Retribution (40 page)

“Look, we were hundreds of miles inside hostile territory, or what turned out to be hostile territory,” he said. “Give the guy a break, huh?”

“He’s against us,” said Sullivan, standing. “Thanks, Starship.”

The others rose.

“This isn’t an us versus them,” said Starship.

“We can’t do anything if you’re not with us,” said Rager. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Listen—”

Sullivan frowned at him, then stalked out. Rager and Daly quickly followed.

T
HOUGH SORELY TEMPTED TO JUST GO TO BED
, D
OG INSTEAD
walked back to the Dreamland Command trailer to check on the
Cheli.
He’d just gotten to the door when he heard the Megafortress’s engines in the distance. He watched the aircraft touch down, then went inside.

A young sergeant named Sam Bautista, a Whiplash team member who’d flown in with Samson, was on duty inside. Bautista jumped to his feet as Dog came in.

“Relax, Sergeant,” said Dog.

“Sorry, Colonel. I thought you were General Samson. He said he was going over to see the base commander, but I thought he came back for something.”

“No, it’s only me,” said Dog, passing through to the secure communications area. He slid into the seat in front of the console and authorized the connection to Dreamland Command.

Major Catsman’s worried face appeared on the screen.

“Good even, Natalie. Or should I say good morning? Can you give me an update?”

Catsman started with things Dog already knew. The warheads were aboard the
Poughkeepsie
, Zen and Breanna
were aboard the
Abner Read.
Further analysis of the last warhead site seemed to show that the warhead was gone when the guerrillas arrived, though the imagery was still being examined. The image experts asked to see everything recorded in the area since the EEMWBs had exploded.

“A passenger plane is down in the area the Marine Osprey flew through,” said Catsman finally.

“Yes, Danny mentioned it to me,” said Dog. “Do we know what happened yet?”

The major hesitated.

“Better tell me what you know,” said Dog.

“A Global Hawk went over the area about a half hour ago. This is a photo from the area of the wreckage.”

An image appeared in the corner of the monitor. Dog pressed the control to zoom in.

A triangular piece of white metal with black letters and numbers filled the screen. It was part of a fin from a missile.

“It’s one of ours,” said Catsman.

“From the Navy fighters?”

“No
ours
ours. It’s one of the control fins from a Anaconda.”

“From the
Cheli
?”

“Has to be. I haven’t talked to Captain Sparks. I figured you’d want to do that.”

Dog pushed his chin onto his hand. “Yeah.”

“I haven’t talked to General Samson either.”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Dog.

“I—He ordered me not to tell you he was on his way,” Catsman blurted.

“It’s all right, Major. It wouldn’t have made any difference at all.”

W
HEN YOU’RE BASED NEAR A PLACE LIKE
L
AS
V
EGAS
,
JUST
about anywhere else in the world can seem spartan. But Diego Garcia was spartan in the extreme, which limited the crew’s options for celebrating their mission.

“First we debrief, then we go over to the Navy canteen,” said Brad Sparks as the crew shut down the
Cheli
. “Or whatever they call their bar.”

“Hell, Brad, just listing the planes we engaged will take an entire day,” said Cheech. “Let’s debrief tomorrow.”

“Oh sure,” said Cowboy. “Like we’re gonna want to do that with hangovers.”

“Colonel Dog will have my butt if we wait,” said Sparks. “Let’s just get it over with.”

“Where are the unintelligence officers?” said copilot Steve Micelli, getting up from his seat.

“Micelli, that joke is older than our airplane.”

A combat-suited Whiplash security sergeant stuck his head up from the Flighthawk bay at the rear of the cockpit.

“Excuse me, Captain Sparks, Colonel Bastian wants to talk to you right away. He wants the entire crew over at the Command trailer.”

“All right, Sergeant. We’ll be right down as soon as we grab all our gear.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re to leave everything here. The memory cards and tapes from the mission especially.”

“What the fuck?” said Micelli.

“If anything’s missing or erased, we’re going to be court-martialed,” added the Whiplasher. “I’m really sorry, sirs.”

D
OG DECIDED HE WOULD TALK TO THE
C
HELI’S CREW ONE
at a time. Sparks, since he was the captain, went first.

“Describe to me what happened on your sortie,” Dog said, sitting across from him at the table in the Dreamland trailer. The others were outside, sitting in the shade of the nearby hangar.

“It was a long mission, Colonel. I don’t know if I can remember every last detail.”

“Do your best.”

“OK. Can I have a drink?”

“I just made some coffee. And there’s water in the fridge.”

“I was thinking about a beer.”

“Better not just now.”

Sparks nodded. Dog recognized something he rarely saw in a pilot’s face, certainly not at Dreamland: fear. Sparks must have sensed what had happened.

Dog had heard enough before Sparks was halfway through. The Anaconda aiming system had been giving them problems; they encountered a plane in the area near fighters that seemed to be a threat; the plane had not had a working friend or foe identifier.

Those were the mitigating circumstances. On the other side of the ledger, the plane should have been better identified by the radar operator, or, lacking that, visually identified by the Flighthawk before being fired on.

Should have been.

That was a judgment call, Dog thought, an extremely difficult decision to make in the heat of a battle, especially under the circumstances.

He truly understood how difficult that call was to make. Others might not.

“Did we screw up, Colonel?” asked Sparks when he was done. “What happened?”

“An airliner went down in the area the Osprey went through. There’s a good possibility it was shot down by a Anaconda missile that came from your plane.”

“Jesus.”

Both men sat in silence for a few moments.

“What’s going to happen?” asked Sparks.

“I don’t know,” said Dog. “It’s up to General Samson. He’s in charge of Dreamland now. And Whiplash.”

“Am I going to be court-martialed?”

Dog wanted to shake his head, to stand up and pat Sparks on the shoulder and tell him it was all going to be all right. But that would be lying. There would be an inquiry—a long one, no doubt—before any decision was made on whether charges would be brought.

“I don’t know what will happen,” said Dog honestly. “At
this point anything is a possibility. I want you to go to your room and just stay there until you hear from me.”

“Or the general?”

“Yes. Or the general. He’s the one that has the final say now.”

Malaysia
1730 (1530, Karachi)

G
ENERAL
S
ATTARI FOLLOWED THE CONTROL TOWER’S INSTRUCTIONS
, taxiing the airplane away from the main runway. He felt physically drained. It had been years since he flew a large jet, and even with his nephew, an experienced multiengine copilot, managing the Airbus’s takeoffs and landings had not been easy.

“Turn coming up ahead, Uncle,” said Habib Kerman.

“Very good.”

Sattari’s eyes shuffled back and forth from the windscreen to the speed indicator. He could give the airplane over to Kerman if he wished, but his pride nagged him.

“You haven’t lost your skills,” said Kerman as they pulled into the parking area. “Outstanding.”

Sattari smiled but said nothing. Kerman was his sister’s youngest son. He had been a close friend of his own son, Val, though a few years younger; at times he reminded him very much of Val.

Four or five men trotted from a nearby hangar, followed by a pickup truck.

This was the most dangerous moment, Sattari knew—when his plot was nearly but not quite ready to proceed. He needed to refuel the jet in order to reach his destination. The airport had been chosen not for its geographic location but the fact that he had agents he believed he could count on to assist. He himself had not been here in many years, so he could not be positive they would help—and indeed might not know for sure until he took off.

The men ran to chock the wheels. A good sign, he thought. They were unarmed.

Sattari glanced at his nephew. “You have your gun?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Sattari nodded, then rose. He went to the door behind the flight cabin and opened it, pushing it with a sudden burst of energy. A fatal dread settled over him as the muggy outdoor air entered the cabin. He was ready; ready to die here if that’s what was ordained.

But it wasn’t, at least not at that moment. A metal stairway was being pushed close to the cabin.

“God is great, God is merciful, God is all knowing,” shouted a man from the ground, speaking in Persian.

“Blessed be those who follow his way,” said Sattari, completing the identifier he had settled on in their e-mail conversation.

“General, it is my pleasure to serve you,” said Hami Hassam, climbing eagerly up the steps as soon as they were placed. “What cargo do you have?”

“That should not be relevant to you.”

Hassam smiled, then reached inside his light jacket. “You have perishable dates,” said Hassam confidently. “With all necessary papers and taxes paid.”

“Good work.”

“For our air force, nothing is too good. I have taken the precaution of purchasing several crates of fruit, in case there are any complications. I can have them loaded aboard the aircraft in a few—”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Sattari.

“Sometimes, the inspectors do come aboard.”

“It won’t be necessary,” repeated Sattari.

The man’s crestfallen face made it clear he was being too strident. He’d given Hassam to believe he was transporting banned missiles and other aircraft parts, a matter sufficiently important and clandestine that Hassam would probably not probe too deeply.

“The items we have are packed very delicately,” said Sattari, explaining while not explaining. “And the fewer in contact with them, the better. We can put a few crates here if
necessary,” he added, pointing to the rear of the flight cabin. “But—should I expect trouble?”

“No,” said Hassam, a bit uncertainly. “Usually there are no inspections at all. Not once fees are paid. Which has been done.”

“The money transferred properly?”

“Yes, General. Of course.”

“Can we get some food?” asked Sattari.

“There is a place in the terminal.”

“Come, then,” said Sattari.

“Your copilot?”

“He and the others will stay with the plane.”

“You have others in the plane?”

“Not important,” said Sattari, unsure whether his bluff had been detected or not. “I’ll bring back a few things.”

Diego Garcia
1900

R
EVIEWING ALL OF THE RECORDED SENSOR AND OTHER
data from the flight would take several days, but the tapes made it clear that the
Cheli
crew believed they were looking at an enemy aircraft about to shoot down the plane they were protecting. The plane’s transponder had not been working, or had been turned off for some reason.

Dog got up from the copilot’s station and walked slowly through the
Cheli
’s flight deck.

“No one comes aboard this aircraft without my explicit permission,” he told the sergeant standing near the ladder to the lower deck. “You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You noted that all the systems were intact when I left?”

“Uh, yes, sir. OK.”

“It’s OK, Sergeant, they were. You saw them playing, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was a long, long walk to the borrowed Navy Hummer, and a short, short ride to the base commander’s office. General Samson had concluded whatever meet and greet operation he’d been conducting and was striding out to his SUV when Dog arrived.

“General, I need to talk to you,” said Dog, leaning out his window.

“Not now, Bastian. I’m meeting the commander for dinner.”

“You’re going to want to talk to me first, General.”

“What about?”

“We’d best go someplace a little more private.”

T
HE FIRST THING
S
AMSON THOUGHT WAS,
N
OW
I’
VE GOT
him. Bastian wouldn’t be able to wiggle out of this.

The next thing he thought was,
What if they blame me somehow?

The incident with the family in the desert was bad, very bad, but the video vindicated the men, and it could be argued that the Dreamland people were on a mission of mercy. Whether they should have undertaken it or not was beside the point.

But this was very different.

“You’re sure it was a civilian plane?” Samson asked Bastian.

“Dreamland Command says there’s no doubt. It’s a small airline that flies in northern India. This wasn’t a scheduled flight,” added Dog. “It apparently was some sort of relief plane or charter flying workers north to do electrical repairs.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t they have had a working transponder?”

“I don’t know. We’ve encountered plenty of planes that haven’t. Usually, though, it’s because they’re up to something they shouldn’t be. This might just have been a malfunction.”

“Why the hell wasn’t it visually identified before they fired?” Samson asked. “That’s standard procedure.”

“There wouldn’t have been time to visually check before the Osprey was in danger.”

“That’s their excuse?”

“That’s my assessment. They haven’t offered an excuse.”

“That’s not going to be good enough, Bastian.”

Dog didn’t reply. Samson rubbed his forehead.