Retribution

VII. No Chance to Survive

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

“MiGs are talking to their base again,” Sullivan told Englehardt. “I’m betting they don’t like our course change.”

“How close is the Cheli?”

“Their nearest Flighthawk is still ten minutes off.”

Ten more minutes. Englehardt worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to generate a little more moisture for his throat.

“They’re dropping off,” said Sullivan.

For a moment Englehardt felt relieved. The Indians must be low on fuel by now, he thought, and were backing off and going home.

Then he realized that wasn’t the case at all.

“Evasive maneuvers. Give me flares!” he shouted, a second before the missile-launch warning buzzed on the cockpit dash.

Starship was just zeroing in on a cluster of small arms f lashes at the landing zone when the Megafortress seemed to plunge beneath him. He kept his hand steady, staying with his target and ignoring the urge to jump back into Hawk Two and battle the MiGs.

The key thing to remember when you’re flying two planes, Zen always said, is to finish one thing at a time.

Zen.

Starship lit the Flighthawk’s cannon. The ground in front of the aircraft began to percolate, dirt and rocks erupting from the landscape as the bullets hit. He gently wagged the stick back and forth, stirring the mixture of lead and rock into a veritable tornado.

He let off on the trigger and pulled up. He didn’t see any more tracers from the ground. If there were more guerrillas there, they’d taken cover.

“Hawk One orbit at 15,000 after targets are destroyed,” he told the computer. “Danny, landing zone is as clean as it’s going to get.”

Englehardt pushed hard on the stick, throwing his whole body against it. The Megafortress twisted herself hard to comply, jerking to the right and pulling her nose up.

Between the sharp maneuvers and the cascading decoys exploding behind the plane, the heat-seeking missiles the MiGs had fired flew by harmlessly, exploding more than two miles away.

Now it was his turn.

His turn. His brain stuttered, as if it were an electrical switch with contacts that weren’t quite clicking.

“Stinger air mines,” he said. “Sullivan?”

“Targets out of range.”

“Fuck.”

Everyone on the circuit seemed to be hyperventilating. Englehardt turned his eyes toward the sitrep screen on the lower left portion of his dash. His position was marked out in the center — where were the Flighthawks and the MiGs?

A tremendous fireball flared in the corner of the windscreen — a partial answer to his question.

Starship brought up the main screen of Hawk Two just in time to see the robot turn away from the MiG it had destroyed.

“Good work, dude,” he told the computer. “I’ll take it from here.”

The second MiG had turned to the east after firing its missiles. Now about twenty miles from the Megafortress, it was banking through a turn that would leave it in position to launch its AMRAAMskis.

“Bandit Two is getting into position to attack,” said Starship over the interphone. “I’m not going to be able to close the gap before he fires.”

“Bennett,” acknowledged Englehardt. Even with the one-word reply, his voice had a tremble to it.

“You want me to get him or are you going to use the Anacondas?” prompted Starship.

“He’s ours,” said Sullivan, the copilot.

“Yeah, we got him,” said Englehardt. “Anacondas. Take him, Kevin.”

Jennifer Gleason snugged her bulletproof vest tighter as Danny and the Marines fanned out from the Osprey. Automatic rifle fire rattled over the loud hush of the rotating propellers. She had a 9mm Beretta handgun in her belt, and certainly knew how to use it. But she also knew that it wasn’t likely to be very effective except as a last resort.

She wasn’t scared, but standing in the bay of the aircraft with no way of making a real contribution made her feel almost helpless. A single Marine corporal had stayed behind with her, guarding the defused warhead; everyone else was taking on the guerrillas outside.

A bullet or maybe a rock splinter tinged against the side of the Osprey. Jennifer jumped involuntarily, then put her hand on the pistol.

Two or three minutes passed without anything else happening. No longer hearing any gunfire, she took a step toward the door.

The Marine caught her shirt. “Excuse me, miss. The captain said you are to stay inside until he gives the OK.”

“It’s safe.”

The corporal frowned. “Sorry, ma’am. His orders.”

“Would you go outside?”

“Not the question.”

“Well what the fuck is the question?”

The Marine frowned but didn’t let go. He swung his other hand up and pushed the boom mike for his radio closer to his mouth. Jennifer folded her arms, waiting while the corporal called for permission.

“Captain says proceed with caution.”

“Caution is my middle name,” said Jennifer. She rushed down the ramp and curled behind the aircraft, staying low. She could see clusters of Marines on both the left and right; they were standing upright.

Jennifer trotted across the rock-strewn field of scrub and dirt, heading toward a jagged piece of metal that stood straight up from what looked like a dented garbage can. She knelt near the damaged missile part; it looked as if it were part of one of the oxidizer tanks located at the top of the weapon just under the warhead section.

“Where’s Captain Freah?” she asked a nearby Marine.

“That way.” He pointed across the field in the direction of the two trucks destroyed by the Flighthawk. “Careful, ma’am. We’re still mopping up. Those suckers were hiding in the rocks and grass.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Jennifer began walking across the moon-lit field, the grass and weeds gray in the light. There were pieces of metal strewn on the ground. Bits of wire and paper and plastic were bunched like fistfuls of confetti dumped by bystanders grown tired of waiting for the parade to pass. She caught a whiff of burnt metal and vinyl from one of the trucks that was still smoldering up ahead.

She found Danny near one of the trucks.

“Where’s the warhead?”

“That way. Hang on a second — one of the Marines thinks he saw some movement up near those rocks. We’re checking it out.”

A guerrilla lay perhaps twelve feet away, his torso riddled with bullets. Jennifer stared at it, waiting while Danny talked to other members of the team.

“All right,” he said finally. “But you stay next to me.”

“I intend to.”

“By the way — the corporal’s mike was open in the Osprey,” added Danny. “Anybody ever tell you you curse like a Marine?”

“Most people say worse.”

Thirty seconds after the Anacondas left the Bennett’s belly, the MiG launched its own missiles. Englehardt had anticipated this and turned the plane away, hoping to “beam” the radar guiding the missiles.

“ECMs,” he told Sullivan.

“They’re on. Missiles are tracking.”

“Chaff. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.”

He put the Megafortress on her wingtip, swooping and sliding and dropping away, just barely in control. He pushed back in the opposite direction and got a high g warning from the computer, which complained that the aircraft was being pushed beyond its design limits. Englehardt didn’t let off, however, and the airplane came hard right.

There was a loud boom behind him. A caution light popped on the dash. For a moment he thought they’d been hit. Then he realized that engine one had experienced a compressor surge or stall because of the change in the air flow rushing through it.

The compressor banged, then surged a second time. Easing off on the stick, he reached to the throttle, prepared to drop his power if the engine didn’t restart and settle down on its own.

“Missile one is by us,” said Sullivan.

Englehardt concentrated on his power plant. The exhaust gas temperatures jolted up, but the power came back. He babied the throttle, moving his power down and steadying the aircraft.

“Splash the MiG!” said Sullivan as their Anaconda hit home. “Splash that mother!”

Englehardt felt his pulse starting to return to normal. He slid the throttle glide for engine one up cautiously, keeping his eye on the readouts. The engine’s temperatures and pressures were back in line with its sisters’; it seemed no worse for wear.

“What happened to that second missile the MiG fired?” he asked Sullivan.

“Off the scope near the mountains,” said the copilot. “No threat.”

“Rager, what’s near us?” Englehardt asked. His voice squeaked, but it didn’t seem as bad as earlier.

“Sky is clear south,” answered the airborne radar operator.

“Starship, what’s your situation?” Englehardt asked.

“Hawk Two is a mile off your tail. Hawk One is orbiting the recovery area. Both aircraft could use some more fuel.”

So could the Megafortress, Englehardt realized.

“Cheli, this is Bennett. What’s your position?”

“Our Flighthawks are just reaching the recovery area,” said the Cheli’s captain, Brad Sparks. “We’re right behind the little guys.”

“All right. I have to tank. We’re heading out.”

“Roger that. Word to the wise — the Indians have been powering up their radars all night. We ducked one on the way to the Marine site. I wouldn’t be surprised if their missiles are back on line.”

The night drifted on, melting away everything but Zen’s stoic shell. His thirst, his anger, all feeling and emotion vanished as the hours twisted. He woke, and yet still seemed to be sleeping. As if in a dream, he pushed himself up on his arms and crawled from the tent, cold, an animal seeking only to survive.

He’d strapped his gun to his belt before going to sleep. It dragged and clung against the rocks as he moved, part of him now. He reached the remains of the driftwood where he’d made the fire the other night and pushed up, sitting and staring at the darkness.

There was a plane in the distance.

Zen took a slow, measured breath.

The aircraft was very far away.

He took another breath, yogalike, then leaned back and took the radio from the tent.

“Major Stockard to any aircraft. Dreamland Levitow crew broadcasting to any aircraft.”

He stopped, pushed the earphone into his ear mechanically. All he heard was static.

Why even bother?

Zen set the radio down. He pulled himself farther down the beach, staring at the edge of the ocean and the way the reflected moonlight on the tip of the waves seemed to grab at the air, as if trying to climb upward.

It was a vain attempt, a waste, but they kept trying.

If only I had that strength, he thought, continuing to stare.

Starship was just about to turn Hawk Two over to the computer for the refuel when the Bennett’s radar officer warned of a new flight of Indian jets, this one coming at them from east.

“MiG-21s. Four of them. Coming from Hindan,” said Sergeant Rager.

The MiG-21s were somewhat outdated, and certainly less capable than the planes they’d just dealt with. But they couldn’t be ignored either.

“What do you want to do, Bennett?” Starship asked.

“Continue the refuel,” said Englehardt. “I think we can tank one of the U/MFs before we need to deal with them.”

“Roger that,” said Starship, surprised that the pilot sounded confident, or at least more assured than he had earlier.

Starship set up the refuel, then turned the aircraft over to the computer. He swung Hawk One toward Bennett’s left wing, then began pushing in so it could sip from the rear fuel boom as soon as its brother was done.

“Radar warning,” said Sullivan. “We have a SAM site up — SA-2s, dead ahead.”

Now things are going to get interesting, thought Starship, checking on Hawk Two’s status.

Englehardt felt the black cowl slip back over the edges of his vision. The Bennett was about three minutes from the antiaircraft missile battery.

Three minutes to decide what to do.

Plenty of time not to panic, though his heart was pounding again and his stomach punching him from inside.

The MiGs behind him complicated his options. He didn’t want to go in their direction anyway — he wanted to get to the coast. But turning south to avoid the SAMs might make it easier for them to catch up.

So? Use the Anacondas on them.

Hell, he could use the Anacondas against the SAMs.

His orders were to attempt to avoid conflict. But he’d already been fired on. Did that give him carte blanche? Or was the fact that he was no longer protecting the ground units rule, meaning he should do what he could to get away.

The first. Definitely.

God, he was thinking too much. What was he going to do?

“All right, let’s skirt the SAM site,” Englehardt said. “Turn to bearing one-eight—”

“If we go south, not only will we go closer to the MiGs but we’ll have more batteries to deal with,” said Sullivan, cutting him off. “There are a dozen south of that SA-2 site.”

“I know that,” said Englehardt sharply. “Just do what I say.”

In the silent moments that followed, he wished he’d been a little calmer when he responded. But it was out there, and apologizing wasn’t going to help anything. They set a new course; he moved to it, staying just on the edge of the SA-2s’ effective range.

What if they fire anyway? he wondered. What do I do then?

And as the thought formed in his brain, he got a launch warning on his control panel — the SAMs had been fired.

The first thing Jennifer thought was that the warhead section had broken into pieces when it landed, and that the bomb had somehow managed to bounce away from the conical nose and the metal superstructure that held it above the propellant section. But as she stared at the wreckage, she realized that couldn’t be the case — there were cut screws on the ground, and the pieces of metal had been torched and hacked away.

She looked back for Danny Freah and waved to him.

“Somebody took the warhead,” she told him when he ran up. “It’s gone.”

“You’re sure?”

“They hacked it out. Look. See?”

“All right, look — the Cheli says there are Chinese helicopters headed in our direction. We have to get out of here, quick.”

“I want to take some of the electronic controls from the engines,” said Jennifer. “There’s some circuitry that they left behind. And pictures of the missile and damage. It’ll only take a minute.”

“You have only until the Marines start pulling back. Keep your head down.”

“Will do.”

“Countermeasures,” Englehardt told his copilot as the SA-2s climbed toward the Bennett.

“Already on it.”

“OK, OK.” Englehardt pushed his stick left, instinctively widening the distance between his aircraft and the missiles coming for him.

“MiGs are going to afterburners,” said Rager, monitoring the airplanes that were chasing them at the airborne radar station.

The MiGs had pulled to seventy-five miles from the Megafortress. Englehardt realized that they probably intended on firing medium-range radar missiles as soon as possible — in roughly two minutes, he calculated.

Huge amounts of time, if he kept his head. He’d be by the SA-2s by then and could cut back east as he planned.

God, did this never end? It was twenty, thirty times worse than a simulation. His brain felt as if it were frying.

“Stay on course,” he said aloud, though he was actually speaking to himself.

“You want me to target those MiGs with the Anacondas?” asked Sullivan.

“I have a feeling we’re going to need them when we get toward the coast,” Englehardt said. “Better warn the Cheli and Danny Freah that we’re attracting a lot of attention. They may get the same treatment.”

“Mobile missile site up! Akash missiles,” said Sullivan.

Unlike the SA-2, the Akash was a modern missile system guided by a difficult-to-defeat multifunctional radar. Developed as both a ground and air-launched missile, it could strike targets at two meters and 18,000 meters, and everything in between. But because its range was limited to about thirty kilometers, or roughly nineteen miles, Englehardt knew he could get away from it simply by turning to the west.

But that would bring him closer to the MiG-21s.

Which would be easier to deal with, the planes or the missiles?

The MiGs, he decided, starting the turn.

“Mike, what are we doing?” asked Sullivan.

“We’re going to avoid the Akash battery.”

“They haven’t launched.”

“Neither have the MiGs.”

“Sooner or later we’re going to have to deal with some of these bastards,” said Sullivan. “And we’re getting farther from where we want to go. We have to get out over the water.”

“I am dealing with them,” snapped Englehardt.

He pulled back on the stick, aiming to take the Megafortress high enough so he wouldn’t have to worry about any more Akash sites.

“Starship — Flighthawk leader. Set up an intercept on those MiGs,” said Englehardt. He was angry now; he felt his ears getting hot.

“I still have to tank Hawk One,” said Starship. “They’ll be in range to launch before I can get to them.”

“Do it now, then tank.”

Starship curled Hawk One away from the Megafortress, then unhooked Hawk Two from the refueling probe, its tanks about seven-eighths full. The EB-52’s maneuvers to avoid the radar were becoming so severe that he couldn’t have continued with the refuel anyway.

He slotted the two ships into a loose trail as he sized up his opponents. If the MiGs kept coming for the Megafortress once they fired their missiles, he’d be in a good position to take on Bandits Three and Four, the northernmost planes. He plotted the intercept for the computer, telling it to take Hawk Two while he rode Hawk One onto the lead plane of the element, Bandit Three.

He’d just started his turn to get the Flighthawk on its intercept when the Indians began launching their missiles, medium-range R-27s, known to NATO as AA-10 Alamos. Each plane fired two, then immediately turned away. Starship broke off the attack; there was no sense chasing the planes now.

“We have two Mirage 2000s coming up from the southeast,” said Rager, identifying a pair of advanced fighter-bombers he’d just spotted on the radar scope.

“I have them,” said Starship, changing course.

Of the eight missiles launched at the Megafortress, two took immediate nosedives, either because they were defective or because they had been launched incorrectly. The Megafortress’s electronic countermeasures soon confused three more; they, too, disappeared from radar.

The last three climbed with the Megafortress, moving nearly three times as fast as she could. As they went to terminal guidance, closing in on their target, Englehardt called for chaff and began jinking through the sky, pulling a series of hard turns that left the missiles sucking air. When the last one blew itself up in confusion, he turned back westward.

All right, he told himself. Let’s get the hell out of here.

“Flighthawk leader, what’s your status?”

“Zero-two minutes from an intercept on those Mirages,” said Starship. “I’m going to be cutting it close on Hawk One fuelwise.”

“We’re going to fly to the coast. Should be plenty of chance for you to tank.”

“Yeah, roger that.”

Englehardt ground his teeth together. They had more than a thousand miles to go before they cleared the Indian defenses; he had only six Anacondas left, and his own fuel supply was beginning to dwindle.

Time to get home. No more dancing, just go.

The lead Mirage picked up Hawk Two on its radar when the two aircraft were about five miles apart. The pilot’s reaction was to pull back on his stick, attempting to outclimb Hawk Two.

That might have worked had Starship been flying the earlier model U/MF. The Mirage had an extremely powerful engine — it could outclimb an F-15—and would have been able to get over the robot plane before Starship was in a position to fire. But the improved Flighthawk could best the Mirage’s 285 meter per second climb by about fifteen meters; he had no trouble staying with his enemy. Instead, his main concern was to fly himself out of a firing solution as the Mirage began twisting left in the climb. He couldn’t get his nose down quickly enough as the Mirage slid left, swooping eastward. Starship tucked his right wing and managed a quick shot as the Mirage turned sharply across his flight path. While the Indian’s maneuver seemed counterintuitive, it put him so close to Hawk Two that Starship couldn’t turn quickly enough to stay on his tail. It was the first time he had ever been outturned while flying a U/MF.

Not counting the simulated battles he’d flown against Zen.

So what did Zen say the solution was?

Don’t follow. That’s what I want — I’ve cut my speed and all I have to do is wait for your engine outlets to show up in my screen. It’s a sucker move, totally a psychout, to throw you in front of me.

Starship pushed the Flighthawk the other way, figuring that once the Mirage caught on, it would think it had an easy shot from behind. But that was his own sucker move — he slammed into a dive and then looped over, throwing the enemy plane in front of him as it started to pursue.

Sure enough, a thick delta wing materialized in front of him. Now the Mirage’s maneuvers cost it dearly — the hard turns had robbed it of flight energy, and even its powerful engine couldn’t get it out of the gun sight quickly enough.

Starship got a long burst in, more than five seconds, long enough to see the bullets tear a jagged line in the wing. As he broke off, the Indian pilot pulled the ejection handles and was shot skyward. His plane spun furiously, a dart aimed at the ground.

Hawk One, meanwhile, was pursuing the other Mirage as it climbed through 40,000 feet, twisting and turning as it went. Starship took over from the computer, knowing that the Indian was close to his top altitude. The Indian rolled out and then managed to put his nose practically straight downward. The maneuver was executed so quickly and perfectly that after a few seconds Starship realized he wouldn’t be able to keep up. Instead, he broke off, banking northward, trying to get his bearings.

And to check his fuel. He was at bingo; he had to go back to the Megafortress.

Until now the Indian had outflown both the computer and Starship; he should have called it a day. But instead he pushed his Mirage around and fired a pair of heat-seeking missiles at the Flighthawk.

As soon as he got the launch warning, Starship hit his flares and pulled hard on the stick to tuck away.

“Computer, return Hawk One for refuel,” he said, switching planes.

The Mirage continued to move in Hawk One’s direction, trying to close for another shot. Either his radar had completely lost Hawk Two in the scrum or the pilot just didn’t pay attention to his scope, because the Flighthawk was driving hard toward the Mirage’s tail. Within twenty seconds Starship had it lined up for a cannon shot on the Indian plane’s wing. He pressed the trigger.

The bullets tore a jagged line up the middle of the Mirage’s right wing. The canopy of the French-made jet burst upward, its pilot ejecting almost before Starship could let go of the trigger.

“Flighthawk leader to Bennett. Mirages are down. Hawk One is coming in to tank. What’s our game plan?”

“Looks like every SAM from here to the coast is going to take potshots at us,” said Englehardt. “We’re heading west and not stopping.”

“Roger that.”

“Claims they didn’t get anything, Captain. He says we got here just a few minutes after they did.”

Danny Freah looked from the Marine to the prisoner. He was a kid, maybe seventeen, probably younger. He didn’t look very threatening, or determined to die for his cause. But bitter experience had proved that looks could be deceiving.

“You’re lying,” Danny told the guerrilla. “Why are you lying?”

The Marine translated the words into Arabic. The guerrilla got a pained look on his face. He shook his head violently, then began to speak.

“He comes from Egypt,” said the Marine. “He joined what he calls the Brotherhood. He was going to fight against the infidels in Kashmir. He says he’s not a terrorist. He only fights soldiers.”

“That’s nice,” said Danny. “Get some plastic cuffs on him.”

Jennifer picked up the last piece of metal and handed it to the Marine helping her.

“We’re good to go,” she told him, and started walking back toward the landing area. As she did, an AK-47 barked up on the ridge.

Jennifer dropped to one knee and pushed the helmet she’d been given down against her head as the Marines began to answer. She saw someone moving on the ridge, then a white flash, followed by an explosion and more gunfire. The weapons sounded furious, rattling the air with a beat that crescendoed with another explosion.

Then, silence.

The Marine she’d been walking with rose slowly. Two other Marines trotted over, making sure she was all right.

“I’m OK, it’s OK,” she said, getting up. “Let’s go.”

She watched them for a few minutes, then began walking toward a small ravine at the side of the plain, planning to get out of the way of the Osprey. As she did, she felt a bee sting her in the ribs. The next thing she knew, she was falling on the ground, lying on her back, her knee, head, and chest howling with pain.

What hit me? she wondered, then blacked out.

The Osprey’s roar drowned out the gunfire. The sniper had taken at least two shots before Danny saw the muzzle flash.

He threw himself to the ground and peppered the rocks with his assault rifle. Dust and dirt sprayed around him as the Osprey passed overhead. He pushed himself up and began running toward the sniper’s position.

A gun barrel appeared between the rocks; Danny flew forward, barely diving out of the line of fire. He tried to roll to his right to get into a ditch, but found his way blocked by a fresh hail of bullets.

Crawling on his belly, the Whiplash captain managed to get behind a pair of boulders about knee high. He burned the rest of his magazine, then reloaded. Two Marines had started to fire at the sniper from the north, pinning the gunman down. Danny jumped up and ran toward a line of rocks that jutted from the enemy position, making it just before the sniper turned his attention and rifle back in his direction.

Hunkering down beneath the stones, splinters and dirt flying around him, Danny waited for the man to shoot through his ammunition. The firing stopped; Danny raised his gun then brought it back down as the bullets began to fly again.

“Grenade!” one of the Marines shouted over the din.

Danny curled as low to the ground as he could. The explosion was a low thud, a soft sound that seemed to come from very far away. It was followed by the loud buzzing of several M16s as the Marines poured bullets into the sniper’s position.

Finally the gunfire stopped. Danny raised his head, then his body. Raising his left hand, he ran toward the rocks.

A slight figure lay hunched over in the bottom of the shallow depression, head and back drenched black with blood. An AK-47 and two magazine boxes lay nearby. The moon coaxed a gleam from the weapon’s polished wooden furniture.

“Make sure we don’t have any more of these bastards around,” Danny told the Marines running up to him. “And good work.”

“Corpsman!” yelled a Marine back by the missile wreckage. “We need a corpsman!”

“Oh, Jesus,” muttered Danny, running for him. Somehow he knew that Jennifer had been hit, even before he saw her prone figure splayed on the ground.

They managed to duck two more sets of SAM missiles, then had an uneventful thirty minutes flying an almost straight line southwest. But as they passed south of Ahmadabad, Englehardt found himself targeted by a trio of SA-2 missile sites; he decided he had no choice but to take out their ground guidance units. No sooner had the three Anaconda missiles left the bomb bay than Rager reported a pair of Su-27s taking off from Jamnagar, to the northwest.

The Sukhois chased them for only ten minutes before giving up. By then Englehardt had altered his course to avoid yet another set of missile batteries.

They were almost to the coast when Rager sounded another warning — four Su-30s, advanced versions of the Su-27 and the most capable aircraft in the Indian air force, had just taken off from Daman.

“Target them,” Englehardt told Sullivan.

“We only have three missiles.”

Which is exactly why he didn’t want to use them earlier, Englehardt thought.

“Use what we have.”

“I’ll take the lead Sukhoi,” Starship told Englehardt and Sullivan. “You guys get everything else.”

A two-seater, the Su-30 bore roughly the same relationship to the Su-27 as the Super Hornet bore to the original F/A-18 Hornet. Starship knew that if he didn’t fly just right, the Su-30 could easily get past him. And even if he did, it still might.

His first move was to push Hawk One ahead of Hawk Two, increasing his separation to roughly five miles. Expecting the Sukhoi radar to pick up the Flighthawk, he put Hawk One on an intercept that would take it directly into the Sukhoi’s windscreen. The two aircraft were closing at a rate of almost 1,400 miles an hour, or roughly 23 miles a minute. That would give the Sukhoi pilot only a few seconds to react before his aircraft was in range of the Flighthawk’s cannon.

A head-on attack at high speed had a limited chance of success, even with the computer aiming the gun. But Starship wasn’t counting on Hawk One to shoot the plane down. He wanted to attract the Indian’s attention and break its charge. Once it began to maneuver, it would necessarily lose speed, taking away some of its advantage over the Flighthawks.

Hawk One was still thirty miles from the Sukhoi when the Indian pilot showed he wasn’t a pushover either — he fired two AMRAAMskis, not at the EB-52, but at the Flighthawks.

“Missiles in-bound for Flighthawks,” Rager warned from his station upstairs. His voice was so loud in Starship’s headset that he could have heard him without the interphone circuit.

“Yeah, roger that,” said Starship.

He guessed that the missiles had been launched in the equivalent of a boresight mode, with the hope that their onboard radars would pick up the Flighthawks as they drew close. But it was also possible that the Su-30 was hoping to simply clear the path in front of him: Once the Flighthawks began maneuvering to avoid the missiles, his path to the Bennett would be clear.

Starship pulled Hawk One up, discharged some chaff, then rode the robot straight upward increasing the ship’s radar signature to make it easier for the missiles to find him. At the same time, he continued Hawk Two on its course. The missiles saw Hawk One and began to follow — only to lose the slippery aircraft as Starship pumped more metal tinsel in the air and pushed down hard on his wing, spinning away as he reduced his radar signature to that of a pygmy grasshopper. The missiles exploded several miles behind Hawk One; the Flighthawk had gone a little farther south than he wanted, but it was still close enough to recover if Hawk Two slowed the Sukhoi down.

Hawk Two was seven miles from the Sukhoi. Starship’s gun sight began blinking black, the other plane lower than he expected; as the sight blinked red, the Sukhoi veered north.

“Lock and fire,” Starship told the computer, letting C³ shoot while he flew the plane.

Always optimistic, the computer wound the Vulcan cannon up and began spitting its bullets in the Sukhoi’s direction a few seconds before it was actually in range. Starship nudged his stick to follow the Sukhoi, trying to give the computer as much time on the target as possible without trading too much altitude or speed.

The Sukhoi rolled out and disappeared below him, heading almost straight down. Starship didn’t follow, knowing the Indian would only pull up abruptly and try to outmuscle him. Instead, he slid Hawk Two back in the direction of the Bennett.

Hawk One was now about eight miles to the east and two miles south of the Sukhoi, and at 30,000 feet, roughly 10,000 over the plunging Su-30. Starship pushed the aircraft toward an intercept, trading altitude for speed, but still staying east in case the Indian pilot decided to hit the gas in that direction.

“Launch warning! SA-3s,” said Sullivan, the copilot, over the interphone.

The Megafortress lurched beneath Starship. He tried to shut out the cockpit conversation and focus on the Sukhoi, pushing Hawk One closer. The Indian had to turn to stay on course for the Megafortress. His turn inadvertently closed the distance with Hawk One. His tail appeared at the bottom of the screen. The targeting piper boxed it in black — out of range.

Starship told the computer to pursue the Sukhoi and took over Hawk Two. As he did, the Sukhoi began a hard turn west. It was far too early to get behind the Megafortress, Starship thought; he checked the sitrep and realized what was going on — the Bennett had altered its course to avoid the SA-3s, and was now flying almost due south toward the Indian. The Sukhoi was lined up and ready to launch its missiles at the Megafortress’s nose.

“Flighthawk leader to Bennett—you’re closing the distance with the Sukhoi.”

“Take care of him.”

“It would help if you kept your distance,” muttered Starship.

“Just fly your own damn plane,” answered Englehardt.

Starship pushed Hawk Two at the Sukhoi from above, taking on the plane from the forward right quarter. He managed to get a short burst into the fuselage before passing. The Sukhoi didn’t even seem to notice.

A warning sounded; the Indian pilot had managed to fire his two remaining radar missiles, both AMRAAMskis.

“Missiles,” warned Sullivan.

“ECMs. Hang on.” Englehardt began pushing the Megafortress into a series of evasive maneuvers. He was tired, as tired as he’d ever been, yet so keyed on adrenaline his hands were shaking.

“Still on us,” said Sullivan.

“What’s with the SA-2 battery near the coast?”

“Tracking. No launch.”

“Sukhoi is breaking off, moving east,” said Rager.

“Sure. He’s out of missiles,” snapped Sullivan.

Englehardt’s neck was swimming in sweat. Even though the controls were electronic, pushing them felt like heavy work, and his arms and legs felt as if they were going to fall off.

“Missile two is gone. The first one is still coming,” warned Sullivan.

Englehardt slammed the airplane back to the north one more time, putting enough g’s on the air frame to get a warning from the computer. The AMRAAMski slipped by — but as it did, the guidance circuit in its tiny brain realized it had been fooled, and self-detonated out of spite.

Shrapnel spun through the air. A succession of light thuds peppered the right side of the plane.

The aircraft shuddered but responded to his controls, leveling herself off as Sullivan glanced at the sitrep to get his bearings. Warning lights began to blink on the dashboard, and before Englehardt could completely sort out what was going on, he heard a loud thud from somewhere behind him. The Megafortress seemed to move backward in the air. He knew he’d lost one of his engines, but his adrenaline-soaked brain couldn’t figure out which one at first.

“Copilot, status. Engines,” he said.

“Three is out. Problems with four. Temp high, moving to yellow. Shit. Red.”

“Bring it down. Trimming to compensate,” said Englehardt.

“SA-2 site has fired two missiles,” said Rager.

“Bastards,” muttered Sullivan.

The Sukhoi broke east after firing, either unaware that Hawk One was shadowing him or thinking he could simply slip by.

Or maybe his pass had damaged the Sukhoi, Starship thought. The Indian aircraft was trailing black smoke from one of its engines.

The aiming cue on Hawk One went solid red, and Starship pressed the trigger. The first two or three rounds sailed to the right, but the rest ripped a large hole in the enemy’s wing.

“Get out,” Starship said aloud, even as he continued to press the trigger. “Bail. Time to bail.”

The wing flew entirely off, and the Sukhoi disappeared in a steaming cloud of smoke and flames. Starship throttled back and pulled his nose camera out to wide angle, looking for a parachute. But it was too late for the Indian pilots to hit the silk, too late for them to do anything. He felt a twinge of regret, sadness for the men and their fate, despite the fact that they’d been trying to kill him.

It was only as he pulled Hawk One back toward the Bennett that he realized the Megafortress had been hit. The pilots were talking about the engines — they’d lost one and were about to lose another. The Indians had also just launched a pair of SA-2s at them, though from very long range.

Somewhere above the cacophony he heard a radio call, faint, indistinct, and yet familiar; very, very familiar.

“Zen Stockard to any American aircraft. You hear me?”

Zen? For real?

“Zen Stockard to any American aircraft.”

Starship punched into the emergency frequency.

“Zen! Zen! Where are you? Zen, give me a location.”

He waited for the answer. After ten or fifteen seconds passed, he tried again. Still nothing.

Had he imagined it?

No way. Hawk Two had picked up the communication; the aircraft was flying near the coast, now about ten miles south of the Bennett.

“Bennett, I think I had Zen on the emergency band,” Starship said. “I think I had Zen. Can we tack back?”

“We’re down one engine and about to lose another,” said Englehardt. “Try and get a location and pass it on. That’s the best we can do.”

The SA-2s were following them, but Englehardt thought they could outlast them as long as he held the Megafortress’s speed above 350 knots. They throttled engine four back but left it on line even though the instruments showed it running well into the yellow or caution area. Not only did he want all the thrust he could manage at the moment, but compensating for the loss of both engines on one side of the plane would cost even more speed.

He worked with Sullivan to trim the aircraft manually, hoping to squeeze a few more knots from it by pushing against the computer’s red line. The nose felt as if it was plowing sideways through the air, like the prow of a small canoe being pushed by the current in a direction its owner didn’t want it to go.

“Temperature on engine one is coming up,” warned Sullivan. That was the engine that had given them problems earlier in the flight.

“We’ll have to try backing it off a little,” said Englehardt.

“SA-2 is still tracking.”

Englehardt wanted to scream. Instead he took off power on engine one, then scrambled to adjust his trim as the aircraft bucked downward. One of the motors that moved the outboard slotted flap on the right wing had apparently been damaged by the missile strike, and now the control surface began to balk at moving further. Finally it stopped responding completely.

“SA-2 is still climbing,” said Sullivan. “On our left wing.”

If he looked over his shoulder, Englehardt thought, he’d see the big white lance as it spun in his direction. He kept his eyes glued straight ahead, trying to keep the Megafortress as level as possible. There was no question of evasive maneuvers; they’d never survive them.

They wouldn’t survive a missile strike either. Better to go out fighting, no?

“Hang on,” said Englehardt, and he pushed the stick down hard, diving toward the earth.

There was a buzz around her, lifting her in the air.

“What’s going on?” Jennifer asked. Her words morphed as they left her mouth, changing into the chirping of birds.

What was going on?

Danny Freah’s face appeared above hers.

“You’re gonna be OK, Jen,” he said. “All right?”

She understood the words, but they sounded odd. Then she realized he was singing.

Danny Freah, singing?

“You got shot. Your vest and helmet took most of the bullets, but one got your knee. We gave you morphine for the pain, all right? It shouldn’t hurt.”

“Shouldn’t hurt,” she said, her words once again changing, this time into the caw of a bird.

Danny watched the Marines secure Jennifer’s sling inside the Osprey. One bullet had gone in the side of her kneecap, exiting cleanly but doing a good deal of damage on its way. Though the other bullets hadn’t penetrated her body armor, she still had two cracked ribs and a good-sized concussion. The corpsman who treated her thought she’d be OK, as long as she got treatment soon.

Three Marines had been hurt during the operation. Two had relatively minor injuries to their legs, but the third had been hit in the face and lost a great deal of blood.

But it was Jennifer he worried about. He had to tell Dog — but he certainly didn’t relish the conversation.

He pressed the button on his helmet, then reconsidered. Better to wait until they were in the air.

“All right, let’s go,” Danny yelled. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Come on! Move it!”

The Bennett momentarily turned into a falling brick, accelerating toward the earth as Englehardt put her into a power dive. She leaned on her good wing, accelerating briefly to the speed of sound. The air frame shuddered but held, a thoroughbred celebrating its sudden release from the gate.

The SA-2 that had been tracking them began to arc in pursuit, but there was no way it could turn quickly enough. Fuel gone, it flailed helplessly for a few more seconds before self-destructing several miles beyond the Megafortress.

Englehardt had avoided the missile, but now he and Sullivan had another fight on their hands. Giddy with the burst of speed, their racehorse didn’t want to come level, let alone slow down.

“Engine four is in the red,” said Sullivan.

“Take it offline,” said Englehardt.

“Shutting down four.”

Englehardt backed off engine one himself. That left him one good power plant.

“Unidentified aircraft coming from the west,” said Rager. “Two planes. Three hundred miles.”

Just what I need, thought Englehardt.

“Starship, we have two aircraft coming from the west.”

“On it, Bennett.”

“Feet are wet,” said Sergeant Daly at the surface radar, signaling that they were over water.

“Planes ID’d as Tomcats,” said Rager.

“Sullivan, contact those guys and let them know we’re on their side,” said Englehardt. “Then help me set up a course to the refuel. We’ve got a long way home.”

“Many of the circuits are burned out, General. I cannot make it work as it was designed to. I simply don’t know enough.”

Abtin Fars stood up slowly. He was a tall, thin man well into his fifties; he wore glasses but clearly needed better ones, for he was constantly fiddling with them as he examined things.

“You are an expert, Abtin,” General Sattari told him gently. “You can fix anything.”

“Some things. This is beyond me.”

Abtin seemed pensive, and Sattari feared that the true problem here was not his lack of knowledge but his conscience. The general worried that he was withholding his knowledge because he did not want to arm a nuclear weapon.

“The intention is to use it against Dreamland,” said Sattari. “The American force that killed our people at Anhik.”

Abtin had been friends with several of the engineers and technicians slaughtered at Anhik when the Americans raided the laser project Sattari had started there. But no emotion registered on his face.

“A difficult problem,” said the engineer finally, ducking back to look at the warhead.

Sattari watched him work with his various instruments and tools. The general himself knew nothing about how to make the weapon work. It had taken considerable trouble and expense to locate Abtin; finding a replacement would be very difficult.

He could put a gun to the man’s head and order him to fix the bomb, but how could he be sure it would explode?

He had to be patient, but that was nearly impossible.

“I could put in a very simple device,” said Abtin finally, still bent over the warhead. “It would allow the weapon to detonate at a set time. There would be no fail-safe. Once set, it would explode. These circuits here,” added Abtin pointing, “these are good. But placing the new circuit in, there is a chance that it will accidentally initiate the explosion.”

“If you tell me what to do, then I will take the chance myself. You won’t have to. You can be far away.”

“With this device, General, it would take many hours to reach safety.” Abtin rose. “I’ll make a list for you. The items we need are easily obtained.”

“We’re on station.”

Storm turned toward Eyes and nodded. The executive officer blinked and looked around the bridge apprehensively. He seemed out of place, as if he were a gopher who’d popped up from underground and arrived in the middle of a wedding.

“Say, Captain, do you have a minute?” Eyes asked.

Storm pointed in the direction of his cabin, which was reached through a door at the back of the bridge.

“You’re treating me like I’m the enemy,” Eyes told him after they reached Storm’s quarters. “I’m not.”

“No?”

“The order to stop trailing the Khan was Admiral Woods’s order, not mine.”

“You’re on his side.”

“I don’t take sides, Storm. I follow orders.”

“Damn it.” Storm pounded his desk. Since his “talk” with Admiral Woods, he’d kept his emotions bottled up and stayed mostly to himself. He’d said no more than was absolutely necessary, and to some extent managed to push his disappointment and anger away. Now it raged free in his chest, surging through his whole being. “I was so damn close,” he told Eyes.

“Close to what?”

“To sinking the damn Khan.”

“Storm, we crippled it. We sank the Shiva. The Shiva, Storm. Do you realize what we’ve accomplished?”

“It’s not enough!”

Eyes stared at him.

“It’s not enough,” repeated Storm, his voice closer to normal.

“Sure it is.”

Both men were silent for a moment.

“No destroyer has ever engaged an aircraft carrier in a one-on-one battle before,” said Eyes finally, his voice now almost a whisper. “This is what Pearl Harbor was for battleships. It’s a revolution.”

“It’s not enough, though,” said Storm.

“It should be, Captain. It should be.”

Storm stared at his executive officer. Eyes was a good man, an excellent first officer. But he didn’t understand — he didn’t have the ambition a truly great captain needed. He just didn’t understand.

But he was loyal. And Storm felt he owed him an explanation, or at least an attempt to explain.

“I can’t put into words what I feel,” Storm told him. “It’s just — I can’t.”

“Your men need you,” said Eyes. “They see you quiet, brooding, barely talking to them. Not leading them. They don’t know what’s going on. They need their captain.”

Storm frowned. He wanted to sink the Khan, to do what no one else had ever done. Having taken down one carrier, he wanted — needed — more.

But those victories were not necessarily who he was, just expressions of what he might achieve. Who he was went deeper than that. It was more important than a medal or a line in a history book that he’d never read. He wasn’t the snap in a sailor’s salute when he came on board, he was the look in the scared kid’s eyes when the bullets were flying and the young man needed something, someone, to believe in.

As Eyes was telling him.

“Dismissed,” Storm said sharply.

The executive officer frowned, then began to leave.

“Eyes?”

He turned back around.

“Thank you very much, my friend. I appreciate it.”

“Mr. Barclay, do you ever go home? It’s Sunday!”

Startled, Jed spun around to face his boss, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman.

“Um, but—”

“Just joking, Jed. How are we doing?”

Jed gave him a quick update, starting with the newly located warheads and ending with the fact that the two Dreamland pilots — his cousin and cousin-in-law, though he didn’t mention this — were still missing.

“That’s too bad,” said Freeman. “I hope we find them.”

Jed nodded.

“Now that Samson is taking direct control of Dreamland,” said Freeman, “are you worried about your role with the staff?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be. There are going to be a lot of changes at Dreamland due to the restructuring. It’s going to be a real command. The President—” Freeman caught himself. “Well, it’s the President’s decision. Things will work out. As for you, you’re still an important part of my team. Frankly, I think we’ve been wasting some of your talents. Dreamland has eaten up a lot of your time.”

“Um, yes, sir. Uh, th-th-thank you.”

Freeman reached into his jacket pocket and took out a business card. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” he said, handing it to Jed.

“Um, OK.”

“This is a speech therapist. She’s the best. She helped my daughter. I want you to see her.”

Jed took the card. He tried to smile. He’d been to several professionals over the years. Some had helped for a brief time, most hadn’t.

“Um, thanks.”

“I’m going to make sure you keep your appointments,” added Freeman. “And don’t worry about paying.”

“Uh—”

“A friend of yours who wishes to remain anonymous is footing the bill, not me. And I’m going to make sure you have time. The stutter is going to hold you back, Jed,” added Freeman. “It gives people the wrong impression. All right?”

“Um, y-y-yeah. OK. Thanks.”

“This is Bastian,” Dog said when he reached the communications station in the Dreamland trailer. “What’s up, Danny?”

“Bad news, Colonel. The last warhead is missing. And Jennifer’s been hit, along with three of our Marines.”

Dog felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

“Tell me about the warhead,” he said. He struggled to keep his voice even.

“There were guerrillas nearby when we arrived,” Danny began. He explained what they’d found — that the tapes made it seem as if the guerrillas hadn’t been there long enough to get the weapon, and that they’d also taken a prisoner, though so far he hadn’t said much.

Dog questioned Danny about the warhead and what might have happened to it, even though it was obvious Danny didn’t know. Finally, he couldn’t think of any other questions, except the one he wished he didn’t have to ask.

“And Jennifer?” he said, biting his lip. “How bad—”

“She’s going to be OK, they think,” said Danny. “She got hit in the knee, but she’ll be OK.”

The rest of what Danny said didn’t register — she was going to be OK. That was the only information he wanted. Danny mentioned the others who’d been wounded, the plan to get back to the base camp — none of it registered.

She’ll be OK.

Jennifer shouldn’t have been there in the first place, he thought. It was his fault. He should have ordered her home.

“You OK, Colonel?”

“I’m all right,” Dog told him. “Take care of your wounded. And get back in one piece.”

“Absolutely.”

Dog closed the transmission. There was another one waiting to connect — Starship, aboard the Bennett.

“Bastian.”

“Colonel, I think I heard a broadcast from Zen. I haven’t been able to get him back. We’re under fire,” added the pilot, almost as an afterthought.

“Give me the position.”

The Flighthawk and Bennett were considerably farther south than the crew members who had already been rescued. Was that an odd quirk in the radio waves? Or had Zen and Breanna parachuted out much farther south than anyone thought?

“Were you over the water?”

“The Flighthawk was. It was a faint signal, Colonel. I’m sorry I can’t be more definitive.”

“That’s OK. Are you guys all right?”

“Oh, yeah, Colonel. We’re great.”

“Take care of yourself. Dreamland trailer out.”

Dog switched over to the fleet liaison and told them he had important information about the search for his people. He was quickly relayed to one of the wing commanders aboard the Lincoln. The commander thanked him for the information — then told him it would be hours before they could respond.

“I know how important it is, Colonel,” the man said before Dog could protest. “Right now, though, we’re covering the evacuation of the warheads from the desert. The Indians are throwing everything they have in the air, and the Pakistanis and Chinese look like they’re going to respond. The warheads are our priority.”

“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.