by Dale Brown
“Oh,” said Breanna as it touched her lips. “Oh.”
She sucked at it, then started to cough. Zen stopped pouring, waiting patiently for her to regain her breath. She shook her head, and he took the water away.
“How long?” she asked.
“Days.”
“How did we get here?”
“We drifted. I don’t know how I found you. God, I guess.”
“Yeah.” She started to move, as if she wanted to stand up.
“No, no, stay down.”
“No, I gotta move.” She stirred, pushed herself, then stopped with a groan. “Oh, my legs are killing me.”
“Mine too,” said Zen.
“Yours?”
“Phantom pain. We’re going to be OK,” he told her. “I just talked to Dog—they’re circling above us.”
“Oh,” said Breanna.
She struggled to get up again. This time Zen helped and she managed to sit.
“I think this leg is broken,” she said, pushing her right leg. “It really hurts. And the knee is twisted.”
Something caught her eye.
“What’s that?” she said, looking toward the beach.
Zen turned. It was the Bart Simpson kid. He had a bottle of water in his hands and he was walking slowly up the rocks.
“Bart Simpson,” said Zen. He waved at the boy. The boy, staring curiously at Breanna, waved back.
“He loves Bart Simpson,” he explained to Breanna. “He must see it on TV. He thinks we know him.”
“Does the kid live here?”
Zen explained that they were on a barren island but that the boy and his friends seemed to live on another island a few miles away. The kid, meanwhile, stopped a few feet from Zen and held out the water bottle.
Zen took it.
“We probably should boil it or something,” said Breanna.
“I’m really thirsty,” he said. But he didn’t open the bottle.
“I think I hear something,” said Breanna.
Zen held his breath, trying to listen.
“A helicopter, I think,” said Breanna.
“I gotta get the radio,” he said, crawling back for it.
Aboard Dreamland Quickmover
0630
“YOU CAN HEAR IT?” DOG ASKED ZEN.
“Yeah,” Zen answered, his voice hoarse.
“Good. I’m telling the Abner Read right now…Zen?”
“Yeah, Colonel?”
“Breanna? Is she all right? Really all right?”
“She’s OK.” Zen’s voice trailed off. “You want to talk to her?”
Tears flooded from Dog’s eyes. He was so overcome he couldn’t answer, and when he did, it was between sobs. “Please.”
The silence seemed unending.
“Daddy?”
“I thought we agreed…you’d never…call me that…at work.”
Dog held his arm up, burying his face in it as the tears flowed uncontrollably.
“That’s right, Colonel,” said Breanna. “Sorry. I thought this was R and R.”
“All right. We’ll pick you up soon. Hang in there.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Indian Ocean
0630
STORM STUDIED THE HOLOGRAPHIC PROJECTION OF THE ocean around them. They were about two and a half to three hours from the atoll. The Indian destroyer was closer; it could reach it in an hour and a half at flank speed.
It seemed too much of a coincidence that the other ship would be steaming in that direction; clearly, it was homing in on the radio transmissions from the survival radio. Perhaps it had picked up the MC-17 first, then gone to investigate.
With hopes of capturing the American fliers, he had no doubt.
He could sink the bastards with the Harpoons if it came to that. But by the time he got into range, the Indian would be at the atoll.
“Dreamland Quickmover looking for you, Captain,” said the communications specialist over the ship’s intercom circuit. “It’s Colonel Bastian.”
“Yes, Dog, what’s going on?”
“We spotted an Indian destroyer that seems interested in the atoll.”
“Yes, we copy,” Storm told him. “I’m not in range to deal with him.”
“Given what the Indians have been doing to our aircraft up north,” said Dog, “we should consider him hostile.”
“Agreed.” Storm felt his irritation growing.
“I can broadcast a warning,” offered Dog.
“You’re in a cargo plane, aren’t you?”
“I’ll fight the bastard with my bare hands if I have to,” said Dog.
“That won’t be necessary,” replied Storm.
Aboard Dreamland Quickmover
0704
“MAIN ANTIAIR WEAPONS ARE SHTIL MISSILES,” SAID THE copilot, consulting the onboard reference to ID the Indian destroyer’s capabilities. “They’re Indian versions of the Russian SA-N-7s. They have about a three kilometer range. Maybe 15,000 meters—roughly 50,000 feet. We’re OK as long as we keep our distance.”
Dog looked at his paper map, mentally calculating the Abner Read’s position against the Indian destroyer’s. The Indian was north; Storm was south and to the west. The Cheli was more than an hour and a half north, still covering the warhead recovery operations. By the time they got down here it would all be over.
“Dreamland MC-17 Quickmover to Indian destroyer,” said Dog, switching his radio into the international communications frequencies. “We are conducting a recovery mission in the area and request you hold your position.”
When the destroyer did not reply, Dog repeated the message, this time giving the destroyer’s position and heading.
“Dreamland Quickmover, you are over Indian territory and will be shot down if you remain,” replied the destroyer.
“This is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian. I’d like to speak to the captain of the ship.”
“This is the Republic of India naval vessel Rana. You are in Indian territory.”
“I’m in international airspace, conducting a Search and Rescue mission for downed airmen.”
“Give us their location and we will pick them up.”
“Thanks, but we’ve got it covered,” replied Dog. “Please just stand by.”
The Indian destroyer continued on its course.
Its offer, though, gave Dog an idea.
“Rana, if you desire to assist, I can give you a search grid. Your assistance would be appreciated.”
Dog gave the destroyer a GPS reading that would take it to the east of the atoll. The destroyer didn’t acknowledge—but it did change course.
“Good one, Colonel,” said the crew chief, who’d been standing next to him, nervously shifting his weight back and forth the whole time.
“It won’t work for too long,” said Dog. “As soon as Zen broadcasts again, they’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe you should tell him to keep quiet.”
“I will, as soon as I think of a way to do that without tipping off the Indians that it’s a ruse.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
0715
THE KID WHO HAD BROUGHT THEM WATER WAS FASCINATED by the Werewolf, staring at it as it circled around the small island.
“You like helicopters?” Zen asked.
The boy was so engrossed in watching the helo that he didn’t seem to hear.
“That’s a robot,” said Zen. “It’s being flown from a ship.”
“Robot?” said the boy.
“Yeah.” Zen pushed himself a little farther down the rock-strewn beach. There was something on the horizon to the north, a long sliver of white.
A ship.
The Abner Read?
Zen stared. The bits of white separated into distinct pieces. There was a mast at the center of the figure, a sleek smokestack.
The Abner Read didn’t have a mast. She was a special ship, very low to the water.
And black, not gray. She wouldn’t reflect the sun
like this.
“Zen, what’s up?” asked Breanna.
“I see a ship,” he told her. “It’s going in the wrong direction. Give me the radio.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Indian Ocean
0725
STORM WATCHED THE PLOT OF THE INDIAN DESTROYER, now positively identified as the Rana, veer toward the mainland. He had to hand it to Bastian, the old Dog had a plentiful bag of tricks.
They could be friends if he weren’t such a jerk.
The holographic unit included a navigational module that could calculate and project courses. Storm simply pointed at the atoll and asked, in his clearest voice, “ETA?” The computer flashed a set of numbers above the small rock: 1:42:06.
“I want more power, engineering,” he said. “Helm, find some way to get us to that rock faster. I don’t care if you have to put up a sail. Get us there!”
Aboard Dreamland Quickmover
0730
“ZEN STOCKARD TO RESCUE OPERATION. COME IN,” SAID ZEN.
Dog immediately hit his transmit button.
“Zen, we need radio silence. Complete radio silence. We will get you. We will get you. We don’t need a broadcast.”
Dog leaned over the radio console, hoping that Zen’s brief transmission—and his own—would go unnoticed by the Indian destroyer.
But it was a vain hope.
“Destroyer is changing course, Colonel,” said the copilot, who’d been monitoring it. “Going back in the original direction.”
“I’ll notify the Abner Read,” said Dog grimly.
An atoll off the Indian coast
0731
“WHAT’S WRONG, ZEN?”
Zen put down the radio without answering. He shaded his eyes and stared at the ship on the horizon.
“Jeff?”
“I think the Indians are looking for us too,” he told Breanna. “And I gather that we don’t want them to find us.”
Breanna struggled to get up, pushing as much of her weight as she could onto her left leg. But her head swam and the pain in her side seemed to explode. She collapsed to the ground.
Zen was over her when she opened her eyes.
“Hey, are you OK?” he asked.
“Yeah. I was just getting up.”
“Who asked you?”
“Well, I’m not going to stay on the ground the rest of my life. And I’m not going to stay on this island either.”
He smiled.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re beautiful.”
“If I look half as bad as you, I look like a zombie.”
“Oh, you look worse than that.”
Zen looked up at the Werewolf, which was doing a slow turn about a half mile off shore.
“You really think you could move?” he asked her.
“I can move, Jeff. It hurts, but I can move. I don’t know if I can stand, though.”
“You’re a gimp like me, huh?”
“You’re not a gimp.”
“I have an idea. Maybe we can meet the Abner Read.”
“I don’t think I can swim.”
“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Indian Ocean
0735
“THE RANA FIGURED IT OUT,” SAID EYES. “THEY’RE BACK ON their original course.”
“How long before they’re in range of the Harpoon?”
“Ten minutes, tops.”
“All right. Stand by.”
“Storm—there is the possibility that they’ll shell the atoll if we open fire,” said Eyes. “There’s not much shelter there.”
“Noted.”
Eyes was right, of course, but what other options did he have? He certainly wasn’t going to let the Indian pick up his people right under his nose.
A full volley of Harpoons would sink the bastard before he had a chance to react.
No, they’d have a launch warning. It would take the Harpoons roughly three minutes to get there; by then the atoll would be obliterated.
“Storm, listen in to the emergency channel,” said Eyes over the intercom radio. “Major Stockard is up to something.”
Storm looked down at his belt to get the proper combination of buttons that would allow his com unit to listen in. The broadcast came in, weak and breaking up.
“Hey, Werewolf. We’re looking for some navigational guidance,” said a tired voice. “Wag your tail if you understand what I’m talking about.”
“Eyes, have the Werewolf pilot zoom his video on the beach,” said Storm.
“I think he’s getting into a canoe,” said Eyes.
“I’m going to automated beacon,” said Zen. “So you can home in on me.”
Clever, thought Storm.
“Have the Werewolf lead them south,” he told Eyes. “Get the Harpoons ready—he’s leaving the radio on so the destroyer thinks he’s still on the island. Move, let’s go people!” shouted Storm. “Let’s show these Air Force people what we’re made of.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
0745
“NOW THEY’RE GETTING IT,” SAID ZEN AS THE WEREWOLF ducked to the left. “Come on, Bart Simpson. Help me paddle.”
Zen pushed the boy’s small canoe through the shallow water, avoiding the rocks. Breanna was inside the boat, leaning over the side and paddling with her hands.
“Yeah, come on, guys,” said Zen as the current pushed up against the boat. “We have to go south. Stroke! Come on, Bart Simpson, follow that helicopter.”
BREANNA COULDN’T SEE MUCH FROM WHERE SHE WAS, BUT she could hear the helicopter. She had no more strength to paddle, and let her arm drag in the water.
Everything hurt so badly. She closed her eyes and remembered the night she’d seen Zen after the accident, the longest night of her life. She’d become a different person that night, though of course at the moment she hadn’t understood.
Who had she become? Someone wiser, more patient.
Not wiser, but definitely more patient.
She’d laughed a lot less since then. Much, much less.
That was a mistake. That was something she had to correct. She should be happy. They had so much.
“OK, baby, time to go.”
Disoriented, Breanna expected to see Zen in his wheelchair hovering over her when she opened her eyes. But she wasn’t at home, she wasn’t in bed—two men in wet suits were picking her up, helping her into a rigid inflatable. The Werewolf was hovering somewhere behind her, and the black shadow of the Abner Read loomed about a half mile off.
“What?” Breanna muttered. “Where are we?”
“We’re with the USS Abner Read, ma’am,” said one of the sailors. “You just relax now and enjoy the ride. We all are goin’ to take you home.”
Aboard the USS Poughkeepsie,
Arabian Ocean
0800
WITH THE LAST OF THE NUCLEAR WARHEADS STOWED aboard the ship, Danny Freah asked the Poughkeepsie’s captain if he could find him a relatively quiet place for a private communication. Quiet turned out to be a precious commodity aboard the ship, harder to find than water in the desert. The communications shack sounded like a tollbooth at rush hour, and Danny couldn’t find a spot below that wasn’t overflowing with sailors and Marines, or sounded as if it were. He finally went onto the deck, and standing near the railing just below the bridge, put his visor down and contacted Dog.
“Bastian.”
“Colonel, it’s Danny Freah.”
“Yes, Danny. Go ahead.”
A small legend in the view screen indicated that no video was available. Danny knew that Dog was aboard Quickmover and guessed that the colonel had chosen to communicate with voice only—probably because he knew he looked tired.
Somehow that made it harder. Danny wasn’t sure why.
“Jennifer’s aboard the Lincoln,” Danny said. “They’re thinking they’re going to have to operate on her knee. It’s pretty bad.”
“But she’s OK,” said
Dog.
“Yeah. She might have a concussion. Bullet splinter hit her helmet, knocked her out. That and the shock scrambled her head a bit. But she’s OK.”
“What about the mission?”
That was Dog, thought Danny—stone-faced and proper, insisting the focus be on duty and the job that had to be done, not personal emotion.
Even if he had to be breaking inside. First Bree, now Jennifer. But at least Jen was alive.
“We’ve brought the warheads back to the Poughkeepsie,” Danny told him. “Base Camp One has been evacuated. We have no further information on the last warhead; it just wasn’t there.”
“I understand.”
“The prisoner we took insists they didn’t recover the warhead before we got there. Maybe the Pakistanis were there yesterday or the day before.”
“It’s possible. Dreamland Command is already working on some theories with the CIA,” said Dog. “It’s all right. You did a hell of a job. A hell of a job. Where’s Sergeant Liu and the others?”
“They’re getting some rest.”
“We have to arrange for them to go back to Dreamland,” Dog told him. “General Samson wants to talk to them personally, before anyone else.”
“Samson?”
Dog explained that Samson had taken over as the new commander of Dreamland.
“Admiral Woods directed that they be taken over to the Lincoln.”
“Samson wants them himself.”
“It was an accident, Colonel.”
“I know that. Samson does too.”
“OK.”
Neither man spoke for a moment.
“We’ve found Zen and Breanna,” said Dog finally.
“You found them!” Danny practically yelled.
Colonel Bastian’s voice remained drained as he told Danny what had happened—once more the calm, understated commander.
“Jesus, that’s great, Colonel. That is damn great. Damn great.”
“It is,” said Dog.
For a moment Danny thought his commander’s voice was going to break. But it didn’t.
“All right,” said Dog, preparing to sign off.
“Colonel, there’s something else,” said Danny.
