Retribution (14 page)

“Ready for you, Colonel.”

“Dreamland EB-52
Bennett
to Pakistani F-6 pilots vectoring south from Faisal. We are conducting a Search and Rescue mission for a downed U.S. pilot in the border area. We have located the airman and are attempting to recover.”

Dog waited for a response. The Pakistani planes were about 120 miles away, moving at just over 400 knots. That would bring them in range to use their air-to-air missiles in roughly fifteen minutes.

“Nothing, Colonel,” said Sullivan finally.

“Anything from the ground units?”

“Negative.”

“Let’s give it another try,” said Dog.

He repeated his message, again without getting an answer. The Megafortress was flying a lazy-eight pattern over the Marines, riding around and around at 15,000 feet. The Pakistani trucks were at the northeastern end of their racetrack, still sitting in the middle of the road doing nothing.

“We may be out of range of their radios,” suggested Rager from the airborne radar console.

“Maybe,” said Dog.

“Just about in Scorpion range, Colonel,” added Sullivan.

“We can take them,” said Englehardt. “They’ll never know what hit them.”

Dog got up from the auxiliary radar station and walked up to the front of the cockpit, looking over the pilots’ shoulders.

“Open the bomb bay doors,” he said. “Let’s make it easier for them to find us.”

Englehardt glanced over his shoulder, then passed the order to Sullivan.

The aircraft shuddered as the doors swung open. The open
bay increased the Megafortress’s radar cross section, increasing the range at which the aircraft could be seen. Dog plugged his headset into the auxiliary console on the airborne radar side.

“Pakistan F-6s flying from Faisal, this is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian in Dreamland
Bennett
. I’m conducting a Search and Rescue mission over Indian territory. Are you authorized to assist?”

“Dreamland flight, please identify yourself,” said a voice in heavily accented English.

The transmission was weak but unbroken. Dog repeated what he had just told them.

“Dreamland USA—you are operating in Indian territory?”

“Affirmative. We have the situation under control at this time,” Dog added. “Be advised that we spotted two Indian aircraft to the southeast approaching Pakistan territory approximately zero-five minutes ago. We tentatively ID’d them as Su-27s. They are no longer on our radar. I can provide our last contact.”

The Pakistani pilots didn’t reply. Possibly they were checking with their ground controller.

“F-6s are turning,” said Rager. “Going east. Roughly on an intercept.”

“Dreamland USA—do you require assistance?” asked the Pakistani pilot.

“Negative. We are in good shape,” said Dog.

The Pakistani pilot requested the Indians’ last position and their heading. Dog gave them coordinates that would take the interceptors well to the east.

The Pakistanis acknowledged.

Sullivan began laughing as soon as the conversation ended.

“Good one, Colonel,” said the copilot. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d fall for it.”

“Neither did I,” said Dog.

“I’m not sure they did,” said Rager. “They’ve extended their turn—looks to me like they’re trying to sweep around and come at us from the east.”

Aboard the
Abner Read,
northern Arabian Sea
0640

“I
DON’T CARE WHAT CAPABILITIES YOU HAVE
, S
TORM.
Y
OU
have orders. And you…will…follow them.”

Admiral Woods’s face grew redder with each word. Storm, sitting in his quarters and addressing the admiral through the secure video communications hookup there, squeezed his fingers into a pair of fists behind his back.

“Admiral, if the
Khan
is moving south, I should move with her. We should be prepared for anything she does. The Chinese—”

“We are prepared for anything she does,” said Woods. “The
Decatur
will trail her. And if she makes any aggressive move—”

“A Chinese frigate fired missiles at one of the Dreamland aircraft. That’s
damn
threatening.”

“Storm, we’ve been through this. You yourself said that was the result of a misunderstanding.”

“I believe I was wrong.”

“Based on what evidence?”

Storm had no evidence, but he had strong feelings. He strongly regretted arranging the trade for the Chinese pilot—he could have engaged the frigate with his torpedoes and deck gun.

“I’m just convinced,” he told the admiral. “I’m convinced they’re going to try something.”

“Then the
Decatur
and the
Lincoln
will deal with her. In the meantime, you have no weapons and must replenish.”

“So let me replenish off the
Lincoln
. All I need are a dozen Harpoons.”

“The
Lincoln
has only enough ammunition and stores for its own task force.”

“But if I have to go all the way to Japan, I might just as well head to San Diego. The ship is due back there for full
evaluation in three weeks. By the time the contractors get everything together—”

“You…have…your…
orders!
”

The admiral reached toward his screen, and the image on Storm’s video disintegrated into a tiny blue dot.

The admiral was jealous, thought Storm. Woods couldn’t stand the idea that he and his ship had made history.

Storm decided that Woods must be sending the
Decatur
to trail the stricken
Khan
because he was convinced the Chinese weren’t done. The
Decatur
was a conventional destroyer; if it finished off the
Khan
, it would take some of the shine off his own accomplishments.

Storm went out into the conference room next to his cabin to pace and consider his orders. The admiral hadn’t ordered him out of battle—he’d ordered him to replenish. Logically, if he could find another way to replenish, he could stay in the fight.

There was a replenishment ship about two days sail to the south, steaming toward the
Lincoln
task group, and another off the coast of Africa. But the radical design of the
Abner Read
called for special handlers to load its forward weapon pods, and neither ship was equipped with them. The alternative was to hand-load the littoral destroyer. This would involve taking the missiles from the containers they were transported in, slinging them across the open sea, and then manhandling them—gently, of course—into their launch boxes.

Doable, but not easy, and sure to require higher approval before proceeding. Higher approval meant talking to Woods, and Storm knew how that would go.

There had to be other sources.

Dreamland used Harpoons, didn’t they? Where did they get the missiles?

Diego Garcia.

Storm called his procurement officer, an ensign who told him he’d already checked with Diego Garcia; no Harpoon missiles were available there.

“You’re telling me there are
no
missiles on that base?”

The answer involved a lengthy explanation of the Navy’s supply system. Storm was in no mood to hear it.

He needed to put a chief petty officer in charge of keeping them armed and supplied, he thought. Someone who knew his way around the regulations, not someone who spouted them to him.

He was about to switch channels when the ensign offered a suggestion: “The Dreamland people may have some to spare. Maybe we could try them.”

The Air Force did use Harpoon missiles, but Storm wondered whether they were compatible. He knew that the ship-launched weapons contained a booster that the air-launched weapons lacked, but wasn’t sure what other differences there might be. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to determine that the missiles should work in the
Abner Read
, provided they were properly mated with the booster units.

The
Abner Read
carried six spares.

Storm clapped his hands together, then punched the com unit on his belt. “Communications, get me Colonel Bastian, would you?”

Aboard the
Bennett,
near the Pakistan-India border
0640

D
OG WATCHED THE TWO
P
AKISTANI JETS AS THEY SWUNG IN
toward them from the east. The aircraft were now about ten minutes away.

“What do you think, Colonel?” asked Englehardt. “Do we take them down or not?”

“They haven’t challenged us yet,” Dog told him.

“Respectfully, sir, if they have bombs, they could do some decent damage to the Marines before we can shoot them down.”

“I don’t intend on letting them get into a position to do that,” said Dog. “They’re not flying an attack profile. Change your
course so we can go out to meet them. Plot an intercept so we can come around on their tails. Get us a little more altitude.”

Dog wanted to get the Megafortress close enough so he could see what the diminutive fighters had under their wings before they were in a position to threaten the Marines. But he knew that would make the Megafortress more vulnerable.

Bending over the center power console, he peered through the Megafortress’s windscreen. The two Pakistani planes looked like white pocketknives in the distance as the
Bennett
began her turn.

“Communication from the
Abner Read
, Colonel,” said Sullivan. “For you personally.”

“Not now.”

“They claim it’s urgent.”

Dog snapped into the frequency. “Bastian.”

“Colonel, this is Storm. I was wondering—”

“I’m just about to confront a pair of F-6 fighters here, Storm—make it damn quick.”

“I’m looking for some Harpoon missiles,” answered Storm.

“I haven’t got time—”

“Listen, Bastian—”

Dog switched to the Pakistani frequency.

“Dreamland
Bennett
to Pakistani F-6s. Did you find those Indian Sukhois?” Dog asked, watching the two planes approach.

“Negative, Dreamland USA. You are over Pakistan territory.”

“Acknowledged,” said Dog. “Our operations are to the southwest, over Indian land. We thought it would be prudent to fly over friendly territory as much as possible.”

“They’re trying to transmit the information back to their base,” said Sullivan when the fighters didn’t immediately respond. “Having trouble. The backup generators at the base seem to be giving them fits.”

The two Pakistani fighters spread slightly as the Megafor
tress turned. Dog watched the God’s eyeview screen on the dash closely—if the planes had any hostile intent, one would attempt to close on the
Bennett
’s tail, where a shot from the heat-seekers would be difficult to defend against.

“Coming up outside our wings,” said Sullivan.

Dog heard Englehardt blow a large wad of air into his oxygen mask. He’d undoubtedly been ready to flick the stick and call for flares—standard response to a missile launch.

“Pakistan F-6s, this is Dreamland
Bennett
. Are you free to assist? If so, we would welcome a high CAP,” said Dog, asking the aircraft to patrol above them and protect against high-flying fighters.

“Dreamland USA, we are not at liberty to assist you at this time. We are on the highest state of alert.”

“Acknowledged. Appreciate your taking the time to check on us,” said Dog.

“We just going to let them overfly the missile area?” Englehardt asked.

“At this speed and altitude, they’re not going to see much,” Dog told the pilot. “The Ospreys could be doing anything. We’ll stay with them as they make the pass.”

“No air-to-ground missiles,” said Sullivan, inspecting the aircraft with the Megafortress’s video.

“Power back a bit in case we have to get in their way,” Dog told Englehardt.

“Ready.”

But it wasn’t necessary. The F-6s began a turn northward well before they reached the area where the Ospreys had landed. Clearly, they were under orders to stay out of Indian territory.

“Dreamland USA, you’re on your own,” said the lead pilot. “Radio if you require further assistance from enemy fighters.”

“Roger that, Pakistan F-6. Thanks much.”

Aboard the
Abner Read,
northern Arabian Sea
0645

E
VERY TIME
S
TORM PERSUADED HIMSELF THAT
B
ASTIAN
wasn’t a bastard, a jerk, and worse, the flyboy colonel did something to show him how right his original opinion was.

Here, he had saved his
people,
just gotten them off the boat, for cryin’ out loud, and all the Dog-haired colonel could do was hang up on him.

Storm waited for his fury to subside, then told his communications specialist to get him the colonel again.

“Bastian.”

“What do you want me to do, Dog? Grovel?”

“What’s up, Storm?”

“I find myself short of Harpoon missiles. I’m told that the Air Force versions can be made to work with my ship’s weapons systems without—”

“Why don’t you resupply off the
Lincoln
?”

“It’s not quite that simple. Unfortunately, Harpoons are in short supply. I only need six.”

Storm hated the tone in his own voice—weak, pleading, explaining. He was about to snap off the communication in disgust when Dog answered.

“We have some. Have your people check with Captain Juidice on Diego Garcia. I’m not sure how we’d ferry them there; maybe one of the Whiplash Ospreys.”

“I won’t forget this, Dog,” gushed Storm. He could feel his face flush. “I won’t forget it.”

“Bastian out.”

Great Indian Desert
0655

D
ANNY GLANCED AT THE TWO
N
AVY EXPERTS BESIDE HIM,
then slid his hand down below the bomb casing to the nest of wires.

“Keep the probes away from the wires,” Klondike repeated.

“Yeah, they’re away.”

“I want you to cut them in this sequence. Black, pure red, red with two black stripes—”

“Hold on, all right?” The wire casings were color coded for easy identification. But there were so many different codes that it wasn’t easy to tell them apart.