Retribution

“Colonel!” yelled Englehardt.

“Mikey. How are our people?”

“Mack and the others were picked up by the Abner Read several hours ago. They’re going to rendezvous with the Lincoln and get home from there.”

“Good. What about everybody else?” asked Dog.

Englehardt lowered his gaze, avoiding his commander’s stare.

“Dreamland Fisher was lost with all crew members,” he said. “Wreckage has been sighted. The Levitow is also missing,” he added. “It went down near the Indian coast. We’re not exactly sure of the location. A U-2 is overflying the route. The aircraft carrier Lincoln will launch some long-range reconnaissance aircraft to help as well, once they’re close enough. They should be within range inside of twelve hours.”

Losing any aircraft and her crew was difficult, Englehardt knew, but losing the Levitow would be especially painful for Dog — his daughter Breanna was the Levitow’s pilot. Her husband Zen had been aboard, leading the Flighthawk mission.

“What about Danny Freah and Boston?” Dog asked.

“They were picked up by a Sharkboat after they disabled the Iranian minisub. The Sharkboat is due to rendezvous with the Abner Read and another Sharkboat in ninety minutes.”

“What’s the status of the Bennett?” Dog asked.

“Our engine has been replaced and we should be ready to launch within the hour,” said Englehardt. Mechanical problems had scratched the airplane from consideration for the original mission, and while they weren’t his fault, the pilot couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. “I’ve prepped a Search and Rescue mission and would like to help join the search for our guys.”

“Are there still cots in the upper Flighthawk compartment?”

“Yes, sir, but we don’t have a backup crew.”

“I’m your backup crew,” said Dog. “Let’s get in the air.”

Ring E, Pentagon

0825, 15 January 1998

(1825, 15 January, Karachi)

Air Force Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson checked his watch. Admiral George Balboa, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was nearly ten minutes late.

Admirals always thought they could be late for everything, Samson thought. But he forced a smile to his face and kept his grousing to himself.

As a younger man, the African-American general would have assumed it was because he was black. But now Samson realized the problem was more generic: no one had any manners these days.

Then again, that was one of the benefits of command: you didn’t need manners when you outranked someone.

“General, would you like some more coffee?” asked one of Balboa’s aides.

“Thank you, Major, but no, I’m fine.”

“There you are, Samson,” barked Balboa as he entered the office. “Come in.”

Balboa’s tone suggested that Samson was the one who was late. Samson hadn’t risen in the ranks by insulting his superiors. Especially when, as he hoped, they were about to deliver good news. So he stifled his annoyance and rose, thanked the admiral’s staff for their attention, and followed Balboa into his office.

“You’ve heard the news about India and Pakistan, I assume,” said Balboa, sliding behind his desk. An antique, it was said to have belonged to one of the USS Constitution’s skippers — a fact Samson wouldn’t have known except for the brass plate screwed into the front, obviously to impress visitors.

“I read the summary on my way over,” said Samson.

“What do you think of the developments?”

Samson considered what sort of response to give. Though classified, the report hadn’t given many details, merely hinting that the U.S. had used some sort of new weapons to down the missiles fired by both sides. It wasn’t clear what was truly going on, however, and the way Balboa posed the question made Samson suspect a trap.

“I guess I don’t have enough details to form an opinion,” he said finally.

“We’ve shot down twenty-eight warheads,” said Balboa. “The Navy sank an Indian aircraft carrier and several Chinese ships that tried to interfere. The President is continuing the operation. He wants the warheads recovered.”

“I see,” said Samson.

“The Dreamland people were in the middle of things. They fired the radiation weapons. Power is out throughout the subcontinent.”

“Uh-huh.” Samson tried to hide his impatience. A few months before, he had been mentioned as a possible commander for a new base that would have supplanted Dreamland, but the plans had never come to fruition — thankfully so, because he had much bigger and better things in mind.

Like the job he’d hoped Balboa had called him here to discuss, heading Southern Command.

“Some of the people in the administration didn’t understand the potential of the Whiplash concept,” said Balboa.

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come.”

One of his aides, a Marine Corps major, entered with a cup of coffee. The major set it down, then whispered something in Balboa’s ear.

“I’ll call him back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The President,” Balboa explained to Samson as the aide left. “Always looking for more information.”

“What exactly is Whiplash?” asked Samson.

“Oh, Whiplash.” Balboa made a face that was halfway between a smirk and a frown. “Whiplash is the name the Dreamland people use for their ground action team. They’re air commandos. But the term is also the code word the President uses to deploy Dreamland assets — air as well as ground — around the world. The concept is to combine cutting-edge technology with special operations people. A few of us thought it would be a good idea years ago, but it’s taken quite a while to get the kinks out. The line of communication and command — the National Security Advisor and the White House had their fingers in the pie, which twisted things around, as I’m sure you’d imagine.”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s finally been worked out. From this point forward, I think things will run much more smoothly. The concept — I fully support it, of course. But since I’ve been pushing it for so long, that’s understandable.”

Samson didn’t know how much of what Balboa was saying to believe. Not only was the Chairman’s disdain for the Air Force well known, but Balboa didn’t have a reputation for backing either cutting-edge research or special operations, even in the Navy. Balboa loved ships — big ships, as in aircraft carriers and even battleships, which he had suggested several times could be brought back into active service as cruise missile launchers.

Or cruise missile targets, as some of Samson’s friends at the War College commented in after-hour lectures. These sessions were always off campus, off the record, and far from any ears that might report back to the admiral. And, naturally, they were accompanied by studious elbow bending.

“As it happens,” said Balboa, “Dreamland has been under the, uh, direction of a lieutenant colonel. Dog — what’s his first name, uh…”

“Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian,” said Samson.

A decade younger than himself, Bastian had earned his wings as a fighter jock, a community unto itself in the Air Force, and so far as Samson knew, he had never met the colonel. But everyone in the Air Force had heard of Bastian and his incredible exploits at the helm of the EB-52 Megafortress.

“Presumptuous name,” said Balboa. “Goes with the personality.”

“A lieutenant colonel is in charge of Dreamland?” said Samson. He’d assumed Bastian was in charge of a wing at Dreamland, not the entire place. “I thought General Magnus took over after Brad Elliott.”

“Yes, well, General Magnus did take over — on paper. For a while. The reality is, Bastian has been in charge.