But what if, right after the bulk of the crew bailed, the plane had turned back toward India or gone south, staying in the air for ten or even fifteen minutes longer before Zen and Breanna jumped?
The Megafortress’s computer was supposed to hold it on course, but Dog had seen firsthand how difficult the plane could be to steer with the holes torn in the skin when the ejection seats blew.
He drew a long box along the coast of India, extending nearly three hundred miles south from where the others had been found. Below the box, another hundred miles or so, were the Aminidivis islands.
Could they have made it that far south?
Probably not, he thought. But they would go over them anyway. He extended his box.
“Fly us up through here,” he told Whitey. “We’ll broadcast on the Guard band and listen on all of them.”
“Got it, Colonel.”
“If you get a radar warning from one of those SA-3 batteries along the coast, you get the hell west. Don’t stop, just go.”
“We’re well above them.”
“You go west, you got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Colonel, how long should we search?” asked the copilot, Sandra McGill.
“Until we find them or have to refuel,” said Dog. “Or until General Samson finds out where I am and has my head.”
As Danny Freah sat back in the racklike bench of the Marine Osprey, two thoughts filled his head:
His eyes started to droop. As he drifted toward sleep, he saw Dancer in front of him.
Out of uniform.
Way out of uniform.
Nice, he thought. Very nice.
Someone shook his leg.
“Yeah, what?” said Danny, sitting upright.
“Pilots want to talk to you, Captain,” said Gunny.
Danny got up and leaned into the cockpit.
“Troops are moving on both sides of the border near Base Camp One,” said the pilot. “They want us to go straight on to the
“Not a problem.”
Brad Sparks was his usual overcaffeinated self, telling him the escort would be no problem. Danny next checked in with Sergeant Liu and the Whiplash detail back at the Base Camp; Liu told him tersely that things were under control “but we’re moving triple time.”
Clearly, the sergeant was still shaken by what had happened at the house, thought Danny. But he sounded a little better, or maybe just busier — the two sometimes went together.
The corpsman was checking on Jennifer when he snapped off the line.
“How’s she doin’?” Danny asked.
“She’s lost a good bunch of blood from that knee,” said the corpsman. “Like to get her treatment as soon as we can. Real soon.”
“We’re working on it.”
Cheech long’s nasal drawl broke the silence.
“MiGs look like they’re taking an interest,” the radar officer told Sparks. “Changing course.”
“We’re ready,” said Sparks. “Keep watchin’ ’em.”
The MiGs were Indian MiG-21s, flying a little more than two hundred miles to the west — behind them now as they swung with the Osprey. Sparks decided the MiGs weren’t going to catch up; he’d save his missiles for planes that would.
“Spoon Rest radar,” said his copilot, Lieutenant Steve Micelli. “A hundred miles south.”
The radar indicated an SA-2 ground-to-air battery. Their present flight plan would keep them out of the missiles’ range.
“All sorts of goodies under the Christmas tree today, huh?” said Sparks.
“Looks like somebody told them we were coming,” said Micelli.
“I think it was Cheech,” said Sparks. “He’s always looking for a fight.”
“Had to be Cowboy,” Cheech retorted. “Those Flighthawk guys live for trouble.”
“You got a problem with that?” said Lieutenant Josh “Cowboy” Plank.
“Negative, Cowboy,” said Sparks. “Just keep your Flighthawk juiced and loose.”
“Just remember I’m on your tail,” replied the Flighthawk pilot.
“Hard to forget.”
“Chinese J-8s, coming at us hard,” warned Cheech, his voice now serious. “Four planes. Two hundred miles. They’re doing Mach 2.”
“Micelli, target them with the Anacondas,” Sparks said.
“Not supposed to shoot until they threaten us,” answered the copilot.
“I interpret afterburners as a threat. Take the mothers out,” said Sparks.
Colonel Bastian keyed the microphone again.
“Dreamland MC-17
He paused to listen. Something was scratching at the back of his throat, and he took another sip of the herbal tea the crew chief had brewed. Then he tried the broadcast again.
“Colonel, we have a surface ship in our search box,” said Whitey when Dog paused to listen for a response. “The
“Ask them if they’ll help.”
“Already have.”
“And?”
“Captain Gale wants to talk to you.”
Dog punched into the circuit. “Bastian.”
“Colonel, I understand you require assistance. What’s the status of your search?”
“Two crewmen are still missing,” said Dog. He told Storm about the radio transmission and briefly explained his theories about where the crew might have bailed.
“We’re inside your box. We’ll do what we can,” said Storm.
“Thanks. Bastian out.”
Storm frowned as the line snapped clear. Bastian had been abrupt as always, barely acknowledging his offer of help.
Some people were just social jerks, he thought.
It didn’t matter, though. This was their chance to get back in the game, if only a little. Anything was better than sitting at sea and twiddling their thumbs like a garbage scow waiting to sweep up the slops. The crew was starting to get
“Eyes, I want to set up a thorough search for two downed Dreamlanders,” Storm said, switching over to his internal line. “The Werewolf, everything we’ve got.”
