Retribution (38 page)

Zen glanced toward her, unsure what to say.

“Yes,” he managed finally.

“Thank God. Keep talking to me. Just keep talking. We’re going to find you. Keep talking so we can home in your signal.”

Was there anything to say?

Anything?

“Zen?”

“I guess I’m a little thirsty,” he said finally. “And hungry. But mostly thirsty.”

Aboard Dreamland
Cheli,
over India
0515

“A
NGRY
B
EAR
,
CUT NINETY DEGREES,” SAID
M
ICELLI,
warning the Osprey of yet another ground battery. “Cut and stop. Shit. You got a zsu-zsu dead ahead.”

“Get ’em, Cowboy,” said Sparks.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” said the Flighthawk pilot. “Take me two minutes.”

“Splash Chinese
MiG One
.
Bam!
” said Micelli.

Sparks didn’t have time to celebrate with his copilot. He checked the radar warning indicator at the bottom of his dashboard. Another Spoon Rest radar—SA-2—was operating to the south, but they were well out of range.

“What’s the status of those Chinese missiles?” Sparks asked Micelli. “They still following us?”

“Sucking on the Hound Dog’s signal. Going east. Both of them,” said the copilot. “No threat. Anaconda missile has missed
Bandit two,
the Chinese MiG.”

“We missed?”

“Must’ve been the trouble locking. Both MiGs turned as soon as they launched. They’re not a threat.”

“No SA-3 battery here,” said Cowboy, guiding the Flighthawks. “What’s the story, dude?”

“You need to go two miles south,” said the ground radar operator.

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, my bad.”

“I need that refuel,” said the Marine pilot in
Angry Bear
.

“We’re going to get you there,” said Sparks. “You’re ten minutes away. Relax.”

“I have fifteen minutes of fuel, no reserves.”

“And you’re complaining?”

As soon as Cowboy started his run on the antiaircraft gun, Sparks told the Osprey to proceed. The area for the refueling rendezvous had been carefully plotted so it was far from any Indian or Pakistani radars. The tanker aircraft—another Osprey rigged for refueling—approached over southern Pakistan, sneaking away as its F/A-18 escorts tangled with a pair of Pakistani F-16s.

As the Flighthawk tracked back to cover
Angry Bear,
Sparks took the Megafortress west, checking the path to the ocean. With roughly two hundred miles to go, their best course was a beeline over the Rann of Kutch. There were
several radar installations there, but only one missile site; Sparks had Micelli target it and was just about to give the order to fire when a fresh flight of Indian Mirage 2000s showed up on the radar to the south.

“Four of them,” announced Cheech. “Just coming in range—they’re at 35,000 feet.”

“I don’t think they’re going to be a problem if I hurry these Osprey guys up,” said Sparks.

“Where are those Navy jets?” said Micelli. “We’re supposed to have help.”

“They have their hands full,” said Sparks.

“We don’t need no effin’ Navy,” said Cheech.

“Keep your mind on your scope,” said Sparks.

“My eyes are there. That’s what’s important,” said Cheech. Then his voice settled into a more serious, clipped tone. “Another aircraft coming off the field at Jamnagar.”

Jamnagar was a major military base on the Gulf of Kutch, less than a hundred miles south of their planned exit route.

“You have an ID?”

“Negative. Two engines—patrol type.”

“All right. Track him. Micelli, let’s get that missile site.”

They fired the Anaconda, then swung back toward the Ospreys. A fresh pair of Hornets from the
Lincoln
checked in, saying they were about ten minutes off. Sparks told them to concentrate on Jamnagar; he’d watch the Mirages.

“Another pack of MiGs,” added Cheech. “The Mirages are on afterburners. I have some other contacts. A hundred and fifty miles.”

“What the hell did they do, save up all their fuel just for us?” said Micelli.

“They’re bored from being grounded the last few days,” said Cheech.

“All right, we’re going to have to deal with these guys,” Sparks told them. “Who’s the biggest threat?”

“We have only three Anacondas left,” said Micelli.

“Well, you’ll just have to get a two-for-one shot,” Sparks replied. He pulled up the stick, taking the Megafortress up
another 5,000 feet and aiming southward. He’d keep as much distance as possible between the
Cheli
and the Ospreys. Most likely the Mirage radars wouldn’t be able to see the rotor tilts after they tanked and would concentrate on him.

The Mirages were in two groups, two planes apiece. Sparks had Micelli target the lead plane in the first group, hoping that with their leader gone, the others would lose heart, or at least hesitate enough for them to get away.

“Trouble locking—IFF says it’s a civilian.”

“Override the bitch.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Override and lock.”

“I’m working on it, Sparks,” said Micelli. He finally got the lock and fired.

The ground radar operator reported a contact moving on a highway twenty-five miles ahead of the Ospreys. Sparks had Cowboy check on it.

The cacophony continued. They’d trained for encounters like this, but the real thing was twenty times as draining and as confusing as the simulations. Even his crew of wiseasses was showing the strain.

“New bogey—unidentified plane thirty miles from
Angry Bear
,” said Cheech. “Designated
Bogey Seven
.”

“Where’d that come from?” said Sparks.

“Thirty-five thousand feet—looks like it’s one of the ones that came off from Jamnagar.”

“Tell the Navy flight.”

“They’re too far away to intercept,” said the radar officer. “They’re on a pair of MiGs.”

“ID the plane.”

“Working on it.
Bogey Seven
is in range to fire radar missiles.”

“Missile one is terminal,” said Micelli. “Locked on the lead Mirage.”

“No ident from
Bogey Seven
,” reported Cheech.

“Query the mother again. Micelli—get him on the radio.”

“Roger that,” said Cheech. “
Bogey Seven
is twenty miles
from
Angry Bear
. Direct intercept. Turning—looks like they’re moving to get behind them. Shit. Fifteen miles.”

“No reply,” said Micelli after trying to hail
Bogey Seven
.

“Micelli—lock on
Bogey Seven
and fire.”

“Do we have an ID?”

“
Bogey Seven
closing!” said Cheech.

“Flighthawk leader, leave the ground gun and get between the Ospreys and bogey.”

“He’s too far. I won’t make it.”

“Micelli—lock on the mother and fire!” Sparks hit the radio. “
Angry Bear,
you have a bogey coming at your tail. Get as low as you can go.”

“Can’t lock. The IFF module—”

“Shoot the damn thing in bore sight if you have to,” said Sparks. “Nail that mother
now
.”

“Override. Locked. Foxfire One.”

The missile shot away from the Megafortress. As it did, the missile fired at the lead Mirage hit home.

“Splash Mirage,” said Micelli, his voice drained.

“Mirages are turning away,” said Cheech.

“Anaconda is terminal.”

“Lightning Flight to Dreamland
Cheli.
You read us?” asked a Navy unit.

“Roger, Lightning Flight,” said Sparks.

“We’re coming for you,” said the leader of Lightning Flight, a group of four F-14s dispatched from the
Lincoln
. “Rest easy.”

“Screw him,” said Micelli.

“Not today,” muttered Sparks. He clicked the radio transmit button. “Stand by, Lightning Flight.”

“Splash bogey,” said Micelli. “Bogey is down. The way is clear.”

“
Angry Bear,
your nose is clean,” said Sparks. He told the Marine pilot about the F-14s and had him contact them. “Did we get an ID on that plane?” he asked Micelli when he was done.

“Negative.”

“Cheech?”

“It was one of the MiGs, I think.”

“All right. We’ll sort it out later. Let’s make sure these guys hook up with the Tomcats so we can home.”

Aboard Marine Osprey
Angry Bear One,
over northern India
0518

D
ANNY
F
REAH LEANED OVER THE BACK OF THE COPILOT’S
seat, trying to get a better view of the source of the smoke as they approached.

“Got to be the gun the Flighthawk smoked,” said the copilot.

There was way too much smoke, thought Danny. He pulled down his visor and put it on maximum magnification, zooming in on the black cloud. The first thing he saw was a large flat piece of metal. Beyond it, red flames and a roiling cloud of smoke furled from a long tube.

A fuselage. He was looking at the wreckage of an aircraft.

“One of the MiGs,” said Danny, but almost immediately he realized he was wrong. The fuselage was too long, out of proportion to the tailfin for a fighter. Then he saw a large aircraft engine sitting off to the side.

He hesitated, then reached for the control on the smart helmet to record the image.

“Path is clear to the
Lincoln,
” said the pilot. “We’ll drop our injured and get over to the
Poughkeepsie
with the warhead.”

“Good,” said Danny. “Good.”

Northeastern Pakistan
0521

G
ENERAL
S
ATTARI WATCHED AS
A
BTIN
F
ARS TOOK A LONG,
deep breath, then bowed his head and said a silent prayer before reaching to connect the wire with the trigger device he had devised. To a layman, at least, the device seemed almost
overly simplistic. There was a small digital clock, two different types of very small watch batteries, and a three-inch board containing a few diodes and two small capacitors.

Sattari took his own deep breath as Abtin reached into the bomb assembly.

The engineer jerked backward. Sattari reflexively shut his eyes, expecting the inevitable.

“OK,” said Abtin after a few moments passed. “OK.”

The general found he had trouble catching his breath. “It will work?” he asked when he did.

“It should. I cannot make any guarantees. Let me solder the connections.”

Sattari bent over the device.

“Please, General,” said Abtin. “If you don’t mind, having someone looking over my shoulder makes me nervous. Inspect the work when I am done.”

“Of course,” said Sattari, backing away. “Of course.”

An atoll off the Indian Coast
Time and date unknown

E
VERYTHING HURT.
E
VERYTHING
.

Breanna’s heart thumped against the ground.

“Oh,” she said.

Pushing the word from her mouth took supreme effort. She tried to say something else but was too exhausted.

“Oh,” she managed finally. “Oh. Oh.”

Aboard Dreamland
Quickmover,
over the Indian Ocean
0530

“W
E GOT IT,
C
OLONEL.
A
DEFINITE LOCATION.”

Dog flattened the folds out of the paper map, translating the GPS coordinates to the grid. Zen and Breanna were on an
unmarked island northeast of the Chebaniani Reefs, about seventy-five miles from the mainland and roughly parallel to Magalore—farther south than even he had thought. According to the map, there was no land there, just sea; the nearest marked island was about three miles away.

But they were definitely there. Disoriented, barely able to talk, and clearly thirsty and hungry, but there.

“Dreamland
Quickmover
to the
Abner Read
,” said Dog, contacting Storm with the information. He spoke to Eyes first, then Storm.

“There’s nothing there on the chart, Bastian,” said the ship captain. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“It’ll take us three hours to get there. We’ll have the Werewolf over as quickly as possible.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Is your daughter all right?”

“She’s there. They’re both there. What kind of shape they’re in, I’m not sure.”

After a moment Storm replied, “I hope she’s OK.”

“Me too.”

An atoll off the Indian Coast
Time and date unknown

T
HE SOUND WAS SO FOREIGN HE COULDN’T PROCESS IT,
almost couldn’t hear it.

A moan, soft, long, plaintive…

Breanna, talking to him from the grave.

Calling for him.

“Jeff. Jeffrey. Zen. Where are you, Jeff?”

It was so far away, so injured, so lonely, he couldn’t stand it. A buzz descended from above, a cloud of hums as if angels were surrounding him. The air vibrated with a cold, parching dryness.

Is this what death was like? Or was it just loss, empty of all hope?

“Jeff. Jeff. Where are you?”

“I’m here,” he said. And the spell broke, and he turned and pushed himself back to the tent, where for the first time in days—for the first time ever it seemed like—Breanna’s eyes were wide open.

“Hey.”

He twisted his head down and kissed her, pressing his lips to her face, then pausing as the flesh touched, afraid that the pressure would hurt her—or worse, that the kiss would shatter an illusion and he would find she wasn’t here, wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t softly moaning for help.

He pulled back, eyes closed as they always were when they kissed. Fear overwhelmed him, choked out his breath. Zen shook his head and forced his eyes open, forced himself to face the inevitable mirage.

“Jeff. Everything hurts,” she said.

It was real, not a mirage, not a dream, not death or hopelessness, but life—she was alive.

He pushed in and kissed her again, happy beyond belief.

Rawalpindi, Pakistan
0600, 19 January 1998

E
VEN THE MOST AVARICIOUS OF MEN HAD LIMITS
,
MORAL
lines they would not cross for any amount of gold. So General Sattari was not terribly shocked when he found that Abul Amin, the Egyptian whom he had contracted with in Rawalpindi, balked when he saw the shape of the cargo that was to be loaded into the Airbus 310. Sattari countered the man’s frown with one of his own, then suggested they discuss the matter in a corner of the nearby hangar while his men proceeded.

“No, you must stop,” said the Egyptian in his heavily accented English. “I cannot allow my plane to make such a transport. If the Americans found out—”

“Why do you think that the Americans don’t know?” asked Sattari. “Come, let us discuss the matter and make sure our payments are arranged. Then a pot of tea.”

More confused than mollified, the Egyptian began walking with Sattari toward his small office inside the hangar. The Egyptian employed a single bodyguard, who stepped out from near the door and glanced nervously at his boss. Abul Amin shook his head slightly, and the man stepped back into the shadows.

That was the problem with people like him, who made their living in the shadow of the law. They were too trusting of others they thought were corrupt.

Most of the Egyptian’s money came from transporting embargoed spare parts for oil equipment, with the occasional
military item thrown in as an extra bonus. He would be hired to pick them up from a country on decent terms with the West, like Pakistan, and fly them to a place such as Iran, where the international community had prohibited their direct sale. Amin had been doing this for so long that he’d come to believe not so much that it was legal, but that there was only minimal danger involved, that he did not have to be on his guard when with someone like Sattari—for whom he had transported everything from circuit boards for F-4 Phantom jets to Western-style blue jeans over the years.

Sattari’s greatest difficulty was waiting for the right moment to pull his pistol from his pocket. He waited until Amin had sat down at his desk, then took out the pistol and shot him twice in the head.

Amin fell backward, his skull smacking against the Sheet-rock wall and leaving a thick splatter of very red blood as he slumped to the floor.

Sattari aimed his gun at the door, expecting the bodyguard to respond. After waiting a full minute, he went calmly to the door, pushed it open and waited again.

His own bodyguards would be in the hangar by now, but he hadn’t heard more gunfire and didn’t want to take a chance.

A few seconds passed, then a few more; finally there was a shout from outside.

“General?”

“It’s OK, Habib,” he said. “Where is the bodyguard?”

“He ran as soon as the door was closed,” said Habib Kerman, appearing at the door. “We let him go. It seemed wiser.”

“Very good, nephew. We need to be ready to take off very quickly. There is a long night ahead, and I have not yet arranged the refueling.”

“Yes, General.”

Sattari smiled, then reached over to turn off the office light.

Aboard the
Abner Read,
Indian Ocean
0610

T
HE ATOLL WAS ONLY VISIBLE ON THE HIGHEST DETAIL SATELLITE
images in the
Abner Read
’s library, and then it appeared as little more than a squiggle on the ocean. The small rock was completely barren; its vegetation appeared to consist largely of moss.

“I want the Werewolf there. Now,” Storm told Eyes. “I want these Dreamlanders rescued.”

“Aye aye, Captain. We’re moving as expeditiously as possible.”

“Don’t move expeditiously—move
quickly
!”

Storm grinned to himself. He was better, back in control. Woods and the others weren’t going to win.

Turning from his holographic chart table, he looked out the “windshield” at the front of the
Abner Read
’s bridge. Specially tinted and coated with radar-absorbent material, the view through the glass was one of the few things about the
Abner Read
that Storm did not like; the material made it difficult to use his binoculars. And unlike the younger members of the crew—though he would never admit that age had anything to do with it—he did not entirely trust the long-range images provided by the video cameras. So after checking with the helmsman to make sure they were on course and making the best speed possible—“Faster would be better,” he commented—Storm stepped out onto the flying bridge and brought his binoculars to his eyes.

Nothing but sea before him, and a high sky as well. The sun bloomed to the east, announcing a glorious day.

“Storm, looks like there’s an Indian destroyer on the move from the north, running in the general direction of the atoll,” said Eyes, breaking into the captain’s brief reverie. “Ex-Soviet Kashin-class ship. Looks like it may be the
Rana
. The Werewolf ’s radar picked it up. You want to go to active radar?”

“Negative,” said Storm. “The fox doesn’t let the hen know it’s in the barnyard. Plot its position. I’ll be back with you in a moment.”

An atoll off the Indian Coast
Time and date unknown

Z
EN CUPPED HIS HANDS BELOW
B
REANNA’S LIPS, THEN
tilted the small canteen so the water would flow. He had to tilt it more than he’d expected—the water was nearly gone.

“Oh,” said Breanna as it touched her lips. “Oh.”

She sucked at it, then started to cough. Zen stopped pouring, waiting patiently for her to regain her breath. She shook her head, and he took the water away.

“How long?” she asked.

“Days.”

“How did we get here?”

“We drifted. I don’t know how I found you. God, I guess.”

“Yeah.” She started to move, as if she wanted to stand up.

“No, no, stay down.”

“No, I gotta move.” She stirred, pushed herself, then stopped with a groan. “Oh, my legs are killing me.”

“Mine too,” said Zen.

“Yours?”

“Phantom pain. We’re going to be OK,” he told her. “I just talked to Dog—they’re circling above us.”

“Oh,” said Breanna.

She struggled to get up again. This time Zen helped and she managed to sit.

“I think this leg is broken,” she said, pushing her right leg. “It really hurts. And the knee is twisted.”

Something caught her eye.

“What’s that?” she said, looking toward the beach.

Zen turned. It was the Bart Simpson kid. He had a bottle of water in his hands and he was walking slowly up the rocks.

“Bart Simpson,” said Zen. He waved at the boy. The boy, staring curiously at Breanna, waved back.

“He loves Bart Simpson,” he explained to Breanna. “He must see it on TV. He thinks we know him.”

“Does the kid live here?”

Zen explained that they were on a barren island but that the boy and his friends seemed to live on another island a few miles away. The kid, meanwhile, stopped a few feet from Zen and held out the water bottle.

Zen took it.

“We probably should boil it or something,” said Breanna.

“I’m really thirsty,” he said. But he didn’t open the bottle.

“I think I hear something,” said Breanna.

Zen held his breath, trying to listen.

“A helicopter, I think,” said Breanna.

“I gotta get the radio,” he said, crawling back for it.

Aboard Dreamland
Quickmover
0630

“Y
OU CAN HEAR IT
?” D
OG ASKED
Z
EN.

“Yeah,” Zen answered, his voice hoarse.

“Good. I’m telling the
Abner Read
right now…Zen?”

“Yeah, Colonel?”

“Breanna? Is she all right? Really all right?”

“She’s OK.” Zen’s voice trailed off. “You want to talk to her?”

Tears flooded from Dog’s eyes. He was so overcome he couldn’t answer, and when he did, it was between sobs. “Please.”

The silence seemed unending.

“Daddy?”

“I thought we agreed…you’d never…call me that…at work.”

Dog held his arm up, burying his face in it as the tears flowed uncontrollably.

“That’s right, Colonel,” said Breanna. “Sorry. I thought this was R and R.”

“All right. We’ll pick you up soon. Hang in there.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Aboard the
Abner Read,
Indian Ocean
0630

S
TORM STUDIED THE HOLOGRAPHIC PROJECTION OF THE
ocean around them. They were about two and a half to three hours from the atoll. The Indian destroyer was closer; it could reach it in an hour and a half at flank speed.

It seemed too much of a coincidence that the other ship would be steaming in that direction; clearly, it was homing in on the radio transmissions from the survival radio. Perhaps it had picked up the MC-17 first, then gone to investigate.

With hopes of capturing the American fliers, he had no doubt.

He could sink the bastards with the Harpoons if it came to that. But by the time he got into range, the Indian would be at the atoll.

“Dreamland
Quickmover
looking for you, Captain,” said the communications specialist over the ship’s intercom circuit. “It’s Colonel Bastian.”

“Yes, Dog, what’s going on?”

“We spotted an Indian destroyer that seems interested in the atoll.”

“Yes, we copy,” Storm told him. “I’m not in range to deal with him.”

“Given what the Indians have been doing to our aircraft up north,” said Dog, “we should consider him hostile.”

“Agreed.” Storm felt his irritation growing.

“I can broadcast a warning,” offered Dog.

“You’re in a cargo plane, aren’t you?”

“I’ll fight the bastard with my bare hands if I have to,” said Dog.

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Storm.

Aboard Dreamland
Quickmover
0704

“M
AIN ANTIAIR WEAPONS ARE
S
HTIL MISSILES,” SAID THE
copilot, consulting the onboard reference to ID the Indian destroyer’s capabilities. “They’re Indian versions of the Russian SA-N-7s. They have about a three kilometer range. Maybe 15,000 meters—roughly 50,000 feet. We’re OK as long as we keep our distance.”

Dog looked at his paper map, mentally calculating the
Abner Read
’s position against the Indian destroyer’s. The Indian was north; Storm was south and to the west. The
Cheli
was more than an hour and a half north, still covering the warhead recovery operations. By the time they got down here it would all be over.

“Dreamland MC-17
Quickmover
to Indian destroyer,” said Dog, switching his radio into the international communications frequencies. “We are conducting a recovery mission in the area and request you hold your position.”

When the destroyer did not reply, Dog repeated the message, this time giving the destroyer’s position and heading.

“Dreamland
Quickmover
, you are over Indian territory and will be shot down if you remain,” replied the destroyer.

“This is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian. I’d like to speak to the captain of the ship.”

“This is the Republic of India naval vessel
Rana
. You are in Indian territory.”

“I’m in international airspace, conducting a Search and Rescue mission for downed airmen.”

“Give us their location and we will pick them up.”

“Thanks, but we’ve got it covered,” replied Dog. “Please just stand by.”

The Indian destroyer continued on its course.

Its offer, though, gave Dog an idea.

“
Rana,
if you desire to assist, I can give you a search grid. Your assistance would be appreciated.”

Dog gave the destroyer a GPS reading that would take it to the east of the atoll. The destroyer didn’t acknowledge—but it did change course.

“Good one, Colonel,” said the crew chief, who’d been standing next to him, nervously shifting his weight back and forth the whole time.

“It won’t work for too long,” said Dog. “As soon as Zen broadcasts again, they’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe you should tell him to keep quiet.”

“I will, as soon as I think of a way to do that without tipping off the Indians that it’s a ruse.”

An atoll off the Indian coast
0715

T
HE KID WHO HAD BROUGHT THEM WATER WAS FASCINATED
by the Werewolf, staring at it as it circled around the small island.

“You like helicopters?” Zen asked.

The boy was so engrossed in watching the helo that he didn’t seem to hear.

“That’s a robot,” said Zen. “It’s being flown from a ship.”

“Robot?” said the boy.

“Yeah.” Zen pushed himself a little farther down the rock-strewn beach. There was something on the horizon to the north, a long sliver of white.

A ship.

The
Abner Read
?

Zen stared. The bits of white separated into distinct pieces. There was a mast at the center of the figure, a sleek smokestack.

The
Abner Read
didn’t have a mast. She was a special ship, very low to the water.

And black, not gray. She wouldn’t reflect the sun like this.

“Zen, what’s up?” asked Breanna.

“I see a ship,” he told her. “It’s going in the wrong direction. Give me the radio.”

Aboard the
Abner Read,
Indian Ocean
0725

S
TORM WATCHED THE PLOT OF THE
I
NDIAN DESTROYER,
now positively identified as the
Rana
, veer toward the mainland. He had to hand it to Bastian, the old Dog had a plentiful bag of tricks.

They could be friends if he weren’t such a jerk.

The holographic unit included a navigational module that could calculate and project courses. Storm simply pointed at the atoll and asked, in his clearest voice, “ETA?” The computer flashed a set of numbers above the small rock: 1:42:06.

“I want more power, engineering,” he said. “Helm, find some way to get us to that rock faster. I don’t care if you have to put up a sail. Get us there!”