Retribution by Dale Brown Page B

let it be piloted much farther from the Megafortress. While they, too, were in short supply, the aircraft had already passed their tests and were ready to deploy.
    Jennifer found her mind drifting as the discussion continued. She couldn’t concentrate on head counts and spare part contingencies; all she could think of was Dog.
    He hadn’t even looked at her, or asked how she was, when he briefed the Command Center.
    And he looked like hell.
    He needed her. She needed him.
    “I’m going with the MC-17,” she told Catsman as soon as the meeting ended. “I’ll help the technical teams. The new Flighthawks may need some work.”
    “They don’t need a nanny,” said Rubeo.
    Major Catsman just looked at her. Rubeo was right—the technical teams were self-contained. While she had worked on C 3 , the Flighthawk computer, her contributions were completed long ago.
    “The Anaconda missiles also need work,” she said.
    “Another reason not to send them,” said Rubeo. “And it’s not your project.”
    “I’ve worked on them,” said Jennifer.
    “We need you to do other things,” insisted Rubeo. “Thereis a great deal of work.”
    “If you think you should go,” said Catsman, “then you should go.”
    “I think I should,” said Jennifer. “And I am.”
    Indian Ocean,
off the Indian coast
Time unknown

    Z EN CRADLED B REANNA IN HIS LAP AS HE PULLED HIMSELF up toward the peak of the slope. Finally he stopped, collapsing on his side. Breanna fell with him, her weight dead against his body. At first he was too exhausted to think, too wiped to feel anything. Then gradually he realized where he was and who was lying on top of him.
    “OK, Breanna,” he said. “Breanna? Bree?”
    He lay on his back for a few minutes, an hour—it was impossible to tell how long. Clouds covered the moon then slowly slipped away. Finally, he shifted Breanna off him, sliding her weight away gently.
    Far in the distance, he heard a groan.
    The sound was so faint he wasn’t even sure he’d heard it at first. Then he thought it was an animal. Then, finally, he realized it had come from his wife.
    “Bree,” he said, pushing up. “Bree?”
    Zen rolled her onto her back, then undid her helmet strap, still not daring to look at her face. Without the ability to kneel, he had to shift himself around awkwardly until he was sitting and her head was resting on his thighs. He closed his eyes and removed the helmet, prying as gently as possible, cradling her head down to the ground.
    Her face was badly bruised. Zen guessed she’d hit the plane going out, probably harder than he had.
    She looked peaceful, except for the purple welts. She looked like she was sleeping.
    Tears came to his eyes. He was sure he’d imagined thesound; sure she was dead.
    Until her lips parted.
    Cautiously, he pushed his face down to hers. She was breathing.
    “Bree?” he said, pulling back upright. “Bree?”
    She didn’t say anything, but he thought she stirred.
    “I’m here, baby,” he said, leaning back down as close as he could. “I’m here.”
    Aboard the Bennett,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0243, 16 January 1998

    “S EARCH PATTERN IS COMPLETE, C OLONEL,” E NGLEHARDT told Dog as the Megafortress completed the last orbit. “Nothing.”
    “The Lincoln ’s search assets will be up within the hour,” added Lieutenant Sullivan. “We’ve given them the flight projections Dreamland ran.”
    His men were subtly telling him that it was time to get on with the rest of their mission—finding the warheads. They had roughly six hundred miles to go before getting into the search area.
    Dog pushed a long breath from his lungs.
    “All right.” Dog couldn’t quite force enthusiasm into his voice; he had to settle for authority. “Mikey, get us on course. I’m going to take another shot at taking a nap. Wake me up when we’re starting the search.”
    “You got it, Colonel.”
    Dog tapped the back of the pilot’s seat and started for the upper