“So we’ve heard,” said Balboa. “I, for one, haven’t seen it.”
“As tragic as it was,” said Admiral Woods, “it does appear to have been an accident. The Dreamland people uploaded some of the digitalized recording of the event. Obviously, I still want to speak to the men, but from what I’ve seen—”
“I’m looking into it personally myself,” said Samson, protecting his territory. “I’m going to speak to them. I’ll make a full report.”
Woods frowned. There would be a question of jurisdiction and priority—the men were under Samson’s command but had been operationally controlled by him. Who took precedence?
As far as Samson was concerned, he did. He prepared for a fight, but before he could say anything else, the Secretary of State changed the subject.
“Where are the other warheads?” asked Hartman. “How long before they’re found?”
“Colonel Bastian is the best source on that,” said the admiral.
“We’re not sure,” said Bastian. “Probably in the far border areas around western Pakistan and northern India, near the Chinese border. The scientists are still refining the estimates.
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Additional U-2s and Global Hawk drones have arrived in the area and are flying at night, using infrared and low-light sensors. The scientists are tweaking some of the image reading data to make them more effective. Dr. Rubeo can give you the technical information on the search plots and everything related to them.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Ray Rubeo.
Rubeo was sitting quietly at a front console on the right, head stooped down as if he were one of the engineers and techies monitoring systems—so low-key, in fact, that Samson hadn’t noticed him until now. The general kept his dis-pleasure in check as the scientist flashed a brief presentation on the screen showing the possible locations of the three missiles. The presentation was brief and professional, but it still angered Samson—he should have seen it first.
“We are still developing theories on what happened,”
added Rubeo. “I can bore you with the technical details, or we can move on.”
His voice dripped with arrogance, but none of the others peeped.
“Until the President orders otherwise, we have to proceed with the operation,” said Chastain. “But it can’t go on indefinitely.”
“Indeed,” said Rubeo. “I would note that the power grids in the affected countries have now been offline for twenty-four hours more than our original projections predictions.
We may be living on borrowed time.”
Diego Garcia
0930
THE TIRED CHATTER OF THE BENNETT’S CREW AS THEY
walked toward their quarters irked Michael Englehardt more than he could say. It wasn’t just that they were talking about a mission he should have been on; it was the fact that they were talking about Colonel Bastian in such glowing terms.
256
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Ol’ Dog did this, and then he said that … Could you believe how he got the ship to stand still in the air? He suckedthat Sukhoi right into the Stinger air mines … I’ve neverseen anything like that … Can’t teach an old Dog newtricks— he knows them all …
And on and on and on until Englehardt thought he would puke.
It was his fault. He should have been on the mission himself, at least a copilot. He’d acted like a jerk. Bastian had blindsided him, taking over the plane, but still, he should have kept his mouth shut.
Not that it was fair. But now his days at Dreamland were probably numbered.
“You shoulda been there, Mikey,” said Sullivan as they entered the dormitory-style building they’d been given for personal quarters. “What a wild night.”
“I wanted to be there,” said Englehardt.
“Yeah.” Sullivan immediately turned away.
“Next time,” said Englehardt, trying but failing to sound optimistic.
COLONEL BASTIAN RUBBED HIS EYES AND STARTED TO GET
up from the communications console in the Dreamland Control trailer.
“Hold on there, Tecumseh,” said General Samson, his voice vibrating the speakers over the unit. “Where are you going?”
“I thought we were done,” said Dog. “I was thinking—”
“There are a few things I wanted to speak to you about in private.”
“I’d really like to catch some sleep,” Dog told Samson. “I just got back from my mission.”
“That’s number one—what the hell are you doing flying missions?”
“What?”
“You have plenty of pilots out there now. Put them to good use. Yes, I understand the need for a commander to lead from the front,” added Samson, his voice somewhat more RETRIBUTION
257
sympathetic. “But you’re spending far too much time in the air to actually do your job—your real job—of supervising the men. All the men, not just one plane crew.”
Dog was too tired to argue—and Samson didn’t give him much of an opening, moving right on to his next subject.
“I want full reports on all of the programs Dreamland is conducting. And a personnel review. How long will it take you to get that all together?”
“As soon as I get back I can—”
“I want you to start working on it immediately.”
“I have a mission here to run.”
“Devote as much time as possible to it. If you’re not flying, you’ll have more time. Those Whiplash men—I want to talk to them before they talk to Admiral Woods. Do you understand? They’re part of my command. I talk to them first. Not as a Navy admiral. Now do you understand?”
“Sure.”
“And another thing …”
Samson paused, obviously for effect. Dog felt so tired he thought he would teeter toward the floor.
“Briefings will now be done through me,” said the general finally.
“Which briefings?”
“Briefings with administration officials,” said Samson.
“That’s my job. You provide the information to me. I interface.”
“Anything you want, General,” said Dog.
He reached over and hit the button to kill the communications. Then he got to his feet, suddenly feeling ten times more tired than when he’d come into the trailer, and he’d been pretty tired then.
“Bedtime,” he muttered, going to the door—where Mike Englehardt practically knocked him over.
“Colonel, can we talk?” said Englehardt.
“What is it, Mike?”
“Colonel, I want to, uh—apologize. I was a—I mean, I—”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t sweat it, Mike.”
258
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Dog started to push past. Englehardt grabbed his shoulder.
Surprised, Dog looked the pilot in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” said Englehardt. “I really want to fly. Pilot, copilot, whatever you say. As long as I’m in the cockpit.”
“Well, that’s good, because you’re going to take the Bennett on its next mission. Now let go of my arm so I can go get some sleep, all right?”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
THE DAY WAS WARMER THAN THE ONE BEFORE, BUT LESS
humid, and if not for their extreme circumstances, he might have considered the weather perfect. Trying not to think of his thirst, Zen made several radio calls and rearranged the rocks that helped support their tent so a bit more sunlight fell on Breanna. Finally he began moving down to the water, intending to swim back to the spot where he’d caught the turtle the day before. He was just getting into the water when he heard a shout.
One of the boys was back, paddling his small boat.
“Bart Simpson!” called the youth. It was the youngest one, the first one he’d spotted.
“Hey, Bart!” Zen yelled back. He did his best to hide his surprise that the kid had returned.
The wooden hull of the boy’s boat skidded against the shore and he climbed out, pulling a pack with him.
Zen’s heart jumped.
“You brought a phone?” Zen asked. “Cell phone?”