Retribution

His dread came from the way his uncle had been treated, used and then tossed aside. Hassam had said he was too important for the country to lose, something that Kerman completely agreed with. But the image of his uncle on the pavement haunted Kerman now. If he was so valuable, why was he treated like a piece of dirt?

The general had always had his trouble with the religious 398

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

leaders. Kerman had always regretted that—secretly, of course; he would not criticize his uncle to his face or even behind his back, not seriously at least, for whatever else, the general was a great man.

Perhaps, thought Kerman, his uncle had reason to de-nounce the clerics.

He struggled to put the idea out of his mind. It was a distraction: He had to focus on his mission.

“I will pray,” he told himself, as if chiding a small boy. “I will pray for success.”

Dreamland Command

2038

“IT WAS THE DOC’S IDEA. HE WAS RIGHT,” SAID THE PHOTO

interpreter. “Look—same pickup trucks at the airport.”

Rubeo scowled. The analysts had found a pair of pickup trucks in the region where the warhead was found—albeit miles away, and at roughly the same time that the attack was going on—in some of the shots taken by the Global Hawk as it circled away. The same truck showed up on an access to the airport at Rawalpindi.

“So it must’ve left from this airport,” said Catsman. “Have you checked the flight plans?”

“I turned that part over to the CIA. They said it could take anywhere from hours to a couple of days to get the information.”

Catsman looked up at Rubeo. He frowned again. “Days?”

she asked.

“If they keep the information on a computer,” said Rubeo,

“I believe we should be able to shorten the time considerably.

Unless you insist on working through cha

“Do it,” answered the major.

Aboard Dreamland Be

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over the Pacific Ocean

2047

“URGENT INCOMING MESSAGE FOR YOU, COLONEL, ON THE

Dreamland cha

Dog authorized the communication at the Flighthawk station.

“Colonel, we think we may have traced the missing warhead,” said Ray Rubeo from the Dreamland Command Center.

“I’m afraid you have to give that information to General Samson,” Dog said.

“Yes, well, Major Catsman is attempting to contact him through cha

That was, by far, the highest compliment Ray Rubeo had ever paid him.

“What’s the story, Doc?”

Rubeo explained about the pickup trucks and how they were tracked to an airport near Pakistan’s capital. A number of aircraft had taken off since, including several that were somewhat suspicious because of their registry or stated cargo.

“Apparently a popular stop for the nefarious of the world,”

said Rubeo. “But there is one in particular that is interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because after flying to Malaysia, its pilot filed a new flight plan that said it was heading to McCarran International Airport. Since then, it has disappeared.”

Over the Pacific Ocean

2115

KERMAN CHECKED HIS WATCH, THEN UNDID HIS SEAT BELT

and walked to the back of the flight deck. The cargo area was not pressurized, but at the moment they were low enough that 400

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

he did not need an oxygen mask.

The pilot could see his breath as he opened the door. A bank of overhead lights illuminated the warhead’s crate, strapped to the floor about a third of the way back.

The timer was wrapped in a towel and tucked beneath the strap. As he got down on his hands and knees to remove it, he began to shiver. He put his hands together for warmth and blew into them.

Was he shaking from cold or fear? Did he have the courage to do this?

For Allah, blessed be his name, he could do anything.

He pulled the towel out and unwrapped it carefully. His uncle’s expert, Abtin Fars, had preset the timer for exactly one hour; all he had to do was push two small toggle switches.

He pushed the first. A small LED light lit on the device, showing it was working.

As his hand touched the second switch, it began to tremble so badly that Kerman dropped the timer onto the blanket. He thought he had broken it and for a moment was overcome with grief. All his plans, his entire life, completely in vain.

To fail now, so close—it was the most unimaginable disaster.

He closed his eyes, cursing himself. He could have remained silent, not called the Ayatollah; his uncle would then still be here, helping him, guiding him. Together they would have carried out the mission—the general to revenge Val’s death, Kerman to fulfill God’s plan.

The pilot felt a burst of warm air flow around him. It was a draft, he knew—and yet part of him thought it was another presence, his cousin perhaps, coming to reassure him.

Or his uncle.

Kerman opened his eyes.

The light was still lit.

He turned the trigger over gently and pushed the second switch. The numbers on the display began to drain away slowly: 59:59, 59:58, 59:57 …

“Thank you, Lord, thank you,” whispered Kerman, nest-

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401

ling the timer on the towel and tucking it beneath the strap before retreating to the cockpit.

Aboard Dreamland Be

over the Pacific Ocean

2115

DOG CALLED THE NORTH AMERICAN AEROSPACE DEFENSE

Command himself so they understood the situation. An air defense order had already been issued, thanks to Major Catsman, but he wanted to make sure the pilots knew that shooting down the aircraft over a populated area would be problematic—the bomb could easily be set to detonate via a barometric fuse.

His preferred solution would have been to explode an EEMWB in the plane’s vicinity. But Dreamland had used all of the weapons over India.

After talking to NORAD, Dog decided to call Samson himself over the Dreamland cha

“He knows about this?”

“Major Catsman already told him,” said the lieutenant.

“That’s what he’s talking to the White House about.”

“You have to scramble what we have at Dreamland,” said Dog. “Get the Megafortresses and their Flighthawks up, the airborne laser—”

“I am sure that the general has it under control, Colonel.”

“Right.” Dog snapped off the line.

He’d accomplished what needed to be accomplished—

Nellis was scrambling fighters. A full air alert had been issued. But it felt wrong that he wasn’t leading the charge.

Not that his personal feelings should matter.

“Colonel, Nellis Group One is on the air with us,” said 402

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Sullivan up in the copilot’s seat. “Requesting further details.”

“Well, give it to them.”

“I thought you would want to talk to them, sir.”

Dog hesitated a moment, then pushed the button to co

“What do you have for us, Dreamland?” asked the lead pilot. “Where are these bastards?”

Dog told him what he knew.

“So where is this Airbus?” asked the F-15 jock.

“Unknown,” said Dog. “The plane filed a flight plan but since then hasn’t shown up in the international air traffic control system. We believe they were able to turn off their identifier and simply used different call signs, but we’re not clear yet. We’re working on locating it.”