Retribution

IX. Payments Due

Even the most avaricious of men had limits, moral lines they would not cross for any amount of gold. So General Sattari was not terribly shocked when he found that Abul Amin, the Egyptian whom he had contracted with in Rawalpindi, balked when he saw the shape of the cargo that was to be loaded into the Airbus 310. Sattari countered the man’s frown with one of his own, then suggested they discuss the matter in a corner of the nearby hangar while his men proceeded.

“No, you must stop,” said the Egyptian in his heavily accented English. “I cannot allow my plane to make such a transport. If the Americans found out—”

“Why do you think that the Americans don’t know?” asked Sattari. “Come, let us discuss the matter and make sure our payments are arranged. Then a pot of tea.”

More confused than mollified, the Egyptian began walking with Sattari toward his small office inside the hangar. The Egyptian employed a single bodyguard, who stepped out from near the door and glanced nervously at his boss. Abul Amin shook his head slightly, and the man stepped back into the shadows.

That was the problem with people like him, who made their living in the shadow of the law. They were too trusting of others they thought were corrupt.

Most of the Egyptian’s money came from transporting embargoed spare parts for oil equipment, with the occasional military item thrown in as an extra bonus. He would be hired to pick them up from a country on decent terms with the West, like Pakistan, and fly them to a place such as Iran, where the international community had prohibited their direct sale. Amin had been doing this for so long that he’d come to believe not so much that it was legal, but that there was only minimal danger involved, that he did not have to be on his guard when with someone like Sattari — for whom he had transported everything from circuit boards for F-4 Phantom jets to Western-style blue jeans over the years.

Sattari’s greatest difficulty was waiting for the right moment to pull his pistol from his pocket. He waited until Amin had sat down at his desk, then took out the pistol and shot him twice in the head.

Amin fell backward, his skull smacking against the Sheet-rock wall and leaving a thick splatter of very red blood as he slumped to the floor.

Sattari aimed his gun at the door, expecting the bodyguard to respond. After waiting a full minute, he went calmly to the door, pushed it open and waited again.

His own bodyguards would be in the hangar by now, but he hadn’t heard more gunfire and didn’t want to take a chance.

A few seconds passed, then a few more; finally there was a shout from outside.

“General?”

“It’s OK, Habib,” he said. “Where is the bodyguard?”

“He ran as soon as the door was closed,” said Habib Kerman, appearing at the door. “We let him go. It seemed wiser.”

“Very good, nephew. We need to be ready to take off very quickly. There is a long night ahead, and I have not yet arranged the refueling.”

“Yes, General.”

Sattari smiled, then reached over to turn off the office light.

The atoll was only visible on the highest detail satellite images in the Abner Read’s library, and then it appeared as little more than a squiggle on the ocean. The small rock was completely barren; its vegetation appeared to consist largely of moss.

“I want the Werewolf there. Now,” Storm told Eyes. “I want these Dreamlanders rescued.”

“Aye aye, Captain. We’re moving as expeditiously as possible.”

“Don’t move expeditiously — move quickly!”

Storm grinned to himself. He was better, back in control. Woods and the others weren’t going to win.

Turning from his holographic chart table, he looked out the “windshield” at the front of the Abner Read’s bridge. Specially tinted and coated with radar-absorbent material, the view through the glass was one of the few things about the Abner Read that Storm did not like; the material made it difficult to use his binoculars. And unlike the younger members of the crew — though he would never admit that age had anything to do with it — he did not entirely trust the long-range images provided by the video cameras. So after checking with the helmsman to make sure they were on course and making the best speed possible—“Faster would be better,” he commented — Storm stepped out onto the flying bridge and brought his binoculars to his eyes.

Nothing but sea before him, and a high sky as well. The sun bloomed to the east, announcing a glorious day.

“Storm, looks like there’s an Indian destroyer on the move from the north, running in the general direction of the atoll,” said Eyes, breaking into the captain’s brief reverie. “Ex-Soviet Kashin-class ship. Looks like it may be the Rana. The Werewolf ’s radar picked it up. You want to go to active radar?”

“Negative,” said Storm. “The fox doesn’t let the hen know it’s in the barnyard. Plot its position. I’ll be back with you in a moment.”

Zen cupped his hands below Breanna’s lips, then tilted the small canteen so the water would flow. He had to tilt it more than he’d expected — the water was nearly gone.

“Oh,” said Breanna as it touched her lips. “Oh.”

She sucked at it, then started to cough. Zen stopped pouring, waiting patiently for her to regain her breath. She shook her head, and he took the water away.

“How long?” she asked.

“Days.”

“How did we get here?”

“We drifted. I don’t know how I found you. God, I guess.”

“Yeah.” She started to move, as if she wanted to stand up.

“No, no, stay down.”

“No, I gotta move.” She stirred, pushed herself, then stopped with a groan. “Oh, my legs are killing me.”

“Mine too,” said Zen.

“Yours?”

“Phantom pain. We’re going to be OK,” he told her. “I just talked to Dog — they’re circling above us.”

“Oh,” said Breanna.

She struggled to get up again. This time Zen helped and she managed to sit.

“I think this leg is broken,” she said, pushing her right leg. “It really hurts. And the knee is twisted.”

Something caught her eye.

“What’s that?” she said, looking toward the beach.

Zen turned. It was the Bart Simpson kid. He had a bottle of water in his hands and he was walking slowly up the rocks.

“Bart Simpson,” said Zen. He waved at the boy. The boy, staring curiously at Breanna, waved back.

“He loves Bart Simpson,” he explained to Breanna. “He must see it on TV. He thinks we know him.”

“Does the kid live here?”

Zen explained that they were on a barren island but that the boy and his friends seemed to live on another island a few miles away. The kid, meanwhile, stopped a few feet from Zen and held out the water bottle.

Zen took it.

“We probably should boil it or something,” said Breanna.

“I’m really thirsty,” he said. But he didn’t open the bottle.

“I think I hear something,” said Breanna.

Zen held his breath, trying to listen.

“A helicopter, I think,” said Breanna.

“I gotta get the radio,” he said, crawling back for it.

“You can hear it?” Dog asked Zen.

“Yeah,” Zen answered, his voice hoarse.

“Good. I’m telling the Abner Read right now…Zen?”

“Yeah, Colonel?”

“Breanna? Is she all right? Really all right?”

“She’s OK.” Zen’s voice trailed off. “You want to talk to her?”

Tears flooded from Dog’s eyes. He was so overcome he couldn’t answer, and when he did, it was between sobs. “Please.”

The silence seemed unending.

“Daddy?”

“I thought we agreed…you’d never…call me that…at work.”

Dog held his arm up, burying his face in it as the tears flowed uncontrollably.

“That’s right, Colonel,” said Breanna. “Sorry. I thought this was R and R.”

“All right. We’ll pick you up soon. Hang in there.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Storm studied the holographic projection of the ocean around them. They were about two and a half to three hours from the atoll. The Indian destroyer was closer; it could reach it in an hour and a half at flank speed.

It seemed too much of a coincidence that the other ship would be steaming in that direction; clearly, it was homing in on the radio transmissions from the survival radio. Perhaps it had picked up the MC-17 first, then gone to investigate.

With hopes of capturing the American fliers, he had no doubt.

He could sink the bastards with the Harpoons if it came to that. But by the time he got into range, the Indian would be at the atoll.

“Dreamland Quickmover looking for you, Captain,” said the communications specialist over the ship’s intercom circuit. “It’s Colonel Bastian.”

“Yes, Dog, what’s going on?”

“We spotted an Indian destroyer that seems interested in the atoll.”

“Yes, we copy,” Storm told him. “I’m not in range to deal with him.”

“Given what the Indians have been doing to our aircraft up north,” said Dog, “we should consider him hostile.”

“Agreed.” Storm felt his irritation growing.

“I can broadcast a warning,” offered Dog.

“You’re in a cargo plane, aren’t you?”

“I’ll fight the bastard with my bare hands if I have to,” said Dog.

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Storm.

“Main antiair weapons are Shtil missiles,” said the copilot, consulting the onboard reference to ID the Indian destroyer’s capabilities. “They’re Indian versions of the Russian SA-N-7s. They have about a three kilometer range. Maybe 15,000 meters — roughly 50,000 feet. We’re OK as long as we keep our distance.”

Dog looked at his paper map, mentally calculating the Abner Read’s position against the Indian destroyer’s. The Indian was north; Storm was south and to the west. The Cheli was more than an hour and a half north, still covering the warhead recovery operations. By the time they got down here it would all be over.

“Dreamland MC-17 Quickmover to Indian destroyer,” said Dog, switching his radio into the international communications frequencies. “We are conducting a recovery mission in the area and request you hold your position.”

When the destroyer did not reply, Dog repeated the message, this time giving the destroyer’s position and heading.

“Dreamland Quickmover, you are over Indian territory and will be shot down if you remain,” replied the destroyer.

“This is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian. I’d like to speak to the captain of the ship.”

“This is the Republic of India naval vessel Rana. You are in Indian territory.”

“I’m in international airspace, conducting a Search and Rescue mission for downed airmen.”

“Give us their location and we will pick them up.”

“Thanks, but we’ve got it covered,” replied Dog. “Please just stand by.”

The Indian destroyer continued on its course.

Its offer, though, gave Dog an idea.

“Rana, if you desire to assist, I can give you a search grid. Your assistance would be appreciated.”

Dog gave the destroyer a GPS reading that would take it to the east of the atoll. The destroyer didn’t acknowledge — but it did change course.

“Good one, Colonel,” said the crew chief, who’d been standing next to him, nervously shifting his weight back and forth the whole time.

“It won’t work for too long,” said Dog. “As soon as Zen broadcasts again, they’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe you should tell him to keep quiet.”

“I will, as soon as I think of a way to do that without tipping off the Indians that it’s a ruse.”

The kid who had brought them water was fascinated by the Werewolf, staring at it as it circled around the small island.

“You like helicopters?” Zen asked.

The boy was so engrossed in watching the helo that he didn’t seem to hear.

“That’s a robot,” said Zen. “It’s being flown from a ship.”

“Robot?” said the boy.

“Yeah.” Zen pushed himself a little farther down the rock-strewn beach. There was something on the horizon to the north, a long sliver of white.

A ship.

The Abner Read?

Zen stared. The bits of white separated into distinct pieces. There was a mast at the center of the figure, a sleek smokestack.

The Abner Read didn’t have a mast. She was a special ship, very low to the water.

And black, not gray. She wouldn’t reflect the sun like this.

“Zen, what’s up?” asked Breanna.

“I see a ship,” he told her. “It’s going in the wrong direction. Give me the radio.”

Storm watched the plot of the Indian destroyer, now positively identified as the Rana, veer toward the mainland. He had to hand it to Bastian, the old Dog had a plentiful bag of tricks.

They could be friends if he weren’t such a jerk.

The holographic unit included a navigational module that could calculate and project courses. Storm simply pointed at the atoll and asked, in his clearest voice, “ETA?” The computer flashed a set of numbers above the small rock: 1:42:06.

“I want more power, engineering,” he said. “Helm, find some way to get us to that rock faster. I don’t care if you have to put up a sail. Get us there!”

“Zen Stockard to rescue operation. come in,” said Zen.

Dog immediately hit his transmit button.

“Zen, we need radio silence. Complete radio silence. We will get you. We will get you. We don’t need a broadcast.”

Dog leaned over the radio console, hoping that Zen’s brief transmission — and his own — would go unnoticed by the Indian destroyer.

But it was a vain hope.

“Destroyer is changing course, Colonel,” said the copilot, who’d been monitoring it. “Going back in the original direction.”

“I’ll notify the Abner Read,” said Dog grimly.

“What’s wrong, Zen?”

Zen put down the radio without answering. He shaded his eyes and stared at the ship on the horizon.

“Jeff?”

“I think the Indians are looking for us too,” he told Breanna. “And I gather that we don’t want them to find us.”

Breanna struggled to get up, pushing as much of her weight as she could onto her left leg. But her head swam and the pain in her side seemed to explode. She collapsed to the ground.

Zen was over her when she opened her eyes.

“Hey, are you OK?” he asked.

“Yeah. I was just getting up.”

“Who asked you?”

“Well, I’m not going to stay on the ground the rest of my life. And I’m not going to stay on this island either.”

He smiled.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re beautiful.”

“If I look half as bad as you, I look like a zombie.”

“Oh, you look worse than that.”

Zen looked up at the Werewolf, which was doing a slow turn about a half mile off shore.

“You really think you could move?” he asked her.

“I can move, Jeff. It hurts, but I can move. I don’t know if I can stand, though.”

“You’re a gimp like me, huh?”

“You’re not a gimp.”

“I have an idea. Maybe we can meet the Abner Read.”

“I don’t think I can swim.”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“The Rana figured it out,” said eyes. “They’re back on their original course.”

“How long before they’re in range of the Harpoon?”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

“All right. Stand by.”

“Storm — there is the possibility that they’ll shell the atoll if we open fire,” said Eyes. “There’s not much shelter there.”

“Noted.”

Eyes was right, of course, but what other options did he have? He certainly wasn’t going to let the Indian pick up his people right under his nose.

A full volley of Harpoons would sink the bastard before he had a chance to react.

No, they’d have a launch warning. It would take the Harpoons roughly three minutes to get there; by then the atoll would be obliterated.

“Storm, listen in to the emergency channel,” said Eyes over the intercom radio. “Major Stockard is up to something.”

Storm looked down at his belt to get the proper combination of buttons that would allow his com unit to listen in. The broadcast came in, weak and breaking up.

“Hey, Werewolf. We’re looking for some navigational guidance,” said a tired voice. “Wag your tail if you understand what I’m talking about.”

“Eyes, have the Werewolf pilot zoom his video on the beach,” said Storm.

“I think he’s getting into a canoe,” said Eyes.

“I’m going to automated beacon,” said Zen. “So you can home in on me.”

Clever, thought Storm.

“Have the Werewolf lead them south,” he told Eyes. “Get the Harpoons ready — he’s leaving the radio on so the destroyer thinks he’s still on the island. Move, let’s go people!” shouted Storm. “Let’s show these Air Force people what we’re made of.”

“Now they’re getting it,” said Zen as the Werewolf ducked to the left. “Come on, Bart Simpson. Help me paddle.”

Zen pushed the boy’s small canoe through the shallow water, avoiding the rocks. Breanna was inside the boat, leaning over the side and paddling with her hands.

“Yeah, come on, guys,” said Zen as the current pushed up against the boat. “We have to go south. Stroke! Come on, Bart Simpson, follow that helicopter.”

Breanna couldn’t see much from where she was, but she could hear the helicopter. She had no more strength to paddle, and let her arm drag in the water.

Everything hurt so badly. She closed her eyes and remembered the night she’d seen Zen after the accident, the longest night of her life. She’d become a different person that night, though of course at the moment she hadn’t understood.

Who had she become? Someone wiser, more patient.

Not wiser, but definitely more patient.

She’d laughed a lot less since then. Much, much less.

That was a mistake. That was something she had to correct. She should be happy. They had so much.

“OK, baby, time to go.”

Disoriented, Breanna expected to see Zen in his wheelchair hovering over her when she opened her eyes. But she wasn’t at home, she wasn’t in bed — two men in wet suits were picking her up, helping her into a rigid inflatable. The Werewolf was hovering somewhere behind her, and the black shadow of the Abner Read loomed about a half mile off.

“What?” Breanna muttered. “Where are we?”

“We’re with the USS Abner Read, ma’am,” said one of the sailors. “You just relax now and enjoy the ride. We all are goin’ to take you home.”

With the last of the nuclear warheads stowed aboard the ship, Danny Freah asked the Poughkeepsie’s captain if he could find him a relatively quiet place for a private communication. Quiet turned out to be a precious commodity aboard the ship, harder to find than water in the desert. The communications shack sounded like a tollbooth at rush hour, and Danny couldn’t find a spot below that wasn’t overflowing with sailors and Marines, or sounded as if it were. He finally went onto the deck, and standing near the railing just below the bridge, put his visor down and contacted Dog.

“Bastian.”

“Colonel, it’s Danny Freah.”

“Yes, Danny. Go ahead.”

A small legend in the view screen indicated that no video was available. Danny knew that Dog was aboard Quickmover and guessed that the colonel had chosen to communicate with voice only — probably because he knew he looked tired.

Somehow that made it harder. Danny wasn’t sure why.

“Jennifer’s aboard the Lincoln,” Danny said. “They’re thinking they’re going to have to operate on her knee. It’s pretty bad.”

“But she’s OK,” said Dog.

“Yeah. She might have a concussion. Bullet splinter hit her helmet, knocked her out. That and the shock scrambled her head a bit. But she’s OK.”

“What about the mission?”

That was Dog, thought Danny — stone-faced and proper, insisting the focus be on duty and the job that had to be done, not personal emotion.

Even if he had to be breaking inside. First Bree, now Jennifer. But at least Jen was alive.

“We’ve brought the warheads back to the Poughkeepsie,” Danny told him. “Base Camp One has been evacuated. We have no further information on the last warhead; it just wasn’t there.”

“I understand.”

“The prisoner we took insists they didn’t recover the warhead before we got there. Maybe the Pakistanis were there yesterday or the day before.”

“It’s possible. Dreamland Command is already working on some theories with the CIA,” said Dog. “It’s all right. You did a hell of a job. A hell of a job. Where’s Sergeant Liu and the others?”

“They’re getting some rest.”

“We have to arrange for them to go back to Dreamland,” Dog told him. “General Samson wants to talk to them personally, before anyone else.”

“Samson?”

Dog explained that Samson had taken over as the new commander of Dreamland.

“Admiral Woods directed that they be taken over to the Lincoln.”

“Samson wants them himself.”

“It was an accident, Colonel.”

“I know that. Samson does too.”

“OK.”

Neither man spoke for a moment.

“We’ve found Zen and Breanna,” said Dog finally.

“You found them!” Danny practically yelled.

Colonel Bastian’s voice remained drained as he told Danny what had happened — once more the calm, understated commander.

“Jesus, that’s great, Colonel. That is damn great. Damn great.”

“It is,” said Dog.

For a moment Danny thought his commander’s voice was going to break. But it didn’t.

“All right,” said Dog, preparing to sign off.

“Colonel, there’s something else,” said Danny.

He told the colonel about seeing the airplane wreckage as the Osprey headed out to sea. The plane, he said, had almost certainly been a civilian aircraft.

“The Osprey pilot had the Lincoln call in a location with the Indian authorities. It was a pretty severe crash; I doubt there were any survivors.”

“I see.”

“The Navy people are investigating. It’s possible one of the Tomcats fired at it, but they think the Indians accidentally shot it down.”

He gave Dog the approximate location.

“Things were pretty heavy up there,” Danny added. “All sorts of stuff was in the air.”

“Thanks for the information,” said Dog. “We’ll make arrangements to get you to Diego Garcia as soon as possible. Bastian out.”

Dog rocked his shoulders back and forth as he walked down the ladder from the MC-17, fatigue riding heavy on each one. He’d managed to talk to one of the doctors on the Lincoln and found out that Jennifer was all right; the doctors believed she’d keep her lower leg, though her knee would have to be reconstructed.

Maybe now he’d be able to keep up with her when they went jogging, he thought.

Breanna and Zen were aboard the Abner Read, very dehydrated. Breanna had a broken leg, badly bruised ribs, and a concussion — but she was alive, damn it, alive, and that was more than he’d hoped for, much more.

“There you are, Bastian! It’s about time.”

A large black man stepped from the passenger side of a black Jimmy SUV. It was General Samson.

“General, what brings you out to Diego Garcia?”

“I’m taking charge of this operation personally, Bastian. You’re headed home.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Dog, struggling to keep his anger in check. “Because we’re done. All of the warheads, save one, were recovered. My people have been picked up.”

Clearly flustered, Samson shook his head.

“I’m going to turn in,” said Dog. “I don’t need a lift. Thanks.”

“Listen to me, Bastian. I know you think you’re untouchable, but that’s about to change. Your men created an international incident—”

“Which men?” demanded Dog, facing the general. “What incident?”

The general and the colonel stood facing each other on the concrete, both with their hands on their hips. Samson was several inches taller than Dog, and wider. More important, he outranked the lieutenant colonel by a country mile. But they were evenly matched where it counted — in their anger and distaste for each other.

“Your Whiplash people, on the ground, shooting up that house. The UN got ahold of that. I’ve just been on the phone with our ambassador.”

“Those people were trying to deliver a baby and save the mother’s life,” Dog said. “You know that.”

“Whether I know it or not isn’t the point.”

“Then what is the point?” Dog turned and started away, but his anger got the better of him. He pitched around. “You have a lot to learn if you think any man or woman who works for me, who works for Dreamland, anybody in this command, would kill innocent people deliberately. That’s just total bullshit. And if you’re going to lead these people, you better stand up for them, loud and clear, right now. Loud and clear.”

“Go to bed, Bastian.” Samson jabbed his finger in Dog’s direction. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

“Gladly.”

Starship ran his fingers across the top of his skull. His hair, normally cut tight to his scalp, was nearly two inches high. It felt like a thick brush.

“So what do you think, Starship,” asked Sullivan, the copilot of the Bennett, “are you with us or against us?”

“I don’t know how far you can really push this,” said Starship.

“Man, Englehardt almost got us killed. All of us. Including you. You were in the belly of the plane, you know. Not out there with the Flighthawks.”

Starship looked across the cafeteria table at Rager and Daly, the other members of the Bennett crew. He didn’t know them very well, nor did he really know Sullivan, except to occasionally shoot pool with on a night off.

“I mean, basically, you guys want to call the guy a coward,” Starship told them finally. “I don’t know. I’m not saying he made all the right decisions, but who does? And we had orders—”

“First order is not to get shot down,” said Sullivan. “He ran away from every battle, he didn’t want to use his weapons—”

“He used them,” said Starship. “Listen, you guys haven’t been in combat before. I’ll tell you, you just don’t know how some people are going to react. Bottom line is, he got us home. Flying that plane on two engines—”

“I had something to do with that,” said Sullivan.

“So you do agree, he wasn’t aggressive enough,” said Rager.

Starship shrugged. It was a tough call. There was no doubt Englehardt’s decisions could be questioned, but he’d been in a no-win situation. Starship knew from his own experience how hard it was to make the right call all the time, and how easy it was to be second-or even third-guessed.

“Look, we were hundreds of miles inside hostile territory, or what turned out to be hostile territory,” he said. “Give the guy a break, huh?”

“He’s against us,” said Sullivan, standing. “Thanks, Starship.”

The others rose.

“This isn’t an us versus them,” said Starship.

“We can’t do anything if you’re not with us,” said Rager. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Listen—”

Sullivan frowned at him, then stalked out. Rager and Daly quickly followed.

Though sorely tempted to just go to bed, Dog instead walked back to the Dreamland Command trailer to check on the Cheli. He’d just gotten to the door when he heard the Megafortress’s engines in the distance. He watched the aircraft touch down, then went inside.

A young sergeant named Sam Bautista, a Whiplash team member who’d flown in with Samson, was on duty inside. Bautista jumped to his feet as Dog came in.

“Relax, Sergeant,” said Dog.

“Sorry, Colonel. I thought you were General Samson. He said he was going over to see the base commander, but I thought he came back for something.”

“No, it’s only me,” said Dog, passing through to the secure communications area. He slid into the seat in front of the console and authorized the connection to Dreamland Command.

Major Catsman’s worried face appeared on the screen.

“Good even, Natalie. Or should I say good morning? Can you give me an update?”

Catsman started with things Dog already knew. The warheads were aboard the Poughkeepsie, Zen and Breanna were aboard the Abner Read. Further analysis of the last warhead site seemed to show that the warhead was gone when the guerrillas arrived, though the imagery was still being examined. The image experts asked to see everything recorded in the area since the EEMWBs had exploded.

“A passenger plane is down in the area the Marine Osprey flew through,” said Catsman finally.

“Yes, Danny mentioned it to me,” said Dog. “Do we know what happened yet?”

The major hesitated.

“Better tell me what you know,” said Dog.

“A Global Hawk went over the area about a half hour ago. This is a photo from the area of the wreckage.”

An image appeared in the corner of the monitor. Dog pressed the control to zoom in.

A triangular piece of white metal with black letters and numbers filled the screen. It was part of a fin from a missile.

“It’s one of ours,” said Catsman.

“From the Navy fighters?”

“No ours ours. It’s one of the control fins from a Anaconda.”

“From the Cheli?”

“Has to be. I haven’t talked to Captain Sparks. I figured you’d want to do that.”

Dog pushed his chin onto his hand. “Yeah.”

“I haven’t talked to General Samson either.”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Dog.

“I — He ordered me not to tell you he was on his way,” Catsman blurted.

“It’s all right, Major. It wouldn’t have made any difference at all.”

When you’re based near a place like Las Vegas, just about anywhere else in the world can seem spartan. But Diego Garcia was spartan in the extreme, which limited the crew’s options for celebrating their mission.

“First we debrief, then we go over to the Navy canteen,” said Brad Sparks as the crew shut down the Cheli. “Or whatever they call their bar.”

“Hell, Brad, just listing the planes we engaged will take an entire day,” said Cheech. “Let’s debrief tomorrow.”

“Oh sure,” said Cowboy. “Like we’re gonna want to do that with hangovers.”

“Colonel Dog will have my butt if we wait,” said Sparks. “Let’s just get it over with.”

“Where are the unintelligence officers?” said copilot Steve Micelli, getting up from his seat.

“Micelli, that joke is older than our airplane.”

A combat-suited Whiplash security sergeant stuck his head up from the Flighthawk bay at the rear of the cockpit.

“Excuse me, Captain Sparks, Colonel Bastian wants to talk to you right away. He wants the entire crew over at the Command trailer.”

“All right, Sergeant. We’ll be right down as soon as we grab all our gear.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re to leave everything here. The memory cards and tapes from the mission especially.”

“What the fuck?” said Micelli.

“If anything’s missing or erased, we’re going to be court-martialed,” added the Whiplasher. “I’m really sorry, sirs.”

Dog decided he would talk to the Cheli’s crew one at a time. Sparks, since he was the captain, went first.

“Describe to me what happened on your sortie,” Dog said, sitting across from him at the table in the Dreamland trailer. The others were outside, sitting in the shade of the nearby hangar.

“It was a long mission, Colonel. I don’t know if I can remember every last detail.”

“Do your best.”

“OK. Can I have a drink?”

“I just made some coffee. And there’s water in the fridge.”

“I was thinking about a beer.”

“Better not just now.”

Sparks nodded. Dog recognized something he rarely saw in a pilot’s face, certainly not at Dreamland: fear. Sparks must have sensed what had happened.

Dog had heard enough before Sparks was halfway through. The Anaconda aiming system had been giving them problems; they encountered a plane in the area near fighters that seemed to be a threat; the plane had not had a working friend or foe identifier.

Those were the mitigating circumstances. On the other side of the ledger, the plane should have been better identified by the radar operator, or, lacking that, visually identified by the Flighthawk before being fired on.

Should have been.

That was a judgment call, Dog thought, an extremely difficult decision to make in the heat of a battle, especially under the circumstances.

He truly understood how difficult that call was to make. Others might not.

“Did we screw up, Colonel?” asked Sparks when he was done. “What happened?”

“An airliner went down in the area the Osprey went through. There’s a good possibility it was shot down by a Anaconda missile that came from your plane.”

“Jesus.”

Both men sat in silence for a few moments.

“What’s going to happen?” asked Sparks.

“I don’t know,” said Dog. “It’s up to General Samson. He’s in charge of Dreamland now. And Whiplash.”

“Am I going to be court-martialed?”

Dog wanted to shake his head, to stand up and pat Sparks on the shoulder and tell him it was all going to be all right. But that would be lying. There would be an inquiry — a long one, no doubt — before any decision was made on whether charges would be brought.

“I don’t know what will happen,” said Dog honestly. “At this point anything is a possibility. I want you to go to your room and just stay there until you hear from me.”

“Or the general?”

“Yes. Or the general. He’s the one that has the final say now.”

General Sattari followed the control tower’s instructions, taxiing the airplane away from the main runway. He felt physically drained. It had been years since he flew a large jet, and even with his nephew, an experienced multiengine copilot, managing the Airbus’s takeoffs and landings had not been easy.

“Turn coming up ahead, Uncle,” said Habib Kerman.

“Very good.”

Sattari’s eyes shuffled back and forth from the windscreen to the speed indicator. He could give the airplane over to Kerman if he wished, but his pride nagged him.

“You haven’t lost your skills,” said Kerman as they pulled into the parking area. “Outstanding.”

Sattari smiled but said nothing. Kerman was his sister’s youngest son. He had been a close friend of his own son, Val, though a few years younger; at times he reminded him very much of Val.

Four or five men trotted from a nearby hangar, followed by a pickup truck.

This was the most dangerous moment, Sattari knew — when his plot was nearly but not quite ready to proceed. He needed to refuel the jet in order to reach his destination. The airport had been chosen not for its geographic location but the fact that he had agents he believed he could count on to assist. He himself had not been here in many years, so he could not be positive they would help — and indeed might not know for sure until he took off.

The men ran to chock the wheels. A good sign, he thought. They were unarmed.

Sattari glanced at his nephew. “You have your gun?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Sattari nodded, then rose. He went to the door behind the flight cabin and opened it, pushing it with a sudden burst of energy. A fatal dread settled over him as the muggy outdoor air entered the cabin. He was ready; ready to die here if that’s what was ordained.

But it wasn’t, at least not at that moment. A metal stairway was being pushed close to the cabin.

“God is great, God is merciful, God is all knowing,” shouted a man from the ground, speaking in Persian.

“Blessed be those who follow his way,” said Sattari, completing the identifier he had settled on in their e-mail conversation.

“General, it is my pleasure to serve you,” said Hami Hassam, climbing eagerly up the steps as soon as they were placed. “What cargo do you have?”

“That should not be relevant to you.”

Hassam smiled, then reached inside his light jacket. “You have perishable dates,” said Hassam confidently. “With all necessary papers and taxes paid.”

“Good work.”

“For our air force, nothing is too good. I have taken the precaution of purchasing several crates of fruit, in case there are any complications. I can have them loaded aboard the aircraft in a few—”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Sattari.

“Sometimes, the inspectors do come aboard.”

“It won’t be necessary,” repeated Sattari.

The man’s crestfallen face made it clear he was being too strident. He’d given Hassam to believe he was transporting banned missiles and other aircraft parts, a matter sufficiently important and clandestine that Hassam would probably not probe too deeply.

“The items we have are packed very delicately,” said Sattari, explaining while not explaining. “And the fewer in contact with them, the better. We can put a few crates here if necessary,” he added, pointing to the rear of the flight cabin. “But — should I expect trouble?”

“No,” said Hassam, a bit uncertainly. “Usually there are no inspections at all. Not once fees are paid. Which has been done.”

“The money transferred properly?”

“Yes, General. Of course.”

“Can we get some food?” asked Sattari.

“There is a place in the terminal.”

“Come, then,” said Sattari.

“Your copilot?”

“He and the others will stay with the plane.”

“You have others in the plane?”

“Not important,” said Sattari, unsure whether his bluff had been detected or not. “I’ll bring back a few things.”

Reviewing all of the recorded sensor and other data from the flight would take several days, but the tapes made it clear that the Cheli crew believed they were looking at an enemy aircraft about to shoot down the plane they were protecting. The plane’s transponder had not been working, or had been turned off for some reason.

Dog got up from the copilot’s station and walked slowly through the Cheli’s flight deck.

“No one comes aboard this aircraft without my explicit permission,” he told the sergeant standing near the ladder to the lower deck. “You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You noted that all the systems were intact when I left?”

“Uh, yes, sir. OK.”

“It’s OK, Sergeant, they were. You saw them playing, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was a long, long walk to the borrowed Navy Hummer, and a short, short ride to the base commander’s office. General Samson had concluded whatever meet and greet operation he’d been conducting and was striding out to his SUV when Dog arrived.

“General, I need to talk to you,” said Dog, leaning out his window.

“Not now, Bastian. I’m meeting the commander for dinner.”

“You’re going to want to talk to me first, General.”

“What about?”

“We’d best go someplace a little more private.”

The first thing Samson thought was, now I’ve got him. Bastian wouldn’t be able to wiggle out of this.

The next thing he thought was, What if they blame me somehow?

The incident with the family in the desert was bad, very bad, but the video vindicated the men, and it could be argued that the Dreamland people were on a mission of mercy. Whether they should have undertaken it or not was beside the point.

But this was very different.

“You’re sure it was a civilian plane?” Samson asked Bastian.

“Dreamland Command says there’s no doubt. It’s a small airline that flies in northern India. This wasn’t a scheduled flight,” added Dog. “It apparently was some sort of relief plane or charter flying workers north to do electrical repairs.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t they have had a working transponder?”

“I don’t know. We’ve encountered plenty of planes that haven’t. Usually, though, it’s because they’re up to something they shouldn’t be. This might just have been a malfunction.”

“Why the hell wasn’t it visually identified before they fired?” Samson asked. “That’s standard procedure.”

“There wouldn’t have been time to visually check before the Osprey was in danger.”

“That’s their excuse?”

“That’s my assessment. They haven’t offered an excuse.”

“That’s not going to be good enough, Bastian.”

Dog didn’t reply. Samson rubbed his forehead.

There must be some way out of this, he thought. Forget the damage to his career — this was going to make the Air Force look bad. Very, very bad.

“What’s the status of the plane?” snapped Samson.

“I have it under guard.”

“All right. Dismissed.”

“That’s it?”

“Of course that’s not it. But at the moment, Bastian, I don’t want to see your face. And let me make one thing perfectly clear: You have no command. Do you understand? You are not in charge here. You cannot give an order relating to Dreamland, not even for coffee,” he said. “Got me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Catch the first flight you can back to Dreamland. I’ll deal with you there.”

“Remember what I said about standing up for your people,” said Dog.

“When I want advice from you, I’ll ask for it.”

The Abner Read’s sickbay had some of the most modern medical equipment in the world, crammed into a space that would have made a broom feel crowded. Zen and Breanna occupied exactly fifty percent of the beds.

Zen had cuts all over his body. Acting on the advice of a doctor aboard the Lincoln, the Abner Read’s medical officer had started him on a course of intravenous antibiotics to combat any infection. Otherwise, his main problem was dehydration.

Breanna’s case was more difficult to diagnose. Besides her broken bones, there appeared to be some light internal bleeding in her chest cavity. After consulting with a doctor on the Lincoln, the Abner Read’s medical officer decided to have her moved to the aircraft carrier, where the larger facilities would make it easier to monitor her condition and operate if necessary.

Breanna was awake when the helicopter arrived. Zen, exhausted, was snoring loudly.

“Don’t wake him,” Breanna whispered to the doctors when they came in to examine her. “He needs to sleep.”

“A good prescription,” said the doctor.

“I’ll see you later, babe,” Breanna told her sleeping husband as her cot was gently lifted. “Pleasant dreams.”

“I hear Samson’s a real prick,” said Jones as they waited in the dark.

“I don’t think it matters whether he’s nice to us or not,” said Liu. “The facts are the facts.”

“I wish I could be as calm as you,” said Blow. He rubbed his hands together; the night had turned chilly. “Look at these arrangements — we gotta fly halfway around the world, land in Germany, catch a plane to D.C., then over to who knows where before we go home.”

“’Cause he’s keeping us away from the Navy,” said Jones. “That might be a good sign.”

“It’s not going to be bad,” said Liu calmly.

“Man, I can still see that baby.” Jones pounded his eyes with his fist. “I can’t stand it.”

“It’ll be OK,” said Liu. He touched the other man’s back. “The baby’s in heaven.”

No one said anything else until Blow pointed out the Osprey in the sky, its searchlight shining through the darkness.

“That’s ours,” said the sergeant. “Coming for us.”

He was in the air, tumbling and falling. Breanna was there too, but just out of reach. He kept trying to get her, though, throwing his hands out, grabbing for her.

Then suddenly she stopped. He continued to fall, plummeting toward the sea.

“Breanna,” he called. “Bree. Bree.”

The water felt like cement as he hit. His legs were crushed beneath him.

“Breanna!” Zen cried, and he woke in the sickbay.

He knew where he was, knew they were OK, but whatever part of his consciousness controlled his emotions was stuck back in the frightful dream. When he finally caught his breath, he turned and looked for Breanna.

The cot was empty.

“Bree!” he shouted. “Breanna!”

He pushed to get up, but couldn’t. There were straps across his chest.

“Breanna!” Zen bellowed.

“Major Stockard, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?” said a corpsman, running in.

“My wife. Where is she?”

“She’s OK, sir. They’ve taken her to the Lincoln.”

“Why?”

“The aircraft carrier, Major. It has better facilities. She’s fine, believe me. They’ve got great doctors. We just want to make sure there’s no bleeding. If there is any, if by any chance they needed to operate, they have the facilities.”

“Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

“She said not to.”

Zen dropped his head back on the bed. His whole body felt cold, and bruised.

“Can you undo me?” he asked the man.

“Don’t want you falling out of bed, sir.”

“Just undo me. I’m not going for a walk.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zen pulled his hands free but couldn’t reach the strap over his chest. As soon as he was able, he pushed himself into a sitting position.

“You know what the weird thing is, sailor,” he said as he sat up.

“You can call me Terry, sir.”

“I’m Zen.”

The sailor smiled, and pushed a pillow behind his patient’s back.

“The weird thing is that I could swear I actually feel pain in my legs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I haven’t walked in a couple of years. I don’t feel anything.”

“Doctor said it’s like a normal thing. Phantom pain.”

“Yeah. But I haven’t felt it in years. Sure feels real.”

Zen stared at his legs, then did something he hadn’t done in a long, long time — he tried to make them move.

They wouldn’t. But they did hurt. They definitely did hurt.

“Yeah. Weird thing, the body,” said Zen. “Real weird.”

“Ms. Gleason is sleeping,” said the nurse on duty in the Lincoln’s sickbay when Dog finally managed to connect with the carrier. “Even if I was allowed to wake her, she’d been pretty incoherent with the painkillers. She’ll be OK,” added the nurse, her voice less official and more emphatic. “All her vital signs are stable and she’s headed toward a full recovery.”

“How is her knee?”

“The primary problem is her kneecap, or the patella. They’ll have to replace it. But there’s a lot of work with prostheses over the last ten or twenty years. She’ll definitely walk again, after rehab.”

“Will she run?”

“Did she run before?”

“Yeah,” said Dog. “She’s pretty fast.”

“Then, maybe. The doctors will have a lot more information. You’re her commanding officer?”

“I’d like to think I’m more than that,” said Dog.

“Encourage her. The rehab can be very difficult.”

“She’s up to it,” said Dog. “If there’s one thing I know about Jennifer Gleason, she’s up to it.”

Relieved of command and clearly unwanted, Dog saw no point in hanging around Diego Garcia. Responsibility for locating the last warhead had now been shifted to the CIA; with more Navy assets on the way, Dreamland’s help was no longer needed. The entire Dreamland team would be shipping back to base within the next few days; better to leave sooner rather than later, he decided.

The Bennett was the first aircraft scheduled to go home, once her damaged engines were replaced and the others repaired. Pending completion of the work, the plane was tentatively scheduled to take off at 0400, and Dog decided he’d hitch a ride.

He stayed up the rest of the night, slowly sipping a beer as he stared at the stars. Once or twice he tried thinking about his future in the Air Force, or rather, if there was a future for him in the Air Force, but he quickly gave up. That was the sort of thinking that required a quiet mind, and his was anything but. A million details, a thousand emotions, battled together below the surface of his consciousness, ready to interfere with any serious thought. The only way to hold them at bay was to stare blankly at the sky, just watching.

Just before 0200 he found Englehardt and his crew briefing their flight. He interrupted them and, calling Englehardt out into the hall, asked permission to grab a flight home.

“Um, you don’t need my permission, Colonel.”

“Well, as it happens, I do,” said Dog.

He told Englehardt that Samson was reorganizing things and at the moment he didn’t have any authority concerning Dreamland.

Pride kept him from saying he’d been shafted, though that’s what it was.

“It’s OK with me, Colonel. It’d be fine with me.”

“Great. I’ll meet you and the crew at the plane with my gear.”

General Sattari twisted another piece of bread from the loaf and pushed it into his mouth. He hadn’t realized how hungry he still was until he began nibbling on one of the loaves he’d bought for his nephew at the airport workers’ cafeteria.

The refueling was nearly complete. Sattari paced on the tarmac as the men finished, waiting, impatient to be gone.

There were voices in the darkness beyond the plane. Some trick of the wind or his brain transformed them, made them seem familiar: his son, Val Muhammad Ben Sattari, speaking with his wife in the family garden many years before, when Val was just a boy.

Oh, Val, the loss, the loss of your precious life. What would I tell your mother, after my promises to see you happy, and with many children on your knee?

Sattari took a step in the direction of the voices, but they had faded. The fuel truck was finished; a worker recoiled the hose on the spool.

General Sattari thought back to the time when his son told him he wanted to be just like him. He’d been very proud — too proud.

How much would he trade to have that moment back?

He climbed up the steps to the cockpit. His nephew was just finishing the dinner he had brought.

“Are you ready?” Sattari asked.

“Yes, General.”

Though they were cousins, Habib Kerman bore little resemblance to Val; he was flabbier, shorter. But for some reason he now reminded Sattari of Val, and the general felt a twinge of guilt.

“Habib, I have been thinking,” he said, and put his hands on the back of the first officer’s seat. “I think I will take the plane myself.”

“You can’t fly it by yourself, Uncle.”

“I can. You saw yourself.”

Kerman stared at him, his front teeth biting into his lip. Then he shook his head.

“I want to do this,” he told Sattari. “Since my wife died, I have looked for a way to make my life meaningful. Allah has given me this chance, praised be his name.”

“Once we take off, Habib, there can be no turning back.”

“I wish to do it.”

If it were Val, Sattari thought, would he let him go? It was one thing to undertake a hazardous mission, and quite another to face certain, absolute death.

“Are you sure?”

Kerman nodded.

“I am very proud of you,” Sattari said. He tapped Kerman on the shoulder, then quickly turned and walked out of the cockpit, not wanting the younger man to see the tears welling in his eyes.

He found someone waiting at the base of the boarding ladder. It was Hassam, the spy who had helped arrange the refueling.

“What is it?” said Sattari.

“General, I trust all is well,” said Hassam, coming up a few steps.

“Yes.” They met halfway.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What is it you need?” said the general harshly. He had an impulse to reach for the gun in his belt and shoot the man, but that might ruin everything.

“The flight plan that was filed. It indicates you are going to America.” Hassam was grinning.

“Flight plans do not necessarily tell the entire truth,” said Sattari.

“Still, that is curious.”

“What is your point, Hassam?”

The general placed his hand closer to his gun.

“I took the liberty of finding alternate identifiers and flights for you, in case you are tracked once you take off,” said Hassam.

Sattari’s hand flew to his gun as Hassam reached to his jacket. Hassam smiled, opened the coat to show that he had no weapon, then took out a wedge of papers.

“I assume you want no questions asked when you appear at the airport to refuel,” said Hassam. “But in the meantime, these may help you.”

Sattari stood speechless on the tarmac, eyeing the folded documents. The smuggler’s plane could send false ident signals, but he had not had time to research other IDs or flight numbers. These would very useful.

And yet, he didn’t trust Hassam. There was something in the man’s manner that kept Sattari from reholstering the gun as he took the papers.

“You’ll find they’re in order, I’m sure,” said Hassam.

“How?” Sattari asked.

“Do you think the leaders of our country are blind and ignorant?”

Sattari felt his face flush.

“General, there is another question I must ask, though. Going to America — do you really feel that is wise?”

Sattari was once more on his guard. “If you know everything, then you know why I am going.”

“Such an important man as yourself. It would be a shame to lose you. Especially when there is someone much younger ready to take your place.”

Sattari heard something behind him. As he turned to glance up at the ladder, he realized his mistake. Before he could react, Hassam had leapt at him.

The general was still strong, but he was tired from his exertions over the past few days. He tried to bring his pistol around to shoot Hassam but couldn’t manage it. Then there were others — someone stomping on his arm, kicking. Sattari’s finger squeezed on the trigger. The loud pop of the pistol so close to his ear took his hearing away for a moment, and with his hearing went the last of his strength. The others continued to wrestle with him, but he was done, drained — angry and humiliated, a failure, a man who could not even get justice for his son.

“Wait! He has been injured!” yelled Hassam. “Careful! Take the gun.”

Sattari’s body had become a sack of bones. The gun was taken from him. Hassam got up; one of the men who’d come to his aid pushed the general onto his back.

“Gently,” said Hassam. “He is a general.”

Sattari could not see who he was speaking to. His eyes were focused on the face that appeared above him: Kerman.

In the darkness, he looked like his son, gazing down on him from Paradise.

“I will not fail you, Uncle.”

“You said he would not be hurt,” Kerman told Hassam after Sattari had been carried to one of the cars. “Your thugs knocked him unconscious.”

“He’s not unconscious,” said Hassam. “A few bruises.”

“He wasn’t talking.”

“Don’t worry so much about your uncle. Worry about yourself.”

Kerman felt a surge of anger. But who was he really mad at — the spy or himself? He had told the ayatollah what Sattari was up to, knowing what the result would be.

“Nothing more to say, young man?” Hassam sounded almost as if he was jeering.

“Give me the papers.”

“Can you be trusted? Ayatollah Mohtaj says yes, but I am not sure.”

Kerman took the documents with the false IDs.

“You’ll find out in less than twenty-four hours,” he said, jogging toward the airplane’s ladder.