“A passenger plane is down in the area the Marine Osprey flew through,” said Catsman finally.
“Yes, Danny mentioned it to me,” said Dog. “Do we know what happened yet?”
The major hesitated.
“Better tell me what you know,” said Dog.
“A Global Hawk went over the area about a half hour ago.
This is a photo from the area of the wreckage.”
An image appeared in the corner of the monitor. Dog pressed the control to zoom in.
A triangular piece of white metal with black letters and numbers filled the screen. It was part of a fin from a missile.
“It’s one of ours,” said Catsman.
“From the Navy fighters?”
“No ours ours. It’s one of the control fins from a Anaconda.”
“From the Cheli?”
“Has to be. I haven’t talked to Captain Sparks. I figured you’d want to do that.”
Dog pushed his chin onto his hand. “Yeah.”
“I haven’t talked to General Samson either.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Dog.
“I— He ordered me not to tell you he was on his way,”
Catsman blurted.
“It’s all right, Major. It wouldn’t have made any difference at all.”
WHEN YOU’RE BASED NEAR A PLACE LIKE LAS VEGAS, JUST
about anywhere else in the world can seem spartan. But Diego Garcia was spartan in the extreme, which limited the crew’s options for celebrating their mission.
368
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“First we debrief, then we go over to the Navy canteen,”
said Brad Sparks as the crew shut down the Cheli. “Or whatever they call their bar.”
“Hell, Brad, just listing the planes we engaged will take an entire day,” said Cheech. “Let’s debrief tomorrow.”
“Oh sure,” said Cowboy. “Like we’re gonna want to do that with hangovers.”
“Colonel Dog will have my butt if we wait,” said Sparks.
“Let’s just get it over with.”
“Where are the unintelligence officers?” said copilot Steve Micelli, getting up from his seat.
“Micelli, that joke is older than our airplane.”
A combat-suited Whiplash security sergeant stuck his head up from the Flighthawk bay at the rear of the cockpit.
“Excuse me, Captain Sparks, Colonel Bastian wants to talk to you right away. He wants the entire crew over at the Command trailer.”
“All right, Sergeant. We’ll be right down as soon as we grab all our gear.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re to leave everything here. The memory cards and tapes from the mission especially.”
“What the fuck?” said Micelli.
“If anything’s missing or erased, we’re going to be court-martialed,” added the Whiplasher. “I’m really sorry, sirs.”
DOG DECIDED HE WOULD TALK TO THE CHELI’S CREW ONE
at a time. Sparks, since he was the captain, went first.
“Describe to me what happened on your sortie,” Dog said, sitting across from him at the table in the Dreamland trailer.
The others were outside, sitting in the shade of the nearby hangar.
“It was a long mission, Colonel. I don’t know if I can remember every last detail.”
“Do your best.”
“OK. Can I have a drink?”
“I just made some coffee. And there’s water in the fridge.”
RETRIBUTION
369
“I was thinking about a beer.”
“Better not just now.”
Sparks nodded. Dog recognized something he rarely saw in a pilot’s face, certainly not at Dreamland: fear. Sparks must have sensed what had happened.
Dog had heard enough before Sparks was halfway through.
The Anaconda aiming system had been giving them problems; they encountered a plane in the area near fighters that seemed to be a threat; the plane had not had a working friend or foe identifier.
Those were the mitigating circumstances. On the other side of the ledger, the plane should have been better identified by the radar operator, or, lacking that, visually identified by the Flighthawk before being fired on.
Should have been.
That was a judgment call, Dog thought, an extremely difficult decision to make in the heat of a battle, especially under the circumstances.
He truly understood how difficult that call was to make.
Others might not.
“Did we screw up, Colonel?” asked Sparks when he was done. “What happened?”
“An airliner went down in the area the Osprey went through. There’s a good possibility it was shot down by a Anaconda missile that came from your plane.”
“Jesus.”
Both men sat in silence for a few moments.
“What’s going to happen?” asked Sparks.
“I don’t know,” said Dog. “It’s up to General Samson. He’s in charge of Dreamland now. And Whiplash.”
“Am I going to be court-martialed?”
Dog wanted to shake his head, to stand up and pat Sparks on the shoulder and tell him it was all going to be all right.
But that would be lying. There would be an inquiry—a long one, no doubt—before any decision was made on whether charges would be brought.
“I don’t know what will happen,” said Dog honestly. “At 370
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
this point anything is a possibility. I want you to go to your room and just stay there until you hear from me.”
“Or the general?”
“Yes. Or the general. He’s the one that has the final say now.”
Malaysia
1730 (1530, Karachi)
GENERAL SATTARI FOLLOWED THE CONTROL TOWER’S INstructions, taxiing the airplane away from the main runway. He felt physically drained. It had been years since he flew a large jet, and even with his nephew, an experienced multiengine copilot, managing the Airbus’s takeoffs and landings had not been easy.
“Turn coming up ahead, Uncle,” said Habib Kerman.
“Very good.”
Sattari’s eyes shuffled back and forth from the windscreen to the speed indicator. He could give the airplane over to Kerman if he wished, but his pride nagged him.
“You haven’t lost your skills,” said Kerman as they pulled into the parking area. “Outstanding.”
Sattari smiled but said nothing. Kerman was his sister’s youngest son. He had been a close friend of his own son, Val, though a few years younger; at times he reminded him very much of Val.
Four or five men trotted from a nearby hangar, followed by a pickup truck.
This was the most dangerous moment, Sattari knew—when his plot was nearly but not quite ready to proceed. He needed to refuel the jet in order to reach his destination. The airport had been chosen not for its geographic location but the fact that he had agents he believed he could count on to assist. He himself had not been here in many years, so he could not be positive they would help—and indeed might not know for sure until he took off.
The men ran to chock the wheels. A good sign, he thought.
They were unarmed.
RETRIBUTION
371
Sattari glanced at his nephew. “You have your gun?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Sattari nodded, then rose. He went to the door behind the flight cabin and opened it, pushing it with a sudden burst of energy. A fatal dread settled over him as the muggy outdoor air entered the cabin. He was ready; ready to die here if that’s what was ordained.
But it wasn’t, at least not at that moment. A metal stairway was being pushed close to the cabin.
“God is great, God is merciful, God is all knowing,”
shouted a man from the ground, speaking in Persian.
“Blessed be those who follow his way,” said Sattari, completing the identifier he had settled on in their e-mail conversation.
“General, it is my pleasure to serve you,” said Hami Hassam, climbing eagerly up the steps as soon as they were placed. “What cargo do you have?”