Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Jennifer leaned over, took the narrow-headed wire cutters from the blanket where she had laid it out, and moved her hand carefully beneath the circuit board. Gingerly working her fingers against the strands, she separated the wire from the bunch.

Her hand shook slightly; she steadied the cutters against their target with the forefinger of her other hand and snipped.

Then began promptly cursing, because she had caught her finger as well.

“Jennifer?” asked Rubeo.

“The lights are out,” she said, looking at the tiny balls of blood that seemed to percolate up from the red line on her finger where she’d caught it. “The LEDs are out.”

“Very good. One more step and the warhead can be moved.”

“How good an electrical conductor do you think blood is?” she said as the small spheres turned to a large drop and oozed off her finger.

“Surprisingly good,” replied Rubeo. “I wouldn’t test it.”

* * *

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THE TERRAIN WAS SO RUGGED TO THE SOUTH THAT THE

Marines manning the observation point there couldn’t even see the landslide. Sergeant Norm Ganson, in charge of the landing team security, didn’t trust the eye-in-the-sky assessment and sent two men down to assess the damage.

“Four vehicles, a dozen guys—we can hold them off, no sweat,” the Marine sergeant told Danny.

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Danny replied. He trotted back to Jennifer, whom he found squatting next to the bomb, her left forefinger in her mouth.

“Jen?”

“We can move the warhead now,” she said, rising.

“What happened to your hand? It’s bleeding.”

“It got in the way. Can you spare anybody to attach those straps, or should I do it myself?”

An atoll off the Indian coast

Time and date unknown

IT WAS THEIR WEDDING, BUT NOT THEIR WEDDING. BREANNA danced in her long white dress, sailing across the altar of the church, into the churchyard, the walls and roof of the building vaporized by Zen’s dream. She floated on the air and he followed, alone in a white and brown world, stumbling on the rocks. The band played in a large, empty fountain, arrayed around a cement statue of a forgotten saint, his face chipped away by centuries of neglect. Every time he held his hand out to his wife, she danced farther away, moving through the air as easily as if she were walking. She lay herself down on a bench, holding her arms out to him, but when he arrived, she floated off, just out of reach.

A bird passed overhead, then another, then a flock. Breanna looked at them and started to rise. She was smiling.

“Bree,” he called. “Bree.”

As she glanced down toward him a look of sorrow appeared on her face, her sadness so painful that it froze him in RETRIBUTION

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place. He felt his heart shrivel inside his chest, all of his organs disintegrating, his bones pushing inward suddenly. He wanted to say more but her look stopped him, her sadness so deep that the entire world turned black.

And she was gone.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett

2202

ENGLEHARDT KNEW HE COULD BEAT THE MIGS IF THEY

f ired. He saw in his mind exactly what he’d do: jive and jab and zigzag while Sullivan hit the ECMs. He’d drop low, then come up swinging—fire the Anacondas at point-blank range.

The question was: What would he do if they didn’t fire?

“Still coming at us,” said Rager. “Slowing.”

Englehardt checked his position. The Bennett was close to the Chinese border—another problem, he thought; if he went over it, the Chinese might send someone to investigate as well.

That might be a good idea. He could duck out of the way and let the two enemies go at it.

“MiGs are thirty miles and closing,” said Sullivan.

Englehardt once again thought of radioing for instructions.

But there was no point in that—he’d only be told to use his judgment.

That was the Dreamland way, wasn’t it? You were on your own, trained to make the call. A Megafortress flying alone wasn’t “controlled” by an AWACS or even a flight leader—its pilot was on his or her own. If he wasn’t up to the responsibility, he didn’t belong in the cockpit in the first place.

So do it. Just do it.

And yet he balked, inherently cautious.

“Are they talking to anyone?” Englehardt asked.

“If they are, we’re not hearing it,” said the copilot.

Englehardt flipped over to the Dreamland Command channel to speak to Danny Freah.

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“Captain, we have a couple of Indian aircraft up here taking an interest in us. Are you ready to get out of there?”

“We need ten more minutes.”

“I’m going to lead these planes away from the area. When you take off, have the Osprey stay low in that mountain valley. The MiGs shouldn’t be able to see them on radar.”

“Good. Copy.”

He had it figured out now: he’d fool the Indians, diverting their attention while the Ospreys got away.

Was that the smart thing to do? Or was he wimping?

Maybe he should shoot them down.

“I’m going to try talking to those bastards myself,” said Englehardt. “I’m going to broadcast on all channels and see what the hell they’re up to.”

“Take your shot,” said Sullivan.

Englehardt identified himself and the ship, saying they were on a Search and Rescue mission and asking the Indians’ intentions. Once again they didn’t answer.

“Ten miles,” said Sullivan. “Still closing.”

“Get ready on the Stinger air mines.”

“Yeah,” said Sullivan.

The two MiGs had widened their separation as they approached. They flanked the Megafortress, then slowly began drawing toward her wings, still separated from her by a mile or so.

“American EB-52,” said one of the Indians finally. “Why are you over Indian territory?”

“I’m on a Search and Rescue mission for American fliers,”

said Englehardt. “Why didn’t you answer my earlier radio broadcasts?”

The Indians once more chose not to answer. The Megafortress’s radio, however, picked up a succession of squeals and clicks, indicating they were using an encrypted radio system to talk to someone.

“Gotta be talking to their ground controller,” said Sullivan. “What do you think? Did he just tell them to shoot us down or leave us alone?”

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* * *

BY SLOWING DOWN TO MATCH THE MEGAFORTRESS’S SPEED, the MiGs allowed Hawk Two to catch up to them. Starship angled Hawk Two toward the tail of the closest MiG, which was aiming itself roughly toward the Bennett’s right wing. The Flighthawk’s faceted body and absorbent skin gave it a radar profile about the size of a flying cockroach, and the black matte paint made it hard to pick up in the night sky. But even if it had been daylight the Flighthawk would have been nearly impossible for the MiG pilot to see; Starship had the plane exactly behind his tailfin.

“Computer, hold position on aircraft identified as Bandit Two.”

“Hold position.”

Starship took over the controls for Hawk One, still circling low over the recovery site. The Indian ground unit had stopped about a mile south of the landslide. The Americans, meanwhile, were getting ready to bug out.

This is going to work out, he thought. The Osprey was going to sneak away, and then the Megafortress would head over to Pakistan and go home without the Indians knowing exactly what was going on.

Then he noticed a flicker in the lower corner of Hawk One’s screen.

He pushed his throttle slide up to full.

“Hawk leader to Whiplash ground team—Danny, there are helicopters trying to sneak in up that valley behind the Indian ground units.”

Jamu

2205

STARSHIP’S WARNING CAME JUST AS THE WARHEAD WAS

secured and the Marines had been ordered to return from their lookout posts. Danny needed a second to work out in his head where everyone was. Then he jumped in the back of 284

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

the V-22, slipped through the nest of lines and straps holding the warhead in place, and ran to the cockpit.

“Helos coming up that road,” he told the pilot. “Can you get us out without them seeing us?”

“No way, Captain,” said the pilot. “I have to clear that ridge ahead or go right past them. Either way, they’ll see us.”

“All right. Go over the ridge as soon as we’re secured back here.” He switched his radio on. “Starship, see if you can slow those guys down a bit. We want to exit to the north.”

Aboard Dreamland Bennett

2207

STARSHIP TOOK HAWK ONE STRAIGHT AT THE LEAD INDIAN

helicopter, a large Mi-8 Hip troop carrier. He got so close to the chopper that if he’d tipped his wing down he could have sliced through its rotors.

He cut over the second chopper—another Hip—then circled around for another pass. If either helicopter pilot had seen him, they didn’t let on; both aircraft continued flying through the valley. They were doing about seventy knots, flying so low that their rear wheels, which hung on struts off the side of the fuselage, couldn’t have been more than a foot off the ground.

“This time I’m going to get your attention,” said Starship.

He pulled into the valley ahead of the helicopters, jammed his stick back and let off a bunch of flares, climbing into the night like a giant Roman candle. Both helicopters immediately set down. Their rotors continued to spin, and the sand-storm that had been following them caught up.

“Helicopters are down, Whiplash,” said Starship. “Get out of there while you can.”

“AMERICAN MEGAFORTRESS! WHY ARE YOU FIRING ON OUR

helicopter?”

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“We’re not firing at all,” said Englehardt. “You’re sitting right with us.”

“Cease your fire!” repeated the Indian.

“MiGs are dropping back,” said Sullivan. “Getting into position to fire heat-seekers at us. Air mines?”

Yes, thought Englehardt. Then no.

Anacondas?

He was way out of position for that. He’d have to use the Stinger.

They still hadn’t fired.

“Wait until they activate their weapons radars,” he told Sullivan.

“They don’t need their weapons radars,” said the pilot.

“Hell, they can hit us with spitballs.”

“Starship, where are you?” asked Englehardt. He could feel sweat running down every part of his body, and his colon felt as if it was about to jump through his skin.

“Hawk Two is right behind Bandit Two. Hawk One is back with Indian helicopters.”

“Did you fire at them?”

“Just used my flares to get their attention. It worked.”

“Marine Osprey Angry Bear is up,” said Sullivan.

“Cover the Osprey, Starship.”

“Yeah, roger, circling back to cover them.”

“American Megafortress, you will leave the area,” said the Indian pilot.

“I intend to,” answered Englehardt. “Be advised that we are over Chinese territory.”

“They’re talking to their controller again,” reported Sullivan. “They’re saying a lot of something.”

“As long as they’re talking, not firing, we’re fine,” replied the pilot.

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Aboard Marine Osprey Angry Bear One, over northern India

2215

GRADUALLY, DANNY FREAH LOOSENED HIS GRIP ON THE

strap near the bulkhead separating the Osprey cockpit from the cargo area. Finally he let go and looked at his palm. The strap’s indentations were clearly visible.

“We’re OK?” asked Jennifer Gleason, sitting on the bench next to him.

“Yeah. We’re good. The MiGs are following the Megafortress to the east. We’re out of here.”

Danny followed her gaze as she turned and looked at the warhead, snugged in the middle of the Osprey’s cargo bay. It seemed almost puny, sitting between the Marines and their gear.

“Funny that such a small thing could cause so much destruction,” Danny said.

“I was just thinking it looks almost harmless there,” said Jennifer. “Like part of a furnace that needs to be overhauled.”

“I guess.”

A tone sounded in his helmet. Danny clicked into the Dreamland channel.

“Freah.”

“Danny, a Global Hawk with infrared sensors just located the last warhead,” said Dog. “It’s fifty miles north of you.”

“OK, Colonel. Team Three is waiting at Base Camp One.

They can be airborne inside of ten minutes. Take them about sixty to get there.”

“I’m afraid it’ll be too late by then,” said Dog. “The Global Hawk has spotted a pair of pickups near the site, and four or five men nearby. Looks like another two trucks are on their way.”

“Give me the GPS point,” Danny replied.

VII

No Chance to Survive

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Chinese-Indian border

2230

THE MIGS STILL HADN’T MADE A THREATENING MOVE.

Englehardt locked his eyes on the sitrep, sizing up the situation. The lead aircraft was about three miles behind the Megafortress. He was in the Stinger’s sweet spot—but then again, the Bennett would be right in the sights of a heat-seeker or the MiG’s cannon.

The Stinger needed about twenty seconds to “warm up”

once activated. Englehardt didn’t want to turn it on until he meant to use it; he reasoned that the Indians didn’t know it was there, and were thus more vulnerable to it.

The Dreamland channel buzzed.

“Go,” said Englehardt, opening the communication line.

“Mike, the last warhead has been found,” said Colonel Bastian. “Danny and the Marines are on their way. We want you to cover them.”

“Be happy to, Colonel, but I have a complication.”

Englehardt explained his situation. The colonel winced. But if Bastian thought he’d done the wrong thing, he didn’t say.

“They’re not hostile?” he asked.

“Annoying, definitely,” said Englehardt.

Dog continued to frown.

“Should I shoot them down?” Englehardt blurted. “The rules of engagement—”

“Take the MiGs south with you,” said Dog. “I’ll have the 290

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Cheli go northwest to cover Danny in Angry Bear. Have Starship escort the Osprey until they arrive.”

“Colonel, if—”

“Bastian out.”

Aboard Dreamland Cheli,

over the Great Indian Desert

2240

BRAD SPARKS SMILED AS THE MARINE LIEUTENANT GAVE AN

update on the ground team, which had just secured its warhead and was en route to Base Camp One. She had the sexi-est voice he’d ever heard on a military radio.

“Did you copy, Dreamland Cheli?” she demanded.

“Just daydreaming up here, Dancer,” Sparks told Lieutenant Klacker. “Anyone ever tell you you have a sexy voice?”

“Your transmission was garbled,” responded Dancer coldly. “I suggest you do not repeat it.”

“Hey, roger that,” chuckled Sparks. “All right, I have your ETA at Base Camp One at fifteen minutes. Those Osprey drivers agree?”

“Good. Copy.”

Sparks leaned back against the Megafortress’s ejection seat, arching his shoulders. As soon as the Osprey reached the base camp, the Navy boys from the Abe would take over; most likely they’d be free to go home. It had been a long, dull night, nowhere near as entertaining as their last go-round.

But maybe that was what his crew needed. Their energy was off; no one was even laughing at his jokes.

Day on the beach at Diego Garcia might change that. Day on the beach with that hot little Navy ensign he’d spotted on the chow line the other morning would definitely boost his morale, at least.

The Dreamland channel buzzed. Sparks keyed the message in and found himself staring at Colonel Bastian.

“Hey, Colonel, what’s up?”

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“Brad, we’ve found the last warhead. I need you to go north to cover the recovery team.”

“Kick ass, Colonel, we’re ready,” said Sparks. “Feed me the data.”

Near the Chinese-Pakistani border

2240

GENERAL SATTARI PUT THE NIGHT GLASSES DOWN.

“The mujahideen are there now,” he said, speaking not to the men who’d helped him but to himself.

Sattari pushed the binoculars closer to his eyes, watching the men walk through the wreckage. They didn’t seem to realize that the warhead had already been taken. Most likely they didn’t know what they were looking for. Most if not all were ignorant kids, lured from their homes in Egypt and Ye-men and Palestine by the promise that they’d be someone important.

“Helicopter,” said one of Sattari’s men.

The general didn’t hear it for a moment. Then he heard the deep rumble reverberating in the distance. It wasn’t a chopper that he was familiar with, yet he had definitely heard the sound before.

An Osprey—an American Osprey.

“Quickly. It is time to go,” he said loudly in Urdu, walking to the truck.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over India

2335

STARSHIP TOOK HAWK ONE AHEAD OF THE MARINE OS-prey, scouting the site where the warhead had been located.

Even with the live infrared image from the Global Hawk orbiting above to guide him, he had trouble pinpointing the missile 292

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

wreckage; to him it looked more like a slight depression in the landscape than anything else.

The pickup trucks, on the other hand, were clearly visible.

Starship slid Hawk One down through 10,000 feet, plotting the most efficient approach to the pickups. Almost immediately the piper in his gun sight screen began to blink red, indicating that he had his target. As the small reticule went solid red, he pressed the trigger.

While almost everything else in the Flighthawk represented cutting-edge, gee-whiz technology, the aircraft’s cannon was ancient; the M61 Vulcan 20mm Gatling hadn’t been cutting edge since before the Vietnam War. But sometimes the old iron was the best iron.

The first few shots went wide left and low, but Starship held his stick steady, riding the stream of 20mm lead across and into the rear of the first pickup truck. As the vehicle exploded in flames, his bullets hit the cab of the second truck. He flicked right, perforating the engine compartment before his momentum carried him clear of the targets. He started to turn, moving a little faster than he wanted to, but couldn’t find anything or anyone in front of him, so he pulled up for another run.

He checked Hawk Two—still riding behind the MiGs shadowing the Bennett—then rolled Hawk One into a second attack. As he did, the Flighthawk’s computer warned that he was within ten miles of losing its connection to the mother ship. Starship glanced at the sitrep and realized he couldn’t complete the attack before losing the connection.

“Bennett, I need you to get closer to Hawk One,” he said.

“I’m going to lose the connection.”

Englehardt didn’t answer. The Flighthawk and her mother ship were moving away from each other at close to a thousand miles an hour—or sixteen a minute.

“Disconnect in fifteen seconds,” warned the computer, using an audible message as well as the text on the screen.

“Bennett! Need you north!”

Starship felt the Megafortress lurch beneath him.

“We’re on it,” said Englehardt.

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Near the Chinese-Pakistani border

2340

DANNY FREAH SQUATTED TO ONE SIDE OF THE PASSAGEWAY

between the Osprey’s cockpit and cargo area, watching as the aircraft headed toward the landing zone. He could see the Flighthawk’s red-yellow tracers arcing across the sky. Small bursts of green rose up toward the spray—ground fire.

“What do you think, Captain?” asked one of the pilots.

“I think we’re going in, if you can make it.”

“We can make it.”

Danny turned around and yelled to the landing team.

“LZ is hot. Show these bastards what the Marine Corps is made of.”

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Chinese-Indian border

2343

“MIGS ARE TALKING TO THEIR BASE AGAIN,” SULLIVAN TOLD

Englehardt. “I’m betting they don’t like our course change.”

“How close is the Cheli?”

“Their nearest Flighthawk is still ten minutes off.”

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

“They’re dropping off,” said Sullivan.

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

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

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

STARSHIP WAS JUST ZEROING IN ON A CLUSTER OF SMALL

arms f lashes at the landing zone when the Megafortress 294

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

seemed to plunge beneath him. He kept his hand steady, staying with his target and ignoring the urge to jump back into Hawk Two and battle the MiGs.

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

Zen.

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

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

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

ENGLEHARDT PUSHED HARD ON THE STICK, THROWING HIS

whole body against it. The Megafortress twisted herself hard to comply, jerking to the right and pulling her nose up.

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

Now it was his turn.

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

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

“Targets out of range.”

“Fuck.”

Everyone on the circuit seemed to be hyperventilating.

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

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

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* * *

STARSHIP BROUGHT UP THE MAIN SCREEN OF HAWK TWO

just in time to see the robot turn away from the MiG it had destroyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Near the Chinese-Pakistani border

2350

JENNIFER GLEASON SNUGGED HER BULLETPROOF VEST

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

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

A bullet or maybe a rock splinter tinged against the side of 296

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the Osprey. Jennifer jumped involuntarily, then put her hand on the pistol.

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

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

“It’s safe.”

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

“Would you go outside?”

“Not the question.”

“Well what the fuck is the question?”

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

“Captain says proceed with caution.”

“Caution is my middle name,” said Jennifer. She rushed down the ramp and curled behind the aircraft, staying low.

She could see clusters of Marines on both the left and right; they were standing upright.

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

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

“That way.” He pointed across the field in the direction of the two trucks destroyed by the Flighthawk. “Careful, ma’am.

We’re still mopping up. Those suckers were hiding in the rocks and grass.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Jennifer began walking across the moon-lit field, the grass and weeds gray in the light. There were pieces of metal strewn on the ground. Bits of wire and paper and plastic were bunched like fistfuls of confetti dumped by bystanders grown RETRIBUTION

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tired of waiting for the parade to pass. She caught a whiff of burnt metal and vinyl from one of the trucks that was still smoldering up ahead.

She found Danny near one of the trucks.

“Where’s the warhead?”

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

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

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

“I intend to.”

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

“Most people say worse.”

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Chinese-Indian border

2355

THIRTY SECONDS AFTER THE ANACONDAS LEFT THE BEN-

nett’s belly, the MiG launched its own missiles. Englehardt had anticipated this and turned the plane away, hoping to

“beam” the radar guiding the missiles.

“ECMs,” he told Sullivan.

“They’re on. Missiles are tracking.”

“Chaff. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.”

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

There was a loud boom behind him. A caution light popped 298

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

on the dash. For a moment he thought they’d been hit. Then he realized that engine one had experienced a compressor surge or stall because of the change in the air flow rushing through it.

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

“Missile one is by us,” said Sullivan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So could the Megafortress, Englehardt realized.

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

“Our Flighthawks are just reaching the recovery area,”

said the Cheli’s captain, Brad Sparks. “We’re right behind the little guys.”

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

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

An atoll off the Indian coast

Time and date unknown

THE NIGHT DRIFTED ON, MELTING AWAY EVERYTHING BUT

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

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

There was a plane in the distance.

Zen took a slow, measured breath.

The aircraft was very far away.

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

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

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

Why even bother?

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

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

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

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Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over India

0015, 19 January 1998

STARSHIP WAS JUST ABOUT TO TURN HAWK TWO OVER TO

the computer for the refuel when the Bennett’s radar officer warned of a new flight of Indian jets, this one coming at them from east.

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

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

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

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

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

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