Free Retribution by Dale Brown

not tired, not battered, not pushed to his limit, as he always was on a mission.
    She knew he would have scoffed at her, told her he wasn’t doing anything any other member of the team hadn’t done—anything that she hadn’t done herself a hundred times.
    “How could the computer lose the missiles?” she heard him ask Rubeo.
    “If I knew the answer, Colonel, I wouldn’t have mentioned the question,” Rubeo replied. He explained that the most likely answer had to do with a glitch in the hastily amended software they used to project the landings. But it was also possible that the satellites analyzing the launch data had erred, or that the flight paths of different missiles had merged.
    “There are a number of other possibilities as well,” added Rubeo. “It will take some time to work things out.”
    “We’re not the only ones doing this,” said Catsman. “NORAD, the Navy, Satellite Command—they’ll all have information. We can coordinate it and refine the projections. Once the U-2 is able to complete its survey of the area, things should be much clearer.”
    “The question for you, Colonel,” said Rubeo, “is whether we should tell the White House what we have. They have tended to ignore our caveats in the past. Not always with the best results.”
    “Tell them,” said Dog. “And keep working on it.”
    “As you wish,” said Rubeo.
    “What other information can you give us on the possible location of the Fisher ’s crew?” Dog asked.
    “We’ve already passed along everything we have,” Catsman told him. “We’re pretty confident of where they were when they bailed out, and where they would be in the water.”
    “Then why haven’t they been found?”
    When Catsman didn’t answer, Rubeo did—uncharacteristically offering an excuse for the Navy.
    “The Abner Read was distracted and too far from the area to be of much use at first,” he said. “They’re now coming south and the Werewolf should be able to help. The Lincoln is still quite far from the ejection area. Their long-range patrols can’t stay on station long enough to do a thorough job. The odds should improve the closer they get. We computed the effects of the currents and wind on the crew and gave them to the Navy, as well as the U-2 surveying the region. That should help narrow the search.”
    “We’ll find them, Colonel,” added Catsman.
    “I’m sure we will,” said Dog. He paused for a moment, then asked for her. “Jennifer?”
    She looked up. The large screen magnified his face to the point where she could see every wrinkle, every crease and blemish. He was pale, and his eyes drooped.
    “Hi, Colonel.”
    The faintest hint of a smile came to his face.
    “You were working on an updated search routine for the Flighthawks,” Dog said, all business.
    “It still has some bugs.”
    “Upload it to us anyway.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    For a moment it looked like he was about to say something else.
    I love you, maybe. She wanted desperately to hear it. But he didn’t say it.
    “I’m here if you need me. Bastian out.”
    Jennifer felt a stabbing pain in her side as the screen blanked.
    Oval Office, Washington, D.C.
    0910
    J ED B ARCLAY KNOCKED ON THE P RESIDENT’S DOOR BEFORE entering. President Kevin Martindale sat behind his desk, facing the window that looked out on the back lawn of the White House.
    “I put together the latest data on the missiles, Mr. President,” said Jed. “There’s some disagreement between the CIA projections and Dreamland’s. The Dreamland scientists say they have two missiles unaccounted for and that may indicate—”
    “Can you imagine wanting to turn the earth into a nuclear wasteland, Jed?” asked the President, staring out the window.
    The question took Jed by surprise. Finally he managed a soft “No.”
    “Neither can I. Some of the people in both India and Pakistan want to do just that.” The President rose, but continued to stare out the window. “The reports are filled with