Or at least he thought that’s what they said.
As soon as he gave them the turtle, they lit out for the eastern side of the island, where they had apparently left their boats.
Zen immediately regretted the deal, sensing he’d been gypped.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. He checked on Breanna, still sleeping fitfully, then retrieved the stick the older boy had tossed aside, and with it and the driftwood he’d gathered the day before he managed to start a small fire.
A strong foreboding overcame him as he went to Breanna, intending to pull her a little closer to the fire. He closed his eyes as he crawled the last few feet, fearing he would find her dead.
She was still breathing, more rhythmically it seemed to him.
“Can you feel the fire here?” he asked her.
174
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
She made no sign that she heard.
“Come on down with me a little. It’ll warm you up a bit.
Just a bit.”
He cradled her upper body on his lap and pushed closer to the fire. It wasn’t much, but he could feel the warmth, and hoped she could too.
Zen told his wife about the boys. “Funny that they know the Simpsons, huh? I told them I’m Bart’s best friend. Maybe they’ll come back for an autograph.”
He remembered the radio. He hadn’t broadcast all day.
He reached into his pocket for Breanna’s watch to check the time, but it wasn’t there.
Had he put it in his other pocket? He swung his body around and reached to his left.
It wasn’t there either. He began to search feverishly, sure it was somewhere in his flight suit—then not sure. Had he left it in the tent? Given it back to Breanna? Where was it?
Where the hell was it?
It’s the little things that make you crazy.
Zen heard the voice, but he knew it was only in his head—a snatch of a memory, part of a lecture someone had given during his survival training. The point had been: Don’t obsess over things that aren’t important.
He didn’t need a watch. Time was irrelevant. They’d be listening for him around the clock.
Zen went to the radio and made several calls, but there was no answer, and even the static sounded far away.
Tired, he poked at the fire. It was dark, and with the embers glowing a faint orange, he huddled around his wife and drifted off to sleep.
Southeastern Pakistan
1900
DANNY FREAH STUDIED THE IMAGE FROM THE I-17 LANDING
zone in his smart helmet, mentally plotting the Ospreys’ in-
RETRIBUTION
175
gress into the site. They had just swung south of the nearest village and were about ten minutes from the landing area.
“When you make your cut north,” he told the Osprey pilot, bending down over the console that separated the two aviators at the front of the aircraft, “you have a straight run to the target. There’s a slight rise to the road. It looks like there’s a high spot overlooking it and the missile as well.”
Unlike the Dreamland birds, the Marine Ospreys weren’t set up to receive the video image. Once they got close, though, their forward looking infrared radar would provide a good view.
The pilot put up his hand, gesturing to Danny that they were now five minutes from the landing zone.
“Clean,” said Danny.
Behind him the Marines got ready to hit the dirt. Even though this was the third warhead they’d recovered today, the men still tensed as they gathered near the door. Danny could smell the sweat as their adrenaline picked up and they got ready to go.
The Ospreys bucked slightly as they pitched toward the ground. The rear ramp opened and the Marines swarmed over the desert, anxious ants swarming an abandoned picnic basket.
Danny had Starship give him the widest possible view of the area from the Flighthawk; after making sure it was clean, he tapped the pilot on the shoulder and went to join the men as they took control of the area. Two fire teams ran full throttle to the highway, moving in opposite directions so they could observe and stop any traffic if necessary. Four men went toward the village, setting up a post where they could watch for anyone approaching them.
“Secure, Captain,” said the ranking Marine NCO, a gunnery sergeant named Bob McNamera, who, like gunnery sergeants throughout the Corps, was called Gunny. “Ready to take a look at our Easter egg?”
“Let’s get a look,” said Danny, starting toward the warhead.
176
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
It was larger than the last two. Much of the fairing was burnt, and the ground around it was scorched. Bits and pieces of rocket were scattered behind it in an extended starburst pattern.
“This one’s a different missile than the others,” Danny told Dreamland Command as he scanned the area with his smart helmet’s built-in camera. “Bigger.”
“Very good,” replied Ray Rubeo over the satellite connection.
“Different procedure for disarming?”
“We’re determining that right now, Captain. What exactly is the ETA of Ms. Gleason to the site?”
“Huh?”
“When is Ms. Gleason expected to arrive?”
“Ms. Gleason isn’t expected to arrive.”
Rubeo cleared his throat, then explained that Jennifer Gleason was en route with the rest of the Whiplash ground team.
“Are you kidding?” Danny said. “They’re supposed to parachute into our camp in India an hour from now.”
“It would be useful for Ms. Gleason to join you at the scene,” said Rubeo. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Who told her she could do a night jump?”
“Who tells Ms. Gleason she can do anything?”
Aboard MC-17 Quickmover,
over northwestern India
1955
“CHANGE IN PLANS, JEN,” SAID SERGEANT LIU AFTER HE
clambered down the ladder from the cockpit area. “We’re going to go out a bit farther north than originally planned.”
“OK,” she answered, gripping her jump helmet. She was sitting with the other Whiplashers on a row of plastic fold-down seats at the side of the large cargo hold. The big aircraft was empty except for a small pallet of gear that would be dropped with the team.
RETRIBUTION
177
“You sure you don’t want to hitch up?” Liu asked.
“I hate tandem jumps,” she said.
“It’s a high altitude jump at nighttime.”
“I’m Army qualified, Sergeant.”
Liu gave her a dubious look, but it was true. A year before, she had suffered the ignominy of a tandem jump into Iran.
She liked the excitement of parachuting, but didn’t like being tethered to someone else. So she’d gone to the trouble of completing a parachute course with a former Army Ranger and master combat jumper.
“Qualified” was a relatively low standard—a soldier could earn the basic Army parachutist badge with five jumps, only one of which was at night. Liu and his men would do five jumps in a single day just to stay sharp. And HALO jumps—high altitude, low opening—weren’t even part of the program.
“I’ve had three night jumps, all with more gear than I’m carrying now,” added Jennifer, sensing Liu’s objections.
“And I’ve done thirty jumps, including three HALO. OK? So I don’t need a keeper.”
“Hey, I jumped with her, Nurse,” said Sergeant Geraldo
“Blow” Hernandez. Blow was also the team jumpmaster.
“She’s got the goods.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“It’s gonna cost you,” said Blow.
“Not if I hit the ground first.”
Southeastern Pakistan
2010
“GLOBAL HAWK SHOWS A CAR COMING, CAPTAIN. DRIVING
from the east.”
Danny couldn’t believe the bad timing. The Whiplash team had just gone out of the aircraft.
“How fast?”
“Hard to tell,” said Gunny. “Ground team can’t see him yet. You want us to nuke him?”
178
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND