Retribution

by Dale Brown

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t think it’s worth the risk,” said Chastain. “The Lincoln doesn’t have ground forces that could make the pickups.”

  “We have a Marine Expeditionary Force near Somalia,” said Freeman. “We can put them into action. And the Dreamland people.”

  “The Marines are two days away,” said Chastain. “At least.”

  “Not if they stage out to the Lincoln and then go ashore,” countered Freeman. “What do you think, Admiral Balboa?”

  Admiral George Balboa, also speaking from the Pentagon, cleared his throat. While he and Freeman had often found themselves at odds, Jed noted that the two men had been meeting together a lot recently. If Balboa’s tone was any indication, they had come to some sort of understanding.

  “It might be possible,” said the admiral. “The Marine Ospreys can fly to the Lincoln, then operate from there or even somewhere onshore until their assault ship arrives. Of course, we need to know where the warheads are. That’s the key.”

  “What about the Dreamland people?” asked Martindale. “Can they recover the weapons?”

  “There are too many warheads for them to do it,” said Chastain. “And three of their planes have been shot down.”

  “Jed?”

  “Um, their ground unit is intact, but, um, it’s not big enough to do it on its own.”

  “I meant, what’s the status of the airplanes?”

  “There were three planes on the mission. Two were shot down,” said Jed. “The third was the plane flown by Colonel Bastian. He was preparing to crash it into the Chinese aircraft carrier when the Chinese sent their nuclear-loaded bomber back to the hangar deck. So six crews are in the water.”

  “Have our people been picked up?”

  “We’re still working on it. This has only happened within the last hour, sir. Thirty minutes.”

  Martindale took a step toward the video conference screens. “Admiral, I want those people recovered.”

  “I’m sure they’re working on it, sir,” said Balboa.

  “Work harder.” Martindale turned around. “I’ll decide what we’re doing when I see the data on where the warheads are. But I agree with Philip. This is an historic opportunity. It’s worth considerable risk. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have to tell the world what we’ve done.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0745

  DOG TACKED TO THE EAST, WIDENING HIS ORBIT. IT WAS VERY possible the destroyer had noticed him circling the area and was coming over to investigate. In that case, he thought he might be able to throw them off by circling around an empty patch of water.

  On the other hand, they might be pulling themselves close enough to fire short-range antiair weapons at him. He had no radar warning device, so he couldn’t even tell if he was being tracked.

  “Dreamland Wisconsin, this is the Abner Read.”

  “Wisconsin.”

  “Dog, we’re under way toward your men,” reported Eyes, the Abner Read’s executive officer. “It’s going to take us a little more than two hours to get up there. There are some Chinese ships between us and the fliers. It’s possible they may try to interfere, despite the cease-fire. I’ll keep you advised.”

  “Understood,” said Dog.

  The Wisconsin had a little more than two hours’ worth of fuel left in her tanks. He’d need to go south and refuel before the Abner Read arrived. The question was, when.

  Something flashed from the deck of the Chinese frigate—a missile.

  The Chinese had just cast their vote in favor of sooner rather than later.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  0747

  AS STARSHIP SPUN THE WEREWOLF TO THE SOUTH, THE Chinese pilot’s head disappeared beneath a swell of water.

  “Tac, this guy’s not going to make it much longer,” said Starship. He watched as the man bobbed back to the surface. The Chinese pilot shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Starship winced—the saltwater probably stung like hell—but at least the man was alive.

  “Sharkboat is doing the best it can,” replied Eyes.

  If the Werewolf were a “real” helicopter, it could have dropped a line from its belly and picked the poor sucker up. But the Werewolf didn’t have a line. Its winch pack, used for transporting objects in combat, was aboard the Abner Read, but would take at least ninety minutes to install and test.

  Then again, they didn’t need a winch, just a line.

  Starship suggested that he return to the Abner Read, where a sailor could tie a rope to one of the Werewolf ’s skids. He could then lift the pilot back to the ship.

  “Why do you think he’ll grab onto the line?” Eyes asked.

  “We’ll tie one of those rescue collars on it,” said Starship. “I think he’ll grab it if it’s in front of his face.”

  “Let’s give it a shot,” said the lieutenant commander. “Head back here. I’ll have a sailor standing by.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0748

  THE MEGAFORTRESS DIDN’T SEEM ANY HAPPIER TO GO FAST than it had slowing down. Dog slicked the aircraft’s control surfaces back, rigging her for speed as he prodded the engines. Ordinarily, the aircraft would have responded instantaneously, jumping forward with a burst of speed. But the holes at the top and bottom of her fuselage where the crew had punched out created strong currents of air that fought against her wings’ ability to provide lift. She was unbalanced, and moved sluggishly, drifting sideways rather than straight ahead.

  “Come on now,” said Dog. He tried to correct by adjusting his engines, but was only partly successful; even as he picked up speed, he felt as if he was fighting a stiff crosswind.

  The missiles the Chinese ship had launched were HQ-7s, a Chinese version of the French Crotale. Guided by radar from the launch ship, the missiles used an infrared sensor to detonate once they were near their target. Ordinarily the Megafortress would have no trouble confusing the missiles, jamming both the destroyer’s radar and the guidance frequency. The aircraft’s stealthy radar profile would have helped, reducing the target the enemy had to home in on. But Dog didn’t have electronic countermeasures, and the holes in the Megafortress’s hull negated the stealthy effects of the plane’s skin.

  The one thing he knew he did have going for him was the missile’s range. Though it was capable of hitting a Mach 2 target at 13,000 meters—roughly eight miles—its practical range was much closer to 8,000 meters. The Wisconsin was about 10,000 away.

  Dog locked his eyes on the blue sky in front of the windscreen, fighting to hold the Wisconsin steady.

  “Go,” he told the plane. “Go!”

  Northern Arabian Sea0750

  FROM MACK SMITH’S VANTAGE POINT IN THE WATER, THE missile looked like a white finger jetting across the sky, spewing a trail of cotton after it. The Megafortress seemed to hang in the air, completely unaware that it was in the crosshairs.

  “Hit the gas, Colonel,” yelled Mack. “Get the fuzz buster going. Jink. Do something, for chrissakes.”

  “He doesn’t have countermeasures,” said Jazz, next to him in the water.

  “Yeah. Shit.”

  The missile stopped spewing cotton from its rear. It continued forward another mile or so, then disappeared. The Megafortress continued northward.

  Mack turned back to the others. All of them, including the injured Cantor, were staring in the direction of the ship that had fired the missile. Its bow was turning in their direction.

  “All right, guys, here’s what we’re going to do,” Mack said. “Number one, we get the other raft inflated and lash it to this one. Number two, we find the Abner Read. She’s to the southwest.”

  “Major, that ship has to be fifty or sixty miles from us,” said Dish, glancing at Cantor. “I don’t know.”

  “I do know,” said Mack forcefully. “Let’s get this fucking done. And no more bulls
hit defeat talk.”

  “I’m not—”

  “No more bullshit, period,” said Mack, fishing for the uninflated raft kit.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0752

  DOG COUNTED OFF SIXTY MORE SECONDS BEFORE ALLOWING himself to believe the missile had missed. He turned the Megafortress to the west, now well north of the Chinese and his men.

  “Dreamland Command, this is Wisconsin. I’ve just been fired on by the Chinese frigate. I’m all right,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “What happened to the cease-fire?”

  “We copy, Colonel,” said Major Catsman. “We’re alerting U.S. forces in the area. We’re on the line with the White House,” she told him, pausing. “They’re assuring us a cease-fire has been worked out.”

  “Well assure them a missile just flew by my windshield.”

  “Yes, sir.” Catsman paused once more, apparently relaying the information. “There’s a possibility not all Chinese units got the message,” she told Dog. “It’s being reissued.”

  A handy excuse, thought Dog—and one typically employed by the Chinese.

  “I’m going to go east and circle. Hopefully he’ll think I’m over our guys and he’ll change direction,” said Dog. “I’m not sure what else I can do.”

  “Colonel, be advised that our data on Chinese frigates indicate that it’s carrying HQ-7 antiair missiles similar to Cro-tales. You will be within lethal range of the missiles at seven miles.”

  “I already found that out, Major. But thanks.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  0800

  THE PETTY OFFICER SHOT HIS ARMS INTO THE AIR, SIGNALING to Starship that the Werewolf was clear to launch.

  “Werewolf powering up!” said the pilot, louder than necessary. His adrenaline was getting the better of him.

  “Werewolf is away,” he reported to Tac as the robot leapt into the air. Starship spun his tail, got his nose down and whipped over the waves, racing for the Chinese pilot. The computer marked off his progress in a legend to the right of the red crosshair designating the man’s location. He throttled back as he reached the flier. The wash from the blades made the collar at the bottom of the rope dance back and forth. It wasn’t going to be as easy to grab as Starship thought.

  The man in the water bobbed helplessly as Starship approached. He fired off a round of flares, trying to make sure he had the man’s attention, then nudged the Werewolf down until the collar skimmed in the waves. The wash from the rotors beat a circle before him as he worked slowly toward the pilot.

  The pilot disappeared in a swell. Starship pushed forward in a rush, then realized that was the wrong thing to do—he was only roiling the water further. He slid the aircraft into a turn and throttled back as much as possible before trying again after the man’s head reappeared.

  He stopped about four or five feet from the downed pilot.

  “Grab it, damn it,” he said, sliding the collar right in front of his face, but the man still didn’t react.

  He’s dead, he thought.

  Not ready to give up, Starship nudged the stick back gently in the direction of the man. The collar hit the pilot in the chest as a small burst of wind nudged the aircraft downward.

  “Grab it!” urged Starship. He flipped on the Werewolf ’s PA system and told him to take the line. The Chinese pilot still didn’t move.

  Reluctantly, Starship started to nudge away.

  “Tac, I’m afraid—”

  He stopped mid-sentence as the screen from the chin cam caught his eye. The pilot had reached out his arm toward the collar.

  “Finally,” said Starship, easing back.

  UP ON THE ABNER READ’S BRIDGE, STORM FOLDED HIS arms as he studied the holographic projection of the ocean around his destroyer. There was no way to get to the downed Wisconsin fliers without sailing closer than five miles to one of the Chinese ships.

  Obey orders and let them die?

  The hell with that.

  But armed with only his torpedoes, he’d be at a severe disadvantage if any of the Chinese ships became hostile. And the fact that one had just fired a missile at Bastian didn’t bode well.

  He could turn off all of his active sensors and try to sneak into the area. But he couldn’t go blind, and Bastian had told him he’d have to leave the area to refuel. Putting out the Abner Read’s passive sensor array would slow him down.

  “Eyes, how close to the Chinese pilot is the Sharkboat?” Storm asked, pressing his intercom connection. “How long before it can come north and scout the area for us?”

  “Captain, the Werewolf has the Chinese pilot in tow and is inbound.”

  “How?”

  “We had a rope rigged to the aircraft’s skid. Airforce thought of it.”

  Those Dreamlanders—always thinking.

  “Let me know when he’s aboard.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  STARSHIP WASN’T SURE HOW FAST HE COULD GO BEFORE the injured pilot lost his grip. He started out slowly, at under ten knots, but the Abner Read had her turbines churning, and just to keep up he had to bring the aircraft to thirty knots. With one eye on the videocam showing the pilot at the end the rope below, he nudged up his speed—forty knots, fifty, then sixty. The wind rippled the man’s flight suit. Starship imagined it might feel like a motorcycle ride. Then again, it could be the most horrific experience the pilot ever had.

  He reached 100 knots before the destroyer came into view.

  “Tac, I have our package ready to drop under the Christmas tree,” said Starship. “If you can clear me in to land.”

  “Stand by. Security team to the helipad.”

  Starship adjusted his altitude as well as his speed, bringing the pilot down about five feet from the waves. Four armed crewmen waited near the bull’s-eye on the fanged fantail. Starship tried to get the pilot right between them but moved a bit too abruptly and bowled over one of the sailors. The others scrambled to help, wrestling the Chinese pilot from the collar as they fought the wind from the helicopter above.

  “Tac, tell those guys to take it easy,” said Starship. Not only was he worried that they were going to hurt the pilot, but their tugs pulled at the Werewolf, wreaking havoc with the controls. The computer kept trying to compensate, fighting Starship as he struggled to hold her steady above the moving ship.

  “He’s secure,” said Eyes finally.

  Starship pulled up.

  “Airforce, you have your ears on?” barked Storm.

  “Yes, sir, Captain.”

  “I want you to run ahead and get a look at the ships between us and those Dreamland people. We’re turning off our radar so the Chinese don’t realize we’re coming. I want to see what I’m up against.”

  “On my way.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0805

  DOG’S PLAN WORKED—SORT OF. THE CHINESE FRIGATE once more changed direction, sailing toward the spot in the ocean he was circling. But he’d also attracted the attention of a smaller vessel, which was now approached from the northeast. This was a small patrol boat, little more than an overgrown speedboat, but just as deadly to the men in the water. It was also more maneuverable, and more likely to search the area and conclude that the downed airmen were somewhere else.

  Dog decided he would try and shoo it away; if nothing else, the frigate would be convinced that he was trying to protect someone there.

  The aircraft growled as he pushed her wing down, moving farther sideways than forward and losing altitude more quickly than he’d intended. Dog wrestled it back under control in time to pass by the bow of the patrol boat at two hundred feet—not particularly low, though close enough to see the 40mm double-barreled gun on the foredeck as it swung in his direction.

  Dog babied the stick, putting the Megafortress into another turn, this one as gentle as he could manage. He slid down to one hundred feet and cam
e over the patrol boat. The 40mm gun turned again in his direction, but if it fired, Dog never saw the shots. He pulled off as he passed, and by the time he glanced down, saw that the vessel had turned back in the direction of land.

  Northern Arabian Sea

  0810

  MACK WATCHED THE MEGAFORTRESS DISAPPEAR TO THE northwest, once again chased away by the Chinese destroyer. At least it had taken the ship with it this time.

  They’d lashed the two inflatable rafts together and put Cantor in one. Mack told them that they’d take turns in the other once they got tired. For now, they were all going to kick in the direction of the Abner Read.

  Forty or fifty miles on the open ocean was a very, very long distance. But Mack figured that moving was better than floating, and every hundred yards was a hundred yards away from the Chinese.

  “Aw, shit,” yelped Jazz. “Ah, man.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My leg. Feels like I got an iron chain in it.”

  “It’s just a cramp,” said Mack. “Work through it.”

  Jazz continued to curse.

  “Take a break, Jazz,” Mack told him finally.

  “I’m OK, Major.”

  “Your lips are turning blue. Get in the damn raft. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was only after Jazz pulled himself into the raft, leg twitching, that Mack realized everyone’s lips were blue.

  “Kick,” he told the others. “Let’s go. Kick!”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  0810

  THERE WAS ONLY SO MUCH THAT COULD BE DONE TO MAKE a helicopter stealthy, but the Werewolf was small and its ability to fly extremely low would make it hard for the Chinese ships to spot it until it was very close. Starship figured that if he moved fast enough, he could get by any of the ships before they could react and try to shoot him down.

  A Chinese guided-missile cruiser presented a particular problem, since it sat almost directly in his path. But the cruiser had been heavily damaged in the battle, and smoke poured from three different places on the ship. The radar warning receiver aboard the Werewolf indicated that the vessel was not using its weapons or even early warning radar; most likely the radar systems had been destroyed. Still, Starship kept an eye on the infrared warning panel as he shot past no more than a mile away, worried that the ship might try firing a heat-seeking missile without locking him up on radar.