Retribution (42 page)

Sattari’s body had become a sack of bones. The gun was taken from him. Hassam got up; one of the men who’d come to his aid pushed the general onto his back.

“Gently,” said Hassam. “He is a general.”

Sattari could not see who he was speaking to. His eyes were focused on the face that appeared above him: Kerman.

In the darkness, he looked like his son, gazing down on him from Paradise.

“I will not fail you, Uncle.”

“Y
OU SAID HE WOULD NOT BE HURT,”
K
ERMAN TOLD
H
ASSAM
after Sattari had been carried to one of the cars. “Your thugs knocked him unconscious.”

“He’s not unconscious,” said Hassam. “A few bruises.”

“He wasn’t talking.”

“Don’t worry so much about your uncle. Worry about yourself.”

Kerman felt a surge of anger. But who was he really mad at—the spy or himself? He had told the ayatollah what Sattari was up to, knowing what the result would be.

“Nothing more to say, young man?” Hassam sounded almost as if he was jeering.

“Give me the papers.”

“Can you be trusted? Ayatollah Mohtaj says yes, but I am not sure.”

Kerman took the documents with the false IDs.

“You’ll find out in less than twenty-four hours,” he said, jogging toward the airplane’s ladder.

Aboard the
Poughkeepsie,
Indian Ocean
0700, 20 January 1998

D
ANNY
F
REAH STRUGGLED TO SHUT OUT THE NOISE FROM
the ship as he continued reviewing the mission with Major Catsman back at Dreamland. The Dreamland people had reviewed the available satellite and aerial reconnaissance data, looking for whoever might have been to the final warhead site before the Whiplash team. There were gaps of several hours in the records, but Catsman seemed fairly confident that the photo analysts would have been able to spot a Pakistani task force somewhere in the mountains. Trucks just couldn’t move that quickly on the roads.

“There were tribespeople through the area on horseback two days before,” said Catsman. “Then we think there was a Chinese reconnaissance flight, though we can’t be sure it went over that area.”

It still wasn’t clear that the Chinese were actually working with the guerrillas Danny had encountered, or were competing with them to recover the weapon—a claim the Chinese ambassador to the UN had made when pressed about encounters in the area.

The politics didn’t concern Danny much; he wanted results.

“The specialists have gone back and analyzed the satellite imagery,” said Catsman. “They think the warhead was removed sometime after 1600 yesterday. They’re going by some changes in the shadows on the ground. There is some
debate on it—a lot of debate. They’re comparing the satellite image to the Global Hawk image, and there’s a large margin of error. The warhead itself was obscured; it was the missile’s engines it focused on.”

“Maybe some of the guerrillas got away while we were fighting,” said Danny. “Maybe I missed them.”

“We’ve gone over all the data, the Global Hawk feed, the video from the Flighthawk—none of them got away.”

“I want to check it out anyway,” said Danny.

“Fine. We’ll stream it all back to you.”

Danny moved the rolling chair he’d borrowed back against the wall of the communications compartment, watching the footage after it finished loading. In the earliest images it looked as if the guerrillas were just arriving, securing lookout positions and then moving down toward the warhead.

The rest of the video showed the battle. He saw his people come under fire, and could even make out himself in a few frames. It was odd to watch a replay of something that had been so intense—the tape seemed several times faster than real life, cold and quick, without any of the real emotion. Or fear.

“You have anything earlier than this?” he asked.

“We have the satellite shots. I’ll download them.”

“Instead of looking at the site, what if we looked at the major roads through the area?”

“The major road is a cow path,” said Catsman.

“Well, any truck on it would be significant.”

“Sure. We’ve checked the area,” added Catsman. “And the photo interpreters at the CIA and Air-Space Command have been all over it.”

“What if you look at the grids around it?”

“Just because we see a truck on the road doesn’t mean it was at the site. The CIA has taken over the search—”

“Look, I’ll do it. I don’t have anything better to do anyway.”

“We’ll look at it and get back to you.”

Dreamland
1100, 20 January 1998

M
ACK
S
MITH HAD BEEN TO
G
ERMANY EXACTLY THREE
times, and each time it had been far less than exciting. It was the
fräuleins
; they just didn’t appreciate American men. And the police lacked a sense of humor.

Evacked to Germany for medical observation, Mack had no trouble convincing the doctors that he was fine. Or rather, he would have convinced them if he’d stayed around long enough to listen to their excuses about why someone in perfect health needed to take umpteen tests. He checked himself out—more precisely, he waved at the people at the desk as he strode into the lobby—and found himself the first flight back to the States, and from there, to Dreamland.

His bad experiences in Germany were only part of his motivation. He had surmised from the paperwork that changes in the Dreamland Command structure were afoot. A call back to the base informed him that the changes were even broader than he had thought, and he decided that the sooner he shook the new commander’s hand, the higher up on the food chain he’d find himself when the dust settled.

Mack was so anxious to get back that he even accepted a C-130 flight into Nellis, sitting in steerage—that is, on the floor in the cargo hold of the notoriously loud aircraft. By contrast, the Dauphin helicopter that took him from Nellis to Dreamland was a sleek limo, and he found himself bantering with the pilots, telling them how great a place Diego Garcia was, with the sun always shining and girls fawning over him 24/7.

Half of the story was true, after all; how much more could they expect?

As he made his way over from the landing “dock” to the Taj, he developed a cocky spring in his step. Dreamland’s new commander wasn’t a fighter jock; he flew Boners, as the go-fast community disparagingly called the B-1B Lancer. But he was a general, and as such, Terrill Samson would
have a lot more muscle than Lieutenant Colonel Bastian—a decent guy and a fellow fighter pilot, but when all was said and done, a lightweight in the political department. And politics was the name of the game these days.

Mack sailed into the base commander’s outer office, gave a quick wave to the cute secretary at the far desk, ignored the bruiser at the close one, and stuck his head into the open door, where Samson’s name had replaced Colonel Bastian’s.

“Hey, General,” he said. “Got a minute?”

“Thanks for the promotion,” said Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs, who was arranging folders on the general’s desk.

“Hey, Axy,” said Mack, sauntering inside. “Where’s the majordomo?”

Ax cleared his throat. “Major General Samson is on Diego Garcia.”

“No shit. I just left there. Well, not just.” Mack went around to the desk and plopped into the general’s chair. “So he already kicked Dog out of his office, huh? I figured he would. Too nice for a colonel.”

“Colonel Bastian has an office down the hall.”

“What’s that for, transition? Where’s the old Dog headed next anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Ax.

“Jeez, Axy, I thought you knew everything.”

“From what I understand, it hasn’t been decided. Is there something I can do for you, Major?”

“Just enjoying the view,” said Mack, spinning from side to side in the seat. “Not bad.”

Ax frowned.

“You know what your problem is, Chief?” Mack asked, getting up.

“I couldn’t guess.”

“All you chiefs—you think you outrank everybody, even a general. But don’t worry.” Mack slapped Ax on the back. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I’m most obliged,” said Ax.

Tehran
0110, 21 January 1998
(1410, 20 January, Dreamland)

“Y
OU SEEM TO HAVE LOST YOUR SPIRIT
, G
ENERAL
.”

Sattari blinked at the dark shadow in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure where he was.

In Tehran somewhere, of course, but where?

The seat he was sitting on was hard. There were several people in the room besides the man talking.

“You should be quite proud of what you accomplished,” continued the man. “Soon, you will have struck a blow against the Americans that will be remembered for all time.”

“Why did you not let me fly the plane?” said Sattari.

“General, a man such as yourself is very valuable. Our country needs you. And what do you think would happen when the Americans found out that a general of the Iranian air force—an important man in our country—was at the controls? We could say you were a rebel, but the Americans would not believe it. This will be much easier for them to accept. There will be trouble, of course, but we will overcome it.”

Sattari finally recognized the voice. It belonged to Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaj, an important member of the National Security Deputate, Iran’s national security council.

“My nephew,” said the general.

“Your nephew was proud to be chosen. He will be a great martyr. Of course, we will say he was crazy, but we will all know the truth in our hearts.”

“He’s too young.”

“You did not seem to feel that was a concern when you asked him to be your copilot.”

Sattari felt a stab of guilt. He should not have enlisted the young man. He shouldn’t have let Val lead the mission to provoke the Indians either.

So many things he shouldn’t have done. He should not have trusted Hassam, above all.

Sattari’s eyes finally came into focus. He was in a small basement room. He didn’t recognize it, but guessed it was in the government complex.

“Was I drugged?” he demanded.

Mohtaj waved his hand. “Do not concern yourself with the past. You must work for the future. You have many important tasks ahead. Many. You’re not an old man.”

“I want revenge against the bastards who killed my son,” said the general. With every breath, his mind became sharper.

“You will have it. And the longer you live, the more revenge you will have.”

It wasn’t going to be enough—this wasn’t going to be enough.

Sattari rose from the chair. The men behind the Ayatollah jerked forward, submachine guns suddenly pointed in his direction.

“He means no harm,” said Mohtaj calmly. “He is back among friends.”

“I need time to think,” said Sattari.

“By all means. As long as you need.”

Mohtaj smiled, then turned and left the room.

Sattari thought of Kerman, then of Val.

It wasn’t going to be enough, destroying Las Vegas and Dreamland. Someday, he would drink his enemy’s blood.

Aboard Dreamland
Bennett,
over the Pacific Ocean
1410, Dreamland

D
OG FOLDED HIS ARMS AND LEANED AGAINST THE BACK OF
the ejection seat in the lower bay of the
Bennett,
trying to stretch a few kinks from his legs and neck. He’d thought vaguely about sleeping on the flight back, but the cots upstairs seemed almost claustrophobic, and his nervous adrenaline just wouldn’t let him rest.

That was the way his life ran: Every time he was really tired, he was too busy to sleep, and when he wasn’t busy, he wasn’t tired.

Starship seemed equally antsy, sitting in the seat next to him, monitoring the flight. Since it was highly unlikely they’d be needed, the Flighthawks were stowed on the wings to conserve fuel.

“Shoulda brought a deck of cards, huh?” said Starship as Dog settled back.

“That or a nice stewardess, huh?”

Starship laughed.

“You have a girlfriend, Starship?” asked Dog. He knew almost nothing about his junior officer’s personal life.

“Uh, no, sir. Not at the present time.”

“You can relax, Starship. I’m not going to bite you.”

“Yeah, Colonel. Um, no. I did. I mean I’ve had a couple, but things didn’t work out that well. You know, like, I was traveling and stuff.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I’ll probably get married someday,” added Starship. “But pretty far in the future, you know what I mean? I wouldn’t mind kids. But, in the future.”

“I know what you mean,” said Dog again. But what he was thinking was how small a place the future sometimes could be.

E
NGLEHARDT HAD FELT THE CREW’S RESENTMENT TOWARD
him from the moment he walked into the little room they used to brief the mission. None of them had the guts to say anything, but he knew what they were thinking. They thought he hadn’t made the best decisions under fire, hadn’t moved quickly enough, had hesitated a few times when he should have been aggressive.

But what the hell did they want? Look at Sparks and the
Cheli
. They were in deep, deep shit. Did his guys want security standing over them in the restroom everytime they had to take a leak?

Not likely.

Colonel Bastian’s presence downstairs made things ten times worse. In a way, he felt sorry for the colonel—everybody knew Samson was screwing him because he was jealous. Still, it was Bastian who had caused him so much trouble. The crew compared them unfairly. Of course, Dog had done a great job when he piloted the plane; the man had been in combat countless times, and he was a colonel, for cryin’ out loud. He was supposed to be good.

Not that he wasn’t good, Englehardt thought. He was. And even if the nitpickers had problems with his mission, he knew he’d done a hell of a job—a hell of a job—getting the plane back on two engines.

One and a half, really.

More like one and a quarter.

“Waypoint coming up,” said Sullivan, his copilot.

“Noted,” said Englehardt quickly. He tried to get a little snap into his voice, a bit of professionalism, though it sounded a little hollow.

From now on he was going to do everything by the book. If his crew didn’t like him, at least they wouldn’t have anything to complain about.

Dreamland Command Center
1500

U
NDER ORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES, TRACKING TRUCK
traffic through the Pakistani northeastern territories would have been close to impossible.

Fortunately, these weren’t ordinary circumstances.

Which wasn’t to say that the task was a piece of cake. Or a Yankee Doodle, which the head of the Dreamland photo analysis team was eating as he discussed the possibilities with his counterpart at the CIA.

“One of these six,” the techie agreed, stuffing the last of the snack in his mouth. “Gotta be.”

Ray Rubeo, standing behind his console, frowned. The scientist hated sweets of any kind, but most especially ones that threatened the equipment he had personally helped design. The Command Center’s no food rule had been eased by Catsman as a morale booster as the mission stretched on. Without any authority over operations or military personnel now, Rubeo couldn’t order it reinstated; the best he could do was frown.

“Problem is, so we see those two trucks together, so what?” said the analyst. “We can’t search every inch of Pakistan.”