Retribution

“We call them charts, sir,” said the ensign who’d been assigned as the Dreamland contingent’s tour guide.

The rest of the Air Force people were crowding sickbay, but Major Smith claimed his sojourn in the water had left him refreshed. He certainly had a lot of energy, Storm thought.

“How does this work?” asked Mack, raising his hand above the holographic display.

“No, sir! No!” The ensign grabbed Mack’s hand before the major could swipe it through the display.

“Hey, take it easy, kid. I wasn’t going to touch anything.”

“The ensign was trying to point out that in some modes, the holographic table accepts commands much like a touchscreen,” said Storm stiffly. “So we look, don’t touch.”

“I get the picture.” Mack smirked at Storm, then went over to the helm. “Almost like jet controls, huh?”

It must have taken the helmsman a monumental effort not to elbow Mack as he breathed over his neck, looking at the ship’s “dashboard.”

Pity he was so disciplined, thought Storm.

“I didn’t think we’d be so low in the water,” said Mack. “I mean, did you guys take a hit during the battle?”

“We took several,” said Storm. “None of which were serious. The ship is designed to sit very low so it can’t be seen by radar, or the naked eye for that matter, except at very close range.”

“Wow. That’s wild,” said Mack. “It’s weird, though, you know? I mean, it’s a great boat and all. Don’t get me wrong. Glad to be here. But it’s low. What are we? Eight feet above the waves? Six?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified, sir,” said the ensign.

Storm decided the man would get shore leave and double beer rations for the rest of his life.

“Sharkboat Two is one mile north, Captain,” said the helmsman.

“Very good. Prepare to rendezvous.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

“Two more of your Dreamland people are aboard the Sharkboat, Major,” added Storm. “Captain Freah and one of his sergeants.”

“No shit. Man, it’s like a regular reunion.”

“Isn’t it, though? Would you like to meet the captain on the fantail?”

“There or the bar. Whatever you got.”

* * *

Danny Freah restored some of storm’s good humor, modestly taking very little credit in the disabling of the Iranian minisub that had helped provoke the war between India and Pakistan. Storm had already heard a full report from his men in the Sharkboat and was well aware that Danny and his sergeant had nearly drowned while disabling the craft. Had it not been for the two Dreamlanders, the sub surely would have gotten away.

In Danny’s account, however, the Sharkboat arrived just at the critical juncture. The Navy people saved the day, securing the craft and fishing him out of the water.

Storm was still soaking up the praises of his men when Eyes interrupted to tell him that several more downed Dreamland crew members had been found.

“They’re from the Levitow,” Eyes told him over the ship’s intercom system. “They have six people in the water. They’re not far from the coast. Eighty miles southwest of us.”

“All right, we’ll pick them up, too,” Storm said. “Are the Chinese near them?”

“Negative. But there’s an Indian ship in the area. A guided missile frigate.”

“I’m not afraid of an Indian frigate,” said Storm. He ordered the crew to plot a course to the downed airmen and set sail at top speed.

“I’d like to participate in the rescue,” said Danny Freah after Storm finished issuing his orders.

“I’ll tell you what, Captain. If my medical officer releases you to participate, you’re welcome to help.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“No, the pleasure’s mine.”

“The Levitow is Breanna Stockard’s plane,” said Danny. “She’s the colonel’s daughter.”

“Bastian’s daughter?” Storm hadn’t realized Colonel Bastian had a child, let alone that she was in the Air Force and under his command. “Bastian doesn’t seem old enough to have a pilot for a daughter.”

“You’d have to take that up with the colonel himself, sir.”

Aboard the Bennett, over the northern Arabian Sea

2151

Dog grabbed one of the handholds on the auxiliary control panel of the surface radar station as the Megafortress plunged closer to the water, pushing into a low orbit around the tiny rafts bobbing about twenty miles from the Indian coast. A fitful splash of white blinked from three of the small boats, emergency beacons showing the Bennett where they were.

Captain Jan Stewart, who’d been the Levitow’s copilot, was on the radio with Sullivan, telling him that all six of the crew members who’d gone out together had been able to hook up. There were no serious injuries, said Stewart, and now that they saw the Megafortress’s flares bursting through the cloud deck, they were in excellent spirits.

But the Levitow had been carrying eight people, not its usual six.

“Breanna and Zen went out after us,” Stewart told the Bennett’s copilot. “They were going to jump through the holes left by the escape hatches. None of us saw their parachutes. We’re sure they got out.”

Her voice sounded almost desperate.

“Indian Godavari-class frigate, four miles due south,” reported Sergeant Daly over the Bennett’s interphone circuit. “Godavari is equipped with OSA-ME surface-to-air missiles. NATO code name Gecko SA-N-4. Radar guided; range ten kilometers. Accurate to 16,400 feet.”

“How long before the Abner Read gets here?” Dog asked Sullivan.

The Bennett’s copilot told him that the ship had estimated it would take about two and a half hours.

“I’ll bet the Indian ship saw their flares and is homing in on the signal from Stewart’s radio,” added Lieutenant Englehardt, the pilot. “They’ll be close enough to see the beacons in a few minutes, if they haven’t already.”

“Let’s find out what they’re up to,” said Dog. “Contact them.”

He put his hands to his eyes. He was tired — beyond tired.

“Colonel, I have someone from the Indian ship acknowledging,” said the copilot. “Ship’s name is Gomati.”

Dog pushed his headset’s boom mike close to his mouth and dialed into the frequency used by the Indian ship. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian on Dreamland Bennett. I’d like to speak to the captain of the Gomati.”

“I am the executive officer,” replied a man in lightly accented English. “What can we do for you, Colonel?”

“You can hold your position away from my men,” said Dog. “We are conducting rescue operations.”

The Indian didn’t immediately reply. Dog knew he had a strong hand — the Bennett carried four Harpoon missiles on the rotating dispenser in her belly. One well-placed hit would disable the frigate; two would sink her.

And despite his orders not to engage any of the combatants, Dog had no compunctions about using the missiles to protect his people.

“Colonel Bastian,” said a new voice from the destroyer. “I am Captain Ajanta. Why are you warning us away from the men in the water? We intend to offer our assistance.”

“If it’s all the same to you, we’d prefer to take care of it ourselves,” Dog told him.

The Indian officer didn’t reply.

“I think you insulted him, Colonel,” said Lieutenant Englehardt over the interphone.

“Maybe.” Dog clicked back into the circuit and took a more diplomatic tact. “Gomati, we appreciate your offer of assistance. We already have a vessel en route and