Retribution (17 page)

“Mike, I’m going to take the pilot’s seat on the
Bennett
today.”

“That’s my spot.”

“You slide over. Sully gets bumped,” said Dog. He meant that Englehardt would sit in as copilot, with Sullivan remaining behind.

“Listen, Colonel, if you have a problem with me—”

“Why are you flying off the handle, Mike?”

“I’m not flying off the handle,” said Englehardt, his voice giving lie to his words. “It’s just that I figured I’d be flying this mission. I earned it.”

“You’re acting like a two-year-old.”

“I can pilot that plane, Colonel.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“Everybody’s going to take it that way, like this is a demotion, like I’m not good enough.”

“If you’re so concerned about that, maybe you shouldn’t be flying for Dreamland at all. Tell Sullivan he’s bumped. I’ll meet you at the plane.”

“The hell with this.”

Englehardt’s face had turned red. Dog sensed the pilot knew he’d made a mistake and wanted to find a way out gracefully. Maybe on another day he might have found a way to help the younger man; he thought Englehardt was a good pilot, and though at times tentative, had a bright future. But he wasn’t in a helping mood.

“You have a problem, mister?”

“Maybe Sullivan should fly instead of me, then,” said Englehardt.

“Good,” said Dog. He grabbed his small flight bag and strode from the room.

An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown

Z
EN SLEPT LIKE A BABY, EVERYTHING AROUND HIM MUFFLED,
his body surrendering to unconsciousness. He had no dreams that he could remember, and the rocks that made up his bed had no power to jab him or stick in his ribs. The makeshift tent covered him like a grave, keeping him not just from the elements, but from worries.

And then he woke.

His body felt as if it were tied up, bound in heavy cable.

He heard his wife next to him, her breaths shallow and sounding like moans.

He patted her gently, then crawled from the tent, his stomach rumbling for food.

The wood he’d brought back sat nearby, a pathetically small assortment of bleached branches and sticks. He flipped them over, hoping the sun would dry the bottom parts out better. Then he tried the radio.

“Major Stockard to any American force,” he began. “Stockard to American force. I’m a crewman from Dreamland EB-52
Levitow,
lost over the Indian peninsula, lost in the Indian Ocean.”

Zen continued, giving what he thought their approximate position had been when they jumped. He repeated his message several times, pausing to hear a reply, but none came.

Was it possible that their attempt to stop the war had failed? If so, much of India and surely all of Pakistan would have been wiped out by nuclear attacks. Very possibly the U.S. and China were at war right now. And if that was true, who would hold back?

The possibilities were too awful to contemplate.

Zen knew the EEMWBs had worked; they’d lost contact with the Flighthawks the moment the missiles exploded. But he had no idea what happened afterward.

Hope for the best, plan for the worst. But what was the plan now? He was an invalid on a bleak island, alone with his unconscious, possibly dying wife.

He could give in. He could throw himself into the tide and let himself be swept away. He could give in.

But he knew that instead he’d start the fire in a few hours, once the sticks dried in the sun a bit. And try and figure out something for food in the meantime, something more filling than the few bars he’d salvaged from their survival vests.

There might be fish in the shallow water near the pinched middle of the atoll, Zen thought. If so, he could spear them with his knife, or better, kill them with rocks. He’d get a bunch of little fish and fry them in the fire.

Zen leaned back into the tent, checking on Breanna. Had he examined her for injuries when they landed? He couldn’t remember now. He must have—but he couldn’t remember, and so he checked again, gently loosening her flight suit, still damp, and running his hands over her skin. It was clammy and cold, sticky; it seemed to belong more to the sea than to Breanna.

There were bruises, but he didn’t see any gashes, and if bones had been broken, the breaks weren’t obvious.

“I’ll be back,” he told her after zipping her back up. “I’ll be right back.”

Aboard the
Abner Read
0700

S
TORM PRACTICALLY DANCED A JIG AS THE
O
SPREY APPEARED
over the horizon.

“All right now, men! Look alive! Jason, Josh—clear the deck there. Look alive! Look alive!”

The Osprey—a black, cannon-equipped Dreamland special operations version—swept in over the forked tail of the
Abner Read,
her arms steady. The craft matched the ship’s slow pace, then began to rotate. The helipad on the
Abner Read
was tiny, and the Osprey had to face toward the stern so its cargo could be off-loaded.

The aircraft lurched to port as she descended. Storm’s heart lurched with it. But the pilot quickly got it back under control, setting down on the narrow confines of the
Abner Read
’s deck.

“Very good! Very good,” shouted Storm as the rear hatchway opened. “Look alive! Look alive! Let’s get those missiles assembled and into the bow tubes!”

“Captain?”

Storm turned. His executive officer was standing in the portal to the robot helicopter shed, which had been cleared as a temporary loading and work area.

“Eyes. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Captain.”

“Ready for full duty?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eyes looked like he was going to say something—an apology probably. Storm held up his hand. “No explanation necessary. We’re all burning the candle at both ends.”

Storm stepped back as a work crew brought the first missile crate out of the aircraft.

“What exactly are we planning to do next, Captain?” asked Eyes.

Surprised that Eyes hadn’t gone back to work, Storm turned around. “Next? That’s up to the Chinese.”

Eyes didn’t reply.

“Well, get back to your station,” said Storm. “Get down to Tac. Go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dreamland
1800, 16 January 1998
(0700, 17 January, Karachi)

B
ECOMING A CHIEF MASTER SERGEANT IN THE
A
IR
F
ORCE
—
or achieving a similar rank in any of the services, for that matter—requires an unusual combination of skill, knowledge, hard work, and determination. A man or woman who becomes a chief arrives at that position with an impressive range of information at his or her fingertips.

Part of this is the result of sheer longevity and experience; it can accurately be said that a chief master sergeant doesn’t just know where the bodies are buried, but buried a good number of them himself.

Another part is due to the network of friends, informers, and other hangers-on an enlisted man builds during his career. And, of course, initiation into the rites of chiefdom brings a new chief into contact with the elder members of the
tribe, who view each new member as an important link in the chain that holds the Air Force together. Chiefs may not necessarily get along, but they can always be counted on to rally to the side of a fellow chief master sergeant in matters both large and small, aware that the cause is greater than any personal animosity.

Dreamland’s administrative side was run by a chief among chiefs, Sergeant Terence Gibbs. Ax, as he was universally known, had served as Colonel Bastian’s right-hand man since prehistoric times. The colonel thought he had pulled strings to get Ax transferred to Dreamland with him when he took over the command, but in truth it was Ax who pulled the string that needed to be pulled. Letting Colonel Bastian believe otherwise was a strategy Ax had taken from page one of the chief ’s handbook.

Though only at the base for two years, Ax knew more about Dreamland than anyone, with the possible exception of Greasy Hands Parsons, who was, after all, a fellow chief.

Ax’s intelligence network extended far beyond Dreamland and even the Air Force. Information was a chief ’s currency, in many cases as valuable as money or even tickets to the Super Bowl—several of which Ax managed to procure and distribute each year. There was generally not a facet of Air Force life that Ax did not know once he decided it was important. He’d put considerable effort into building an efficient early warning system, capable of alerting him to the slightest pending move that would affect him or his command.

So it was amazing—dumbfounding, even—that when Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson (aka Terrill the Terror, in some circles) was appointed to be Dreamland’s new commander, Ax did not know it until several hours after the fact. Worse—far worse, as far as he was concerned—he didn’t know that Samson had decided to forgo protocol and play a surprise visit to the base several days ahead of schedule until Samson was well on his way.

In fact, Ax learned this so late that he didn’t arrive at the helicopter landing strip until the general and his staff were
stepping out of their helicopter under the watchful eyes of the base security team. It was an intelligence failure of monumental proportions, though Ax would not be at leisure to contemplate its implications for several hours.

“General Samson, good to see you sir,” he shouted loudly. “You’re, uh, several days ahead of schedule.”

“I move on my own schedule,” growled Samson.

“Yes, sir. Major Catsman is waiting for you.” Ax stiffened and pumped a textbook salute, as stiff and proper as any he had delivered in the past ten years—which was damning with faint praise, since he had perhaps saluted twice.

Samson returned it with a scowl.

“Why isn’t the major here herself, Chief?” demanded the general.

“Begging the general’s pardon, but there’s a Whiplash action under way. Things get a little—hectic.”

Samson frowned. Ax smiled ever so faintly in response, then turned his head toward the two airmen he had shanghaied to carry the general’s bags. Within a few minutes he had the security team placated and the general and his people en route to the Taj Mahal, the nickname for the base’s administrative center.

Samson’s arrival at the Taj caused another stir. In order for him and his aides to tour the base, biometric measurements and readings had to be taken from all of them. Samson balked, saying it was a waste of his time.

“Only about ten minutes per person,” said Ax. “It’s standard procedure.”

“Do you get major generals visiting this base often?”

“We’ve had a few,” said Ax.

Samson started for the elevator that stood at the center of the lobby. He got in, as did his aides. Ax stayed in the lobby.

“The thing is, sir, if you’re not in the computer, it won’t allow you access. You can get in the elevator car, but it won’t go down. And now that you’re in there, it won’t move until you’re out. I can get this straightened out.”

Samson didn’t believe Ax until he had pressed all of the buttons and nothing happened.

“It will only take a few minutes,” said Ax. “If you’ll just come over to the security station…”

Samson stalked over to Security, nearly as angry as he’d been at the landing dock. His aides followed.

Or attempted to.

“I’m afraid—and no offense, sirs,” said Ax, making sure to spread one of his better chief ’s smiles across the arrayed majors and captains, “under a Whiplash order, you’re supposed to be confined to the non, um, technical parts of the base. Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t even be here in the Taj. We can do some temporary passes, but your access is going to be limited.”

“What the hell kind of rule is that?” said Samson.

“Begging the general’s pardon, but it would be a similar situation if somehow a busload of visitors had deposited themselves into his F-111 cockpit during his mission over Hanoi as a captain. Or when he personally led the squadron over Panama. The general would have been so busy dealing with the enemy, that even the presence of well-meaning onlookers, no matter their rank, would have been a distraction.”

Samson frowned. For a moment Ax wondered if he had found the proverbial exception to the old chiefs’ rule that it was impossible to lay it on too thick for a general.

“All right,” said Samson finally. “Let’s get the lay of the land for now,” he added, speaking to his entourage. “Stay wherever you’re supposed to stay.”

The men nodded in unison, as if their heads were connected by hidden wires.

“As for this other thing, though,” said the general, to Ax again, “I don’t see the purpose.”

Ax finally realized why Samson was objecting to the biometric recordings.

“The process, General, is pretty straightforward. You step into a small booth and the computer takes its readings. No human intervention. The information is encrypted right away,
and isn’t even accessible to the operator. Security precaution, in case someone was trying to duplicate your biometrics.”

“Well, let’s get on with it, then,” said Samson.

“Step over this way, sir,” said one of the security sergeants, leading Samson to a spot on the floor where a laser and weight machine would record his measurements.

Lieutenant Thomson pulled Ax aside.

“Why’d you say that about the operator? He can see the measurement. What would be the sense of hiding it?”

“General’s getting sensitive about his weight,” whispered Ax. “Too many nights on the chicken and peas circuit.”

Aboard Dreamland
Bennett,
over the Indian Ocean
0800

N
O MATTER HOW MUNDANE THE MISSION
,
HOW ROUTINE THE
flight, f lying an aircraft always gave Dog a thrill. It was the one thing he could count on to raise his heartbeat, the jolt that pushed him no matter how straight and slow the flight. Whether it was a Cessna or an F-22 Raptor, simply folding his fingers around the control yoke of an aircraft filled Tecumseh Bastian with a quiet passion.

He was going to need it. He sensed that the crew resented his replacing their captain. They were too well disciplined and professional to do anything to jeopardize their mission, of course, and Dog knew that he could rely on them to do their best when and if things got hot. But the quick snap in their voices when he asked a question, the forced formality of their replies, the lack of takers when he offered to get coffee and doughnuts from the galley—a thousand little things made it clear that he might have their respect and cooperation, but not their love.