“That way. Hang on a second—one of the Marines thinks he saw some movement up near those rocks. We’re checking it out.”
A guerrilla lay perhaps twelve feet away, his torso riddled with bullets. Jennifer stared at it, waiting while Danny talked to other members of the team.
“All right,” he said finally. “But you stay next to me.”
“I intend to.”
“By the way—the corporal’s mike was open in the Osprey,” added Danny. “Anybody ever tell you you curse like a Marine?”
“Most people say worse.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over the Chinese-Indian border
2355
THIRTY SECONDS AFTER THE ANACONDAS LEFT THE BEN-
nett’s belly, the MiG launched its own missiles. Englehardt had anticipated this and turned the plane away, hoping to
“beam” the radar guiding the missiles.
“ECMs,” he told Sullivan.
“They’re on. Missiles are tracking.”
“Chaff. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.”
He put the Megafortress on her wingtip, swooping and sliding and dropping away, just barely in control. He pushed back in the opposite direction and got a high g warning from the computer, which complained that the aircraft was being pushed beyond its design limits. Englehardt didn’t let off, however, and the airplane came hard right.
There was a loud boom behind him. A caution light popped 298
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
on the dash. For a moment he thought they’d been hit. Then he realized that engine one had experienced a compressor surge or stall because of the change in the air flow rushing through it.
The compressor banged, then surged a second time. Easing off on the stick, he reached to the throttle, prepared to drop his power if the engine didn’t restart and settle down on its own.
“Missile one is by us,” said Sullivan.
Englehardt concentrated on his power plant. The exhaust gas temperatures jolted up, but the power came back. He babied the throttle, moving his power down and steadying the aircraft.
“Splash the MiG!” said Sullivan as their Anaconda hit home. “Splash that mother!”
Englehardt felt his pulse starting to return to normal. He slid the throttle glide for engine one up cautiously, keeping his eye on the readouts. The engine’s temperatures and pressures were back in line with its sisters’; it seemed no worse for wear.
“What happened to that second missile the MiG fired?” he asked Sullivan.
“Off the scope near the mountains,” said the copilot. “No threat.”
“Rager, what’s near us?” Englehardt asked. His voice squeaked, but it didn’t seem as bad as earlier.
“Sky is clear south,” answered the airborne radar operator.
“Starship, what’s your situation?” Englehardt asked.
“Hawk Two is a mile off your tail. Hawk One is orbiting the recovery area. Both aircraft could use some more fuel.”
So could the Megafortress, Englehardt realized.
“Cheli, this is Bennett. What’s your position?”
“Our Flighthawks are just reaching the recovery area,”
said the Cheli’s captain, Brad Sparks. “We’re right behind the little guys.”
RETRIBUTION
299
“All right. I have to tank. We’re heading out.”
“Roger that. Word to the wise—the Indians have been powering up their radars all night. We ducked one on the way to the Marine site. I wouldn’t be surprised if their missiles are back on line.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
THE NIGHT DRIFTED ON, MELTING AWAY EVERYTHING BUT
Zen’s stoic shell. His thirst, his anger, all feeling and emotion vanished as the hours twisted. He woke, and yet still seemed to be sleeping. As if in a dream, he pushed himself up on his arms and crawled from the tent, cold, an animal seeking only to survive.
He’d strapped his gun to his belt before going to sleep. It dragged and clung against the rocks as he moved, part of him now. He reached the remains of the driftwood where he’d made the fire the other night and pushed up, sitting and staring at the darkness.
There was a plane in the distance.
Zen took a slow, measured breath.
The aircraft was very far away.
He took another breath, yogalike, then leaned back and took the radio from the tent.
“Major Stockard to any aircraft. Dreamland Levitow crew broadcasting to any aircraft.”
He stopped, pushed the earphone into his ear mechanically. All he heard was static.
Why even bother?
Zen set the radio down. He pulled himself farther down the beach, staring at the edge of the ocean and the way the reflected moonlight on the tip of the waves seemed to grab at the air, as if trying to climb upward.
It was a vain attempt, a waste, but they kept trying.
If only I had that strength, he thought, continuing to stare.
300
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over India
0015, 19 January 1998
STARSHIP WAS JUST ABOUT TO TURN HAWK TWO OVER TO
the computer for the refuel when the Bennett’s radar officer warned of a new flight of Indian jets, this one coming at them from east.
“MiG-21s. Four of them. Coming from Hindan,” said Sergeant Rager.
The MiG-21s were somewhat outdated, and certainly less capable than the planes they’d just dealt with. But they couldn’t be ignored either.
“What do you want to do, Bennett?” Starship asked.
“Continue the refuel,” said Englehardt. “I think we can tank one of the U/MFs before we need to deal with them.”
“Roger that,” said Starship, surprised that the pilot sounded confident, or at least more assured than he had earlier.
Starship set up the refuel, then turned the aircraft over to the computer. He swung Hawk One toward Bennett’s left wing, then began pushing in so it could sip from the rear fuel boom as soon as its brother was done.
“Radar warning,” said Sullivan. “We have a SAM site up—SA-2s, dead ahead.”
Now things are going to get interesting, thought Starship, checking on Hawk Two’s status.
ENGLEHARDT FELT THE BLACK COWL SLIP BACK OVER THE
edges of his vision. The Bennett was about three minutes from the antiaircraft missile battery.
Three minutes to decide what to do.
Plenty of time not to panic, though his heart was pounding again and his stomach punching him from inside.
The MiGs behind him complicated his options. He didn’t want to go in their direction anyway—he wanted to get to the coast. But turning south to avoid the SAMs might make it easier for them to catch up.
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301
So? Use the Anacondas on them.
Hell, he could use the Anacondas against the SAMs.
His orders were to attempt to avoid conflict. But he’d already been fired on. Did that give him carte blanche? Or was the fact that he was no longer protecting the ground units rule, meaning he should do what he could to get away.
The first. Definitely.
God, he was thinking too much. What was he going to do?
“All right, let’s skirt the SAM site,” Englehardt said. “Turn to bearing one-eight—”
“If we go south, not only will we go closer to the MiGs but we’ll have more batteries to deal with,” said Sullivan, cutting him off. “There are a dozen south of that SA-2 site.”
“I know that,” said Englehardt sharply. “Just do what I say.”
In the silent moments that followed, he wished he’d been a little calmer when he responded. But it was out there, and apologizing wasn’t going to help anything. They set a new course; he moved to it, staying just on the edge of the SA-2s’
effective range.
What if they fire anyway? he wondered. What do I do then?
And as the thought formed in his brain, he got a launch warning on his control panel—the SAMs had been fired.