Retribution

“Hell, Brad, just listing the planes we engaged will take an entire day,” said Cheech. “Let’s debrief tomorrow.”

“Oh sure,” said Cowboy. “Like we’re go

“Colonel Dog will have my butt if we wait,” said Sparks.

“Let’s just get it over with.”

“Where are the unintelligence officers?” said copilot Steve Micelli, getting up from his seat.

“Micelli, that joke is older than our airplane.”

A combat-suited Whiplash security sergeant stuck his head up from the Flighthawk bay at the rear of the cockpit.

“Excuse me, Captain Sparks, Colonel Bastian wants to talk to you right away. He wants the entire crew over at the Command trailer.”

“All right, Sergeant. We’ll be right down as soon as we grab all our gear.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re to leave everything here. The memory cards and tapes from the mission especially.”

“What the fuck?” said Micelli.

“If anything’s missing or erased, we’re going to be court-martialed,” added the Whiplasher. “I’m really sorry, sirs.”

DOG DECIDED HE WOULD TALK TO THE CHELI’S CREW ONE

at a time. Sparks, since he was the captain, went first.

“Describe to me what happened on your sortie,” Dog said, sitting across from him at the table in the Dreamland trailer.

The others were outside, sitting in the shade of the nearby hangar.

“It was a long mission, Colonel. I don’t know if I can remember every last detail.”

“Do your best.”

“OK. Can I have a drink?”

“I just made some coffee. And there’s water in the fridge.”

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369

“I was thinking about a beer.”

“Better not just now.”

Sparks nodded. Dog recognized something he rarely saw in a pilot’s face, certainly not at Dreamland: fear. Sparks must have sensed what had happened.

Dog had heard enough before Sparks was halfway through.

The Anaconda aiming system had been giving them problems; they encountered a plane in the area near fighters that seemed to be a threat; the plane had not had a working friend or foe identifier.

Those were the mitigating circumstances. On the other side of the ledger, the plane should have been better identified by the radar operator, or, lacking that, visually identified by the Flighthawk before being fired on.

Should have been.

That was a judgment call, Dog thought, an extremely difficult decision to make in the heat of a battle, especially under the circumstances.

He truly understood how difficult that call was to make.

Others might not.

“Did we screw up, Colonel?” asked Sparks when he was done. “What happened?”

“An airliner went down in the area the Osprey went through. There’s a good possibility it was shot down by a Anaconda missile that came from your plane.”

“Jesus.”

Both men sat in silence for a few moments.

“What’s going to happen?” asked Sparks.

“I don’t know,” said Dog. “It’s up to General Samson. He’s in charge of Dreamland now. And Whiplash.”

“Am I going to be court-martialed?”

Dog wanted to shake his head, to stand up and pat Sparks on the shoulder and tell him it was all going to be all right.

But that would be lying. There would be an inquiry—a long one, no doubt—before any decision was made on whether charges would be brought.

“I don’t know what will happen,” said Dog honestly. “At 370

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

this point anything is a possibility. I want you to go to your room and just stay there until you hear from me.”

“Or the general?”

“Yes. Or the general. He’s the one that has the final say now.”

Malaysia

1730 (1530, Karachi)

GENERAL SATTARI FOLLOWED THE CONTROL TOWER’S INstructions, taxiing the airplane away from the main runway. He felt physically drained. It had been years since he flew a large jet, and even with his nephew, an experienced multiengine copilot, managing the Airbus’s takeoffs and landings had not been easy.

“Turn coming up ahead, Uncle,” said Habib Kerman.

“Very good.”

Sattari’s eyes shuffled back and forth from the windscreen to the speed indicator. He could give the airplane over to Kerman if he wished, but his pride nagged him.

“You haven’t lost your skills,” said Kerman as they pulled into the parking area. “Outstanding.”

Sattari smiled but said nothing. Kerman was his sister’s youngest son. He had been a close friend of his own son, Val, though a few years younger; at times he reminded him very much of Val.

Four or five men trotted from a nearby hangar, followed by a pickup truck.

This was the most dangerous moment, Sattari knew—when his plot was nearly but not quite ready to proceed. He needed to refuel the jet in order to reach his destination. The airport had been chosen not for its geographic location but the fact that he had agents he believed he could count on to assist. He himself had not been here in many years, so he could not be positive they would help—and indeed might not know for sure until he took off.

The men ran to chock the wheels. A good sign, he thought.

They were unarmed.

RETRIBUTION

371

Sattari glanced at his nephew. “You have your gun?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Sattari nodded, then rose. He went to the door behind the flight cabin and opened it, pushing it with a sudden burst of energy. A fatal dread settled over him as the muggy outdoor air entered the cabin. He was ready; ready to die here if that’s what was ordained.

But it wasn’t, at least not at that moment. A metal stairway was being pushed close to the cabin.

“God is great, God is merciful, God is all knowing,”

shouted a man from the ground, speaking in Persian.

“Blessed be those who follow his way,” said Sattari, completing the identifier he had settled on in their e-mail conversation.

“General, it is my pleasure to serve you,” said Hami Hassam, climbing eagerly up the steps as soon as they were placed. “What cargo do you have?”

“That should not be relevant to you.”

Hassam smiled, then reached inside his light jacket. “You have perishable dates,” said Hassam confidently. “With all necessary papers and taxes paid.”

“Good work.”

“For our air force, nothing is too good. I have taken the precaution of purchasing several crates of fruit, in case there are any complications. I can have them loaded aboard the aircraft in a few—”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Sattari.

“Sometimes, the inspectors do come aboard.”

“It won’t be necessary,” repeated Sattari.

The man’s crestfallen face made it clear he was being too strident. He’d given Hassam to believe he was transporting ba

“The items we have are packed very delicately,” said Sattari, explaining while not explaining. “And the fewer in contact with them, the better. We can put a few crates here if 372

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

necessary,” he added, pointing to the rear of the flight cabin.

“But—should I expect trouble?”

“No,” said Hassam, a bit uncertainly. “Usually there are no inspections at all. Not once fees are paid. Which has been done.”

“The money transferred properly?”

“Yes, General. Of course.”

“Can we get some food?” asked Sattari.

“There is a place in the terminal.”

“Come, then,” said Sattari.

“Your copilot?”

“He and the others will stay with the plane.”

“You have others in the plane?”

“Not important,” said Sattari, unsure whether his bluff had been detected or not. “I’ll bring back a few things.”

Diego Garcia

1900

REVIEWING ALL OF THE RECORDED SENSOR AND OTHER

data from the flight would take several days, but the tapes made it clear that the Cheli crew believed they were looking at an enemy aircraft about to shoot down the plane they were protecting. The plane’s transponder had not been working, or had been turned off for some reason.