there anyway.”
Meanwhile, a harness and a set of titanium rods were dug into place under the warhead. A pair of hydraulic jacks with balloon-style wheels lifted the rods up so the warhead could be set into another jack and gingerly rolled over to the Osprey. It took considerable grunt work, but within a half hour the nuclear weapon was being rolled up into the aircraft’s hold, where it was set into a veritable nest of inflatable stretchers and strapped to the walls so it couldn’t move. Danny, one of the Navy bomb people, and two Marine riflemen sat in the rear of the aircraft with the weapon; everyone else flew in the other two rototilts.
“This’ll be a story to tell our grandkids, huh?” said the Navy expert as the Osprey revved its engines.
“If it’s declassified by then,” replied Danny.
“Positive id on the last of the Pakistani warheads,” Major Catsman told Colonel Bastian.
“Good,” said Dog. He glanced at Sergeant Daly, sitting next to him. The radar operator’s eyes had narrowed to slits, his brows sagging toward the puffy skin below. “I think we’re about to call it a day here.”
“When was the last time you slept?” Catsman asked.
Dog changed the subject, going over the arrangements Catsman had made for handling communications with the U-2s and Marines recovering the nukes on the ground. Then he checked in with Danny, who was helping set up the warhead recovery base in a hilly section of the desert between India and Pakistan. So far, four Indian and two Pakistani warheads had been recovered, all without incident.
“Any word on Major and Captain Stockard?” asked Dog, trying to sound as unemotional as possible.
“Negative.”
“Alert me if there are any new developments,” he told Catsman. “I’ll check back with you when we land at Diego Garcia.”
“Roger that. Get some rest.”
“I will, Major. Thanks for the advice.”
By the time Danny Freah had a chance to stop and catch his breath, night had begun stealing into the rugged hills around him, casting long shadows over the temporary camp the Marines had hastily erected. Over fifty Marines guarded the perimeter, with additional sentries located to the north and south and a Marine Pioneer unmanned aerial vehicle orbiting overhead to provide constant surveillance. Flights of F/A-18s from the
For the moment, things were quiet, and neither the Indians nor the Pakistanis seemed to know they were there. The closest Indian troops were border patrol units nearly two hundred miles to the south.
Admiral Woods had decided that the warheads would be transferred to the USS
The
Danny ambled down the narrow path to the tent area, the fatigue of the long day slowing every step. It was a good kind of tired, he thought, the kind that came from a tough but successful mission. On the other hand, tired was tired.
Dancer met him as the trail gave way to the narrow plain where the Marines had established their command area.
“You look like you could use a good home-cooked meal,” she told him.
“If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”
“This way.”
Danny tried thinking about his wife Jemma. But she was far away, and they hadn’t been getting along too well anyway, and — and Dancer was right in front of him, just begging to be touched.
Somehow he managed to keep his hands to himself as she led him into the mess tent.
“Pot roast,” said Dancer. “Just like mom used to make. Of course, my mom was in the Army.”
She pointed at a tray of squished plastic packages containing vacuum-sealed meat and gravy — a Meals Ready to Eat version of pot roast.
“I thought you were cooking,” Danny said, laughing.
“Oh, I am,” said Dancer. She picked up one of the packages and dropped it into a tray of simmering water nearby.
“Lieutenant, I’m surprised at you,” he said, grabbed a set of tongs and fished the package out of the water. “That’s going to give it that plasticky taste. Come on. Let me show you how it’s supposed to be done.”
He picked up two of the packages and four metal plates, then went outside.
“Most important thing you have to do,” he told Dancer as he walked away from the tents, “is find the proper location.”
Danny picked a spot with a scattering of small and medium-sized rocks. He squatted down and quickly created a miniature fireplace. He made covered casserole dishes by covering a plate’s worth of food with another plate and placing them over the hearth, securing the tops with small stones.
“You forgot the charcoal,” said Dancer.
Danny smiled and took a pencil flare from his tac vest.
“No,” said Dancer.
“Learned this in high school,” he told her. He lit the flare, then set it under the pans. He arranged the rocks to help channel the heat to the food. “I was with the local ambulance squad. We used to do this when we were on standby at football games.”
“You seem more like you would have been playing football than waiting for someone to get hurt.”
“Couldn’t play football that year,” said Danny. “Bad knee. That’s why I became an EMT.”
“How can you parachute if you have bad knees?”
“That was my junior year. They got better.”
Danny had gone on to play — and star — as quarterback the next year, and even played in college, albeit for a Division III school. But he didn’t mention this to Dancer; it would sound too much like bragging.
The food had already been cooked before it was packaged, and long before the flare died out, the scent of warm meat and gravy filled the air.
“Only thing we need now is wine,” he said, pulling the pans off the fire.
“Wait!” said Dancer. She turned and trotted to the mess tent.
Now he did think of Jemma — how mad she would be if she saw him at that moment, ready to jump Dancer’s bones.
If she loved him so much, why wouldn’t she give up her job in New York, or at least spend more time visiting him at Dreamland?
And why didn’t Jemma want kids? She wouldn’t even talk about it anymore.
“Here we go,” said Dancer, returning. “Best I could do.”
She held up two boxes of grape juice.
“From the north side of the vineyard, I hope,” said Danny.
“Nineteen ninety-eight was a very good year for concord grapes.” Dancer tossed him a box. “The vintage has aged especially well since it’s been boxed.”
Danny laughed.
“This is good. Hot, but good,” said Dancer. “The flare definitely adds something.”
Before he could think of a witty reply, a sergeant approached and told them the
“As much as we can get,” said Dancer, getting up. “Let me go talk to them. Hate to eat and run, Captain.”
