where the warheads are. That’s the key.”
“What about the Dreamland people?” asked Martindale. “Can they recover the weapons?”
“There are too many warheads for them to do it,” said Chastain. “And three of their planes have been shot down.”
“Jed?”
“Um, their ground unit is intact, but, um, it’s not big enough to do it on its own.”
“I meant, what’s the status of the airplanes?”
“There were three planes on the mission. Two were shot down,” said Jed. “The third was the plane flown by Colonel Bastian. He was preparing to crash it into the Chinese aircraft carrier when the Chinese sent their nuclear- loaded bomber back to the hangar deck. So six crews are in the water.”
“Have our people been picked up?”
“We’re still working on it. This has only happened within the last hour, sir. Thirty minutes.”
Martindale took a step toward the video conference screens. “Admiral, I want those people recovered.”
“I’m sure they’re working on it, sir,” said Balboa.
“Work harder.” Martindale turned around. “I’ll decide what we’re doing when I see the data on where the warheads are. But I agree with Philip. This is an historic opportunity. It’s worth considerable risk. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have to tell the world what we’ve done.”
Dog tacked to the east, widening his orbit. It was very possible the destroyer had noticed him circling the area and was coming over to investigate. In that case, he thought he might be able to throw them off by circling around an empty patch of water.
On the other hand, they might be pulling themselves close enough to fire short-range antiair weapons at him. He had no radar warning device, so he couldn’t even tell if he was being tracked.
“Dreamland
“Dog, we’re under way toward your men,” reported Eyes, the
“Understood,” said Dog.
The
Something flashed from the deck of the Chinese frigate — a missile.
The Chinese had just cast their vote in favor of sooner rather than later.
As starship spun the Werewolf to the south, the Chinese pilot’s head disappeared beneath a swell of water.
“Tac, this guy’s not going to make it much longer,” said Starship. He watched as the man bobbed back to the surface. The Chinese pilot shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Starship winced — the saltwater probably stung like hell — but at least the man was alive.
“Sharkboat is doing the best it can,” replied Eyes.
If the Werewolf were a “real” helicopter, it could have dropped a line from its belly and picked the poor sucker up. But the Werewolf didn’t have a line. Its winch pack, used for transporting objects in combat, was aboard the
Then again, they didn’t need a winch, just a line.
Starship suggested that he return to the
“Why do you think he’ll grab onto the line?” Eyes asked.
“We’ll tie one of those rescue collars on it,” said Starship. “I think he’ll grab it if it’s in front of his face.”
“Let’s give it a shot,” said the lieutenant commander. “Head back here. I’ll have a sailor standing by.”
The Megafortress didn’t seem any happier to go fast than it had slowing down. Dog slicked the aircraft’s control surfaces back, rigging her for speed as he prodded the engines. Ordinarily, the aircraft would have responded instantaneously, jumping forward with a burst of speed. But the holes at the top and bottom of her fuselage where the crew had punched out created strong currents of air that fought against her wings’ ability to provide lift. She was unbalanced, and moved sluggishly, drifting sideways rather than straight ahead.
“Come on now,” said Dog. He tried to correct by adjusting his engines, but was only partly successful; even as he picked up speed, he felt as if he was fighting a stiff crosswind.
The missiles the Chinese ship had launched were HQ-7s, a Chinese version of the French Crotale. Guided by radar from the launch ship, the missiles used an infrared sensor to detonate once they were near their target. Ordinarily the Megafortress would have no trouble confusing the missiles, jamming both the destroyer’s radar and the guidance frequency. The aircraft’s stealthy radar profile would have helped, reducing the target the enemy had to home in on. But Dog didn’t have electronic countermeasures, and the holes in the Megafortress’s hull negated the stealthy effects of the plane’s skin.
The one thing he knew he did have going for him was the missile’s range. Though it was capable of hitting a Mach 2 target at 13,000 meters — roughly eight miles — its practical range was much closer to 8,000 meters. The
Dog locked his eyes on the blue sky in front of the windscreen, fighting to hold the
“Go,” he told the plane.
From Mack Smith’s vantage point in the water, the missile looked like a white finger jetting across the sky, spewing a trail of cotton after it. The Megafortress seemed to hang in the air, completely unaware that it was in the crosshairs.
“Hit the gas, Colonel,” yelled Mack. “Get the fuzz buster going. Jink. Do something, for chrissakes.”
“He doesn’t have countermeasures,” said Jazz, next to him in the water.
“Yeah. Shit.”
The missile stopped spewing cotton from its rear. It continued forward another mile or so, then disappeared. The Megafortress continued northward.
Mack turned back to the others. All of them, including the injured Cantor, were staring in the direction of the ship that had fired the missile. Its bow was turning in their direction.
“All right, guys, here’s what we’re going to do,” Mack said. “Number one, we get the other raft inflated and lash it to this one. Number two, we find the
“Major, that ship has to be fifty or sixty miles from us,” said Dish, glancing at Cantor. “I don’t know.”
“I
“I’m not—”
“No more bullshit, period,” said Mack, fishing for the uninflated raft kit.
Dog counted off sixty more seconds before allowing himself to believe the missile had missed. He turned the Megafortress to the west, now well north of the Chinese and his men.
“Dreamland Command, this is
“We copy, Colonel,” said Major Catsman. “We’re alerting U.S. forces in the area. We’re on the line with the
