Retribution (44 page)

After talking to NORAD, Dog decided to call Samson himself over the Dreamland channel. He got one of the boneheaded lieutenants who had traveled to Diego Garcia with the general. The idiot told him that Samson was “on the line with the White House” and would probably not get back to him for a while.

“He knows about this?”

“Major Catsman already told him,” said the lieutenant. “That’s what he’s talking to the White House about.”

“You have to scramble what we have at Dreamland,” said Dog. “Get the Megafortresses and their Flighthawks up, the airborne laser—”

“I am sure that the general has it under control, Colonel.”

“Right.” Dog snapped off the line.

He’d accomplished what needed to be accomplished—Nellis was scrambling fighters. A full air alert had been issued. But it felt wrong that he wasn’t leading the charge.

Not that his personal feelings should matter.

“Colonel, Nellis Group One is on the air with us,” said
Sullivan up in the copilot’s seat. “Requesting further details.”

“Well, give it to them.”

“I thought you would want to talk to them, sir.”

Dog hesitated a moment, then pushed the button to connect to the frequency the fighters were using. Nellis Group One was a two-ship of F-15 fighters sent to investigate.

“What do you have for us, Dreamland?” asked the lead pilot. “Where are these bastards?”

Dog told him what he knew.

“So where is this Airbus?” asked the F-15 jock.

“Unknown,” said Dog. “The plane filed a flight plan but since then hasn’t shown up in the international air traffic control system. We believe they were able to turn off their identifier and simply used different call signs, but we’re not clear yet. We’re working on locating it.”

“Roger that.”

Rubeo had supplied a theory about the flight plan: It had been filed so that the plane’s appearance over Las Vegas would not arouse too much suspicion. After taking off, though, the pilot had taken steps to make it difficult to be followed, deviating from his course and probably flying through countries or ocean areas where air traffic control was not as thorough as in the U.S. and developed parts of Asia and Europe.

Dog went on the interphone to speak to Englehardt.

“Mike, we should join the search immediately,” he told him. “Launch the Flighthawks.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re going to do, Colonel,” said Englehardt. His voice sounded a little shaky. “I was just going to suggest that.”

“You don’t have to wait for me,” Dog told him. “Do it on your own.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. You heard him guys—let’s go.”

Dreamland Command Center
2120

“H
OW DO WE EVEN KNOW
L
AS
V
EGAS IS REALLY THE TARGET?”
asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman as the video conference continued. “If I had a nuclear weapon, I would target New York City or Washington, D.C.”

“I agree,” said General Samson. “And why telegraph it?”

Rubeo scowled.

“You don’t think that’s correct, Dr. Rubeo?” said National Security Advisor Philip Freeman.

Rubeo bent to the keyboard on the computer near where he was standing.

“Admittedly a possibility. However, this is the flight data,” he said, flashing a copy of the information one of his computer geeks had hacked. “You notice the name of the pilot?”

“H-H-Habib Kerman,” said Jed Barclay.

“Kerman is related to General Mansour Sattari,” said Rubeo. “You remember General Sattari, don’t you, Jed?”

“Iranian Air Force. He led the Iranian d-d-development team, the bomb and laser, the R-R-Razor knockoff.”

“That was two years ago. What does that have to do with this?” said Hartman.

“The CIA thinks Sattari’s son was involved in th-th-the plot to provoke war between India and Pakistan,” said Jed.

Well, at least someone can connect the dots, thought Rubeo. Probably they’ll demote him out of Washington next.

“Sattari knows that Dreamland took down his facilities in Iran,” Rubeo told them. “He’s promised revenge.”

“You think too much of yourself,” snapped Samson. “He doesn’t even know where Dreamland is.”

“P-P-Plenty of reports have said it’s near Las Vegas,” said Jed. “The book the journalists did of the campaign—
Razor’s Edge
, h-h-hinted.”

“Combined with the flight plan, I believe it’s highly likely
that it’s a target,” said Rubeo. “We’re rechecking the flight control network,” he added, choosing the much more neutral “checking” over the more descriptive, and accurate, “illegally hacking into.” “In the meantime, I suggest all flights be inspected. Sattari may have changed the ident device, or may simply fly without it.”

“Do what you need to do. Find the plane,” said President Martindale. It was the first time since the conference began that he had spoken. “Restrain it. Shoot it down over the ocean. Whatever has to be done. Do it.”

Rubeo had never met the President in person, but he’d seen him on Dreamland Command’s large screen many times. He seemed old and tired, drained by the continuing crisis. His voice was weak, almost frail, and his face pale white.

“We’re going to find it, Mr. President,” said Samson, but the others were already signing off.

Rubeo nodded to the communications specialist, signaling that he could kill the connection. Samson cut in before he did.

“Listen, Rubeo, I know we’ve had problems, but—”

“Problems doesn’t begin to express it, General.” Rubeo turned from the console. “I’ll be with the programmers hacking into the flight control networks if you need me,” he told Major Catsman as he walked toward the door.

Aboard Dreamland
Bennett,
over the Pacific Ocean
2122

E
NGLEHARDT TURNED THE AIRCRAFT OVER TO THE COMPUTER
for the Flighthawk launch. The Megafortress tugged downward for a moment, then lifted, increasing the separation forces as the Flighthawk released and sailed off. He moved through the procedure quickly, getting the second robot off its wings, then climbed toward 50,000 feet, still moving toward Dreamland, a few hundred miles away.

It seemed to Englehardt that the alert had brought the crew back together, though he wasn’t sure how long that would last.

“Airliner contact, two hundred miles, zero-five-zero, altitude 35,000 feet,” said Rager at the airborne radar station. “Tracking. Computer IDs aircraft as a Boeing 777.”

Rager queried the plane’s friend-or-foe identifier. The aircraft came back as a United Airlines flight. Englehardt told Starship to get a visual verification anyway, and the Flighthawk pilot hopped to it.

Maybe it was some trick with his voice, Englehardt thought. Maybe he just had to speak sternly, or quickly, or maybe just not think about what he was saying. Maybe it had nothing to do with him—maybe adrenaline pushed them to do their jobs.

Whatever, the crew was definitely responding.

D
OG WATCHED
R
AGER SORT THROUGH THE AIR TRAFFIC.
There were plenty of airplanes in the vicinity, but less than a third fit the general profile of the Airbus. Each would have to be visually inspected.

“Colonel, Ray Rubeo for you,” said Sullivan.

Dog clicked into the Dreamland Command channel.

“Doc, what’s up?”

“We tracked the discrepancy in the flight plans and control system to Thailand. That seems to be where he took on a new identity. There were a number of flight plans filed that we’re not finished tracking, but there’s an aircraft passing through Mexican control over the Pacific that seems to have the wrong ID. It’s definitely an Airbus, and it’s on a course that will get it to Las Vegas.”

Rubeo began running down some of the information they had obtained. As he did, Dog saw Rager wave at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Stand by, Ray.”

“I have an Airbus 310, just now coming up to the California coast,” said Rager.

“That’s our priority. Tell Starship,” said Dog. “Get
Nellis Flight One
there. Now.”

Over the Pacific Ocean
2123

K
ERMAN TIGHTENED HIS GRIP ON THE AIRLINER’S CONTROL
wheel. He was thirty minutes away from Las Vegas. The bomb would explode in a little more than fifty.

So close, and yet an eternity away. He throttled back, starting to slow.

Something was going on with the air controllers. They were asking aircraft to identify themselves and sending them into holding patterns back over the sea.
Every
plane was being queried.

Kerman ignored the request when it was his turn.

A minute passed. Another. And then another. The controller asked him to acknowledge. The man’s nervousness made his voice harsh and his words difficult to understand, though Kerman knew what he was saying.

He listened as flight control became increasingly exasperated with their failure to respond. There was a short respite, followed by a new controller calling, asking for the flight to contact him and take an immediate new course.

A few seconds later an American with a slow drawl identified himself as an interceptor pilot and told him that he was to check in with flight control and follow their guidance immediately.

Kerman realized that if the Americans were on alert, he’d never make it.

He glanced at the radar, but couldn’t see them. They must still be relatively far away.

He blew a slow breath from his lungs, trying to relax and think of what to do.

Aboard Dreamland
Bennett,
over the Pacific Ocean
2124

“T
HIS LOOKS LIKE THE REAL THING,” SAID
R
AGER. “THE
plane isn’t answering the ground controllers or the F-15s.”

Dog studied the display, getting his bearings. The Airbus—officially identified as Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201—had just crossed the California coast. The two Air Force F-15s were only a few minutes away;
Hawk One
, one of the robot Flighthawk aircraft controlled by Starship, was maybe two minutes behind them.

Dog switched into the Dreamland channel. “Colonel Bastian to Dreamland Command. I need to speak to Ray Rubeo.”

“Ray’s down in the computer center, Colonel,” said Major Catsman. “I’ll switch you.”

“Wait. What I want are the warhead experts,” Dog told her. “What happens if we shoot this thing down? Is it going to explode?”

“They’re already trying to work up a simulation based on the other warhead,” said Catsman.

“We don’t need a simulation, we need an answer right now. Get everyone on the line, wherever they are. We need to know.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Dog switched over to the regular frequencies and contacted
Nellis Flight One
. The F-15 pilot said he was about a minute from visual range.

“What exactly are your orders?” Dog asked.

“At the moment, find and identify the plane.”

“I don’t know how much of this they’ve told you, Captain, but here’s the deal: That plane is carrying a nuclear warhead, and it may be rigged to explode in any number of ways.”

Nellis Flight One
didn’t respond.

“Do you copy,
Nellis Flight One
?”

“Copy. We copy you, Colonel. What the hell are we going to do?”

Over California
2132

K
ERMAN WAITED UNTIL THE
F-15
S WERE VISIBLE OVER HIS
left wing before responding.

“This is Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. There has been a hijacking situation. We are now back in full control of the flight.”

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, this is
Nellis Flight One
. Repeat your status.”

“We have overcome the hijackers,” said Kerman. He was so nervous he was almost out of breath as he spoke. But that would play in his favor. “Some injuries to crew. We have control. Two men are dead. Both are the hijackers. My navigator is critical. He may already be dead.”

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, I want you to execute an immediate turn.”

The pilot repeated the instructions the controllers had given him earlier, telling him to go out to sea.

“I have damage to my instrument panel. I have two holes in the fuselage and am losing pressurization,” said Kerman. “I need immediate clearance for an emergency landing. Repeat, I have a flight emergency landing. Repeat, I have a flight emergency and require assistance.”

He throttled back and dipped his wing slightly. There was a fine balance—he couldn’t overact, but he had to seem as if he was truly in distress.

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201. I need you to execute that turn.”

“Repeat directions.”

The American pilot once again gave him a heading that would have him turn south and then head out to sea.

“I am going to try,” said Kerman. “Stand by. My navigator is critical. We require ambulances on the runway. My own wounds are not serious.”

He glanced at his watch. He still had nearly forty-five minutes before the weapon would explode.

But there was a bright glow in the distance, an arc of light brighter than anything he’d seen for hours and hours.

Las Vegas.

Aboard Dreamland
Bennett,
over the Pacific Ocean
2135

S
TARSHIP SLID
H
AWK
O
NE IN BEHIND THE
F-15 E
AGLES,
lining the small robot up to get a good visual of the aircraft.

“They’re claiming they have wounded crewmen and damage to the plane,” radioed one of the F-15 pilots. “Asking for an immediate clearance to land.”

“Negative,” said Colonel Bastian over the circuit. “That plane does not land. Stand by while the Flighthawk gets a good look at the plane. Flighthawk leader?”

“Yeah, roger that, Colonel,” said Starship. “I’m on it now.”

“C
OULD BE AS SIMPLE AS TOUCHING TWO WIRES TOGETHER
,
Colonel,” said Rubeo, whose voice sounded distant. “But as I told you earlier, we’re not convinced the warhead will explode. The odds are at least fifty-fifty that the pertinent circuitry was fried by the T-Rays.”