His body felt as if it were a statue or maybe a rusted robot that he haunted rather than lived in. His mind could control all of his body’s movements, but didn’t feel quite comfortable doing so. He was a foreigner in his own skin.

Eyes burned dry, throat filled with sand, Dog acknowledged the tower’s clearance and eased the Wisconsin into her final leg toward the runway.

Owned by the British, Diego Garcia was a desert island in the middle of nowhere, a sliver of paradise turned into a long runway, fueling station, and listening post. It was an odd mix of three distinct time periods—modern, British colonial, and primordial—all existing uneasily together.

The rush of air around him seemed to subside as he dropped toward the concrete. The wheels screeched loudly when he touched down, and the sound of the wind and the engines seemed to double. Dog had practiced manual-controlled landings many times in the simulator, and had had a few real ones 55

RETRIBUTION

besides. Even so, his hands shook as the Megafortress continued across the runway, seemingly moving much faster on the ground than she had been in the air. He had his brakes set, power down, and reverse thrusters deployed—he knew he should be stopping, but he wasn’t. He deployed the drag chute at the rear of the aircraft and held on.

The world roared around him, a loud train running in his head. And then finally the aircraft stopped—not gradually, it seemed, but all of a sudden.

The Wisconsin halted dead a good hundred yards from the turnoff from the taxiway. Dog let go of the stick and slumped back, too exhausted to move up properly. An SUV

with a flashing blue light approached; there were other emergency vehicles, fire trucks, an ambulance, coming behind it.

After he caught his breath, he undid his restraints and pulled himself upright. Embarrassed, he flipped on the mike for his radio.

“Dreamland Wisconsin to Tower. Tower, you hearing me?”

“Affirmative, Wisconsin. Are you all right?”

“Get these guys out of my way and I’ll tootle over to the hangar,” he said, trying to make his voice sound light.

“Negative, Wisconsin. You’re fine where you are. We have a tractor on the way.”

“Welcome back, Colonel,” said a familiar gravelly voice over the circuit.

“Chief Parsons?”

“I hope you didn’t break my plane too bad, Colonel,” said Chief Master Sergeant Clyde Alan “Greasy Hands” Parsons.

Parsons was the head enlisted man in the Dreamland detachment, and the de facto air plane czar. He knew more about the Megafortress than its designer did. “I have only a skeleton crew to work with here.”

“I’ll take your skeleton over Angelina Jolie’s body any day,” Dog told him.

“Jeez, I don’t know, Colonel,” answered Parsons. “If that’s the lady I’m thinking of, I’m afraid I’d have to go with her.”

56

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

* * *

LIEUTENANT MICHAEL ENGLEHARDT HOPPED FROM THE

GMC Jimmy and trotted toward the big black aircraft sitting on the runway in front of him. The right wing and a good part of the fuselage were scarred; bits and pieces of carbon fiber and metal protruded from the jagged holes and scrapes.

The engine cowling on the far right engine looked as if someone had written over it with white graffiti.

The ramp ladder was lowered from the forward section.

Colonel Bastian’s legs appeared, followed by the colonel himself. His face was drawn back; he looked a hundred years old.

“Colonel!” yelled Englehardt.

“Mikey. How are our people?”

“Mack and the others were picked up by the Abner Read several hours ago. They’re going to rendezvous with the Lincoln and get home from there.”

“Good. What about everybody else?” asked Dog.

Englehardt lowered his gaze, avoiding his commander’s stare.

“Dreamland Fisher was lost with all crew members,” he said. “Wreckage has been sighted. The Levitow is also missing,” he added. “It went down near the Indian coast. We’re not exactly sure of the location. A U-2 is overflying the route. The aircraft carrier Lincoln will launch some long-range reconnaissance aircraft to help as well, once they’re close enough.

They should be within range inside of twelve hours.”

Losing any aircraft and her crew was difficult, Englehardt knew, but losing the Levitow would be especially painful for Dog—his daughter Breanna was the Levitow’s pilot. Her husband Zen had been aboard, leading the Flighthawk mission.

“What about Danny Freah and Boston?” Dog asked.

“They were picked up by a Sharkboat after they disabled the Iranian minisub. The Sharkboat is due to rendezvous with the Abner Read and another Sharkboat in ninety minutes.”

“What’s the status of the Bennett?” Dog asked.

“Our engine has been replaced and we should be ready to 57

RETRIBUTION

launch within the hour,” said Englehardt. Mechanical problems had scratched the airplane from consideration for the original mission, and while they weren’t his fault, the pilot couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. “I’ve prepped a Search and Rescue mission and would like to help join the search for our guys.”

“Are there still cots in the upper Flighthawk compartment?”

“Yes, sir, but we don’t have a backup crew.”

“I’m your backup crew,” said Dog. “Let’s get in the air.”

Ring E, Pentagon

0825, 15 January 1998

(1825, 15 January, Karachi)

AIR FORCE MAJOR GENERAL TERRILL “EARTHMOVER” Samson checked his watch. Admiral George Balboa, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was nearly ten minutes late.

Admirals always thought they could be late for everything, Samson thought. But he forced a smile to his face and kept his grousing to himself.

As a younger man, the African-American general would have assumed it was because he was black. But now Samson realized the problem was more generic: no one had any manners these days.

Then again, that was one of the benefits of command: you didn’t need manners when you outranked someone.

“General, would you like some more coffee?” asked one of Balboa’s aides.

“Thank you, Major, but no, I’m fine.”

“There you are, Samson,” barked Balboa as he entered the office. “Come in.”

Balboa’s tone suggested that Samson was the one who was late. Samson hadn’t risen in the ranks by insulting his superiors. Especially when, as he hoped, they were about to deliver good news. So he stifled his annoyance and rose, thanked the 58

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

admiral’s staff for their attention, and followed Balboa into his office.

“You’ve heard the news about India and Pakistan, I assume,”

said Balboa, sliding behind his desk. An antique, it was said to have belonged to one of the USS Constitution’s skippers—a fact Samson wouldn’t have known except for the brass plate screwed into the front, obviously to impress visitors.

“I read the summary on my way over,” said Samson.

“What do you think of the developments?”

Samson considered what sort of response to give. Though classified, the report hadn’t given many details, merely hinting that the U.S. had used some sort of new weapons to down the missiles fired by both sides. It wasn’t clear what was truly going on, however, and the way Balboa posed the question made Samson suspect a trap.

“I guess I don’t have enough details to form an opinion,”

he said finally.

“We’ve shot down twenty-eight warheads,” said Balboa.

“The Navy sank an Indian aircraft carrier and several Chinese ships that tried to interfere. The President is continuing the operation. He wants the warheads recovered.”

“I see,” said Samson.

“The Dreamland people were in the middle of things.