Retribution d-9

by Dale Brown

  But what should he do with him? Releasing him was too dangerous. On the other hand, it seemed that if they did nothing, the baby and its mother might die.

  “Ya don’t even know if this woman he’s going to get can help her,” said Gunny.

  Danny nodded.

  “We can deliver the baby,” said Liu. “We’ve done it before. The woman could die without medical attention.”

  “We’re not exactly a maternity ward,” said Danny. “We have other things going on here.”

  He turned around and walked down the hill toward the rutted area where the missile had come to rest. A set of tarps had been erected to shield the work lights from the roadway. Jennifer Gleason was hunched over a mangled part of the body and the engine in the first third of the debris field.

  “How’s it going, Doc?” Danny asked.

  “Slow, Captain. I’m not an expert on these systems.”

  “I thought you knew everything, Jen.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “How much longer do you need?”

  “Two or three hours at least,” she said. “Are we in a hurry?”

  “I want to be out of here before daylight.”

  “Then let me alone.”

  Danny went back to the Pakistani and Liu. Gunny was standing with them, trying to engage the Pakistani in a conversation about what was going on in the country. The man wasn’t interested in anything but his wife.

  “Sergeant Liu, grab Blow and Jonesy and take this guy back to his house. Assess the situation and report back.”

  “You got it, Cap.”

  “Excuse me, Captain,” said Gunny.

  “What’s up, Sergeant?” asked Danny, already suspecting the problem.

  “Hey, no offense here, but, uh, sending those guys out there — you really think it’s a good idea?”

  “It’s the best alternative.”

  “I don’t know about that. For one thing, he may be lying.”

  “I don’t think he is.”

  “For another thing, Captain, what are you going to do if she is in labor? We going to deliver the baby?”

  Danny shrugged. “Those guys have done it before.”

  The Marine sergeant shook his head.

  “Look, we’re not at war with these people,” Danny told him. “On the contrary, they’re our allies.”

  “I don’t think I’d trust them much.”

  “You don’t have to,” said Danny, turning to go check on the Osprey crews.

  Dreamland

  0815, 17 January 1998

  (2115, Karachi)

  Samson flattened the paper on the desk, spreading his large hand across its surface. For all its high-tech gizmos, the Dreamland commander’s office still relied on a fax machine that used thermal imaging paper.

  The letters were a little faint and the image crinkled, but he didn’t care. He could see what it said: The Whiplash order had been reissued, directed to Major General Terrill Samson, rather than Colonel Bastian.

  Just in case.

  He’d keep Rubeo through the deployment — being too vindictive would only hurt the mission. But once it was over, the egghead was history.

  Samson got up from the desk. Bastian — or his predecessor, if the chief master sergeant was to be believed — had good taste in furniture, he decided. But the place was a little cluttered with chairs and files. The first thing he had to do was have them cleared out. He’d put them in the conference room next door, which he would now use as an office annex — a library.

  He didn’t need a conference room. He wasn’t planning on doing much conferring.

  “Begging the general’s pardon,” said Ax, still standing near the doorway, “but was there anything else this morning?”

  “Yes, Chief, there is. I need a memo telling all department and section heads, all heads of testing programs, everyone from the head scientist to the janitor, that Dreamland’s entire agenda is now open for review. My review. Top to bottom. I want something that will convey urgency. I want it to sound…”

  Samson drifted off, unsure exactly how he wanted it to sound.

  “Like if they don’t do a good job you’ll sack them?” asked Ax.

  “That’s it, Chief. Exactly.” Ax would definitely stay, Samson decided. “Have it on my desk before lunch.”

  * * *

  Technically speaking, chief master sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs was a bachelor. But in a very real sense, Gibbs was as married as any man in America. It’s just that his wife — his children, his relatives, his home, his family, his friends, his pets, his entire existence — was the U.S. Air Force.

  But now it was time for a divorce. So as soon as he finished writing Samson’s memo — it took all of three minutes, and had a much more balanced tone than the general wanted — he went online and obtained the appropriate paperwork to initiate a transfer back to his home state of Florida, in anticipation of a separation from the service in a few months. And just in case Samson objected — Ax sensed he would, if only on general principles — the chief sent out a handful of private messages lining up support. Among the recipients were two lieutenant generals and the Air Force’s commanding general, giving him a full house to deal with any bluff Samson might mount.

  He had worked for people like Samson at numerous points during his career. But he’d been young then. Age mellowed some people; for others, it removed their ability to stand still for bullshit. He fell into the latter category.

  Lieutenant Colonel Bastian wasn’t the perfect boss. He was occasionally given to fits of anger; however well justified, fits of pique in the long run could be counterproductive. The colonel also insisted on keeping things at Dreamland streamlined, which for Ax meant that he had to make do with about a tenth of the staff he would have at a “normal” command. But Dog respected, trusted, and related to his people in a way that Ax knew Samson never would.

  But this wasn’t about Samson. It was about Terence “Ax” Gibbs. If he worked things out properly, he would arrive in the civilian world just after Florida’s high tourist season. Prices on charter boats would be reduced, and he would be able to use a small portion of his tidy Air Force nest egg to set himself up as a boat operator.

  Tough getting used to all that sun after decades of working indoors, but everyone needed a challenge, especially in retirement.

  Aboard the Abner Read

  2200

  Having obtained the harpoons, Storm endeavored to get into position to use them. He remained on a southerly course toward the Indian Ocean. The Chinese aircraft carrier Khan, meanwhile, was heading in roughly the same direction, presumably intending to go around the southern tip of India and head home.

  In the days when wind powered a sailing ship, a captain had a great deal of autonomy and could easily set a course that would bring him against an enemy; it was how many a master had won the accolades of triumph and treasure. Even a captain in the early Cold War era often had leeway to sail more or less where he pleased; there was simply no way for the admirals to keep complete track of him.

  But Storm belonged to a different time.

  “Why is your course paralleling the Khan’s?” demanded Admiral Woods over the secure link.

  “We’re just remaining in a position to be of use if necessary,” said Storm.

  “The Decatur is more than prepared to do the job,” said Woods. “The Los Angeles will meet it near Ceylon. Together they will trail it to its home port. You are to proceed to resupply.”

  “I have resupplied,” said Storm. “I have Harpoon missiles and my ship is ready for combat.”

  “Where did you get the missiles?”

  “Dreamland gave them to me,” he said.

  The admiral’s face turned even redder.

  “We don’t have a full complement, but I have more than enough to sink the Khan,” said Storm.

  “You will not sink the Khan. Storm, have you lost your mind?”

  “I meant—”

  “Let me talk to your executive officer.�
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  “But—”

  “Now!”

  Storm felt his legs tremble beneath the small desk where he was sitting. He knew the video camera was showing Woods everything he was doing, so he moved as deliberately as possible, picking up the handset on his desk and calmly asking Eyes to his cabin. When he returned the phone to its cradle, he looked at the screen, trying to narrow his eyes in a show of concentration and sincerity. It wasn’t a lie; he was being both focused and forthright. But he wanted his face to match what he felt.

  “Admiral,” said Storm, “let me make my case. I simply want to be nearby if—”

  “There is no case to be made, Storm. No ifs. No anything. Your ship is not to engage the Khan.”

  “I’m talking about making sure the Khan leaves the area without being a threat,” said Storm.

  “Flight operations from the Khan have stopped. They are no longer capable of even providing their own air cover,” said Woods. “I am not going to risk an international incident with them.”

  “They’ve already shot at our planes.”

  “Not in two days. And for all we know, Bastian egged them on,” said Woods. “Is that why he gave you the missiles? Are you two trying to start a war?”

  “That’s unfair. We carried out orders—”

  “Then carry out these.”

  Storm clamped his teeth together, knowing that if he said one word he’d say a dozen, and if he said a dozen he’d say a hundred, each an expletive.

  There was a knock at the cabin door. Storm got up and opened it.

  “You wanted to see me?” Eyes asked.

  Storm pointed to the video screen. Looking a bit bewildered, the executive officer sat down in Storm’s extra chair.

  “Lieutenant Commander Eisenberg,” said Admiral Woods. “If Captain Gale makes an aggressive move toward the Chinese aircraft carrier Khan, you are to immediately relieve him of command. Is that understood?”

  “I, well, uh—”

  “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “These are your orders, gentlemen. Since you have found a way to resupply and do not wish to rest, you are to sail to the area of the Cherbani Reef and act as a picket ship for any of our vessels moving toward the Lincoln task group. You are to go no farther south than twelve degrees longitude, and you are not to engage any ship — Indian or Chinese — without my explicit permission. Under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

  “What if we’re fired on?” blurted Storm.

  “Then you badly screwed up.”

  “I have to be able to defend myself.”

  “You better not be in a position where you need to.”

  Eyes glanced at Storm. “Admiral, I’m not sure—”

  “What is it that you’re unsure of, Commander? Following orders?”

  “I can follow orders, Admiral.”

  “Then do it.”

  The picture dissolved into black.

  Southeastern Pakistan

  2200

  Sergeant Liu believed the man was telling the truth, but he’d learned long ago that belief and reality were sometimes different things. He pulled the car off the road a half mile from the man’s house and sent Blow and Sergeant Kurt Jones up the road to check out the house. Ten minutes later Jonesy checked in over the short-range Whiplash channel.

  “House is clear — this lady is about to drop an egg any second, Liu. Better get the mojo on.”

  Jones hadn’t been exaggerating. By the time Liu and her husband got inside, the woman’s grunts were shaking the small two-room house. The only illumination came from a small kerosene lantern on a dresser set at the side of the room.

  Jonesy’s flashlight, shined on the small bed where the wife was giving birth. “I can see the head, Sarge. A lot of hair,” he added. “I think Blow’s the dad.”

  “Har har.”

  Liu set down his medical bag and dropped to his knees. As he did, the baby’s head and upper torso appeared, along with a gush of meconium, the greenish liquid waste and birth fluids. The baby’s eyebrows appeared, then disappeared as the mother’s contractions starting to tug it back inside.

  “You have to stay with us, little one,” said Liu, starting to grab for the newborn.

  Just as he got his hands down, the mother’s body gave one last shudder. Her new son slid out into Liu’s arms. Jones reached in and cut the cord with his knife.

  “Towels, swabs — we got to clean his face. Can’t let him eat this crap,” said Liu, cradling the infant in his arm so he could wipe the meconium from the infant’s mouth.

  “It’s turning blue, Nurse,” said Blow, pointing as he handed over a towel.

  The baby wasn’t breathing. Liu gave the child a gentle smack, but that didn’t seem to have an effect. He placed it down on the floor, bending over to try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  As he did, the father began to scream and started pounding Liu on the back. Blow grabbed him and threw him against the wall. Then the mother started to scream too. Jonesy dropped down to hold her arms.

  The only people in the room who were quiet were the baby and Liu. The sergeant struggled to get the infant to breathe. The infant seemed to gasp, but then gave up. The sergeant kept trying.

  “Come on, kid!” shouted Blow.

  “Let me try, Sarge,” said Jonesy.

  Liu ignored them, working steadily though he was starting to give up hope.

  The baby’s heart wasn’t beating. He started CPR.

  “I’ll respirate,” said Blow, dropping down beside him.

  They worked together, desperate, for more than ten minutes, long past the point that there was any chance of the baby surviving. Finally, tears streaming from his eyes, Liu put his hand out to Blow, signaling that it was time to stop. He looked up at the father, who shrieked and ran from the room.

  “Damn,” said Blow, jumping up to get him.

  Just as he reached the door, automatic rifle fire lit up the front of the house.

  Aboard Dreamland Bennett, over Pakistan

  2255

  Dog looked at the latest projections of where the remaining missiles had landed. There was just too much territory to cover.

  “You’re going to have to narrow this down, Ray,” he told the scientist. “You’re including Afghanistan and half of China.”

  “That’s an exaggeration, Colonel,” said Rubeo.

  “Not by much.”

  “We’re working on it. We have a theory on the solenoid valves. We think that rather than surviving the T-Rays, some of them may have locked the engines open. Ms. Gleason is still gathering data.”

  Dog frowned but said nothing.

  “If we could find a second missile and examine it, we could narrow the projections down considerably.”

  “Is there any projection you’re surest of?” Dog asked.

  “Statistically, they’re all the same,” said Rubeo. “But there is one where the geography makes the search easiest. Unfortunately, it’s the farthest from the U-2’s present track.

  “Then we’ll take it,” said Dog.

  “It is I-20, northeast of Siakor on the border.”

  Dog looked at the long finger marked on the map as the search area. It was at the extreme southeastern end of Pakistan, roughly 450 miles from the base camp Danny and the Marines were using in the desert.

  “Colonel, has Major Catsman had a chance to speak to you about General Samson?” said Rubeo.

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t had a chance to talk to Major Catsman about that. I assume you’ve heard he’s replacing General Magnus.”

  “That’s not exactly how it’s going to work,” said Rubeo. “He’s here. For the duration.”

  “The duration?”

  “It’s not going to be like the arrangement with Magnus. He’s taking over your job, Colonel. They’re going back to the arrangement that existed under Brad Elliott.”

  Dog wasn’t surprised. Under ordinary circumstances, a base the size of Dreamland — let alon
e one of its importance — would be run by a general, not a lieutenant colonel. When he’d been assigned, everyone assumed he was there to close the place down.

  Everyone except him. He’d fought for the Whiplash concept — a fighting force working closely with the developers of cutting-edge technology. The idea had proven itself long ago. And now the bureaucracy was catching up, folding Dreamland back into the regular hierarchy.

  It was going to be a tough transition for a lot of people. Including himself.

  “General Samson was making a distraction of himself in Dreamland Command,” continued Rubeo. “I nearly had him removed.”

  “You what?”

  “I can give you the entire sordid tale if you wish, Colonel, but I assume you have better things to do. In any event, it’s irrelevant. I’ll be handing in my resignation at the end of this mission.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, Colonel. It’s been a pleasure working with you too.”

  “Ray—”

  “You’ll excuse me, Colonel. I have work to attend to.”

  The screen blanked. Dog stared at the black space on the dash in disbelief for nearly a full minute before turning to Sullivan and telling him to prepare for the course change.

  Southeastern Pakistan

  2255

  Struck point-blank in the chest by the bullets, Blow fell back into the room. Liu scrambled to pull his Beretta from its holster and get out of the line of fire at the same time. A barrel appeared, then flashed. Liu brought up his pistol and began to fire. Before he realized it, he’d emptied the magazine into the Pakistani father.

  Jones and Blow had both been shot by the father. Fortunately, they were wearing lightweight Dreamland body armor. Blow’s left ribs had been seriously bruised and possibly broken, but otherwise he was not seriously wounded. Jones had taken two bullets in the side, where neither did any damage; a ricochet had splintered some wood, which flew into his arm, cutting him, but that was the extent of his injuries.

  The same could not be said for the Pakistani’s wife. Two of her husband’s bullets had struck her in the face, and another hit her heart. Any one of the wounds would have been fatal.