Retribution

Englehardt glanced over his shoulder, then passed the order to Sullivan.

The aircraft shuddered as the doors swung open. The open bay increased the Megafortress’s radar cross section, increasing the range at which the aircraft could be seen. Dog plugged his headset into the auxiliary console on the airborne radar side.

“Pakistan F-6s flying from Faisal, this is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian in Dreamland Bennett. I’m conducting a Search and Rescue mission over Indian territory. Are you authorized to assist?”

“Dreamland flight, please identify yourself,” said a voice in heavily accented English.

The transmission was weak but unbroken. Dog repeated what he had just told them.

“Dreamland USA — you are operating in Indian territory?”

“Affirmative. We have the situation under control at this time,” Dog added. “Be advised that we spotted two Indian aircraft to the southeast approaching Pakistan territory approximately zero-five minutes ago. We tentatively ID’d them as Su-27s. They are no longer on our radar. I can provide our last contact.”

The Pakistani pilots didn’t reply. Possibly they were checking with their ground controller.

“F-6s are turning,” said Rager. “Going east. Roughly on an intercept.”

“Dreamland USA — do you require assistance?” asked the Pakistani pilot.

“Negative. We are in good shape,” said Dog.

The Pakistani pilot requested the Indians’ last position and their heading. Dog gave them coordinates that would take the interceptors well to the east.

The Pakistanis acknowledged.

Sullivan began laughing as soon as the conversation ended.

“Good one, Colonel,” said the copilot. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d fall for it.”

“Neither did I,” said Dog.

“I’m not sure they did,” said Rager. “They’ve extended their turn — looks to me like they’re trying to sweep around and come at us from the east.”

Aboard the Abner Read, northern Arabian Sea

0640

“I don’t care what capabilities you have, Storm. You have orders. And you…will…follow them.”

Admiral Woods’s face grew redder with each word. Storm, sitting in his quarters and addressing the admiral through the secure video communications hookup there, squeezed his fingers into a pair of fists behind his back.

“Admiral, if the Khan is moving south, I should move with her. We should be prepared for anything she does. The Chinese—”

“We are prepared for anything she does,” said Woods. “The Decatur will trail her. And if she makes any aggressive move—”

“A Chinese frigate fired missiles at one of the Dreamland aircraft. That’s damn threatening.”

“Storm, we’ve been through this. You yourself said that was the result of a misunderstanding.”

“I believe I was wrong.”

“Based on what evidence?”

Storm had no evidence, but he had strong feelings. He strongly regretted arranging the trade for the Chinese pilot — he could have engaged the frigate with his torpedoes and deck gun.

“I’m just convinced,” he told the admiral. “I’m convinced they’re going to try something.”

“Then the Decatur and the Lincoln will deal with her. In the meantime, you have no weapons and must replenish.”

“So let me replenish off the Lincoln. All I need are a dozen Harpoons.”

“The Lincoln has only enough ammunition and stores for its own task force.”

“But if I have to go all the way to Japan, I might just as well head to San Diego. The ship is due back there for full evaluation in three weeks. By the time the contractors get everything together—”

“You…have…your…orders!”

The admiral reached toward his screen, and the image on Storm’s video disintegrated into a tiny blue dot.

The admiral was jealous, thought Storm. Woods couldn’t stand the idea that he and his ship had made history.

Storm decided that Woods must be sending the Decatur to trail the stricken Khan because he was convinced the Chinese weren’t done. The Decatur was a conventional destroyer; if it finished off the Khan, it would take some of the shine off his own accomplishments.

Storm went out into the conference room next to his cabin to pace and consider his orders. The admiral hadn’t ordered him out of battle — he’d ordered him to replenish. Logically, if he could find another way to replenish, he could stay in the fight.

There was a replenishment ship about two days sail to the south, steaming toward the Lincoln task group, and another off the coast of Africa. But the radical design of the Abner Read called for special handlers to load its forward weapon pods, and neither ship was equipped with them. The alternative was to hand-load the littoral destroyer. This would involve taking the missiles from the containers they were transported in, slinging them across the open sea, and then manhandling them — gently, of course — into their launch boxes.

Doable, but not easy, and sure to require higher approval before proceeding. Higher approval meant talking to Woods, and Storm knew how that would go.

There had to be other sources.

Dreamland used Harpoons, didn’t they? Where did they get the missiles?

Diego Garcia.

Storm called his procurement officer, an ensign who told him he’d already checked with Diego Garcia; no Harpoon missiles were available there.

“You’re telling me there are no missiles on that base?”

The answer involved a lengthy explanation of the Navy’s supply system. Storm was in no mood to hear it.

He needed to put a chief petty officer in charge of keeping them armed and supplied, he thought. Someone who knew his way around the regulations, not someone who spouted them to him.

He was about to switch channels when the ensign offered a suggestion: “The Dreamland people may have some to spare. Maybe we could try them.”

The Air Force did use Harpoon missiles, but Storm wondered whether they were compatible. He knew that the ship-launched weapons contained a booster that the air-launched weapons lacked, but wasn’t sure what other differences there might be. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to determine that the missiles should work in the Abner Read, provided they were properly mated with the booster units.

The Abner Read carried six spares.

Storm clapped his hands together, then punched the com unit on his belt. “Communications, get me Colonel Bastian, would you?”

Aboard the Bennett, near the Pakistan-India border

0640

Dog watched the two Pakistani jets as they swung in toward them from the east. The aircraft were now about ten minutes away.

“What do you think, Colonel?” asked Englehardt. “Do we take them down or not?”

“They haven’t challenged us yet,” Dog told him.

“Respectfully, sir, if they have bombs, they could do some decent damage to the Marines before we can shoot them down.”

“I don’t intend on letting them get into a position to do that,” said Dog. “They’re not flying an attack profile. Change your course so we can go out to meet them. Plot an intercept so we can come around on their tails. Get us a little more altitude.”