Retribution

by Dale Brown

  “Not if the guidance systems don’t function perfectly,” said Ray Rubeo.

  “They’ve passed most of the tests.”

  “There’s that word ‘most’ again,” said Rubeo. “Most means not all, which means not ready.”

  There was no question that the Anaconda AIM-154 long-range strike missile was an excellent weapon. A scramjet-powered hypersonic missile, it had a lethal range of nearly two hundred miles. It could ride a radar beam to its target, use its own onboard radar, or rely on an infrared seeker in its nose to hit home. For long-range or hypersonic engagements, the missile’s main solid motor boosted it to over Mach 3. As it reached that speed, the missile deployed air scoops, turning the motor chamber into a ramjet, boosting speed to Mach 5. Its warhead could be fashioned from either conventional high explosives or a more powerful thermium nitrate, which was especially useful against ground targets.

  The only knock against the missile was the fact that, as Rubeo pointed out, it still had not passed all of its tests. Like any new weapons system, the Anaconda had a few teething problems; in this case, they were primarily related to the target acquisition system and its interface with the Megafortresses’ computer systems, which Jennifer had been helping fix for the past few weeks.

  “I think we will err on the side of capability,” said Major Catsman finally. “We’ll ship the missiles to Diego Garcia and let Colonel Bastian make the final call.”

  Rubeo frowned. A smug look appeared on Calder’s face.

  Catsman looked frustrated. Unlike Colonel Bastian, who sometimes went out of his way to encourage dissent on military options, the major seemed frazzled by the differing opinions on how to help reinforce the Dreamland team. Since Colonel Bastian would have the final say on Diego Garcia, whether to send the Anaconda missiles or not was more a personnel issue than a weapons decision since sending the weapons would necessitate sending maintainers and techies to deal with them.

  The real problem was the fact that only one radar-equipped Megafortress was available for deployment, and there was no answer to that; Catsman knew she couldn’t flip a switch and speed up the refurbishment process. The EB-52 Cheli, just barely out of final flight testing, was already en route to Diego Garcia and would arrive shortly. The next radar version of the Megafortress wasn’t even due to get to Dreamland from the refurbishment works for another month.

  At least they had solved the problem of the two warheads that were missing from the projections. Rubeo found an error in the modifications that had been used to adapt the tracking program to its present use. But even that didn’t satisfy the scientist. Rather than accepting congratulations gracefully, he answered with the question: “And what else did we miss?

  “The new Flighthawks will give the Megafortresses better capability,” said Rubeo, still not done arguing his point. “That’s all they need.”

  “No, Ray, the matter is settled,” said Catsman. “We’ll send the Anacondas. And the new Flighthawks.”

  Similar in appearance to the original U/MF-3, the U/MF-3D had more powerful engines and a control system that would let it be piloted much farther from the Megafortress. While they, too, were in short supply, the aircraft had already passed their tests and were ready to deploy.

  Jennifer found her mind drifting as the discussion continued. She couldn’t concentrate on head counts and spare part contingencies; all she could think of was Dog.

  He hadn’t even looked at her, or asked how she was, when he briefed the Command Center.

  And he looked like hell.

  He needed her. She needed him.

  “I’m going with the MC-17,” she told Catsman as soon as the meeting ended. “I’ll help the technical teams. The new Flighthawks may need some work.”

  “They don’t need a nanny,” said Rubeo.

  Major Catsman just looked at her. Rubeo was right—the technical teams were self-contained. While she had worked on C3, the Flighthawk computer, her contributions were completed long ago.

  “The Anaconda missiles also need work,” she said.

  “Another reason not to send them,” said Rubeo. “And it’s not your project.”

  “I’ve worked on them,” said Jennifer.

  “We need you to do other things,” insisted Rubeo. “There is a great deal of work.”

  “If you think you should go,” said Catsman, “then you should go.”

  “I think I should,” said Jennifer. “And I am.”

  Indian Ocean,

  off the Indian coast

  Time unknown

  ZEN CRADLED BREANNA IN HIS LAP AS HE PULLED HIMSELF up toward the peak of the slope. Finally he stopped, collapsing on his side. Breanna fell with him, her weight dead against his body. At first he was too exhausted to think, too wiped to feel anything. Then gradually he realized where he was and who was lying on top of him.

  “OK, Breanna,” he said. “Breanna? Bree?”

  He lay on his back for a few minutes, an hour—it was impossible to tell how long. Clouds covered the moon then slowly slipped away. Finally, he shifted Breanna off him, sliding her weight away gently.

  Far in the distance, he heard a groan.

  The sound was so faint he wasn’t even sure he’d heard it at first. Then he thought it was an animal. Then, finally, he realized it had come from his wife.

  “Bree,” he said, pushing up. “Bree?”

  Zen rolled her onto her back, then undid her helmet strap, still not daring to look at her face. Without the ability to kneel, he had to shift himself around awkwardly until he was sitting and her head was resting on his thighs. He closed his eyes and removed the helmet, prying as gently as possible, cradling her head down to the ground.

  Her face was badly bruised. Zen guessed she’d hit the plane going out, probably harder than he had.

  She looked peaceful, except for the purple welts. She looked like she was sleeping.

  Tears came to his eyes. He was sure he’d imagined the sound; sure she was dead.

  Until her lips parted.

  Cautiously, he pushed his face down to hers. She was breathing.

  “Bree?” he said, pulling back upright. “Bree?”

  She didn’t say anything, but he thought she stirred.

  “I’m here, baby,” he said, leaning back down as close as he could. “I’m here.”

  Aboard the Bennett,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0243, 16 January 1998

  “SEARCH PATTERN IS COMPLETE, COLONEL,” ENGLEHARDT told Dog as the Megafortress completed the last orbit. “Nothing.”

  “The Lincoln’s search assets will be up within the hour,” added Lieutenant Sullivan. “We’ve given them the flight projections Dreamland ran.”

  His men were subtly telling him that it was time to get on with the rest of their mission—finding the warheads. They had roughly six hundred miles to go before getting into the search area.

  Dog pushed a long breath from his lungs.

  “All right.” Dog couldn’t quite force enthusiasm into his voice; he had to settle for authority. “Mikey, get us on course. I’m going to take another shot at taking a nap. Wake me up when we’re starting the search.”

  “You got it, Colonel.”

  Dog tapped the back of the pilot’s seat and started for the upper Flighthawk bay. Daly put up his hand and stopped him as he passed.

  “We’ll find her, Colonel. Starship or someone will get her. And Zen. Don’t worry.”

  Dog patted the sergeant on the shoulder.

  “Thanks,” he told him. “I know we will.”

  III

  Finders Keepers

  Southeastern Iran,

  near the coast

  0200, 16 January 1998

  (0300, Karachi)

  GENERAL MANSOUR SATTARI PACED THE LONG HALL OF THE mosque’s auxiliary building, waiting for word of his son.

  That Captain Val Muhammad Ben Sattari had launched the final phase of the elaborate plan, there could be no doubt. India and Pakistan w
ere at war, and had spent the day before trading accusations at the UN that each had tried to annihilate the other. The American President had gone on television and claimed that the U.S. had prevented nuclear weapons from exploding after the missiles were launched and would now work for peace, but CNN also reported that the power grids in both countries had been wiped out—a sure sign to General Sattari that several nuclear weapons had exploded, regardless of what the U.S. said. That meant his son had succeeded in his goal.

  Now, if only Allah, blessed be His name, saw fit to carry Val back to him unharmed. Then he would launch his own goal—overthrowing the black robes who had ruined his life, and his country.

  The general continued to pace, his shoes squeaking on the tile. He was alone in the building, and knew he would be for several hours. This was good—he did not want others to see his impatience as he waited for news from his son. He believed that a general must always maintain an image of calm and control, even in the most trying times.

  Unlike the prayer hall of the mosque, this building was nearly brand new, and while the architect had preserved the ancient style of the older structures, no expense had been spared on the lavish interior. The floors were marble from the best quarries in Italy. The walls were wood veneer taken from East Africa. Even the furniture, hand carved by Iranian craftsmen, was finely wrought.

  General Sattari stopped his pacing as the music from the television in the assembly room suddenly blared, announcing another bulletin. He folded his arms and listened as an American anchorman began running down the “latest” on the situation. This turned out to be primarily a rehash of earlier reports, the only exception being the news that the U.S. President had sent an aircraft carrier to the region.

  Sattari frowned. He considered going into the room and changing the channel to Sky News, the British network. But he’d done that twice already, only to realize that CNN’s information was more up to date. And so instead he simply resumed his pacing, noting to himself that the fact that news was simply trickling in was an indication of how complete the destruction had been.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  0310

  THE MARINE CORPS OSPREY FLUTTERED LEFT AND RIGHT, ducking in and out of the spotlights as it descended toward the deck. At eighty-four feet counting the spinning rotors, the aircraft’s tilt-wings extended well over the sides of the narrow-beamed ship, so it looked to Danny as if the Osprey would tip the Abner Read up from the stern when it landed. But the ship remained steady, and within a few moments two members of the crew had fastened restraints to the Osprey’s body to keep it from slipping off the deck. When they were done, the forward hatch of the Osprey opened and two Marines stepped out.

  “Dancer, we meet again,” shouted Danny to the trim figure that led the way forward.

  “I had a feeling you’d be in the middle of things,” said Lieutenant Emma “Dancer” Klacker, shaking Danny’s hand. “This is Major Behrens from the general’s staff. He’s the general’s intel geek.”

  “Major.”

  “Captain Freah’s the Dreamland crazy who helped stop the pirates a few months back in the Gulf of Aden,” Dancer told her companion. “I told him another operation like that and we’d make him an honorary Marine.”

  “This may be his chance, then,” said Behrens.

  Danny led the way to the Abner Read’s Tactical Center, which the ship’s captain had loaned them for the briefing. The holographic table at the center of the space displayed a three-dimensional map of northern India; Dreamland’s map of the possible locations of the warheads had been superimposed on the layout. Danny quickly sketched out the situation.

  The U-2 had spotted two missiles in a mountain valley south of the Pakistan-India border. Fired by India, the weapons had crashed in the high desert two hundred miles from the coast. The Bennett had identified another seventy-five miles to the northeast, closer to the border on lower land. The remaining warheads—twenty-five—were still to be found.

  “This area has the most promise,” said Danny, pointing to a spot in the southern Thar Desert. “You can see from the projections there may be as many as six here, all launched from Pakistan. The Bennett will look there next.”

  Danny explained that both countries lost their power grids, throwing them into chaos. Things were even worse in the wide swath of territory affected by the EEMWBs, where all electronics had been wiped out, even those that ran on batteries or could be connected to backup generators off the grid. It included all of the areas where the missiles were thought to have gone down. With the exception of three small radars on the west coast, the military installations in the rest of India were either using their radars intermittently or not at all because of power problems. The Indians had two phased-array, long-range warning radar aircraft. One had been wiped out by the T-Rays and crashed near Delhi. The other was patrolling the east coast of the country, helping to monitor a Chinese fleet there.

  The Chinese, meanwhile, had ordered the stricken aircraft carrier Khan to return to port. It was still north, near Pakistan, preparing to go south. Even if it remained where it was, Danny said, it was in no shape to challenge their operations.

  “Our real handicap right now is low-level reconnaissance. The Megafortress isn’t equipped with Flighthawks. That should be remedied by this evening. Which brings me to another problem—we need to get our top Flighthawk pilot down to Diego Garcia so he can help out.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Catching some z’s in a rack,” said Danny.

  “He’s aboard ship?” asked Dancer.

  “He’s been running the Werewolf and training the Abner Read’s crew to handle it themselves. We were hoping you could take him back to the Lincoln and fly him down to Diego Garcia. We can arrange refuels.”

  Dancer turned to Major Behrens. Danny stared at her face. She was a serious, serious temptation, even for a married man.

  Especially for a married man.

  He just barely managed to look away as Dancer turned back.

  “I think the general can persuade the captain of the Lincoln to spare an airplane,” said Behrens. “Or we can arrange something with Ospreys. We’ll work it out.”

  “Good,” said Danny. He sensed that Dancer was staring at him and kept his own eyes focused on the table. “How soon can you get people on the ground, and what’s the game plan?”

  “Major, Lieutenant, I’m sorry I was busy when you arrived,” said Storm, striding into the room unannounced. “Welcome aboard.”

  Danny stepped to the side, thankful for the interruption. He was married, he reminded himself. And this was work.

  But damn, Dancer looked even more gorgeous than he remembered. The Marine camo uniform somehow accented her dusky rose face, and it didn’t hide her trim hips. She wore her black hair in a tight braid that looked part Amazon warrior, part beauty queen.

  “We’re happy to host you,” continued Storm. “Make us your operations center.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” said Major Behrens, “but we’ve already set up temporary ops on the carrier. Our ship is on her way; she should be close enough to handle full operations in fifty-six hours.”

  “You’ll be done by then,” said Storm gruffly.

  Danny kept his smile to himself. Storm liked to be in the middle of the action.

  “Hopefully,” agreed Dancer. “In the meantime, Captain, we’d be grateful of any support you can give. This is one of the best ships in the Navy,” she added, turning to Behrens. “It’s the future. I’ve seen the crew in the action. They’re very good.”

  “What about you, Captain Freah?” Storm asked, pretending to ignore the compliment—though he’d shaded slightly. “Where are you going to be?”

  “You’re coming with me and the assault team, aren’t you, Captain?” asked Dancer.

  “Wherever we’re needed,” said Danny, holding her gaze for the first time since she’d come on board.

  It felt good—too good, he
knew. But he didn’t break it, and neither did she.

  DANCER’S UNSOLICITED COMPLIMENT ABOUT THE ABNER Read didn’t lift Storm’s mood. Having shot off all his missiles in combat, he found himself nearly impotent just when things were going to turn hot again. True, he had torpedoes, but they were intended primarily for use against submarines and had nowhere near the range of Harpoons. Nor would they be much good against airplanes.

  And the more he thought about it, the more he was sure he was going to face airplanes very soon. Not from the Indians, but from the Khan.

  The master of the Chinese ship resented the fact that they had picked up his pilot. Storm could tell from the brief communication he’d sent, almost a blowoff, when they’d shipped the man out in the Sharkboat. And the Khan was still north, clearly planning something.

  “Captain, you have a minute?” asked Eyes as he started for the bridge.

  “Sure,” he told his exec.

  “In private?”

  Storm nodded, then followed Eyes forward to the galley, a short distance away.

  “Coffee, sir?”

  “No, I’ve had my fill,” said Storm. “What’s up?”

  “I’m wondering if we’re going to have an option on what port we put into, and if so, I’d like to make some suggestions,” said Eyes.

  “Port?” sputtered Storm.

  “Aren’t we going to get—”

  Storm didn’t let him finish. “We’re not going into port. Not now. Do you understand what we’re in the middle of?”

  “We’ve done our part,” said Eyes. “Between the action earlier—”

  “What’s gotten into you, Eyes?”

  “What do you mean, Storm?”

  “You don’t want to quit, do you?”

  “Quit?”

  “You’re talking about going home.”

  “Captain, we have no more weapons. We have to replenish.”