Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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RETRIBUTION

cup of coffee. The major set it down, then whispered something in Balboa’s ear.

“I’ll call him back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The President,” Balboa explained to Samson as the aide left. “Always looking for more information.”

“What exactly is Whiplash?” asked Samson.

“Oh, Whiplash.” Balboa made a face that was halfway between a smirk and a frown. “Whiplash is the name the Dreamland people use for their ground action team. They’re air commandos. But the term is also the code word the President uses to deploy Dreamland assets—air as well as ground—around the world. The concept is to combine cutting-edge technology with special operations people. A few of us thought it would be a good idea years ago, but it’s taken quite a while to get the kinks out. The line of communication and command—the National Security Advisor and the White House had their fingers in the pie, which twisted things around, as I’m sure you’d imagine.”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s finally been worked out. From this point forward, I think things will run much more smoothly. The concept—I fully support it, of course. But since I’ve been pushing it for so long, that’s understandable.”

Samson didn’t know how much of what Balboa was saying to believe. Not only was the Chairman’s disdain for the Air Force well known, but Balboa didn’t have a reputation for backing either cutting-edge research or special operations, even in the Navy. Balboa loved ships—big ships, as in aircraft carriers and even battleships, which he had suggested several times could be brought back into active service as cruise missile launchers.

Or cruise missile targets, as some of Samson’s friends at the War College commented in after-hour lectures. These sessions were always off campus, off the record, and far from any ears that might report back to the admiral. And, naturally, they were accompanied by studious elbow bending.

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“As it happens,” said Balboa, “Dreamland has been under the, uh, direction of a lieutenant colonel. Dog—what’s his first name, uh …”

“Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian,” said Samson.

A decade younger than himself, Bastian had earned his wings as a fighter jock, a community unto itself in the Air Force, and so far as Samson knew, he had never met the colonel. But everyone in the Air Force had heard of Bastian and his incredible exploits at the helm of the EB-52 Megafortress.

“Presumptuous name,” said Balboa. “Goes with the personality.”

“A lieutenant colonel is in charge of Dreamland?” said Samson. He’d assumed Bastian was in charge of a wing at Dreamland, not the entire place. “I thought General Magnus took over after Brad Elliott.”

“Yes, well, General Magnus did take over—on paper. For a while. The reality is, Bastian has been in charge. And while he has, I’m sure, points to recommend him …”

Balboa paused, making it clear he was struggling for something nice to say about the lieutenant colonel. Then he also made it clear he had given up.

“In the end, Bastian is a lieutenant colonel,” said Balboa.

“What Dreamland needs to reach its potential is a commander. A command general. You.”

Samson sucked air.

“Of course, it’s not just the base,” added Balboa, obviously sensing a problem. “The Whiplash people, the Megafortresses—”

Samson cleared his throat. “I had been given to understand that I was to … that I was in line for Southern Command.”

Balboa made a face. “That’s not in the cards at the moment.”

“When is it in the cards?”

“This is an important assignment, General. Weapons development is just one aspect of Dreamland. Important, but just part. We want to expand the capability—the Whiplash idea—we want to expand it exponentially. That’s the whole point.”

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Samson felt his face growing hot. No matter how much sugar Balboa tried to put on the assignment, it was a major comedown. He was deputy freaking commander of the Eighth Air Force, for cryin’ out loud. Not to mention former chief of plans for the air staff at the Pentagon. Base commander—with all due respect to other base commanders, fine men all, or almost all—was a sidetrack to his career.

Years before maybe, when he was still commanding a B-1B bomber wing, this might have been a step up. But not now. They had a lieutenant colonel in charge over there, for cryin’ out loud.

And what a lieutenant colonel. No one was going to out-shine him. The brass would be far better off finding a single star general a year or so from retirement to take things in hand quietly.

“Questions?” Balboa asked.

“Sir—”

“You’ll have a free hand,” said Balboa, rising and extending his hand. “We want this to be a real command—an integral part of the system. It hasn’t been until now. We’re going to expand. You’re going to expand. You have carte blanche.

Use it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Samson managed to shake Balboa’s hand, then left the office as quickly as he could.

Air Force High Technology Advanced Weapons Center (Dreamland)

0630, 15 January 1998

JENNIFER GLEASON ROSE AND PUT HER HANDS ON HER

hips, then began pacing at the back of the Command Center.

She was due at Test Range 2B to check on the computer guidance system for the AIM-154 Anaconda interceptor missiles in a half hour. There had been troubles with the dis-criminator software, which used artificial intelligence 62

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routines to distinguish between civilian and military targets in fail-safe mode when the Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) circuitry failed. She had helped one of the engineers with the coding and agreed to sit in on today’s tests of the missile to see if the changes had been successful.

But she’d agreed to do that weeks ago, before the trouble in India. Before her lover, Colonel Bastian, had deployed, before her friends had been shot down trying to save the world, or at least a big part of it.

Jennifer, though modestly altruistic, didn’t really care about the world. She cared about Colonel Bastian. And Zen.

And Breanna, though Breanna didn’t particularly like her.

And even Mack Smith, class A jackass that he could be.

“I truly wish you would stop pacing up and down,” said Ray Rubeo. “Don’t you have a test or something to supervise?”

Jennifer glared at him. Rubeo could be a difficult task-master—nearly all the scientists at Dreamland preferred dealing with the military people rather than him—but she had never felt intimidated by the tall, skinny scientist. Rubeo made a face, then touched his silver earring stud—an unconscious tic that in this case was a sign of surrender. He scowled and went back to his computer screen.

“All right, we have the missile trajectories,” said one of the analysts nearby. “Do you want to see them, Dr. Rubeo? Or should I just zip the file and send it to the White House?”

“Hardly,” said Rubeo, his witheringly sarcastic voice back in full swing. “Put it on the main screen and let me have a look at it.”

“You think you know everything, Ray?” said Jennifer pee-vishly.

Immediately, she wanted to apologize. Sniping wasn’t her style and she admired Rubeo. And he was brilliant.

Even if he was full of himself.

Rubeo ignored her, rising and walking toward the large screen at the front of the room. Adapting one of the test programs used at Dreamland, the analysts had directed the com-

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puter to show the likely path of the missiles that had been disabled by the T-Rays. Bright red ellipses showed the areas they were most likely to have fallen in; the color got duller the lower the probability.

A review of the launch data showed that the Indians had fired twenty nuclear missiles, the Pakistanis eight. All were liquid-fueled. Besides the guidance and trigger circuitry in the warheads, a number of engine parts were particularly vulnerable to T-Rays, including the solenoid valves and electronic level sensors necessary for the engines to function properly. Failure of these items in most cases would choke off the engines, causing them to fall back to earth.

The question was: Where? According to the computer, all but two had fallen in the Great Thar Desert, a vast wasteland between the two countries on the Indian side of the border.

Rubeo walked toward the large screen at the front of the room. Folding his arms, he stood staring up at the map, as if being that close to the pixels somehow allowed his brain to absorb additional information.

“Problem, Ray?” asked Major Catsman, who’d been absorbed in something on the other side of the room.

“Two warheads are not showing up,” he told her.

“How can that be?”

“Hmmmph.”

“Are you sure the launch count is correct?” asked Jennifer.

Rubeo continued to stare. The analyst manning the computer that controlled the display began reassessing the data.

“We can give them what we have and tell them there may be a problem in the data,” said Catsman. “Better something than nothing.”

“The difficulty, Major,” said Rubeo, “is that the program doesn’t seem to realize the missiles aren’t there.”

His sarcasm was barely masked, but Catsman either missed it because she was tired or ignored it because she was used to Rubeo.

“Well, we better figure something out.”

“Hmmmph.”

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“I’ll tell Colonel Bastian about it,” Catsman added. “He’s in the Bennett. ”

“He’s in the Bennett?” said Jennifer. “I thought he went back to Diego Garcia.”

“The search operations for the rest of our downed crewmen have been slow. He wanted to kick-start them.”

Jennifer sat at one of the back consoles as Catsman made the connection. She looked away from the big screen when she heard his voice, afraid of what she might see in his face.

She wanted him home, safe; not tired, not battered, not pushed to his limit, as he always was on a mission.

She knew he would have scoffed at her, told her he wasn’t doing anything any other member of the team hadn’t done—anything that she hadn’t done herself a hundred times.

“How could the computer lose the missiles?” she heard him ask Rubeo.

“If I knew the answer, Colonel, I wouldn’t have mentioned the question,” Rubeo replied. He explained that the most likely answer had to do with a glitch in the hastily amended software they used to project the landings. But it was also possible that the satellites analyzing the launch data had erred, or that the flight paths of different missiles had merged.

“There are a number of other possibilities as well,” added Rubeo. “It will take some time to work things out.”

“We’re not the only ones doing this,” said Catsman.

“NORAD, the Navy, Satellite Command—they’ll all have information. We can coordinate it and refine the projections.

Once the U-2 is able to complete its survey of the area, things should be much clearer.”

“The question for you, Colonel,” said Rubeo, “is whether we should tell the White House what we have. They have tended to ignore our caveats in the past. Not always with the best results.”

“Tell them,” said Dog. “And keep working on it.”

“As you wish,” said Rubeo.

“What other information can you give us on the possible location of the Fisher’s crew?” Dog asked.

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“We’ve already passed along everything we have,” Catsman told him. “We’re pretty confident of where they were when they bailed out, and where they would be in the water.”

“Then why haven’t they been found?”

When Catsman didn’t answer, Rubeo did—uncharacteristically offering an excuse for the Navy.

“The Abner Read was distracted and too far from the area to be of much use at first,” he said. “They’re now coming south and the Werewolf should be able to help. The Lincoln is still quite far from the ejection area. Their long-range patrols can’t stay on station long enough to do a thorough job. The odds should improve the closer they get. We computed the effects of the currents and wind on the crew and gave them to the Navy, as well as the U-2 surveying the region. That should help narrow the search.”

“We’ll find them, Colonel,” added Catsman.

“I’m sure we will,” said Dog. He paused for a moment, then asked for her. “Jennifer?”

She looked up. The large screen magnified his face to the point where she could see every wrinkle, every crease and blemish. He was pale, and his eyes drooped.

“Hi, Colonel.”

The faintest hint of a smile came to his face.

“You were working on an updated search routine for the Flighthawks,” Dog said, all business.

“It still has some bugs.”

“Upload it to us anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

For a moment it looked like he was about to say something else.

I love you, maybe. She wanted desperately to hear it. But he didn’t say it.

“I’m here if you need me. Bastian out.”

Jennifer felt a stabbing pain in her side as the screen blanked.

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Oval Office, Washington, D.C.

0910

JED BARCLAY KNOCKED ON THE PRESIDENT’S DOOR BEFORE

entering. President Kevin Martindale sat behind his desk, facing the window that looked out on the back lawn of the White House.

“I put together the latest data on the missiles, Mr. President,” said Jed. “There’s some disagreement between the CIA projections and Dreamland’s. The Dreamland scientists say they have two missiles unaccounted for and that may indicate—”

“Can you imagine wanting to turn the earth into a nuclear wasteland, Jed?” asked the President, staring out the window.

The question took Jed by surprise. Finally he managed a soft “No.”

“Neither can I. Some of the people in both India and Pakistan want to do just that.” The President rose, but continued to stare out the window. “The reports are filled with misin-formation this morning. I suppose we can’t blame them. I didn’t tell them exactly how we stopped the weapons, and there are a great many people who distrust us.”

Jed hadn’t seen any of the actual news reports, but had read the daily classified CIA summary before coming up to see the President. Martindale had said only that the U.S.

used “new technology” to bring down the nuclear weapons launched by Pakistan and India; the news media, without much to go on, speculated that he was referring to antibal-listic missiles launched from Alaska and satellite weapons that didn’t actually exist.

What they couldn’t quite understand was why power had gone off across the subcontinent. Some analysts had concluded that this meant at least a few of the nuclear weapons had exploded and created an electromagnetic pulse. Others simply ignored it. Given the President’s desire to seize the warheads, ambiguity was definitely in their favor, and the 67

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White House had issued orders forbidding anyone—including the official spokesmen, who actually knew very little—from addressing the matter.

Adding to the confusion was the fact that the T-Rays had wiped out communication with practically all of Pakistan and a vast swath of India. The media was starved for information, though obviously that situation wouldn’t hold for very long.

“I hate sending people into war,” continued the President.

“Because basically I’m sending them to die. It’s my job. I understand it. But after a while … after a while it all begins to weigh on you …”

His voice trailed off. Jed had never seen the President this contemplative, and didn’t know what to say.

“We’re going to recover the warheads,” Martindale said finally.

He turned, walked across the office to the credenza that stood opposite his desk, and paused, gazing down at a bust of Jefferson.

“Some people call Dreamland my own private air force and army. Have you heard that, Jed?”

Having heard that said many times, Jed hesitated.

“You can be honest,” added Martindale. “That’s what I value about you, Jed. You’re not involved in the political games.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dreamland is too important a command to be run by a lieutenant colonel. The Joint Chiefs want it folded back into the regular command structure. And I have to say, they make good arguments.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to appoint a general to take over. A two-star general for now—Major General Samson. He has an impec-cable record. An enviable one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your opinion of that?”

“I think whatever you want to do, sir—”

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“I haven’t used it as my private army, have I?”

“No, Mr. President, absolutely not.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Jed,” added the President.

“Or with Colonel Bastian, for that matter. I still have the highest regard for him. I want him involved in the warhead recovery. Him and his people—they’ll work with the Marines.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But it makes more sense—this whole mission has shown the real potential. We can double, maybe triple their effectiveness.” Martindale looked at Jed. “General Samson will handle informing the Dreamland people. Understood?”

“I shouldn’t tell them?”

“The news should come from the general, and the joint chiefs. That’s the way I want it. We’re following the chain of command. Dreamland is not my private army.”

The joint chiefs—and especially the head of the joint chiefs, Admiral Balboa—had been fighting to get Dreamland back under their full control since early in Martindale’s administration. With the end of Martindale’s term looming—and the very real possibility that he would lose the election—the chiefs had won the battle. It certainly did make sense that Dreamland, as a military unit, should answer directly up the chain of command, rather than directly to the President through the NSC.

In theory, Jed realized, he was losing some of his prestige.

But he knew he’d never been more than a political buffer.

Part of the reason the President and the National Security Advisor used him as a liaison, after all, was the fact that he was young and had no political power base of his own.

“I’ll do whatever job you want me to, sir,” he said.

“Good. You have a bright future. Let’s get through this crisis, get these warheads, and then maybe we’ll have a chance to sit down and see how best you can serve your country.”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

The President went back to his desk.

“You can go now, young Jed. Forward these reports to Admiral Balboa, with copies to Admiral Woods on the Lin-

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coln. Make sure he has everything he needs. Dreamland is working with the Marines, under Woods. We’ll follow the chain of command.”

“Yes, sir.”

Aboard the Bennett,

over the northern Arabian Sea

2100

STEVEN L. BENNETT WAS A CAPTAIN IN THE U.S. AIR FORCE, assigned to the Twentieth Tactical Air Support Squadron, Pacific Air Forces, during the Vietnam War era. After completing B-52 training in 1970, Captain Bennett went about as far from strategic bombers as you could in the Air Force at the time—he trained to become a forward air controller, calling bombs in rather than dropping them, and flying in an airplane designed to skim treetops rather than the strato-sphere.

By June 1972, Bennett was piloting an OV-10 Bronco, an excellent combat observation aircraft with only one serious flaw—it was almost impossible to crash-land successfully.

The forward section of the two-seater would generally implode, killing the pilot, though the backseater could get out with minor injuries. Pilots quickly learned that it didn’t make sense to try and ditch an OV-10; “hitting the silk,” as the old-timers used to call ejecting, was the only way to survive.

On June 29, 1972, Bennett flew what was known as an artillery adjustment mission over Quang Tri Province in South Vietnam. His observer was a Marine Corps captain named Mike Brown. The two men pulled a three-hour sortie and were about to head home to Da Nang when they learned that their replacement was running behind schedule. Going home would leave ground troops without anyone to call on if they got in trouble.

Captain Bennett checked his fuel and decided to stay on station until the relief plane could get up. A short time later 70

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South Vietnamese troops in the area called in for assistance; they were taking fire from a much larger North Vietnamese unit and were about to be overrun.

Bennett and Brown called for a tactical air strike, but no attack aircraft were available. They then requested that Navy guns bombard the attackers, but the proximity of the South Vietnamese to their northern enemies made that impossible.

So Bennett decided to do the job himself, rolling in on several hundred NVA soldiers with just the four 7.62mm machine guns in his Bronco’s nose. After the fourth pass, he had them on the run. He came down again to give them another snoutful, but this time his aircraft was hit—a SAM-7 shoulder-launched heat seeker took out his left engine. His plane caught fire.

Bennett headed out over the nearby ocean to jettison his fuel and the highly flammable rockets used for marking targets. As he did so, an escort aircraft caught up with him and advised him that the fire started by the missile was now so severe that his plane looked like it would explode any minute. Bennett ordered Brown to get ready to eject; they’d punch out over the water and be picked up by one of the Navy ships or a friendly helicopter.

Brown agreed. But then he saw that his parachute had been torn by shrapnel from the missile that struck the plane.

Not a problem, said Bennett, whose own parachute was in perfect condition. Get ready to ditch.

And so they did. The OV-10 cartwheeled when she hit the water, and then sank. If Bennett was still alive after the crash, his cockpit was too mangled for him to escape as the plane went under the waves. Captain Brown, fortunately, managed to push his way out and was picked up by a rescue chopper a short time later.

For his selfless devotion to duty and his determination to save another man’s life even at the cost of his own, Captain Steven L. Bennett was awarded the Medal of Honor posthu-mously. It was presented by then Vice President Gerald R. Ford to Bennett’s widow and daughter two years after his death.

* * *

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STEVEN BENNETT’S NAMESAKE, DREAMLAND EB-52 MEGA-fortress Bennett, had begun life as a B-52D. And, in fact, the aircraft had actually served in the same war as Captain Bennett, dropping bombs on North Vietnam during two different deployments. It remained in active service until 1982, when it was mothballed and put in storage. And there it remained until the spring of 1996, when it was taken from its desert storage area, gutted, and rebuilt as a Megafortress. The changes were many. Its wings and tail section were completely replaced, new engines and electrical controls were installed, a radar “bulge” was installed in a spine above the wing roots, and provision was made for the EB-52 to carry and launch robot aircraft. Much of the new gear was simply unimaginable when the B-52 was first built.

When the aircraft was flyable, she was taken by a special crew to Dreamland, where additional modifications were made to her frame. More equipment, including an AWACS-style radar for the bulge, was added.

The plane had completed final flight tests shortly before Thanksgiving, 1997. She’d received further modifications on Diego Garcia to make her systems impervious to T-Rays. Iron-ically, the work on those modifications had not been completed when the T-Ray weapons had to be used, and the Bennett remained on the ground. A subsequent glitch with her left outboard engine required her to turn back after being launched shortly afterward, much to her crew’s consternation.

The Bennett was making up for it now, her engines pushing the airplane to just under the speed of sound as she raced northward in search of the crew of the stricken Levitow.

“We should be in the area where they ejected within the hour,” Lieutenant Englehardt said as Dog looked over his shoulder at the situation map set in the middle of the dash.

“So far we haven’t heard the emergency beacons.”

Dog nodded. The emergency PRC radios had a limited range. Like everyone else in the Air Force, the Dreamland fliers relied on PRC radios, which used relatively old technology. Better units were available, but hadn’t been autho-

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rized for purchase because of budget issues. Dog suspected that if some congressman had to rely on one, money would be found for upgrades pretty damn fast.

“Incoming transmission for you, Colonel. This is from the NSC—Jed Barclay.”

Dog dropped into the empty seat in front of the auxiliary airborne radar control. As soon as he authorized the transmission, Jed Barclay’s face appeared on the screen. He was speaking from the White House Situation Room.

“Bastian. Jed, what’s up?”

“Colonel, I, uh, I have Admiral Balboa on the line. He uh, wanted me to make the connection.”

“OK,” said Dog, puzzled.

“Stand by.”

Balboa’s face flashed onto the screen. Dog had spoken to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff several times since taking command of Dreamland. Balboa didn’t particularly like the Air Force, and Dog sensed that he didn’t particularly care for him either.

“Colonel, how are you this morning?”

“It’s nighttime here, Admiral.”

“Yes.” Balboa scowled. “The President has decided to recover the warheads. He wants you to work with the Marines from the Seventh MEU. Admiral Woods will have overall control of the mission.”

Dog smiled. He knew Woods from exercises they’d had together—exercises where Dreamland had blown up his carrier several times.

“Problem with that, Colonel?” asked Balboa. The nostrils in his pug nose flared.

“Not on my side.”

“Admiral Woods has no problems,” said Balboa.

“What sort of support does he want?”

“Help him locate the missiles. He’ll tell you what he wants.”

“I’m going to need to gear up for this,” said Dog. “We’re down to one working Megafortress.”

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“Well, get what you need,” said Balboa. “Has General Samson spoken to you yet?”

“Terrill Samson? No.”

“Well, he will. We’re reorganizing your command structure, Colonel. You’ll be reporting to Major General Samson from now on. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

The screen blanked. Dog didn’t know Samson at all. He’d had a Pentagon general to report to when he started at Dreamland, a good one: Lieutenant General Harold Magnus. Magnus had retired some months before after being edged out of the running for chief of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Dreamland’s official “position” on the Pentagon flowchart had been in flux ever since. Dog had known this couldn’t last, and in some respects welcomed the appointment of a new superior: As a lieutenant colonel with no direct line to the Pentagon, he was constantly having trouble with even the most routine budget requests.

“Colonel, are you still there?”

“Yes, Jed, go ahead.”

“You want to speak to Admiral Woods? I can plug you into a circuit with him and the Marine Corps general in charge of the Seventh MEU.”

“Fire away.”

“Bastian, you old bully—now what are you up to?” asked Tex Woods, popping onto the screen. Dog could only see his head; the camera didn’t pan low enough to show if he was wearing his trademark cowboy boots.

“Looking for my people. They bailed out.”

“Yes, and we’re helping with that,” said Woods. He was more enthusiastic than he had been the last time they’d spoken. “The admiral told you what we’re up to?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Jack, you on the line yet?”

Marine Corps General Jack Harrison cleared his throat.

Harrison was a dour-faced man; he seemed to personify the 74

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nickname leatherneck.

“General,” said Dog.

“Colonel, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m glad we’re working together.”

“We’ll do our best.”

“That’s the spirit, Bastian,” said Woods. “Your people are to coordinate the intelligence, the Marines will be the muscle. Aircraft from the Lincoln will fly cover. Everybody on the same page?”

Dog reached for his coffee as Woods continued. The specific operation plans would have to be developed by the Marine Corps officers.

“Your people would be very valuable, Colonel,” said Harrison. “Your Whiplash crew?”

“My officer in charge of Whiplash is aboard the Abner Read, ” said Dog. “I don’t—”

“We’ll airlift him to the Lincoln, ” said Woods. “What other problems do I have to solve?”

“No problems,” said Dog. Harrison remained silent.

“Good,” said Woods. “Gentlemen, you have my authorization to do whatever it takes to make this work. This is the chance of a millennium. History will remember us.”

I hope in a good way, thought Dog as the screen blacked out.

THE NEW SEARCH PROGRAM JENNIFER HAD DEVELOPED

called for the Megafortress to fly in a path calculated from the weather conditions and known characteristics of the ejection seats and the crew members’ parachutes. The flight path aligned the plane with the peculiarities of the survival radio’s transmission capabilities; while it didn’t actually boost its range, the effect was the same.

The program gave Englehardt the option of turning the aircraft over to the computer to fly or of following a path marked for him on the heads-up display projected in front of the windscreen.

“Which do you think I should do, Colonel?” the pilot 75

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asked.

“I’m comfortable with however you want to fly it,” Dog said. “If it were me, I’d want the stick in my hand. But completely your call.”

“Thank you, sir. I think I’ll fly it myself.”

“Very good.”

Lieutenant Englehardt was one of the new wave of pilots who’d come to Dreamland in the wake of the Megafortress’s success. Young enough to be Dog’s son, he was part of a generation that had known things like video games and computers their whole lives. They weren’t comfortable with technology—they’d been born into it, and accepted it the way Dog accepted his arms and legs.

Still, the fact that Englehardt would rather rely on himself than the computer impressed Dog. It was an old-fashioned conceit, but some prejudices were worth keeping.

Dog went over to the techie working the sea surveillance radar, Staff Sergeant Brian Daly. Aside from small boats anchored near the coast for the night, Daly had only a single contact on his screen: an Indian patrol vessel of the Jija Bai class. Roughly the equivalent of a small U.S. Coast Guard cutter, the ship carried two 7.62mm guns that could be used against aircraft, but posed no threat to the high-flying Megafortress.

“Two Tomcats from the Lincoln hailing us, Colonel,” said Kevin Sullivan, the copilot.

“Say hello.”

While Sullivan spoke to the pilots in the F-14 fighters, Dog looked over the shoulder of Technical Sergeant Thomas Rager, who manned the airborne radar. With the exception of the Tomcats, which had come from the Lincoln a good six hundred miles to the south, the Megafortress had the sky to itself. Neither Pakistan nor India had been able to get any flights airborne following the total collapse of their electrical networks, and the Chinese carrier Khan, now heading southward at a slow pace, had been damaged so severely that she appeared no longer capable of launching or recover-