Retribution

by Dale Brown

  “Three is out. Problems with four. Temp high, moving to yellow. Shit. Red.”

  “Bring it down. Trimming to compensate,” said Englehardt.

  “SA-2 site has fired two missiles,” said Rager.

  “Bastards,” muttered Sullivan.

  THE SUKHOI BROKE EAST AFTER FIRING, EITHER UNAWARE that Hawk One was shadowing him or thinking he could simply slip by.

  Or maybe his pass had damaged the Sukhoi, Starship thought. The Indian aircraft was trailing black smoke from one of its engines.

  The aiming cue on Hawk One went solid red, and Starship pressed the trigger. The first two or three rounds sailed to the right, but the rest ripped a large hole in the enemy’s wing.

  “Get out,” Starship said aloud, even as he continued to press the trigger. “Bail. Time to bail.”

  The wing flew entirely off, and the Sukhoi disappeared in a steaming cloud of smoke and flames. Starship throttled back and pulled his nose camera out to wide angle, looking for a parachute. But it was too late for the Indian pilots to hit the silk, too late for them to do anything. He felt a twinge of regret, sadness for the men and their fate, despite the fact that they’d been trying to kill him.

  It was only as he pulled Hawk One back toward the Bennett that he realized the Megafortress had been hit. The pilots were talking about the engines—they’d lost one and were about to lose another. The Indians had also just launched a pair of SA-2s at them, though from very long range.

  Somewhere above the cacophony he heard a radio call, faint, indistinct, and yet familiar; very, very familiar.

  “Zen Stockard to any American aircraft. You hear me?”

  Zen? For real?

  “Zen Stockard to any American aircraft.”

  Starship punched into the emergency frequency.

  “Zen! Zen! Where are you? Zen, give me a location.”

  He waited for the answer. After ten or fifteen seconds passed, he tried again. Still nothing.

  Had he imagined it?

  No way. Hawk Two had picked up the communication; the aircraft was flying near the coast, now about ten miles south of the Bennett.

  “Bennett, I think I had Zen on the emergency band,” Starship said. “I think I had Zen. Can we tack back?”

  “We’re down one engine and about to lose another,” said Englehardt. “Try and get a location and pass it on. That’s the best we can do.”

  THE SA-2S WERE FOLLOWING THEM, BUT ENGLEHARDT thought they could outlast them as long as he held the Megafortress’s speed above 350 knots. They throttled engine four back but left it on line even though the instruments showed it running well into the yellow or caution area. Not only did he want all the thrust he could manage at the moment, but compensating for the loss of both engines on one side of the plane would cost even more speed.

  He worked with Sullivan to trim the aircraft manually, hoping to squeeze a few more knots from it by pushing against the computer’s red line. The nose felt as if it was plowing sideways through the air, like the prow of a small canoe being pushed by the current in a direction its owner didn’t want it to go.

  “Temperature on engine one is coming up,” warned Sullivan. That was the engine that had given them problems earlier in the flight.

  “We’ll have to try backing it off a little,” said Englehardt.

  “SA-2 is still tracking.”

  Englehardt wanted to scream. Instead he took off power on engine one, then scrambled to adjust his trim as the aircraft bucked downward. One of the motors that moved the outboard slotted flap on the right wing had apparently been damaged by the missile strike, and now the control surface began to balk at moving further. Finally it stopped responding completely.

  “SA-2 is still climbing,” said Sullivan. “On our left wing.”

  If he looked over his shoulder, Englehardt thought, he’d see the big white lance as it spun in his direction. He kept his eyes glued straight ahead, trying to keep the Megafortress as level as possible. There was no question of evasive maneuvers; they’d never survive them.

  They wouldn’t survive a missile strike either. Better to go out fighting, no?

  “Hang on,” said Englehardt, and he pushed the stick down hard, diving toward the earth.

  Near the Chinese-Pakistani border

  0046

  THERE WAS A BUZZ AROUND HER, LIFTING HER IN THE AIR.

  “What’s going on?” Jennifer asked. Her words morphed as they left her mouth, changing into the chirping of birds.

  What was going on?

  Danny Freah’s face appeared above hers.

  “You’re gonna be OK, Jen,” he said. “All right?”

  She understood the words, but they sounded odd. Then she realized he was singing.

  Danny Freah, singing?

  “You got shot. Your vest and helmet took most of the bullets, but one got your knee. We gave you morphine for the pain, all right? It shouldn’t hurt.”

  “Shouldn’t hurt,” she said, her words once again changing, this time into the caw of a bird.

  DANNY WATCHED THE MARINES SECURE JENNIFER’S SLING inside the Osprey. One bullet had gone in the side of her kneecap, exiting cleanly but doing a good deal of damage on its way. Though the other bullets hadn’t penetrated her body armor, she still had two cracked ribs and a good-sized concussion. The corpsman who treated her thought she’d be OK, as long as she got treatment soon.

  Three Marines had been hurt during the operation. Two had relatively minor injuries to their legs, but the third had been hit in the face and lost a great deal of blood.

  But it was Jennifer he worried about. He had to tell Dog—but he certainly didn’t relish the conversation.

  He pressed the button on his helmet, then reconsidered. Better to wait until they were in the air.

  “All right, let’s go,” Danny yelled. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Come on! Move it!”

  Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

  over India

  0050

  THE BENNETT MOMENTARILY TURNED INTO A FALLING BRICK, accelerating toward the earth as Englehardt put her into a power dive. She leaned on her good wing, accelerating briefly to the speed of sound. The air frame shuddered but held, a thoroughbred celebrating its sudden release from the gate.

  The SA-2 that had been tracking them began to arc in pursuit, but there was no way it could turn quickly enough. Fuel gone, it flailed helplessly for a few more seconds before self-destructing several miles beyond the Megafortress.

  Englehardt had avoided the missile, but now he and Sullivan had another fight on their hands. Giddy with the burst of speed, their racehorse didn’t want to come level, let alone slow down.

  “Engine four is in the red,” said Sullivan.

  “Take it offline,” said Englehardt.

  “Shutting down four.”

  Englehardt backed off engine one himself. That left him one good power plant.

  “Unidentified aircraft coming from the west,” said Rager. “Two planes. Three hundred miles.”

  Just what I need, thought Englehardt.

  “Starship, we have two aircraft coming from the west.”

  “On it, Bennett.”

  “Feet are wet,” said Sergeant Daly at the surface radar, signaling that they were over water.

  “Planes ID’d as Tomcats,” said Rager.

  “Sullivan, contact those guys and let them know we’re on their side,” said Englehardt. “Then help me set up a course to the refuel. We’ve got a long way home.”

  Northeastern Pakistan

  0100

  “MANY OF THE CIRCUITS ARE BURNED OUT, GENERAL. I cannot make it work as it was designed to. I simply don’t know enough.”

  Abtin Fars stood up slowly. He was a tall, thin man well into his fifties; he wore glasses but clearly needed better ones, for he was constantly fiddling with them as he examined things.

  “You are an expert, Abtin,” General Sattari told him gently. “You can fix anything.”

  “Some things. This
is beyond me.”

  Abtin seemed pensive, and Sattari feared that the true problem here was not his lack of knowledge but his conscience. The general worried that he was withholding his knowledge because he did not want to arm a nuclear weapon.

  “The intention is to use it against Dreamland,” said Sattari. “The American force that killed our people at Anhik.”

  Abtin had been friends with several of the engineers and technicians slaughtered at Anhik when the Americans raided the laser project Sattari had started there. But no emotion registered on his face.

  “A difficult problem,” said the engineer finally, ducking back to look at the warhead.

  Sattari watched him work with his various instruments and tools. The general himself knew nothing about how to make the weapon work. It had taken considerable trouble and expense to locate Abtin; finding a replacement would be very difficult.

  He could put a gun to the man’s head and order him to fix the bomb, but how could he be sure it would explode?

  He had to be patient, but that was nearly impossible.

  “I could put in a very simple device,” said Abtin finally, still bent over the warhead. “It would allow the weapon to detonate at a set time. There would be no fail-safe. Once set, it would explode. These circuits here,” added Abtin pointing, “these are good. But placing the new circuit in, there is a chance that it will accidentally initiate the explosion.”

  “If you tell me what to do, then I will take the chance myself. You won’t have to. You can be far away.”

  “With this device, General, it would take many hours to reach safety.” Abtin rose. “I’ll make a list for you. The items we need are easily obtained.”

  Aboard the Abner Read

  0110

  “WE’RE ON STATION.”

  Storm turned toward Eyes and nodded. The executive officer blinked and looked around the bridge apprehensively. He seemed out of place, as if he were a gopher who’d popped up from underground and arrived in the middle of a wedding.

  “Say, Captain, do you have a minute?” Eyes asked.

  Storm pointed in the direction of his cabin, which was reached through a door at the back of the bridge.

  “You’re treating me like I’m the enemy,” Eyes told him after they reached Storm’s quarters. “I’m not.”

  “No?”

  “The order to stop trailing the Khan was Admiral Woods’s order, not mine.”

  “You’re on his side.”

  “I don’t take sides, Storm. I follow orders.”

  “Damn it.” Storm pounded his desk. Since his “talk” with Admiral Woods, he’d kept his emotions bottled up and stayed mostly to himself. He’d said no more than was absolutely necessary, and to some extent managed to push his disappointment and anger away. Now it raged free in his chest, surging through his whole being. “I was so damn close,” he told Eyes.

  “Close to what?”

  “To sinking the damn Khan.”

  “Storm, we crippled it. We sank the Shiva. The Shiva, Storm. Do you realize what we’ve accomplished?”

  “It’s not enough!”

  Eyes stared at him.

  “It’s not enough,” repeated Storm, his voice closer to normal.

  “Sure it is.”

  Both men were silent for a moment.

  “No destroyer has ever engaged an aircraft carrier in a one-on-one battle before,” said Eyes finally, his voice now almost a whisper. “This is what Pearl Harbor was for battleships. It’s a revolution.”

  “It’s not enough, though,” said Storm.

  “It should be, Captain. It should be.”

  Storm stared at his executive officer. Eyes was a good man, an excellent first officer. But he didn’t understand—he didn’t have the ambition a truly great captain needed. He just didn’t understand.

  But he was loyal. And Storm felt he owed him an explanation, or at least an attempt to explain.

  “I can’t put into words what I feel,” Storm told him. “It’s just—I can’t.”

  “Your men need you,” said Eyes. “They see you quiet, brooding, barely talking to them. Not leading them. They don’t know what’s going on. They need their captain.”

  Storm frowned. He wanted to sink the Khan, to do what no one else had ever done. Having taken down one carrier, he wanted—needed—more.

  But those victories were not necessarily who he was, just expressions of what he might achieve. Who he was went deeper than that. It was more important than a medal or a line in a history book that he’d never read. He wasn’t the snap in a sailor’s salute when he came on board, he was the look in the scared kid’s eyes when the bullets were flying and the young man needed something, someone, to believe in.

  As Eyes was telling him.

  “Dismissed,” Storm said sharply.

  The executive officer frowned, then began to leave.

  “Eyes?”

  He turned back around.

  “Thank you very much, my friend. I appreciate it.”

  White House West Wing

  1230, 18 January 1998

  (0130, 19 January, Karachi)

  “MR. BARCLAY, DO YOU EVER GO HOME? IT’S SUNDAY!”

  Startled, Jed spun around to face his boss, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman.

  “Um, but—”

  “Just joking, Jed. How are we doing?”

  Jed gave him a quick update, starting with the newly located warheads and ending with the fact that the two Dreamland pilots—his cousin and cousin-in-law, though he didn’t mention this—were still missing.

  “That’s too bad,” said Freeman. “I hope we find them.”

  Jed nodded.

  “Now that Samson is taking direct control of Dreamland,” said Freeman, “are you worried about your role with the staff?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. You shouldn’t be. There are going to be a lot of changes at Dreamland due to the restructuring. It’s going to be a real command. The President—” Freeman caught himself. “Well, it’s the President’s decision. Things will work out. As for you, you’re still an important part of my team. Frankly, I think we’ve been wasting some of your talents. Dreamland has eaten up a lot of your time.”

  “Um, yes, sir. Uh, th-th-thank you.”

  Freeman reached into his jacket pocket and took out a business card. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” he said, handing it to Jed.

  “Um, OK.”

  “This is a speech therapist. She’s the best. She helped my daughter. I want you to see her.”

  Jed took the card. He tried to smile. He’d been to several professionals over the years. Some had helped for a brief time, most hadn’t.

  “Um, thanks.”

  “I’m going to make sure you keep your appointments,” added Freeman. “And don’t worry about paying.”

  “Uh—”

  “A friend of yours who wishes to remain anonymous is footing the bill, not me. And I’m going to make sure you have time. The stutter is going to hold you back, Jed,” added Freeman. “It gives people the wrong impression. All right?”

  “Um, y-y-yeah. OK. Thanks.”

  Diego Garcia

  0130

  “THIS IS BASTIAN,” DOG SAID WHEN HE REACHED THE COMMUNICATIONS station in the Dreamland trailer. “What’s up, Danny?”

  “Bad news, Colonel. The last warhead is missing. And Jennifer’s been hit, along with three of our Marines.”

  Dog felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

  “Tell me about the warhead,” he said. He struggled to keep his voice even.

  “There were guerrillas nearby when we arrived,” Danny began. He explained what they’d found—that the tapes made it seem as if the guerrillas hadn’t been there long enough to get the weapon, and that they’d also taken a prisoner, though so far he hadn’t said much.

  Dog questioned Danny about the warhead and what might have happened to it, even though it was obvious Danny didn’t know. Finally, h
e couldn’t think of any other questions, except the one he wished he didn’t have to ask.

  “And Jennifer?” he said, biting his lip. “How bad—”

  “She’s going to be OK, they think,” said Danny. “She got hit in the knee, but she’ll be OK.”

  The rest of what Danny said didn’t register—she was going to be OK. That was the only information he wanted. Danny mentioned the others who’d been wounded, the plan to get back to the base camp—none of it registered.

  She’ll be OK.

  Jennifer shouldn’t have been there in the first place, he thought. It was his fault. He should have ordered her home.

  “You OK, Colonel?”

  “I’m all right,” Dog told him. “Take care of your wounded. And get back in one piece.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Dog closed the transmission. There was another one waiting to connect—Starship, aboard the Bennett.

  “Bastian.”

  “Colonel, I think I heard a broadcast from Zen. I haven’t been able to get him back. We’re under fire,” added the pilot, almost as an afterthought.

  “Give me the position.”

  The Flighthawk and Bennett were considerably farther south than the crew members who had already been rescued. Was that an odd quirk in the radio waves? Or had Zen and Breanna parachuted out much farther south than anyone thought?

  “Were you over the water?”

  “The Flighthawk was. It was a faint signal, Colonel. I’m sorry I can’t be more definitive.”

  “That’s OK. Are you guys all right?”

  “Oh, yeah, Colonel. We’re great.”

  “Take care of yourself. Dreamland trailer out.”

  Dog switched over to the fleet liaison and told them he had important information about the search for his people. He was quickly relayed to one of the wing commanders aboard the Lincoln. The commander thanked him for the information—then told him it would be hours before they could respond.

  “I know how important it is, Colonel,” the man said before Dog could protest. “Right now, though, we’re covering the evacuation of the warheads from the desert. The Indians are throwing everything they have in the air, and the Pakistanis and Chinese look like they’re going to respond. The warheads are our priority.”