by Dale Brown
A bird passed overhead, then another, then a flock. Breanna looked at them and started to rise. She was smiling.
“Bree,” he called. “Bree.”
As she glanced down toward him a look of sorrow appeared on her face, her sadness so painful that it froze him in place. He felt his heart shrivel inside his chest, all of his organs disintegrating, his bones pushing inward suddenly. He wanted to say more but her look stopped him, her sadness so deep that the entire world turned black.
And she was gone.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett
2202
ENGLEHARDT KNEW HE COULD BEAT THE MIGS IF THEY fired. He saw in his mind exactly what he’d do: jive and jab and zigzag while Sullivan hit the ECMs. He’d drop low, then come up swinging—fire the Anacondas at point-blank range.
The question was: What would he do if they didn’t fire?
“Still coming at us,” said Rager. “Slowing.”
Englehardt checked his position. The Bennett was close to the Chinese border—another problem, he thought; if he went over it, the Chinese might send someone to investigate as well.
That might be a good idea. He could duck out of the way and let the two enemies go at it.
“MiGs are thirty miles and closing,” said Sullivan.
Englehardt once again thought of radioing for instructions. But there was no point in that—he’d only be told to use his judgment.
That was the Dreamland way, wasn’t it? You were on your own, trained to make the call. A Megafortress flying alone wasn’t “controlled” by an AWACS or even a flight leader—its pilot was on his or her own. If he wasn’t up to the responsibility, he didn’t belong in the cockpit in the first place.
So do it. Just do it.
And yet he balked, inherently cautious.
“Are they talking to anyone?” Englehardt asked.
“If they are, we’re not hearing it,” said the copilot.
Englehardt flipped over to the Dreamland Command channel to speak to Danny Freah.
“Captain, we have a couple of Indian aircraft up here taking an interest in us. Are you ready to get out of there?”
“We need ten more minutes.”
“I’m going to lead these planes away from the area. When you take off, have the Osprey stay low in that mountain valley. The MiGs shouldn’t be able to see them on radar.”
“Good. Copy.”
He had it figured out now: he’d fool the Indians, diverting their attention while the Ospreys got away.
Was that the smart thing to do? Or was he wimping? Maybe he should shoot them down.
“I’m going to try talking to those bastards myself,” said Englehardt. “I’m going to broadcast on all channels and see what the hell they’re up to.”
“Take your shot,” said Sullivan.
Englehardt identified himself and the ship, saying they were on a Search and Rescue mission and asking the Indians’ intentions. Once again they didn’t answer.
“Ten miles,” said Sullivan. “Still closing.”
“Get ready on the Stinger air mines.”
“Yeah,” said Sullivan.
The two MiGs had widened their separation as they approached. They flanked the Megafortress, then slowly began drawing toward her wings, still separated from her by a mile or so.
“American EB-52,” said one of the Indians finally. “Why are you over Indian territory?”
“I’m on a Search and Rescue mission for American fliers,” said Englehardt. “Why didn’t you answer my earlier radio broadcasts?”
The Indians once more chose not to answer. The Megafortress’s radio, however, picked up a succession of squeals and clicks, indicating they were using an encrypted radio system to talk to someone.
“Gotta be talking to their ground controller,” said Sullivan. “What do you think? Did he just tell them to shoot us down or leave us alone?”
BY SLOWING DOWN TO MATCH THE MEGAFORTRESS’S SPEED, the MiGs allowed Hawk Two to catch up to them. Starship angled Hawk Two toward the tail of the closest MiG, which was aiming itself roughly toward the Bennett’s right wing. The Flighthawk’s faceted body and absorbent skin gave it a radar profile about the size of a flying cockroach, and the black matte paint made it hard to pick up in the night sky. But even if it had been daylight the Flighthawk would have been nearly impossible for the MiG pilot to see; Starship had the plane exactly behind his tailfin.
“Computer, hold position on aircraft identified as Bandit Two.”
“Hold position.”
Starship took over the controls for Hawk One, still circling low over the recovery site. The Indian ground unit had stopped about a mile south of the landslide. The Americans, meanwhile, were getting ready to bug out.
This is going to work out, he thought. The Osprey was going to sneak away, and then the Megafortress would head over to Pakistan and go home without the Indians knowing exactly what was going on.
Then he noticed a flicker in the lower corner of Hawk One’s screen.
He pushed his throttle slide up to full.
“Hawk leader to Whiplash ground team—Danny, there are helicopters trying to sneak in up that valley behind the Indian ground units.”
Jamu
2205
STARSHIP’S WARNING CAME JUST AS THE WARHEAD WAS secured and the Marines had been ordered to return from their lookout posts. Danny needed a second to work out in his head where everyone was. Then he jumped in the back of the V-22, slipped through the nest of lines and straps holding the warhead in place, and ran to the cockpit.
“Helos coming up that road,” he told the pilot. “Can you get us out without them seeing us?”
“No way, Captain,” said the pilot. “I have to clear that ridge ahead or go right past them. Either way, they’ll see us.”
“All right. Go over the ridge as soon as we’re secured back here.” He switched his radio on. “Starship, see if you can slow those guys down a bit. We want to exit to the north.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett
2207
STARSHIP TOOK HAWK ONE STRAIGHT AT THE LEAD INDIAN helicopter, a large Mi-8 Hip troop carrier. He got so close to the chopper that if he’d tipped his wing down he could have sliced through its rotors.
He cut over the second chopper—another Hip—then circled around for another pass. If either helicopter pilot had seen him, they didn’t let on; both aircraft continued flying through the valley. They were doing about seventy knots, flying so low that their rear wheels, which hung on struts off the side of the fuselage, couldn’t have been more than a foot off the ground.
“This time I’m going to get your attention,” said Starship. He pulled into the valley ahead of the helicopters, jammed his stick back and let off a bunch of flares, climbing into the night like a giant Roman candle. Both helicopters immediately set down. Their rotors continued to spin, and the sandstorm that had been following them caught up.
“Helicopters are down, Whiplash,” said Starship. “Get out of there while you can.”
AMERICAN MEGAFORTRESS! WHY ARE YOU FIRING ON OUR helicopter?”
“We’re not firing at all,” said Englehardt. “You’re sitting right with us.”
“Cease your fire!” repeated the Indian.
“MiGs are dropping back,” said Sullivan. “Getting into position to fire heat-seekers at us. Air mines?”
Yes, thought Englehardt. Then no.
Anacondas?
He was way out of position for that. He’d have to use the Stinger.
They still hadn’t fired.
“Wait until they activate their weapons radars,” he told Sullivan.
“They don’t need their weapons radars,” said the pilot. “Hell, they can hit us with spitballs.”
“Starship, where are you?” asked Englehardt. He could feel sweat running down every part of his body, and his colon felt as if it was about to jump through his skin.
“Hawk Two is right behind Bandit Two. Hawk One is back with Indian helicopters.�
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“Did you fire at them?”
“Just used my flares to get their attention. It worked.”
“Marine Osprey Angry Bear is up,” said Sullivan.
“Cover the Osprey, Starship.”
“Yeah, roger, circling back to cover them.”
“American Megafortress, you will leave the area,” said the Indian pilot.
“I intend to,” answered Englehardt. “Be advised that we are over Chinese territory.”
“They’re talking to their controller again,” reported Sullivan. “They’re saying a lot of something.”
“As long as they’re talking, not firing, we’re fine,” replied the pilot.
Aboard Marine Osprey Angry Bear One,
over northern India
2215
GRADUALLY, DANNY FREAH LOOSENED HIS GRIP ON THE strap near the bulkhead separating the Osprey cockpit from the cargo area. Finally he let go and looked at his palm. The strap’s indentations were clearly visible.
“We’re OK?” asked Jennifer Gleason, sitting on the bench next to him.
“Yeah. We’re good. The MiGs are following the Megafortress to the east. We’re out of here.”
Danny followed her gaze as she turned and looked at the warhead, snugged in the middle of the Osprey’s cargo bay. It seemed almost puny, sitting between the Marines and their gear.
“Funny that such a small thing could cause so much destruction,” Danny said.
“I was just thinking it looks almost harmless there,” said Jennifer. “Like part of a furnace that needs to be overhauled.”
“I guess.”
A tone sounded in his helmet. Danny clicked into the Dreamland channel.
“Freah.”
“Danny, a Global Hawk with infrared sensors just located the last warhead,” said Dog. “It’s fifty miles north of you.”
“OK, Colonel. Team Three is waiting at Base Camp One. They can be airborne inside of ten minutes. Take them about sixty to get there.”
“I’m afraid it’ll be too late by then,” said Dog. “The Global Hawk has spotted a pair of pickups near the site, and four or five men nearby. Looks like another two trucks are on their way.”
“Give me the GPS point,” Danny replied.
VII
No Chance to Survive
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over the Chinese-Indian border
2230
THE MIGS STILL HADN’T MADE A THREATENING MOVE. Englehardt locked his eyes on the sitrep, sizing up the situation. The lead aircraft was about three miles behind the Megafortress. He was in the Stinger’s sweet spot—but then again, the Bennett would be right in the sights of a heat-seeker or the MiG’s cannon.
The Stinger needed about twenty seconds to “warm up” once activated. Englehardt didn’t want to turn it on until he meant to use it; he reasoned that the Indians didn’t know it was there, and were thus more vulnerable to it.
The Dreamland channel buzzed.
“Go,” said Englehardt, opening the communication line.
“Mike, the last warhead has been found,” said Colonel Bastian. “Danny and the Marines are on their way. We want you to cover them.”
“Be happy to, Colonel, but I have a complication.”
Englehardt explained his situation. The colonel winced. But if Bastian thought he’d done the wrong thing, he didn’t say.
“They’re not hostile?” he asked.
“Annoying, definitely,” said Englehardt.
Dog continued to frown.
“Should I shoot them down?” Englehardt blurted. “The rules of engagement—”
“Take the MiGs south with you,” said Dog. “I’ll have the Cheli go northwest to cover Danny in Angry Bear. Have Starship escort the Osprey until they arrive.”
“Colonel, if—”
“Bastian out.”
Aboard Dreamland Cheli,
over the Great Indian Desert
2240
BRAD SPARKS SMILED AS THE MARINE LIEUTENANT GAVE AN update on the ground team, which had just secured its warhead and was en route to Base Camp One. She had the sexiest voice he’d ever heard on a military radio.
“Did you copy, Dreamland Cheli?” she demanded.
“Just daydreaming up here, Dancer,” Sparks told Lieutenant Klacker. “Anyone ever tell you you have a sexy voice?”
“Your transmission was garbled,” responded Dancer coldly. “I suggest you do not repeat it.”
“Hey, roger that,” chuckled Sparks. “All right, I have your ETA at Base Camp One at fifteen minutes. Those Osprey drivers agree?”
“Good. Copy.”
Sparks leaned back against the Megafortress’s ejection seat, arching his shoulders. As soon as the Osprey reached the base camp, the Navy boys from the Abe would take over; most likely they’d be free to go home. It had been a long, dull night, nowhere near as entertaining as their last go-round. But maybe that was what his crew needed. Their energy was off; no one was even laughing at his jokes.
Day on the beach at Diego Garcia might change that. Day on the beach with that hot little Navy ensign he’d spotted on the chow line the other morning would definitely boost his morale, at least.
The Dreamland channel buzzed. Sparks keyed the message in and found himself staring at Colonel Bastian.
“Hey, Colonel, what’s up?”
“Brad, we’ve found the last warhead. I need you to go north to cover the recovery team.”
“Kick ass, Colonel, we’re ready,” said Sparks. “Feed me the data.”
Near the Chinese-Pakistani border
2240
GENERAL SATTARI PUT THE NIGHT GLASSES DOWN
“The mujahideen are there now,” he said, speaking not to the men who’d helped him but to himself.
Sattari pushed the binoculars closer to his eyes, watching the men walk through the wreckage. They didn’t seem to realize that the warhead had already been taken. Most likely they didn’t know what they were looking for. Most if not all were ignorant kids, lured from their homes in Egypt and Yemen and Palestine by the promise that they’d be someone important.
“Helicopter,” said one of Sattari’s men.
The general didn’t hear it for a moment. Then he heard the deep rumble reverberating in the distance. It wasn’t a chopper that he was familiar with, yet he had definitely heard the sound before.
An Osprey—an American Osprey.
“Quickly. It is time to go,” he said loudly in Urdu, walking to the truck.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over India
2335
STARSHIP TOOK HAWK ONE AHEAD OF THE MARINE OSPREY, scouting the site where the warhead had been located. Even with the live infrared image from the Global Hawk orbiting above to guide him, he had trouble pinpointing the missile wreckage; to him it looked more like a slight depression in the landscape than anything else.
The pickup trucks, on the other hand, were clearly visible.
Starship slid Hawk One down through 10,000 feet, plotting the most efficient approach to the pickups. Almost immediately the piper in his gun sight screen began to blink red, indicating that he had his target. As the small reticule went solid red, he pressed the trigger.
While almost everything else in the Flighthawk represented cutting-edge, gee-whiz technology, the aircraft’s cannon was ancient; the M61 Vulcan 20mm Gatling hadn’t been cutting edge since before the Vietnam War. But sometimes the old iron was the best iron.
The first few shots went wide left and low, but Starship held his stick steady, riding the stream of 20mm lead across and into the rear of the first pickup truck. As the vehicle exploded in flames, his bullets hit the cab of the second truck. He flicked right, perforating the engine compartment before his momentum carried him clear of the targets. He started to turn, moving a little faster than he wanted to, but couldn’t find anything or anyone in front of him, so he pulled up for another run.
He checked Hawk Two—still riding behind the MiGs shadowing
the Bennett—then rolled Hawk One into a second attack. As he did, the Flighthawk’s computer warned that he was within ten miles of losing its connection to the mother ship. Starship glanced at the sitrep and realized he couldn’t complete the attack before losing the connection.
“Bennett, I need you to get closer to Hawk One,” he said. “I’m going to lose the connection.”
Englehardt didn’t answer. The Flighthawk and her mother ship were moving away from each other at close to a thousand miles an hour—or sixteen a minute.
“Disconnect in fifteen seconds,” warned the computer, using an audible message as well as the text on the screen.
“Bennett! Need you north!”
Starship felt the Megafortress lurch beneath him.
“We’re on it,” said Englehardt.
Near the Chinese-Pakistani border
2340
DANNY FREAH SQUATTED TO ONE SIDE OF THE PASSAGEWAY between the Osprey’s cockpit and cargo area, watching as the aircraft headed toward the landing zone. He could see the Flighthawk’s red-yellow tracers arcing across the sky. Small bursts of green rose up toward the spray—ground fire.
“What do you think, Captain?” asked one of the pilots.
“I think we’re going in, if you can make it.”
“We can make it.”
Danny turned around and yelled to the landing team. “LZ is hot. Show these bastards what the Marine Corps is made of.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over the Chinese-Indian border
2343
“MIGS ARE TALKING TO THEIR BASE AGAIN,” SULLIVAN TOLD Englehardt. “I’m betting they don’t like our course change.”