“Where’d that come from?” said Sparks.

“Thirty-five thousand feet—looks like it’s one of the ones that came off from Jamnagar.”

“Tell the Navy flight.”

“They’re too far away to intercept,” said the radar officer.

“They’re on a pair of MiGs.”

“ID the plane.”

“Working on it. Bogey Seven is in range to fire radar missiles.”

“Missile one is terminal,” said Micelli. “Locked on the lead Mirage.”

“No ident from Bogey Seven,” reported Cheech.

“Query the mother again. Micelli—get him on the radio.”

“Roger that,” said Cheech. “Bogey Seven is twenty miles RETRIBUTION

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from Angry Bear. Direct intercept. Turning—looks like they’re moving to get behind them. Shit. Fifteen miles.”

“No reply,” said Micelli after trying to hail Bogey Seven.

“Micelli—lock on Bogey Seven and fire.”

“Do we have an ID?”

“Bogey Seven closing!” said Cheech.

“Flighthawk leader, leave the ground gun and get between the Ospreys and bogey.”

“He’s too far. I won’t make it.”

“Micelli—lock on the mother and fire!” Sparks hit the radio. “Angry Bear, you have a bogey coming at your tail. Get as low as you can go.”

“Can’t lock. The IFF module—”

“Shoot the damn thing in bore sight if you have to,” said Sparks. “Nail that mother now.”

“Override. Locked. Foxfire One.”

The missile shot away from the Megafortress. As it did, the missile fired at the lead Mirage hit home.

“Splash Mirage,” said Micelli, his voice drained.

“Mirages are turning away,” said Cheech.

“Anaconda is terminal.”

“Lightning Flight to Dreamland Cheli. You read us?”

asked a Navy unit.

“Roger, Lightning Flight,” said Sparks.

“We’re coming for you,” said the leader of Lightning Flight, a group of four F-14s dispatched from the Lincoln.

“Rest easy.”

“Screw him,” said Micelli.

“Not today,” muttered Sparks. He clicked the radio transmit button. “Stand by, Lightning Flight.”

“Splash bogey,” said Micelli. “Bogey is down. The way is clear.”

“Angry Bear, your nose is clean,” said Sparks. He told the Marine pilot about the F-14s and had him contact them. “Did we get an ID on that plane?” he asked Micelli when he was done.

“Negative.”

“Cheech?”

342

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“It was one of the MiGs, I think.”

“All right. We’ll sort it out later. Let’s make sure these guys hook up with the Tomcats so we can home.”

Aboard Marine Osprey Angry Bear One, over northern India

0518

DANNY FREAH LEANED OVER THE BACK OF THE COPILOT’S

seat, trying to get a better view of the source of the smoke as they approached.

“Got to be the gun the Flighthawk smoked,” said the copilot.

There was way too much smoke, thought Danny. He pulled down his visor and put it on maximum magnification, zooming in on the black cloud. The first thing he saw was a large flat piece of metal. Beyond it, red flames and a roiling cloud of smoke furled from a long tube.

A fuselage. He was looking at the wreckage of an aircraft.

“One of the MiGs,” said Danny, but almost immediately he realized he was wrong. The fuselage was too long, out of proportion to the tailfin for a fighter. Then he saw a large aircraft engine sitting off to the side.

He hesitated, then reached for the control on the smart helmet to record the image.

“Path is clear to the Lincoln, ” said the pilot. “We’ll drop our injured and get over to the Poughkeepsie with the warhead.”

“Good,” said Danny. “Good.”

Northeastern Pakistan

0521

GENERAL SATTARI WATCHED AS ABTIN FARS TOOK A LONG, deep breath, then bowed his head and said a silent prayer before reaching to connect the wire with the trigger device he had devised. To a layman, at least, the device seemed almost RETRIBUTION

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overly simplistic. There was a small digital clock, two different types of very small watch batteries, and a three-inch board containing a few diodes and two small capacitors.

Sattari took his own deep breath as Abtin reached into the bomb assembly.

The engineer jerked backward. Sattari reflexively shut his eyes, expecting the inevitable.

“OK,” said Abtin after a few moments passed. “OK.”

The general found he had trouble catching his breath. “It will work?” he asked when he did.

“It should. I cannot make any guarantees. Let me solder the connections.”

Sattari bent over the device.

“Please, General,” said Abtin. “If you don’t mind, having someone looking over my shoulder makes me nervous. Inspect the work when I am done.”

“Of course,” said Sattari, backing away. “Of course.”

An atoll off the Indian Coast

Time and date unknown

EVERYTHING HURT. EVERYTHING.

Breanna’s heart thumped against the ground.

“Oh,” she said.

Pushing the word from her mouth took supreme effort.

She tried to say something else but was too exhausted.

“Oh,” she managed finally. “Oh. Oh.”

Aboard Dreamland Quickmover,

over the Indian Ocean

0530

“WE GOT IT, COLONEL. A DEFINITE LOCATION.”

Dog flattened the folds out of the paper map, translating the GPS coordinates to the grid. Zen and Breanna were on an 344

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

unmarked island northeast of the Chebaniani Reefs, about seventy-five miles from the mainland and roughly parallel to Magalore—farther south than even he had thought. According to the map, there was no land there, just sea; the nearest marked island was about three miles away.

But they were definitely there. Disoriented, barely able to talk, and clearly thirsty and hungry, but there.

“Dreamland Quickmover to the Abner Read,” said Dog, contacting Storm with the information. He spoke to Eyes first, then Storm.

“There’s nothing there on the chart, Bastian,” said the ship captain. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“It’ll take us three hours to get there. We’ll have the Werewolf over as quickly as possible.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Is your daughter all right?”

“She’s there. They’re both there. What kind of shape they’re in, I’m not sure.”

After a moment Storm replied, “I hope she’s OK.”

“Me too.”

An atoll off the Indian Coast

Time and date unknown

THE SOUND WAS SO FOREIGN HE COULDN’T PROCESS IT, almost couldn’t hear it.

A moan, soft, long, plaintive …

Breanna, talking to him from the grave.

Calling for him.

“Jeff. Jeffrey. Zen. Where are you, Jeff?”

It was so far away, so injured, so lonely, he couldn’t stand it. A buzz descended from above, a cloud of hums as if angels were surrounding him. The air vibrated with a cold, parching dryness.

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345

Is this what death was like? Or was it just loss, empty of all hope?

“Jeff. Jeff. Where are you?”

“I’m here,” he said. And the spell broke, and he turned and pushed himself back to the tent, where for the first time in days—for the first time ever it seemed like—Breanna’s eyes were wide open.

“Hey.”

He twisted his head down and kissed her, pressing his lips to her face, then pausing as the flesh touched, afraid that the pressure would hurt her—or worse, that the kiss would shat-ter an illusion and he would find she wasn’t here, wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t softly moaning for help.

He pulled back, eyes closed as they always were when they kissed. Fear overwhelmed him, choked out his breath.

Zen shook his head and forced his eyes open, forced himself to face the inevitable mirage.

“Jeff. Everything hurts,” she said.

It was real, not a mirage, not a dream, not death or hopelessness, but life—she was alive.