Dale Brown's Dreamland

by Dale Brown

  So he hadn’t screwed up on the accident either. The computer had just gotten confused.

  He knew that. He’d always known that.

  Damn, his arms were beat.

  An M44 six-by-six truck sat at the edge of the tarmac. Major Cheshire trotted ahead and asked the driver if they could have a lift to the terminal building, where she was due to brief Hal Briggs.

  “Y’all hop on in,” said the driver, an Army Ranger with a Texas accent that seemed to sprawl all the way back to the States.

  “I’ll take the back,” said Zen. He pushed around toward the rear, where he spotted another Ranger.

  “Yo, Corporal. Think you can boost me up?”

  “Sir?” The kid looked a little like he was talking to a ghost. The driver had hopped from the cab; Jeff wheeled himself around to make it easier for them to hoist him.

  “I’m thinking of losing weight,” he said to the corporal, who hopped up after him.

  “No problem, sir.” The soldier threw his boot against the wheel as they started up, bracing his arm against the side.

  “Human brake, huh?” Zen said to him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Zen started to laugh. A few weeks before—hell, yesterday—the man’s seriousness would have convinced Jeff that he was being condescending, pitying him. Today, it just struck him as funny.

  “I’m not going to roll off,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier kept his foot in place.

  “You in the 10th Mountain Division?” Jeff asked, noticing the soldier’s patch.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn good unit.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The corporal never cracked a smile.

  Hal Briggs met them outside the terminal building.

  “Good job,” Hal boomed, helping the corporal lower Jeff to the pavement. “We were able to track the plane.”

  “Really?”

  “The Hawkeye was waiting off the coast. It caught it coming north, thanks to your information,” Briggs said. “We’re ninety percent sure where they’re taking them.”

  “Ninety percent?” said Major Cheshire.

  “Navy likes numbers,” said Briggs. He smiled and held his hands out apologetically. “This is their baby now; we’re back to being, uh, consultants. Come on inside, I’ll fill you in.”

  Madcap Magician and its associated Special Ops units were now a tiny part of an operation that included three aircraft carriers and a Marine Expeditionary Unit in the Mediterranean. The strikes on the Silkworm missiles had been successful. Two Iranian MiGs had been shot down; the Megafortress had accounted for one Libyan MiG-25. And as Hal had said outside, planes from the JFK had tracked the Pchelka believed to be carrying the pilots and Marines to a bunker site just outside Tripoli.

  The situation room had been tidied up some; there were now neat clusters of men gathered around tables and laptop computers. Wires snaked everywhere. A thick pair led to the rear of the building, where portable generators the size of soda trucks were humming. Their vibrations played a mamba back through the building and up through the floor so violently one of the armrests on Zen’s chair rattled.

  Hal led them to a corner of the room that had been set off by sandbags. A large table with maps sat behind the bags; half a Satcom and a large laptop computer were tucked against its legs. There were no chairs.

  “The President has authorized an operation to retrieve the hostages,” Briggs told them. “But only if it can be launched within the next eight hours.”

  “Why eight hours?” Jeff asked.

  Briggs nodded, agreeing with the implied criticism of the deadline. “The UN Security Council is due to meet then. Apparently, Washington wants to avoid any possibility of a condemnation—or worse, offers of mediation. They want a fait accompli. The Saudis and the Egyptians are up in arms, but the Iranians are hesitating. Retrieving our men will take their last cards away. Moderate elements in the Iranian government—”

  “There are moderates in Iran?” said Cheshire.

  “The politics really aren’t my business,” said Briggs. “But the way I read it, the Iranians and Libyans think their best bet is to hold a trial. The NSC analyst who’s been helping us thinks the Islamic League is teetering on collapse and will fold if we prevent that. As far as that goes, I think he’s right. The Iranians really have been the driving force here; Libya, Sudan, the Somalians—bottom line is they’re followers. Now if Egypt were to get involved—that’s a different story. In any event, we want to cut that all off. And we will. Or rather, the Navy will. With our help.”

  “You’re not launching an assault from here,” said Jeff, trying to shake off his fatigue. “We’re twenty-five-hundred miles away.”

  “No. Two SEAL groups will make the actual assault from the Mediterranean. A Marine MEU is taking care of a diversionary raid. We’re sending our Delta operators and Whiplash to man some SAR points in the mountains to the south. Both of them are loading up now. Nancy, if you’d brief the Osprey pilots on what’s out there, I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

  “Okay. We found an antiair battery that wasn’t in our briefing. Beyond that, it was pretty clean. Except for the MiGs.”

  “Good,” said Hal.

  “Drop the other shoe,” Zen told him.

  Cheshire turned to Jeff.

  “I’ve played poker with Hal too many times not to know he wants something else,” Jeff explained. “He wants us to do more than brief the roto pilots. He’s explained too much. He doesn’t ante in on that last round unless he thinks he can win. Then he talks to you and tries to get you to help sweeten the pot.”

  “The SEALS need some real-time surveillance of the Tripoli bunker complex,” said Briggs. His voice was flat—he could have been playing poker, sitting on a full house with nothing showing. “They’re talking about using F/A-18’s, but I think it’s too damn risky. There’s one Pioneer UAV with the MEU, but that bunker has more SAMs around it than the Kremlin. It won’t last. And besides, the Pioneer would be useful for the diversion.”

  “We can do it,” said Jeff. “We can use the test circuits to transmit optical and infrared views to a satellite uplink. If you’ve got a JSTARS on the other end, they can relay it.

  “Zen, that’s a damn long flight away,” said Cheshire. “And we haven’t slept.”

  “I slept on the way over. I’ll be fine,” said Jeff.

  “You look like you’re tired as shit,” she answered. “And you’re sweating buckets.”

  “Sorry if I stink,” he said.

  “That’s not it.”

  “I don’t want to push anybody beyond their limit,” said Hal. Now he wasn’t bluffing or playing poker—he was damn sincere. “But that bunker is a bitch. We have the plans from the Italian company that built it, because we were worried about the Libyans using it. There’s a way in, but it’s going to be tight. They need to know where the guards are sixty seconds before they land.”

  “Piece of cake,” said Zen. “Show me the plans and a map.”

  “You okay with this, Major?” Hal said to Cheshire.

  Cheshire hesitated, but then nodded her head. “Raven can wipe out the ground radars for the assault teams. It makes sense.”

  “You’re not too tired?” Hal asked.

  “No, damn it.”

  Briggs nodded, then reached for his Satcom. But as he started to click into the line, he looked up at Jeff. “I was wrong,” he said. “I apologize.”

  “Not necessary,” lied Zen. Then he added, “So you were sitting on four aces, huh?”

  “Just two.”

  THEIR WELL-EARNED REST HAD DONE NOTHING TO LIFT the Whiplash team’s mood. Danny’s men were pissed that they had just missed the pilots and Marines. That they’d barely managed to escape without anything worse than a broken fingernail only added to the bitterness. And the fact that they were taking a decidedly secondary role in the new operation was about the last straw.

  “SEALS just want the effin’
glory,” groused Bison as the Osprey lifted off. Freah could see it was going to be a long flight.

  “I don’t see why we don’t take out the bunker ourselves,” said Hernandez. “While they’re going in the front door, we sneak in the back.”

  “Goddamn Navy’s gonna screw it up.”

  “The bunker is about seventy-five miles from Eagles Nest,” Talcom pointed out. “A hop, skip, and a jump. We can nail it in five minutes.”

  “We could have packed into a C-fucking-17 and dropped in,” said Hernandez.

  “You find a C-17 over here, you let me know,” said Danny, settling into his seat.

  “We also serve who sit and wait,” said Liu.

  “Screw you, Nurse,” said Talcom.

  “I suggest you guys either get some sleep or play some cards so I can get some sleep,” said Danny finally. He snugged his pack beneath the seat, taking care not to unsafe the special quick-burn device. Besides a NOD and more ammunition than a normal platoon could use in a year, his rucksack contained maps and satellite photos of every Libyan base in the northern part of the country. As Hal had told him before they took off, it always paid to be prepared.

  “YOU HAVE TO STAND DOWN,” BREANNA TOLD MAJOR Cheshire as she gulped her coffee in the mess area. “You need a rest, Nancy. You’re dead on your feet.”

  “Raven has to take the Flighthawks,” insisted the pilot as she gulped her coffee. It was the second cup she’d had since walking into the cafeteria area a few minutes before. “Fort Two isn’t set up for them.”

  “I can fly Raven. Chris too. We’re both fresh.”

  “It’s my responsibility,” said Cheshire.

  “It’s going to be your responsibility if you crash the plane into the desert. Jeff, tell her.” Breanna glanced toward her husband. He looked worn as well, with deep creases on his forehead. And his flight suit was soaked through around his neck and shoulders.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “What don’t you know?” She wanted to scream at him—he was her husband, he should be supporting her. But maybe that was why he wasn’t.

  “Nancy, you can’t fly,” she said, turning to Cheshire. “I can and I will,” said the major. Her eyes locked on Bree’s, and suddenly Breanna understood.

  It was the woman thing. No way she could back down or out. She had to be as tough as the men.

  Even though she was exhausted.

  Against her best judgment, against her will even, Bree nodded.

  “But maybe we should rotate the crew a little,” said Cheshire, eyes still locked on hers.

  Bree jumped at it. “Yes. I’ll take the copilot slot. Sibert and Jones will fill the weapons and navigator positions.” Cheshire started to shake her head.

  “No, Bree’s right,” said Zen, finally coming to her defense. He looked up into her eyes as he spoke. “She should fly Raven. You’re beat.”

  “She’ll fly copilot,” said Cheshire. She jumped up quickly, draining her coffee. “We’ll use Sibert and Jones. Rap is my copilot. That’s it.”

  She marched off to get more coffee.

  “Why the hell didn’t you back me up?” Breanna said to Jeff as soon as Cheshire was out of earshot.

  “I did.”

  “You don’t think I can do it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bree. I did back you up. Nancy’s fine.”

  Her eyes caught his. He’d always believed in her before—encouraging her to pursue her career, to push herself into different planes. Now his faith had wavered. She could see doubt in his eyes.

  “You’re beat yourself,” she told him.

  “I’ll take greenies if I need to stay awake,” he said.

  “Oh, and that’ll make you real sharp,” said Breanna, who knew even that was a lie—Jeff wouldn’t take aspirin except at gunpoint. She got up and went to check on the plane.

  Over the Mediterranean

  24 October, 0600 local

  “OKAY, KID, YOU WANT TO MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL?” asked the major.

  Jed Barclay looked up from the bench chair in the “lounge” compartment, a bulkhead in front of the “business” area of the JSTARS jet. They’d been airborne now for nearly twelve hours—a routine assignment for the command and control aircraft, which had undergone extensive engine work following the Gulf War to make sure it could fly for more than a full day without coming down. The long gig had allowed them to keep track of developments in Libya and Egypt. Libya’s armed forces were now on full alert; Egypt remained on the fence, though some of its air units seemed to be at a high degree of readiness—a good or bad sign, depending on how you wanted to interpret it.

  “What do you need?” Jed asked.

  “I need someone to handle communications with an Air Force unit called Raven,” said the major. “They’re part of Madcap Magician. My guys have enough to do with the Navy end.”

  “Sure. They’re F-111’s ?”

  “From what I’ve been told, it’s a B-52.”

  Jed nodded, guessing but not telling the Army officer that the plane must be an EB-52—quite a different beast. The Megafortress’s existence was still technically classified. Hal Briggs had reported that two had been “loaned” to him, ostensibly as high-speed transports. But Briggs obviously had found their capabilities irresistible.

  The planes originated from a base near Las Vegas where he believed his cousin Jeff Stockard was stationed. Small world.

  “All you have to do is sit at a console and talk to them. They won’t be on station for two or three hours, at show time,” added the major. He sounded almost apologetic. “And look, don’t touch anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hey, lighten up. I’m kidding. Besides, we got baby locks on the medicine cabinets.”

  Near Tripoli

  24 October, 0700 local

  THE IRANIANS PUSHED GUNNY AND CAPTAIN HOWLAND out of the small plane moments after it rolled to a stop. They were hustled into the back of an open-bed truck. Large bags of shredded paper and cardboard were thrown on them. A tarp was pulled over the bed and the truck roared away.

  “What the fuck do you think this is about?” Gunny asked the pilot.

  “Damned if I can guess,” answered Howland.

  The truck took a sharp turn. Its wheels bumped over some harsh pavement, then hit a smooth patch. The driver floored it, sending them rolling backward.

  “I think I’ll reconnoiter,” said Gunny when he regained his balance. He crawled toward the side of the truck and managed to poke his head up, but it was nearly impossible to see anything; not only was it dark, but they were moving extremely fast. He worked his way around to the tailgate. It didn’t look like they were being followed.

  “What do you think, Captain? We’re not being guarded,” said Gunny, sliding back next to the pilot.

  “I find that hard to believe,” said Howland. “Maybe we just can’t see them.”

  “Yeah.” Gunny pushed himself toward the front of the truck, trying to peek up through the covering there. But he couldn’t find an opening and didn’t want to risk alerting their captors.

  “They’re probably sneaking us into one of their prisons,” said Howland. “Maybe they’re staging something near the plane. Whatever that commotion was when we took off from Sudan probably tipped them that they’re under surveillance.”

  Gunny wasn’t particularly interested in theories. “We might be able to jump for it,” he suggested.

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Then we escape.”

  “If we’re in Libya,” said Howland, who had worked out their direction en route, “we’re also probably in the middle of the desert. We’ll die of thirst inside a day.”

  “Better than dying on TV for them,” said Gunny. “Maybe,” said the pilot.

  Before either of them could say or do anything else, the truck veered sharply to the right. They rolled against each other and then the side. Gunny pushed himself upward just as the truck came to a stop.
/>   “Shit,” he said.

  Men were shouting. The tarp and bags were whisked off. Two spotlights clicked on, blinding the Americans.

  “This way. Out of the truck. Quickly,” said a man holding a pistol. “Into the shelter or you will enter as dead men.”

  Gunny and the pilot were pulled down by three or four Libyan soldiers, who pushed them toward a set of cement stairs. Perhaps they were in the middle of a desert, but the stairway smelled like a swamp. At the bottom, two men without weapons but with arms the size of elephant trunks muscled them into a room barely the size of a closet. There was no furniture; two bare lightbulbs in steel cages shone down from the ceiling, eight feet above.

  One of the men pointed to the floor, indicating they should sit. Gunny lowered himself reluctantly, wondering if he ought to fight. But even if they made it past these gorillas, there were at least six soldiers with automatic rifles in the hallway outside.

  A soldier—this one short and frail-looking—entered carrying two trays of food. Each tray had a large bowl of fruit, another of mushy buckwheat, a third of grilled lamb. There were picas and large bottles of cold water.

  Howland picked up one of the bottles as the steel door slammed shut. They were alone.

  “They’d just shoot us,” the pilot told Gunny as he drained about half the bottle. “They wouldn’t waste poison.”

  “Yeah. You’re probably right,” said Gunny, still eyeing the food. “Assuming this shit is edible.”

  “It’s probably pretty good,” said Howland, poking the meat with the bread. “The condemned always eat well.”

  “Yeah. That’s one way of looking at it.” Gunny picked up what seemed to be an orange, peeled away the skin, and took a bite.

  It was an orange, or close enough. He devoured it. Then he ate some of the fruit and two pieces of the pita bread. Satiated, he put his head back against the cement wall. He’d caught some z’s on the plane and didn’t think he was particularly tired, but he began to drift off. At one point he woke to Howland’s loud snore, then nodded off again.