by Dale Brown
Dancer glanced at Danny, then said to her, “You’re staying here, aren’t you? There are more tests you have to do.”
“The tests are a waste of time,” Jennifer replied. “I can help disable the weapons.”
“I don’t think we need you, Jen. No offense,” said Danny.
“I’ll go with Dancer,” she said.
“I have one of the Navy guys,” said Dancer, referring to the members of the nuclear team. “The other will be with Gunny on the third team.”
“So who’s going with you?” Jennifer asked Danny.
“Just me,” he told her. “I’ve done this a couple of times now.”
“What if you get hurt? You have no backup.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’m going to get something to eat,” she told him. “I’m ready to go whenever you are.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
Twice, Zen thought he saw aircraft crossing the sky. Not wanting to carry anything that would make it difficult for him to swim back, he’d left the radio back at the tent. All he could do was stare at the sky, trying to make the wisps of clouds form into something tangible.
He had no luck with turtles. Perhaps he had found the only two on the small atoll yesterday, or maybe the one that escaped had somehow alerted the rest of the species. He sat for a while in the shallow shelf, staring at the water around him, and then just staring, wondering what to do next.
Sooner or later someone would hear one of his broadcasts. They’d track them down and then come for them. There was no place on earth so desolate that someone somewhere wouldn’t come across you.
But what if the unthinkable had happened, if he and Bree, and the kids they’d seen yesterday, were the only people left?
He couldn’t get the idea out of his mind.
Tired, and convinced that there were no more turtles, he pushed his way back to the sea. He turned his head so the side of his face barely touched the water and began gently stroking back to Breanna.
* * *
He didn’t see them until he was only a few yards away, and then all he saw were their legs, brown and scarred.
Zen’s heart jumped. He raised his body, pushing his gaze upward until he could see their backs and then their heads. There were three of them — boys. They were arrayed in front of the tent, standing a few feet away from it in a semicircle. If they’d had sticks or any sort of other weapon, he would not have been able to control his rage. As it was, he just barely managed to stay calm.
“Hey guys, what’s going on?” he yelled.
The three kids turned around. The one on the right was the older boy who’d come yesterday. The others were about his age.
“So what’s happening?” Zen asked. He pushed himself up the incline toward the tent, then pulled himself into a sitting position so he sat near their legs. “One of you guys bring a phone?”
“You’re American,” said one of the boys. He had a light birthmark on his cheek, as if someone had pressed a thumb to his face at birth.
“Yeah. That’s right. Where are you from?” Zen asked.
The boy gestured. “Here.”
“I didn’t see your house.”
The kid laughed again, then said something to the others, probably sharing the joke.
“I was wondering if you guys could help me get in touch with my friends,” said Zen. “I need some sort of phone.”
He wasn’t sure if what he said was too colloquial or too fast, or if the boys simply didn’t want to help him. In any event, they didn’t respond, still talking among themselves. Zen felt his pulse quickening, his apprehension suddenly stoked. The kids might not have weapons, but there were rocks all around.
The gun was in the tent.
“So what do you guys do?” he asked loudly, trying to break through their conversation and gain some sort of control over the situation. He pushed himself to the right, angling a little closer to Breanna. “What’s school like?”
“School?” said the young man who’d been there the day before.
“Well, you guys speak English pretty well. I’m sure you go to school.”
“Where do you go to school?” asked the boy with the birthmark on his face.
“Actually, I’m done,” said Zen. “Stanford University. I studied engineering. You ever hear of it? Stanford? California?”
When they didn’t respond, Zen asked if any of them wanted to be engineers when they grew up.
“You are a pilot, not an engineer,” said the boy with the birthmark. He said it quickly, with a bit of anger — he thought Zen was trying to trick him somehow.
“That’s right, I am. But usually you study something else too. Flying is one thing, and you want to learn other things. People study all kinds of things. Literature, sometimes. A lot of engineering and science. Math. Fun stuff. For me.”
The boy made a face.
What did he think of when he was twelve or thirteen? Zen wondered. He needed to make conversation, to say something that would make a connection. He didn’t want to sound desperate, though clearly he was.
“Do you guys like to fly?” he asked.
“Fly?” said the boy from yesterday. “We can’t fly.”
“In planes. When I was your age, that was all I thought about. Flying.”
“How did you get here?” demanded the boy with the birthmark. His tone was more aggressive than before.
“Our plane was shot down,” Zen said. “The Chinese and Pakistanis were going to attack your country. We got in the way.”
“The Muslims are scum,” said the boy with the birthmark. The others began speaking with him in their native language. They seemed to be vying with each other to make the strongest denunciation of their enemy.
“Was there an attack on your village?” asked Zen.
The young men ignored him. Their conversation had shifted; the boy who had been silent gestured at Zen, telling the others something.
Zen slid closer to the tent. He had no doubt that he could fight them off if they piled on him, but if they were clever, if they picked up rocks, if they attacked Breanna instead of him, he wasn’t sure what would happen.
“Can you guys get me a phone?” he asked. “A cell phone? I can call my people.”
They ignored him, and started walking up over the hill.
“Water?” Zen asked. “Can you bring us some drinking water?”
They made no sign that they heard him, and within minutes were out of sight.
Northeastern Pakistan
1500
Money didn’t help very much in the far northern reaches of Pakistan. Knowing people did.
Fortunately for General Sattari, he knew people.
A distant cousin of Sattari’s ran a madrassa religious school in the foothills about a hundred miles north of Islamabad. Though not a spy himself, the cousin had helped Iran establish a spy network here, and in turn the Iranian government had helped his school, supplying texts and a small stipend that paid for about a dozen students at a time. They shared space with an assortment of farm animals, including chickens and goats, in a small, white brick compound tucked into the hillside.
“I am honored to help you,” said his cousin when Sattari arrived. “You should have given me more notice.”
“Had it been possible, I would have,” said the general, following him into a small sitting room at the front of the building. “But your lights are out. How did you get my message?”
“There are no power lines here.” His cousin gestured to the candles. “This is how we see all year round. I have a generator in the back,” he added. “It supplies what we need for the computer, and to charge the satellite phones. We are not like the Saudis. They are the ones with the money to burn. So much that it makes them foolish.”
The Saudis were Sunni teachers who ran schools throughout northern Pakistan and southern Afghanistan. Many were aligned with men like bin Laden, who used them to help train supporters sworn t
o wage holy war against the West. While Sattari did not much mind the results, he considered bin Laden and his ilk amateurs incapable of inflicting real damage.
“I’ve heard the Saudis have been active here,” said Sattari. “There are rumors they have made a pact with the Chinese.”
“Yes. They are looking for fallen aircraft parts,” said his cousin. “They offer a good reward.”
“I’m looking for something myself,” said Sattari. “And I can pay more than the Saudis. But it is imperative that I get to it before they do.”
A young man entered the room with a tray of tea. He placed it on the table in front of them, then poured them both a cup. Neither Sattari nor his cousin spoke. When the young man left, Sattari’s cousin closed his eyes and bent his head, reciting a silent prayer of thanks.
Sattari bowed his head out of respect for his cousin.
“I think we may be able to assist you,” said his cousin, lifting his cup. “Warm yourself, and then we will talk.”
Dreamland Command
0400
The more he thought about it — and unable to sleep at 4:00 a.m., it was all he thought about — the more Samson realized Dreamland was not big enough for both him and Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian. And the more he thought about that, the more he realized that he was better off dealing with the problem sooner rather than later, and in person.
But Bastian was also on to something, leading from the front. Being out there in Diego Garcia, where the action was — that was the secret of his success. Dreamland’s high-tech communications gizmos kept him in touch with what was going on back home. Then when the big shots wanted to talk to him, where did they see him but in the thick of things? No wonder he had such a sterling rep.
He could do that himself, Samson thought. He had to do that himself.
And now. Right now. Before Bastian was too big to deal with. He’d go directly to Diego Garcia and assert his personal control.
It would mean leaving someone else in charge at Dreamland while he was gone. The only practical choice was Major Catsman; the few staff officers he’d brought with him were still working out where the restrooms were. She would no doubt be ineffective in dealing with Rubeo, who, despite having toned down his antagonism, showed no sign of actually coming to heel. But Bastian was the bigger problem, Samson decided; once he was dealt with, the other dominos would fall.
The general sat down at the desk in the small VIP apartment he’d commandeered and pulled out the base directory. At a good-sized command, the directory would be a substantial phone book listing the various officers, their responsibilities, and contact information. The Dreamland directory, by contrast, was barely twenty pages long, and most of the listings were for civilian scientists and supervisors.
That was going to change, ASAP. They were seriously undermanned. He needed money, he needed head count, and he was going to get both.
Samson found the officer responsible for scheduling and assigning flights and, despite the hour, called him at home.
“This is Samson,” he said when the groggy captain picked up the phone. “What’s the status of our VIP aircraft?”
“What VIP aircraft, sir?”
“What does Bastian use to get around? Where is it?”
“The colonel doesn’t have a VIP aircraft. Generally on a Whiplash deployment he would be one of the pilots, and is assigned to that aircraft.”
“What about a nondeployment?”
“Well, it would depend, I guess—”
“How would he get to Washington, Captain?”
“Commercial flight.”
Samson shook his head. “I need a plane that can get me to Diego Garcia, and I want it ready immediately. Understood?”
“Sure, General. What sort of plane do you want?”
“One that is waiting for me on the runway no more than two hours from now,” said Samson, and hung up. Then he put a red X next to the captain’s name in the directory.
Diego Garcia
1700
Dog stood on the cement apron just outside the Dreamland Command trailer, watching as the Cheli took off. The Megafortress looked like a vulture in the red light of the horizon-hugging sun. In addition to a Flighthawk beneath each wing, she carried a pair of radar decoys; Sidewinder antiair missiles were loaded at the wingtips.
Two additional warhead sites had been tentatively identified about a hundred miles apart in the area north of Jamu, technically in India though the border was in dispute. The Cheli and the Bennett would each support a separate recovery mission. If the third warhead was positively located, whichever aircraft was closer would swing over to cover that recovery.
Power had been restored in about a third of southern India in the past few hours; even if the third missile wasn’t found, Dog feared this would be the last mission they would undertake.
“Feared” because when the mission was over, the search for Breanna and Zen would end as well.
While the search for the two pilots was continuing, an unspoken adjustment had already been made. While no one said so, the mission had become more a recovery than a rescue. This long after a bailout, the odds of finding either alive was very slim. The searchers, of course, knew that, and would make subtle adjustments, no longer pushing themselves to the limit.
Dog wasn’t quite ready to make the adjustment himself. But neither could he pretend that it was likely he would see his daughter or son-in-law alive again. All he could do was stare at the Cheli, watching it disappear into the purple sky.
Jamu
2100
Danny Freah pushed up the visor on his smart helmet as he clambered down to the missile, deciding there was enough light from the moon to see without using the night-vision shield. The weapon seemed to have skidded to a landing as if it were a disabled aircraft, perhaps after a glancing blow against a nearby cliff as it descended. Aside from a large gash at the side of the housing below the warhead assembly, much of the missile was still intact.
A light flashed as Jennifer Gleason snapped a photo of the overall location before descending to examine the warhead.
“You want to take a look at this, Captain!” yelled one of the Marines near the warhead.
“Hey, Jen, something’s up,” yelled Danny, starting to trot down the embankment. About a third of the way, he tripped over something and began to slide on his back, sledding down the hill until his foot caught on a large boulder.
Cursing, he got up and stalked to the missile. He expected some good-natured ribbing from the Marines gathered around the warhead, but they were silent, staring at the banged-up metal.
One of the access panels on the warhead had separated from the rest of the skin just enough to let light shine through from the inside.
Light. The internal works had not been completely fried.
Jennifer knelt down in front of the panel without saying a word. Danny watched as she took a star-head screwdriver from her small pack of tools and gingerly unscrewed the panel. A bank of LEDs on the circuit board were lit.
“Huh,” she said.
Danny reach to the back of his helmet for the communications button.
“You see this, Dreamland?”
“Yes,” said Anna Klondike. “Stand by. And please tell Ms. Gleason not to touch anything.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett
2130
During the whole flight, pilot Michael Englehardt felt out of sync, as if he’d stepped into a movie moving about a half frame faster than he was.
It was ironic. He’d been so keyed up for the sortie before it happened, so ready to go — and so mad at Dog for taking him off the last mission — but now everything just seemed wrong. Or he seemed wrong, almost out of place. The crew didn’t respond to him the way they used to. In the space of twenty-four hours, less, they’d become strangers. And so had the plane.
“Indian radar site just powered up,” said his copilot, Kevin Sullivan. “Shouldn’t be able to see us from this distance, but it may catch
the Osprey on the way out. We’ll have to alert them.”
“Yeah, roger that.”
“You want me to do that?”
“Yeah, jeez, come on, Kevin. Do it.”
“Two aircraft from the southeast,” announced Sergeant Rager, the airborne radar controller. “At 250 miles. MiG-29Bs. Must be out of Adampur.”
Englehardt’s heart began to pound, and suddenly his throat felt dry. He checked his position on the map, then double checked, basically stalling for time.
What was he supposed to do?
He’d been in situations like this dozens, maybe even hundreds, of times — in simulations. He’d always handled it then.
Now?
Now he was still moving a step behind. What was going on?
“Flighthawk leader to Bennett—you want me to send Hawk Two out that way?” asked Starship, downstairs in the Flighthawk bay.
“Roger that,” he said. “Check them out. Copilot — Kevin, they challenge us?”
“Negative.”
“Radar, continue to track. If they continue on course, we’ll ask their intentions. If they show hostile signs, we’ll shoot them down.”
His voice cracked as he finished the sentence. Englehardt winced, hoping no one else would notice. Then he reached for the water bottle he kept tucked in his pants leg, his throat bone dry.
Jamu
2143
Jennifer got down on her belly so she could see the interior of the weapon better, then pushed the electronic probes toward the two points at the far end of the circuit board. The narrow, needlelike probes felt as if they were frozen solid. Anna Klondike had assured Danny that taking the measurements would not cause the weapon to explode. But Jennifer had had too much experience with integrated circuits gone bad to feel completely at ease.
“OK,” she told Danny as the needles made contact. “Take the reading, please.”
“Zero.”
Jennifer pulled the probes back, then straightened.
“Well? What did they say?”
Danny put up his hand. He was wearing his smart helmet, visor up, listening to the experts at Dreamland.