Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Dog had flown against Chinese fighter pilots several times. They had two things in common: They were extremely good stick and rudder men, and they knew it. He was counting on this pilot being no different.

What he wasn’t counting on was the PL-9 heat-seeker the pilot shot at his face as he approached.

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“Flares,” said Dog. He tucked the Megafortress onto her left wing, sliding away as the decoys exploded, sucking the Chinese missile away.

The Su-27 pilot began to turn with the Megafortress, no doubt salivating at the sight—the large American airplane was literally dropping in front of him, its four turbojets juicy targets for his remaining missile.

“Stinger!” said Dog. “Air mines!”

Sullivan pressed the trigger, and the air behind the Megafortress turned into a curtain of tungsten.

“Launch! Missile launch! He’s firing at us!” shouted Sullivan.

Dog throttled back hard and yanked back sharply on his stick, abruptly pulling the nose and wings of his aircraft upward. The aircraft’s computer barked out an alarm, telling him that he was attempting to “exceed normal flight parameters”—in layman’s terms, he wasn’t flying so much as turning himself into a brick, losing all of his forward momentum while trying to climb. The Megafortress shook violently, gravity tugging her in several different directions at once.

Down won. But just as it did, Dog pushed the stick forward and ramped back up to military power on the engines.

This caused a violent shudder that rumbled through the fuselage; the wing roots groaned and the aircraft pitched sharply to the right. Dog eased off a bit, grudgingly, then finally saw what he’d been hoping for—two perfect red circles shooting past.

They were followed by a much larger one. This one wasn’t simply red exhaust—the edges of the circle pulsed with a violent zigzag of orange and yellow. Not only had the Sukhoi sucked a full load of shrapnel into its engine, but one of the exploding air mines had started a fire.

“He’s toast!” yelled Sullivan. A second later the canopy of the Chinese jet flew off and the pilot bailed, narrowly avoiding the tumult of flames as his aircraft turned into a Molo-tov cocktail.

* * *

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STARSHIP STRUGGLED TO KEEP HIS FLIGHTHAWK ON A steady path as the Megafortress jerked and jived through the air. This was the most difficult part of flying the robot planes: making your hand do what your mind told it to do, and not what its body wanted. The disconnect between what was happening on the screen—an aircraft in straight, level flight—and what was happening to his stomach was difficult to reconcile.

Starship put both hands on the control and lowered his head, leaving the Megafortress behind as he willed himself inside the little plane. He took Hawk One in a wide turn to his left, away from the military transport he’d just passed.

Hawk Two, trailing by a little over two miles, followed. He thought of switching planes– Hawk Two would have had an easier shot—but the Megafortress’s shuddering sounds seemed to promise more heavy g’s to come, and he decided to stay where he was.

By the time he came out of his turn, the lead aircraft had made a turn of its own to the east. Its companion was following suit.

“Colonel, my contacts are heading away,” said Starship.

“Should I pursue?”

“Stand by, Flighthawk leader.”

The Bennett leveled off. Starship checked the position of his airplanes on the sitrep; he was about eighty miles northeast.

“What’s the situation, Starship?”

“Looks like they’ve broken off and are heading home,”

said Starship. “I’m not sure if they saw the Flighthawks or not– Hawk One was definitely close enough for a visual.”

“Save your bullets,” said Dog. “We’re out of Anacondas and we may need them for the ride home.”

VI

Borrowed Time

White House basement

1500, 17 January 2006

(0600, Karachi)

“SO I HEAR ROCKY BALBOA FINALLY GOT HIS MITTS ON

Dreamland,” Margaret McGraw said when she called Jed to brief him on the latest round of NSA intercepts related to the warhead recovery mission.

“How’s that?”

“Oh, don’t give me the I’m-above-all-the-infighting line, Jed. I know you know what’s going on. Admiral Balboa pulled a coup.”

“Dreamland is being folded back, um, um, into the c-c-command structure.”

“There’s a positive spin for you. What are they going to do with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re not kicking you out too, are they?”

“N-N-Not that I know.”

“Kissing up to Balboa, huh?”

“No.”

McGraw laughed. She was a section leader in the NSA analysis section. Jed had met her only once or twice in person, but had spoken to her several times a week for more than a year.

“To work,” she said. “There’s a definite connection between the Kashmir guerrillas and China. They’re going crazy looking for the gadget.”

“Gadget” was McGraw’s way of saying warhead. She summarized a set of NSA intercepts and decrypted messages, 246

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then told Jed that the CIA had somewhat similar information from “humanint”—human sources, or spies.

“Word is, though, DIA and Navy intelligence are poo-pooing it,” added McGraw. “They think China is neutral.”

“Why?”

“Because the words ‘Navy’ and ‘intelligence’ don’t go together?” McGraw laughed. “Did I ever tell you what DIA stands for?”

“Like twenty times,” said Jed.

“Aw, ain’t that cute—you’re turning red.” McGraw chuckled.

“How do you know that?” said Jed, who was.

She laughed even harder.

“The Ch-Ch-Chinese have been firing on Dreamland aircraft,” said Jed.

“Absolutely. But, see, it hasn’t happened to a Navy ship, so they still think China’s neutral,” said McGraw. “I’m forwarding you a report on what we have. We have traffic back and forth, but the encryptions are good. We haven’t broken them.”

“When will you?”

“Don’t know. Not my department. It’s immaterial,” McGraw added. “What do you think they’re talking about? The price of tea?”

“Uh, no.”

“Good. Well, let’s wrap this up, hon. I don’t want to keep you from any hot dates.”

An atoll off the Indian coast

Time and date unknown

ZEN WOKE THIRSTY, HIS ENTIRE BODY ACHING FOR WATER.

For a second he thought he was home, and he reached his hand toward the small table at the side of the bed, where by habit he usually kept a bottle of springwater. But of course he wasn’t at home, and instead of finding water, his hand swung against the side of his makeshift tent, collapsing it.

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The struggle to fix the shelter took his mind off his thirst for a few minutes, but the craving soon returned. His lips felt as if they had shriveled into briquettes of charcoal. His throat had turned to rock, his tongue to sand.

There was about a half liter left in the bottle from his survival pack. How long could he make that last?

Grudgingly, Zen pulled himself to a sitting position and picked up the bottle. Two sips, he told himself. Small ones.

The first was small, but on the second his parched lips took over and he caught himself gulping.

Enough, he told himself, capping the bottle.

If he was thirsty, Breanna must be even more so.

“Hey, are you awake? Bree? Bree?”

He touched her gently, brushing away her hair. Then he moved his hand to her shoulder and pushed more firmly, as if she’d overslept the morning of a mission.

“Bree, come on now. Come on. Got some water. Let’s go.”

She didn’t move. She was breathing, but still far away.

Was she even breathing?

Zen uncapped the bottle and dripped some of the water onto his fingers, then rubbed it onto her lips, his forefinger grabbing at the chapped flesh. It didn’t seem like enough—he cupped his hand in front of her mouth and dribbled it from the bottle, pushing it toward her mouth. But she didn’t drink, and the water slipped away to the ground.

“Come on, Bree. We can’t waste this!”

For a moment he was angry at her, mad as he hadn’t been in months, years—since his accident, when he was mad at everything and everyone, at the world.

“Damn it, Breanna. Get the hell up. Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

He balled his hand into a fist and pounded his own forehead. The anger disintegrated into fear. Slowly, he recapped the bottle. Tucking it away, he sucked the remaining moisture from his fingers, then crawled out of the tent to see what the new day would bring.

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Aboard the Abner Read

0600

STORM STOOD ON THE DECK, IGNORING THE SPRAY AS THE

ship’s low-slung bow ducked up and down in the waves. In order to provide the smallest possible radar signature to an enemy, the Abner Read was designed to sit very low in the water, which meant the deck of its tumble-form hull was always wet. It was not exactly a good place to stroll, even on the calmest of days.

Storm liked it, though; standing on it gave you the feeling that you were part of the water. The salt really was in the wind, as the old cliché had it, and that wind rubbed your face and hands raw. It flapped against your sides, scrubbing the diseases of land away, rubbing off the pollution of politics and bureaucratic bullshit.

Should he defy Woods? The admiral was wrong, clearly wrong—even if the Chinese weren’t preparing the Khan for an attack, even if they had no intention of breaking the truce, wasn’t it in America’s best interests to sink her?

Especially since she had a nuclear weapon aboard.

Sink her. It would take less than a half hour now.

The opportunity was slipping through his grasp. The Khan would be out of range in a few hours.

A gust of wind caught him off balance, nearly sending him off his feet.

Storm steadied himself. He would follow his orders, even if they were misguided. It was his job and his duty. Besides, Eyes would never go against the admiral. He would have to lock him up.

No, that was foolishness. Woods had taken his moment of glory away out of jealousy, and Storm knew there was nothing he could do about it but stand and stare in the Khan’s direction, knowing that somewhere in the future they would meet again.

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Base Camp One

0600

LIEUTENANT DANCER WAS WAITING FOR DANNY WHEN THE

Osprey touched with its water-logged load at the Marine camp in the Indian desert. The sun was just starting to rise, and it sent a pink glow across the sand, bathing the woman in an ethereal, angel-like light. It was a good thing Jennifer was with him, Danny thought, because he wouldn’t have trusted himself otherwise.

“Captain Freah, welcome back,” said Dancer, stepping forward and extending her hand. “Glad you’re in one piece.”

“Never a doubt,” said Danny. “How are you, Lieutenant?”

Dancer gave Jennifer a puzzled look. “How did you get here?”

“We needed an expert to look at some of the wiring and circuits on the missiles,” said Danny. “And Jen was available.

She jumped in with the Whiplash team.”

“You’re qualified to jump?”

“Jumping’s the easy part,” said Jennifer. “It’s the landing that’s tough.”

Dancer turned back to Danny. “Captain, we have to talk.

What happened out there?”

Danny explained about the stillborn baby and the disaster that had followed its birth. Dancer had already heard a similar version of the story from the Marines who were on the mission—including Gunny, who had made it a point to say that he’d advised against sending the men.

“He did,” said Danny. “I take responsibility for my men.”

“The general is worried about how it will look public-relations-wise,” said Dancer. She seemed to disapprove as well, though she didn’t say so.

“Nothing I can do about that.”

Dancer nodded grimly. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” said Danny.

“I have to talk to the pilots,” said Dancer. “I’ll be back.”

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“Sure.”

Danny watched her trot away. His attraction toward her hadn’t faded, though it seemed to him she could have been more supportive.

“Lieutenant Klacker’s a pretty unique Marine,” said Jennifer.

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s OK, Danny. I know.”

“Know what?”

She laughed. “Nothing.”

“No, seriously, Jen. Know what?”

“Nothing … You have a crush on her, that’s all.”

“No, I don’t.”

Jennifer laughed even harder.

“I’m married,” said Danny, wondering if he was talking to Jennifer or to himself.

Jennifer smirked, then changed the subject. “Where do you think I can find something to eat around here?”

“There’s a temporary mess tent in that direction,” said Danny, pointing. “They may not have anything hot.”

“As long as it’s edible.”

“That may be pushing it as well,” he said.

“WHAT’D HE SAY?” DEMANDED BLOW AS SOON AS HE SAW

Sergeant Liu.

“What do you mean?” Liu asked his fellow Whiplasher.

“Did Captain Freah say something about what happened?”

Jonesy, silent, stared at them from a nearby stool. The sun had just come up, and Liu found its harsh light oppressive, pushing into the corner of his tired eyes.

“You know Cap,” said Liu. “He said what he was going to say already. Case closed.”

“It ain’t closed, Liu. We’re going to be up to our necks because of this.” Blow shook his head and made the loud sigh that had earned him his nickname. “Man, I don’t know.”

“There wasn’t anything we could have done differently,”

Liu told him. “I believe that.”

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“Is anybody else gonna? We shoulda kept quiet about it.

Shit.”

“No, we did the right thing,” said Liu. “God has a plan.”

“God?” said Jones.

“Yeah.”

Jones continued to stare blankly toward him. Liu wanted to tell him—both of them, but Jones especially—what he had felt in the water, what he’d realized, but he couldn’t put it into words. He’d passed some sort of line, not in understanding, but in trusting—but how did you say that? The words would just sound silly, and not convey a tenth of the meaning. He couldn’t even tell himself what had happened.

“I don’t know,” said Blow. “I think they’re going to court-martial us. There’ll be an investigation.”

“Colonel Bastian will understand,” said Liu.

“He’s not going to be in charge of it. We’re supposed to go to the aircraft carrier to talk to Woods. The admiral. You know what that will be like.”

“We know what happened,” said Liu. “And the smart helmets will back us up.”

“Nobody’s going to believe that’s the whole story.”

“They’ll just have to.”

“It really went to shit, didn’t it?” said Jonesy.

Dreamland

1730

LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS INTO HIS COMMAND, AND

already he was scheduled for a tête-à-tête with the National Security Advisor, Defense Secretary, and Secretary of State—not bad for someone whom the Chiefs of Staff had obviously decided to shunt aside, General Samson thought, checking his uniform.

Of course, he also had three men who might be charged with a war crime. Even if he could blame that on Colonel Bastian, the stain might spread to him. Samson had decided 252

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he’d have to handle the issue with kid gloves. Certainly he’d defend the men, especially if there was evidence that they weren’t to blame. But if push came to shove, three sergeants weren’t worth jeopardizing his career over.

“They’re ready for us, General,” said Major Catsman.

“How do I look, Natalie?” Samson asked, presenting himself.

“Very good, sir.”

Samson smiled appreciatively. Use a woman’s first name, defer to her judgment on aesthetics, and they’d follow you anywhere.

Catsman could be salvaged, as long as he surrounded her with enough of his own people. He needed a good staff officer, someone who knew the place well, so he could avoid the land mines while reshaping the place.

Catsman led Samson down the main hallway to the elevator. Inside, they had to wait for the security devices to take their measurements.

“We’re getting rid of that thing,” said Samson impatiently.

“General?”

“The biometric thing or whatever the hell it is that’s wasting our time.”

The elevator jerked the doors closed, as if it had overheard.

Samson wondered if maybe it had—there was no telling what the eggheads had concocted here.

The video conference had already begun by the time Samson arrived. Colonel Bastian’s red-eyed, stubble-cheeked mug filled the center screen.

“The aircraft were definitely Chinese,” Colonel Bastian was saying. “Absolutely no doubt.”

“Were you over their territory?” asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman.

“Not for the better part of the engagement.”

“Which means you were at one point.”

“After we attacked, certainly.”

“Before then?” asked Hartman.

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“I’d have to review the mission tape. The border there is tricky.”

“Do these new weapons pose a threat?” asked Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain.

“We can neutralize them now that we realize they exist,”

said Dog. “We’ll use radar-emitting decoys.”

“What weapons is he talking about?” Samson asked Catsman.

He thought he was whispering, but his voice was picked up by a nearby microphone and transmitted over the network.

“Good evening, General,” said the Secretary of Defense.

“We’re speaking of the radiation homing missiles the Chinese used against the Bennett. ”

“I see,” said Samson. Had he been briefed on this earlier?

He didn’t think so, but then he’d spent the day listening to so many reports about weapons systems that he couldn’t be sure.

“The missiles aren’t the major threat,” said Bastian. “As more of the power comes back and the military in both India and Pakistan turn their attention back to their borders, it’s going to be difficult for us to operate up there all. The Marines and our Whiplash people are operating very far from the coast—too far. We have to wrap it up quickly.”

“I’m of the opinion that we wrap it up now,” said the Secretary of Defense.

“There are only three warheads left,” said the Secretary of State. “If we don’t get them, someone else will. Terrorists, most likely.”

“The Ch-Ch-Chinese are helping them,” said a young man Samson didn’t recognize.

“Who is that?” Samson asked Catsman. “He has a terrible stutter.”

Again, Samson thought his comments were private. But the session was conducted with open mikes, and everyone on the line heard. The young man—Jed Barclay—turned beet red.

“NSC liaison,” said Catsman.

“Navy intelligence has a different view,” said Admiral Balboa. “They don’t see a link. The Chinese actions can be 254

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explained by their own internal needs. And you were over their territory, Bastian. You shouldn’t have fired.”

“I was under fire already,” said the colonel. “I did what I had to defend myself and complete my mission.”

Samson felt torn. Bastian was surely correct, and one of his people; the general felt he should stick up for him. But on the other hand, Balboa was the head of the Joint Chiefs, and the lieutenant colonel’s tone was hardly respectful.

“And then there’s the matter of that baby,” said Balboa.

“Wait until the media gets a hold of that. Al Jazeera, or whatever that damn Arab television station is—they’ll crucify us.”

“I take responsibility, Admiral,” said Bastian.

That was just what Samson wanted to hear. The colonel explained the circumstances, adding that the entire incident had been caught on video.

“So we’ve heard,” said Balboa. “I, for one, haven’t seen it.”

“As tragic as it was,” said Admiral Woods, “it does appear to have been an accident. The Dreamland people uploaded some of the digitalized recording of the event. Obviously, I still want to speak to the men, but from what I’ve seen—”

“I’m looking into it personally myself,” said Samson, protecting his territory. “I’m going to speak to them. I’ll make a full report.”

Woods frowned. There would be a question of jurisdiction and priority—the men were under Samson’s command but had been operationally controlled by him. Who took precedence?

As far as Samson was concerned, he did. He prepared for a fight, but before he could say anything else, the Secretary of State changed the subject.

“Where are the other warheads?” asked Hartman. “How long before they’re found?”

“Colonel Bastian is the best source on that,” said the admiral.

“We’re not sure,” said Bastian. “Probably in the far border areas around western Pakistan and northern India, near the Chinese border. The scientists are still refining the estimates.

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Additional U-2s and Global Hawk drones have arrived in the area and are flying at night, using infrared and low-light sensors. The scientists are tweaking some of the image reading data to make them more effective. Dr. Rubeo can give you the technical information on the search plots and everything related to them.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” said Ray Rubeo.

Rubeo was sitting quietly at a front console on the right, head stooped down as if he were one of the engineers and techies monitoring systems—so low-key, in fact, that Samson hadn’t noticed him until now. The general kept his dis-pleasure in check as the scientist flashed a brief presentation on the screen showing the possible locations of the three missiles. The presentation was brief and professional, but it still angered Samson—he should have seen it first.

“We are still developing theories on what happened,”

added Rubeo. “I can bore you with the technical details, or we can move on.”

His voice dripped with arrogance, but none of the others peeped.

“Until the President orders otherwise, we have to proceed with the operation,” said Chastain. “But it can’t go on indefinitely.”

“Indeed,” said Rubeo. “I would note that the power grids in the affected countries have now been offline for twenty-four hours more than our original projections predictions.

We may be living on borrowed time.”

Diego Garcia

0930

THE TIRED CHATTER OF THE BENNETT’S CREW AS THEY

walked toward their quarters irked Michael Englehardt more than he could say. It wasn’t just that they were talking about a mission he should have been on; it was the fact that they were talking about Colonel Bastian in such glowing terms.

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Ol’ Dog did this, and then he said that … Could you believe how he got the ship to stand still in the air? He suckedthat Sukhoi right into the Stinger air mines … I’ve neverseen anything like that … Can’t teach an old Dog newtricks– he knows them all …

And on and on and on until Englehardt thought he would puke.

It was his fault. He should have been on the mission himself, at least a copilot. He’d acted like a jerk. Bastian had blindsided him, taking over the plane, but still, he should have kept his mouth shut.

Not that it was fair. But now his days at Dreamland were probably numbered.

“You shoulda been there, Mikey,” said Sullivan as they entered the dormitory-style building they’d been given for personal quarters. “What a wild night.”

“I wanted to be there,” said Englehardt.

“Yeah.” Sullivan immediately turned away.

“Next time,” said Englehardt, trying but failing to sound optimistic.

COLONEL BASTIAN RUBBED HIS EYES AND STARTED TO GET

up from the communications console in the Dreamland Control trailer.

“Hold on there, Tecumseh,” said General Samson, his voice vibrating the speakers over the unit. “Where are you going?”

“I thought we were done,” said Dog. “I was thinking—”

“There are a few things I wanted to speak to you about in private.”

“I’d really like to catch some sleep,” Dog told Samson. “I just got back from my mission.”

“That’s number one—what the hell are you doing flying missions?”

“What?”

“You have plenty of pilots out there now. Put them to good use. Yes, I understand the need for a commander to lead from the front,” added Samson, his voice somewhat more RETRIBUTION

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sympathetic. “But you’re spending far too much time in the air to actually do your job—your real job—of supervising the men. All the men, not just one plane crew.”

Dog was too tired to argue—and Samson didn’t give him much of an opening, moving right on to his next subject.

“I want full reports on all of the programs Dreamland is conducting. And a personnel review. How long will it take you to get that all together?”

“As soon as I get back I can—”

“I want you to start working on it immediately.”

“I have a mission here to run.”

“Devote as much time as possible to it. If you’re not flying, you’ll have more time. Those Whiplash men—I want to talk to them before they talk to Admiral Woods. Do you understand? They’re part of my command. I talk to them first. Not as a Navy admiral. Now do you understand?”

“Sure.”

“And another thing …”

Samson paused, obviously for effect. Dog felt so tired he thought he would teeter toward the floor.

“Briefings will now be done through me,” said the general finally.

“Which briefings?”

“Briefings with administration officials,” said Samson.

“That’s my job. You provide the information to me. I interface.”

“Anything you want, General,” said Dog.

He reached over and hit the button to kill the communications. Then he got to his feet, suddenly feeling ten times more tired than when he’d come into the trailer, and he’d been pretty tired then.

“Bedtime,” he muttered, going to the door—where Mike Englehardt practically knocked him over.

“Colonel, can we talk?” said Englehardt.

“What is it, Mike?”

“Colonel, I want to, uh—apologize. I was a—I mean, I—”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t sweat it, Mike.”

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Dog started to push past. Englehardt grabbed his shoulder.

Surprised, Dog looked the pilot in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” said Englehardt. “I really want to fly. Pilot, copilot, whatever you say. As long as I’m in the cockpit.”

“Well, that’s good, because you’re going to take the Bennett on its next mission. Now let go of my arm so I can go get some sleep, all right?”

An atoll off the Indian coast

Time and date unknown

THE DAY WAS WARMER THAN THE ONE BEFORE, BUT LESS

humid, and if not for their extreme circumstances, he might have considered the weather perfect. Trying not to think of his thirst, Zen made several radio calls and rearranged the rocks that helped support their tent so a bit more sunlight fell on Breanna. Finally he began moving down to the water, intending to swim back to the spot where he’d caught the turtle the day before. He was just getting into the water when he heard a shout.

One of the boys was back, paddling his small boat.

“Bart Simpson!” called the youth. It was the youngest one, the first one he’d spotted.

“Hey, Bart!” Zen yelled back. He did his best to hide his surprise that the kid had returned.

The wooden hull of the boy’s boat skidded against the shore and he climbed out, pulling a pack with him.

Zen’s heart jumped.

“You brought a phone?” Zen asked. “Cell phone?”

“Phone? No.”

The boy dropped to his knees in front of him, plopping the bag between them.

“Eat for you,” said the kid, pulling a fist-sized package from the bag. It was wrapped in brown paper. A strong odor announced it was fish. The flesh looked purple.

“For me?” asked Zen.

“You.”

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Zen devoured it. The fish tasted like bad sardines drenched in coconut and vinegar, but he would have eaten ten more handfuls had the boy brought them. He was so hungry he licked at the paper.

“So,” he said finally. “No phone, huh?”

“Why do you want phone?”

“I want to call my friends.”

“No phone. Who are you? Not Bart?”

Zen guessed that the boy had been quizzed by his parents or other adults when he went home with the turtle. They might be waiting for his answers now, to decide what to do.

He had no idea what was going on in the world beyond this atoll. He wondered if the Chinese had managed to use their nuke, and if so, if the Indians would blame them for the destruction.

“Is there a war?” Zen asked the boy, not sure how to phrase his question.

“War?”

“Did people die?”

The boy looked at him blankly. He was old enough to know what war was, but maybe his village was so isolated he had no idea.

“Where do you live?” Zen asked the child.

“Where do you live, Bart?”

“Where do I live? Las Vegas,” said Zen. “Near there.”

“Vegas?”

“Slot machines. Casinos. Las Vegas.”

“Springfield?”

Springfield was the fictional setting for The Simpsons television show.

“That’s not a real place, kid,” blurted Zen. “I live near Vegas. That’s real.”

The boy’s face fell.

“You know that’s a television show, right? Make believe?”

asked Zen. He realized he’d made a mistake, a bad mistake, but didn’t know how to recover.

The kid started to retreat.

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“Hey! Don’t go!” yelled Zen. “No. Don’t.”

But it was too late. The boy pushed the small boat into the water without looking back. Lying across the shallow gunwales, he stroked back toward the sea, turning right and quickly fading from Zen’s view.

Base Camp One

1500

DESPITE A TWO-HOUR NAP, JENNIFER WAS STILL FEELING

groggy when she sat down with Danny Freah and Dancer to review the situation with the experts at Dreamland Command. The possible locations for the three remaining warheads had now been narrowed down to approximately five-mile rectangles. New data from a pair of U-2s and a Global Hawk scouring the region near northern India and northeastern Pakistan would be available by nightfall.

“Tonight may be it,” said Colonel Bastian, coordinating the briefing from Diego Garcia. “Power is coming back all through the subcontinent, and both countries are pushing their militaries to resume patrols. And then there’s the Chinese.”

They were participating in the briefing via an external speaker and microphone hooked into Danny’s smart helmet.

Jennifer couldn’t see Dog’s tired face as he spoke, but she knew what it would look like—thick, sagging bags beneath his eyes, taut lips, hollowed out cheeks.

He’d have shaved before he came on duty. He wouldn’t have waited for hot water, just scraped his chin clean as quickly as possible.

But thorough. He had a system that he never deviated from.

“Any word on Zen and Bree?” Danny asked as the briefing came to an end.

Dog paused a second longer than normal before answering, and that half of a half second told Jennifer everything. She could almost feel his chest expanding in the next moment as he took in a breath—a stabilizing breath—before answering.

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“Nothing yet,” said Dog.

“They’ll find them.”

“Yup.”

And then he was gone, without even saying anything to her.

It took Jennifer a minute or two to return her thoughts fully to the operation. By then Danny and Dancer had drawn up a plan for dividing the Marines into three groups and retrieving the warheads once they were located.

“Wait,” she told them as they started to get up from their camp chairs. “Who am I going with?”