Retribution

X. The Long Ride Home

Danny Freah struggled to shut out the noise from the ship as he continued reviewing the mission with Major Catsman back at Dreamland. The Dreamland people had reviewed the available satellite and aerial reconnaissance data, looking for whoever might have been to the final warhead site before the Whiplash team. There were gaps of several hours in the records, but Catsman seemed fairly confident that the photo analysts would have been able to spot a Pakistani task force somewhere in the mountains. Trucks just couldn’t move that quickly on the roads.

“There were tribespeople through the area on horseback two days before,” said Catsman. “Then we think there was a Chinese reconnaissance flight, though we can’t be sure it went over that area.”

It still wasn’t clear that the Chinese were actually working with the guerrillas Danny had encountered, or were competing with them to recover the weapon — a claim the Chinese ambassador to the UN had made when pressed about encounters in the area.

The politics didn’t concern Danny much; he wanted results.

“The specialists have gone back and analyzed the satellite imagery,” said Catsman. “They think the warhead was removed sometime after 1600 yesterday. They’re going by some changes in the shadows on the ground. There is some debate on it — a lot of debate. They’re comparing the satellite image to the Global Hawk image, and there’s a large margin of error. The warhead itself was obscured; it was the missile’s engines it focused on.”

“Maybe some of the guerrillas got away while we were fighting,” said Danny. “Maybe I missed them.”

“We’ve gone over all the data, the Global Hawk feed, the video from the Flighthawk — none of them got away.”

“I want to check it out anyway,” said Danny.

“Fine. We’ll stream it all back to you.”

Danny moved the rolling chair he’d borrowed back against the wall of the communications compartment, watching the footage after it finished loading. In the earliest images it looked as if the guerrillas were just arriving, securing lookout positions and then moving down toward the warhead.

The rest of the video showed the battle. He saw his people come under fire, and could even make out himself in a few frames. It was odd to watch a replay of something that had been so intense — the tape seemed several times faster than real life, cold and quick, without any of the real emotion. Or fear.

“You have anything earlier than this?” he asked.

“We have the satellite shots. I’ll download them.”

“Instead of looking at the site, what if we looked at the major roads through the area?”

“The major road is a cow path,” said Catsman.

“Well, any truck on it would be significant.”

“Sure. We’ve checked the area,” added Catsman. “And the photo interpreters at the CIA and Air-Space Command have been all over it.”

“What if you look at the grids around it?”

“Just because we see a truck on the road doesn’t mean it was at the site. The CIA has taken over the search—”

“Look, I’ll do it. I don’t have anything better to do anyway.”

“We’ll look at it and get back to you.”

Mack Smith had been to Germany exactly three times, and each time it had been far less than exciting. It was the fräuleins; they just didn’t appreciate American men. And the police lacked a sense of humor.

Evacked to Germany for medical observation, Mack had no trouble convincing the doctors that he was fine. Or rather, he would have convinced them if he’d stayed around long enough to listen to their excuses about why someone in perfect health needed to take umpteen tests. He checked himself out — more precisely, he waved at the people at the desk as he strode into the lobby — and found himself the first flight back to the States, and from there, to Dreamland.

His bad experiences in Germany were only part of his motivation. He had surmised from the paperwork that changes in the Dreamland Command structure were afoot. A call back to the base informed him that the changes were even broader than he had thought, and he decided that the sooner he shook the new commander’s hand, the higher up on the food chain he’d find himself when the dust settled.

Mack was so anxious to get back that he even accepted a C-130 flight into Nellis, sitting in steerage — that is, on the floor in the cargo hold of the notoriously loud aircraft. By contrast, the Dauphin helicopter that took him from Nellis to Dreamland was a sleek limo, and he found himself bantering with the pilots, telling them how great a place Diego Garcia was, with the sun always shining and girls fawning over him 24/7.

Half of the story was true, after all; how much more could they expect?

As he made his way over from the landing “dock” to the Taj, he developed a cocky spring in his step. Dreamland’s new commander wasn’t a fighter jock; he flew Boners, as the go-fast community disparagingly called the B-1B Lancer. But he was a general, and as such, Terrill Samson would have a lot more muscle than Lieutenant Colonel Bastian — a decent guy and a fellow fighter pilot, but when all was said and done, a lightweight in the political department. And politics was the name of the game these days.

Mack sailed into the base commander’s outer office, gave a quick wave to the cute secretary at the far desk, ignored the bruiser at the close one, and stuck his head into the open door, where Samson’s name had replaced Colonel Bastian’s.

“Hey, General,” he said. “Got a minute?”

“Thanks for the promotion,” said Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs, who was arranging folders on the general’s desk.

“Hey, Axy,” said Mack, sauntering inside. “Where’s the majordomo?”

Ax cleared his throat. “Major General Samson is on Diego Garcia.”

“No shit. I just left there. Well, not just.” Mack went around to the desk and plopped into the general’s chair. “So he already kicked Dog out of his office, huh? I figured he would. Too nice for a colonel.”

“Colonel Bastian has an office down the hall.”

“What’s that for, transition? Where’s the old Dog headed next anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Ax.

“Jeez, Axy, I thought you knew everything.”

“From what I understand, it hasn’t been decided. Is there something I can do for you, Major?”

“Just enjoying the view,” said Mack, spinning from side to side in the seat. “Not bad.”

Ax frowned.

“You know what your problem is, Chief?” Mack asked, getting up.

“I couldn’t guess.”

“All you chiefs — you think you outrank everybody, even a general. But don’t worry.” Mack slapped Ax on the back. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I’m most obliged,” said Ax.

“You seem to have lost your spirit, General.”

Sattari blinked at the dark shadow in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure where he was.

In Tehran somewhere, of course, but where?

The seat he was sitting on was hard. There were several people in the room besides the man talking.

“You should be quite proud of what you accomplished,” continued the man. “Soon, you will have struck a blow against the Americans that will be remembered for all time.”

“Why did you not let me fly the plane?” said Sattari.

“General, a man such as yourself is very valuable. Our country needs you. And what do you think would happen when the Americans found out that a general of the Iranian air force — an important man in our country — was at the controls? We could say you were a rebel, but the Americans would not believe it. This will be much easier for them to accept. There will be trouble, of course, but we will overcome it.”

Sattari finally recognized the voice. It belonged to Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaj, an important member of the National Security Deputate, Iran’s national security council.

“My nephew,” said the general.

“Your nephew was proud to be chosen. He will be a great martyr. Of course, we will say he was crazy, but we will all know the truth in our hearts.”

“He’s too young.”

“You did not seem to feel that was a concern when you asked him to be your copilot.”

Sattari felt a stab of guilt. He should not have enlisted the young man. He shouldn’t have let Val lead the mission to provoke the Indians either.

So many things he shouldn’t have done. He should not have trusted Hassam, above all.

Sattari’s eyes finally came into focus. He was in a small basement room. He didn’t recognize it, but guessed it was in the government complex.

“Was I drugged?” he demanded.

Mohtaj waved his hand. “Do not concern yourself with the past. You must work for the future. You have many important tasks ahead. Many. You’re not an old man.”

“I want revenge against the bastards who killed my son,” said the general. With every breath, his mind became sharper.

“You will have it. And the longer you live, the more revenge you will have.”

It wasn’t going to be enough — this wasn’t going to be enough.

Sattari rose from the chair. The men behind the Ayatollah jerked forward, submachine guns suddenly pointed in his direction.

“He means no harm,” said Mohtaj calmly. “He is back among friends.”

“I need time to think,” said Sattari.

“By all means. As long as you need.”

Mohtaj smiled, then turned and left the room.

Sattari thought of Kerman, then of Val.

It wasn’t going to be enough, destroying Las Vegas and Dreamland. Someday, he would drink his enemy’s blood.

Dog folded his arms and leaned against the back of the ejection seat in the lower bay of the Bennett, trying to stretch a few kinks from his legs and neck. He’d thought vaguely about sleeping on the flight back, but the cots upstairs seemed almost claustrophobic, and his nervous adrenaline just wouldn’t let him rest.

That was the way his life ran: Every time he was really tired, he was too busy to sleep, and when he wasn’t busy, he wasn’t tired.

Starship seemed equally antsy, sitting in the seat next to him, monitoring the flight. Since it was highly unlikely they’d be needed, the Flighthawks were stowed on the wings to conserve fuel.

“Shoulda brought a deck of cards, huh?” said Starship as Dog settled back.

“That or a nice stewardess, huh?”

Starship laughed.

“You have a girlfriend, Starship?” asked Dog. He knew almost nothing about his junior officer’s personal life.

“Uh, no, sir. Not at the present time.”

“You can relax, Starship. I’m not going to bite you.”

“Yeah, Colonel. Um, no. I did. I mean I’ve had a couple, but things didn’t work out that well. You know, like, I was traveling and stuff.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I’ll probably get married someday,” added Starship. “But pretty far in the future, you know what I mean? I wouldn’t mind kids. But, in the future.”

“I know what you mean,” said Dog again. But what he was thinking was how small a place the future sometimes could be.

Englehardt had felt the crew’s resentment toward him from the moment he walked into the little room they used to brief the mission. None of them had the guts to say anything, but he knew what they were thinking. They thought he hadn’t made the best decisions under fire, hadn’t moved quickly enough, had hesitated a few times when he should have been aggressive.

But what the hell did they want? Look at Sparks and the Cheli. They were in deep, deep shit. Did his guys want security standing over them in the restroom everytime they had to take a leak?

Not likely.

Colonel Bastian’s presence downstairs made things ten times worse. In a way, he felt sorry for the colonel — everybody knew Samson was screwing him because he was jealous. Still, it was Bastian who had caused him so much trouble. The crew compared them unfairly. Of course, Dog had done a great job when he piloted the plane; the man had been in combat countless times, and he was a colonel, for cryin’ out loud. He was supposed to be good.

Not that he wasn’t good, Englehardt thought. He was. And even if the nitpickers had problems with his mission, he knew he’d done a hell of a job — a hell of a job — getting the plane back on two engines.

One and a half, really.

More like one and a quarter.

“Waypoint coming up,” said Sullivan, his copilot.

“Noted,” said Englehardt quickly. He tried to get a little snap into his voice, a bit of professionalism, though it sounded a little hollow.

From now on he was going to do everything by the book. If his crew didn’t like him, at least they wouldn’t have anything to complain about.

Under ordinary circumstances, tracking truck traffic through the Pakistani northeastern territories would have been close to impossible.

Fortunately, these weren’t ordinary circumstances.

Which wasn’t to say that the task was a piece of cake. Or a Yankee Doodle, which the head of the Dreamland photo analysis team was eating as he discussed the possibilities with his counterpart at the CIA.

“One of these six,” the techie agreed, stuffing the last of the snack in his mouth. “Gotta be.”

Ray Rubeo, standing behind his console, frowned. The scientist hated sweets of any kind, but most especially ones that threatened the equipment he had personally helped design. The Command Center’s no food rule had been eased by Catsman as a morale booster as the mission stretched on. Without any authority over operations or military personnel now, Rubeo couldn’t order it reinstated; the best he could do was frown.

“Problem is, so we see those two trucks together, so what?” said the analyst. “We can’t search every inch of Pakistan.”

“What you should do,” said Rubeo dryly, “is search the places where it’s possible to leave Pakistan.”

The techie looked up at him. “Excuse me, Doc, but, uh, I wasn’t talking to you.”

The expert was an Air Force captain, one of many Rubeo had never particularly cared for. The feeling was undoubtedly mutual.

“Whether you are talking to me or not, you have photos of every airport and dock in the country. You can judge how long all of these vehicles would have taken to get to those positions, and see if they are there.”

“Lot of work. And, you know, a pickup’s a pickup.”

“What else do you have to do?” snapped Rubeo. “And each pickup is different. Look at the bumper and the right side fender — you can use those to identify it.”

“Smudges.”

“Hardly.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it.” The captain pushed the rest of the Yankee Doodle into his mouth and went back to work.

The sun blossomed on the horizon, throwing a reddish yellow stream of light on the long concrete runway and its nearby aprons. Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson, standing at the edge of one of the aprons in front of the Dreamland Command trailer, took a deep breath, as if he might suck in the sunshine and all of its energy.

He might need it. He’d spent half the night talking to the Pentagon, and nearly every friend he had in the upper echelons of the service. He told them about the incident, of course — the metal from the missile made stonewalling moot, even if he’d been inclined to try it. He’d put his best spin on the situation from a personal point of view, saying that he’d come to personally take charge and to get things in order.

The results had been mixed. The head of the Air Force was openly hostile, but the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Balboa, was almost sympathetic. Most of the rest were somewhere in the middle.

The administration, meanwhile, was obsessed with finding the last remaining warhead. That, at least, was out of his hands: Though ordered to continue providing “all due assistance,” the search had been turned over to the CIA.

Samson vowed that if he got through this—when he got through this — he would remake Dreamland in his image. No more EB-52s, and in fact, no more manned planes. They were going to concentrate on their robot and unmanned aerial vehicle technology. Improvements could be made to the Flighthawks so they could be flown remotely from Dreamland Command, just like the so-called UMB, or Unmanned Bomber, project. He’d push the remotely controlled B-1 bomber idea further along; Bastian seemed to have sidetracked it, probably because he had no feel for the aircraft.

As for some of the truly weird stuff going on at Dreamland — the Minerva mind thing, the plasma ray, the airborne laser project — they were on his short list to be axed.

As were the egghead scientists who went with them. Ray Rubeo would lead the parade out.

“Dreamland will be run like a military unit, not the personal toy box of its commanding officer,” said Samson to himself, the line suddenly occurring to him.

It would be the perfect opening sentence for the orientation speech he planned on giving when he got back to the States. He scrambled inside for a pen and paper to write it down.

Dog finally managed to drift off to sleep during the flight. The ejection seat at the Flighthawk station was about as comfortable as most ejection seats, which meant not at all. His head drooped to his chest and his shoulders tightened; when he woke he felt as if someone had him in a headlock.

Stretching helped a little, but not much.

“Couple of beef Stroganoffs in the galley,” said Starship, who was watching a video on his auxiliary screen. “Not too bad if you put Tabasco sauce in it.”

“Tabasco?”

“Just a little punch, you know?”

“Is that Batman you’re watching?” asked Dog.

“I’ve only seen it ten times,” confessed Starship. “Practically new.”

Dog laughed, then went upstairs. While his food was cooking in the microwave, he walked over to the pilots and asked them how they were doing.

“Just routine, Colonel,” said Englehardt. “Haven’t even hit turbulence.”

“Great,” said Dog. “How are you, Sully?”

“OK, Colonel,” said Sullivan.

The copilot’s tone seemed a little cold. Maybe that was the reaction he was going to get around the base from now on, Dog thought; no one would want to associate themselves with him. Senior officers would view him as a political pariah, and junior officers would figure he was washed up. No one wanted to be associated with a commander who’d been relieved.

Technically, he hadn’t been relieved for cause — not yet, at any rate. But Samson would undoubtedly go in that direction. While explainable and to some extent excusable on their own, taken together the baby incident and the airliner could easily be whipped into a case against him.

He’d have to get a lawyer if something like that happened.

The microwave began beeping, but Dog left his dinner inside and sat down next to Rager at the airborne radar station. The sergeant was considerably more relaxed now that they weren’t in combat; he had a dozen contacts on his scope, all civilian flights.

“Now that you’ve seen the system in combat, you have any ideas for improvement?” Dog asked.

“A couple, Colonel.” The sergeant ran Dog through some of the identification routines and the automated processes, which were supposed to reduce the operator’s workload by letting the computer take over. In theory, the system let one man do the work of six or eight in the “old” style AWACS. In practice, said Rager, the workload became overwhelming after a half hour in combat.

“Thing is, you just get tired after a couple of hours,” said the sergeant, who’d had extensive experience in AWACS and other systems before coming over to Dreamland. “It works fine in the simulations, but when we were getting shot at for over an hour, at the tail end of a long mission — I have to be honest with you, Colonel, I’m sure I made some mistakes. I haven’t had a chance to review the whole mission tapes, but I’m sure I could have done better. Adding two guys on the board during a combat mission makes sense, but it’s not just that. There are some software improvements you could make.”

Rager listed them. Surprisingly, at least as far as Dog was concerned, the improvements included several that would provide the operator with less information up front; details, he explained, could clutter the board and your head when things got heavy.

“Give it more thought, then write it down for me,” said Dog. “I mean — write it down for General Samson. And the techies.”

There was a flash of pity in the sergeant’s eyes before he spoke. “Yes, sir, I will.”

Dog got up and went to get his food. Best thing for everyone, he thought, would be to move on as quickly as possible.

Kerman marked the distance in hours. He was now two hours away.

He put the aircraft on autopilot and got up from the plane to use the restroom.

The small closet smelled like a chemical waste dump. Kerman did his best to hold his nose. He washed his hands fastidiously, then returned to the flight deck, ready. Before taking his seat, he decided he should pray. He fell to his knees, but before he could say the simple prayer he had learned as a child, he was seized by an overwhelming sense of dread. It was not about his mission. He had always known that it was his destiny to strike a blow against Satan, and had known since before he learned to read that America was evil, an enemy not just to Iran but to Islam. It was an abomination, and any blow struck against it would be rewarded in the everlasting days that followed life on earth.

His dread came from the way his uncle had been treated, used and then tossed aside. Hassam had said he was too important for the country to lose, something that Kerman completely agreed with. But the image of his uncle on the pavement haunted Kerman now. If he was so valuable, why was he treated like a piece of dirt?

The general had always had his trouble with the religious leaders. Kerman had always regretted that — secretly, of course; he would not criticize his uncle to his face or even behind his back, not seriously at least, for whatever else, the general was a great man.

Perhaps, thought Kerman, his uncle had reason to denounce the clerics.

He struggled to put the idea out of his mind. It was a distraction: He had to focus on his mission.

“I will pray,” he told himself, as if chiding a small boy. “I will pray for success.”

“It was the Doc’s idea. he was right,” said the photo interpreter. “Look — same pickup trucks at the airport.”

Rubeo scowled. The analysts had found a pair of pickup trucks in the region where the warhead was found — albeit miles away, and at roughly the same time that the attack was going on — in some of the shots taken by the Global Hawk as it circled away. The same truck showed up on an access to the airport at Rawalpindi.

“So it must’ve left from this airport,” said Catsman. “Have you checked the flight plans?”

“I turned that part over to the CIA. They said it could take anywhere from hours to a couple of days to get the information.”

Catsman looked up at Rubeo. He frowned again. “Days?” she asked.

“If they keep the information on a computer,” said Rubeo, “I believe we should be able to shorten the time considerably. Unless you insist on working through channels.”

“Do it,” answered the major.

“Urgent incoming message for you, Colonel, on the Dreamland channel,” said Sergeant Daly, descending from the flight deck. “They need to talk to you right away.”

Dog authorized the communication at the Flighthawk station.

“Colonel, we think we may have traced the missing warhead,” said Ray Rubeo from the Dreamland Command Center.

“I’m afraid you have to give that information to General Samson,” Dog said.

“Yes, well, Major Catsman is attempting to contact him through channels. In the meantime, I thought I would tell someone who could do something about it.”

That was, by far, the highest compliment Ray Rubeo had ever paid him.

“What’s the story, Doc?”

Rubeo explained about the pickup trucks and how they were tracked to an airport near Pakistan’s capital. A number of aircraft had taken off since, including several that were somewhat suspicious because of their registry or stated cargo.

“Apparently a popular stop for the nefarious of the world,” said Rubeo. “But there is one in particular that is interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because after flying to Malaysia, its pilot filed a new flight plan that said it was heading to McCarran International Airport. Since then, it has disappeared.”

Kerman checked his watch, then undid his seat belt and walked to the back of the flight deck. The cargo area was not pressurized, but at the moment they were low enough that he did not need an oxygen mask.

The pilot could see his breath as he opened the door. A bank of overhead lights illuminated the warhead’s crate, strapped to the floor about a third of the way back.

The timer was wrapped in a towel and tucked beneath the strap. As he got down on his hands and knees to remove it, he began to shiver. He put his hands together for warmth and blew into them.

Was he shaking from cold or fear? Did he have the courage to do this?

For Allah, blessed be his name, he could do anything.

He pulled the towel out and unwrapped it carefully. His uncle’s expert, Abtin Fars, had preset the timer for exactly one hour; all he had to do was push two small toggle switches.

He pushed the first. A small LED light lit on the device, showing it was working.

As his hand touched the second switch, it began to tremble so badly that Kerman dropped the timer onto the blanket. He thought he had broken it and for a moment was overcome with grief. All his plans, his entire life, completely in vain. To fail now, so close — it was the most unimaginable disaster. He closed his eyes, cursing himself. He could have remained silent, not called the Ayatollah; his uncle would then still be here, helping him, guiding him. Together they would have carried out the mission — the general to revenge Val’s death, Kerman to fulfill God’s plan.

The pilot felt a burst of warm air flow around him. It was a draft, he knew — and yet part of him thought it was another presence, his cousin perhaps, coming to reassure him.

Or his uncle.

Kerman opened his eyes.

The light was still lit.

He turned the trigger over gently and pushed the second switch. The numbers on the display began to drain away slowly: 59:59, 59:58, 59:57…

“Thank you, Lord, thank you,” whispered Kerman, nestling the timer on the towel and tucking it beneath the strap before retreating to the cockpit.

Dog called the north American aerospace defense Command himself so they understood the situation. An air defense order had already been issued, thanks to Major Catsman, but he wanted to make sure the pilots knew that shooting down the aircraft over a populated area would be problematic — the bomb could easily be set to detonate via a barometric fuse.

His preferred solution would have been to explode an EEMWB in the plane’s vicinity. But Dreamland had used all of the weapons over India.

After talking to NORAD, Dog decided to call Samson himself over the Dreamland channel. He got one of the boneheaded lieutenants who had traveled to Diego Garcia with the general. The idiot told him that Samson was “on the line with the White House” and would probably not get back to him for a while.

“He knows about this?”

“Major Catsman already told him,” said the lieutenant. “That’s what he’s talking to the White House about.”

“You have to scramble what we have at Dreamland,” said Dog. “Get the Megafortresses and their Flighthawks up, the airborne laser—”

“I am sure that the general has it under control, Colonel.”

“Right.” Dog snapped off the line.

He’d accomplished what needed to be accomplished — Nellis was scrambling fighters. A full air alert had been issued. But it felt wrong that he wasn’t leading the charge.

Not that his personal feelings should matter.

“Colonel, Nellis Group One is on the air with us,” said Sullivan up in the copilot’s seat. “Requesting further details.”

“Well, give it to them.”

“I thought you would want to talk to them, sir.”

Dog hesitated a moment, then pushed the button to connect to the frequency the fighters were using. Nellis Group One was a two-ship of F-15 fighters sent to investigate.

“What do you have for us, Dreamland?” asked the lead pilot. “Where are these bastards?”

Dog told him what he knew.

“So where is this Airbus?” asked the F-15 jock.

“Unknown,” said Dog. “The plane filed a flight plan but since then hasn’t shown up in the international air traffic control system. We believe they were able to turn off their identifier and simply used different call signs, but we’re not clear yet. We’re working on locating it.”

“Roger that.”

Rubeo had supplied a theory about the flight plan: It had been filed so that the plane’s appearance over Las Vegas would not arouse too much suspicion. After taking off, though, the pilot had taken steps to make it difficult to be followed, deviating from his course and probably flying through countries or ocean areas where air traffic control was not as thorough as in the U.S. and developed parts of Asia and Europe.

Dog went on the interphone to speak to Englehardt.

“Mike, we should join the search immediately,” he told him. “Launch the Flighthawks.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re going to do, Colonel,” said Englehardt. His voice sounded a little shaky. “I was just going to suggest that.”

“You don’t have to wait for me,” Dog told him. “Do it on your own.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. You heard him guys — let’s go.”

“How do we even know Las Vegas is really the target?” asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman as the video conference continued. “If I had a nuclear weapon, I would target New York City or Washington, D.C.”

“I agree,” said General Samson. “And why telegraph it?”

Rubeo scowled.

“You don’t think that’s correct, Dr. Rubeo?” said National Security Advisor Philip Freeman.

Rubeo bent to the keyboard on the computer near where he was standing.

“Admittedly a possibility. However, this is the flight data,” he said, flashing a copy of the information one of his computer geeks had hacked. “You notice the name of the pilot?”

“H-H-Habib Kerman,” said Jed Barclay.

“Kerman is related to General Mansour Sattari,” said Rubeo. “You remember General Sattari, don’t you, Jed?”

“Iranian Air Force. He led the Iranian d-d-development team, the bomb and laser, the R-R-Razor knockoff.”

“That was two years ago. What does that have to do with this?” said Hartman.

“The CIA thinks Sattari’s son was involved in th-th-the plot to provoke war between India and Pakistan,” said Jed.

Well, at least someone can connect the dots, thought Rubeo. Probably they’ll demote him out of Washington next.

“Sattari knows that Dreamland took down his facilities in Iran,” Rubeo told them. “He’s promised revenge.”

“You think too much of yourself,” snapped Samson. “He doesn’t even know where Dreamland is.”

“P-P-Plenty of reports have said it’s near Las Vegas,” said Jed. “The book the journalists did of the campaign—Razor’s Edge, h-h-hinted.”

“Combined with the flight plan, I believe it’s highly likely that it’s a target,” said Rubeo. “We’re rechecking the flight control network,” he added, choosing the much more neutral “checking” over the more descriptive, and accurate, “illegally hacking into.” “In the meantime, I suggest all flights be inspected. Sattari may have changed the ident device, or may simply fly without it.”

“Do what you need to do. Find the plane,” said President Martindale. It was the first time since the conference began that he had spoken. “Restrain it. Shoot it down over the ocean. Whatever has to be done. Do it.”

Rubeo had never met the President in person, but he’d seen him on Dreamland Command’s large screen many times. He seemed old and tired, drained by the continuing crisis. His voice was weak, almost frail, and his face pale white.

“We’re going to find it, Mr. President,” said Samson, but the others were already signing off.

Rubeo nodded to the communications specialist, signaling that he could kill the connection. Samson cut in before he did.

“Listen, Rubeo, I know we’ve had problems, but—”

“Problems doesn’t begin to express it, General.” Rubeo turned from the console. “I’ll be with the programmers hacking into the flight control networks if you need me,” he told Major Catsman as he walked toward the door.

Englehardt turned the aircraft over to the computer for the Flighthawk launch. The Megafortress tugged downward for a moment, then lifted, increasing the separation forces as the Flighthawk released and sailed off. He moved through the procedure quickly, getting the second robot off its wings, then climbed toward 50,000 feet, still moving toward Dreamland, a few hundred miles away.

It seemed to Englehardt that the alert had brought the crew back together, though he wasn’t sure how long that would last.

“Airliner contact, two hundred miles, zero-five-zero, altitude 35,000 feet,” said Rager at the airborne radar station. “Tracking. Computer IDs aircraft as a Boeing 777.”

Rager queried the plane’s friend-or-foe identifier. The aircraft came back as a United Airlines flight. Englehardt told Starship to get a visual verification anyway, and the Flighthawk pilot hopped to it.

Maybe it was some trick with his voice, Englehardt thought. Maybe he just had to speak sternly, or quickly, or maybe just not think about what he was saying. Maybe it had nothing to do with him — maybe adrenaline pushed them to do their jobs.

Whatever, the crew was definitely responding.

Dog watched Rager sort through the air traffic. There were plenty of airplanes in the vicinity, but less than a third fit the general profile of the Airbus. Each would have to be visually inspected.

“Colonel, Ray Rubeo for you,” said Sullivan.

Dog clicked into the Dreamland Command channel.

“Doc, what’s up?”

“We tracked the discrepancy in the flight plans and control system to Thailand. That seems to be where he took on a new identity. There were a number of flight plans filed that we’re not finished tracking, but there’s an aircraft passing through Mexican control over the Pacific that seems to have the wrong ID. It’s definitely an Airbus, and it’s on a course that will get it to Las Vegas.”

Rubeo began running down some of the information they had obtained. As he did, Dog saw Rager wave at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Stand by, Ray.”

“I have an Airbus 310, just now coming up to the California coast,” said Rager.

“That’s our priority. Tell Starship,” said Dog. “Get Nellis Flight One there. Now.”

Kerman tightened his grip on the airliner’s control wheel. He was thirty minutes away from Las Vegas. The bomb would explode in a little more than fifty.

So close, and yet an eternity away. He throttled back, starting to slow.

Something was going on with the air controllers. They were asking aircraft to identify themselves and sending them into holding patterns back over the sea. Every plane was being queried.

Kerman ignored the request when it was his turn.

A minute passed. Another. And then another. The controller asked him to acknowledge. The man’s nervousness made his voice harsh and his words difficult to understand, though Kerman knew what he was saying.

He listened as flight control became increasingly exasperated with their failure to respond. There was a short respite, followed by a new controller calling, asking for the flight to contact him and take an immediate new course.

A few seconds later an American with a slow drawl identified himself as an interceptor pilot and told him that he was to check in with flight control and follow their guidance immediately.

Kerman realized that if the Americans were on alert, he’d never make it.

He glanced at the radar, but couldn’t see them. They must still be relatively far away.

He blew a slow breath from his lungs, trying to relax and think of what to do.

“This looks like the real thing,” said Rager. “The plane isn’t answering the ground controllers or the F-15s.”

Dog studied the display, getting his bearings. The Airbus — officially identified as Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201—had just crossed the California coast. The two Air Force F-15s were only a few minutes away; Hawk One, one of the robot Flighthawk aircraft controlled by Starship, was maybe two minutes behind them.

Dog switched into the Dreamland channel. “Colonel Bastian to Dreamland Command. I need to speak to Ray Rubeo.”

“Ray’s down in the computer center, Colonel,” said Major Catsman. “I’ll switch you.”

“Wait. What I want are the warhead experts,” Dog told her. “What happens if we shoot this thing down? Is it going to explode?”

“They’re already trying to work up a simulation based on the other warhead,” said Catsman.

“We don’t need a simulation, we need an answer right now. Get everyone on the line, wherever they are. We need to know.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Dog switched over to the regular frequencies and contacted Nellis Flight One. The F-15 pilot said he was about a minute from visual range.

“What exactly are your orders?” Dog asked.

“At the moment, find and identify the plane.”

“I don’t know how much of this they’ve told you, Captain, but here’s the deal: That plane is carrying a nuclear warhead, and it may be rigged to explode in any number of ways.”

Nellis Flight One didn’t respond.

“Do you copy, Nellis Flight One?”

“Copy. We copy you, Colonel. What the hell are we going to do?”

Kerman waited until the F-15s were visible over his left wing before responding.

“This is Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. There has been a hijacking situation. We are now back in full control of the flight.”

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, this is Nellis Flight One. Repeat your status.”

“We have overcome the hijackers,” said Kerman. He was so nervous he was almost out of breath as he spoke. But that would play in his favor. “Some injuries to crew. We have control. Two men are dead. Both are the hijackers. My navigator is critical. He may already be dead.”

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, I want you to execute an immediate turn.”

The pilot repeated the instructions the controllers had given him earlier, telling him to go out to sea.

“I have damage to my instrument panel. I have two holes in the fuselage and am losing pressurization,” said Kerman. “I need immediate clearance for an emergency landing. Repeat, I have a flight emergency landing. Repeat, I have a flight emergency and require assistance.”

He throttled back and dipped his wing slightly. There was a fine balance — he couldn’t overact, but he had to seem as if he was truly in distress.

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201. I need you to execute that turn.”

“Repeat directions.”

The American pilot once again gave him a heading that would have him turn south and then head out to sea.

“I am going to try,” said Kerman. “Stand by. My navigator is critical. We require ambulances on the runway. My own wounds are not serious.”

He glanced at his watch. He still had nearly forty-five minutes before the weapon would explode.

But there was a bright glow in the distance, an arc of light brighter than anything he’d seen for hours and hours.

Las Vegas.

Starship slid Hawk One in behind the F-15 eagles, lining the small robot up to get a good visual of the aircraft.

“They’re claiming they have wounded crewmen and damage to the plane,” radioed one of the F-15 pilots. “Asking for an immediate clearance to land.”

“Negative,” said Colonel Bastian over the circuit. “That plane does not land. Stand by while the Flighthawk gets a good look at the plane. Flighthawk leader?”

“Yeah, roger that, Colonel,” said Starship. “I’m on it now.”

“Could be as simple as touching two wires together, Colonel,” said Rubeo, whose voice sounded distant. “But as I told you earlier, we’re not convinced the warhead will explode. The odds are at least fifty-fifty that the pertinent circuitry was fried by the T-Rays.”

“Ray, I doubt they would have come all this way if they didn’t think it would explode,” said Dog.

“Just because they think it will explode doesn’t mean it will,” said the scientist.

“How can we take him down safely?”

“Get him out to sea and shoot him down. There is no other guarantee. It’s possible that the warhead is set to explode if the airplane is destroyed, or if it drops below a certain altitude. There is just no way of knowing.”

The fighter jet passed so close to the Airbus’s windscreen that Kerman thought the glass would implode from the jet’s thrust. But he held his control steady. He was going to win. All he had to do was stay in the air a few more minutes and he would be over Las Vegas.

This one’s going to hit us, he thought as another fighter pushed in.

The Airbus shuddered as the F-15 swept over the fuselage. Kerman felt the plane slipping from his grip, responding to the violent air currents rather than his controls. He jabbed the pedals, desperate to keep it on its course. The Airbus dropped straight down about 2,000 feet, then abruptly jerked back, level, to just below its original altitude.

The two fighters had moved off. Before Kerman could exhale, a small missile whipped in front of the windscreen. The missile twirled and danced before his eyes, rising upward and then curling back, as lithe as an ocean, before plunging a few feet from the Airbus’s nose.

As it turned, he realized it wasn’t a missile, but an aircraft.

A small one, far too small and sleek for a man.

It must be a Flighthawk. The Dreamland people. They knew he was coming for them.

“I will not fail,” Kerman said aloud, hunkering closer to the wheel.

Englehardt had closed the gap between himself and the Airbus; as he descended through 30,000 feet, he saw the airliner a few miles ahead. The F-15s had backed away and the Flighthawk — a small black dart — wheeled over the plane. The Airbus continued on its path.

Englehardt sized up the distance between the Bennett and the Airbus. He could ride right over it — that would get their attention.

“Dreamland Bennett to Flighthawk leader and Nellis Flight One. Stand back — I’m going to take a pass.”

“Negative, Dreamland,” said the Nellis F-15. “Stand by. We are under orders to take this airplane down.”

“Negative, negative,” said Dog, practically shouting over the radio. “You can’t shoot it down.”

“Those are my orders, Colonel.”

“Sullivan, open the bomb bay doors,” said Englehardt over the interphone circuit.

“What?”

“Just open the damn the bomb bay doors.” Englehardt switched back to the radio. “Nellis One, stand off — this is our shot. We have the Airbus targeted.”

The Eagle pilot didn’t acknowledge.

“I’ll take you next if I have to,” snapped Englehardt. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

“Hey, slow down, cowboy,” said Nellis One.

“All right. Everyone, take a deep breath,” said Colonel Bastian. “We’re on the same side here. Remember who the enemy is. They may have the bomb rigged to go off when the aircraft descends. We’re working on a solution. So everyone calm down and let the scientists think.”

“Nellis,” said the F-15 flight leader, acknowledging though clearly unhappy.

“Good outburst, Mike,” Dog told Englehardt over the interphone.

“Colonel, I think I can fly right over him and push him away from the city,” said Englehardt. “If the F-15s stay out of the way, I can herd him out over the desert and have them shoot him down there. We’re never going to get him back out to sea.”

“I have a better idea,” said Starship.

Kerman’s heart felt as if it were being jolted by electric shocks. It was racing, and every so often skipped a beat.

He was here. He was here. The Las Vegas airport directly below him. In little more than half an hour the city would be gone. All that waited was for the timer to run its course.

He checked his altitude. He’d come down to 15,000 feet.

Every nuclear weapon had an optimum detonation altitude, where the effects of the blast were at their highest. Not being privy to the design of the Indian warhead, Kerman simply planned on flying the aircraft at 2,000 feet when the bomb exploded.

Fifteen thousand feet would be fine, though. So would the ground. There’d be plenty of destruction no matter where it exploded.

But he needed more time. His bluff about being hijacked had to work. He had to make it work.

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201 to tower,” said Kerman. “Requesting emergency clearance to land.”

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, you are not cleared to land. Follow Air Force instructions.”

“We are having trouble with our radio,” said Kerman. “Is our landing gear down? Can someone confirm that our gear is down?”

There was a clunk from the back of the plane. The Airbus rocked, buffeted by something. Kerman glanced at the panel for the landing gear — he hadn’t put the wheels down, had he?

Of course not.

Then he realized what was going on, and jammed his hand on the thrusters.

Starship cursed as the Airbus lifted away from the Flighthawk.

“Didn’t work,” said the pilot over the interphone.

“Try again,” said Dog. “Get Hawk Two in. Try them together.”

Hawk Two, which Starship had used to continue checking airliners, was just catching up. The pilot told the computer that he wanted to control them in parallel, and had it help him line them up precisely together.

By the time Starship was ready, the Airbus had begun to circle to the south.

Maybe they’d made a mistake — maybe it actually had been damaged by hijackers, perhaps the men with the bomb. The real crew would take it out to sea, now that they were convinced the Americans were serious.

No such luck — it was turning back now, headed toward Vegas.

“Flighthawk leader, this is Nellis One. Take one more shot at it. Then we’re going in.”

“Keep your shirt on.”

Englehardt found himself about two miles behind the Airbus as the aircraft began banking back to the north, once again moving in the direction of Las Vegas. He had a good view of the Flighthawks as Starship eased them in, one under each wing. The operation was a delicate one; Starship didn’t want to damage the Airbus and make it crash.

The small jets slid in close to the wing roots.

“You’re there,” said Englehardt.

“All right, all right,” said Starship. “We’re going north.”

The Airbus lifted slightly — then dropped abruptly. One of the Flighthawks twisted off to the left, slowly at first, as if it were a leaf being pealed from a tree. A few seconds later smoke began pouring from the robot aircraft.

Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, meanwhile, banked back toward Las Vegas.

“Dreamland aircraft, back off,” said Nellis One. “We’re going to fire.”

“I’m taking a shot,” said Englehardt. He reached for the throttle. “Come on, Sullivan. Help me.”

Sullivan was silent for a moment, then sprang to help. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s what we got to do.”

Englehardt had worked with the 757 tanker project, and had a great deal of experience pulling up under two-engined aircraft similar to the Airbus. But he’d never tried to pick one up before.

Screw that. This was happening. He could see it in his head.

The airliner’s shadow grew steadily. The computer’s automatic warning system was screaming alerts.

“Kill the auto system,” said Englehardt, narrowing his focus to the small area in front of him.

“Killed,” said Sullivan.

Slowly, the Megafortress eased forward. Then, just as he was going to nose up, the Airbus lurched to the left.

Englehardt felt a hole open in his stomach. His hands trembled and all of sudden he was sweating again. His entire body turned to water. There was no way he could do this. No damn way.

Tears welled in his eyes. He was scared, too scared — not good enough.

A coward. A failure.

“Hang in there, Mike,” said Colonel Bastian, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You almost had him. Just hang with him and push it in. I know you can do it.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna do it,” said Englehardt. His voice cracked and trembled, but he tightened his grip on the stick. He pushed the Megafortress back toward the Airbus. “I am going to do it.”

Something cracked below him. The Airbus felt as if it were being pushed upward, shaking violently with a loud scraping and crackling.

Kerman cursed. He was so close — he needed only a few more minutes. Only a few more. He pounded his hand on the throttle and pulled back on the yoke.

Englehardt felt like a bull had climbed on his back and he was struggling to hold it there.

“Power!” he yelled at Sullivan.

“It’s working!” Sullivan shouted back.

The Bennett shook violently as the Airbus ramped up its engines. The Megafortress shot upward, slapping against the belly of the smaller plane.

“Starship — take out the bastard’s engines!” yelled Englehardt, pushing his nose up to stay on the Airbus.

The two planes were now rocking violently. Englehardt struggled to keep his nose angled up while Sullivan concentrated on the power. The Megafortress drove against the Airbus, pushing and pulling the lighter commercial plane through the air. Three or four people, including Nellis ground control, were trying to talk over the radio, but Englehardt kept them blocked out. He was sweating and his head pounded and his stomach was a knot, but he was doing this, he was definitely doing this, and no one was going to stop him.

Hawk One’s control surfaces had been badly damaged by the pressure from the Airbus; worse, her engine had sucked in bits of metal, shredding most of her turbine. Starship tried to get the aircraft to the west of the city, into the open terrain, but he didn’t have enough momentum. The Flighthawk spun toward a tight cluster of homes, their light brown roofs looking like the sides of a zipper. White sand appeared — Starship pulled back on the stick, trying to push the plummeting aircraft into a golf course built in the middle of a condo development. Green grass flashed in the screen, and then everything went blank.

“Connection lost,” said the computer.

There was no time to see whether he had missed the houses. He took over Hawk Two, selecting the cannon.

The computer refused to let him fire. He was too close to the mother ship.

“Override,” he said.

“Forbidden.”

“Override Authorization StarStarTwoTwoTwo.”

“Forbidden,” insisted the computer.

“I can’t get the Flighthawk to fire!” he told Englehardt. “It thinks it’s shooting on us.”

The Megafortress was flying with her nose practically thirty degrees downward, but she was still pushing the Airbus forward. They were past Nellis, into the Dreamland test ranges.

How far did he need to go? Twenty miles, fifty?

He might be able to hold it for another sixty seconds.

“All right — everybody get the hell out!” he said. “Get down to the Flighthawk deck and bail.”

“We’re staying with you, Mike,” said Sullivan.

“Yeah, we’re with you, Englehardt. Right down to the line,” said Daly.

“I ain’t leaving,” said Rager.

“No way,” said Starship.

The long expanse of Dreamland’s main runway passed the left side of the airplane. The Airbus bucked upward, escaped — Englehardt pushed the ganged throttle, his hand on Sullivan’s, ramming into the cargo plane.

No way it was getting away.

Tears streamed from Englehardt’s eyes.

“We’re doing this!” he screamed.

Kerman struggled to find a way to release the Airbus, but everything he tried seemed to fail. He was being pushed sideways and forward at the same time. The bigger, more powerful aircraft below him had him in its claws, pushing him away from the city, toward the open desert.

He wasn’t going to make it. By the time the bomb exploded he’d be much too far from Las Vegas to do any damage.

He pulled his seat belt off. He’d have to find a way to detonate the bomb immediately.

“This is far enough, Mike!” Dog yelled at the pilot. “Let it go!”

The Megafortress lurched to the left. Suddenly free of the weight she had been carrying, she shot upward, out of control.

Dog flew backward as the plane lurched. He tumbled against the airborne radar operator’s station, then pulled himself up.

The pilots were wrestling with the controls, trying to keep the plane in the air. Dog fumbled for his headset, resettling it on his head.

“Station Five, operational, authorization Bastian Nine-nine-one,” he told the computer, double tapping the power button to bring the station on line.

“On line.”

“Anaconda weapons section on line. Authorization Bastian Nine-nine-one.”

“Bastian authorized.”

The targeting screen came up.

“Target aircraft identified as PC-1.”

A message flashed on the screen — the aircraft was identified as a civilian by its identifier.

“Override.”

A targeting reticule appeared. The plane had begun to turn back to the south, toward Las Vegas.

Dog was about to tell the computer to fire when the symbol went from red — locked — to yellow. The radar had lost the lock.

“Lock, damn it,” said Dog.

If the computer heard him, it didn’t let on. Dog switched to the manual control, using a small joystick that would let him designate the target the old-fashioned way. He hit the reset, moved to the cursor, and this time got a lock.

“Fire,” he said. “Fire Fox One!”

The missile ripped from the belly of the aircraft.

Kerman fingered the wires on the bomb’s timer as the aircraft jerked up and down. He hadn’t been with his uncle when the timer was explained, and Sattari hadn’t bothered to show him how it worked. Still, it seemed like a simple device; there had to be a way to set it off immediately.

A set of wires had been soldered to contacts at the top of the switch. Kerman decided he had only to cross the contacts for the weapon to be triggered.

He had nothing to cross them with.

He could do it with a pen.

The plane jerked as he reached to his pocket. He fell backward to the deck.

There was no time. Just strip the wires and touch them together, he told himself. Be done with it. Be done with it.

He clawed his way upright, then hunched over the timer.

As his fingers touched the wires, the plane lurched again. Kerman pushed down on the device with one hand and managed to pull the wires off the contact with his other.

The plane suddenly jerked upward and stopped shaking.

He was free! The American had given up!

He started to rise to run back to the cockpit. Then he stopped, realizing there was no sense doing that now. He reached back to the wires to push them together.

As he did, the front of the aircraft turned silver. It looked like a flash of light, but it was pure silver, a brilliant shade that he had never seen before.

Paradise, he thought.

Then silver turned to red, then black, then nothing.

Starship saw the Anaconda missile close in on the Airbus’s cabin just as he was pressing the trigger on the Flighthawk’s gun. He rolled away, escaping most of the explosion. The Anaconda struck at the front cabin, decapitating the aircraft. The cockpit disintegrated, but the rest of the fuselage continued on, flying toward the highest of the Glass Mountains about sixty miles northwest of Dreamland.

By the time he got the Flighthawk turned back around, the headless Airbus was down to 2,000 feet. Its left wingtip hit the ground first, skittering along for a hundred feet or so before collapsing. The rest of the plane spun in toward the missing wing, tumbling into a rising cloud of smoke and dust.

“It’s down! It’s down!” said Starship.

Then he braced himself.

Englehardt closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable flash of light. He pushed himself against the back of his seat, expecting the air burst that would follow a nuclear explosion.

It didn’t come. After a minute he swung the aircraft back toward the site. Nothing.

They were a little more than twenty miles away, climbing back through 25,000 feet. He moved into a figure eight, intending to climb as high as possible.

“Sully, you with me?”

“With you, Mike.”

“No explosion.”

“Yeah, nothing.”

“Maybe coming. We high enough?”

“Yeah, just about.”

“You got the engines.”

“Yeah, I’m on it, bro,” answered Sullivan.

Dog stared at the image on the screen, waiting for the massive white cloud — the famous mushroom cloud — to rise above the desert mountainside.

But it didn’t. Their missile had prevented it.

“Dreamland is sending a response team,” reported Sullivan.

“I have a helicopter en route,” reported Rager at the airborne radar, “and two Ospreys.”

Dog waited, listening. He knew every man aboard those aircraft, had brought most of them to Dreamland, or had at least approved their assignments.

Somehow, the fact that he was no longer their commander didn’t enter into his thoughts.

Minutes passed that seemed like days. He began to feel numb.

“Neutralized,” said Sullivan finally. “The bomb’s trigger section is off. It’s inert.”

“Take us to Dreamland,” Dog told Englehardt. “Take us home.”