Retribution

did, the creature slipped off into the water. Zen grabbed the handle of the knife as the turtle sank and threw the creature, blade and all, onto the rocks. It landed sideways, propped there, still struggling when he reached it.

Dazed and confused, its life ebbing, the turtle craned its neck in the direction of the water. Zen circled behind the animal, then took hold of its leg, dragging it farther ashore. The leg felt slimy and cold. It was a live thing, pushing against him, and once again Zen was paralyzed.

But he had to eat, and so did Bree. He picked up the leg and dashed the turtle against the rocks, smacking it so hard the shell cracked open. Then he grabbed a nearby rock and pounded it on the hilt of his knife, driving the weapon into the animal. Finally the creature stopped struggling, its life over.

Exhausted, Zen let the rock drop from his hand. Then he turned his attention back to the water, wondering if it might be possible to swim back to the pup tent rather than crawl.

As he did, something caught his eye.

A small boat was approaching, less than a hundred yards away.

Dreamland

1945

Major Catsman and the smiling chief master sergeant tried to placate General Samson, suggesting he try dinner in the VIP dining room, but Samson wasn’t buying the bullshit they were selling. He was filled with rage toward the arrogant and ignorant scientist who’d threatened to have him booted—booted!  — from Dreamland Command.

Undoubtedly this had been done at Colonel Bastian’s behest, Samson thought, since it was inconceivable that a mere civilian scientist would have the audacity.

What really irked him, however, was the fact that the military people hadn’t intervened. The world had truly turned upside down here.

Samson had thought that there might be room for Bastian under his command. Clearly, that was not going to work. The incident in Dreamland Command aside, Bastian’s outsized ego was on clear display when Samson entered his office. It was outfitted with well-polished cherry furniture fit for a king.

“When I was a lieutenant colonel,” muttered Samson to his aides as he surveyed the office, “I had a tin desk.”

“Begging the general’s pardon,” said Ax. “The colonel inherited this from the last commander, who was a major general. Rather than—”

“He’s disinherited. As of now, this is my office.”

“You’re moving in?” said Catsman.

“Major, what did you think my purpose in arriving here today was?” said Samson. Catsman was also high on his list of people to be replaced.

“Sir, we were under the impression—”

“Which impression is that?” thundered Samson.

Catsman seemed lost for words. “General Magnus, when he was in your position—”

“General Magnus had many things on his plate,” said Samson. “I am not him. Dreamland is my baby now. I saw no reason to wait several weeks before coming out here.”

“Well no, sir. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Samson turned to Ax. “Find some men to move Bastian’s things to a secure location.”

“Uh…”

“How long have you been a chief master sergeant, Mr. Gibbs?”

“We’ll get right on it, General.”

Maybe he can stay, thought Samson. Having someone around who knew where all the latrine keys were kept might be handy.

* * *

While it was often said that the wheels of government moved slowly, Major General Terrill Samson did not. Even though it was nearly midnight back in Washington, he got on the phone and did what he could to kick the paperwork into gear to move the transition forward and, most important, update the Whiplash order so it named him personally.

Then he decided to call the National Security Advisor personally to discuss his new command. If Bastian could work closely with the White House, so could he.

Thinking he would simply leave a message with the overnight staff, Samson was surprised to find that Freeman was working. But as soon as he was put through, he was met with more questions than answers.

“How many warheads have been recovered?” demanded Freeman. “What’s the status?”

“I’m not up-to-date on all of the operational details,” said Samson, caught off guard. “Generally, I let my people in the field — I give them full rein.”

“Well, when are we getting an update? I realize Colonel Bastian is busy, but the President needs to know. He’s addressing the General Assembly at the UN first thing in the morning.”

“Understood.”

“The President wants every warhead recovered. We want that accomplished before news of the operation leaks. It has to proceed quickly.”

“Of course,” said Samson. “I can assure you we’re working on it. We’re going to do it.”

“Good.”

“There is one thing,” said Samson. He told Freeman, as delicately as he could manage, that some “legal types” had advised him that Whiplash orders should be directed to him so that the proper chain of command could be followed. This would facilitate the process—“speed up the operation,” said Samson.

“Why is that an issue at this moment?” said Freeman.

“It’s not an issue,” said Samson quickly. “Legal types, though — you know the red tape that can get involved.”

“Dreamland is about avoiding red tape.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll look into having the order reissued,” said Freeman. “If it’s necessary.”

“I’m told it is. The lawyers — if you could have my name there specifically, instead of Bastian’s…”

“I’ll have someone work on it,” said Freeman.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett, over the Indian Ocean

1100

“Hawk Two refueled,” Starship said, pulling the robot aircraft away from her mother ship.

As far as the pilot was concerned, the differences between the first generation and the upgraded U/MF-3D Flighthawks were generally subtle. The increased controllable range was the most noticeable change; depending on the altitudes, and to a lesser extent the atmospheric conditions, the Flighthawk could now operate at full throttle two hundred nautical miles from the Megafortress. The autonomous programming had also been improved, allowing the pilot to tell the computer to attack an opponent beyond the controllable range, then rendezvous along a vector or at a specific GPS point. The Flighthawk’s ground attack modes had also been upgraded, as had its capacity to carry small bombs and ground-attack missiles, a capability jury-rigged into the earlier models.

But it was still a robot. As Starship steered his two Flighthawks over the Indian desert toward their designated search area in Pakistan, he found himself longing to be behind the stick of a real airplane, like the F/A-18 he’d flown down to Diego Garcia in.

Robot planes were the future of the Air Force. But they just didn’t give you the same kick in the pants the heavy metal did.

He brought Hawk Two down through a thin deck of clouds, accelerating as he pushed toward a thousand feet. They were nearing the northern edge of a search zone designated as I-17, after the warhead that supposedly had crashed here. He was over Pakistan, and though marked on the maps as desert, the area was far from uninhabited. He saw a cluster of small houses on his left as he leveled off. There was no activity, however; he was in the zone affected by the T-Rays.

Starship checked quickly on Hawk One, which was flying an automated search pattern to the west. That area was much more desolate, without even a highway in sight as the Flighthawk trundled along at five hundred feet, moving at just under 200 knots.