“If it’s declassified by then,” replied Danny.
Aboard the Bennett,
near the Pakistan-India border
1215
“POSITIVE ID ON THE LAST OF THE PAKISTANI WARHEADS,”
Major Catsman told Colonel Bastian.
“Good,” said Dog. He glanced at Sergeant Daly, sitting next to him. The radar operator’s eyes had narrowed to slits, his brows sagging toward the puffy skin below. “I think we’re about to call it a day here.”
“When was the last time you slept?” Catsman asked.
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Dog changed the subject, going over the arrangements Catsman had made for handling communications with the U-2s and Marines recovering the nukes on the ground. Then he checked in with Danny, who was helping set up the warhead recovery base in a hilly section of the desert between India and Pakistan. So far, four Indian and two Pakistani warheads had been recovered, all without incident.
“Any word on Major and Captain Stockard?” asked Dog, trying to sound as unemotional as possible.
“Negative.”
“Alert me if there are any new developments,” he told Catsman. “I’ll check back with you when we land at Diego Garcia.”
“Roger that. Get some rest.”
“I will, Major. Thanks for the advice.”
Base Camp One,
Great Indian Desert
1800
BY THE TIME DANNY FREAH HAD A CHANCE TO STOP AND
catch his breath, night had begun stealing into the rugged hills around him, casting long shadows over the temporary camp the Marines had hastily erected. Over fifty Marines guarded the perimeter, with additional sentries located to the north and south and a Marine Pioneer unmanned aerial vehicle orbiting overhead to provide constant surveillance.
Flights of F/A-18s from the Lincoln were being rotated north to provide air support if any was needed.
For the moment, things were quiet, and neither the Indians nor the Pakistanis seemed to know they were there. The closest Indian troops were border patrol units nearly two hundred miles to the south.
Admiral Woods had decided that the warheads would be transferred to the USS Poughkeepsie. Laid down in the 1960s and designated as an LSD or “landing ship dock,” the 128
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Poughkeepsie had a long helicopter deck and could accom-modate over two thousand tons of cargo, the ostensible reason for its selection—though the Navy experts told Danny the ship was so old no one in the Navy would care if the nukes took her down, unlike the Abe.
The Poughkeepsie, en route from maneuvers off Africa, was not expected to be in range for more than twenty-four hours. By then, it was hoped, all of the warheads would be recovered and the Marines ready to end their operations.
Danny ambled down the narrow path to the tent area, the fatigue of the long day slowing every step. It was a good kind of tired, he thought, the kind that came from a tough but successful mission. On the other hand, tired was tired.
Dancer met him as the trail gave way to the narrow plain where the Marines had established their command area.
“You look like you could use a good home-cooked meal,”
she told him.
“If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”
“This way.”
Danny tried thinking about his wife Jemma. But she was far away, and they hadn’t been getting along too well anyway, and—and Dancer was right in front of him, just beg-ging to be touched.
Somehow he managed to keep his hands to himself as she led him into the mess tent.
“Pot roast,” said Dancer. “Just like mom used to make. Of course, my mom was in the Army.”
She pointed at a tray of squished plastic packages containing vacuum-sealed meat and gravy—a Meals Ready to Eat version of pot roast.
“I thought you were cooking,” Danny said, laughing.
“Oh, I am,” said Dancer. She picked up one of the packages and dropped it into a tray of simmering water nearby.
“Lieutenant, I’m surprised at you,” he said, grabbed a set of tongs and fished the package out of the water. “That’s going to give it that plasticky taste. Come on. Let me show you how it’s supposed to be done.”
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He picked up two of the packages and four metal plates, then went outside.
“Most important thing you have to do,” he told Dancer as he walked away from the tents, “is find the proper location.”
Danny picked a spot with a scattering of small and medium-sized rocks. He squatted down and quickly created a miniature fireplace. He made covered casserole dishes by covering a plate’s worth of food with another plate and placing them over the hearth, securing the tops with small stones.
“You forgot the charcoal,” said Dancer.
Danny smiled and took a pencil flare from his tac vest.
“No,” said Dancer.
“Learned this in high school,” he told her. He lit the flare, then set it under the pans. He arranged the rocks to help channel the heat to the food. “I was with the local ambulance squad. We used to do this when we were on standby at football games.”
“You seem more like you would have been playing football than waiting for someone to get hurt.”
“Couldn’t play football that year,” said Danny. “Bad knee.
That’s why I became an EMT.”
“How can you parachute if you have bad knees?”
“That was my junior year. They got better.”
Danny had gone on to play—and star—as quarterback the next year, and even played in college, albeit for a Division III school. But he didn’t mention this to Dancer; it would sound too much like bragging.
The food had already been cooked before it was packaged, and long before the flare died out, the scent of warm meat and gravy filled the air.
“Only thing we need now is wine,” he said, pulling the pans off the fire.
“Wait!” said Dancer. She turned and trotted to the mess tent.
Now he did think of Jemma—how mad she would be if 130
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she saw him at that moment, ready to jump Dancer’s bones.
If she loved him so much, why wouldn’t she give up her job in New York, or at least spend more time visiting him at Dreamland?
And why didn’t Jemma want kids? She wouldn’t even talk about it anymore.
“Here we go,” said Dancer, returning. “Best I could do.”
She held up two boxes of grape juice.
“From the north side of the vineyard, I hope,” said Danny.
“Nineteen ninety-eight was a very good year for concord grapes.” Dancer tossed him a box. “The vintage has aged especially well since it’s been boxed.”
Danny laughed.
“This is good. Hot, but good,” said Dancer. “The flare definitely adds something.”
Before he could think of a witty reply, a sergeant approached and told them the Lincoln wanted to know what sort of supplies they’d need for the night.
“As much as we can get,” said Dancer, getting up. “Let me go talk to them. Hate to eat and run, Captain.”
Danny watched her go, unsure whether he was glad or sorry that they had been interrupted.
An atoll off the Indian coast
Date and time unknown
ZEN’S ISLAND WAS SHAPED LIKE THE SOLE OF A SHOE. HE AND
Breanna had come ashore near the toe. Roughly fifty yards wide, it was crowned by a large bald rock. It was cracked and pitted severely, but porous enough that the rain that fell soon after he arrived had drained away from the narrow holes.
The rock was the high point of the island, about twelve feet above sea level. Perched atop it, Zen could see more land in the distance to the east. Whether this was another island or part of the mainland, he couldn’t tell. Nor was he sure how far off it was. He guessed it was four or five miles, though it RETRIBUTION
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might just as well have been fifty since they were in no shape to swim it.
The heel of the atoll looked like a rock pile that had been disintegrating for decades, tumbling toward the middle of the island. It resembled a swamp, but one made of loose stone.