Retribution Read online

  “What about Danny Freah and Boston?” Dog asked.

  “They were picked up by a Sharkboat after they disabled the Iranian minisub. The Sharkboat is due to rendezvous with the Abner Read and another Sharkboat in ninety minutes.”

  “What’s the status of the Bennett?” Dog asked.

  “Our engine has been replaced and we should be ready to launch within the hour,” said Englehardt. Mechanical problems had scratched the airplane from consideration for the original mission, and while they weren’t his fault, the pilot couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. “I’ve prepped a Search and Rescue mission and would like to help join the search for our guys.”

  “Are there still cots in the upper Flighthawk compartment?”

  “Yes, sir, but we don’t have a backup crew.”

  “I’m your backup crew,” said Dog. “Let’s get in the air.”

  Ring E, Pentagon

  0825, 15 January 1998

  (1825, 15 January, Karachi)

  AIR FORCE MAJOR GENERAL TERRILL “EARTHMOVER” Samson checked his watch. Admiral George Balboa, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was nearly ten minutes late.

  Admirals always thought they could be late for everything, Samson thought. But he forced a smile to his face and kept his grousing to himself.

  As a younger man, the African-American general would have assumed it was because he was black. But now Samson realized the problem was more generic: no one had any manners these days.

  Then again, that was one of the benefits of command: you didn’t need manners when you outranked someone.

  “General, would you like some more coffee?” asked one of Balboa’s aides.

  “Thank you, Major, but no, I’m fine.”

  “There you are, Samson,” barked Balboa as he entered the office. “Come in.”

  Balboa’s tone suggested that Samson was the one who was late. Samson hadn’t risen in the ranks by insulting his superiors. Especially when, as he hoped, they were about to deliver good news. So he stifled his annoyance and rose, thanked the admiral’s staff for their attention, and followed Balboa into his office.

  “You’ve heard the news about India and Pakistan, I assume,” said Balboa, sliding behind his desk. An antique, it was said to have belonged to one of the USS Constitution’s skippers—a fact Samson wouldn’t have known except for the brass plate screwed into the front, obviously to impress visitors.

  “I read the summary on my way over,” said Samson.

  “What do you think of the developments?”

  Samson considered what sort of response to give. Though classified, the report hadn’t given many details, merely hinting that the U.S. had used some sort of new weapons to down the missiles fired by both sides. It wasn’t clear what was truly going on, however, and the way Balboa posed the question made Samson suspect a trap.

  “I guess I don’t have enough details to form an opinion,” he said finally.

  “We’ve shot down twenty-eight warheads,” said Balboa. “The Navy sank an Indian aircraft carrier and several Chinese ships that tried to interfere. The President is continuing the operation. He wants the warheads recovered.”

  “I see,” said Samson.

  “The Dreamland people were in the middle of things. They fired the radiation weapons. Power is out throughout the subcontinent.”

  “Uh-huh.” Samson tried to hide his impatience. A few months before, he had been mentioned as a possible commander for a new base that would have supplanted Dreamland, but the plans had never come to fruition—thankfully so, because he had much bigger and better things in mind.

  Like the job he’d hoped Balboa had called him here to discuss, heading Southern Command.

  “Some of the people in the administration didn’t understand the potential of the Whiplash concept,” said Balboa.

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Come.”

  One of his aides, a Marine Corps major, entered with a 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.

  “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.”

  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 ai
r 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 outshine 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 discriminator software, which used artificial intelligence 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 taskmaster—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 peevishly.

  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 computer 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.”

  “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.

  “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 sea
rch.”

  “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.

  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 misinformation 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 antiballistic missiles launched from Alaska and satellite weapons that didn’t actually exist.