The frigate was still coming toward them.

“Major, I’m going to try increasing the speed,” said Starship. “Are you guys all right?”

Mack’s response, if there was one, was drowned out by the roar of the Werewolf ’s blades directly overhead. The engineers who had advertised the chopper as “whisper quiet”

obviously had a unique notion of how loud a whisper was.

Starship notched the speed up gently, moving to six knots and then eight. He knew it had to feel fast to the men on the rafts, but it was less than half the frigate’s speed, and the ship continued to close. While the helo was too low to the water for an antiair missile, it was only a matter of time before the frigate’s conventional weapons could be brought to bear.

“Come to ten knots,” he told the computer, deciding to use the more precise voice command instead of the throttle.

As the computer acknowledged, a warning panel opened on the main screen—the frigate’s gun-control radar had just locked onto the helicopter.

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0916

DOG DROVE THE MEGAFORTRESS DOWN TOWARD THE

waves, hoping he could get low enough to avoid the radar guiding the missile toward him. He hung on as the Wisconsin shook violently, the aerodynamic stresses so severe that he 44

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

thought for a moment the missile had already caught up. He kept his eyes on the ocean as he slammed downward; when he thought it was time to pull up, he waited five long seconds more before doing so.

By then it was almost too late. The controls felt as if they were stuck in cement. He put his feet against the bulkhead below the control panel and levered his entire weight backward. The plane reluctantly raised her nose, and was able to level off at just over fifty feet, so close he worried that he was scooping the waves into the engines.

Dog’s maneuver had cost him so much airspeed that the missile shot past, still flying on the last vector supplied by the guidance radar. He saw it wobbling a few hundred feet overhead; instinctively he ducked as the warhead blew up two or three hundred meters in front of him.

Fourteen kilograms of high explosive was more than enough to perforate an aluminum can, even if that can was covered over with an exotic carbon resin material. But the truly deadly part of the HQ-7’s warhead was the shroud of metal surrounding the explosive nut; the metal splinters the explosion produced were engineered to shred high performance fighters and attack aircraft. Fortunately, the designers envi-sioned that the warhead would be doing its thing behind the plane it was targeted at, not in front of it, and the majority of the shrapnel rained down well beyond the Wisconsin.

Not all of it, however. The left wing took a dozen hits, the fuselage another six. A fist-sized slab of former missile punched through the top of the cockpit behind Dog. It crashed into the bulkhead at the rear of the flight deck, spraying more metal around the cockpit. Dog felt a hot poke on his right side, and winced as a splinter rebounded off one of the consoles and hit his ribs. It barely broke the skin, but still hurt like hell.

Clearly, the shrapnel had damaged the plane. He decided a poke in the side was a small price to pay for the near miss, and started to climb again, angling southward, well out of the frigate’s range.

RETRIBUTION

45

Aboard the Abner Read,

northern Arabian Sea

0920

HANDS ON HIPS, STORM WATCHED THE VIDEO FEED FROM

the Werewolf in astonishment. The downed airmen seemed to have formed a human chain connecting their rafts with the robot helo. Any second now, he thought, one of them would suggest the helicopter turn around so they could try boarding the destroyer chasing them.

More guts than brains, that bunch.

He turned back to the holographic table, rechecking the positions of the Chinese ships. Then he reached to the com switch on his belt.

“Sickbay, how’s our guest?”

“Conscious, Captain. In shock, though. Looks like a concussion, but no other serious injuries.”

“Can he be transported?”

“I wouldn’t advise it, sir.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“If it were absolutely necessary.”

Storm flicked the controller. “Communications—send a message to the captain of the Khan. Tell him I have one of his pilots and I’m on my way to return him. Tell him I need to talk to him right away.”

THE WEREWOLF’S SMALL SIZE AND SHIFTING LOCATION

made it difficult for the gun radar to lock, but the Chinese were definitely out to earn an A for effort. The radar warning receiver kept flashing and then clearing, only to flash again.

Finally, a shell arced toward the helo. It missed by nearly a half mile, short and wide to the right. The 56mm gun at the bow was effective at about 10,000 meters; the computer calculated it would be within range of the rafts in another sixty seconds.

Starship notched the speed up to twelve knots.

“Mack, can you get the raft tied in better?” he asked.

46

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

When the major didn’t respond, Starship tried again, this time yelling into the microphone.

Still no answer. The frigate was now forty-five seconds from range.

“Fourteen knots,” Starship told the computer.

Northern Arabian Sea

0923

MACK’S LEGS FELT AS IF THEY’D BEEN PULLED FROM HIS

hips. The waves cracked across the bottoms of the two rafts, punching them up and down. This wouldn’t have been so bad, he thought, if they bounced together. Instead, they rumbled unevenly, thumping and jerking in a madly syncopated dance. It was as if he were standing on the backs of two ro-deo bulls, each of whom were riding in the back of a poorly sprung pickup truck.

T-Bone had his right leg and Dish his left. The others, except for Cantor, were holding onto them.

“Hey, this is fun, isn’t it?” yelled Mack, trying to cheer them up.

As if in reply, the Werewolf gave him a fresh tug. He suddenly jerked forward, the ride smoother—too smooth, he realized as he began to spin. He’d been pulled completely from the raft.

“Starship, get me back! Starship!”

Mack spun to his right. He caught glimpses of the destroyer as he spun. The Chinese warship seemed to gain a mile every time he blinked.

Dizzy, he closed his eyes, then quickly opened them as the ocean bashed against his leg. Something flew at him—a bullet from the frigate’s gun, he thought. But it was only Dish, leaping out to grab him as the Werewolf swung back with him.

The rafts twirled as the Werewolf once again changed direction.

47

RETRIBUTION

“Hang on, hang on!” Mack shouted to the others.

“Look!” yelled Dish, pointing behind him in the direction of the frigate.

Mack wanted to scream at him; there was no sense pointing out how close the frigate was. Dish turned around, then looked back up at Mack, a grin on his face.

What the hell are you smiling about? he wondered, then glanced over Dish’s shoulder and saw that the frigate had turned off.

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0925

“THE KHAN HAS TOLD THE FRIGATE TO KNOCK IT OFF,”

Storm told Dog. “They’ve turned away.”

“Why were they firing in the first place?”

“Why do the Chinese do anything?” said Storm. “They gave me some cock and bull story about the frigate captain believing he was rescuing Chinese pilots, but I don’t trust them to tell the truth. I don’t trust them at all.”

Dog wasn’t sure what to believe. It was possible that the captain of the frigate believed he was rescuing his own men; the Khan had lost most of its aircraft, and the frigate probably wasn’t aware that the crew of the Megafortress had jumped out—after all, the plane was still flying.