Retribution (29 page)

“The missiles aren’t the major threat,” said Bastian. “As more of the power comes back and the military in both India and Pakistan turn their attention back to their borders, it’s going to be difficult for us to operate up there all. The Marines and our Whiplash people are operating very far from the coast—too far. We have to wrap it up quickly.”

“I’m of the opinion that we wrap it up now,” said the Secretary of Defense.

“There are only three warheads left,” said the Secretary of State. “If we don’t get them, someone else will. Terrorists, most likely.”

“The Ch-Ch-Chinese are helping them,” said a young man Samson didn’t recognize.

“Who is that?” Samson asked Catsman. “He has a terrible stutter.”

Again, Samson thought his comments were private. But the session was conducted with open mikes, and everyone on the line heard. The young man—Jed Barclay—turned beet red.

“NSC liaison,” said Catsman.

“Navy intelligence has a different view,” said Admiral Balboa. “They don’t see a link. The Chinese actions can be
explained by their own internal needs. And you were over their territory, Bastian. You shouldn’t have fired.”

“I was under fire already,” said the colonel. “I did what I had to defend myself and complete my mission.”

Samson felt torn. Bastian was surely correct, and one of his people; the general felt he should stick up for him. But on the other hand, Balboa was the head of the Joint Chiefs, and the lieutenant colonel’s tone was hardly respectful.

“And then there’s the matter of that baby,” said Balboa. “Wait until the media gets a hold of that. Al Jazeera, or whatever that damn Arab television station is—they’ll crucify us.”

“I take responsibility, Admiral,” said Bastian.

That was just what Samson wanted to hear. The colonel explained the circumstances, adding that the entire incident had been caught on video.

“So we’ve heard,” said Balboa. “I, for one, haven’t seen it.”

“As tragic as it was,” said Admiral Woods, “it does appear to have been an accident. The Dreamland people uploaded some of the digitalized recording of the event. Obviously, I still want to speak to the men, but from what I’ve seen—”

“I’m looking into it personally myself,” said Samson, protecting his territory. “I’m going to speak to them. I’ll make a full report.”

Woods frowned. There would be a question of jurisdiction and priority—the men were under Samson’s command but had been operationally controlled by him. Who took precedence?

As far as Samson was concerned, he did. He prepared for a fight, but before he could say anything else, the Secretary of State changed the subject.

“Where are the other warheads?” asked Hartman. “How long before they’re found?”

“Colonel Bastian is the best source on that,” said the admiral.

“We’re not sure,” said Bastian. “Probably in the far border areas around western Pakistan and northern India, near the Chinese border. The scientists are still refining the estimates.

Additional U-2s and Global Hawk drones have arrived in the area and are flying at night, using infrared and low-light sensors. The scientists are tweaking some of the image reading data to make them more effective. Dr. Rubeo can give you the technical information on the search plots and everything related to them.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” said Ray Rubeo.

Rubeo was sitting quietly at a front console on the right, head stooped down as if he were one of the engineers and techies monitoring systems—so low-key, in fact, that Samson hadn’t noticed him until now. The general kept his displeasure in check as the scientist flashed a brief presentation on the screen showing the possible locations of the three missiles. The presentation was brief and professional, but it still angered Samson—he should have seen it first.

“We are still developing theories on what happened,” added Rubeo. “I can bore you with the technical details, or we can move on.”

His voice dripped with arrogance, but none of the others peeped.

“Until the President orders otherwise, we have to proceed with the operation,” said Chastain. “But it can’t go on indefinitely.”

“Indeed,” said Rubeo. “I would note that the power grids in the affected countries have now been offline for twenty-four hours more than our original projections predictions. We may be living on borrowed time.”

Diego Garcia
0930

T
HE TIRED CHATTER OF THE
B
ENNETT’S
CREW AS THEY
walked toward their quarters irked Michael Englehardt more than he could say. It wasn’t just that they were talking about a mission he should have been on; it was the fact that they were talking about Colonel Bastian in such glowing terms.

Ol’ Dog did this, and then he said that…Could you believe how he got the ship to stand still in the air? He sucked that Sukhoi right into the Stinger air mines…I’ve never seen anything like that…Can’t teach an old Dog new tricks
—
he knows them all…

And on and on and on until Englehardt thought he would puke.

It was his fault. He should have been on the mission himself, at least a copilot. He’d acted like a jerk. Bastian had blindsided him, taking over the plane, but still, he should have kept his mouth shut.

Not that it was fair. But now his days at Dreamland were probably numbered.

“You shoulda been there, Mikey,” said Sullivan as they entered the dormitory-style building they’d been given for personal quarters. “What a wild night.”

“I wanted to be there,” said Englehardt.

“Yeah.” Sullivan immediately turned away.

“Next time,” said Englehardt, trying but failing to sound optimistic.

C
OLONEL
B
ASTIAN RUBBED HIS EYES AND STARTED TO GET
up from the communications console in the Dreamland Control trailer.

“Hold on there, Tecumseh,” said General Samson, his voice vibrating the speakers over the unit. “Where are you going?”

“I thought we were done,” said Dog. “I was thinking—”

“There are a few things I wanted to speak to you about in private.”

“I’d really like to catch some sleep,” Dog told Samson. “I just got back from my mission.”

“That’s number one—what the hell are you doing flying missions?”

“What?”

“You have plenty of pilots out there now. Put them to good use. Yes, I understand the need for a commander to lead from the front,” added Samson, his voice somewhat more
sympathetic. “But you’re spending far too much time in the air to actually do your job—your real job—of supervising the men. All the men, not just one plane crew.”

Dog was too tired to argue—and Samson didn’t give him much of an opening, moving right on to his next subject.

“I want full reports on all of the programs Dreamland is conducting. And a personnel review. How long will it take you to get that all together?”

“As soon as I get back I can—”

“I want you to start working on it immediately.”

“I have a mission here to run.”

“Devote as much time as possible to it. If you’re not flying, you’ll have more time. Those Whiplash men—I want to talk to them before they talk to Admiral Woods. Do you understand? They’re part of my command. I talk to them first. Not as a Navy admiral. Now do you understand?”

“Sure.”

“And another thing…”

Samson paused, obviously for effect. Dog felt so tired he thought he would teeter toward the floor.

“Briefings will now be done through me,” said the general finally.

“Which briefings?”

“Briefings with administration officials,” said Samson. “That’s my job. You provide the information to me. I interface.”

“Anything you want, General,” said Dog.

He reached over and hit the button to kill the communications. Then he got to his feet, suddenly feeling ten times more tired than when he’d come into the trailer, and he’d been pretty tired then.

“Bedtime,” he muttered, going to the door—where Mike Englehardt practically knocked him over.

“Colonel, can we talk?” said Englehardt.

“What is it, Mike?”

“Colonel, I want to, uh—apologize. I was a—I mean, I—”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t sweat it, Mike.”

Dog started to push past. Englehardt grabbed his shoulder.

Surprised, Dog looked the pilot in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” said Englehardt. “I really want to fly. Pilot, copilot, whatever you say. As long as I’m in the cockpit.”

“Well, that’s good, because you’re going to take the
Bennett
on its next mission. Now let go of my arm so I can go get some sleep, all right?”

An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown

T
HE DAY WAS WARMER THAN THE ONE BEFORE, BUT LESS
humid, and if not for their extreme circumstances, he might have considered the weather perfect. Trying not to think of his thirst, Zen made several radio calls and rearranged the rocks that helped support their tent so a bit more sunlight fell on Breanna. Finally he began moving down to the water, intending to swim back to the spot where he’d caught the turtle the day before. He was just getting into the water when he heard a shout.

One of the boys was back, paddling his small boat.

“Bart Simpson!” called the youth. It was the youngest one, the first one he’d spotted.

“Hey, Bart!” Zen yelled back. He did his best to hide his surprise that the kid had returned.

The wooden hull of the boy’s boat skidded against the shore and he climbed out, pulling a pack with him.

Zen’s heart jumped.

“You brought a phone?” Zen asked. “Cell phone?”

“Phone? No.”

The boy dropped to his knees in front of him, plopping the bag between them.

“Eat for you,” said the kid, pulling a fist-sized package from the bag. It was wrapped in brown paper. A strong odor announced it was fish. The flesh looked purple.

“For me?” asked Zen.

“You.”

Zen devoured it. The fish tasted like bad sardines drenched in coconut and vinegar, but he would have eaten ten more handfuls had the boy brought them. He was so hungry he licked at the paper.

“So,” he said finally. “No phone, huh?”

“Why do you want phone?”

“I want to call my friends.”

“No phone. Who are you? Not Bart?”

Zen guessed that the boy had been quizzed by his parents or other adults when he went home with the turtle. They might be waiting for his answers now, to decide what to do.

He had no idea what was going on in the world beyond this atoll. He wondered if the Chinese had managed to use their nuke, and if so, if the Indians would blame them for the destruction.

“Is there a war?” Zen asked the boy, not sure how to phrase his question.

“War?”

“Did people die?”

The boy looked at him blankly. He was old enough to know what war was, but maybe his village was so isolated he had no idea.

“Where do you live?” Zen asked the child.

“Where do you live, Bart?”

“Where do I live? Las Vegas,” said Zen. “Near there.”

“Vegas?”

“Slot machines. Casinos. Las Vegas.”

“Springfield?”

Springfield was the fictional setting for
The Simpsons
television show.

“That’s not a real place, kid,” blurted Zen. “I live near Vegas. That’s real.”

The boy’s face fell.

“You know that’s a television show, right? Make believe?” asked Zen. He realized he’d made a mistake, a bad mistake, but didn’t know how to recover.

The kid started to retreat.

“Hey! Don’t go!” yelled Zen. “No. Don’t.”

But it was too late. The boy pushed the small boat into the water without looking back. Lying across the shallow gunwales, he stroked back toward the sea, turning right and quickly fading from Zen’s view.

Base Camp One
1500

D
ESPITE A TWO-HOUR NAP,
J
ENNIFER WAS STILL FEELING
groggy when she sat down with Danny Freah and Dancer to review the situation with the experts at Dreamland Command. The possible locations for the three remaining warheads had now been narrowed down to approximately five-mile rectangles. New data from a pair of U-2s and a Global Hawk scouring the region near northern India and northeastern Pakistan would be available by nightfall.

“Tonight may be it,” said Colonel Bastian, coordinating the briefing from Diego Garcia. “Power is coming back all through the subcontinent, and both countries are pushing their militaries to resume patrols. And then there’s the Chinese.”

They were participating in the briefing via an external speaker and microphone hooked into Danny’s smart helmet. Jennifer couldn’t see Dog’s tired face as he spoke, but she knew what it would look like—thick, sagging bags beneath his eyes, taut lips, hollowed out cheeks.

He’d have shaved before he came on duty. He wouldn’t have waited for hot water, just scraped his chin clean as quickly as possible.

But thorough. He had a system that he never deviated from.

“Any word on Zen and Bree?” Danny asked as the briefing came to an end.

Dog paused a second longer than normal before answering, and that half of a half second told Jennifer everything. She could almost feel his chest expanding in the next moment as he took in a breath—a stabilizing breath—before answering.

“Nothing yet,” said Dog.

“They’ll find them.”

“Yup.”

And then he was gone, without even saying anything to her.

It took Jennifer a minute or two to return her thoughts fully to the operation. By then Danny and Dancer had drawn up a plan for dividing the Marines into three groups and retrieving the warheads once they were located.

“Wait,” she told them as they started to get up from their camp chairs. “Who am I going with?”

Dancer glanced at Danny, then said to her, “You’re staying here, aren’t you? There are more tests you have to do.”

“The tests are a waste of time,” Jennifer replied. “I can help disable the weapons.”

“I don’t think we need you, Jen. No offense,” said Danny.

“I’ll go with Dancer,” she said.