by Dale Brown
“Switch me to Admiral Woods’s staff,” said Dog.
“If it were my people, I’d do the same thing,” the commander replied before making the connection.
The lieutenant who came on the line was considerably less sympathetic.
“The carrier cannot be in two places at one time. That position is nearly twelve hours from where we are. And the entire task force is needed to shelter the warheads and get them away safely. You have your own people involved,” said the lieutenant. “You don’t want us to abandon them.”
“I’m not talking about abandoning them,” said Dog. “I’m talking about recovering two of my people.”
“I’m sympathetic,” said the lieutenant, sounding anything but. “For now, this is what we can do.”
Dog smacked the connection button, killing the line. He was about to call General Samson, then thought better of it. From the remarks he’d heard Woods’s staff make earlier, Samson had even less influence with Tex Woods, who saw him as a rival for a future command appointment.
And the truth was, all Dog had was a single radio transmission, without a real location.
He laid out the paper map on the large table in the trailer’s common area. He plotted the point where the others had been picked up and where the Flighthawk heard the call. The area to the north had been searched. So it could be that Zen was even farther south, near the small islands off the Indian coast.
Maybe he could have the Cheli come south along the coast on its way back to Diego Garcia.
He got up and went to the communications area, located just behind the large open room.
“Things are hot down there,” Brad Sparks told him. “A couple of guys took hits. They’re going to evac any second. We’ll shadow them to Base Camp One. A lot of action up here, Colonel.”
“Right. Stay with it.”
“Colonel, did you want something specific?”
“Just making sure everything is OK.”
“Hey, not a problem, Colonel. We were born ready.”
Dog checked back with the Bennett. “Englehardt, what’s your situation?”
“I’m down to one and a half engines, but clear of the Indian defenses.”
Dog listened soberly when Englehardt explained the extent of the Bennett’s damage. He figured they could make it back to Diego Garcia, but it would take an extremely long time.
And maybe a little luck.
He wished he’d taken the plane himself.
“All right, Mike. I know you can do it.”
“Thanks, Colonel.”
Dog rose. If Zen’s transmission was going to be checked out, he’d have to do it himself.
VIII
Homecoming
Diego Garcia
0155, 19 January 1998
DOG HAD ONLY ONE AIRPLANE AT DIEGO GARCIA THAT WAS both available and had sufficient range to get up to the area where the communication had been received—Quickmover, Dreamland’s MC-17.
Based on the McDonnell-Douglas Globemaster III C-17, Quickmover had been specially upgraded by the Dreamland design team to act as a front-line, combat cargo ship. Equipped with state of the art avionics and locating gear that would allow the aircraft to drop supplies and paratroopers deep inside hostile territory, Quickmover had proven herself in combat several times. But she was still a cargo aircraft with no offensive capability; if things got nasty, her only option would be to run away. The ship would have virtually no chance of surviving a gauntlet like the one the Bennett had just gone through.
But that didn’t prevent the crew from volunteering for the mission as soon as Dog told them what was going on.
“Let’s get the hell in the air,” said Captain Harry “Whitey” Golden, the pilot, when Dog told him about the transmission.
Whitey—his premature gray dome made the nickname a natural—spoke for the entire crew. The aircraft was airborne and winging north inside of twenty minutes.
As in a standard C-17, the flight crew worked on a deck at the front of the aircraft, sitting above the auditorium-size cargo area. Automation allowed the aircraft to operate with only three crewmen: a pilot, copilot, and combination loadmaster/crew chief.
Dog sat in one of the auxiliary crew seats, studying a set of paper maps of the western shore of India and trying to puzzle out what might have happened to the Levitow after its crew had bailed out. The first six members of the crew had been rescued about 160 miles west and twenty south of Vera-val; according to the copilot, the plane was flying due west at the time and the search had concentrated in that general area.
They’d widened the search, of course, but among the assumptions they’d made were that the plane had continued roughly on the course and that Zen and Breanna had gone out within two or three minutes of the others—reasonable guesses, especially as the plane had been descending rapidly before the others bailed.
But what if, right after the bulk of the crew bailed, the plane had turned back toward India or gone south, staying in the air for ten or even fifteen minutes longer before Zen and Breanna jumped?
The Megafortress’s computer was supposed to hold it on course, but Dog had seen firsthand how difficult the plane could be to steer with the holes torn in the skin when the ejection seats blew.
He drew a long box along the coast of India, extending nearly three hundred miles south from where the others had been found. Below the box, another hundred miles or so, were the Aminidivis islands.
Could they have made it that far south?
Probably not, he thought. But they would go over them anyway. He extended his box.
“Fly us up through here,” he told Whitey. “We’ll broadcast on the Guard band and listen on all of them.”
“Got it, Colonel.”
“If you get a radar warning from one of those SA-3 batteries along the coast, you get the hell west. Don’t stop, just go.”
“We’re well above them.”
“You go west, you got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Colonel, how long should we search?” asked the copilot, Sandra McGill.
“Until we find them or have to refuel,” said Dog. “Or until General Samson finds out where I am and has my head.”
Aboard Marine Osprey Angry Bear One,
over northern India
0403
AS DANNY FREAH SAT BACK IN THE RACKLIKE BENCH OF THE Marine Osprey, two thoughts filled his head:
Man, am I tired.
Man, do we have a long way to go before I can get some rest.
His eyes started to droop. As he drifted toward sleep, he saw Dancer in front of him.
Out of uniform.
Way out of uniform.
Nice, he thought. Very nice.
Someone shook his leg.
“Yeah, what?” said Danny, sitting upright.
“Pilots want to talk to you, Captain,” said Gunny.
Danny got up and leaned into the cockpit.
“Troops are moving on both sides of the border near Base Camp One,” said the pilot. “They want us to go straight on to the Poughkeepsie. We’ll have to set up a refuel. Can you tell the Megafortress what’s going on while I work out the refueling details? We need to meet an Osprey from the Lincoln.”
“Not a problem.”
Brad Sparks was his usual overcaffeinated self, telling him the escort would be no problem. Danny next checked in with Sergeant Liu and the Whiplash detail back at the Base Camp; Liu told him tersely that things were under control “but we’re moving triple time.”
Clearly, the sergeant was still shaken by what had happened at the house, thought Danny. But he sounded a little better, or maybe just busier—the two sometimes went together.
The corpsman was checking on Jennifer when he snapped off the line.
“How’s she doin’?” Danny asked.
“She’s lost a good bunch of blood from that knee,” said the corpsman. “Like to get her treatment as soon as we can. Real soon.”
“We’re working on it.”
Aboard Dreamland Cheli,
over India
0440
CHEECH LONG’S NASAL DRAWL BROKE THE SILENCE.
“MiGs look like they’re taking an interest,” the radar officer told Sparks. “Changing course.”
“We’re ready,” said Sparks. “Keep watchin’ ’em.”
The MiGs were Indian MiG-21s, flying a little more than two hundred miles to the west—behind them now as they swung with the Osprey. Sparks decided the MiGs weren’t going to catch up; he’d save his missiles for planes that would.
“Spoon Rest radar,” said his copilot, Lieutenant Steve Micelli. “A hundred miles south.”
The radar indicated an SA-2 ground-to-air battery. Their present flight plan would keep them out of the missiles’ range.
“All sorts of goodies under the Christmas tree today, huh?” said Sparks.
“Looks like somebody told them we were coming,” said Micelli.
“I think it was Cheech,” said Sparks. “He’s always looking for a fight.”
“Had to be Cowboy,” Cheech retorted. “Those Flighthawk guys live for trouble.”
“You got a problem with that?” said Lieutenant Josh “Cowboy” Plank.
“Negative, Cowboy,” said Sparks. “Just keep your Flighthawk juiced and loose.”
“Just remember I’m on your tail,” replied the Flighthawk pilot.
“Hard to forget.”
“Chinese J-8s, coming at us hard,” warned Cheech, his voice now serious. “Four planes. Two hundred miles. They’re doing Mach 2.”
“Micelli, target them with the Anacondas,” Sparks said.
“Not supposed to shoot until they threaten us,” answered the copilot.
“I interpret afterburners as a threat. Take the mothers out,” said Sparks.
Aboard Dreamland MC-17 Quickmover
0453
COLONEL BASTIAN KEYED THE MICROPHONE AGAIN.
“Dreamland MC-17 Quickmover to Levitow crew. Come in, Major Stockard.”
He paused to listen. Something was scratching at the back of his throat, and he took another sip of the herbal tea the crew chief had brewed. Then he tried the broadcast again.
“Colonel, we have a surface ship in our search box,” said Whitey when Dog paused to listen for a response. “The Abner Read. Very northern end.”
“Ask them if they’ll help.”
“Already have.”
“And?”
“Captain Gale wants to talk to you.”
Dog punched into the circuit. “Bastian.”
“Colonel, I understand you require assistance. What’s the status of your search?”
“Two crewmen are still missing,” said Dog. He told Storm about the radio transmission and briefly explained his theories about where the crew might have bailed.
“We’re inside your box. We’ll do what we can,” said Storm.
“Thanks. Bastian out.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Indian Ocean
0500
STORM FROWNED AS THE LINE SNAPPED CLEAR. BASTIAN had been abrupt as always, barely acknowledging his offer of help.
Some people were just social jerks, he thought.
It didn’t matter, though. This was their chance to get back in the game, if only a little. Anything was better than sitting at sea and twiddling their thumbs like a garbage scow waiting to sweep up the slops. The crew was starting to get bored: a disease worse than death, in Storm’s opinion.
“Eyes, I want to set up a thorough search for two downed Dreamlanders,” Storm said, switching over to his internal line. “The Werewolf, everything we’ve got.”
“Already working on it, Captain.”
Aboard Dreamland Cheli,
over India
0512
SPARKS THOUGHT THEY HAD THINGS PRETTY WELL COVERED. The Anacondas were about sixty seconds from hitting the Chinese J-8s, and the SA-2 radar had turned itself off.
Then a mobile SA-3 battery turned on its radar and began directing it at the Marine Osprey.
“Get Angry Bear out of there,” Sparks told his copilot, Micelli. “Flighthawk leader—yo, Cowboy, toast the SAMs.”
“SA-3 toast coming up.”
“More aircraft. No IDs,” said Cheech at the airborne radar. “Three, maybe four planes. Two hundred fifty miles, bearing—”
“What do you mean, ‘maybe four’?” snapped Sparks.
“Make it three. Things are getting a little hot here, Sparks,” added the sergeant. For the first time since Sparks had worked with him, Cheech’s voice contained a note of stress.
“What are they?”
“Working on it. Tentatively, Sukhois. Su-27s.”
“Find out for sure and keep an eye on them.”
“Missile one has hit lead J-8,” said the copilot. “Bam!”
“I can do without the sound effects, Micelli.”
“Bam!” repeated the copilot, even louder. “Splash the second J-8. Kick ass.”
The crew’s banter level continued to edge up over the next few minutes, even as the threat board reddened with fighters and ground radars. No sooner had the Flighthawk taken out the radar for the SA-3s than a small dish radar for an ancient ZSU-23 lit up a few miles down the road. The ZSU-23 was a four-barreled cannon. Though old, it was hell on low-flying aircraft like the Osprey. While Cowboy got after it, Spark urged the pilot in the Osprey to get the hell out to sea.
“I’m moving,” said the Marine.
“Move faster,” said Sparks.
“You want to go like a bronco with a firecracker in its papoose,” cut in Cowboy.
Micelli and Cheech heard the communication and started roaring.
“I’m glad you guys are having fun,” said Sparks. “Keep at it.”
“Tracking Indian Sukhois,” responded Cheech, his voice somewhat more serious. “Two hundred miles. Losing them.”
The Sukhois turned off, but two Chinese planes joined the fray, flying over Pakistan. These were MiG-31s, similar to the aircraft Colonel Bastian had encountered some days before. Sparks decided he would target them with Anacondas right away—and wasn’t surprised when they fired their own missiles, apparently radar homers, just as the first Anaconda left the bay.
“Launch the Quail,” he told Sparks, referring to the radar decoy.
“Still trying to get a lock on the second MiG,” replied the copilot.
“Well, lock the motherfucker and let’s go.”
“I’m working on it, Sparks. Relax.”
The pilot brought up the decoy screen and handled the Quail II himself. Similar in many respects to its Cold War era forebear, the Quail II had an artificial radar profile and could broadcast radio and radar signals similar to the Megafortress’s own. With the decoy launched, Sparks took a sharp turn away, making sure the bait was between him and the missiles.
“Foxfire One,” said Micelli finally. “Anaconda away.”
The missile ripped out from under the Cheli as if angry that it had been delayed.
“Why are you having so much trouble?” Sparks asked. “You were one-two-three on the test range.”
“We ain’t on the freakin’ test range,” said Micelli. “The radar isn’t interfacing right. It’s getting hung up in the ident routine. I don’t know. Where’s Jen Gleason when you need her?”
“She’s in that Osprey we’re trying to protect,” said Sparks. “So we better do a good job.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
WHAT WAS THAT SOUND? ZEN WONDERED. AN AIRPLANE?
If so, it was very far away—beyond his imagination. Beyond everything. He only existed on this tiny collection of rocks; he could not think beyond it.
An airplane.
He picked the radio up mechanically, made sure it was set to broadcast, made sure the voice option was selected.
He should broadcast, shouldn’t he? That was his job, even though his life was here.
“Zen Stockard�
�” His voice broke. He stopped speaking for a few seconds. Could he imagine himself beyond these rocks? Was there another place to go?
“Zen Stockard to any aircraft. Any aircraft,” he repeated. “Mayday. Mayday. Airman down…Pilot down…Mayday. Zen Stockard.”
He listened for the inevitable silence. But instead words came.
“Give me your location, Zen.”
Had he heard the voice yesterday, the day before, he would have laughed and answered with glee. He would have made a joke or said something grateful, or done one of a dozen other things.
Now he simply replied, “Colonel Bastian, I’m on a treeless atoll somewhere off the coast of India. I don’t have a GPS.”
“Roger that Zen. Jeff—Breanna? Is she with you?”
Zen glanced toward her, unsure what to say.
“Yes,” he managed finally.
“Thank God. Keep talking to me. Just keep talking. We’re going to find you. Keep talking so we can home in your signal.”
Was there anything to say?
Anything?
“Zen?”
“I guess I’m a little thirsty,” he said finally. “And hungry. But mostly thirsty.”
Aboard Dreamland Cheli,
over India
0515
“ANGRY BEAR, CUT NINETY DEGREES,” SAID MICELLI, warning the Osprey of yet another ground battery. “Cut and stop. Shit. You got a zsu-zsu dead ahead.”
“Get ’em, Cowboy,” said Sparks.
“Yeah, I’m on it,” said the Flighthawk pilot. “Take me two minutes.”
“Splash Chinese MiG One. Bam!” said Micelli.
Sparks didn’t have time to celebrate with his copilot. He checked the radar warning indicator at the bottom of his dashboard. Another Spoon Rest radar—SA-2—was operating to the south, but they were well out of range.
“What’s the status of those Chinese missiles?” Sparks asked Micelli. “They still following us?”
“Sucking on the Hound Dog’s signal. Going east. Both of them,” said the copilot. “No threat. Anaconda missile has missed Bandit two, the Chinese MiG.”