Retribution d-9

by Dale Brown

  “Another pack of MiGs,” added Cheech. “The Mirages are on afterburners. I have some other contacts. A hundred and fifty miles.”

  “What the hell did they do, save up all their fuel just for us?” said Micelli.

  “They’re bored from being grounded the last few days,” said Cheech.

  “All right, we’re going to have to deal with these guys,” Sparks told them. “Who’s the biggest threat?”

  “We have only three Anacondas left,” said Micelli.

  “Well, you’ll just have to get a two-for-one shot,” Sparks replied. He pulled up the stick, taking the Megafortress up another 5,000 feet and aiming southward. He’d keep as much distance as possible between the Cheli and the Ospreys. Most likely the Mirage radars wouldn’t be able to see the rotor tilts after they tanked and would concentrate on him.

  The Mirages were in two groups, two planes apiece. Sparks had Micelli target the lead plane in the first group, hoping that with their leader gone, the others would lose heart, or at least hesitate enough for them to get away.

  “Trouble locking — IFF says it’s a civilian.”

  “Override the bitch.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Override and lock.”

  “I’m working on it, Sparks,” said Micelli. He finally got the lock and fired.

  The ground radar operator reported a contact moving on a highway twenty-five miles ahead of the Ospreys. Sparks had Cowboy check on it.

  The cacophony continued. They’d trained for encounters like this, but the real thing was twenty times as draining and as confusing as the simulations. Even his crew of wiseasses was showing the strain.

  “New bogey — unidentified plane thirty miles from Angry Bear,” said Cheech. “Designated Bogey Seven.”

  “Where’d that come from?” said Sparks.

  “Thirty-five thousand feet — looks like it’s one of the ones that came off from Jamnagar.”

  “Tell the Navy flight.”

  “They’re too far away to intercept,” said the radar officer. “They’re on a pair of MiGs.”

  “ID the plane.”

  “Working on it. Bogey Seven is in range to fire radar missiles.”

  “Missile one is terminal,” said Micelli. “Locked on the lead Mirage.”

  “No ident from Bogey Seven,” reported Cheech.

  “Query the mother again. Micelli — get him on the radio.”

  “Roger that,” said Cheech. “Bogey Seven is twenty miles from Angry Bear. Direct intercept. Turning — looks like they’re moving to get behind them. Shit. Fifteen miles.”

  “No reply,” said Micelli after trying to hail Bogey Seven.

  “Micelli — lock on Bogey Seven and fire.”

  “Do we have an ID?”

  “Bogey Seven closing!” said Cheech.

  “Flighthawk leader, leave the ground gun and get between the Ospreys and bogey.”

  “He’s too far. I won’t make it.”

  “Micelli — lock on the mother and fire!” Sparks hit the radio. “Angry Bear, you have a bogey coming at your tail. Get as low as you can go.”

  “Can’t lock. The IFF module—”

  “Shoot the damn thing in bore sight if you have to,” said Sparks. “Nail that mother now.”

  “Override. Locked. Foxfire One.”

  The missile shot away from the Megafortress. As it did, the missile fired at the lead Mirage hit home.

  “Splash Mirage,” said Micelli, his voice drained.

  “Mirages are turning away,” said Cheech.

  “Anaconda is terminal.”

  “Lightning Flight to Dreamland Cheli. You read us?” asked a Navy unit.

  “Roger, Lightning Flight,” said Sparks.

  “We’re coming for you,” said the leader of Lightning Flight, a group of four F-14s dispatched from the Lincoln. “Rest easy.”

  “Screw him,” said Micelli.

  “Not today,” muttered Sparks. He clicked the radio transmit button. “Stand by, Lightning Flight.”

  “Splash bogey,” said Micelli. “Bogey is down. The way is clear.”

  “Angry Bear, your nose is clean,” said Sparks. He told the Marine pilot about the F-14s and had him contact them. “Did we get an ID on that plane?” he asked Micelli when he was done.

  “Negative.”

  “Cheech?”

  “It was one of the MiGs, I think.”

  “All right. We’ll sort it out later. Let’s make sure these guys hook up with the Tomcats so we can home.”

  Aboard Marine Osprey Angry Bear One, over northern India

  0518

  Danny Freah leaned over the back of the copilot’s seat, trying to get a better view of the source of the smoke as they approached.

  “Got to be the gun the Flighthawk smoked,” said the copilot.

  There was way too much smoke, thought Danny. He pulled down his visor and put it on maximum magnification, zooming in on the black cloud. The first thing he saw was a large flat piece of metal. Beyond it, red flames and a roiling cloud of smoke furled from a long tube.

  A fuselage. He was looking at the wreckage of an aircraft.

  “One of the MiGs,” said Danny, but almost immediately he realized he was wrong. The fuselage was too long, out of proportion to the tailfin for a fighter. Then he saw a large aircraft engine sitting off to the side.

  He hesitated, then reached for the control on the smart helmet to record the image.

  “Path is clear to the Lincoln,” said the pilot. “We’ll drop our injured and get over to the Poughkeepsie with the warhead.”

  “Good,” said Danny. “Good.”

  Northeastern Pakistan

  0521

  General Sattari watched as Abtin Fars took a long, deep breath, then bowed his head and said a silent prayer before reaching to connect the wire with the trigger device he had devised. To a layman, at least, the device seemed almost overly simplistic. There was a small digital clock, two different types of very small watch batteries, and a three-inch board containing a few diodes and two small capacitors.

  Sattari took his own deep breath as Abtin reached into the bomb assembly.

  The engineer jerked backward. Sattari reflexively shut his eyes, expecting the inevitable.

  “OK,” said Abtin after a few moments passed. “OK.”

  The general found he had trouble catching his breath. “It will work?” he asked when he did.

  “It should. I cannot make any guarantees. Let me solder the connections.”

  Sattari bent over the device.

  “Please, General,” said Abtin. “If you don’t mind, having someone looking over my shoulder makes me nervous. Inspect the work when I am done.”

  “Of course,” said Sattari, backing away. “Of course.”

  An atoll off the Indian Coast

  Time and date unknown

  Everything hurt. Everything.

  Breanna’s heart thumped against the ground.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Pushing the word from her mouth took supreme effort. She tried to say something else but was too exhausted.

  “Oh,” she managed finally. “Oh. Oh.”

  Aboard Dreamland Quickmover, over the Indian Ocean

  0530

  “We got it, Colonel. A definite location.”

  Dog flattened the folds out of the paper map, translating the GPS coordinates to the grid. Zen and Breanna were on an unmarked island northeast of the Chebaniani Reefs, about seventy-five miles from the mainland and roughly parallel to Magalore — farther south than even he had thought. According to the map, there was no land there, just sea; the nearest marked island was about three miles away.

  But they were definitely there. Disoriented, barely able to talk, and clearly thirsty and hungry, but there.

  “Dreamland Quickmover to the Abner Read,” said Dog, contacting Storm with the information. He spoke to Eyes first, then Storm.

  “There’s nothing there on the chart, Basti
an,” said the ship captain. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “It’ll take us three hours to get there. We’ll have the Werewolf over as quickly as possible.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Is your daughter all right?”

  “She’s there. They’re both there. What kind of shape they’re in, I’m not sure.”

  After a moment Storm replied, “I hope she’s OK.”

  “Me too.”

  An atoll off the Indian Coast

  Time and date unknown

  The sound was so foreign he couldn’t process it, almost couldn’t hear it.

  A moan, soft, long, plaintive…

  Breanna, talking to him from the grave.

  Calling for him.

  “Jeff. Jeffrey. Zen. Where are you, Jeff?”

  It was so far away, so injured, so lonely, he couldn’t stand it. A buzz descended from above, a cloud of hums as if angels were surrounding him. The air vibrated with a cold, parching dryness.

  Is this what death was like? Or was it just loss, empty of all hope?

  “Jeff. Jeff. Where are you?”

  “I’m here,” he said. And the spell broke, and he turned and pushed himself back to the tent, where for the first time in days — for the first time ever it seemed like — Breanna’s eyes were wide open.

  “Hey.”

  He twisted his head down and kissed her, pressing his lips to her face, then pausing as the flesh touched, afraid that the pressure would hurt her — or worse, that the kiss would shatter an illusion and he would find she wasn’t here, wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t softly moaning for help.

  He pulled back, eyes closed as they always were when they kissed. Fear overwhelmed him, choked out his breath. Zen shook his head and forced his eyes open, forced himself to face the inevitable mirage.

  “Jeff. Everything hurts,” she said.

  It was real, not a mirage, not a dream, not death or hopelessness, but life — she was alive.

  He pushed in and kissed her again, happy beyond belief.

  IX. Payments Due

  Rawalpindi, Pakistan

  0600, 19 January 1998

  Even the most avaricious of men had limits, moral lines they would not cross for any amount of gold. So General Sattari was not terribly shocked when he found that Abul Amin, the Egyptian whom he had contracted with in Rawalpindi, balked when he saw the shape of the cargo that was to be loaded into the Airbus 310. Sattari countered the man’s frown with one of his own, then suggested they discuss the matter in a corner of the nearby hangar while his men proceeded.

  “No, you must stop,” said the Egyptian in his heavily accented English. “I cannot allow my plane to make such a transport. If the Americans found out—”

  “Why do you think that the Americans don’t know?” asked Sattari. “Come, let us discuss the matter and make sure our payments are arranged. Then a pot of tea.”

  More confused than mollified, the Egyptian began walking with Sattari toward his small office inside the hangar. The Egyptian employed a single bodyguard, who stepped out from near the door and glanced nervously at his boss. Abul Amin shook his head slightly, and the man stepped back into the shadows.

  That was the problem with people like him, who made their living in the shadow of the law. They were too trusting of others they thought were corrupt.

  Most of the Egyptian’s money came from transporting embargoed spare parts for oil equipment, with the occasional military item thrown in as an extra bonus. He would be hired to pick them up from a country on decent terms with the West, like Pakistan, and fly them to a place such as Iran, where the international community had prohibited their direct sale. Amin had been doing this for so long that he’d come to believe not so much that it was legal, but that there was only minimal danger involved, that he did not have to be on his guard when with someone like Sattari — for whom he had transported everything from circuit boards for F-4 Phantom jets to Western-style blue jeans over the years.

  Sattari’s greatest difficulty was waiting for the right moment to pull his pistol from his pocket. He waited until Amin had sat down at his desk, then took out the pistol and shot him twice in the head.

  Amin fell backward, his skull smacking against the Sheet-rock wall and leaving a thick splatter of very red blood as he slumped to the floor.

  Sattari aimed his gun at the door, expecting the bodyguard to respond. After waiting a full minute, he went calmly to the door, pushed it open and waited again.

  His own bodyguards would be in the hangar by now, but he hadn’t heard more gunfire and didn’t want to take a chance.

  A few seconds passed, then a few more; finally there was a shout from outside.

  “General?”

  “It’s OK, Habib,” he said. “Where is the bodyguard?”

  “He ran as soon as the door was closed,” said Habib Kerman, appearing at the door. “We let him go. It seemed wiser.”

  “Very good, nephew. We need to be ready to take off very quickly. There is a long night ahead, and I have not yet arranged the refueling.”

  “Yes, General.”

  Sattari smiled, then reached over to turn off the office light.

  Aboard the Abner Read, Indian Ocean

  0610

  The atoll was only visible on the highest detail satellite images in the Abner Read’s library, and then it appeared as little more than a squiggle on the ocean. The small rock was completely barren; its vegetation appeared to consist largely of moss.

  “I want the Werewolf there. Now,” Storm told Eyes. “I want these Dreamlanders rescued.”

  “Aye aye, Captain. We’re moving as expeditiously as possible.”

  “Don’t move expeditiously — move quickly!”

  Storm grinned to himself. He was better, back in control. Woods and the others weren’t going to win.

  Turning from his holographic chart table, he looked out the “windshield” at the front of the Abner Read’s bridge. Specially tinted and coated with radar-absorbent material, the view through the glass was one of the few things about the Abner Read that Storm did not like; the material made it difficult to use his binoculars. And unlike the younger members of the crew — though he would never admit that age had anything to do with it — he did not entirely trust the long-range images provided by the video cameras. So after checking with the helmsman to make sure they were on course and making the best speed possible—“Faster would be better,” he commented — Storm stepped out onto the flying bridge and brought his binoculars to his eyes.

  Nothing but sea before him, and a high sky as well. The sun bloomed to the east, announcing a glorious day.

  “Storm, looks like there’s an Indian destroyer on the move from the north, running in the general direction of the atoll,” said Eyes, breaking into the captain’s brief reverie. “Ex-Soviet Kashin-class ship. Looks like it may be the Rana. The Werewolf ’s radar picked it up. You want to go to active radar?”

  “Negative,” said Storm. “The fox doesn’t let the hen know it’s in the barnyard. Plot its position. I’ll be back with you in a moment.”

  An atoll off the Indian Coast

  Time and date unknown

  Zen cupped his hands below Breanna’s lips, then tilted the small canteen so the water would flow. He had to tilt it more than he’d expected — the water was nearly gone.

  “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 gr
oan. “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.”