by Dale Brown
“I have to talk to the pilots,” said Dancer. “I’ll be back.”
“Sure.”
Danny watched her trot away. His attraction toward her hadn’t faded, though it seemed to him she could have been more supportive.
“Lieutenant Klacker’s a pretty unique Marine,” said Jennifer.
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s OK, Danny. I know.”
“Know what?”
She laughed. “Nothing.”
“No, seriously, Jen. Know what?”
“Nothing…You have a crush on her, that’s all.”
“No, I don’t.”
Jennifer laughed even harder.
“I’m married,” said Danny, wondering if he was talking to Jennifer or to himself.
Jennifer smirked, then changed the subject. “Where do you think I can find something to eat around here?”
“There’s a temporary mess tent in that direction,” said Danny, pointing. “They may not have anything hot.”
“As long as it’s edible.”
“That may be pushing it as well,” he said.
“WHAT’D HE SAY?” DEMANDED BLOW AS SOON AS HE SAW Sergeant Liu.
“What do you mean?” Liu asked his fellow Whiplasher.
“Did Captain Freah say something about what happened?”
Jonesy, silent, stared at them from a nearby stool. The sun had just come up, and Liu found its harsh light oppressive, pushing into the corner of his tired eyes.
“You know Cap,” said Liu. “He said what he was going to say already. Case closed.”
“It ain’t closed, Liu. We’re going to be up to our necks because of this.” Blow shook his head and made the loud sigh that had earned him his nickname. “Man, I don’t know.”
“There wasn’t anything we could have done differently,” Liu told him. “I believe that.”
“Is anybody else gonna? We shoulda kept quiet about it. Shit.”
“No, we did the right thing,” said Liu. “God has a plan.”
“God?” said Jones.
“Yeah.”
Jones continued to stare blankly toward him. Liu wanted to tell him—both of them, but Jones especially—what he had felt in the water, what he’d realized, but he couldn’t put it into words. He’d passed some sort of line, not in understanding, but in trusting—but how did you say that? The words would just sound silly, and not convey a tenth of the meaning. He couldn’t even tell himself what had happened.
“I don’t know,” said Blow. “I think they’re going to court-martial us. There’ll be an investigation.”
“Colonel Bastian will understand,” said Liu.
“He’s not going to be in charge of it. We’re supposed to go to the aircraft carrier to talk to Woods. The admiral. You know what that will be like.”
“We know what happened,” said Liu. “And the smart helmets will back us up.”
“Nobody’s going to believe that’s the whole story.”
“They’ll just have to.”
“It really went to shit, didn’t it?” said Jonesy.
Dreamland
1730
LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS INTO HIS COMMAND, AND already he was scheduled for a tête-à-tête with the National Security Advisor, Defense Secretary, and Secretary of State—not bad for someone whom the Chiefs of Staff had obviously decided to shunt aside, General Samson thought, checking his uniform.
Of course, he also had three men who might be charged with a war crime. Even if he could blame that on Colonel Bastian, the stain might spread to him. Samson had decided he’d have to handle the issue with kid gloves. Certainly he’d defend the men, especially if there was evidence that they weren’t to blame. But if push came to shove, three sergeants weren’t worth jeopardizing his career over.
“They’re ready for us, General,” said Major Catsman.
“How do I look, Natalie?” Samson asked, presenting himself.
“Very good, sir.”
Samson smiled appreciatively. Use a woman’s first name, defer to her judgment on aesthetics, and they’d follow you anywhere.
Catsman could be salvaged, as long as he surrounded her with enough of his own people. He needed a good staff officer, someone who knew the place well, so he could avoid the land mines while reshaping the place.
Catsman led Samson down the main hallway to the elevator. Inside, they had to wait for the security devices to take their measurements.
“We’re getting rid of that thing,” said Samson impatiently.
“General?”
“The biometric thing or whatever the hell it is that’s wasting our time.”
The elevator jerked the doors closed, as if it had overheard. Samson wondered if maybe it had—there was no telling what the eggheads had concocted here.
The video conference had already begun by the time Samson arrived. Colonel Bastian’s red-eyed, stubble-cheeked mug filled the center screen.
“The aircraft were definitely Chinese,” Colonel Bastian was saying. “Absolutely no doubt.”
“Were you over their territory?” asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman.
“Not for the better part of the engagement.”
“Which means you were at one point.”
“After we attacked, certainly.”
“Before then?” asked Hartman.
“I’d have to review the mission tape. The border there is tricky.”
“Do these new weapons pose a threat?” asked Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain.
“We can neutralize them now that we realize they exist,” said Dog. “We’ll use radar-emitting decoys.”
“What weapons is he talking about?” Samson asked Catsman.
He thought he was whispering, but his voice was picked up by a nearby microphone and transmitted over the network.
“Good evening, General,” said the Secretary of Defense. “We’re speaking of the radiation homing missiles the Chinese used against the Bennett.”
“I see,” said Samson. Had he been briefed on this earlier? He didn’t think so, but then he’d spent the day listening to so many reports about weapons systems that he couldn’t be sure.
“The missiles aren’t the major threat,” said Bastian. “As more of the power comes back and the military in both India and Pakistan turn their attention back to their borders, it’s going to be difficult for us to operate up there all. The Marines and our Whiplash people are operating very far from the coast—too far. We have to wrap it up quickly.”
“I’m of the opinion that we wrap it up now,” said the Secretary of Defense.
“There are only three warheads left,” said the Secretary of State. “If we don’t get them, someone else will. Terrorists, most likely.”
“The Ch-Ch-Chinese are helping them,” said a young man Samson didn’t recognize.
“Who is that?” Samson asked Catsman. “He has a terrible stutter.”
Again, Samson thought his comments were private. But the session was conducted with open mikes, and everyone on the line heard. The young man—Jed Barclay—turned beet red.
“NSC liaison,” said Catsman.
“Navy intelligence has a different view,” said Admiral Balboa. “They don’t see a link. The Chinese actions can be explained by their own internal needs. And you were over their territory, Bastian. You shouldn’t have fired.”
“I was under fire already,” said the colonel. “I did what I had to defend myself and complete my mission.”
Samson felt torn. Bastian was surely correct, and one of his people; the general felt he should stick up for him. But on the other hand, Balboa was the head of the Joint Chiefs, and the lieutenant colonel’s tone was hardly respectful.
“And then there’s the matter of that baby,” said Balboa. “Wait until the media gets a hold of that. Al Jazeera, or whatever that damn Arab television station is—they’ll crucify us.”
“I take responsibility, Admiral,” said Bastian.
That was just w
hat Samson wanted to hear. The colonel explained the circumstances, adding that the entire incident had been caught on video.
“So we’ve heard,” said Balboa. “I, for one, haven’t seen it.”
“As tragic as it was,” said Admiral Woods, “it does appear to have been an accident. The Dreamland people uploaded some of the digitalized recording of the event. Obviously, I still want to speak to the men, but from what I’ve seen—”
“I’m looking into it personally myself,” said Samson, protecting his territory. “I’m going to speak to them. I’ll make a full report.”
Woods frowned. There would be a question of jurisdiction and priority—the men were under Samson’s command but had been operationally controlled by him. Who took precedence?
As far as Samson was concerned, he did. He prepared for a fight, but before he could say anything else, the Secretary of State changed the subject.
“Where are the other warheads?” asked Hartman. “How long before they’re found?”
“Colonel Bastian is the best source on that,” said the admiral.
“We’re not sure,” said Bastian. “Probably in the far border areas around western Pakistan and northern India, near the Chinese border. The scientists are still refining the estimates.
Additional U-2s and Global Hawk drones have arrived in the area and are flying at night, using infrared and low-light sensors. The scientists are tweaking some of the image reading data to make them more effective. Dr. Rubeo can give you the technical information on the search plots and everything related to them.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Ray Rubeo.
Rubeo was sitting quietly at a front console on the right, head stooped down as if he were one of the engineers and techies monitoring systems—so low-key, in fact, that Samson hadn’t noticed him until now. The general kept his displeasure in check as the scientist flashed a brief presentation on the screen showing the possible locations of the three missiles. The presentation was brief and professional, but it still angered Samson—he should have seen it first.
“We are still developing theories on what happened,” added Rubeo. “I can bore you with the technical details, or we can move on.”
His voice dripped with arrogance, but none of the others peeped.
“Until the President orders otherwise, we have to proceed with the operation,” said Chastain. “But it can’t go on indefinitely.”
“Indeed,” said Rubeo. “I would note that the power grids in the affected countries have now been offline for twenty-four hours more than our original projections predictions. We may be living on borrowed time.”
Diego Garcia
0930
THE TIRED CHATTER OF THE BENNETT’S CREW AS THEY walked toward their quarters irked Michael Englehardt more than he could say. It wasn’t just that they were talking about a mission he should have been on; it was the fact that they were talking about Colonel Bastian in such glowing terms.
Ol’ Dog did this, and then he said that…Could you believe how he got the ship to stand still in the air? He sucked that Sukhoi right into the Stinger air mines…I’ve never seen anything like that…Can’t teach an old Dog new tricks—he knows them all…
And on and on and on until Englehardt thought he would puke.
It was his fault. He should have been on the mission himself, at least a copilot. He’d acted like a jerk. Bastian had blindsided him, taking over the plane, but still, he should have kept his mouth shut.
Not that it was fair. But now his days at Dreamland were probably numbered.
“You shoulda been there, Mikey,” said Sullivan as they entered the dormitory-style building they’d been given for personal quarters. “What a wild night.”
“I wanted to be there,” said Englehardt.
“Yeah.” Sullivan immediately turned away.
“Next time,” said Englehardt, trying but failing to sound optimistic.
COLONEL BASTIAN RUBBED HIS EYES AND STARTED TO GET up from the communications console in the Dreamland Control trailer.
“Hold on there, Tecumseh,” said General Samson, his voice vibrating the speakers over the unit. “Where are you going?”
“I thought we were done,” said Dog. “I was thinking—”
“There are a few things I wanted to speak to you about in private.”
“I’d really like to catch some sleep,” Dog told Samson. “I just got back from my mission.”
“That’s number one—what the hell are you doing flying missions?”
“What?”
“You have plenty of pilots out there now. Put them to good use. Yes, I understand the need for a commander to lead from the front,” added Samson, his voice somewhat more sympathetic. “But you’re spending far too much time in the air to actually do your job—your real job—of supervising the men. All the men, not just one plane crew.”
Dog was too tired to argue—and Samson didn’t give him much of an opening, moving right on to his next subject.
“I want full reports on all of the programs Dreamland is conducting. And a personnel review. How long will it take you to get that all together?”
“As soon as I get back I can—”
“I want you to start working on it immediately.”
“I have a mission here to run.”
“Devote as much time as possible to it. If you’re not flying, you’ll have more time. Those Whiplash men—I want to talk to them before they talk to Admiral Woods. Do you understand? They’re part of my command. I talk to them first. Not as a Navy admiral. Now do you understand?”
“Sure.”
“And another thing…”
Samson paused, obviously for effect. Dog felt so tired he thought he would teeter toward the floor.
“Briefings will now be done through me,” said the general finally.
“Which briefings?”
“Briefings with administration officials,” said Samson. “That’s my job. You provide the information to me. I interface.”
“Anything you want, General,” said Dog.
He reached over and hit the button to kill the communications. Then he got to his feet, suddenly feeling ten times more tired than when he’d come into the trailer, and he’d been pretty tired then.
“Bedtime,” he muttered, going to the door—where Mike Englehardt practically knocked him over.
“Colonel, can we talk?” said Englehardt.
“What is it, Mike?”
“Colonel, I want to, uh—apologize. I was a—I mean, I—”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t sweat it, Mike.”
Dog started to push past. Englehardt grabbed his shoulder.
Surprised, Dog looked the pilot in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” said Englehardt. “I really want to fly. Pilot, copilot, whatever you say. As long as I’m in the cockpit.”
“Well, that’s good, because you’re going to take the Bennett on its next mission. Now let go of my arm so I can go get some sleep, all right?”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
THE DAY WAS WARMER THAN THE ONE BEFORE, BUT LESS humid, and if not for their extreme circumstances, he might have considered the weather perfect. Trying not to think of his thirst, Zen made several radio calls and rearranged the rocks that helped support their tent so a bit more sunlight fell on Breanna. Finally he began moving down to the water, intending to swim back to the spot where he’d caught the turtle the day before. He was just getting into the water when he heard a shout.
One of the boys was back, paddling his small boat.
“Bart Simpson!” called the youth. It was the youngest one, the first one he’d spotted.
“Hey, Bart!” Zen yelled back. He did his best to hide his surprise that the kid had returned.
The wooden hull of the boy’s boat skidded against the shore and he climbed out, pulling a pack with him.
Zen’s heart jumped.
“You brought a phone?” Zen asked. “Cell phone?”
“Phone? No.”
The boy dropped to his knees in front of him, plopping the bag between them.
“Eat for you,” said the kid, pulling a fist-sized package from the bag. It was wrapped in brown paper. A strong odor announced it was fish. The flesh looked purple.
“For me?” asked Zen.
“You.”
Zen devoured it. The fish tasted like bad sardines drenched in coconut and vinegar, but he would have eaten ten more handfuls had the boy brought them. He was so hungry he licked at the paper.
“So,” he said finally. “No phone, huh?”
“Why do you want phone?”
“I want to call my friends.”
“No phone. Who are you? Not Bart?”
Zen guessed that the boy had been quizzed by his parents or other adults when he went home with the turtle. They might be waiting for his answers now, to decide what to do.
He had no idea what was going on in the world beyond this atoll. He wondered if the Chinese had managed to use their nuke, and if so, if the Indians would blame them for the destruction.
“Is there a war?” Zen asked the boy, not sure how to phrase his question.
“War?”
“Did people die?”
The boy looked at him blankly. He was old enough to know what war was, but maybe his village was so isolated he had no idea.
“Where do you live?” Zen asked the child.
“Where do you live, Bart?”
“Where do I live? Las Vegas,” said Zen. “Near there.”
“Vegas?”
“Slot machines. Casinos. Las Vegas.”
“Springfield?”
Springfield was the fictional setting for The Simpsons television show.
“That’s not a real place, kid,” blurted Zen. “I live near Vegas. That’s real.”
The boy’s face fell.
“You know that’s a television show, right? Make believe?” asked Zen. He realized he’d made a mistake, a bad mistake, but didn’t know how to recover.
The kid started to retreat.
“Hey! Don’t go!” yelled Zen. “No. Don’t.”
But it was too late. The boy pushed the small boat into the water without looking back. Lying across the shallow gunwales, he stroked back toward the sea, turning right and quickly fading from Zen’s view.
