Retribution by Dale Brown Page B

way.”
    “Welcome back, Colonel,” said a familiar gravelly voice over the circuit.
    “Chief Parsons?”
    “I hope you didn’t break my plane too bad, Colonel,” said Chief Master Sergeant Clyde Alan “Greasy Hands” Parsons. Parsons was the head enlisted man in the Dreamland detachment, and the de facto air plane czar. He knew more about the Megafortress than its designer did. “I have only a skeleton crew to work with here.”
    “I’ll take your skeleton over Angelina Jolie’s body any day,” Dog told him.
    “Jeez, I don’t know, Colonel,” answered Parsons. “If that’s the lady I’m thinking of, I’m afraid I’d have to go with her.”
     
    L IEUTENANT M ICHAEL E NGLEHARDT HOPPED FROM THE GMC Jimmy and trotted toward the big black aircraft sitting on the runway in front of him. The right wing and a good part of the fuselage were scarred; bits and pieces of carbon fiber and metal protruded from the jagged holes and scrapes. The engine cowling on the far right engine looked as if someone had written over it with white graffiti.
    The ramp ladder was lowered from the forward section. Colonel Bastian’s legs appeared, followed by the colonel himself. His face was drawn back; he looked a hundred years old.
    “Colonel!” yelled Englehardt.
    “Mikey. How are our people?”
    “Mack and the others were picked up by the Abner Read several hours ago. They’re going to rendezvous with the Lincoln and get home from there.”
    “Good. What about everybody else?” asked Dog.
    Englehardt lowered his gaze, avoiding his commander’s stare.
    “Dreamland Fisher was lost with all crew members,” he said. “Wreckage has been sighted. The Levitow is also missing,” he added. “It went down near the Indian coast. We’re not exactly sure of the location. A U-2 is overflying the route. The aircraft carrier Lincoln will launch some long-range reconnaissance aircraft to help as well, once they’re close enough. They should be within range inside of twelve hours.”
    Losing any aircraft and her crew was difficult, Englehardt knew, but losing the Levitow would be especially painful for Dog—his daughter Breanna was the Levitow ’s pilot. Her husband Zen had been aboard, leading the Flighthawk mission.
    “What about Danny Freah and Boston?” Dog asked.
    “They were picked up by a Sharkboat after they disabled the Iranian minisub. The Sharkboat is due to rendezvous with the Abner Read and another Sharkboat in ninety minutes.”
    “What’s the status of the Bennett ?” Dog asked.
    “Our engine has been replaced and we should be ready tolaunch within the hour,” said Englehardt. Mechanical problems had scratched the airplane from consideration for the original mission, and while they weren’t his fault, the pilot couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. “I’ve prepped a Search and Rescue mission and would like to help join the search for our guys.”
    “Are there still cots in the upper Flighthawk compartment?”
    “Yes, sir, but we don’t have a backup crew.”
    “I’m your backup crew,” said Dog. “Let’s get in the air.”
    Ring E, Pentagon
0825, 15 January 1998
(1825, 15 January, Karachi)
    A IR F ORCE M AJOR G ENERAL T ERRILL “E ARTHMOVER” Samson checked his watch. Admiral George Balboa, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was nearly ten minutes late.
    Admirals always thought they could be late for everything, Samson thought. But he forced a smile to his face and kept his grousing to himself.
    As a younger man, the African-American general would have assumed it was because he was black. But now Samson realized the problem was more generic: no one had any manners these days.
    Then again, that was one of the benefits of command: you didn’t need manners when you outranked someone.
    “General, would you like some more coffee?” asked one of Balboa’s aides.
    “Thank you, Major, but no, I’m fine.”
    “There you are, Samson,” barked Balboa as he entered the office. “Come