He’d have to get a lawyer if something like that happened.
The microwave began beeping, but Dog left his dinner inside and sat down next to Rager at the airborne radar station.
The sergeant was considerably more relaxed now that they weren’t in combat; he had a dozen contacts on his scope, all civilian flights.
“Now that you’ve seen the system in combat, you have any ideas for improvement?” Dog asked.
“A couple, Colonel.” The sergeant ran Dog through some of the identification routines and the automated processes, which were supposed to reduce the operator’s workload by letting the computer take over. In theory, the system let one man do the work of six or eight in the “old” style AWACS. In practice, said Rager, the workload became overwhelming after a half hour in combat.
“Thing is, you just get tired after a couple of hours,” said the sergeant, who’d had extensive experience in AWACS and other systems before coming over to Dreamland. “It works fine in the simulations, but when we were getting shot at for over an hour, at the tail end of a long mission—I have to be honest with you, Colonel, I’m sure I made some mistakes.
I haven’t had a chance to review the whole mission tapes, but I’m sure I could have done better. Adding two guys on the board during a combat mission makes sense, but it’s not just that. There are some software improvements you could make.”
Rager listed them. Surprisingly, at least as far as Dog was concerned, the improvements included several that would provide the operator with less information up front; details, he explained, could clutter the board and your head when RETRIBUTION
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things got heavy.
“Give it more thought, then write it down for me,” said Dog. “I mean—write it down for General Samson. And the techies.”
There was a flash of pity in the sergeant’s eyes before he spoke. “Yes, sir, I will.”
Dog got up and went to get his food. Best thing for everyone, he thought, would be to move on as quickly as possible.
Over the Pacific Ocean
2015, Dreamland
KERMAN MARKED THE DISTANCE IN HOURS. HE WAS NOW
two hours away.
He put the aircraft on autopilot and got up from the plane to use the restroom.
The small closet smelled like a chemical waste dump.
Kerman did his best to hold his nose. He washed his hands fastidiously, then returned to the flight deck, ready. Before taking his seat, he decided he should pray. He fell to his knees, but before he could say the simple prayer he had learned as a child, he was seized by an overwhelming sense of dread. It was not about his mission. He had always known that it was his destiny to strike a blow against Satan, and had known since before he learned to read that America was evil, an enemy not just to Iran but to Islam. It was an abomination, and any blow struck against it would be rewarded in the everlasting days that followed life on earth.
His dread came from the way his uncle had been treated, used and then tossed aside. Hassam had said he was too important for the country to lose, something that Kerman completely agreed with. But the image of his uncle on the pavement haunted Kerman now. If he was so valuable, why was he treated like a piece of dirt?
The general had always had his trouble with the religious 398
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leaders. Kerman had always regretted that—secretly, of course; he would not criticize his uncle to his face or even behind his back, not seriously at least, for whatever else, the general was a great man.
Perhaps, thought Kerman, his uncle had reason to de-nounce the clerics.
He struggled to put the idea out of his mind. It was a distraction: He had to focus on his mission.
“I will pray,” he told himself, as if chiding a small boy. “I will pray for success.”
Dreamland Command
2038
“IT WAS THE DOC’S IDEA. HE WAS RIGHT,” SAID THE PHOTO
interpreter. “Look—same pickup trucks at the airport.”
Rubeo scowled. The analysts had found a pair of pickup trucks in the region where the warhead was found—albeit miles away, and at roughly the same time that the attack was going on—in some of the shots taken by the Global Hawk as it circled away. The same truck showed up on an access to the airport at Rawalpindi.
“So it must’ve left from this airport,” said Catsman. “Have you checked the flight plans?”
“I turned that part over to the CIA. They said it could take anywhere from hours to a couple of days to get the information.”
Catsman looked up at Rubeo. He frowned again. “Days?”
she asked.
“If they keep the information on a computer,” said Rubeo,
“I believe we should be able to shorten the time considerably.
Unless you insist on working through channels.”
“Do it,” answered the major.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
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over the Pacific Ocean
2047
“URGENT INCOMING MESSAGE FOR YOU, COLONEL, ON THE
Dreamland channel,” said Sergeant Daly, descending from the flight deck. “They need to talk to you right away.”
Dog authorized the communication at the Flighthawk station.
“Colonel, we think we may have traced the missing warhead,” said Ray Rubeo from the Dreamland Command Center.
“I’m afraid you have to give that information to General Samson,” Dog said.
“Yes, well, Major Catsman is attempting to contact him through channels. In the meantime, I thought I would tell someone who could do something about it.”
That was, by far, the highest compliment Ray Rubeo had ever paid him.
“What’s the story, Doc?”
Rubeo explained about the pickup trucks and how they were tracked to an airport near Pakistan’s capital. A number of aircraft had taken off since, including several that were somewhat suspicious because of their registry or stated cargo.
“Apparently a popular stop for the nefarious of the world,”
said Rubeo. “But there is one in particular that is interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because after flying to Malaysia, its pilot filed a new flight plan that said it was heading to McCarran International Airport. Since then, it has disappeared.”
Over the Pacific Ocean
2115
KERMAN CHECKED HIS WATCH, THEN UNDID HIS SEAT BELT
and walked to the back of the flight deck. The cargo area was not pressurized, but at the moment they were low enough that 400
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
he did not need an oxygen mask.
The pilot could see his breath as he opened the door. A bank of overhead lights illuminated the warhead’s crate, strapped to the floor about a third of the way back.
The timer was wrapped in a towel and tucked beneath the strap. As he got down on his hands and knees to remove it, he began to shiver. He put his hands together for warmth and blew into them.
Was he shaking from cold or fear? Did he have the courage to do this?
For Allah, blessed be his name, he could do anything.
He pulled the towel out and unwrapped it carefully. His uncle’s expert, Abtin Fars, had preset the timer for exactly one hour; all he had to do was push two small toggle switches.
He pushed the first. A small LED light lit on the device, showing it was working.
As his hand touched the second switch, it began to tremble so badly that Kerman dropped the timer onto the blanket. He thought he had broken it and for a moment was overcome with grief. All his plans, his entire life, completely in vain.
To fail now, so close—it was the most unimaginable disaster.
He closed his eyes, cursing himself. He could have remained silent, not called the Ayatollah; his uncle would then still be here, helping him, guiding him. Together they would have carried out the mission—the general to revenge Val’s death, Kerman to fulfill God’s plan.
The pilot felt a burst of warm air flow around him. It was a draft, he knew—and yet part of him thought it was another presence, his cousin perhaps, coming to reassure him.
Or his uncle.
Kerman opened his eyes.