He needed her. She needed him.
“I’m going with the MC-17,” she told Catsman as soon as the meeting ended. “I’ll help the technical teams. The new Flighthawks may need some work.”
“They don’t need a nanny,” said Rubeo.
Major Catsman just looked at her. Rubeo was right—the technical teams were self-contained. While she had worked on C3, the Flighthawk computer, her contributions were completed long ago.
“The Anaconda missiles also need work,” she said.
“Another reason not to send them,” said Rubeo. “And it’s not your project.”
“I’ve worked on them,” said Jennifer.
“We need you to do other things,” insisted Rubeo. “There 89
RETRIBUTION
is a great deal of work.”
“If you think you should go,” said Catsman, “then you should go.”
“I think I should,” said Jennifer. “And I am.”
Indian Ocean,
off the Indian coast
Time unknown
ZEN CRADLED BREANNA IN HIS LAP AS HE PULLED HIMSELF
up toward the peak of the slope. Finally he stopped, collapsing on his side. Breanna fell with him, her weight dead against his body. At first he was too exhausted to think, too wiped to feel anything. Then gradually he realized where he was and who was lying on top of him.
“OK, Breanna,” he said. “Breanna? Bree?”
He lay on his back for a few minutes, an hour—it was impossible to tell how long. Clouds covered the moon then slowly slipped away. Finally, he shifted Breanna off him, sliding her weight away gently.
Far in the distance, he heard a groan.
The sound was so faint he wasn’t even sure he’d heard it at first. Then he thought it was an animal. Then, finally, he realized it had come from his wife.
“Bree,” he said, pushing up. “Bree?”
Zen rolled her onto her back, then undid her helmet strap, still not daring to look at her face. Without the ability to kneel, he had to shift himself around awkwardly until he was sitting and her head was resting on his thighs. He closed his eyes and removed the helmet, prying as gently as possible, cradling her head down to the ground.
Her face was badly bruised. Zen guessed she’d hit the plane going out, probably harder than he had.
She looked peaceful, except for the purple welts. She looked like she was sleeping.
Tears came to his eyes. He was sure he’d imagined the 90
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
sound; sure she was dead.
Until her lips parted.
Cautiously, he pushed his face down to hers. She was breathing.
“Bree?” he said, pulling back upright. “Bree?”
She didn’t say anything, but he thought she stirred.
“I’m here, baby,” he said, leaning back down as close as he could. “I’m here.”
Aboard the Bennett,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0243, 16 January 1998
“SEARCH PATTERN IS COMPLETE, COLONEL,” ENGLEHARDT
told Dog as the Megafortress completed the last orbit.
“Nothing.”
“The Lincoln’s search assets will be up within the hour,”
added Lieutenant Sullivan. “We’ve given them the flight projections Dreamland ran.”
His men were subtly telling him that it was time to get on with the rest of their mission—finding the warheads. They had roughly six hundred miles to go before getting into the search area.
Dog pushed a long breath from his lungs.
“All right.” Dog couldn’t quite force enthusiasm into his voice; he had to settle for authority. “Mikey, get us on course.
I’m going to take another shot at taking a nap. Wake me up when we’re starting the search.”
“You got it, Colonel.”
Dog tapped the back of the pilot’s seat and started for the upper Flighthawk bay. Daly put up his hand and stopped him as he passed.
“We’ll find her, Colonel. Starship or someone will get her.
And Zen. Don’t worry.”
Dog patted the sergeant on the shoulder.
“Thanks,” he told him. “I know we will.”
III
Finders Keepers
Southeastern Iran,
near the coast
0200, 16 January 1998
(0300, Karachi)
GENERAL MANSOUR SATTARI PACED THE LONG HALL OF THE
mosque’s auxiliary building, waiting for word of his son.
That Captain Val Muhammad Ben Sattari had launched the final phase of the elaborate plan, there could be no doubt.
India and Pakistan were at war, and had spent the day before trading accusations at the UN that each had tried to annihi-late the other. The American President had gone on television and claimed that the U.S. had prevented nuclear weapons from exploding after the missiles were launched and would now work for peace, but CNN also reported that the power grids in both countries had been wiped out—a sure sign to General Sattari that several nuclear weapons had exploded, regardless of what the U.S. said. That meant his son had succeeded in his goal.
Now, if only Allah, blessed be His name, saw fit to carry Val back to him unharmed. Then he would launch his own goal—overthrowing the black robes who had ruined his life, and his country.
The general continued to pace, his shoes squeaking on the tile. He was alone in the building, and knew he would be for several hours. This was good—he did not want others to see his impatience as he waited for news from his son. He believed that a general must always maintain an image of calm and control, even in the most trying times.
94
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Unlike the prayer hall of the mosque, this building was nearly brand new, and while the architect had preserved the ancient style of the older structures, no expense had been spared on the lavish interior. The floors were marble from the best quarries in Italy. The walls were wood veneer taken from East Africa. Even the furniture, hand carved by Iranian craftsmen, was finely wrought.
General Sattari stopped his pacing as the music from the television in the assembly room suddenly blared, announcing another bulletin. He folded his arms and listened as an American anchorman began running down the “latest” on the situation. This turned out to be primarily a rehash of earlier reports, the only exception being the news that the U.S.
President had sent an aircraft carrier to the region.
Sattari frowned. He considered going into the room and changing the channel to Sky News, the British network. But he’d done that twice already, only to realize that CNN’s information was more up to date. And so instead he simply resumed his pacing, noting to himself that the fact that news was simply trickling in was an indication of how complete the destruction had been.
Aboard the Abner Read,
northern Arabian Sea
0310
THE MARINE CORPS OSPREY FLUTTERED LEFT AND RIGHT, ducking in and out of the spotlights as it descended toward the deck. At eighty-four feet counting the spinning rotors, the aircraft’s tilt-wings extended well over the sides of the narrow-beamed ship, so it looked to Danny as if the Osprey would tip the Abner Read up from the stern when it landed. But the ship remained steady, and within a few moments two members of the crew had fastened restraints to the Osprey’s body to keep it from slipping off the deck. When they were done, the forward hatch of the Osprey opened and two Marines stepped out.
95
RETRIBUTION
“Dancer, we meet again,” shouted Danny to the trim figure that led the way forward.
“I had a feeling you’d be in the middle of things,” said Lieutenant Emma “Dancer” Klacker, shaking Danny’s hand.
“This is Major Behrens from the general’s staff. He’s the general’s intel geek.”
“Major.”
“Captain Freah’s the Dreamland crazy who helped stop the pirates a few months back in the Gulf of Aden,” Dancer told her companion. “I told him another operation like that and we’d make him an honorary Marine.”
“This may be his chance, then,” said Behrens.
Danny led the way to the Abner Read’s Tactical Center, which the ship’s captain had loaned them for the briefing.