“Until we find them or have to refuel,” said Dog. “Or until General Samson finds out where I am and has my head.”
Aboard Marine Osprey Angry Bear One, over northern India
0403
AS DANNY FREAH SAT BACK IN THE RACKLIKE BENCH OF THE
Marine Osprey, two thoughts filled his head: Man, am I tired.
Man, do we have a long way to go before I can get some rest.
His eyes started to droop. As he drifted toward sleep, he saw Dancer in front of him.
Out of uniform.
Way out of uniform.
Nice, he thought. Very nice.
Someone shook his leg.
“Yeah, what?” said Danny, sitting upright.
“Pilots want to talk to you, Captain,” said Gunny.
Danny got up and leaned into the cockpit.
“Troops are moving on both sides of the border near Base Camp One,” said the pilot. “They want us to go straight on to the Poughkeepsie. We’ll have to set up a refuel. Can you tell the Megafortress what’s going on while I work out the refueling details? We need to meet an Osprey from the Lincoln.”
“Not a problem.”
Brad Sparks was his usual overcaffeinated self, telling him the escort would be no problem. Danny next checked in with Sergeant Liu and the Whiplash detail back at the Base Camp; Liu told him tersely that things were under control
“but we’re moving triple time.”
332
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Clearly, the sergeant was still shaken by what had happened at the house, thought Danny. But he sounded a little better, or maybe just busier—the two sometimes went together.
The corpsman was checking on Jennifer when he snapped off the line.
“How’s she doin’?” Danny asked.
“She’s lost a good bunch of blood from that knee,” said the corpsman. “Like to get her treatment as soon as we can. Real soon.”
“We’re working on it.”
Aboard Dreamland Cheli,
over India
0440
CHEECH LONG’S NASAL DRAWL BROKE THE SILENCE.
“MiGs look like they’re taking an interest,” the radar officer told Sparks. “Changing course.”
“We’re ready,” said Sparks. “Keep watchin’ ’em.”
The MiGs were Indian MiG-21s, flying a little more than two hundred miles to the west—behind them now as they swung with the Osprey. Sparks decided the MiGs weren’t going to catch up; he’d save his missiles for planes that would.
“Spoon Rest radar,” said his copilot, Lieutenant Steve Micelli. “A hundred miles south.”
The radar indicated an SA-2 ground-to-air battery. Their present flight plan would keep them out of the missiles’
range.
“All sorts of goodies under the Christmas tree today, huh?”
said Sparks.
“Looks like somebody told them we were coming,” said Micelli.
“I think it was Cheech,” said Sparks. “He’s always looking for a fight.”
RETRIBUTION
333
“Had to be Cowboy,” Cheech retorted. “Those Flighthawk guys live for trouble.”
“You got a problem with that?” said Lieutenant Josh
“Cowboy” Plank.
“Negative, Cowboy,” said Sparks. “Just keep your Flighthawk juiced and loose.”
“Just remember I’m on your tail,” replied the Flighthawk pilot.
“Hard to forget.”
“Chinese J-8s, coming at us hard,” warned Cheech, his voice now serious. “Four planes. Two hundred miles. They’re doing Mach 2.”
“Micelli, target them with the Anacondas,” Sparks said.
“Not supposed to shoot until they threaten us,” answered the copilot.
“I interpret afterburners as a threat. Take the mothers out,”
said Sparks.
Aboard Dreamland MC-17 Quickmover
0453
COLONEL BASTIAN KEYED THE MICROPHONE AGAIN.
“Dreamland MC-17 Quickmover to Levitow crew. Come in, Major Stockard.”
He paused to listen. Something was scratching at the back of his throat, and he took another sip of the herbal tea the crew chief had brewed. Then he tried the broadcast again.
“Colonel, we have a surface ship in our search box,” said Whitey when Dog paused to listen for a response. “The Abner Read. Very northern end.”
“Ask them if they’ll help.”
“Already have.”
“And?”
“Captain Gale wants to talk to you.”
Dog punched into the circuit. “Bastian.”
334
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Colonel, I understand you require assistance. What’s the status of your search?”
“Two crewmen are still missing,” said Dog. He told Storm about the radio transmission and briefly explained his theories about where the crew might have bailed.
“We’re inside your box. We’ll do what we can,” said Storm.
“Thanks. Bastian out.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Indian Ocean
0500
STORM FROWNED AS THE LINE SNAPPED CLEAR. BASTIAN
had been abrupt as always, barely acknowledging his offer of help.
Some people were just social jerks, he thought.
It didn’t matter, though. This was their chance to get back in the game, if only a little. Anything was better than sitting at sea and twiddling their thumbs like a garbage scow waiting to sweep up the slops. The crew was starting to get bored: a disease worse than death, in Storm’s opinion.
“Eyes, I want to set up a thorough search for two downed Dreamlanders,” Storm said, switching over to his internal line. “The Werewolf, everything we’ve got.”
“Already working on it, Captain.”
Aboard Dreamland Cheli,
over India
0512
SPARKS THOUGHT THEY HAD THINGS PRETTY WELL COVERED.
The Anacondas were about sixty seconds from hitting the Chinese J-8s, and the SA-2 radar had turned itself off.
Then a mobile SA-3 battery turned on its radar and began directing it at the Marine Osprey.
RETRIBUTION
335
“Get Angry Bear out of there,” Sparks told his copilot, Micelli. “Flighthawk leader—yo, Cowboy, toast the SAMs.”
“SA-3 toast coming up.”
“More aircraft. No IDs,” said Cheech at the airborne radar. “Three, maybe four planes. Two hundred fifty miles, bearing—”
“What do you mean, ‘maybe four’?” snapped Sparks.
“Make it three. Things are getting a little hot here, Sparks,”
added the sergeant. For the first time since Sparks had worked with him, Cheech’s voice contained a note of stress.
“What are they?”
“Working on it. Tentatively, Sukhois. Su-27s.”
“Find out for sure and keep an eye on them.”
“Missile one has hit lead J-8,” said the copilot. “Bam!”
“I can do without the sound effects, Micelli.”
“Bam!” repeated the copilot, even louder. “Splash the second J-8. Kick ass.”
The crew’s banter level continued to edge up over the next few minutes, even as the threat board reddened with fighters and ground radars. No sooner had the Flighthawk taken out the radar for the SA-3s than a small dish radar for an ancient ZSU-23 lit up a few miles down the road. The ZSU-23 was a four-barreled cannon. Though old, it was hell on low-flying aircraft like the Osprey. While Cowboy got after it, Spark urged the pilot in the Osprey to get the hell out to sea.
“I’m moving,” said the Marine.
“Move faster,” said Sparks.
“You want to go like a bronco with a firecracker in its pa -
poose,” cut in Cowboy.
Micelli and Cheech heard the communication and started roaring.
“I’m glad you guys are having fun,” said Sparks. “Keep at it.”
“Tracking Indian Sukhois,” responded Cheech, his voice somewhat more serious. “Two hundred miles. Losing them.”
The Sukhois turned off, but two Chinese planes joined the fray, flying over Pakistan. These were MiG-31s, similar to 336