Retribution

It seemed too much of a coincidence that the other ship would be steaming in that direction; clearly, it was homing in on the radio transmissions from the survival radio. Perhaps it had picked up the MC-17 first, then gone to investigate.

With hopes of capturing the American fliers, he had no doubt.

He could sink the bastards with the Harpoons if it came to that. But by the time he got into range, the Indian would be at the atoll.

“Dreamland Quickmover looking for you, Captain,” said the communications specialist over the ship’s intercom circuit. “It’s Colonel Bastian.”

“Yes, Dog, what’s going on?”

“We spotted an Indian destroyer that seems interested in the atoll.”

“Yes, we copy,” Storm told him. “I’m not in range to deal with him.”

“Given what the Indians have been doing to our aircraft up north,” said Dog, “we should consider him hostile.”

“Agreed.” Storm felt his irritation growing.

“I can broadcast a warning,” offered Dog.

“You’re in a cargo plane, aren’t you?”

“I’ll fight the bastard with my bare hands if I have to,” said Dog.

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Storm.

Aboard Dreamland Quickmover

0704

“Main antiair weapons are Shtil missiles,” said the copilot, consulting the onboard reference to ID the Indian destroyer’s capabilities. “They’re Indian versions of the Russian SA-N-7s. They have about a three kilometer range. Maybe 15,000 meters — roughly 50,000 feet. We’re OK as long as we keep our distance.”

Dog looked at his paper map, mentally calculating the Abner Read’s position against the Indian destroyer’s. The Indian was north; Storm was south and to the west. The Cheli was more than an hour and a half north, still covering the warhead recovery operations. By the time they got down here it would all be over.

“Dreamland MC-17 Quickmover to Indian destroyer,” said Dog, switching his radio into the international communications frequencies. “We are conducting a recovery mission in the area and request you hold your position.”

When the destroyer did not reply, Dog repeated the message, this time giving the destroyer’s position and heading.

“Dreamland Quickmover, you are over Indian territory and will be shot down if you remain,” replied the destroyer.

“This is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian. I’d like to speak to the captain of the ship.”

“This is the Republic of India naval vessel Rana. You are in Indian territory.”

“I’m in international airspace, conducting a Search and Rescue mission for downed airmen.”

“Give us their location and we will pick them up.”

“Thanks, but we’ve got it covered,” replied Dog. “Please just stand by.”

The Indian destroyer continued on its course.

Its offer, though, gave Dog an idea.

“Rana, if you desire to assist, I can give you a search grid. Your assistance would be appreciated.”

Dog gave the destroyer a GPS reading that would take it to the east of the atoll. The destroyer didn’t acknowledge — but it did change course.

“Good one, Colonel,” said the crew chief, who’d been standing next to him, nervously shifting his weight back and forth the whole time.

“It won’t work for too long,” said Dog. “As soon as Zen broadcasts again, they’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe you should tell him to keep quiet.”

“I will, as soon as I think of a way to do that without tipping off the Indians that it’s a ruse.”

An atoll off the Indian coast

0715

The kid who had brought them water was fascinated by the Werewolf, staring at it as it circled around the small island.

“You like helicopters?” Zen asked.

The boy was so engrossed in watching the helo that he didn’t seem to hear.

“That’s a robot,” said Zen. “It’s being flown from a ship.”

“Robot?” said the boy.

“Yeah.” Zen pushed himself a little farther down the rock-strewn beach. There was something on the horizon to the north, a long sliver of white.

A ship.

The Abner Read?

Zen stared. The bits of white separated into distinct pieces. There was a mast at the center of the figure, a sleek smokestack.

The Abner Read didn’t have a mast. She was a special ship, very low to the water.

And black, not gray. She wouldn’t reflect the sun like this.

“Zen, what’s up?” asked Breanna.

“I see a ship,” he told her. “It’s going in the wrong direction. Give me the radio.”

Aboard the Abner Read, Indian Ocean

0725

Storm watched the plot of the Indian destroyer, now positively identified as the Rana, veer toward the mainland. He had to hand it to Bastian, the old Dog had a plentiful bag of tricks.

They could be friends if he weren’t such a jerk.

The holographic unit included a navigational module that could calculate and project courses. Storm simply pointed at the atoll and asked, in his clearest voice, “ETA?” The computer flashed a set of numbers above the small rock: 1:42:06.

“I want more power, engineering,” he said. “Helm, find some way to get us to that rock faster. I don’t care if you have to put up a sail. Get us there!”

Aboard Dreamland Quickmover

0730

“Zen Stockard to rescue operation. come in,” said Zen.

Dog immediately hit his transmit button.

“Zen, we need radio silence. Complete radio silence. We will get you. We will get you. We don’t need a broadcast.”

Dog leaned over the radio console, hoping that Zen’s brief transmission — and his own — would go unnoticed by the Indian destroyer.

But it was a vain hope.

“Destroyer is changing course, Colonel,” said the copilot, who’d been monitoring it. “Going back in the original direction.”

“I’ll notify the Abner Read,” said Dog grimly.

An atoll off the Indian coast

0731

“What’s wrong, Zen?”

Zen put down the radio without answering. He shaded his eyes and stared at the ship on the horizon.

“Jeff?”

“I think the Indians are looking for us too,” he told Breanna. “And I gather that we don’t want them to find us.”