Retribution

“Roger that.”

Rubeo had supplied a theory about the flight plan: It had been filed so that the plane’s appearance over Las Vegas would not arouse too much suspicion. After taking off, though, the pilot had taken steps to make it difficult to be followed, deviating from his course and probably flying through countries or ocean areas where air traffic control was not as thorough as in the U.S. and developed parts of Asia and Europe.

Dog went on the interphone to speak to Englehardt.

“Mike, we should join the search immediately,” he told him. “Launch the Flighthawks.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re going to do, Colonel,” said Englehardt. His voice sounded a little shaky. “I was just going to suggest that.”

“You don’t have to wait for me,” Dog told him. “Do it on your own.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. You heard him guys—let’s go.”

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Dreamland Command Center

2120

“HOW DO WE EVEN KNOW LAS VEGAS IS REALLY THE TARget?” asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman as the video conference continued. “If I had a nuclear weapon, I would target New York City or Washington, D.C.”

“I agree,” said General Samson. “And why telegraph it?”

Rubeo scowled.

“You don’t think that’s correct, Dr. Rubeo?” said National Security Advisor Philip Freeman.

Rubeo bent to the keyboard on the computer near where he was standing.

“Admittedly a possibility. However, this is the flight data,” he said, flashing a copy of the information one of his computer geeks had hacked. “You notice the name of the pilot?”

“H-H-Habib Kerman,” said Jed Barclay.

“Kerman is related to General Mansour Sattari,” said Rubeo. “You remember General Sattari, don’t you, Jed?”

“Iranian Air Force. He led the Iranian d-d-development team, the bomb and laser, the R-R-Razor knockoff.”

“That was two years ago. What does that have to do with this?” said Hartman.

“The CIA thinks Sattari’s son was involved in th-th-the plot to provoke war between India and Pakistan,” said Jed.

Well, at least someone can co

“Sattari knows that Dreamland took down his facilities in Iran,” Rubeo told them. “He’s promised revenge.”

“You think too much of yourself,” snapped Samson. “He doesn’t even know where Dreamland is.”

“P-P-Plenty of reports have said it’s near Las Vegas,” said Jed. “The book the journalists did of the campaign— Razor’sEdge, h-h-hinted.”

“Combined with the flight plan, I believe it’s highly likely 404

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

that it’s a target,” said Rubeo. “We’re rechecking the flight control network,” he added, choosing the much more neutral

“checking” over the more descriptive, and accurate, “ille-gally hacking into.” “In the meantime, I suggest all flights be inspected. Sattari may have changed the ident device, or may simply fly without it.”

“Do what you need to do. Find the plane,” said President Martindale. It was the first time since the conference began that he had spoken. “Restrain it. Shoot it down over the ocean. Whatever has to be done. Do it.”

Rubeo had never met the President in person, but he’d seen him on Dreamland Command’s large screen many times. He seemed old and tired, drained by the continuing crisis. His voice was weak, almost frail, and his face pale white.

“We’re going to find it, Mr. President,” said Samson, but the others were already signing off.

Rubeo nodded to the communications specialist, signaling that he could kill the co

“Listen, Rubeo, I know we’ve had problems, but—”

“Problems doesn’t begin to express it, General.” Rubeo turned from the console. “I’ll be with the programmers hacking into the flight control networks if you need me,” he told Major Catsman as he walked toward the door.

Aboard Dreamland Be

over the Pacific Ocean

2122

ENGLEHARDT TURNED THE AIRCRAFT OVER TO THE COMputer for the Flighthawk launch. The Megafortress tugged downward for a moment, then lifted, increasing the separation forces as the Flighthawk released and sailed off. He moved through the procedure quickly, getting the second robot off its wings, then climbed toward 50,000 feet, still moving toward Dreamland, a few hundred miles away.

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It seemed to Englehardt that the alert had brought the crew back together, though he wasn’t sure how long that would last.

“Airliner contact, two hundred miles, zero-five-zero, altitude 35,000 feet,” said Rager at the airborne radar station.

“Tracking. Computer IDs aircraft as a Boeing 777.”

Rager queried the plane’s friend-or-foe identifier. The aircraft came back as a United Airlines flight. Englehardt told Starship to get a visual verification anyway, and the Flighthawk pilot hopped to it.

Maybe it was some trick with his voice, Englehardt thought. Maybe he just had to speak sternly, or quickly, or maybe just not think about what he was saying. Maybe it had nothing to do with him—maybe adrenaline pushed them to do their jobs.

Whatever, the crew was definitely responding.

DOG WATCHED RAGER SORT THROUGH THE AIR TRAFFIC.

There were plenty of airplanes in the vicinity, but less than a third fit the general profile of the Airbus. Each would have to be visually inspected.

“Colonel, Ray Rubeo for you,” said Sullivan.

Dog clicked into the Dreamland Command cha

“Doc, what’s up?”

“We tracked the discrepancy in the flight plans and control system to Thailand. That seems to be where he took on a new identity. There were a number of flight plans filed that we’re not finished tracking, but there’s an aircraft passing through Mexican control over the Pacific that seems to have the wrong ID. It’s definitely an Airbus, and it’s on a course that will get it to Las Vegas.”

Rubeo began ru

“Stand by, Ray.”

“I have an Airbus 310, just now coming up to the California coast,” said Rager.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“That’s our priority. Tell Starship,” said Dog. “Get NellisFlight One there. Now.”

Over the Pacific Ocean

2123

KERMAN TIGHTENED HIS GRIP ON THE AIRLINER’S CONTROL

wheel. He was thirty minutes away from Las Vegas. The bomb would explode in a little more than fifty.

So close, and yet an eternity away. He throttled back, starting to slow.

Something was going on with the air controllers. They were asking aircraft to identify themselves and sending them into holding patterns back over the sea. Every plane was being queried.

Kerman ignored the request when it was his turn.

A minute passed. Another. And then another. The controller asked him to acknowledge. The man’s nervousness made his voice harsh and his words difficult to understand, though Kerman knew what he was saying.

He listened as flight control became increasingly exas-perated with their failure to respond. There was a short respite, followed by a new controller calling, asking for the flight to contact him and take an immediate new course.

A few seconds later an American with a slow drawl identified himself as an interceptor pilot and told him that he was to check in with flight control and follow their guidance immediately.

Kerman realized that if the Americans were on alert, he’d never make it.

He glanced at the radar, but couldn’t see them. They must still be relatively far away.

He blew a slow breath from his lungs, trying to relax and think of what to do.

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Aboard Dreamland Be

over the Pacific Ocean