Retribution

VIII. Homecoming

Dog had only one airplane at Diego Garcia that was both available and had sufficient range to get up to the area where the communication had been received—Quickmover, Dreamland’s MC-17.

Based on the McDonnell-Douglas Globemaster III C-17, Quickmover had been specially upgraded by the Dreamland design team to act as a front-line, combat cargo ship. Equipped with state of the art avionics and locating gear that would allow the aircraft to drop supplies and paratroopers deep inside hostile territory, Quickmover had proven herself in combat several times. But she was still a cargo aircraft with no offensive capability; if things got nasty, her only option would be to run away. The ship would have virtually no chance of surviving a gauntlet like the one the Bennett had just gone through.

But that didn’t prevent the crew from volunteering for the mission as soon as Dog told them what was going on.

“Let’s get the hell in the air,” said Captain Harry “Whitey” Golden, the pilot, when Dog told him about the transmission.

Whitey — his premature gray dome made the nickname a natural — spoke for the entire crew. The aircraft was airborne and winging north inside of twenty minutes.

As in a standard C-17, the flight crew worked on a deck at the front of the aircraft, sitting above the auditorium-size cargo area. Automation allowed the aircraft to operate with only three crewmen: a pilot, copilot, and combination loadmaster/crew chief.

Dog sat in one of the auxiliary crew seats, studying a set of paper maps of the western shore of India and trying to puzzle out what might have happened to the Levitow after its crew had bailed out. The first six members of the crew had been rescued about 160 miles west and twenty south of Vera-val; according to the copilot, the plane was flying due west at the time and the search had concentrated in that general area.

They’d widened the search, of course, but among the assumptions they’d made were that the plane had continued roughly on the course and that Zen and Breanna had gone out within two or three minutes of the others — reasonable guesses, especially as the plane had been descending rapidly before the others bailed.

But what if, right after the bulk of the crew bailed, the plane had turned back toward India or gone south, staying in the air for ten or even fifteen minutes longer before Zen and Breanna jumped?

The Megafortress’s computer was supposed to hold it on course, but Dog had seen firsthand how difficult the plane could be to steer with the holes torn in the skin when the ejection seats blew.

He drew a long box along the coast of India, extending nearly three hundred miles south from where the others had been found. Below the box, another hundred miles or so, were the Aminidivis islands.

Could they have made it that far south?

Probably not, he thought. But they would go over them anyway. He extended his box.

“Fly us up through here,” he told Whitey. “We’ll broadcast on the Guard band and listen on all of them.”

“Got it, Colonel.”

“If you get a radar warning from one of those SA-3 batteries along the coast, you get the hell west. Don’t stop, just go.”

“We’re well above them.”

“You go west, you got me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Colonel, how long should we search?” asked the copilot, Sandra McGill.

“Until we find them or have to refuel,” said Dog. “Or until General Samson finds out where I am and has my head.”

As Danny Freah sat back in the racklike bench of the Marine Osprey, two thoughts filled his head:

Man, am I tired.

Man, do we have a long way to go before I can get some rest.

His eyes started to droop. As he drifted toward sleep, he saw Dancer in front of him.

Out of uniform.

Way out of uniform.

Nice, he thought. Very nice.

Someone shook his leg.

“Yeah, what?” said Danny, sitting upright.

“Pilots want to talk to you, Captain,” said Gunny.

Danny got up and leaned into the cockpit.

“Troops are moving on both sides of the border near Base Camp One,” said the pilot. “They want us to go straight on to the Poughkeepsie. We’ll have to set up a refuel. Can you tell the Megafortress what’s going on while I work out the refueling details? We need to meet an Osprey from the Lincoln.”

“Not a problem.”

Brad Sparks was his usual overcaffeinated self, telling him the escort would be no problem. Danny next checked in with Sergeant Liu and the Whiplash detail back at the Base Camp; Liu told him tersely that things were under control “but we’re moving triple time.”

Clearly, the sergeant was still shaken by what had happened at the house, thought Danny. But he sounded a little better, or maybe just busier — the two sometimes went together.

The corpsman was checking on Jennifer when he snapped off the line.

“How’s she doin’?” Danny asked.

“She’s lost a good bunch of blood from that knee,” said the corpsman. “Like to get her treatment as soon as we can. Real soon.”

“We’re working on it.”

Cheech long’s nasal drawl broke the silence.

“MiGs look like they’re taking an interest,” the radar officer told Sparks. “Changing course.”

“We’re ready,” said Sparks. “Keep watchin’ ’em.”

The MiGs were Indian MiG-21s, flying a little more than two hundred miles to the west — behind them now as they swung with the Osprey. Sparks decided the MiGs weren’t going to catch up; he’d save his missiles for planes that would.

“Spoon Rest radar,” said his copilot, Lieutenant Steve Micelli. “A hundred miles south.”

The radar indicated an SA-2 ground-to-air battery. Their present flight plan would keep them out of the missiles’ range.

“All sorts of goodies under the Christmas tree today, huh?” said Sparks.

“Looks like somebody told them we were coming,” said Micelli.

“I think it was Cheech,” said Sparks. “He’s always looking for a fight.”

“Had to be Cowboy,” Cheech retorted. “Those Flighthawk guys live for trouble.”

“You got a problem with that?” said Lieutenant Josh “Cowboy” Plank.

“Negative, Cowboy,” said Sparks. “Just keep your Flighthawk juiced and loose.”

“Just remember I’m on your tail,” replied the Flighthawk pilot.

“Hard to forget.”

“Chinese J-8s, coming at us hard,” warned Cheech, his voice now serious. “Four planes. Two hundred miles. They’re doing Mach 2.”

“Micelli, target them with the Anacondas,” Sparks said.

“Not supposed to shoot until they threaten us,” answered the copilot.

“I interpret afterburners as a threat. Take the mothers out,” said Sparks.

Colonel Bastian keyed the microphone again.

“Dreamland MC-17 Quickmover to Levitow crew. Come in, Major Stockard.”

He paused to listen. Something was scratching at the back of his throat, and he took another sip of the herbal tea the crew chief had brewed. Then he tried the broadcast again.

“Colonel, we have a surface ship in our search box,” said Whitey when Dog paused to listen for a response. “The Abner Read. Very northern end.”

“Ask them if they’ll help.”

“Already have.”

“And?”

“Captain Gale wants to talk to you.”

Dog punched into the circuit. “Bastian.”

“Colonel, I understand you require assistance. What’s the status of your search?”

“Two crewmen are still missing,” said Dog. He told Storm about the radio transmission and briefly explained his theories about where the crew might have bailed.

“We’re inside your box. We’ll do what we can,” said Storm.

“Thanks. Bastian out.”

Storm frowned as the line snapped clear. Bastian had been abrupt as always, barely acknowledging his offer of help.

Some people were just social jerks, he thought.

It didn’t matter, though. This was their chance to get back in the game, if only a little. Anything was better than sitting at sea and twiddling their thumbs like a garbage scow waiting to sweep up the slops. The crew was starting to get bored: a disease worse than death, in Storm’s opinion.

“Eyes, I want to set up a thorough search for two downed Dreamlanders,” Storm said, switching over to his internal line. “The Werewolf, everything we’ve got.”

“Already working on it, Captain.”

Sparks thought they had things pretty well covered. The Anacondas were about sixty seconds from hitting the Chinese J-8s, and the SA-2 radar had turned itself off.

Then a mobile SA-3 battery turned on its radar and began directing it at the Marine Osprey.

“Get Angry Bear out of there,” Sparks told his copilot, Micelli. “Flighthawk leader — yo, Cowboy, toast the SAMs.”

“SA-3 toast coming up.”

“More aircraft. No IDs,” said Cheech at the airborne radar. “Three, maybe four planes. Two hundred fifty miles, bearing—”

“What do you mean, ‘maybe four’?” snapped Sparks.

“Make it three. Things are getting a little hot here, Sparks,” added the sergeant. For the first time since Sparks had worked with him, Cheech’s voice contained a note of stress.

“What are they?”

“Working on it. Tentatively, Sukhois. Su-27s.”

“Find out for sure and keep an eye on them.”

“Missile one has hit lead J-8,” said the copilot. “Bam!”

“I can do without the sound effects, Micelli.”

“Bam!” repeated the copilot, even louder. “Splash the second J-8. Kick ass.”

The crew’s banter level continued to edge up over the next few minutes, even as the threat board reddened with fighters and ground radars. No sooner had the Flighthawk taken out the radar for the SA-3s than a small dish radar for an ancient ZSU-23 lit up a few miles down the road. The ZSU-23 was a four-barreled cannon. Though old, it was hell on low-flying aircraft like the Osprey. While Cowboy got after it, Spark urged the pilot in the Osprey to get the hell out to sea.

“I’m moving,” said the Marine.

“Move faster,” said Sparks.

“You want to go like a bronco with a firecracker in its papoose,” cut in Cowboy.

Micelli and Cheech heard the communication and started roaring.

“I’m glad you guys are having fun,” said Sparks. “Keep at it.”

“Tracking Indian Sukhois,” responded Cheech, his voice somewhat more serious. “Two hundred miles. Losing them.”

The Sukhois turned off, but two Chinese planes joined the fray, flying over Pakistan. These were MiG-31s, similar to the aircraft Colonel Bastian had encountered some days before. Sparks decided he would target them with Anacondas right away — and wasn’t surprised when they fired their own missiles, apparently radar homers, just as the first Anaconda left the bay.

“Launch the Quail,” he told Sparks, referring to the radar decoy.

“Still trying to get a lock on the second MiG,” replied the copilot.

“Well, lock the motherfucker and let’s go.”

“I’m working on it, Sparks. Relax.”

The pilot brought up the decoy screen and handled the Quail II himself. Similar in many respects to its Cold War era forebear, the Quail II had an artificial radar profile and could broadcast radio and radar signals similar to the Megafortress’s own. With the decoy launched, Sparks took a sharp turn away, making sure the bait was between him and the missiles.

“Foxfire One,” said Micelli finally. “Anaconda away.”

The missile ripped out from under the Cheli as if angry that it had been delayed.

“Why are you having so much trouble?” Sparks asked. “You were one-two-three on the test range.”

“We ain’t on the freakin’ test range,” said Micelli. “The radar isn’t interfacing right. It’s getting hung up in the ident routine. I don’t know. Where’s Jen Gleason when you need her?”

“She’s in that Osprey we’re trying to protect,” said Sparks. “So we better do a good job.”

What was that sound? Zen wondered. An airplane?

If so, it was very far away — beyond his imagination. Beyond everything. He only existed on this tiny collection of rocks; he could not think beyond it.

An airplane.

He picked the radio up mechanically, made sure it was set to broadcast, made sure the voice option was selected.

He should broadcast, shouldn’t he? That was his job, even though his life was here.

“Zen Stockard—” His voice broke. He stopped speaking for a few seconds. Could he imagine himself beyond these rocks? Was there another place to go?

“Zen Stockard to any aircraft. Any aircraft,” he repeated. “Mayday. Mayday. Airman down…Pilot down…Mayday. Zen Stockard.”

He listened for the inevitable silence. But instead words came.

“Give me your location, Zen.”

Had he heard the voice yesterday, the day before, he would have laughed and answered with glee. He would have made a joke or said something grateful, or done one of a dozen other things.

Now he simply replied, “Colonel Bastian, I’m on a treeless atoll somewhere off the coast of India. I don’t have a GPS.”

“Roger that Zen. Jeff — Breanna? Is she with you?”

Zen glanced toward her, unsure what to say.

“Yes,” he managed finally.

“Thank God. Keep talking to me. Just keep talking. We’re going to find you. Keep talking so we can home in your signal.”

Was there anything to say?

Anything?

“Zen?”

“I guess I’m a little thirsty,” he said finally. “And hungry. But mostly thirsty.”

“Angry Bear, cut ninety degrees,” said Micelli, warning the Osprey of yet another ground battery. “Cut and stop. Shit. You got a zsu-zsu dead ahead.”

“Get ’em, Cowboy,” said Sparks.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” said the Flighthawk pilot. “Take me two minutes.”

“Splash Chinese MiG One. Bam!” said Micelli.

Sparks didn’t have time to celebrate with his copilot. He checked the radar warning indicator at the bottom of his dashboard. Another Spoon Rest radar — SA-2—was operating to the south, but they were well out of range.

“What’s the status of those Chinese missiles?” Sparks asked Micelli. “They still following us?”

“Sucking on the Hound Dog’s signal. Going east. Both of them,” said the copilot. “No threat. Anaconda missile has missed Bandit two, the Chinese MiG.”

“We missed?”

“Must’ve been the trouble locking. Both MiGs turned as soon as they launched. They’re not a threat.”

“No SA-3 battery here,” said Cowboy, guiding the Flighthawks. “What’s the story, dude?”

“You need to go two miles south,” said the ground radar operator.

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, my bad.”

“I need that refuel,” said the Marine pilot in Angry Bear.

“We’re going to get you there,” said Sparks. “You’re ten minutes away. Relax.”

“I have fifteen minutes of fuel, no reserves.”

“And you’re complaining?”

As soon as Cowboy started his run on the antiaircraft gun, Sparks told the Osprey to proceed. The area for the refueling rendezvous had been carefully plotted so it was far from any Indian or Pakistani radars. The tanker aircraft — another Osprey rigged for refueling — approached over southern Pakistan, sneaking away as its F/A-18 escorts tangled with a pair of Pakistani F-16s.

As the Flighthawk tracked back to cover Angry Bear, Sparks took the Megafortress west, checking the path to the ocean. With roughly two hundred miles to go, their best course was a beeline over the Rann of Kutch. There were several radar installations there, but only one missile site; Sparks had Micelli target it and was just about to give the order to fire when a fresh flight of Indian Mirage 2000s showed up on the radar to the south.

“Four of them,” announced Cheech. “Just coming in range — they’re at 35,000 feet.”

“I don’t think they’re going to be a problem if I hurry these Osprey guys up,” said Sparks.

“Where are those Navy jets?” said Micelli. “We’re supposed to have help.”

“They have their hands full,” said Sparks.

“We don’t need no effin’ Navy,” said Cheech.

“Keep your mind on your scope,” said Sparks.

“My eyes are there. That’s what’s important,” said Cheech. Then his voice settled into a more serious, clipped tone. “Another aircraft coming off the field at Jamnagar.”

Jamnagar was a major military base on the Gulf of Kutch, less than a hundred miles south of their planned exit route.

“You have an ID?”

“Negative. Two engines — patrol type.”

“All right. Track him. Micelli, let’s get that missile site.”

They fired the Anaconda, then swung back toward the Ospreys. A fresh pair of Hornets from the Lincoln checked in, saying they were about ten minutes off. Sparks told them to concentrate on Jamnagar; he’d watch the Mirages.

“Another pack of MiGs,” added Cheech. “The Mirages are on afterburners. I have some other contacts. A hundred and fifty miles.”

“What the hell did they do, save up all their fuel just for us?” said Micelli.

“They’re bored from being grounded the last few days,” said Cheech.

“All right, we’re going to have to deal with these guys,” Sparks told them. “Who’s the biggest threat?”

“We have only three Anacondas left,” said Micelli.

“Well, you’ll just have to get a two-for-one shot,” Sparks replied. He pulled up the stick, taking the Megafortress up another 5,000 feet and aiming southward. He’d keep as much distance as possible between the Cheli and the Ospreys. Most likely the Mirage radars wouldn’t be able to see the rotor tilts after they tanked and would concentrate on him.

The Mirages were in two groups, two planes apiece. Sparks had Micelli target the lead plane in the first group, hoping that with their leader gone, the others would lose heart, or at least hesitate enough for them to get away.

“Trouble locking — IFF says it’s a civilian.”

“Override the bitch.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Override and lock.”

“I’m working on it, Sparks,” said Micelli. He finally got the lock and fired.

The ground radar operator reported a contact moving on a highway twenty-five miles ahead of the Ospreys. Sparks had Cowboy check on it.

The cacophony continued. They’d trained for encounters like this, but the real thing was twenty times as draining and as confusing as the simulations. Even his crew of wiseasses was showing the strain.

“New bogey — unidentified plane thirty miles from Angry Bear,” said Cheech. “Designated Bogey Seven.”

“Where’d that come from?” said Sparks.

“Thirty-five thousand feet — looks like it’s one of the ones that came off from Jamnagar.”

“Tell the Navy flight.”

“They’re too far away to intercept,” said the radar officer. “They’re on a pair of MiGs.”

“ID the plane.”

“Working on it. Bogey Seven is in range to fire radar missiles.”

“Missile one is terminal,” said Micelli. “Locked on the lead Mirage.”

“No ident from Bogey Seven,” reported Cheech.

“Query the mother again. Micelli — get him on the radio.”

“Roger that,” said Cheech. “Bogey Seven is twenty miles from Angry Bear. Direct intercept. Turning — looks like they’re moving to get behind them. Shit. Fifteen miles.”

“No reply,” said Micelli after trying to hail Bogey Seven.

“Micelli — lock on Bogey Seven and fire.”

“Do we have an ID?”

“Bogey Seven closing!” said Cheech.

“Flighthawk leader, leave the ground gun and get between the Ospreys and bogey.”

“He’s too far. I won’t make it.”

“Micelli — lock on the mother and fire!” Sparks hit the radio. “Angry Bear, you have a bogey coming at your tail. Get as low as you can go.”

“Can’t lock. The IFF module—”

“Shoot the damn thing in bore sight if you have to,” said Sparks. “Nail that mother now.”

“Override. Locked. Foxfire One.”

The missile shot away from the Megafortress. As it did, the missile fired at the lead Mirage hit home.

“Splash Mirage,” said Micelli, his voice drained.

“Mirages are turning away,” said Cheech.

“Anaconda is terminal.”

“Lightning Flight to Dreamland Cheli. You read us?” asked a Navy unit.

“Roger, Lightning Flight,” said Sparks.

“We’re coming for you,” said the leader of Lightning Flight, a group of four F-14s dispatched from the Lincoln. “Rest easy.”

“Screw him,” said Micelli.

“Not today,” muttered Sparks. He clicked the radio transmit button. “Stand by, Lightning Flight.”

“Splash bogey,” said Micelli. “Bogey is down. The way is clear.”

“Angry Bear, your nose is clean,” said Sparks. He told the Marine pilot about the F-14s and had him contact them. “Did we get an ID on that plane?” he asked Micelli when he was done.

“Negative.”

“Cheech?”

“It was one of the MiGs, I think.”

“All right. We’ll sort it out later. Let’s make sure these guys hook up with the Tomcats so we can home.”

Danny Freah leaned over the back of the copilot’s seat, trying to get a better view of the source of the smoke as they approached.

“Got to be the gun the Flighthawk smoked,” said the copilot.

There was way too much smoke, thought Danny. He pulled down his visor and put it on maximum magnification, zooming in on the black cloud. The first thing he saw was a large flat piece of metal. Beyond it, red flames and a roiling cloud of smoke furled from a long tube.

A fuselage. He was looking at the wreckage of an aircraft.

“One of the MiGs,” said Danny, but almost immediately he realized he was wrong. The fuselage was too long, out of proportion to the tailfin for a fighter. Then he saw a large aircraft engine sitting off to the side.

He hesitated, then reached for the control on the smart helmet to record the image.

“Path is clear to the Lincoln,” said the pilot. “We’ll drop our injured and get over to the Poughkeepsie with the warhead.”

“Good,” said Danny. “Good.”

General Sattari watched as Abtin Fars took a long, deep breath, then bowed his head and said a silent prayer before reaching to connect the wire with the trigger device he had devised. To a layman, at least, the device seemed almost overly simplistic. There was a small digital clock, two different types of very small watch batteries, and a three-inch board containing a few diodes and two small capacitors.

Sattari took his own deep breath as Abtin reached into the bomb assembly.

The engineer jerked backward. Sattari reflexively shut his eyes, expecting the inevitable.

“OK,” said Abtin after a few moments passed. “OK.”

The general found he had trouble catching his breath. “It will work?” he asked when he did.

“It should. I cannot make any guarantees. Let me solder the connections.”

Sattari bent over the device.

“Please, General,” said Abtin. “If you don’t mind, having someone looking over my shoulder makes me nervous. Inspect the work when I am done.”

“Of course,” said Sattari, backing away. “Of course.”

Everything hurt. Everything.

Breanna’s heart thumped against the ground.

“Oh,” she said.

Pushing the word from her mouth took supreme effort. She tried to say something else but was too exhausted.

“Oh,” she managed finally. “Oh. Oh.”

“We got it, Colonel. A definite location.”

Dog flattened the folds out of the paper map, translating the GPS coordinates to the grid. Zen and Breanna were on an unmarked island northeast of the Chebaniani Reefs, about seventy-five miles from the mainland and roughly parallel to Magalore — farther south than even he had thought. According to the map, there was no land there, just sea; the nearest marked island was about three miles away.

But they were definitely there. Disoriented, barely able to talk, and clearly thirsty and hungry, but there.

“Dreamland Quickmover to the Abner Read,” said Dog, contacting Storm with the information. He spoke to Eyes first, then Storm.

“There’s nothing there on the chart, Bastian,” said the ship captain. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“It’ll take us three hours to get there. We’ll have the Werewolf over as quickly as possible.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Is your daughter all right?”

“She’s there. They’re both there. What kind of shape they’re in, I’m not sure.”

After a moment Storm replied, “I hope she’s OK.”

“Me too.”

The sound was so foreign he couldn’t process it, almost couldn’t hear it.

A moan, soft, long, plaintive…

Breanna, talking to him from the grave.

Calling for him.

“Jeff. Jeffrey. Zen. Where are you, Jeff?”

It was so far away, so injured, so lonely, he couldn’t stand it. A buzz descended from above, a cloud of hums as if angels were surrounding him. The air vibrated with a cold, parching dryness.

Is this what death was like? Or was it just loss, empty of all hope?

“Jeff. Jeff. Where are you?”

“I’m here,” he said. And the spell broke, and he turned and pushed himself back to the tent, where for the first time in days — for the first time ever it seemed like — Breanna’s eyes were wide open.

“Hey.”

He twisted his head down and kissed her, pressing his lips to her face, then pausing as the flesh touched, afraid that the pressure would hurt her — or worse, that the kiss would shatter an illusion and he would find she wasn’t here, wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t softly moaning for help.

He pulled back, eyes closed as they always were when they kissed. Fear overwhelmed him, choked out his breath. Zen shook his head and forced his eyes open, forced himself to face the inevitable mirage.

“Jeff. Everything hurts,” she said.

It was real, not a mirage, not a dream, not death or hopelessness, but life — she was alive.

He pushed in and kissed her again, happy beyond belief.