“Scoprions,” Bree told Chris.
“Our orders—”
“Fuck our orders.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Another copilot might have pointed out the captain was about to set herself up for a court- martial — and was taking him along, but Chris had flown with Bree forever and helped her ignore any number of orders. “Let me offer a suggestion — we’re close enough for the Stinger air mines.”
“Stinger then. Good idea.”
Chris brought the tail gun on line as Bree began banking.
“Redtail One, I’m going to come right over you and nail those mothers,” she told the pilot. “Just hold your course.”
“Negative, Air Force. Negative. Shit.”
“Redtail?”
“I’m ordered to return to my carrier. Repeat, I just got the order to break off. I have to scrub.”
“Scrub? You’re kidding,” blurted Chris.
The Navy pilot didn’t respond, but his actions showed he was dead serious — he began a slow bank to the east. The Sukhois continued to dog him, not yet realizing they’d won.
“Quicksilver, what’s going on up there?” asked Zen.
“Just the normal command bullshit,’ said Breanna. She scanned her instruments, trying to control her anger.
“We need to drop the buoy, Bree,” Zen reminded her.
“On it,” she said, pulling the big plane back toward the drop point.
It was a long green bag, a simple thing, the kind of wrapping that emphasized the one enduring truth of man’s existence.
“Shoulder, arms!”
Like everything Whiplash did, the service was a bit ad hoc — and utterly suited to the task at hand. All Dreamland personnel available gathered near the edge of the runway, standing between the long dark bag and the gray C-130 waiting to take it home. The powerful lights of the Seabee work crews turned the night a silvery yellow as four members of the action team, four of Powder’s closest friends in the universe, walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea. Each man shouldered a different weapon — an M-16, an MP-5, a Beretta pistol, and a Squad Automatic Weapon. One by one, they pointed their guns skyward and fired off a burst in his memory. Each weapon had been Sergeant Talcom’s.
Danny Freah held the pistol. A sensation came over him as he pulled the trigger. He wanted to fling the gun in, throw it into the water, one last offering to the universe. But he was an officer, and he was a man of discipline and self-control, so he simply turned and led the others back. As the chaplain thumbed through his Bible, he couldn’t help thinking this might very well be the first time Powder had ever sat through a reading from the Scriptures.
“I say unto you which hear,” began the reverend, “love your enemies, do good to them which hate you. Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And unto him that smitheth thee on the one cheek offer also the other …”
The words, from Luke 6, struck Danny off balance. Why was this idiot talking of mercy when his man was dead?
Turn the other cheek? Bullshit!
A new urge came over him. Danny wanted to grab the minister, throttle him, make him say something more appropriate, more comforting.
But Danny Freah was a man of discipline and self-control; he did nothing.
“Love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil.”
The words drifted away. The chaplain stepped back. On a tape player found by one of the Marines, a recorded bugle began its lonesome wail. Powder’s best friends in the universe each went to the corners of his remains, then gently placed him on board for the journey home.
Chapter 6
The verdict of fortune
“What do you and your people don’t seem to appreciate here, Colonel, is that we’re suppose to be the peacemakers. Are you seriously interested in starting World War Three?”
Wood’s face puffed out with anger. The admiral turned sideways for a moment, staring at the wall as if he could see something through the ship’s steel.
“I authorize you to conduct a simple reconnaissance mission and you obliterate an atoll,” continued Woods finally. “Tell me — is your base located over radioactive material? Do X-rays fry your brains?”
“Admiral,” Dog stopped himself. There was no point in trying to explain the mission again. Not only had he told Woods everything, but the admiral had the tapes of the incident and Danny Freah’s report sitting on his desk.
“Well?” said Woods.
“Nothing,” said Dog.
The admiral turned back to the wall. Maybe he really could see through it — maybe he could see beyond it to the forces gathering on either side of the American task force. “In tow hours, the Indian and Chinese fleets will be able to bomb the hell out of each other. The President has sent the Secretary of State — the fucking Secretary of State — to New Delhi to negotiate a cease-fire. You know what my orders are, Tecumseh?”
“No, sir,” said Dog. It was the first time Woods had used his given name.
“If it were up to me, if it were truly up to me, I’d let them fight it out. Hell, I think it’s our best interests. I don’t have to tell you about the Chinese. The Indians are trouble as well. As long as the extremists are in control, the Indians are trouble as well. But if I had to choose, at this point, I’d side with the Indians. Hell, I’m tempted to help them even now. My orders, though — and unlike you, I actually believe in following orders — are to keep the two sides apart, and to do nothing to increase hostilities. Nothing! Now how the hell am I supposed to do that? Put myself directly between them?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Twenty-four hours from now, that’s where I’ll be.
“Yes, sir.”
“But blowing them up wouldn’t bring peace, would it?”
“No, sir,” said Dog.
“Which is my mission, whether I like it or not. Now how can I fulfill that mission with a bunch of cowboys running around shooting things up? Very good cowboys,” added Woods before could object. “Excellent cowboys. But your job was reconnaissance — spying. Not fighting.”
Woods emphasized the words the way one might talk to a five-year-old. Colonel Bastian had pretty much reached the end of his patience.
“I thought the SEALs were bad,” added the admiral. “You guys make them look like kids on their way to First Holy Communion.”
“I don’t know that that’s accurate, sir,” said Dog. “On that atoll, my people were fired on; they responded. At sea, we shot down two missiles. Missile that surely would have sunk the Chinese carrier, which ought to count for something.”
The admiral frowned; Dog couldn’t help but wonder if he would have preferred the carrier went down.
