Retribution (18 page)

Then again, in his experience, love could be overrated.

“Flighthawks ready to start their pass,” reported the copilot, Lieutenant Sullivan.

“Roger that. Flighthawk leader, proceed.”

“Thanks, Colonel,” said Starship downstairs. “I hope we’ll find something.”

“Me too.”

They had laid out their course north through the search area where Breanna and Zen were thought to have parachuted, hoping to put the long leg to some use.

It had been Englehardt’s suggestion.

“Flighthawks are at fifty feet, indicated,” said Sullivan. “Ocean appears empty, as indicated by radar.”

Was Breanna really gone? Dog struggled to push away the feeling of despair. He had a job to do. He couldn’t afford a moment of weakness.

“How are we looking, Airborne?” he said, trying to focus on his mission.

“Only friendlies, Colonel,” said Sergeant Rager at the airborne radar.

“Very good,” said Dog.

“Waymarker in zero-one minute,” said Sullivan, noting they were approaching a turn that would take them away from the search area. “Colonel, you want to extend the search?”

For the first time since they’d boarded the plane, Sullivan’s voice sounded almost normal.

“Much as I’d like to, Sully, I’m afraid we have other business,” said Dog. “Starship, we’re coming up to our turn.”

Dreamland
1930

“G
ENERAL,
I’
D HEARD YOU WOULD BE VISITING SOMETIME
next week.”

“You heard wrong,” snapped Samson. He frowned at the scrawny major, then looked past her toward the massive screen at the front of the room. According to the legend, the display showed a swath of land in Pakistan as it was being surveyed in real time by one of Dreamland’s Flighthawks.

The scale and clarity were unlike anything Samson had ever seen, even at the Pentagon. He could literally count blades of tumbleweed, or whatever the desert vegetation was called.

“This is part of the search for the disabled warheads,” added the major. “We’re providing assistance to the team assembled by the Seventh Fleet.”

“Yes,” said Samson. He turned his attention to the rest of the situation room, which the Dreamlanders called Dreamland Command. Workstations were set up theater style, descending down both sides of a center ramp toward the screen. Each desk was big enough for five or six operators, though in no case were there more than two people working at them. Most had a single person. With only two exceptions, the operators wore civilian clothes, appeared less than kempt, and were clearly not military—including a gorgeous blonde Samson had trouble taking his eyes off of.

No wonder Bastian wanted to keep this all to himself, he thought. The place was the military equivalent of the world’s biggest entertainment center.

“With all due respect, sir,” said a tall, skinny man in a tone that suggested exactly the opposite, “I’d request that you didn’t look too closely at the displays or question the scientists.”

“You’d request what?”

“Frankly, you shouldn’t be in this room at all, not during a mission.”

“Who the hell are you?”

The man fidgeted, his fingers moving up to his earlobe nervously. Samson was startled to see that he had an earring there.

An earring!

And
he
was trying to kick
him
out?

“Who are you?” demanded Samson again.

“Ray Rubeo. I’m the head scientist. And I’m afraid that while your security clearance may allow you to observe the operations themselves, it does not cover the specific weapons that are being tested as part of the operations. As a result—”

“Weapons tests?”

Rubeo frowned at him. “General, you really should leave. This is not a good time.”

“Now listen, mister—” began Samson.

“That would be
Doctor.
”

“I don’t give a shit if you’re a brain surgeon.” Samson turned to Catsman. “Major, what the hell is this?”

“Ordinarily, no one is permitted inside Dreamland Command during an operation,” she said.

“I’m your new commander. Do you understand what that means?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“If you’re interfering with the mission,” said Rubeo, “you’re going to have to leave. The President controls Whiplash missions once the order is given, not the Air Force.”

“Who made that rule up? Bastian?”

“The procedures predate him,” said Rubeo testily. “Check Presidential Order 92-14.”

Samson turned to Catsman, whose face had turned crimson.

Samson folded his arms, trying to control his anger. He was tempted—sorely tempted—to have the room cleared. But interfering with the mission was the last thing he wanted to do—especially since he could then be blamed for anything that went wrong. He forced himself to be silent, and stayed just long enough to keep his dignity and authority intact. Then with an abrupt “Carry on,” he left the room.

An atoll off the Indian coast
Date and time unknown

T
HE SHALLOW WATER AT THE WEST OF THE ATOLL DIDN’T
seem to hold any fish. As he moved toward the southern end of the atoll, Zen spotted some seaweed growing a few feet from the sand. He pushed into the water and got a surprise—one of the rocks began to move.

It was a turtle, about two feet long, with a brown and white
oval-shaped shell. Zen froze for a moment, unsure what to do. By the time he had unsheathed his knife, the turtle was gone.

There must be more turtles here, he thought. Or maybe some fish this one was feeding on.

Zen stopped moving and focused on the water. When he was sure there was nothing in front of him but seaweeds and rocks, he moved to his left, pushing through the water gingerly.

Nothing.

The most difficult part of being a fisherman was patience. Zen had the patience of a fighter pilot—which was to say, none.

He slid onto his side, pushing along in the water. Something moved to his right. He leaned over toward it.

Another turtle, this one only twelve or fourteen inches.

Zen swatted at it with his knife, but the creature dove away. Mud and rocks swirled up in a cloud. He fished in the water, then pulled back as the turtle’s beak suddenly appeared.

The turtle squirted away. Zen lunged and managed to get his left hand under it. He flung it upward, sending it crashing against a group of rocks closer to shore.

Pulling himself through the rocks and water as the turtle flailed upside down, he raised his knife, then stopped, paralyzed by the small creature’s struggle. Then his own instinct for survival took over and he plunged the knife straight down into the underside of the turtle’s shell.

The blade penetrated, but the turtle continued to struggle. It snapped its beak wildly, cutting the air as if it were its enemy.

Zen tried to pull the knife from the turtle but it was stuck. Unsure what to do, he let go of the knife. When he did, the creature slipped off into the water. Zen grabbed the handle of the knife as the turtle sank and threw the creature, blade and all, onto the rocks. It landed sideways, propped there, still struggling when he reached it.

Dazed and confused, its life ebbing, the turtle craned its neck in the direction of the water. Zen circled behind the animal, then took hold of its leg, dragging it farther ashore. The leg felt slimy and cold. It was a live thing, pushing against him, and once again Zen was paralyzed.

But he had to eat, and so did Bree. He picked up the leg and dashed the turtle against the rocks, smacking it so hard the shell cracked open. Then he grabbed a nearby rock and pounded it on the hilt of his knife, driving the weapon into the animal. Finally the creature stopped struggling, its life over.

Exhausted, Zen let the rock drop from his hand. Then he turned his attention back to the water, wondering if it might be possible to swim back to the pup tent rather than crawl.

As he did, something caught his eye.

A small boat was approaching, less than a hundred yards away.

Dreamland
1945

M
AJOR
C
ATSMAN AND THE SMILING CHIEF MASTER SERGEANT
tried to placate General Samson, suggesting he try dinner in the VIP dining room, but Samson wasn’t buying the bullshit they were selling. He was filled with rage toward the arrogant and ignorant scientist who’d threatened to have him booted—
booted!
—from Dreamland Command.

Undoubtedly this had been done at Colonel Bastian’s behest, Samson thought, since it was inconceivable that a mere civilian scientist would have the audacity.

What really irked him, however, was the fact that the military people hadn’t intervened. The world had truly turned upside down here.

Samson had thought that there might be room for Bastian under his command. Clearly, that was not going to work. The incident in Dreamland Command aside, Bastian’s outsized ego was on clear display when Samson entered his office.
It was outfitted with well-polished cherry furniture fit for a king.

“When I was a lieutenant colonel,” muttered Samson to his aides as he surveyed the office, “I had a tin desk.”

“Begging the general’s pardon,” said Ax. “The colonel inherited this from the last commander, who was a major general. Rather than—”

“He’s disinherited. As of now, this is my office.”

“You’re moving in?” said Catsman.

“Major, what did you think my purpose in arriving here today was?” said Samson. Catsman was also high on his list of people to be replaced.

“Sir, we were under the impression—”

“Which impression is that?” thundered Samson.

Catsman seemed lost for words. “General Magnus, when he was in your position—”

“General Magnus had many things on his plate,” said Samson. “I am not him. Dreamland is my baby now. I saw no reason to wait several weeks before coming out here.”

“Well no, sir. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Samson turned to Ax. “Find some men to move Bastian’s things to a secure location.”

“Uh…”

“How long have you been a chief master sergeant, Mr. Gibbs?”

“We’ll get right on it, General.”

Maybe he can stay, thought Samson. Having someone around who knew where all the latrine keys were kept might be handy.

W
HILE IT WAS OFTEN SAID THAT THE WHEELS OF GOVERNMENT
moved slowly, Major General Terrill Samson did not. Even though it was nearly midnight back in Washington, he got on the phone and did what he could to kick the paperwork into gear to move the transition forward and, most important, update the Whiplash order so it named him personally.

Then he decided to call the National Security Advisor personally to discuss his new command. If Bastian could work closely with the White House, so could he.

Thinking he would simply leave a message with the overnight staff, Samson was surprised to find that Freeman was working. But as soon as he was put through, he was met with more questions than answers.

“How many warheads have been recovered?” demanded Freeman. “What’s the status?”

“I’m not up-to-date on all of the operational details,” said Samson, caught off guard. “Generally, I let my people in the field—I give them full rein.”

“Well, when are we getting an update? I realize Colonel Bastian is busy, but the President needs to know. He’s addressing the General Assembly at the UN first thing in the morning.”

“Understood.”

“The President wants every warhead recovered. We want that accomplished before news of the operation leaks. It has to proceed quickly.”

“Of course,” said Samson. “I can assure you we’re working on it. We’re going to do it.”

“Good.”

“There is one thing,” said Samson. He told Freeman, as delicately as he could manage, that some “legal types” had advised him that Whiplash orders should be directed to him so that the proper chain of command could be followed. This would facilitate the process—“speed up the operation,” said Samson.

“Why is that an issue at this moment?” said Freeman.

“It’s not an issue,” said Samson quickly. “Legal types, though—you know the red tape that can get involved.”

“Dreamland is about avoiding red tape.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll look into having the order reissued,” said Freeman. “If it’s necessary.”

“I’m told it is. The lawyers—if you could have my name there specifically, instead of Bastian’s…”

“I’ll have someone work on it,” said Freeman.

Aboard Dreamland
Bennett,
over the Indian Ocean
1100

“
H
AWK
T
WO
REFUELED
,” S
TARSHIP SAID
,
PULLING THE ROBOT
aircraft away from her mother ship.

As far as the pilot was concerned, the differences between the first generation and the upgraded U/MF-3D Flighthawks were generally subtle. The increased controllable range was the most noticeable change; depending on the altitudes, and to a lesser extent the atmospheric conditions, the Flighthawk could now operate at full throttle two hundred nautical miles from the Megafortress. The autonomous programming had also been improved, allowing the pilot to tell the computer to attack an opponent beyond the controllable range, then rendezvous along a vector or at a specific GPS point. The Flighthawk’s ground attack modes had also been upgraded, as had its capacity to carry small bombs and ground-attack missiles, a capability jury-rigged into the earlier models.

But it was still a robot. As Starship steered his two Flighthawks over the Indian desert toward their designated search area in Pakistan, he found himself longing to be behind the stick of a
real
airplane, like the F/A-18 he’d flown down to Diego Garcia in.

Robot planes were the future of the Air Force. But they just didn’t give you the same kick in the pants the heavy metal did.

He brought
Hawk Two
down through a thin deck of clouds, accelerating as he pushed toward a thousand feet. They were nearing the northern edge of a search zone designated as
I-17, after the warhead that supposedly had crashed here. He was over Pakistan, and though marked on the maps as desert, the area was far from uninhabited. He saw a cluster of small houses on his left as he leveled off. There was no activity, however; he was in the zone affected by the T-Rays.