said Dog. “They’re not flying an attack profile. Change your 122
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course so we can go out to meet them. Plot an intercept so we can come around on their tails. Get us a little more altitude.”
Dog wanted to get the Megafortress close enough so he could see what the diminutive fighters had under their wings before they were in a position to threaten the Marines. But he knew that would make the Megafortress more vulnerable.
Bending over the center power console, he peered through the Megafortress’s windscreen. The two Pakistani planes looked like white pocketknives in the distance as the Bennett began her turn.
“Communication from the Abner Read, Colonel,” said Sullivan. “For you personally.”
“Not now.”
“They claim it’s urgent.”
Dog snapped into the frequency. “Bastian.”
“Colonel, this is Storm. I was wondering—”
“I’m just about to confront a pair of F-6 fighters here, Storm—make it damn quick.”
“I’m looking for some Harpoon missiles,” answered Storm.
“I haven’t got time—”
“Listen, Bastian—”
Dog switched to the Pakistani frequency.
“Dreamland Bennett to Pakistani F-6s. Did you find those Indian Sukhois?” Dog asked, watching the two planes approach.
“Negative, Dreamland USA. You are over Pakistan territory.”
“Acknowledged,” said Dog. “Our operations are to the southwest, over Indian land. We thought it would be prudent to fly over friendly territory as much as possible.”
“They’re trying to transmit the information back to their base,” said Sullivan when the fighters didn’t immediately respond. “Having trouble. The backup generators at the base seem to be giving them fits.”
The two Pakistani fighters spread slightly as the Megafor-
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tress turned. Dog watched the God’s eyeview screen on the dash closely—if the planes had any hostile intent, one would attempt to close on the Bennett’s tail, where a shot from the heat-seekers would be difficult to defend against.
“Coming up outside our wings,” said Sullivan.
Dog heard Englehardt blow a large wad of air into his oxygen mask. He’d undoubtedly been ready to flick the stick and call for flares—standard response to a missile launch.
“Pakistan F-6s, this is Dreamland Bennett. Are you free to assist? If so, we would welcome a high CAP,” said Dog, asking the aircraft to patrol above them and protect against high-flying fighters.
“Dreamland USA, we are not at liberty to assist you at this time. We are on the highest state of alert.”
“Acknowledged. Appreciate your taking the time to check on us,” said Dog.
“We just going to let them overfly the missile area?” Englehardt asked.
“At this speed and altitude, they’re not going to see much,”
Dog told the pilot. “The Ospreys could be doing anything.
We’ll stay with them as they make the pass.”
“No air-to-ground missiles,” said Sullivan, inspecting the aircraft with the Megafortress’s video.
“Power back a bit in case we have to get in their way,” Dog told Englehardt.
“Ready.”
But it wasn’t necessary. The F-6s began a turn northward well before they reached the area where the Ospreys had landed. Clearly, they were under orders to stay out of Indian territory.
“Dreamland USA, you’re on your own,” said the lead pilot. “Radio if you require further assistance from enemy fighters.”
“Roger that, Pakistan F-6. Thanks much.”
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Aboard the Abner Read,
northern Arabian Sea
0645
EVERY TIME STORM PERSUADED HIMSELF THAT BASTIAN
wasn’t a bastard, a jerk, and worse, the flyboy colonel did something to show him how right his original opinion was.
Here, he had saved his people, just gotten them off the boat, for cryin’ out loud, and all the Dog-haired colonel could do was hang up on him.
Storm waited for his fury to subside, then told his communications specialist to get him the colonel again.
“Bastian.”
“What do you want me to do, Dog? Grovel?”
“What’s up, Storm?”
“I find myself short of Harpoon missiles. I’m told that the Air Force versions can be made to work with my ship’s weapons systems without—”
“Why don’t you resupply off the Lincoln?”
“It’s not quite that simple. Unfortunately, Harpoons are in short supply. I only need six.”
Storm hated the tone in his own voice—weak, pleading, explaining. He was about to snap off the communication in disgust when Dog answered.
“We have some. Have your people check with Captain Juidice on Diego Garcia. I’m not sure how we’d ferry them there; maybe one of the Whiplash Ospreys.”
“I won’t forget this, Dog,” gushed Storm. He could feel his face flush. “I won’t forget it.”
“Bastian out.”
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Great Indian Desert
0655
DANNY GLANCED AT THE TWO NAVY EXPERTS BESIDE HIM, then slid his hand down below the bomb casing to the nest of wires.
“Keep the probes away from the wires,” Klondike repeated.
“Yeah, they’re away.”
“I want you to cut them in this sequence. Black, pure red, red with two black stripes—”
“Hold on, all right?” The wire casings were color coded for easy identification. But there were so many different codes that it wasn’t easy to tell them apart.
“I need another flashlight,” Danny said.
He took a breath, then pushed back close to the weapon.
One of the sailors was already shining a beam on the wires; it just didn’t seem bright enough.
Danny felt as if someone was squeezing his neck.
“Here you go,” said the Navy expert, turning on another flashlight.
He located the first wire, nudging it gently from the rest of the pack, picked up the pliers with his right hand, pushed the nose toward the wire, then backed off and switched hands.
“How’s it going?” asked Lieutenant Dancer from behind him.
Her voice steeled his fingers and he began cutting, working methodically. Klondike had him move on to the fusing unit.
“What we think is the fusing unit,” she said, amending her instructions as she told him how to remove it.
He could have done without the note of uncertainty in the description, but when he was done, the scientists decided that the bomb was safe enough to move.
Which presented them with the next problem—they wanted time to study it before bringing it aboard the Lincoln.
“Why?” asked Danny.
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“Just in case it blows up,” said Klondike dryly.
“So it’s all right to blow us up,” Dancer said sarcastically,
“but not the squids.”
“Probably more worried about their delicate airplanes,”
said one of her sergeants.
“Well, I’m all for getting the hell out of here,” Danny told them. “Given that the Pakistanis are two miles away.”
“We’ll just keep the weapons with us at P-1 for the time being,” said Dancer, “since we’re setting up camp there anyway.”
Meanwhile, a harness and a set of titanium rods were dug into place under the warhead. A pair of hydraulic jacks with balloon-style wheels lifted the rods up so the warhead could be set into another jack and gingerly rolled over to the Osprey.
It took considerable grunt work, but within a half hour the nuclear weapon was being rolled up into the aircraft’s hold, where it was set into a veritable nest of inflatable stretchers and strapped to the walls so it couldn’t move. Danny, one of the Navy bomb people, and two Marine riflemen sat in the rear of the aircraft with the weapon; everyone else flew in the other two rototilts.
“This’ll be a story to tell our grandkids, huh?” said the Navy expert as the Osprey revved its engines.