Retribution

“Dog, we’re under way toward your men,” reported Eyes, the Abner Read’s executive officer. “It’s going to take us a little more than two hours to get up there. There are some Chinese ships between us and the fliers. It’s possible they may try to interfere, despite the cease-fire. I’ll keep you advised.”

“Understood,” said Dog.

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The Wisconsin had a little more than two hours’ worth of fuel left in her tanks. He’d need to go south and refuel before the Abner Read arrived. The question was, when.

Something flashed from the deck of the Chinese frigate—a missile.

The Chinese had just cast their vote in favor of sooner rather than later.

Aboard the Abner Read,

northern Arabian Sea

0747

AS STARSHIP SPUN THE WEREWOLF TO THE SOUTH, THE

Chinese pilot’s head disappeared beneath a swell of water.

“Tac, this guy’s not going to make it much longer,” said Starship. He watched as the man bobbed back to the surface.

The Chinese pilot shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Starship winced—the saltwater probably stung like hell—but at least the man was alive.

“Sharkboat is doing the best it can,” replied Eyes.

If the Werewolf were a “real” helicopter, it could have dropped a line from its belly and picked the poor sucker up.

But the Werewolf didn’t have a line. Its winch pack, used for transporting objects in combat, was aboard the Abner Read, but would take at least ninety minutes to install and test.

Then again, they didn’t need a winch, just a line.

Starship suggested that he return to the Abner Read, where a sailor could tie a rope to one of the Werewolf ’s skids. He could then lift the pilot back to the ship.

“Why do you think he’ll grab onto the line?” Eyes asked.

“We’ll tie one of those rescue collars on it,” said Starship.

“I think he’ll grab it if it’s in front of his face.”

“Let’s give it a shot,” said the lieutenant commander.

“Head back here. I’ll have a sailor standing by.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0748

THE MEGAFORTRESS DIDN’T SEEM ANY HAPPIER TO GO FAST

than it had slowing down. Dog slicked the aircraft’s control surfaces back, rigging her for speed as he prodded the engines. Ordinarily, the aircraft would have responded instantaneously, jumping forward with a burst of speed. But the holes at the top and bottom of her fuselage where the crew had punched out created strong currents of air that fought against her wings’ ability to provide lift. She was unbalanced, and moved sluggishly, drifting sideways rather than straight ahead.

“Come on now,” said Dog. He tried to correct by adjusting his engines, but was only partly successful; even as he picked up speed, he felt as if he was fighting a stiff crosswind.

The missiles the Chinese ship had launched were HQ-7s, a Chinese version of the French Crotale. Guided by radar from the launch ship, the missiles used an infrared sensor to detonate once they were near their target. Ordinarily the Megafortress would have no trouble confusing the missiles, jamming both the destroyer’s radar and the guidance frequency. The aircraft’s stealthy radar profile would have helped, reducing the target the enemy had to home in on. But Dog didn’t have electronic countermeasures, and the holes in the Megafortress’s hull negated the stealthy effects of the plane’s skin.

The one thing he knew he did have going for him was the missile’s range. Though it was capable of hitting a Mach 2

target at 13,000 meters—roughly eight miles—its practical range was much closer to 8,000 meters. The Wisconsin was about 10,000 away.

Dog locked his eyes on the blue sky in front of the windscreen, fighting to hold the Wisconsin steady.

“Go,” he told the plane. “Go!”

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Northern Arabian Sea

0750

FROM MACK SMITH’S VANTAGE POINT IN THE WATER, THE

missile looked like a white finger jetting across the sky, spewing a trail of cotton after it. The Megafortress seemed to hang in the air, completely unaware that it was in the crosshairs.

“Hit the gas, Colonel,” yelled Mack. “Get the fuzz buster going. Jink. Do something, for chrissakes.”

“He doesn’t have countermeasures,” said Jazz, next to him in the water.

“Yeah. Shit.”

The missile stopped spewing cotton from its rear. It continued forward another mile or so, then disappeared. The Megafortress continued northward.

Mack turned back to the others. All of them, including the injured Cantor, were staring in the direction of the ship that had fired the missile. Its bow was turning in their direction.

“All right, guys, here’s what we’re going to do,” Mack said.

“Number one, we get the other raft inflated and lash it to this one. Number two, we find the Abner Read. She’s to the southwest.”

“Major, that ship has to be fifty or sixty miles from us,”

said Dish, glancing at Cantor. “I don’t know.”

“I do know,” said Mack forcefully. “Let’s get this fucking done. And no more bullshit defeat talk.”

“I’m not—”

“No more bullshit, period,” said Mack, fishing for the uninflated raft kit.

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0752

DOG COUNTED OFF SIXTY MORE SECONDS BEFORE ALLOWing himself to believe the missile had missed. He turned the 28

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Megafortress to the west, now well north of the Chinese and his men.

“Dreamland Command, this is Wisconsin. I’ve just been fired on by the Chinese frigate. I’m all right,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “What happened to the cease-fire?”

“We copy, Colonel,” said Major Catsman. “We’re alerting U.S. forces in the area. We’re on the line with the White House,” she told him, pausing. “They’re assuring us a cease-fire has been worked out.”

“Well assure them a missile just flew by my windshield.”

“Yes, sir.” Catsman paused once more, apparently relaying the information. “There’s a possibility not all Chinese units got the message,” she told Dog. “It’s being reissued.”

A handy excuse, thought Dog—and one typically employed by the Chinese.

“I’m going to go east and circle. Hopefully he’ll think I’m over our guys and he’ll change direction,” said Dog. “I’m not sure what else I can do.”

“Colonel, be advised that our data on Chinese frigates indicate that it’s carrying HQ-7 antiair missiles similar to Crotales. You will be within lethal range of the missiles at seven miles.”

“I already found that out, Major. But thanks.”

Aboard the Abner Read,

northern Arabian Sea

0800

THE PETTY OFFICER SHOT HIS ARMS INTO THE AIR, SIGNALing to Starship that the Werewolf was clear to launch.

“Werewolf powering up!” said the pilot, louder than necessary. His adrenaline was getting the better of him.

“Werewolf is away,” he reported to Tac as the robot leapt into the air. Starship spun his tail, got his nose down and whipped over the waves, racing for the Chinese pilot. The computer marked off his progress in a legend to the right of 29

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the red crosshair designating the man’s location. He throttled back as he reached the flier. The wash from the blades made the collar at the bottom of the rope dance back and forth. It wasn’t going to be as easy to grab as Starship thought.

The man in the water bobbed helplessly as Starship approached. He fired off a round of flares, trying to make sure he had the man’s attention, then nudged the Werewolf down until the collar skimmed in the waves. The wash from the rotors beat a circle before him as he worked slowly toward the pilot.

The pilot disappeared in a swell. Starship pushed forward in a rush, then realized that was the wrong thing to do—he was only roiling the water further. He slid the aircraft into a turn and throttled back as much as possible before trying again after the man’s head reappeared.