds, its explosive warhead was relatively small, but nonetheless deadly. The fuse worked only on impact, which made the use of decoys less effective. On the other hand, it also meant that the weapon had to actually strike something to go off.

  The Megafortress’s four turbojets were sexy targets for the missile’s seeker, red hot magnets that pulled it onward. The Bennett’s altitude was its one advantage; while the airplane was almost directly over the man who had fired the missile, the aircraft had been at 10,000 feet, the very edge of the Stinger’s lethal envelope. Dog mashed the throttle, knowing he’d need every ounce of power to get away. As the decoys bloomed behind him, he twisted sharply, taking roughly five g’s and trying to cut as close to 180 degrees as possible.

  The turn and flares made it hard for the Stinger to sniff its target, and by the time the Stinger realized it had to turn, it was too late. The rocket propellant in its slender chassis spent, the missile tumbled back to the ground.

  “Starship, you see who fired at us?”

  “Got a glimpse, Colonel.”

  “They Chinese troops?”

  “Negative. Look like guerrillas, some sort of irregulars. Dressed, you know, kind of like natives, farmers or something.”

  “Pretty clear they’re not farmers,” snapped Dog.

  “Maybe they’re growing missiles,” said Sullivan.

  The rest of the crew laughed—more to release tension than because the joke was funny. But it was a good sign, Dog thought; they were starting to get used to dealing with combat.

  It wasn’t, however, a time to relax.

  “Two Sukhoi-27s, early models, flying straight for us,” said Rager, summarizing the situation for Dog. “Two hundred nautical miles from us. From the northeast. Chinese. They’re subsonic, 500 knots, 23,000 feet. Behind them there are two helicopters, 10,000 feet. Type ID’d as Harbin Z-5 Hound. Troop carriers.”

  “Flighthawk leader, do you have the exact location of the warhead?” Dog asked Starship.

  “Negative, Colonel. Looks like it’s in a lake. I haven’t confirmed it’s there.”

  “Get on with Dreamland Command. See if the scientists can pin it down.”

  “Roger that.”

  The territory they were flying over was Indian but heavily populated by Muslims, and there were a variety of separatist groups active in the area. Some were suspected to be allied with Islamic terrorists, and even those that weren’t would find a ready market for a nuclear warhead. The question in Dog’s mind was what was China’s interest. Were they protecting their nearby border, or working with the people on the ground?

  “Bennett to Danny Freah. Whiplash leader, what’s your status?”

  Danny Freah’s tired face came onto the com screen. The camera in the smart helmet was located at the top of the visor, and the image had a fish-eye quality to it. It exaggerated the puffiness under his eyes, so the captain looked like he had two shiners.

  “Freah. We’re about ready to bug out, Colonel.”

  “We think we found the I-20 warhead. There are two problems. One, it may be underwater. Two, we have what look like local guerrillas on the ground, and the Chinese seem to be interested as well.”

  Because of the location, it would take several hours for a fresh group of Marines to come in from the gulf. By then the guerrillas and/or the Chinese might have recovered the weapon.

  Danny got hold of the Osprey pilots and discussed the situation. They could send one of their Ospreys with troops east; it would take roughly an hour and a half to reach the site. Reinforcements could include another bird, which would refuel them.

  Assuming Dreamland Command could pinpoint the warhead and that divers could then find it, the Osprey could be used to lift it from the water. There was another problem, however: Of the twenty Marines and the handful of Navy technical people Danny could bring, only Danny was qualified as a diver.

  And the three Whiplashers who had been at the Pakistani house.

  “Admiral Woods’s chief of staff wanted all three of our guys sent over to the Lincoln ASAP,” said Danny. “In the meantime, they were to stay on the sidelines if possible.”

  “It’s not possible,” said Dog. “Take whoever you need with you. I’ll clear it with the admiral. Assuming our guys are OK.”

  “I don’t know about Jonesy or Blow,” said Danny. “They were both shot. The gear protected them, but they’re pretty, uh, you know…mentally, with the kid—”

  “What about Liu?”

  “I think he’s OK.”

  “All right. As long as he can carry out the mission. Use your best judgment.”

  There was a time, before Dreamland, before he ever engaged in combat, that Dog would not have asked whether his subordinates could carry out a mission he knew they were physically capable of. But having been through combat, he’d learned how it could wear at you over time. More important, he’d also learned that a good percentage of people didn’t realize the toll it took, and that most of the others would ignore that toll because they felt their duty was to perform the mission. His job as a commander was to make the call for them, insisting that they sit down when sitting down was the best thing for them, and the best thing ultimately for the mi
ssion.

  Were they at that point? Seeing a baby die, seeing a husband self-destruct up close—these were somehow different than deaths in combat, however horrific. Having people you were trying to save turn on you at a tragic moment—how much more terrible was that than killing a sniper at long distance?

  “Get over there, then, as fast as you can,” Dog told Danny. Then he killed the transmission and called the Cheli to back him up. He’d talk to Admiral Woods—and General Samson—as soon as he had the situation under control.

  Aboard Dreamland Cheli,

  over northwest India

  2320

  THOUGH SHE HAD BEEN FINISHED ONLY A FEW WEEKS AFTER the Bennett, the EB-52 Cheli incorporated a number of improvements both subtle and significant. Like her mate, the Megafortress had been rebuilt from an earlier incarnation, in this case a Model H that had once served with the Nineteenth Bomb Wing at Homestead Air Force Base in Florida. She was optimized for radar work and included the latest upgrades to both the airborne and ground search and surveillance radars, as well as software that allowed the bomber to target missiles launched by other sources. Like most Megafortresses, there were two Flighthawk bays, upper and lower. Unlike the Bennett, the upper Flighthawk bay was operational; instead of bunks, there were two more Flighthawk control stations, allowing the aircraft to control a total of eight robots, though for now she was equipped only with two. The Cheli’s uprated engines allowed her to take off with a full load without tapping the engines of the four Flighthawks she could hold under her wings.

  The aircraft’s ECM suite had been updated as well. While not as comprehensive as the ELINT, or electronic intelligence, versions of the Megafortress, which could listen to as well as jam a wide range of communications, the Cheli could suppress antiaircraft fire from ground and aircraft by scrambling radar and command signals the way the now retired Wild Weasels once had. Dreamland’s wizards had studied recent encounters with the Chinese and updated the electronics to do a better job against their weapons. They had also added transcripts of the air battles to the computers that helped fly the plane, providing the Tactics section with better information on what to expect from the planes they encountered.

  Her pilot, Captain Brad Sparks, was in some ways also a new version of the breed. Sparks had been at Dreamland as a lieutenant three years before, working briefly on the Megafortress project, where, among other things, he had helped perform a feasibility study on using the aircraft as a tanker. He’d transferred out just before Dog arrived, promoted to a captain and assigned to a B-1B squadron.

  When Dreamland began getting involved in operational missions, Sparks realized he’d made a mistake and started angling for a comeback. He’d arrived two weeks before, and already he could tell it was the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

  “Colonel Bastian for you,” said his copilot, Lieutenant Nelson Wong.

  “Colonel, how goes it?” said Sparks, snapping his boss’s image on his com screen. The EB-52’s “dashboard” was infinitely configurable, but like most Megafortress pilots, Sparks kept the communications screen at the lower left, just below a screen that fed data and images from the Flighthawks.

  “We’ve located another warhead, very far north,” Dog told him. “It’s in a lake. Looks like the Chinese are interested in it as well.”

  “Hot shit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What do you need us to do, Colonel?”

  “These are the coordinates of the site. The Bennett will go north and try and divert the Chinese. I’d like you to back us up and help provide cover for the ground unit; they should be there inside of ninety minutes. How soon can you get up here?”

  “Thirty minutes,” said Sparks, though he knew he was being optimistic—the Cheli was nearly five hundred miles away.”

  “Be advised that the Chinese used long-range radiation-seeking missiles against us. They look like AA-10 Alamos but have at least twice the range. We took them down with Anacondas. We have two Su-27s approaching, and we’re unsure how they’re armed.”

  “We’re on it, Colonel.”

  “Alert me when you’re within ten minutes.” The screen went blank.

  The cavalry to the rescue, thought Sparks before telling the rest of the crew what was going on. Getting back to Dreamland was the best thing he’d ever done.

  Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

  over Pakistan

  2345

  DOG’S GOAL WAS SIMPLE—KEEP THE HELICOPTERS FROM landing at the site. They were well within range of his Anaconda antiair missiles, but he had only two left. If he used them against the helicopters, he’d have only the Flighthawks as his defense against the Su-27s.

  A much better option was to engage the fighters first, get them out of the way, and then deal with the helicopters. After telling Starship what was up, Dog turned the Megafortress in the Sukhois’ direction.

  Unlike the MiG-31s, the Sukhois hadn’t followed him through his course changes. There was no question in his mind that they were heading toward the warhead site and had to be considered hostile, but he wasn’t sure if they were carrying long-range weapons like the other planes. He decided he couldn’t take the chance. His only option was to take them out before they were close enough to use their weapons.

  “Range on Bandits Three and Four,” he said to Sullivan.

  “Just coming up to 180 miles.”

  “Stand by the Anacondas,” Dog told Sullivan.

  “Standing by.”

  “Target them and fire.”

  The missiles whisked away from the Megafortress. Dog held his course, watching the MiGs continue to approach, clearly unaware of their impending doom. Only at the last second did they realize their danger, jerking desperately to the east and west as the missiles bore in.

  It was far too late. The Anacondas exploded only a few seconds apart, obliterating the Sukhois so completely that neither crew could eject.

  “The helicopters are all yours,” Dog told Starship. Then he dialed into the fleet satellite communications channel to tell Woods what was going on.

  THE HARBIN Z-5 HOUND WAS A CHINESE VERSION OF THE Russian Mil Mi-4, a 1950s-era transport that typically carried fourteen troops and three crew members. Though the Chinese versions were improved somewhat, the basic design remained the same, a thick, two-deck fuselage beneath a massive rotor and a long, slim tail. The aircraft were pulling 113 knots, close to their top speed, flying twenty feet over the landscape.

  They were easy prey for the Flighthawks. Starship kept the two U/MFs in a trail and took control of the first aircraft, flying a head-on attack against the lead helicopter. On his first pass he raked the cockpit and the engine compartment immediately behind it with 20mm cannon fire, decapitating the aircraft. There was no need for a second pass.

  The other chopper tried to get away by twisting to the west, through a mountain pass. But the pilot miscalculated in the dark. By the time Starship turned Hawk One in its direction, the aircraft was burning on the side of the mountain, its rotors sheered off by a collision with the side wall of the canyon.

  “Choppers are down,” Starship told Colonel Bastian. “I need to refuel.”

  “Roger that,” said Dog.

  Dreamland Command

  1100

  TO SAMSON’S GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT, RAY RUBEO HAD left Dreamland Command to supervise some tests in another part of the complex.

  Samson didn’t intend to fire him—not yet, anyway. Given the administration’s interest in the missile recovery operation, there was no sense doing anything that might possibly derail it.

  Or give critics something to focus on if the mission failed.

  But he did want to put Rubeo in his place. And he would, he promised himself, as soon as possible.

  “I’m not here to interfere,” Samson told Major Catsman. “I want you all to proceed as you were. But let’s be clear on this—I am the commander of this base, and of this mission. The Whiplash order is issued in my name. Understood?”

/>   “Yes, sir.”

  Samson detected a note of dissension in Catsman’s voice, but let it slide. A bit of resistance in a command could be a good thing, as long as it was controllable.

  “Update me on the process, please. Where specifically are our people? How many missiles have yet to be recovered? All of the details. Then I want to speak with Colonel Bastian, and finally Admiral Woods.”

  “There is a bit of a time difference between Dreamland and the area they’re operating in,” said Catsman.

  “I’m sure Colonel Bastian won’t mind being woken to brief me.”

  “It wasn’t him I was thinking of, sir. Colonel Bastian is already awake, and on a mission. Admiral Woods, on the other hand…”

  Samson smiled. He had tangled with Woods several times while deputy commander of the Eighth Air Force, and owed him a tweaking or two.

  “Tex Woods and I go way back,” Samson told Catsman.

  “Disturbing his sleep would be one of life’s little pleasures.”

  Catsman gave him a tally of the warheads that had been recovered and a rundown on the overall situation; her briefing was, in fact, extremely thorough. And when she turned to tell a civilian at a console to make the connection to Bastian, the colonel came on almost instantaneously, his half-shaven face filling the main screen.

  “General, I need to update you on a serious situation,” said the colonel from the cockpit of his Megafortress.

  “Very good, Colonel. Fire away,” said Samson, noting the serious and, he thought, slightly subservient tone. Bastian was getting the message.

  “We’ve engaged Chinese fighters,” Dog told him.

  Samson felt his jaw lock as Colonel Bastian continued, explaining everything that had happened. The engagement surely was necessary—the alternative was to be shot down—but as Colonel Bastian freely admitted, it went against the standing orders not to engage the Chinese.

  And then Bastian told him about the incident at the Pakistani farmhouse.