Retribution

directly to the President through the NSC.

In theory, Jed realized, he was losing some of his prestige. But he knew he’d never been more than a political buffer. Part of the reason the President and the National Security Advisor used him as a liaison, after all, was the fact that he was young and had no political power base of his own.

“I’ll do whatever job you want me to, sir,” he said.

“Good. You have a bright future. Let’s get through this crisis, get these warheads, and then maybe we’ll have a chance to sit down and see how best you can serve your country.”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

The President went back to his desk.

“You can go now, young Jed. Forward these reports to Admiral Balboa, with copies to Admiral Woods on the Lincoln. Make sure he has everything he needs. Dreamland is working with the Marines, under Woods. We’ll follow the chain of command.”

“Yes, sir.”

Aboard the Bennett, over the northern Arabian Sea

2100

Steven L. Bennett was a captain in The U.S. Air Force, assigned to the Twentieth Tactical Air Support Squadron, Pacific Air Forces, during the Vietnam War era. After completing B-52 training in 1970, Captain Bennett went about as far from strategic bombers as you could in the Air Force at the time — he trained to become a forward air controller, calling bombs in rather than dropping them, and flying in an airplane designed to skim treetops rather than the stratosphere.

By June 1972, Bennett was piloting an OV-10 Bronco, an excellent combat observation aircraft with only one serious flaw — it was almost impossible to crash-land successfully. The forward section of the two-seater would generally implode, killing the pilot, though the backseater could get out with minor injuries. Pilots quickly learned that it didn’t make sense to try and ditch an OV-10; “hitting the silk,” as the old-timers used to call ejecting, was the only way to survive.

On June 29, 1972, Bennett flew what was known as an artillery adjustment mission over Quang Tri Province in South Vietnam. His observer was a Marine Corps captain named Mike Brown. The two men pulled a three-hour sortie and were about to head home to Da Nang when they learned that their replacement was running behind schedule. Going home would leave ground troops without anyone to call on if they got in trouble.

Captain Bennett checked his fuel and decided to stay on station until the relief plane could get up. A short time later South Vietnamese troops in the area called in for assistance; they were taking fire from a much larger North Vietnamese unit and were about to be overrun.

Bennett and Brown called for a tactical air strike, but no attack aircraft were available. They then requested that Navy guns bombard the attackers, but the proximity of the South Vietnamese to their northern enemies made that impossible.

So Bennett decided to do the job himself, rolling in on several hundred NVA soldiers with just the four 7.62mm machine guns in his Bronco’s nose. After the fourth pass, he had them on the run. He came down again to give them another snoutful, but this time his aircraft was hit — a SAM-7 shoulder-launched heat seeker took out his left engine. His plane caught fire.

Bennett headed out over the nearby ocean to jettison his fuel and the highly flammable rockets used for marking targets. As he did so, an escort aircraft caught up with him and advised him that the fire started by the missile was now so severe that his plane looked like it would explode any minute. Bennett ordered Brown to get ready to eject; they’d punch out over the water and be picked up by one of the Navy ships or a friendly helicopter.

Brown agreed. But then he saw that his parachute had been torn by shrapnel from the missile that struck the plane.

Not a problem, said Bennett, whose own parachute was in perfect condition. Get ready to ditch.

And so they did. The OV-10 cartwheeled when she hit the water, and then sank. If Bennett was still alive after the crash, his cockpit was too mangled for him to escape as the plane went under the waves. Captain Brown, fortunately, managed to push his way out and was picked up by a rescue chopper a short time later.

For his selfless devotion to duty and his determination to save another man’s life even at the cost of his own, Captain Steven L. Bennett was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously. It was presented by then Vice President Gerald R. Ford to Bennett’s widow and daughter two years after his death.

* * *

Steven Bennett’s namesake, Dreamland Eb-52 Megafortress Bennett, had begun life as a B-52D. And, in fact, the aircraft had actually served in the same war as Captain Bennett, dropping bombs on North Vietnam during two different deployments. It remained in active service until 1982, when it was mothballed and put in storage. And there it remained until the spring of 1996, when it was taken from its desert storage area, gutted, and rebuilt as a Megafortress. The changes were many. Its wings and tail section were completely replaced, new engines and electrical controls were installed, a radar “bulge” was installed in a spine above the wing roots, and provision was made for the EB-52 to carry and launch robot aircraft. Much of the new gear was simply unimaginable when the B-52 was first built.

When the aircraft was flyable, she was taken by a special crew to Dreamland, where additional modifications were made to her frame. More equipment, including an AWACS-style radar for the bulge, was added.

The plane had completed final flight tests shortly before Thanksgiving, 1997. She’d received further modifications on Diego Garcia to make her systems impervious to T-Rays. Ironically, the work on those modifications had not been completed when the T-Ray weapons had to be used, and the Bennett remained on the ground. A subsequent glitch with her left outboard engine required her to turn back after being launched shortly afterward, much to her crew’s consternation.

The Bennett was making up for it now, her engines pushing the airplane to just under the speed of sound as she raced northward in search of the crew of the stricken Levitow.

“We should be in the area where they ejected within the hour,” Lieutenant Englehardt said as Dog looked over his shoulder at the situation map set in the middle of the dash. “So far we haven’t heard the emergency beacons.”

Dog nodded. The emergency PRC radios had a limited range. Like everyone else in the Air Force, the Dreamland fliers relied on PRC radios, which used relatively old technology. Better units were available, but hadn’t been authorized for purchase because of budget issues. Dog suspected that if some congressman had to rely on one, money would be found for upgrades pretty damn fast.

“Incoming transmission for you, Colonel. This is from the NSC — Jed Barclay.”

Dog dropped into the empty seat in front of the auxiliary airborne radar control. As soon as he authorized the transmission, Jed Barclay’s face appeared on the screen. He was speaking from the White House Situation Room.

“Bastian. Jed, what’s up?”

“Colonel, I, uh, I have Admiral Balboa on the line. He uh, wanted me to make the connection.”

“OK,” said Dog, puzzled.

“Stand by.”

Balboa’s face flashed onto the screen. Dog had spoken to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff several times since taking command of Dreamland. Balboa didn’t particularly like the Air Force, and Dog sensed that he didn’t particularly care for him either.

“Colonel, how are you this morning?”

“It’s nighttime here, Admiral.”

“Yes.” Balboa scowled. “The President has decided to recover the warheads. He wants you to work with the Marines from the Seventh MEU. Admiral Woods will have overall control of the mission.”

Dog smiled. He knew Woods from exercises they’d had together — exercises where Dreamland had blown up his carrier several times.

“Problem with that, Colonel?” asked Balboa. The nostrils in his pug nose flared.

“Not on my side.”

“Admiral Woods has no problems,” said Balboa.