Retribution

Текст добавлен: 5 октября 2016, 23:28

Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Dog went on the interphone to speak to Englehardt.

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

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

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

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

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403

Dreamland Command Center

2120

“HOW DO WE EVEN KNOW LAS VEGAS IS REALLY THE TARget?” asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman as the video conference continued. “If I had a nuclear weapon, I would target New York City or Washington, D.C.”

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

Rubeo scowled.

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

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

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

“H-H-Habib Kerman,” said Jed Barclay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Combined with the flight plan, I believe it’s highly likely 404

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

that it’s a target,” said Rubeo. “We’re rechecking the flight control network,” he added, choosing the much more neutral

“checking” over the more descriptive, and accurate, “ille-gally hacking into.” “In the meantime, I suggest all flights be inspected. Sattari may have changed the ident device, or may simply fly without it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Pacific Ocean

2122

ENGLEHARDT TURNED THE AIRCRAFT OVER TO THE COMputer for the Flighthawk launch. The Megafortress tugged downward for a moment, then lifted, increasing the separation forces as the Flighthawk released and sailed off. He moved through the procedure quickly, getting the second robot off its wings, then climbed toward 50,000 feet, still moving toward Dreamland, a few hundred miles away.

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

“Airliner contact, two hundred miles, zero-five-zero, altitude 35,000 feet,” said Rager at the airborne radar station.

“Tracking. Computer IDs aircraft as a Boeing 777.”

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

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

Whatever, the crew was definitely responding.

DOG WATCHED RAGER SORT THROUGH THE AIR TRAFFIC.

There were plenty of airplanes in the vicinity, but less than a third fit the general profile of the Airbus. Each would have to be visually inspected.

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

Dog clicked into the Dreamland Command channel.

“Doc, what’s up?”

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

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

“Stand by, Ray.”

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

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

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

Over the Pacific Ocean

2123

KERMAN TIGHTENED HIS GRIP ON THE AIRLINER’S CONTROL

wheel. He was thirty minutes away from Las Vegas. The bomb would explode in a little more than fifty.

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

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

Kerman ignored the request when it was his turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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407

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Pacific Ocean

2124

“THIS LOOKS LIKE THE REAL THING,” SAID RAGER. “THE

plane isn’t answering the ground controllers or the F-15s.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We don’t need a simulation, we need an answer right now.

Get everyone on the line, wherever they are. We need to know.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

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

“What exactly are your orders?” Dog asked.

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

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

Nellis Flight One didn’t respond.

“Do you copy, Nellis Flight One?”

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

408

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Over California

2132

KERMAN WAITED UNTIL THE F-15S WERE VISIBLE OVER HIS

left wing before responding.

“This is Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit.

There has been a hijacking situation. We are now back in full control of the flight.”

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, this is Nellis Flight One.

Repeat your status.”

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

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

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

“I have damage to my instrument panel. I have two holes in the fuselage and am losing pressurization,” said Kerman.

“I need immediate clearance for an emergency landing. Repeat, I have a flight emergency landing. Repeat, I have a flight emergency and require assistance.”

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

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

“Repeat directions.”

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

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

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409

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

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

Las Vegas.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Pacific Ocean

2135

STARSHIP SLID HAWK ONE IN BEHIND THE F-15 EAGLES, lining the small robot up to get a good visual of the aircraft.

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

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

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

“COULD BE AS SIMPLE AS TOUCHING TWO WIRES TOGETHER, Colonel,” said Rubeo, whose voice sounded distant. “But as I told you earlier, we’re not convinced the warhead will explode. The odds are at least fifty-fifty that the pertinent circuitry was fried by the T-Rays.”

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

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

“How can we take him down safely?”

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

There is just no way of knowing.”

410

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Over Nevada, approaching Las Vegas

2138

THE FIGHTER JET PASSED SO CLOSE TO THE AIRBUS’S WINDscreen that Kerman thought the glass would implode from the jet’s thrust. But he held his control steady. He was going to win. All he had to do was stay in the air a few more minutes and he would be over Las Vegas.

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

The Airbus shuddered as the F-15 swept over the fuselage.

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

The two fighters had moved off. Before Kerman could exhale, a small missile whipped in front of the windscreen.

The missile twirled and danced before his eyes, rising upward and then curling back, as lithe as an ocean, before plunging a few feet from the Airbus’s nose.

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

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

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

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

Aboard Dreamland Bennett

2139

ENGLEHARDT HAD CLOSED THE GAP BETWEEN HIMSELF AND

the Airbus; as he descended through 30,000 feet, he saw the airliner a few miles ahead. The F-15s had backed away and RETRIBUTION

411

the Flighthawk—a small black dart—wheeled over the plane.

The Airbus continued on its path.

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

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

“Negative, Dreamland,” said the Nellis F-15. “Stand by.

We are under orders to take this airplane down.”

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

“Those are my orders, Colonel.”

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

“What?”

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

The Eagle pilot didn’t acknowledge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have a better idea,” said Starship.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Over Nevada, approaching Las Vegas

2141

KERMAN’S HEART FELT AS IF IT WERE BEING JOLTED BY ELECtric shocks. It was racing, and every so often skipped a beat.

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

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

feet.

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

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

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

“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201 to tower,” said Kerman.

“Requesting emergency clearance to land.”

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

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

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

Of course not.

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

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413

Aboard Dreamland Bennett

2143

STARSHIP CURSED AS THE AIRBUS LIFTED AWAY FROM THE

Flighthawk.

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

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

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

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

Maybe they’d made a mistake—maybe it actually had been damaged by hijackers, perhaps the men with the bomb.

The real crew would take it out to sea, now that they were convinced the Americans were serious.

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

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

“Keep your shirt on.”

ENGLEHARDT FOUND HIMSELF ABOUT TWO MILES BEHIND

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

The small jets slid in close to the wing roots.

“You’re there,” said Englehardt.

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

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

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

414

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

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

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

Sullivan was silent for a moment, then sprang to help.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s what we got to do.”

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

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

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

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

“Killed,” said Sullivan.

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

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

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

A coward. A failure.

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

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

Over Las Vegas

2144

SOMETHING CRACKED BELOW HIM. THE AIRBUS FELT AS IF

it were being pushed upward, shaking violently with a loud scraping and crackling.

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415

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

Aboard Dreamland Bennett

2145

ENGLEHARDT FELT LIKE A BULL HAD CLIMBED ON HIS BACK

and he was struggling to hold it there.

“Power!” he yelled at Sullivan.

“It’s working!” Sullivan shouted back.

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

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

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

HAWK ONE’S CONTROL SURFACES HAD BEEN BADLY DAMaged by the pressure from the Airbus; worse, her engine had sucked in bits of metal, shredding most of her turbine. Starship tried to get the aircraft to the west of the city, into the open terrain, but he didn’t have enough momentum. The Flighthawk spun toward a tight cluster of homes, their light brown roofs looking like the sides of a zipper. White sand appeared—Starship pulled back on the stick, trying to push the plummeting aircraft into a golf course built in the middle 416

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

of a condo development. Green grass flashed in the screen, and then everything went blank.

“Connection lost,” said the computer.

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

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

“Override,” he said.

“Forbidden.”

“Override Authorization StarStarTwoTwoTwo.”

“Forbidden,” insisted the computer.

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

THE MEGAFORTRESS WAS FLYING WITH HER NOSE PRACTIcally thirty degrees downward, but she was still pushing the Airbus forward. They were past Nellis, into the Dreamland test ranges.

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

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t leaving,” said Rager.

“No way,” said Starship.

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

No way it was getting away.

Tears streamed from Englehardt’s eyes.

“We’re doing this!” he screamed.

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417

Over Nevada

2147

KERMAN STRUGGLED TO FIND A WAY TO RELEASE THE AIR-bus, but everything he tried seemed to fail. He was being pushed sideways and forward at the same time. The bigger, more powerful aircraft below him had him in its claws, pushing him away from the city, toward the open desert.

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

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

Aboard Dreamland Bennett

2148

“THIS IS FAR ENOUGH, MIKE!” DOG YELLED AT THE PILOT.

“Let it go!”

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

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

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

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

“On line.”

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

“Bastian authorized.”

The targeting screen came up.

418

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Target aircraft identified as PC-1.”

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

“Override.”

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

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

“Lock, damn it,” said Dog.

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

“Fire,” he said. “Fire Fox One!”

The missile ripped from the belly of the aircraft.

Over Nevada

2150

KERMAN FINGERED THE WIRES ON THE BOMB’S TIMER AS

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

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

He had nothing to cross them with.

He could do it with a pen.

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

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

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

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As his fingers touched the wires, the plane lurched again.

Kerman pushed down on the device with one hand and managed to pull the wires off the contact with his other.

The plane suddenly jerked upward and stopped shaking.

He was free! The American had given up!

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

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

Paradise, he thought.

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

Aboard Dreamland Bennett

2151

STARSHIP SAW THE ANACONDA MISSILE CLOSE IN ON THE

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

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

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

Then he braced himself.

ENGLEHARDT CLOSED HIS EYES, WAITING FOR THE INEVITAble f lash of light. He pushed himself against the back of his 420

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

seat, expecting the air burst that would follow a nuclear explosion.

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

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

“Sully, you with me?”

“With you, Mike.”

“No explosion.”

“Yeah, nothing.”

“Maybe coming. We high enough?”

“Yeah, just about.”

“You got the engines.”

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

DOG STARED AT THE IMAGE ON THE SCREEN, WAITING FOR

the massive white cloud—the famous mushroom cloud—to rise above the desert mountainside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About the Authors

DALE BROWN

is a former U.S. Air Force captain and the author of numerous previous bestsellers, including Strike Force and Edge of Battle; Brown lives in Nevada, where he can often be found in the skies, piloting his own plane.

Jim DeFelice’s recent thrillers include Leopard’s Kill (2007) and Threat Level Black (2005). Jim has also written more than a dozen works of fiction and nonfiction for young people. He lives with his wife and son in upstate New York and can be contacted by e-mail at [email protected].

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

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“A master at creating a sweeping epic and making it seem real.”

Clive Cussler

“His knowledge of world politics and possible military alliances is stunning … He writes about weapons beyond a mere mortal’s imagination.”

Tulsa World

“Nobody does it better.”

Kirkus Reivews

Also in the Dreamland Series