Retribution by Dale Brown Page A

which way was east or west.
    Five hours in the water. Pretty long, even in the relatively warm Indian Ocean.
    He reached to his vest for his emergency radio. It wasn’t there. Had he taken it out earlier? He had the vaguest memory of doing so—but was it a genuine memory or a dream?
    A nightmare.
    Was this real?
    Breanna would have one. Bree—
    Where was she? He didn’t see her.
    Where was she?
    “Bree!”
    His voice sounded shallow and hoarse in his ears.
    “Yo, Bree! Where are ya, hon?”
    He waited, expecting to hear her snap back with something like, Right behind you, wise guy.
    But she didn’t.
    He thought he heard her behind him and spun around.
    Nothing.
    Not only was his radio gone—so was his life raft. He didn’t remember detaching it. His head was pounding. He felt dizzy.
    Zen turned slowly in the water, positive he’d seen something out of the corner of his eye. He finally spotted somethingin the distance: land or a ship, or even a bank of clouds; he was too far off to tell. He began paddling toward it.
    After about fifteen minutes he realized it was land. He also realized the current would help him get to it.
    “Bree!” he shouted, looking around. “Bree!”
    He paddled harder. After an hour or so his arms began to seize. He no longer had the strength to swim, and simply floated with the tide. His voice had become too weak to do more than whisper. He barely had enough strength, in fact, to resist the creeping sense of despair lapping at his shoulders.
    Diego Garcia
1600, 15 January 1998
    D OG WATCHED THE TANKER SET DOWN ON D IEGO G ARCIA’S long runway, turning slowly in the air above the island as he waited for his turn to land. It had taken his damaged plane just under eight hours to reach Diego Garcia, more than twice what it had taken to fly north.
    His body felt as if it were a statue or maybe a rusted robot that he haunted rather than lived in. His mind could control all of his body’s movements, but didn’t feel quite comfortable doing so. He was a foreigner in his own skin.
    Eyes burned dry, throat filled with sand, Dog acknowledged the tower’s clearance and eased the Wisconsin into her final leg toward the runway.
    Owned by the British, Diego Garcia was a desert island in the middle of nowhere, a sliver of paradise turned into a long runway, fueling station, and listening post. It was an odd mix of three distinct time periods—modern, British colonial, and primordial—all existing uneasily together.
    The rush of air around him seemed to subside as he dropped toward the concrete. The wheels screeched loudly when he touched down, and the sound of the wind and the engines seemed to double. Dog had practiced manual-controlled landings many times in the simulator, and had had a few real onesbesides. Even so, his hands shook as the Megafortress continued across the runway, seemingly moving much faster on the ground than she had been in the air. He had his brakes set, power down, and reverse thrusters deployed—he knew he should be stopping, but he wasn’t. He deployed the drag chute at the rear of the aircraft and held on.
    The world roared around him, a loud train running in his head. And then finally the aircraft stopped—not gradually, it seemed, but all of a sudden.
    The Wisconsin halted dead a good hundred yards from the turnoff from the taxiway. Dog let go of the stick and slumped back, too exhausted to move up properly. An SUV with a flashing blue light approached; there were other emergency vehicles, fire trucks, an ambulance, coming behind it.
    After he caught his breath, he undid his restraints and pulled himself upright. Embarrassed, he flipped on the mike for his radio.
    “Dreamland Wisconsin to Tower. Tower, you hearing me?”
    “Affirmative, Wisconsin . Are you all right?”
    “Get these guys out of my way and I’ll tootle over to the hangar,” he said, trying to make his voice sound light.
    “Negative, Wisconsin . You’re fine where you are. We have a tractor on the