Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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

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

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

“I will not fail you, Uncle.”

“YOU SAID HE WOULD NOT BE HURT,” KERMAN TOLD HAS-sam after Sattari had been carried to one of the cars. “Your thugs knocked him unconscious.”

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

“He wasn’t talking.”

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

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

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

“Give me the papers.”

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

Kerman took the documents with the false IDs.

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

X

The Long Ride Home

Aboard the Poughkeepsie,

Indian Ocean

0700, 20 January 1998

DANNY FREAH STRUGGLED TO SHUT OUT THE NOISE FROM

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

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

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

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

“The specialists have gone back and analyzed the satellite imagery,” said Catsman. “They think the warhead was removed sometime after 1600 yesterday. They’re going by some changes in the shadows on the ground. There is some 386

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debate on it—a lot of debate. They’re comparing the satellite image to the Global Hawk image, and there’s a large margin of error. The warhead itself was obscured; it was the missile’s engines it focused on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Dreamland

1100, 20 January 1998

MACK SMITH HAD BEEN TO GERMANY EXACTLY THREE

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

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

His bad experiences in Germany were only part of his motivation. He had surmised from the paperwork that changes in the Dreamland Command structure were afoot.

A call back to the base informed him that the changes were even broader than he had thought, and he decided that the sooner he shook the new commander’s hand, the higher up on the food chain he’d find himself when the dust settled.

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

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

As he made his way over from the landing “dock” to the Taj, he developed a cocky spring in his step. Dreamland’s new commander wasn’t a fighter jock; he flew Boners, as the go-fast community disparagingly called the B-1B Lancer.

But he was a general, and as such, Terrill Samson would 388

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have a lot more muscle than Lieutenant Colonel Bastian—a decent guy and a fellow fighter pilot, but when all was said and done, a lightweight in the political department. And politics was the name of the game these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too nice for a colonel.”

“Colonel Bastian has an office down the hall.”

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

“I don’t know,” said Ax.

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

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

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

Ax frowned.

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

“I couldn’t guess.”

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

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I’m most obliged,” said Ax.

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Tehran

0110, 21 January 1998

(1410, 20 January, Dreamland)

“YOU SEEM TO HAVE LOST YOUR SPIRIT, GENERAL.”

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

In Tehran somewhere, of course, but where?

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

“You should be quite proud of what you accomplished,”

continued the man. “Soon, you will have struck a blow against the Americans that will be remembered for all time.”

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

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

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

“My nephew,” said the general.

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

“He’s too young.”

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

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

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

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

“Was I drugged?” he demanded.

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

“I want revenge against the bastards who killed my son,”

said the general. With every breath, his mind became sharper.

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

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

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

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

“I need time to think,” said Sattari.

“By all means. As long as you need.”

Mohtaj smiled, then turned and left the room.

Sattari thought of Kerman, then of Val.

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

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Pacific Ocean

1410, Dreamland

DOG FOLDED HIS ARMS AND LEANED AGAINST THE BACK OF

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

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

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

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

“That or a nice stewardess, huh?”

Starship laughed.

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

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

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

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

“I know what you mean.”

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

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

ENGLEHARDT HAD FELT THE CREW’S RESENTMENT TOWARD

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

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

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Not likely.

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

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

One and a half, really.

More like one and a quarter.

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

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

From now on he was going to do everything by the book.

If his crew didn’t like him, at least they wouldn’t have anything to complain about.

Dreamland Command Center

1500

UNDER ORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES, TRACKING TRUCK

traff ic through the Pakistani northeastern territories would have been close to impossible.

Fortunately, these weren’t ordinary circumstances.

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

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

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

“Problem is, so we see those two trucks together, so what?”

said the analyst. “We can’t search every inch of Pakistan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smudges.”

“Hardly.”

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

Diego Garcia

0600, 21 January 1998

THE SUN BLOSSOMED ON THE HORIZON, THROWING A RED-dish yellow stream of light on the long concrete runway and its nearby aprons. Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson, 394

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

standing at the edge of one of the aprons in front of the Dreamland Command trailer, took a deep breath, as if he might suck in the sunshine and all of its energy.

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

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

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

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

bomber idea further along; Bastian seemed to have sidetracked it, probably because he had no feel for the aircraft.

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

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

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

It would be the perfect opening sentence for the orienta-

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tion speech he planned on giving when he got back to the States. He scrambled inside for a pen and paper to write it down.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Pacific Ocean

2000, 20 January 1998

(0900, 21 January)

DOG FINALLY MANAGED TO DRIFT OFF TO SLEEP DURING THE

f light. The ejection seat at the Flighthawk station was about as comfortable as most ejection seats, which meant not at all.

His head drooped to his chest and his shoulders tightened; when he woke he felt as if someone had him in a headlock.

Stretching helped a little, but not much.

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

“Tabasco?”

“Just a little punch, you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

“OK, Colonel,” said Sullivan.

The copilot’s tone seemed a little cold. Maybe that was the reaction he was going to get around the base from now on, Dog thought; no one would want to associate themselves with him. Senior officers would view him as a political pa-riah, and junior officers would figure he was washed up.

No one wanted to be associated with a commander who’d 396

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been relieved.

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

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

The microwave began beeping, but Dog left his dinner inside and sat down next to Rager at the airborne radar station.

The sergeant was considerably more relaxed now that they weren’t in combat; he had a dozen contacts on his scope, all civilian flights.

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

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

“Thing is, you just get tired after a couple of hours,” said the sergeant, who’d had extensive experience in AWACS and other systems before coming over to Dreamland. “It works fine in the simulations, but when we were getting shot at for over an hour, at the tail end of a long mission—I have to be honest with you, Colonel, I’m sure I made some mistakes.

I haven’t had a chance to review the whole mission tapes, but I’m sure I could have done better. Adding two guys on the board during a combat mission makes sense, but it’s not just that. There are some software improvements you could make.”

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

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things got heavy.

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

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

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

Over the Pacific Ocean

2015, Dreamland

KERMAN MARKED THE DISTANCE IN HOURS. HE WAS NOW

two hours away.

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

The small closet smelled like a chemical waste dump.

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

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

The general had always had his trouble with the religious 398

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

Perhaps, thought Kerman, his uncle had reason to de-nounce the clerics.

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

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

Dreamland Command

2038

“IT WAS THE DOC’S IDEA. HE WAS RIGHT,” SAID THE PHOTO

interpreter. “Look—same pickup trucks at the airport.”

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

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

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

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

she asked.

“If they keep the information on a computer,” said Rubeo,

“I believe we should be able to shorten the time considerably.

Unless you insist on working through channels.”

“Do it,” answered the major.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

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over the Pacific Ocean

2047

“URGENT INCOMING MESSAGE FOR YOU, COLONEL, ON THE

Dreamland channel,” said Sergeant Daly, descending from the flight deck. “They need to talk to you right away.”

Dog authorized the communication at the Flighthawk station.

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

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

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

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

“What’s the story, Doc?”

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

“Apparently a popular stop for the nefarious of the world,”

said Rubeo. “But there is one in particular that is interesting.”

“Why?”

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

Over the Pacific Ocean

2115

KERMAN CHECKED HIS WATCH, THEN UNDID HIS SEAT BELT

and walked to the back of the flight deck. The cargo area was not pressurized, but at the moment they were low enough that 400

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he did not need an oxygen mask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As his hand touched the second switch, it began to tremble so badly that Kerman dropped the timer onto the blanket. He thought he had broken it and for a moment was overcome with grief. All his plans, his entire life, completely in vain.

To fail now, so close—it was the most unimaginable disaster.

He closed his eyes, cursing himself. He could have remained silent, not called the Ayatollah; his uncle would then still be here, helping him, guiding him. Together they would have carried out the mission—the general to revenge Val’s death, Kerman to fulfill God’s plan.

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

Or his uncle.

Kerman opened his eyes.

The light was still lit.

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

“Thank you, Lord, thank you,” whispered Kerman, nest-

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ling the timer on the towel and tucking it beneath the strap before retreating to the cockpit.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Pacific Ocean

2115

DOG CALLED THE NORTH AMERICAN AEROSPACE DEFENSE

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

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

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

“He knows about this?”

“Major Catsman already told him,” said the lieutenant.

“That’s what he’s talking to the White House about.”

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

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

“Right.” Dog snapped off the line.

He’d accomplished what needed to be accomplished—

Nellis was scrambling fighters. A full air alert had been issued. But it felt wrong that he wasn’t leading the charge.

Not that his personal feelings should matter.

“Colonel, Nellis Group One is on the air with us,” said 402

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Sullivan up in the copilot’s seat. “Requesting further details.”

“Well, give it to them.”

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

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

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

Dog told him what he knew.

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

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

“Roger that.”

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