Samson drifted off, unsure exactly how he wanted it to sound.

“Like if they don’t do a good job you’ll sack them?” asked Ax.

“That’s it, Chief. Exactly.” Ax would definitely stay, Samson decided. “Have it on my desk before lunch.”

TECHNICALLY SPEAKING, CHIEF MASTER SERGEANT TERence “Ax” Gibbs was a bachelor. But in a very real sense, Gibbs was as married as any man in America. It’s just that his wife—his children, his relatives, his home, his family, his friends, his pets, his entire existence—was the U.S. Air Force.

But now it was time for a divorce. So as soon as he finished writing Samson’s memo—it took all of three minutes, and had RETRIBUTION

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a much more balanced tone than the general wanted—he went online and obtained the appropriate paperwork to initiate a transfer back to his home state of Florida, in anticipation of a separation from the service in a few months. And just in case Samson objected—Ax sensed he would, if only on general principles—the chief sent out a handful of private messages lining up support. Among the recipients were two lieutenant generals and the Air Force’s commanding general, giving him a full house to deal with any bluff Samson might mount.

He had worked for people like Samson at numerous points during his career. But he’d been young then. Age mellowed some people; for others, it removed their ability to stand still for bullshit. He fell into the latter category.

Lieutenant Colonel Bastian wasn’t the perfect boss. He was occasionally given to fits of anger; however well justi-fied, fits of pique in the long run could be counterproductive.

The colonel also insisted on keeping things at Dreamland streamlined, which for Ax meant that he had to make do with about a tenth of the staff he would have at a “normal”

command. But Dog respected, trusted, and related to his people in a way that Ax knew Samson never would.

But this wasn’t about Samson. It was about Terence “Ax”

Gibbs. If he worked things out properly, he would arrive in the civilian world just after Florida’s high tourist season.

Prices on charter boats would be reduced, and he would be able to use a small portion of his tidy Air Force nest egg to set himself up as a boat operator.

Tough getting used to all that sun after decades of working indoors, but everyone needed a challenge, especially in retirement.

Aboard the Abner Read

2200

HAVING OBTAINED THE HARPOONS, STORM ENDEAVORED TO

get into position to use them. He remained on a southerly 188

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course toward the Indian Ocean. The Chinese aircraft carrier Khan, meanwhile, was heading in roughly the same direction, presumably intending to go around the southern tip of India and head home.

In the days when wind powered a sailing ship, a captain had a great deal of autonomy and could easily set a course that would bring him against an enemy; it was how many a master had won the accolades of triumph and treasure. Even a captain in the early Cold War era often had leeway to sail more or less where he pleased; there was simply no way for the admirals to keep complete track of him.

But Storm belonged to a different time.

“Why is your course paralleling the Khan’s?” demanded Admiral Woods over the secure link.

“We’re just remaining in a position to be of use if necessary,” said Storm.

“The Decatur is more than prepared to do the job,” said Woods. “The Los Angeles will meet it near Ceylon. Together they will trail it to its home port. You are to proceed to resupply.”

“I have resupplied,” said Storm. “I have Harpoon missiles and my ship is ready for combat.”

“Where did you get the missiles?”

“Dreamland gave them to me,” he said.

The admiral’s face turned even redder.

“We don’t have a full complement, but I have more than enough to sink the Khan, ” said Storm.

“You will not sink the Khan. Storm, have you lost your mind?”

“I meant—”

“Let me talk to your executive officer.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Storm felt his legs tremble beneath the small desk where he was sitting. He knew the video camera was showing Woods everything he was doing, so he moved as deliberately as possible, picking up the handset on his desk and calmly RETRIBUTION

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asking Eyes to his cabin. When he returned the phone to its cradle, he looked at the screen, trying to narrow his eyes in a show of concentration and sincerity. It wasn’t a lie; he was being both focused and forthright. But he wanted his face to match what he felt.

“Admiral,” said Storm, “let me make my case. I simply want to be nearby if—”

“There is no case to be made, Storm. No ifs. No anything.

Your ship is not to engage the Khan.”

“I’m talking about making sure the Khan leaves the area without being a threat,” said Storm.

“Flight operations from the Khan have stopped. They are no longer capable of even providing their own air cover,” said Woods. “I am not going to risk an international incident with them.”

“They’ve already shot at our planes.”

“Not in two days. And for all we know, Bastian egged them on,” said Woods. “Is that why he gave you the missiles?

Are you two trying to start a war?”

“That’s unfair. We carried out orders—”

“Then carry out these.”

Storm clamped his teeth together, knowing that if he said one word he’d say a dozen, and if he said a dozen he’d say a hundred, each an expletive.

There was a knock at the cabin door. Storm got up and opened it.

“You wanted to see me?” Eyes asked.

Storm pointed to the video screen. Looking a bit bewil-dered, the executive officer sat down in Storm’s extra chair.

“Lieutenant Commander Eisenberg,” said Admiral Woods.

“If Captain Gale makes an aggressive move toward the Chinese aircraft carrier Khan, you are to immediately relieve him of command. Is that understood?”

“I, well, uh—”

“Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“These are your orders, gentlemen. Since you have found a 190

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way to resupply and do not wish to rest, you are to sail to the area of the Cherbani Reef and act as a picket ship for any of our vessels moving toward the Lincoln task group. You are to go no farther south than twelve degrees longitude, and you are not to engage any ship—Indian or Chinese—without my explicit permission. Under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

“What if we’re fired on?” blurted Storm.

“Then you badly screwed up.”

“I have to be able to defend myself.”

“You better not be in a position where you need to.”

Eyes glanced at Storm. “Admiral, I’m not sure—”

“What is it that you’re unsure of, Commander? Following orders?”

“I can follow orders, Admiral.”

“Then do it.”

The picture dissolved into black.

Southeastern Pakistan

2200

SERGEANT LIU BELIEVED THE MAN WAS TELLING THE TRUTH, but he’d learned long ago that belief and reality were sometimes different things. He pulled the car off the road a half mile from the man’s house and sent Blow and Sergeant Kurt Jones up the road to check out the house. Ten minutes later Jonesy checked in over the short-range Whiplash channel.

“House is clear—this lady is about to drop an egg any second, Liu. Better get the mojo on.”

Jones hadn’t been exaggerating. By the time Liu and her husband got inside, the woman’s grunts were shaking the small two-room house. The only illumination came from a small kerosene lantern on a dresser set at the side of the room.

Jonesy’s flashlight, shined on the small bed where the wife was giving birth. “I can see the head, Sarge. A lot of hair,” he added. “I think Blow’s the dad.”