Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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

364

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

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

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

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

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

“I’m taking charge of this operation personally, Bastian.

You’re headed home.”

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

Clearly flustered, Samson shook his head.

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

Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is the point?” Dog turned and started away, but his anger got the better of him. He pitched around. “You have a lot to learn if you think any man or woman who works for RETRIBUTION

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me, who works for Dreamland, anybody in this command, would kill innocent people deliberately. That’s just total bullshit. And if you’re going to lead these people, you better stand up for them, loud and clear, right now. Loud and clear.”

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

“Gladly.”

STARSHIP RAN HIS FINGERS ACROSS THE TOP OF HIS SKULL.

His hair, normally cut tight to his scalp, was nearly two inches high. It felt like a thick brush.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starship shrugged. It was a tough call. There was no doubt Englehardt’s decisions could be questioned, but he’d been in 366

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a no-win situation. Starship knew from his own experience how hard it was to make the right call all the time, and how easy it was to be second– or even third-guessed.

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

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

The others rose.

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

“We can’t do anything if you’re not with us,” said Rager.

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Listen—”

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

THOUGH SORELY TEMPTED TO JUST GO TO BED, DOG INstead walked back to the Dreamland Command trailer to check on the Cheli. He’d just gotten to the door when he heard the Megafortress’s engines in the distance. He watched the aircraft touch down, then went inside.

A young sergeant named Sam Bautista, a Whiplash team member who’d flown in with Samson, was on duty inside.

Bautista jumped to his feet as Dog came in.

“Relax, Sergeant,” said Dog.

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

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

Major Catsman’s worried face appeared on the screen.

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

Catsman started with things Dog already knew. The warheads were aboard the Poughkeepsie, Zen and Breanna RETRIBUTION

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were aboard the Abner Read. Further analysis of the last warhead site seemed to show that the warhead was gone when the guerrillas arrived, though the imagery was still being examined. The image experts asked to see everything recorded in the area since the EEMWBs had exploded.

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

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

The major hesitated.

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

“A Global Hawk went over the area about a half hour ago.

This is a photo from the area of the wreckage.”

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

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

“It’s one of ours,” said Catsman.

“From the Navy fighters?”

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

“From the Cheli?”

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

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

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

“I’ll take care of it,” said Dog.

“I– He ordered me not to tell you he was on his way,”

Catsman blurted.

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

WHEN YOU’RE BASED NEAR A PLACE LIKE LAS VEGAS, JUST

about anywhere else in the world can seem spartan. But Diego Garcia was spartan in the extreme, which limited the crew’s options for celebrating their mission.

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“First we debrief, then we go over to the Navy canteen,”

said Brad Sparks as the crew shut down the Cheli. “Or whatever they call their bar.”

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

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

“Colonel Dog will have my butt if we wait,” said Sparks.

“Let’s just get it over with.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck?” said Micelli.

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

DOG DECIDED HE WOULD TALK TO THE CHELI’S CREW ONE

at a time. Sparks, since he was the captain, went first.

“Describe to me what happened on your sortie,” Dog said, sitting across from him at the table in the Dreamland trailer.

The others were outside, sitting in the shade of the nearby hangar.

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

“Do your best.”

“OK. Can I have a drink?”

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

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“I was thinking about a beer.”

“Better not just now.”

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

Dog had heard enough before Sparks was halfway through.

The Anaconda aiming system had been giving them problems; they encountered a plane in the area near fighters that seemed to be a threat; the plane had not had a working friend or foe identifier.

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

Should have been.

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

He truly understood how difficult that call was to make.

Others might not.

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

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

“Jesus.”

Both men sat in silence for a few moments.

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

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

“Am I going to be court-martialed?”

Dog wanted to shake his head, to stand up and pat Sparks on the shoulder and tell him it was all going to be all right.

But that would be lying. There would be an inquiry—a long one, no doubt—before any decision was made on whether charges would be brought.

“I don’t know what will happen,” said Dog honestly. “At 370

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this point anything is a possibility. I want you to go to your room and just stay there until you hear from me.”

“Or the general?”

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

Malaysia

1730 (1530, Karachi)

GENERAL SATTARI FOLLOWED THE CONTROL TOWER’S INstructions, taxiing the airplane away from the main runway. He felt physically drained. It had been years since he flew a large jet, and even with his nephew, an experienced multiengine copilot, managing the Airbus’s takeoffs and landings had not been easy.

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

“Very good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were unarmed.

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

“Yes, Uncle.”

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

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

“God is great, God is merciful, God is all knowing,”

shouted a man from the ground, speaking in Persian.

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

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

“That should not be relevant to you.”

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

“Good work.”

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

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

“Sometimes, the inspectors do come aboard.”

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

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

“The items we have are packed very delicately,” said Sattari, explaining while not explaining. “And the fewer in contact with them, the better. We can put a few crates here if 372

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necessary,” he added, pointing to the rear of the flight cabin.

“But—should I expect trouble?”

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

“The money transferred properly?”

“Yes, General. Of course.”

“Can we get some food?” asked Sattari.

“There is a place in the terminal.”

“Come, then,” said Sattari.

“Your copilot?”

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

“You have others in the plane?”

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

Diego Garcia

1900

REVIEWING ALL OF THE RECORDED SENSOR AND OTHER

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Uh, yes, sir. OK.”

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

when Dog arrived.

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

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

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

“What about?”

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

THE FIRST THING SAMSON THOUGHT WAS, NOW I’VE GOT

him. Bastian wouldn’t be able to wiggle out of this.

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

The incident with the family in the desert was bad, very bad, but the video vindicated the men, and it could be argued that the Dreamland people were on a mission of mercy.

Whether they should have undertaken it or not was beside the point.

But this was very different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s their excuse?”

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

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

Dog didn’t reply. Samson rubbed his forehead.

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

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

“I have it under guard.”

“All right. Dismissed.”

“That’s it?”

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

“Loud and clear.”

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

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

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

Aboard the Abner Read

1900

THE ABNER READ’S SICKBAY HAD SOME OF THE MOST MODern medical equipment in the world, crammed into a space that would have made a broom feel crowded. Zen and Breanna occupied exactly fifty percent of the beds.

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

Breanna’s case was more difficult to diagnose. Besides her broken bones, there appeared to be some light internal bleeding in her chest cavity. After consulting with a doctor on the RETRIBUTION

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Lincoln, the Abner Read’s medical officer decided to have her moved to the aircraft carrier, where the larger facilities would make it easier to monitor her condition and operate if necessary.

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

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

“A good prescription,” said the doctor.

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

“I HEAR SAMSON’S A REAL PRICK,” SAID JONES AS THEY

waited in the dark.

“I don’t think it matters whether he’s nice to us or not,”

said Liu. “The facts are the facts.”

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

“ ’Cause he’s keeping us away from the Navy,” said Jones.

“That might be a good sign.”

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

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

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

“The baby’s in heaven.”

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

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

HE WAS IN THE AIR, TUMBLING AND FALLING. BREANNA WAS

there too, but just out of reach. He kept trying to get her, though, throwing his hands out, grabbing for her.

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

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“Breanna,” he called. “Bree. Bree.”

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

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

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

The cot was empty.

“Bree!” he shouted. “Breanna!”

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

“Breanna!” Zen bellowed.

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

“My wife. Where is she?”

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

“Why?”

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

“Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

“She said not to.”

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

“Can you undo me?” he asked the man.

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

“You can call me Terry, sir.”

“I’m Zen.”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diego Garcia

2350

“MS. GLEASON IS SLEEPING,” SAID THE NURSE ON DUTY

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

“How is her knee?”

“The primary problem is her kneecap, or the patella.

They’ll have to replace it. But there’s a lot of work with pros-theses over the last ten or twenty years. She’ll definitely walk again, after rehab.”

“Will she run?”

“Did she run before?”

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

“Then, maybe. The doctors will have a lot more informa -

tion. You’re her commanding officer?”

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

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

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

RELIEVED OF COMMAND AND CLEARLY UNWANTED, DOG

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Malaysia

0600, 20 January 1998 (0400, Karachi) GENERAL SATTARI TWISTED ANOTHER PIECE OF BREAD FROM

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

cafeteria.

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

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

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

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

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

How much would he trade to have that moment back?

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

“Are you ready?” Sattari asked.

“Yes, General.”

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

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

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

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“I can. You saw yourself.”

Kerman stared at him, his front teeth biting into his lip.

Then he shook his head.

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

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

“I wish to do it.”

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

“Are you sure?”

Kerman nodded.

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

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

“What is it?” said Sattari.

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

“Yes.” They met halfway.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

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

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

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

“Still, that is curious.”

“What is your point, Hassam?”

The general placed his hand closer to his gun.

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flights for you, in case you are tracked once you take off,”

said Hassam.

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” Sattari asked.

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

Sattari felt his face flush.

“General, there is another question I must ask, though.

Going to America—do you really feel that is wise?”

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

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

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

The general was still strong, but he was tired from his exertions over the past few days. He tried to bring his pistol around to shoot Hassam but couldn’t manage it. Then there were others—someone stomping on his arm, kicking. Sattari’s finger squeezed on the trigger. The loud pop of the pistol so close to his ear took his hearing away for a moment, 382

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

and with his hearing went the last of his strength. The others continued to wrestle with him, but he was done, drained—angry and humiliated, a failure, a man who could not even get justice for his son.

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

Take the gun.”

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