Retribution (28 page)

As soon as it fired its missiles, the Chinese plane swung eastward. Dog held his own course steady, figuring the Sukhoi was looping around to get closer to the transports.

“He may be running away,” said Sullivan as the Sukhoi continued to the east.

“No, he’s going to swing back and protect the transports. Where are those missiles?”

“Missile one is tracking. Missile two is off the scope.”

“Keep hitting the ECMs.”

“We’re playing every song the orchestra knows, Colonel.”

T
HE LEAD TRANSPORT WAS A SMALL GRAY BLIP IN THE SIMULATED
heads-up display screen at the center of Starship’s station. According to the computer, the aircraft had turboprop engines, was moving at 320 knots, and was definitely a Xian Y-14. But Starship knew he couldn’t trust the computer’s ID; he had to close in and get visual confirmation.

But the computer was so integrated into the aircraft he was flying that even a “visual” was heavily influenced by the computer’s choices. The image he saw wasn’t an image at all, it was constructed primarily from the radar aboard the Megafortress. The computer took the radar information, along with
data from other available sensors, weighed how much each was worth under the circumstances, and then built an image to the pilot that represented reality. Even at close range, when he was ostensibly looking at a direct image from one of the Flighthawk’s cameras, the computer was involved, enhancing the light and steadying the focus. So where did you draw the line on what to trust?

The two aircraft were flying single file, headed directly toward the lake. They were descending at an easy angle, coming down through 20,000 feet above sea level—relatively close to some of the nearby peaks, which topped 12,000. The lake and the valley it was in were about 5,000 feet.

Starship was approaching the lead plane just off its right wing. At ten miles he switched the main screen to the long-range optical view, but all he could see was a blur, and a small one at that.

Within five seconds he had closed to inside five miles. The starlight-enhanced image showed a dark gray plane with no civilian markings. It was a twin turbojet, high-winged, with its engines close to the fuselage. Admittedly, it looked a lot like the reference pictures of a Fokker that he had pulled up from the Tactics library. But the wing area was larger, and the angle of the fuselage near the tail just a bit sharper—according to the computer, which modeled the image against the references for him.

But the key for Starship were the passenger windows—round on the An-24, and round on the airplane in front of him. The Fokker’s were rectangular.

All aircraft carried an IFF—Identification Friend or Foe—system, designed to distinguish between civilian and military aircraft. While the Megafortress had tried ident earlier, Starship instructed the computer to query the airplane again. The transponders in the two planes failed to respond.

“
Bennett,
I have the lead turbojet aircraft in sight,” said Starship. “I confirm visually that it is an An-24. Be advised, its ident does not respond.”

“Roger that. Take it down.”

“Copy,
Bennett
.”

T
HE
S
U-27 BEGAN A TURN BACK TOWARD THE TRANSPORTS
when it was about fifty miles from the
Bennett
, a little later than Dog hoped. His plan was to get close to the Su-27 and then spin in front of him just within range of the Stinger air mines.

He’d have to wait two whole minutes now before he’d be close enough to make the turn, and a lot could happen in that time. Including getting hit by the Sukhoi’s first missile, which was still tracking them.

“Missile one is still coming at us,” said Sullivan. “Ten miles.”

“Chaff. Crew, stand by for evasive maneuvers,” said Dog, even as he jerked the aircraft onto its wing. The chaff was like metal confetti tossed into the air to confuse targeting radars. The Megafortress dropped downward, away from the chaff, in effect disappearing behind a curtain. Dog pressured his stick right, putting the EB-52 into a six g turn.

The missile sailed past. Apparently realizing its mistake as it cleared the cloud of tinsel without finding an aircraft, it blew itself up—not out of misery, of course, but in the vain hope that its target was still nearby.

By this time, however, the
Bennett
was swinging back to the north. The Su-27 was approaching her nose from about two o’clock. The Chinese fighter pilot wanted to do exactly what Dog wanted him to do—get on his tail and fire his heat-seekers. Quicker and with a much smaller turning radius than the Megafortress, the Chinese pilot undoubtedly felt he had an overwhelming advantage.

Dog had flown against Chinese fighter pilots several times. They had two things in common: They were extremely good stick and rudder men, and they knew it. He was counting on this pilot being no different.

What he wasn’t counting on was the PL-9 heat-seeker the pilot shot at his face as he approached.

“Flares,” said Dog. He tucked the Megafortress onto her left wing, sliding away as the decoys exploded, sucking the Chinese missile away.

The Su-27 pilot began to turn with the Megafortress, no doubt salivating at the sight—the large American airplane was literally dropping in front of him, its four turbojets juicy targets for his remaining missile.

“Stinger!” said Dog. “Air mines!”

Sullivan pressed the trigger, and the air behind the Megafortress turned into a curtain of tungsten.

“Launch! Missile launch! He’s firing at us!” shouted Sullivan.

Dog throttled back hard and yanked back sharply on his stick, abruptly pulling the nose and wings of his aircraft upward. The aircraft’s computer barked out an alarm, telling him that he was attempting to “exceed normal flight parameters”—in layman’s terms, he wasn’t flying so much as turning himself into a brick, losing all of his forward momentum while trying to climb. The Megafortress shook violently, gravity tugging her in several different directions at once.

Down won. But just as it did, Dog pushed the stick forward and ramped back up to military power on the engines. This caused a violent shudder that rumbled through the fuselage; the wing roots groaned and the aircraft pitched sharply to the right. Dog eased off a bit, grudgingly, then finally saw what he’d been hoping for—two perfect red circles shooting past.

They were followed by a much larger one. This one wasn’t simply red exhaust—the edges of the circle pulsed with a violent zigzag of orange and yellow. Not only had the Sukhoi sucked a full load of shrapnel into its engine, but one of the exploding air mines had started a fire.

“He’s toast!” yelled Sullivan. A second later the canopy of the Chinese jet flew off and the pilot bailed, narrowly avoiding the tumult of flames as his aircraft turned into a Molotov cocktail.

S
TARSHIP STRUGGLED TO KEEP HIS
F
LIGHTHAWK ON A
steady path as the Megafortress jerked and jived through the air. This was the most difficult part of flying the robot planes: making your hand do what your mind told it to do, and not what its body wanted. The disconnect between what was happening on the screen—an aircraft in straight, level flight—and what was happening to his stomach was difficult to reconcile.

Starship put both hands on the control and lowered his head, leaving the Megafortress behind as he willed himself inside the little plane. He took
Hawk One
in a wide turn to his left, away from the military transport he’d just passed.
Hawk Two
, trailing by a little over two miles, followed. He thought of switching planes—
Hawk Two
would have had an easier shot—but the Megafortress’s shuddering sounds seemed to promise more heavy g’s to come, and he decided to stay where he was.

By the time he came out of his turn, the lead aircraft had made a turn of its own to the east. Its companion was following suit.

“Colonel, my contacts are heading away,” said Starship. “Should I pursue?”

“Stand by, Flighthawk leader.”

The
Bennett
leveled off. Starship checked the position of his airplanes on the sitrep; he was about eighty miles northeast.

“What’s the situation, Starship?”

“Looks like they’ve broken off and are heading home,” said Starship. “I’m not sure if they saw the Flighthawks or not—
Hawk One
was definitely close enough for a visual.”

“Save your bullets,” said Dog. “We’re out of Anacondas and we may need them for the ride home.”

White House basement
1500, 17 January 2006
(0600, Karachi)

“S
O
I
HEAR
R
OCKY
B
ALBOA FINALLY GOT HIS MITTS ON
Dreamland,” Margaret McGraw said when she called Jed to brief him on the latest round of NSA intercepts related to the warhead recovery mission.

“How’s that?”

“Oh, don’t give me the I’m-above-all-the-infighting line, Jed. I know you know what’s going on. Admiral Balboa pulled a coup.”

“Dreamland is being folded back, um, um, into the c-c-command structure.”

“There’s a positive spin for you. What are they going to do with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re not kicking you out too, are they?”

“N-N-Not that I know.”

“Kissing up to Balboa, huh?”

“No.”

McGraw laughed. She was a section leader in the NSA analysis section. Jed had met her only once or twice in person, but had spoken to her several times a week for more than a year.

“To work,” she said. “There’s a definite connection between the Kashmir guerrillas and China. They’re going
crazy
looking for the gadget.”

“Gadget” was McGraw’s way of saying warhead. She summarized a set of NSA intercepts and decrypted messages,
then told Jed that the CIA had somewhat similar information from “humanint”—human sources, or spies.

“Word is, though, DIA and Navy intelligence are poopooing it,” added McGraw. “They think China is neutral.”

“Why?”

“Because the words ‘Navy’ and ‘intelligence’ don’t go together?” McGraw laughed. “Did I ever tell you what DIA stands for?”

“Like twenty times,” said Jed.

“Aw, ain’t that cute—you’re turning red.” McGraw chuckled.

“How do you know that?” said Jed, who was.

She laughed even harder.

“The Ch-Ch-Chinese have been firing on Dreamland aircraft,” said Jed.

“Absolutely. But, see, it hasn’t happened to a Navy ship, so they still think China’s neutral,” said McGraw. “I’m forwarding you a report on what we have. We have traffic back and forth, but the encryptions are good. We haven’t broken them.”

“When will you?”

“Don’t know. Not my department. It’s immaterial,” McGraw added. “What do you think they’re talking about? The price of tea?”

“Uh, no.”

“Good. Well, let’s wrap this up, hon. I don’t want to keep you from any hot dates.”

An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown

Z
EN WOKE THIRSTY, HIS ENTIRE BODY ACHING FOR WATER
.
For a second he thought he was home, and he reached his hand toward the small table at the side of the bed, where by habit he usually kept a bottle of springwater. But of course he wasn’t at home, and instead of finding water, his hand swung against the side of his makeshift tent, collapsing it.

The struggle to fix the shelter took his mind off his thirst for a few minutes, but the craving soon returned. His lips felt as if they had shriveled into briquettes of charcoal. His throat had turned to rock, his tongue to sand.

There was about a half liter left in the bottle from his survival pack. How long could he make that last?

Grudgingly, Zen pulled himself to a sitting position and picked up the bottle. Two sips, he told himself. Small ones.

The first was small, but on the second his parched lips took over and he caught himself gulping.

Enough,
he told himself, capping the bottle.

If he was thirsty, Breanna must be even more so.

“Hey, are you awake? Bree? Bree?”

He touched her gently, brushing away her hair. Then he moved his hand to her shoulder and pushed more firmly, as if she’d overslept the morning of a mission.

“Bree, come on now. Come on. Got some water. Let’s go.”

She didn’t move. She was breathing, but still far away.

Was she even breathing?

Zen uncapped the bottle and dripped some of the water onto his fingers, then rubbed it onto her lips, his forefinger grabbing at the chapped flesh. It didn’t seem like enough—he cupped his hand in front of her mouth and dribbled it from the bottle, pushing it toward her mouth. But she didn’t drink, and the water slipped away to the ground.

“Come on, Bree. We can’t waste this!”

For a moment he was angry at her, mad as he hadn’t been in months, years—since his accident, when he was mad at everything and everyone, at the world.

“Damn it, Breanna. Get the hell up. Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

He balled his hand into a fist and pounded his own forehead. The anger disintegrated into fear. Slowly, he recapped the bottle. Tucking it away, he sucked the remaining moisture from his fingers, then crawled out of the tent to see what the new day would bring.

Aboard the
Abner Read
0600

S
TORM STOOD ON THE DECK, IGNORING THE SPRAY AS THE
ship’s low-slung bow ducked up and down in the waves. In order to provide the smallest possible radar signature to an enemy, the
Abner Read
was designed to sit very low in the water, which meant the deck of its tumble-form hull was always wet. It was not exactly a good place to stroll, even on the calmest of days.

Storm liked it, though; standing on it gave you the feeling that you were part of the water. The salt really was in the wind, as the old cliché had it, and that wind rubbed your face and hands raw. It flapped against your sides, scrubbing the diseases of land away, rubbing off the pollution of politics and bureaucratic bullshit.

Should he defy Woods? The admiral was wrong, clearly wrong—even if the Chinese weren’t preparing the
Khan
for an attack, even if they had no intention of breaking the truce, wasn’t it in America’s best interests to sink her?

Especially since she had a nuclear weapon aboard.

Sink her. It would take less than a half hour now.

The opportunity was slipping through his grasp. The
Khan
would be out of range in a few hours.

A gust of wind caught him off balance, nearly sending him off his feet.

Storm steadied himself. He would follow his orders, even if they were misguided. It was his job and his duty. Besides, Eyes would never go against the admiral. He would have to lock him up.

No, that was foolishness. Woods had taken his moment of glory away out of jealousy, and Storm knew there was nothing he could do about it but stand and stare in the
Khan
’s direction, knowing that somewhere in the future they would meet again.

Base Camp One
0600

L
IEUTENANT
D
ANCER WAS WAITING FOR
D
ANNY WHEN THE
Osprey touched with its water-logged load at the Marine camp in the Indian desert. The sun was just starting to rise, and it sent a pink glow across the sand, bathing the woman in an ethereal, angel-like light. It was a good thing Jennifer was with him, Danny thought, because he wouldn’t have trusted himself otherwise.

“Captain Freah, welcome back,” said Dancer, stepping forward and extending her hand. “Glad you’re in one piece.”

“Never a doubt,” said Danny. “How are you, Lieutenant?”

Dancer gave Jennifer a puzzled look. “How did you get here?”

“We needed an expert to look at some of the wiring and circuits on the missiles,” said Danny. “And Jen was available. She jumped in with the Whiplash team.”

“You’re qualified to jump?”

“Jumping’s the easy part,” said Jennifer. “It’s the landing that’s tough.”

Dancer turned back to Danny. “Captain, we have to talk. What happened out there?”

Danny explained about the stillborn baby and the disaster that had followed its birth. Dancer had already heard a similar version of the story from the Marines who were on the mission—including Gunny, who had made it a point to say that he’d advised against sending the men.

“He did,” said Danny. “I take responsibility for my men.”

“The general is worried about how it will look public-relations-wise,” said Dancer. She seemed to disapprove as well, though she didn’t say so.

“Nothing I can do about that.”

Dancer nodded grimly. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” said Danny.

“I have to talk to the pilots,” said Dancer. “I’ll be back.”

“Sure.”

Danny watched her trot away. His attraction toward her hadn’t faded, though it seemed to him she could have been more supportive.

“Lieutenant Klacker’s a pretty unique Marine,” said Jennifer.

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s OK, Danny. I know.”

“Know what?”

She laughed. “Nothing.”

“No, seriously, Jen. Know what?”

“Nothing…You have a crush on her, that’s all.”

“No, I don’t.”

Jennifer laughed even harder.

“I’m married,” said Danny, wondering if he was talking to Jennifer or to himself.

Jennifer smirked, then changed the subject. “Where do you think I can find something to eat around here?”

“There’s a temporary mess tent in that direction,” said Danny, pointing. “They may not have anything hot.”

“As long as it’s edible.”

“That may be pushing it as well,” he said.

“W
HAT’D HE SAY
?”
DEMANDED
B
LOW AS SOON AS HE SAW
Sergeant Liu.

“What do you mean?” Liu asked his fellow Whiplasher.

“Did Captain Freah say something about what happened?”

Jonesy, silent, stared at them from a nearby stool. The sun had just come up, and Liu found its harsh light oppressive, pushing into the corner of his tired eyes.

“You know Cap,” said Liu. “He said what he was going to say already. Case closed.”

“It ain’t closed, Liu. We’re going to be up to our necks because of this.” Blow shook his head and made the loud sigh that had earned him his nickname. “Man, I don’t know.”

“There wasn’t anything we could have done differently,” Liu told him. “I believe that.”

“Is anybody else gonna? We shoulda kept quiet about it. Shit.”

“No, we did the right thing,” said Liu. “God has a plan.”

“God?” said Jones.

“Yeah.”

Jones continued to stare blankly toward him. Liu wanted to tell him—both of them, but Jones especially—what he had felt in the water, what he’d realized, but he couldn’t put it into words. He’d passed some sort of line, not in understanding, but in trusting—but how did you say that? The words would just sound silly, and not convey a tenth of the meaning. He couldn’t even tell himself what had happened.

“I don’t know,” said Blow. “I think they’re going to court-martial us. There’ll be an investigation.”

“Colonel Bastian will understand,” said Liu.

“He’s not going to be in charge of it. We’re supposed to go to the aircraft carrier to talk to Woods. The admiral. You know what that will be like.”

“We know what happened,” said Liu. “And the smart helmets will back us up.”

“Nobody’s going to believe that’s the whole story.”

“They’ll just have to.”

“It really went to shit, didn’t it?” said Jonesy.

Dreamland
1730

L
ESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS INTO HIS COMMAND
,
AND
already he was scheduled for a tête-à-tête with the National Security Advisor, Defense Secretary, and Secretary of State—not bad for someone whom the Chiefs of Staff had obviously decided to shunt aside, General Samson thought, checking his uniform.

Of course, he also had three men who might be charged with a war crime. Even if he could blame that on Colonel Bastian, the stain might spread to him. Samson had decided
he’d have to handle the issue with kid gloves. Certainly he’d defend the men, especially if there was evidence that they weren’t to blame. But if push came to shove, three sergeants weren’t worth jeopardizing his career over.

“They’re ready for us, General,” said Major Catsman.

“How do I look, Natalie?” Samson asked, presenting himself.

“Very good, sir.”

Samson smiled appreciatively. Use a woman’s first name, defer to her judgment on aesthetics, and they’d follow you anywhere.

Catsman could be salvaged, as long as he surrounded her with enough of his own people. He needed a good staff officer, someone who knew the place well, so he could avoid the land mines while reshaping the place.

Catsman led Samson down the main hallway to the elevator. Inside, they had to wait for the security devices to take their measurements.

“We’re getting rid of that thing,” said Samson impatiently.

“General?”

“The biometric thing or whatever the hell it is that’s wasting our time.”

The elevator jerked the doors closed, as if it had overheard. Samson wondered if maybe it had—there was no telling what the eggheads had concocted here.

The video conference had already begun by the time Samson arrived. Colonel Bastian’s red-eyed, stubble-cheeked mug filled the center screen.

“The aircraft were definitely Chinese,” Colonel Bastian was saying. “Absolutely no doubt.”

“Were you over their territory?” asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman.

“Not for the better part of the engagement.”

“Which means you were at one point.”

“After we attacked, certainly.”

“Before then?” asked Hartman.

“I’d have to review the mission tape. The border there is tricky.”

“Do these new weapons pose a threat?” asked Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain.

“We can neutralize them now that we realize they exist,” said Dog. “We’ll use radar-emitting decoys.”

“What weapons is he talking about?” Samson asked Catsman.

He thought he was whispering, but his voice was picked up by a nearby microphone and transmitted over the network.

“Good evening, General,” said the Secretary of Defense. “We’re speaking of the radiation homing missiles the Chinese used against the
Bennett.
”

“I see,” said Samson. Had he been briefed on this earlier? He didn’t think so, but then he’d spent the day listening to so many reports about weapons systems that he couldn’t be sure.