by Dale Brown
What they couldn’t quite understand was why power had gone off across the subcontinent. Some analysts had concluded that this meant at least a few of the nuclear weapons had exploded and created an electromagnetic pulse. Others simply ignored it. Given the President’s desire to seize the warheads, ambiguity was definitely in their favor, and the White House had issued orders forbidding anyone—including the official spokesmen, who actually knew very little—from addressing the matter.
Adding to the confusion was the fact that the T-Rays had wiped out communication with practically all of Pakistan and a vast swath of India. The media was starved for information, though obviously that situation wouldn’t hold for very long.
“I hate sending people into war,” continued the President. “Because basically I’m sending them to die. It’s my job. I understand it. But after a while…after a while it all begins to weigh on you…”
His voice trailed off. Jed had never seen the President this contemplative, and didn’t know what to say.
“We’re going to recover the warheads,” Martindale said finally.
He turned, walked across the office to the credenza that stood opposite his desk, and paused, gazing down at a bust of Jefferson.
“Some people call Dreamland my own private air force and army. Have you heard that, Jed?”
Having heard that said many times, Jed hesitated.
“You can be honest,” added Martindale. “That’s what I value about you, Jed. You’re not involved in the political games.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dreamland is too important a command to be run by a lieutenant colonel. The Joint Chiefs want it folded back into the regular command structure. And I have to say, they make good arguments.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re going to appoint a general to take over. A two-star general for now—Major General Samson. He has an impeccable record. An enviable one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your opinion of that?”
“I think whatever you want to do, sir—”
“I haven’t used it as my private army, have I?”
“No, Mr. President, absolutely not.”
“This has nothing to do with you, Jed,” added the President. “Or with Colonel Bastian, for that matter. I still have the highest regard for him. I want him involved in the warhead recovery. Him and his people—they’ll work with the Marines.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But it makes more sense—this whole mission has shown the real potential. We can double, maybe triple their effectiveness.” Martindale looked at Jed. “General Samson will handle informing the Dreamland people. Understood?”
“I shouldn’t tell them?”
“The news should come from the general, and the joint chiefs. That’s the way I want it. We’re following the chain of command. Dreamland is not my private army.”
The joint chiefs—and especially the head of the joint chiefs, Admiral Balboa—had been fighting to get Dreamland back under their full control since early in Martindale’s administration. With the end of Martindale’s term looming—and the very real possibility that he would lose the election—the chiefs had won the battle. It certainly did make sense that Dreamland, as a military unit, should answer directly up the chain of command, rather than directly to the President through the NSC.
In theory, Jed realized, he was losing some of his prestige. But he knew he’d never been more than a political buffer. Part of the reason the President and the National Security Advisor used him as a liaison, after all, was the fact that he was young and had no political power base of his own.
“I’ll do whatever job you want me to, sir,” he said.
“Good. You have a bright future. Let’s get through this crisis, get these warheads, and then maybe we’ll have a chance to sit down and see how best you can serve your country.”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
The President went back to his desk.
“You can go now, young Jed. Forward these reports to Admiral Balboa, with copies to Admiral Woods on the Lincoln. Make sure he has everything he needs. Dreamland is working with the Marines, under Woods. We’ll follow the chain of command.”
“Yes, sir.”
Aboard the Bennett,
over the northern Arabian Sea
2100
STEVEN L. BENNETT WAS A CAPTAIN IN THE U.S. AIR FORCE, assigned to the Twentieth Tactical Air Support Squadron, Pacific Air Forces, during the Vietnam War era. After completing B-52 training in 1970, Captain Bennett went about as far from strategic bombers as you could in the Air Force at the time—he trained to become a forward air controller, calling bombs in rather than dropping them, and flying in an airplane designed to skim treetops rather than the stratosphere.
By June 1972, Bennett was piloting an OV-10 Bronco, an excellent combat observation aircraft with only one serious flaw—it was almost impossible to crash-land successfully. The forward section of the two-seater would generally implode, killing the pilot, though the backseater could get out with minor injuries. Pilots quickly learned that it didn’t make sense to try and ditch an OV-10; “hitting the silk,” as the old-timers used to call ejecting, was the only way to survive.
On June 29, 1972, Bennett flew what was known as an artillery adjustment mission over Quang Tri Province in South Vietnam. His observer was a Marine Corps captain named Mike Brown. The two men pulled a three-hour sortie and were about to head home to Da Nang when they learned that their replacement was running behind schedule. Going home would leave ground troops without anyone to call on if they got in trouble.
Captain Bennett checked his fuel and decided to stay on station until the relief plane could get up. A short time later South Vietnamese troops in the area called in for assistance; they were taking fire from a much larger North Vietnamese unit and were about to be overrun.
Bennett and Brown called for a tactical air strike, but no attack aircraft were available. They then requested that Navy guns bombard the attackers, but the proximity of the South Vietnamese to their northern enemies made that impossible.
So Bennett decided to do the job himself, rolling in on several hundred NVA soldiers with just the four 7.62mm machine guns in his Bronco’s nose. After the fourth pass, he had them on the run. He came down again to give them another snoutful, but this time his aircraft was hit—a SAM-7 shoulder-launched heat seeker took out his left engine. His plane caught fire.
Bennett headed out over the nearby ocean to jettison his fuel and the highly flammable rockets used for marking targets. As he did so, an escort aircraft caught up with him and advised him that the fire started by the missile was now so severe that his plane looked like it would explode any minute. Bennett ordered Brown to get ready to eject; they’d punch out over the water and be picked up by one of the Navy ships or a friendly helicopter.
Brown agreed. But then he saw that his parachute had been torn by shrapnel from the missile that struck the plane.
Not a problem, said Bennett, whose own parachute was in perfect condition. Get ready to ditch.
And so they did. The OV-10 cartwheeled when she hit the water, and then sank. If Bennett was still alive after the crash, his cockpit was too mangled for him to escape as the plane went under the waves. Captain Brown, fortunately, managed to push his way out and was picked up by a rescue chopper a short time later.
For his selfless devotion to duty and his determination to save another man’s life even at the cost of his own, Captain Steven L. Bennett was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously. It was presented by then Vice President Gerald R. Ford to Bennett’s widow and daughter two years after his death.
STEVEN BENNETT’S NAMESAKE, DREAMLAND EB-52 MEGAFORTRESS Bennett, had begun life as a B-52D. And, in fact, the aircraft had actually served in the same war as Captain Bennett, dropping bombs on North Vietnam during two different deployments. It remained in active service until 1982, when it was mothballed and put in storage. And there it remained until the spri
ng of 1996, when it was taken from its desert storage area, gutted, and rebuilt as a Megafortress. The changes were many. Its wings and tail section were completely replaced, new engines and electrical controls were installed, a radar “bulge” was installed in a spine above the wing roots, and provision was made for the EB-52 to carry and launch robot aircraft. Much of the new gear was simply unimaginable when the B-52 was first built.
When the aircraft was flyable, she was taken by a special crew to Dreamland, where additional modifications were made to her frame. More equipment, including an AWACS-style radar for the bulge, was added.
The plane had completed final flight tests shortly before Thanksgiving, 1997. She’d received further modifications on Diego Garcia to make her systems impervious to T-Rays. Ironically, the work on those modifications had not been completed when the T-Ray weapons had to be used, and the Bennett remained on the ground. A subsequent glitch with her left outboard engine required her to turn back after being launched shortly afterward, much to her crew’s consternation.
The Bennett was making up for it now, her engines pushing the airplane to just under the speed of sound as she raced northward in search of the crew of the stricken Levitow.
“We should be in the area where they ejected within the hour,” Lieutenant Englehardt said as Dog looked over his shoulder at the situation map set in the middle of the dash. “So far we haven’t heard the emergency beacons.”
Dog nodded. The emergency PRC radios had a limited range. Like everyone else in the Air Force, the Dreamland fliers relied on PRC radios, which used relatively old technology. Better units were available, but hadn’t been authorized for purchase because of budget issues. Dog suspected that if some congressman had to rely on one, money would be found for upgrades pretty damn fast.
“Incoming transmission for you, Colonel. This is from the NSC—Jed Barclay.”
Dog dropped into the empty seat in front of the auxiliary airborne radar control. As soon as he authorized the transmission, Jed Barclay’s face appeared on the screen. He was speaking from the White House Situation Room.
“Bastian. Jed, what’s up?”
“Colonel, I, uh, I have Admiral Balboa on the line. He uh, wanted me to make the connection.”
“OK,” said Dog, puzzled.
“Stand by.”
Balboa’s face flashed onto the screen. Dog had spoken to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff several times since taking command of Dreamland. Balboa didn’t particularly like the Air Force, and Dog sensed that he didn’t particularly care for him either.
“Colonel, how are you this morning?”
“It’s nighttime here, Admiral.”
“Yes.” Balboa scowled. “The President has decided to recover the warheads. He wants you to work with the Marines from the Seventh MEU. Admiral Woods will have overall control of the mission.”
Dog smiled. He knew Woods from exercises they’d had together—exercises where Dreamland had blown up his carrier several times.
“Problem with that, Colonel?” asked Balboa. The nostrils in his pug nose flared.
“Not on my side.”
“Admiral Woods has no problems,” said Balboa.
“What sort of support does he want?”
“Help him locate the missiles. He’ll tell you what he wants.”
“I’m going to need to gear up for this,” said Dog. “We’re down to one working Megafortress.”
“Well, get what you need,” said Balboa. “Has General Samson spoken to you yet?”
“Terrill Samson? No.”
“Well, he will. We’re reorganizing your command structure, Colonel. You’ll be reporting to Major General Samson from now on. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
The screen blanked. Dog didn’t know Samson at all. He’d had a Pentagon general to report to when he started at Dreamland, a good one: Lieutenant General Harold Magnus. Magnus had retired some months before after being edged out of the running for chief of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Dreamland’s official “position” on the Pentagon flowchart had been in flux ever since. Dog had known this couldn’t last, and in some respects welcomed the appointment of a new superior: As a lieutenant colonel with no direct line to the Pentagon, he was constantly having trouble with even the most routine budget requests.
“Colonel, are you still there?”
“Yes, Jed, go ahead.”
“You want to speak to Admiral Woods? I can plug you into a circuit with him and the Marine Corps general in charge of the Seventh MEU.”
“Fire away.”
“Bastian, you old bully—now what are you up to?” asked Tex Woods, popping onto the screen. Dog could only see his head; the camera didn’t pan low enough to show if he was wearing his trademark cowboy boots.
“Looking for my people. They bailed out.”
“Yes, and we’re helping with that,” said Woods. He was more enthusiastic than he had been the last time they’d spoken. “The admiral told you what we’re up to?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Jack, you on the line yet?”
Marine Corps General Jack Harrison cleared his throat. Harrison was a dour-faced man; he seemed to personify the nickname leatherneck.
“General,” said Dog.
“Colonel, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m glad we’re working together.”
“We’ll do our best.”
“That’s the spirit, Bastian,” said Woods. “Your people are to coordinate the intelligence, the Marines will be the muscle. Aircraft from the Lincoln will fly cover. Everybody on the same page?”
Dog reached for his coffee as Woods continued. The specific operation plans would have to be developed by the Marine Corps officers.
“Your people would be very valuable, Colonel,” said Harrison. “Your Whiplash crew?”
“My officer in charge of Whiplash is aboard the Abner Read,” said Dog. “I don’t—”
“We’ll airlift him to the Lincoln,” said Woods. “What other problems do I have to solve?”
“No problems,” said Dog. Harrison remained silent.
“Good,” said Woods. “Gentlemen, you have my authorization to do whatever it takes to make this work. This is the chance of a millennium. History will remember us.”
I hope in a good way, thought Dog as the screen blacked out.
THE NEW SEARCH PROGRAM JENNIFER HAD DEVELOPED called for the Megafortress to fly in a path calculated from the weather conditions and known characteristics of the ejection seats and the crew members’ parachutes. The flight path aligned the plane with the peculiarities of the survival radio’s transmission capabilities; while it didn’t actually boost its range, the effect was the same.
The program gave Englehardt the option of turning the aircraft over to the computer to fly or of following a path marked for him on the heads-up display projected in front of the windscreen.
“Which do you think I should do, Colonel?” the pilot asked. “I’m comfortable with however you want to fly it,” Dog said. “If it were me, I’d want the stick in my hand. But completely your call.”
“Thank you, sir. I think I’ll fly it myself.”
“Very good.”
Lieutenant Englehardt was one of the new wave of pilots who’d come to Dreamland in the wake of the Megafortress’s success. Young enough to be Dog’s son, he was part of a generation that had known things like video games and computers their whole lives. They weren’t comfortable with technology—they’d been born into it, and accepted it the way Dog accepted his arms and legs.
Still, the fact that Englehardt would rather rely on himself than the computer impressed Dog. It was an old-fashioned conceit, but some prejudices were worth keeping.
Dog went over to the techie working the sea surveillance radar, Staff Sergeant Brian Daly. Aside from small boats anchored near the coast for the night, Daly had only a single contact on his screen: an Indian patrol vessel of the Jija Bai class. Roughly the equivalen
t of a small U.S. Coast Guard cutter, the ship carried two 7.62mm guns that could be used against aircraft, but posed no threat to the high-flying Megafortress.
“Two Tomcats from the Lincoln hailing us, Colonel,” said Kevin Sullivan, the copilot.
“Say hello.”
While Sullivan spoke to the pilots in the F-14 fighters, Dog looked over the shoulder of Technical Sergeant Thomas Rager, who manned the airborne radar. With the exception of the Tomcats, which had come from the Lincoln a good six hundred miles to the south, the Megafortress had the sky to itself. Neither Pakistan nor India had been able to get any flights airborne following the total collapse of their electrical networks, and the Chinese carrier Khan, now heading southward at a slow pace, had been damaged so severely that she appeared no longer capable of launching or recovering aircraft.
“Squids wish us well,” said Sullivan, using a universal nickname for sailors. “They’re on long-range reconnaissance for the carrier group. They haven’t heard anything from our guys or seen any flares over the water. They’ll keep looking.”
“Thank them.”
The weight of his fatigue settled on Dog’s shoulders. He’d tried to sleep in the cot in the unused upper Flighthawk bay earlier but couldn’t. He went to the back of the flight deck and pulled down the jumpseat, settling down, watching the crew at work.
He had to find his people. All of them, but Breanna especially.
He’d almost lost her twice before. Each time, the pain seemed to grow worse. Now it felt like an arrow the size of his fist, pushing against his heart.
Though they worked together, Dog couldn’t honestly say they were very close, at least not if closeness was measured by the things fathers and daughters usually did together. Every so often they’d go out to eat, but he couldn’t remember the last time they’d fished or biked or hiked. They didn’t even run together, something they both liked to do.