Piranha

Chapter 4 Chopped

Dog and his copilot kept Iowa in the holding pattern over the island, orbiting as a pair of C-130’s low on fuel made their way onto the runway. It had been roughly an hour since the change in orders, but already Admiral Woods was making his mark on the base, flying in Seabees and Marines to improve it so the base could also be used for patrols. An Orion and its support team had already arrived; another was due soon. Cubi Field, the former Naval Air Station at Subic Bay, was much larger and would have offered considerably better facilities and potential, but the political ramifications of a large U.S. force reappearing during election season made the Dreamland base the place to be. Dog couldn’t help but think another factor was involved: putting Navy people on the ground next to Whiplash was another way Woods could keep Whiplash under his thumb.

He seemed to want to do so personally — Dog noticed a C-12 VIP transport in the parking area as they took a turn waiting to be cued in to land.

“Admiral wants to see you in his headquarters ASAP,” shouted a combat-dressed Marine as Dog came down Iowa’s ladder a short time later. The Marine added the word “Sir” and snapped to attention, saluting and manipulating his M-16 so quickly it seemed a stage prop.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Bastian, tossing back a salute.

“Sir, I have a vehicle.”

“Thank you, son. I’ll get there on my own.”

“Sir?”

Dog ignored the Marine, scanning the area for Danny Freah or one of his people.

“Uh, sir, my orders—”

Dog turned toward the Marine, intending to tell him what he could do with his orders, but the pained expression on the young man’s face somehow pushed away his annoyance. “Tag along,” said Dog, quite possible speaking as mildly as he’d ever spoken to someone in uniform. “We’ll get there. It’ll be alright, son.”

The Marine’s expression didn’t change, but he was smart enough to follow without further comment as Dog strode up the long, dirt access road that paralleled the runway. A Herc transport hunkered in as he walked, its broad shoulders delivering more supplies for the Seabees swarming over the base. Two crews with surveying equipment were setting up near the aircraft parking area; another was already working on the far end of the runway. Large metal poles, the skeleton framework for a building or hangar, were being off-loaded from one of the C-130’s that had just landed. By the end of next week, the Navy would have a base here twice the size of Norfolk.

Sergeant Jack Floyd, otherwise known as “Pretty Boy,” guarded the entrance to the mobile Dreamland command unit. He snapped to attention as the colonel approached, then cast a rather jaundiced look at the trailing Marine. Pretty Boy had his carbon-boron vest on; his helmet hung off a loop at the side like a nail gun off a carpenter’s tool belt.

“Hey, Sergeant,” said Dog. “Where’s Captain Freah?”

“He and the guys snagged a local in the woods, Colonel,” said Pretty Boy. “Looks like she was spying on us. They’re bringing her up to the med tent. Liu says she’s got a concussion or something. Went for the stretcher, whole nine yards.”

“Okay,” said Dog, starting toward the small flight of stairs to the trailer.

“Uh, sir,” said Floyd. “Something you oughta know, uh, the admiral—”

“About time you got here, Bastian,” said Admiral Woods, opening the door to the trailer.

The Marine jumped to attention so quickly Dog thought he heard the air snap. Pretty Boy scowled deeply, his back to the admiral.

“Hello, Admiral,” said Dog. “Good day to you too”

Woods said nothing, disappearing inside. Dreamland’s ultra-top-secret facility was now crowded with Navy people. The lone member of the Whiplash team inside was Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez, who sat at the com panel toward the back.

“Out,” demanded Dog. “Everyone the hell out of here.”

“Belay that!” said Woods.

“Belay bullshit,” said Dog. “This is a code-word-classified installation. Everyone the hell out.”

“Belay that!”

Woods, his hands balled into fists that perched on his hips, stood in front of Dog, his face the color of a ripe strawberry. Dog’s was undoubtedly the same shade. It was only with the greatest effort he kept himself from physically pushing the Navy people out the door.

“Admiral, let’s be clear about this,” he said. “The gear in this trailer, let alone the network it connects to and the information it accesses, are covered by six different code-word clearances, none of which I guarantee you or your men have,” said Dog. “You’re not even cleared to know the existence of the damn classification.”

“And let me be clear about this,” said Woods. “You work for me.”

“The chain of command is going to make little difference in Leavenworth,” said Dog.

Dog wasn’t particularly tall; fight pilots rarely were. Woods was only an inch or two taller than Dog, though his frame held at least thirty more pounds. The two men glared at each other, their eyes only a few millimeters apart.

“Colonel, uh, I have a link pending here from NSC. Need your voice confirmation,” said Hernandez. Among other things, the Whiplash team member had helped make a daylight rescue under fire during Gulf War, but his voice now had a worried tremble to it.

Dog managed to unball his hands.

“I have to get that,” he told Woods. “The computer won’t let the communication proceed with anyone else in view, even if I wear headphones.”

“Understood,” said Woods.

The two men held each other’s glare for a few seconds more. Then simultaneously, Dog turned toward the com area, and Woods nodded to his men. They filed out quietly, undoubtedly glad to escape without having been scorched. Hernandez looked at Dog, silently asking if he should go too. Dog decided it might be an appropriate diplomatic gesture and nodded.

Woods stood quietly by the table, out of line-of-sight of the com screen. Dog, meanwhile, picked up a headset and spoke his name into the microphone. Jed Barclay’s face snapped into view.

“Hi, Colonel.”

“Jed. What’s up?”

“Wanted to brief you on the situation with China and India. Um, and um, to uh, well, the way you got the news, I would’ve preferred to give you a better heads-up.”

“Understood,” Dog told him. “You’re just the messenger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s all right, Jed. I’m a big boy,” said Dog. When he’d first met Barclay, he hadn’t thought much of the NSC aide; he was a pimple-faced kid who stuttered when he spoke. Hell, he was also a computer whiz, quite possibly as adept at the science as Jennifer Gleason, though his interests were more in international politics than hand-constructed integrated circuits. Barclay combined the technical knowledge with a surprisingly deft feel for foreign relations, and could analyze the international implications of anything from ATM machines to U/MFs. What he did for Dreamland and Whiplash — basically acting as a liaison for the NSC director and the President — involved perhaps one one-hundredth of his skills.

“Well, okay,” said Jed. He began running down the situation between China and India, starting with the present force structure.

Dog stopped him.

“I have Admiral Woods here,” he said. “Maybe he ought to listen in.”

“Okay. Sure. Good idea,” said Jed. While he authorized the feed from his end, Dog took off his headset and called Woods over.

The admiral too had calmed somewhat. He came over without saying anything, frowned, then looked at what was now a blank screen.

“You’ll have to give your name and rank to the computer,” Dog told him. “Just do it once, and do it in as natural a voice as you can. If the voice pattern is not already in the system, you’ll be asked for a retina scan and a fingerprint. You put your hand there.”

Dog pointed toward a small glass panel at the side of the auxiliary keyboard to the com set. Woods nodded.

“Authorize additional com link,” began Dog, starting off the procedure. He nodded at Woods, who spoke so slowly the computer asked him to repeat in a natural voice.

Dog suppressed a grin as Woods repeated his name, this time somewhat sternly. When he finished, the admiral started to laugh.

“Jesus,” said Woods. “It’s come to this.”

“Please maintain level composure,” snapped the computer.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It needs to look at your eyes. Poor choice of words,” said Dog.

Woods began to laugh. “What does it know? It’s a computer.”

Dog started to laugh too, though not quite for the same reason. The words had been chosen by Ray Rubeo, who was twice as arbitrary as any computer in existence.

Jed Barclay’s face came back on the screen.

“So here’s the thing,” said Barclay, launching back into the point he’d been making earlier. “The Indians use new technology, the Chinese feel they have to retaliate. Up the ante. They’re in big trouble domestically, and if they can’t go to war against us, and quite another for the Indians to do it. They have a second carrier en route; we suspect two more subs — nukes this time.”

“Two? The Xias?” asked the admiral, referring to the most advanced submarine the Chinese were known to have.

“Actually, Admiral, we think they’re Trafalgar clones. We’re still trying to develop information on them. that’s uh, what we want from Whiplash. I mean, from the Dreamland contingent.”

“Where would the Chinese have gotten British attack submarines?” asked Woods.

“Well, these aren’t Trafalgars per se,” said Jed. “Thougj we think they do have the pump-jet propulsion system. We’re pretty sure about that. The question is whether they’re some kind of Chinese take on the Akula or a totally different design. We’re really interested in the diving capability and we don’t have a sound signature, for obvious reasons.”

“You guys are losing me,” said Dog. “Give me a little background, okay?”

Woods explained the Akula was a very good Russian nuclear attack boat, capable of high speeds and deep depths. The British submarines were also among the best all-around attack subs in the world, though the Trafalgar class represented a slightly different philosophy, one that emphasized silence over sheer performance. Its pump-jet propulsion system was notably quieter than a traditional propeller-driver boat. With their hulls covered in a special rubber material and a range of other improvements, the submarines were about as quiet as anything in the ocean, including diesels using batteries.

“They can dive to about the same depth as the Akula,” said Woods, “though the Brits tend to be more conservative than the Russians. Pick your poison really — they’re both excellent subs. If the Chinese have anything similar to either, they’re pretty potent weapons.”

He turned back to the screen. “But nowhere in any briefing that I’ve seen has anyone said the Chinese have such advanced submarines. We haven’t seen them at sea, certainly. They had plans to purchase two Akula from the Ruskies, supposedly, but that hadn’t gone through. This is out of left field.”

“Which is my point,” said Jed. “The two boats left Behai eighteen hours ago. We have a good read on their initial direction, but beyond that we’re empty.”

“Behai? On the Gulf of Tonkin? There’s no facility there.”

“Yes, Admiral, exactly. The thinking is a shallow-water facility in some sheds about fifty yards from the waterline. They’re doing a history run on satellite photos. It’s at least technically feasible. Otherwise the subs just appeared from nowhere. Pacific Fleet has the northern coastline bottled up,” Jed added. “So we don’t think they could have snuck down past.”

Woods furled his brow.

“What’s most important,” Dog asked. “Kali or the subs?”

“The six-million-dollar question,” said Jed. “NSC is split. CIA wants both.”

“That’s not very helpful, Jed,” said Dog.

“Tactical situation to dictate,” said Jed. “Uh, the exact assignment would be Admiral Allen’s call. He’s already been informed.”

“Okay,” said Dog.

“That’s all I have,” said Jed.

“Thanks.” Dog cut the connection by pushing a button on the console. “My plan was to use Piranha to track the Indian sub,” Colonel Bastian told the admiral. “We can do the same for the Chinese. We have two units available; they can operate for roughly eighteen hours. We’re bringing in additional control units so we can run the Megafortresses in shifts gathering the data. We hope to have other probes out here shortly.”

“Right now, our orders are to keep the sea lanes open. That’s our top priority,” said Woods. “But I would say the more information about the Chinese submarines the better. From what Barclay just said, they’d probably be hunting for the Indian sub anyway. We might be able to catch them all together.”

“Okay.”

“Akula can be a true pain in the ass,” said the admiral, speaking as if from personal experience. He took a step away, thinking. “Can the Megafortresses look for the submarines while keeping tabs on surface shipping? Send back data, I mean.”

“You mean tell you what ships are down there while we’re running Piranha? That’s easy.”

“That’s what we’ll do. My carrier group will soon be close enough to handle the surface patrol. We’ll move in ASW units to help you.”

“Okay,” said Dog.

“I’ll talk to Admiral Allen right away. I know you’re one of the Jedi, Bastian,” he added. “I’ll try not to hold it against you.”

“I’m not really involved in Beltway politics,” said Dog.

Though the exact usage varied, “Jedi” was a term often applied to a group of military officers and others connected with defense issues who advocated different approaches to traditional forces and thinking. It was generally used in a disparaging way.

“You think the Navy’s obsolete,” said Woods.

“Not at all.”

“I’ve read the report that led to Whiplash,” said Woods. “Asymmetric technology edge,” he added. The phrase, which had been one of the section subheads, had become a buzz phrase in the administration — unfortunately, without the context that followed the headline.

“The report clearly noted that conventional forces still have a primary role,” said Dog. “The idea is to develop next-generation weapons and get them into use as soon as possible. Piranha’s a good example.”

“I know you don’t like me,” said Woods. “I’m not asking you to. I understand you have a lot of experience. Good experience; and success. Candidly, Colonel — you’re a very capable officer with an enviable track record. But you work for me now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dog.

“Map out a plan to look for the subs. If we find one, Indian or Chinese, we’ll still with it. The others are bound to show up eventually,” said Woods. With that, he turned and walked quickly out of the trailer.

The girl’s breathing and heart rate were normal, and though unconscious, she didn’t seem to have been severely injured. They brought her to a small tent at the far end of the base, letting her rest on the air-cushion stretcher that carried her. Liu and the others had turned from warriors to mother hens, watching for signs of her revival.

Bison had told Danny about the change in their orders, but the captain hadn’t had time to think about the implications until he reached the medical tent. There were Navy people all over the place, off-loading equipment from transports, revving up bulldozers, and staking out building sites.

Ordinarily, Danny Freah didn’t put too much stock in interservice rivalry. In the modern military, the Joint Service Command structure meant Air Force people and Army people and Navy people often mixed in together. Danny had worked with Marines several times since coming to Dreamland; before that, he had drawn assignments with several Army Special Forces teams, including one from Delta.

However, besides heading the Whiplash ground team, he was responsible for Dreamland security, and this many people running around presented a serious problem, no matter what uniform they wore. Even the observation post and its displays were classified. While allowances had to be made for “live” operations, he had to make sure everyone up and down the command chain understood there were fences.

“Okay, sergeant,” he told Liu. “Keep me posted on the girl while I sort the security stuff out.”

“Gotcha, Cap.”

Danny’s ear bud vibrated with a page.

“Colonel’s looking for you,” said Bison. “He’s headed your way.”

“Good. What’s our status with the Megafortresses?”

“Our guys’ll watch ’em after they come in,” said Bison. “Marines know they’re out of bounds. Colonel Bastian kicked the admiral’s staff out of the trailer.”

“What staff?” said Danny. “What the hell were they doing in the trailer?”

“Uh, Captain, did you want Pretty Boy to shoot them?”

“Damn straight,” said Danny, who wasn’t kidding. “Shit. Why hell didn’t you tell me, Bison?”

“I told you the admiral was going there.”

“Just the admiral, you said.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you meant the whole staff could wait there.”

“Bison. Shit.”

Danny’s anger was temporary diverted by a moan from the stretcher.

“Girl’s waking up,” said Liu.

“I’ll get back to you.” Danny told his sergeant.

The Filipino jerked straight upright on the cot, disoriented and angry. Liu put his hand on her shoulder. She pushed forward, and his grip tightened just enough to stop her from moving any further. The anger on her face changed to fear, then something like curiosity, then back to anger.

“Are you okay?” Danny asked her.

She frowned. Her reaction convinced Danny she spoke English, like most, though not all, of her countrymen.

“You’re okay,” he said. “Does your head hurt? You may have a concussion.”

“Captain Freah?”

Danny turned toward the door of the tent. A Marine captain and two of his men had come in.

“I’m Freah.”

“Name’s Petersin. Justin Peterson.” He held out his hand, which Danny shook professionally. “Prisoner?”

“Not exactly,” said Danny. He gestured toward the door and they wen out to talk. The wind was whipping up with a fresh storm; Danny could taste moisture on his lips and his breaths were heavy with the approaching rain.

“I’m in charge of securing the base area,” said Peterson. “I understand you guys have some high-tech gizmos set up.”

“The sensors themselves aren’t that high-tech,” said Danny. “Camera, some IR gear. But what we have controlling them — that’s classified.”

“Oh?” Peterson’s tone was somewhere between a challenge and genuine puzzlement.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a pain in the ass, but I’d like to get some compartmentalization,” said Danny. “I’m thinking my guys work the gear. We feed information to your guys. I don’t know what personnel you’ll have.”

“A company. We can get what we need, though.”

“Company’s fine. I’ll go over the perimeter with you, and you can decide how you want to handle it. We had a similar arrangement with some guys from the 24th MEU (SOC),” added Danny, pronouncing the words as if they were “Mew-sock.” “Seemed to work out. We can get you some of our como gear, but not the helmets we use.”

Danny smiled. “You’d never give ’em back,” he added.

“Okay. I heard a little about you,” said Peterson.

“Me or my unit?”

“Both. You sure you’re not Marines under those black vests?”

Danny knew he was being buttered up — but still, Peterson seemed all right. They’d get along okay.

“So what’s with the prisoner?” asked the Marine.

“Native we found approaching our perimeter,” said Danny. “She’s not really a prisoner. Technically.”

“Don’t think she’s a guerrilla?”

“No,” said Danny quickly. He’d decided he was holding on to her himself until he had things figured out. Giving details of what had happened — such as the fact that she had a gun — would jeopardize that.

He wasn’t just going out on the limb personally here, but potentially endangering the entire mission. Yet he knew that wasn’t the case. She hadn’t been trying to attack them; she was just protecting herself, as he would have done.

Danny was sure he was right. He just needed some time to talk to her, to prove it. Until then, they’d keep an eye on the village. They could take it out quickly enough.

“How can you be sure she’s not a guerrilla?” said Peterson.

Danny shrugged. “There’s a tiny little village in the other side of that hilltop there, down the slope, across a swamp.”

“Going to have to evac it, no?”

“Well, I didn’t want to,” said Danny. “Kinda sucks telling people they have to leave their homes.”

Peterson took of his soft campaign cap, scratching his head. For a Marina, he had relatively long hair — it might measure a full inch. Most of it stood straight up, as if at attention.

“We gotta do what we gotta do,” said Peterson finally.

“Yeah. I know. At the moment, I want to make sure she’s okay, then find out what she’s up to, move off of that.”

“Who we talking about?” said Colonel Bastian.

“Colonel.”

Peterson saluted sharply. Danny introduced him, then told him about the girl — still leaving out the detail about the gun. “She can’t stay here,” said Dog. “What has she seen?”

“She just came to. She hasn’t not gone out of the tent,” said Danny. “I want to see what she was up to.”

“Captain, excuse me a second,” Colonel Bastian said to Peterson.

“Yeah, I have some things to check out,” said the Marine. “Captain Freah, if I could meet you at the Whiplash observation post in an hour maybe? If you can get the radios for us, I’d appreciate it.”

“That’d be good.”

“There more to this than you’re saying?” Colonel Bastian asked after the Marine and his two men left.

“How so, sir?”

“You sound a little protective.”

“No, sir.”

“Why was she unconscious?”

“We had to knock her out to take her into custody,” said Danny.

“You weren’t thinking of setting her free, were you?”

“Absolutely not,” said Danny truthfully. “I’m honestly not sure what to do with her, though. I mean, frankly — she hasn’t done anything except cross an invisible line we set up in the jungle. I’m not sure what I can do. And the local government — from what I heard, it’s best not to get them involved.”

Colonel Bastian had a way of pushing up his cheeks and squinting when he heard something he found difficult to believe. Danny saw that look now.

If this had been Dreamland, Danny would have had the girl in a hood before being transported to the medical area. While she was isolated there, her prints would have been checked against innumerable databases. She’d be in Dreamland-issued clothing. She’d be guarded by two tiers of guards. He’d have a list of legal charges — civilian as well as military — pending against her. All might ultimately be dropped, but they’d be signed and sealed, ready to be used if necessary.

This wasn’t Dreamland. Still, he was definitely being lax, at least by his standards/

He felt — what? Sorry for her?

She would have killed him, though.

“All right, Captain. For now, keep her isolated. We’re going to have to consult with Admiral Woods on what to do with her,” said Bastian. “But under no circumstances is she going anywhere without my specific approval.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Even if Woods tells you something else.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dog frowned. The steady hum of a Megafortress grew in the distance. “We’ve been chopped to PACCOM, but we’re supposed to maintain strategic security,” added the colonel. “I’m not exactly sure how we’re supposed to accomplish that. Especially given that Admiral Woods is a class-one—”

The roar of a Megafortress landing on the nearby runway drowned out the end of Dog’s sentence, but it wasn’t particularly difficult to fill in the blank.

Bree absentmindedly ran her hand along the back of her husband’s wheelchair, listening as the Navy intelligence officer continued his briefing about the layout of Chinese and Indian forces in the area. Her father stood next to him, arms tightly folded and eyes fixed in a glare. He’d already snapped twice at errors the man had made when talking about the Megafortresses’ capabilities. He appeared fully capable of strangling him if he misspoke again; his glare looked more potent than the Razor antiaircraft laser.

Breanna hadn’t seen him so belligerent since his first few weeks at Dreamland. He didn’t like Woods, that much was clear — he frowned every time the admiral started to speak. Breanna had heard about the admiral’s antics during the Piranha test, and so she understood there’d be some competitive animosity, but this seemed to go beyond that. Woods, though a bit gruff and obviously used to having his way, seemed competent and intelligent, traits her father normally held in high regard.

There were two battle groups in the South China Sea; the Chinese were at the north, the Indians at the south. Numerically, the Chinese held a serious advantage. They now had two small aircraft carriers with supporting destroyers and a cruiser. The Chinese carriers were a little less than seven hundred feet long and drew about twenty thousand tons fully loaded; by contrast the U.S.’s Lincoln measured over a thousand feet and displaced more than a hundred thousand tons. Size-wise, they were more equivalent to American assault carriers like the Wasp than what the U.S. considered front-line aircraft carriers. They were, nonetheless, potent, able to project serious airpower and the centerpiece of a major task force.

The Indians currently had eight destroyers and two guided-missile cruisers heading toward the Chinese fleet. About a day behind them was an ancient aircraft carrier named Vikrant, originally named Hercules when build by the British in 1946. The Indians had bought it soon afterward, operating her for nearly forty years before taking her into dock for repair and refurbishment. Another round of repairs and renovations had just been completed, adding a British ski jump to her flight deck, among other things. Also tiny by American standards, she was a bit bigger than the Chinese carriers but probably roughly their equivalent.

Her aircraft complement was unknown, but certainly included first-generation Harrier jump jets. There were also reliable reports that a version of the MiG-29K had been adapted by the Russian specifically for the Indian aircraft carrier. The MiG had lost a fly-off to the sea version of the Su-27/Su-33 as the preferred multirole fighter for the stillborn Russian carrier navy, but many analysts felt the smaller MiG-29K would have been a far better choice; its only shortcoming — albeit a serious one — was its more limited endurance.

“We haven’t seen those planes yet,” said the intelligence officer, tapping on the map spread out on the table. “One theory is they’re being kept belowdecks to escape satellite surveillance. If so, there wouldn’t be more than six. I have to admit, our intelligence on the Vikrant isn’t good. The Indians bought the ship into dry dock last year and claimed it was beyond repair. We know a lot more about a sister ship, or close to a sister ship, called the Viraat. It has eighteen Harriers and some Russian ASW helicopters. It’s back here, near India. We don’t expect it to be a player at this time.”

“What about the submarines we’re supposed to find?” asked Zen.

“Ah yes, the subs.” He pulled an overlay out from under the map. It was a large, clear transparency with yellow and red circles. “The two new Chinese attack subs were spotted around here,” he said, pointing to an area of the Chinese coast just to the right of Vietnam, “eighteen hours ago. You’ll appreciate that I can’t discuss the specific intelligence methods used to find them,” he added.

It was a snotty allusion to Dreamland’s security protocols, and drew a snort from nearly everyone in the room. The Fleet hadn’t found the subs at all — they’d been spotted by satellite, and all the details were readily available to the Dreamland team.

The intelligence officer continued, comparing the submarines to high-tech British attack boats powered by an ultraquiet propulsion system. Roughly as silent as the Indian ship on battery power, Piranha would have to stay closer than twenty miles to track them. The Indian submarine was bound to be easier to find initially, since it had to eventually come up for air and recharging.

“Your job is to find all the submarines and keep tabs on them,” said Woods. “You’ll work with our standard ASW patrols. We have two submarines en route, as well as several surface ships that can be tasked to shadow the submarines once they’re located. Those assets are all some distances away, however.”

“Iowa, with Commander Delaford and Ensign English, will take the first shift,” said Colonel Bastian. “Because the launch and initial tracking are most critical. We’ll hand off to Quicksilver and Zen, then Raven.”

Major Alou and his crew were currently out on patrol, keeping tabs on the Chinese and Indian fleets.

“Assuming the new control set is in and you’re comfortable,” added the colonel, looking at Zen.

“I’ll be comfortable,” said Zen, who had been grousing about the Piranha controls ever since he’d heard he was going to have to “pilot” one. Delaford had brought along a sim program, which Zen had already begun working with. Typically, he’d nailed the high-proficiency score on first try. “What about the Flighthawks?”

“From what Rubeo told me, we have to leave them on the ground,” said Dog. “It won’t be that big a deal. We’ll just have to forgo close-in CAP and configure the missions accordingly. We figured we cold place double-launchers on the wing hard-points for Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses, since the bay will be loaded with buoys. That’s four missiles, and we should be able to get some long-range escorts, or at least standby escort, from the Fleet.”

Woods nodded. One of the Navy officers took over, running down some details about flight operations. A squadron of F/A-18’s was en route from Hawaii and would be available for whatever contingency arose. He also briefly ran down some of the differences in Navy rescue procedures; downed Navy aviators used different “spins” for contacting rescue units. Though the difference was subtle, it could be vital in an emergency; coming up on a radio at five minutes after the hour when people were listening for you at ten might mean the difference between life and death.

“Gentlemen,” said Woods, bringing the briefing to a close, “now that we understand each other. Let’s get moving.”

Gentlemen? Bree felt her face turning red. The admiral was looking straight at her.

Gentlemen, huh? We’ll see about that.

“There’s another matter I’d like to address,” said Stoner. The CIA officer had sat quietly in the corner of the room, saying nothing and seemingly overlooked.

“There are some spy sites, or possibly some spy sites, on the atolls along the western end of the patrol area. At least one has radar. Captain Freah suggested they be investigated and I concur.”

Woods frowned at Stoner.

“I suggest we use the Birds and the Osprey,” added Danny. We think there’s probably a whole string of them, but looking at one would tell us a lot about the others.”

“What sites? Who are they working for?” asked Woods.

“We’re not sure,” said Stoner. “My guess is they’re with the Chinese, but that’s why we’d like to go in. Major Stockard and the Quicksilver crew have data on them.”

They discussed the sites briefly. Woods seemed to actively dislike Stoner, and pointed out twice this was not a CIA operation. Stoner didn’t respond to the provocations.

His sunburned face had a harsh ruggedness that was attractive, Bree thought, even when he frowned. And those eyes — gray-blue. Pretty.

In the end, Woods agreed investigating the sites would be useful — but at the moment they weren’t authorized to strike force on either side of the conflict.

“Draw up a plan for my review,” he said. “Gentlemen, good-bye.”

Drafted into the fucking Navy,” said Zen, rolling toward the tent that had been designated as their temporary quarters. “I’m a fucking sailor.”

“At least he got your sex right,” said Breanna, walking alongside his wheelchair.

“Navy bullshit,” grumbled Zen, pushing inside.

“How’s the tooth?”

“Still there.” Zen pushed his tongue back toward the filling. “So he must’ve done a good job, huh?”

“Why?”

“It’s not bothering you. So going to the dentist isn’t a bad thing.”

“Yes, Captain. Right again.”

She ran her hands from the back of his neck across his face, her thick, strong hands lingering on his cheeks. Zen felt reluctant to let the bad mood drop, but her touch softened the muscles in his face. She moved closer and pushed her body against him, leaning her breast into the side of his face.

“Maybe having nothing to do for a few hours isn’t so bad,” she said.

“Ya think?” said Zen. He pulled her down for a kiss. Except for the tooth, it was perfect; along, slow melt into the softness she kept behind the bomber-pilot face.

“Mmmmm,” she said.

“Mmmmm,” he repeated, his fingers sliding to the top of her flight suit. They had just started south when there was a scream outside.

Zen jerked back and grabbed the wheels of his chair, Breanna rushed ahead of him, running to the medical tent ten yards away. Two Whiplash team members, fully armed, came on a dead run, one dropping to his knee just outside the tent and talking into his microphone. Danny Freah barked something and the door to the big tent flew open. Freah, Sergeant Liu, and a Navy corpsman pushed out dragging a small Filipino. It was the woman they’d captured below, her shirt hanging half off.

“She grabbed a scissors,” said Liu. “She tried to stab the captain.”

“Guerrilla,” said Stoner, appearing behind Zen.

“Maybe she just doesn’t like the idea of being manhandled,” said Breanna. The young woman had collapsed to the ground. Bree went to her and kneeled down.

“Careful, Captain,” said Danny.

“Were there all men in there?” asked Bree.

“I don’t think that was the problem,” said Liu. “We took a gun from her earlier.”

Breanna squatted in front of the Filipino. “Are you okay?”

The young woman didn’t answer.

“restraints,” said Danny. Liu nodded and went back inside the tent.

“CPP,” said a Marine officer who’d joined the semicircle. “Commie.”

“No. she’s a Muslim,” said Stoner. “Ask her.”

“What difference does that make?” said the Marine.

Stoner said nothing, but came over and lowered himself into a squat next to Breanna. Danny, standing behind the Filipino and still holding her shirt, stooped slightly. A light drizzle had started to fall; the rain was warm, like the sprinkle from a shower.

“What are you doing on this island?” asked Stoner. “You don’t come from here.”

The young woman spit at him, but the spook didn’t react.

“We’re not your friends, but we’re not interested in hurting you either,” he said. “Tell us why you’re here. Otherwise we’ll turn you over to the Army.”

She said nothing. They stared at each other a few seconds more; then Stoner rose.

“She’s a guerrilla,” said Captain Peterson. “You’ll have to give her over to Western Command, the Filipino Army. Her people were probably planning a raid.”

“She’s not CPP, and she wasn’t planning a raid,” said Stoner.

“Who the fuck are you?” Peterson said.

Stoner gave the Marine a half smile but didn’t answer his question. He turned to Zen instead — he was the ranking officer, but even so, Zen thought it odd — and told him. “The people in that settlement are probably all related; came here from one of the other islands. Luzon or someplace. They’ll have a horror story.” Stoner then turned abruptly and walked away.

“Whether she’s a Commie or not,” said Peterson, “you’re going to have to turn her over to her government.”

“She’s my prisoner,” said Danny. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with her yet.”

Peterson took a long breath obviously designed to underline what he was going to say next. “Captain, you have to follow proper procedures. And if there’s a village that’s threatening our post, then—”

“We’ll survey the village to see if it’s a threat,” said Danny. “In the meantime, this woman may have to stand charges.”

“For grabbing some scissors?” said Bree.

Danny glared at her.

“I want to talk to Colonel Bastian,” said Danny. He turned to Liu. “Put her in the tent. Keep her hands cuffed. Behind her.”

Stoner walked along the perimeter of the airstrip, letting the light rain soak his face and clothes. He knew he wanted it to purge his anger. He also knew it wouldn’t work, not completely.

Desire was the cause of all suffering. He stared into the droplets of rain, gazing out at the ocean. The furling waves had no desire; they were just drop of water pushed by physics.

Like him.

Not like him. He hated Woods — he hated all of the Navy people. And the Marines. Especially the Marines.

Irrationally, ridiculously. He had been a SEAL, and yet he hated the Navy. His assignments with the Company made use of his Navy expertise. Yet he hated the Navy. With no reason, beyond a hundred thousand insults and injuries, all to his ego, all meaningless in the great flow of life.

He would never be a true Buddhist, since he could not denounce is ego. Maybe he didn’t want to be a true Buddhist — which, ironically, would make him closer to being one. The koan of it was a beautiful, humorous circle.

Stoner held his fingers together, his arms down at his sides, absorbing the rain. He actually liked Freah for not wanting to turn the idiot girl over to the Filipino Army. He liked all the Dreamland people — Zen Stockard especially. The major had just sat there, listening, not forming a judgement. The guy knew shit every second he was awake, but he didn’t bitch about it.

And his wife, his beautiful wife …

Stoner let the idea float out toward the water. Desire was the cause of all suffering, the Buddha taught, and this was still the most difficult lesson to reconcile.

Danny knew from Bison he wouldn’t find Colonel Bastian in the trailer, but he went there first anyway. Then he walked very deliberately — to the tent that had been designated as Colonel Bastian’s quarters. He knew he wouldn’t find the colonel there either. So by the time he went to look for him where he had known all along he would be — Iowa, getting ready to takeoff — it was too late. The Megafortress’s four engines rumbled and flared as Danny watched from twenty or thirty yards away; slowly being towed toward the runway, preparing to take off.

“Hey, Cap,” said Powder as Danny watched the Megafortress put her nose into the wind. “Getting wet, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Danny. If he wanted, he could use his smart helmet to talk to the colonel right now, ask him what to do. But he didn’t.

“So what’s with the girl?” asked Powder. “Tried to shoot your head off?”

“Something like that.”

“Like that girl is Bosnia, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Danny, who hadn’t even thought about that incident.

Oh, he realized.

Oh!

“Spooky replay, huh?”

Danny put his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the rain. Powder had been with him in Bosnia.

“You know, I hadn’t even thought about it,” he told the sergeant. “I didn’t even remember that.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Danny laughed.

“Really, Cap? You blocked the whole sucker out?”

More or less. It had probably poked at him when he realized the person he’d grabbed was a woman, but he hadn’t really remembered, or thought about it, maybe because he was too focused on doing his job. Or maybe the memory was just too much.

The other woman was a Muslim too.

“Shit,” said Danny.

“Captain?”

“Let’s go get some coffee,” he told Powder. “Assuming these Navy guys know how to make it.”

He’d been in Italy as part of a Special Tactics Squadron, and through a series of related and unrelated developments, wound up being assigned with two of his men to accompany a UN negotiating team. The UN people were to meet with government officials at a police station in an obscure hillside town. The day before Danny, Powder, and another STS sergeant named Dave Chafetz went into the town with two plainclothes Yugoslavian policemen to familiarize themselves with the area. The policemen were scared shitless about something, even though they were in ostensibly friendly territory.

Scouting the ingress and egress routes went quickly. The police station was located near the town’s biggest intersection, which, despite the Yug’s assurance, was highly problematic. Danny and his team members took mental notes of several evacuation points, including the police station roof. They planned to have a pair of Blackhawks and some scout helicopters no more than two minutes away, and a ground unit with armored vehicles within striking distance. With Danny taking pains not to tip off his assessments to his Yugoslav escorts, it took about four hours to scout the whole place. Danny’s efforts were more professional than practical; it wouldn’t take a genius to know roughly where an emergency rendezvous or pickup would be planned.

The policemen kept asking nervously if he’d seen enough, hinting almost to the point of insistence that it was time for them to return to their UN base. Finally, Powder suggested they look at the building next to the police station; it was a grocery-type store, though from the window and door facing the street, the shelves looked pretty bare.

The policemen argued it was time to leave. Danny exchanged glances with his two men, then told the Yugs they were going in.

“Fine,” said one of the policemen. “We’ll wait out here.”

More than likely, they were just being paranoid, but you could never tell. The building had to be inspected and it had to be inspected now.

Danny and his men were dressed in fatigues with armored vests, but weren’t carrying rifles. They could and would call on air support if things got crazy, probably cancel the meeting tomorrow, and set the process back considerably.

He left his Beretta in its holster, trying to play it as innocently as possible. The door squeaked on its jamb as he pushed inside, and a bell at the corner of the frame rang, but there was no one in sight. He walked in, boots creaking against the old floorboards — there was a basement; they’d have to investigate.

Danny had memorized a set of cumbersome phrases in Serbo-Croatian, meant more to show he was friendly than to really communicate. He rehearsed one—“Vrlo mi je drago što vas vidim,” or roughly, “pleased to meet you”—as he walked toward a glass display counter about three quarters of the way back in the room. The display was empty, as were the shelves nearby. The place had a slightly sweet smell to it, the sort of scent that might come from cooking cabbage. The faint odor mixed with something more like dirt or mud.

Something moved on his right. He spun, his hands down near his belt and gun.

A figure came from behind a tattered curtain, a thin shadow. He thought it was a boy at first, then realized it was a girl, a young woman really. Maybe five-one, barely ninety pounds. Her hair was very short, unusual for the area.

“Vrlo mi” he started, faltering almost immediately with the pronunciation. He had memorized a phrase for “are you the owner?”—“da li ste sopstvenik?” which was intended to apply to the taxi drivers. He tried to remember it, but before he could, the girl held her hands in front of her, then backed away.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, putting up his own hand.

The girl stopped. The store was unlit, making it difficult to see her face well, but Danny thought she had understood what he said.

“We’re just Americans. Yanks,” he told her. “United States. U.S. We just, uh, looking around. Do you have anything to sell?”

It was lame, but it was all he could think of. Powder, who was a few feet behind him, said they were looking for coffee.

“Powder,” said Danny. “This isn’t a deli.”

“Hey, Cap, you never know. I could go for a good hit of joe right now.”

“We just want to look around,” Danny told the girl. “Okay?”

she stared at him, and then nodded, or seemed to nod.

“You stay with her. Powder, while I check out the stairs.”

“You sure, Cap?”

“I’m sure.”

The urge to take out his gun was overwhelming, but Danny managed to resist, determined to show the young woman he meant no harm. He walked toward an open staircase at the side of the room. A candle and matches were on a small ledge at the base of the steps; he lit them, then, calling ahead, went upstairs. In the glow of the candle, Danny saw the floor of a large room was covered with bird shit; he looked up and saw little remained of the roof. Still, he walked far enough inside to make sure no one was hiding in the shadows, then returned to where Powder was monitoring the young woman.

“Basement next, Powder.”

“Yes, Cap.”

In the basement, Danny found a mattress and some bedclothes about four feet from the bottom step. There was nothing else; no furnace, no washing machine, not even a store of food — just the stone and dirt walls of the foundation.

Danny relaxed a bit as he walked back up the stairs. Idiot policemen were probably just anxious to go home—

or more likely, complete whatever black-market transaction was waiting for them near the checkpoint. Smuggling was a common sideline for the authorities here.

Once back on the main floor, Danny started toward the door, then remembered he hadn’t looked beyond the torn curtain the girl had emerged from.

As he turned and took a few steps toward the concealed area, Powder said something, then shouted. Totally by instinct, Danny ducked as the woman charged past his sergeant. He reached out and grabbed her leg, sending her tumbling against the shelves. A small revolver fell from her hand.

“Shit,” said Powder.

Now standing, Danny clamped his foot on the woman’s arm. The two Yugoslavian policemen charged inside, raking the ceiling with submachine guns. After shouts from the Americans finally managed to calm them, one of the policemen grabbed the woman and hauled her out. Danny — pistol now out — pulled back the curtain.

A boy, three of four years old, sat on the floor in the middle of a small, squalid kitchen, his thumb in his mouth.

By the time Danny got outside, the young woman was gone, and several policemen had poured out of the station next door. As Danny tried to sort out the situation, one of the policemen had said the woman was a known Muslim. Danny tried to find out what would happen to her, but was ignored. Finally, he and his men had no option but to leave. The meeting between the UN and government officials was never held.

Powder had grabbed the pistol and found three bullets loaded, but the firing pug was broken and it probably couldn’t have fired.

Months later, Danny saw a Reuters news story about bodies being unearthed in a field near the same village. There was murky photo of a recently opened ditch. In the corner of the photo were the bodies of a young woman and a small boy, both nude.

Was it the woman and her son? The photo was too poor for him to tell. They could have been anyone in that war, any of a thousand victims, mother and child, sister and brother, innocents slain because of religion, or revenge, or just for the hell of it. It was the reason the U.S. got involved in the first place; to stop shit like that from happening, but reasons, and intentions, and the future didn’t make much difference to the people in that ditch.

As she poked into a solid wall of rain just over the ocean, Dog slid Iowa back down through the clouds, holding her steady through a series of buffeting winds. Piranha was ready to dance, but they couldn’t find her a partner; the Navy ASW planes with their sonar buoys had been delayed. Delaford said the Indian sub captain might try to take advantage of the weather to snorkel and recharge batteries. So, with nothing else to, they were trying to find him on the surface. The laborious process of running tracks over the empty water hadn’t yielded any results, however, and Colonel Bastian was starting to feel tired.

“I felt that yawn over here, Colonel,” said the copilot. “I thought we were heading into a hurricane.”

“Very funny, Rosen. Just keep tabs on those Sukhois.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

“We’re not in the Navy yet,” Dog told him.

“No, but we’re low enough to be a ship,” said the copilot. It was only a slight exaggeration — they were at a thousand feet, using every sensor they had, including their eyes.

“Shark Ears,” the Navy Orion with the sonar buoys, checked in. They were still a good forty minutes away.

“Maybe we should set up a refuel,” suggested Rosen. “Extend our patrol and come back and work with them for a while, assuming they don’t totally scrub because of the weather. It’s pretty rough down there, and it’s going to get worse.”

“Good idea,” said Dog.

The tanker was flying a track well to the north east. With the help of Iowa’s sophisticated flight computer system, Rosen quickly plotted a course to rendezvous about thirty minutes away. Eager to get away from the water and the severe weather below, Dog leaned back on the stick and the airplane bolted upright. The air was fairly clear away from the leading edge of the storm, their view unimpeded.

“We may have a contact on the surface,” said Rosen. “Ten miles, two degrees east of our nose, just about in our face.”

Dog immediately began to level off and nudge toward the contact. Delaford, monitoring the feeds on his equipment downstairs, couldn’t find anything. Dog swung Iowa around, holding the Megafortress on her wing, and cruised over the coordinates at about a thousand feet.

“If there was something there, it’s gone now,” said Delaford finally. “I don’t think we should launch Piranha until we have something more definite.”

“I concur,” said Rosen.

“All right. Let’s give Shark Ears this point as a reference,” said Dog. “In the meantime, let’s go tank.”

As they started to climb once again, the two Chinese fighters flying over the nearest aircraft carriers changed their course.

“Looks like we’ve finally aroused some curiosity,” said Rosen. “Their new course will put them in visual range in eight minutes.”

There was no pressing need to refuel, so Dog decided not to lead the fighters out to the tanker. He told Rosen to cancel the rendezvous for now, and resumed what was essentially a holding pattern just over the worst of the storm. Big fists of gray clouds ran north west by south east for as long as the eye could see; a light haze sat to the northeast of the front, a dark blanket to the southwest where the storm was coming from.

The Chinese planes weren’t moving particularly fast, an indication they weren’t intending hostile action, though there were no guarantees. Rosen tried hailing them at twenty miles, but to no one’s surprise, the Chinese pilots did not respond. A second two-ship of Sukhois was also heading out, a few minutes behind the first. Their carriers were just a little ahead of the storm, and it occurred to Dog the Sukhois wouldn’t be able to spend all that much time with them if they didn’t want to land in the teeth of the heavy weather.

The enhanced optical feed from the Megafortress’s chin camera caught the lead Sukhoi at ten miles. The computer ID’d the missiles under its wings as R-73s, known to NATO as Archers. They were heat-seekers with excellent off-boresight capability, at least, in theory, better than all but the latest-model Sidewinders at sniffing out heat sources. They could be launched from any angle, including head-on.

Which was pretty much were they were now.

“Six miles and closing,” said Rosen. “Man, it pees me off they won’t answer our hails. I’ve been practicing my Chinese and everything.”

“Just keep tracking,” Dog told him.

The two lead Chinese fighters broke to Iowa’s right about a mile ahead of them, turning in a wide circle. Not coincidentally, the move put them in an excellent position to close and then fire their heat-seekers, though they made no obvious move to do so.

“Computer thinks the second group of Sukhois is packing Exocets,” said Rosen, referring to the second flight of Sukhois. “Optical IDs are not perfect.”

“Could be they’re hoping we have a line on the Indian sub,” said Dog. He kept Iowa steady as the second group of planes abruptly tipped their wings and shot downward toward the water. The nearest civilian ship was about two miles behind them; the Chinese fighters showed no interest in the tanker.

“What do we do if they sink him?” Rosen asked.

“I guess we take notes,” said Dog. “Delaford, how good are Exocets against submarines?”

“I’d say next to useless, unless something keeps the sub on the surface for an extended period. You saw what happened the other day,” said the Navy commander. “The helicopters are what they’d really want out here, but we’re too far from the carrier group for them to operate comfortably. It’s just not in their normal doctrine.”

“Then why did they blow it the other day?” Dog asked.

“Well, they probably had the planes in the air, just like now, and decided to take their best shot. My guess now is they were planning to land soon anyway, they saw us dip down like we found something, so they decided to come out and see what’s up. We’re close to a hundred miles from the carrier, which is beyond the range of conventional submarine torpedoes. So, this far from the carrier, a submarine ordinarily wouldn’t be a threat, unless it was one of ours or maybe a Russian. See, that’s why Kali is so significant; it changes the equation for them.”

“Hey, I have a question,” said Rosen. “Why didn’t the Chinese submarine take out the Indian sub the other day?”

“Assuming it didn’t,” said Delaford, “since we don’t really know what happened under the water, my bet is that it was returning from the Indian Ocean and had fired all of its torpedoes earlier. Three ships sank out there last week.”

“So why didn’t the Indian sub fire at the Chinese?” asked Dog.

“Again, we’re assuming they didn’t,” said Delaford. “We don’t know what happened under the water later. But given that, my guess is the sub wasn’t a big enough target. They’d want the carrier. Or their orders didn’t call for firing on a combat vessel unless they were specifically attacked. They hadn’t fired on one.”

“Still haven’t,” said Dog.

“Right.”

“Our Orion ASW plane is twenty minutes away,” said Rosen. “Tomcats are reporting they have Sukhois on their scopes at long range.”

“Quite a party,” said Delaford.

“Lay it out for them,” Dog said. before Rosen finished, however, the Sukhois had changed course to return to their carrier.

Iowa directed the Navy sub hunter to the spot were they’d had the tentative contact. Twenty minutes later, Shark Ears reported a contact.

There was only one problem — it was a Russian sub.

“They know this guy,” Delaford reported. “It’s a Victor III. May just be keeping tabs on things, or not.”

“Nothing else?” Dog asked.

“Nothing yet.”

Kali was the goddess of destruction, Shiva’s wife, the embodiment of the idea that true life begins only with death.

It was an apt name for a weapon, and a perfect name for the missiles in Shiva’s forward tubes.

Admiral Balin looked again at the chart where their position had been plotted. Balin studied the map carefully; his target should lay just within the range of his weapons, though he still needed fresh coordinates to fire.

The Vikrant and her escorts would be twenty-four hours away. It was time.

Varja remained with the radio man, translating the coordinates received by the ELF. ELF — extremely-low-frequency — transmissions were, by technical necessity, brief, but this one did not need to contain much information — simply a set of coordinates and a time. With those few numbers, the device could be launched. Once fired, the weapon was on its own, relying first on its stored data to take it to the target area, then using its low-probability-of-intercept radar to take it the rest of the way. As their earlier tests had shown, as long as the target ship was within five miles when the radar activated, it would be hit.

“Precisely as the earlier coordinates predicted,” said Varja finally. “It is a good day, Admiral.”

Balin watched the crewman mark the map, then nodded.

“Launch in three minutes,” said Captain Varja, passing the word to the weapons controllers and the men in the torpedo room.

“Sharks Ears reporting possible contact,” said Rosen.

He gave Dog a set of coordinates almost due north, taking them rougly parallel to the Chinese carrier task force about forty miles away. And Australian container ship was plying the seas about ten miles ahead of them, going roughly in the direction of the carriers, though undoubtedly it would steer well clear as it approached.

As Iowa changed direction and waited for an update, another set of Sukhois came over to check them out. Unlike the earlier pilots, there jocks were cowboys, clicking on their gun radars at long range. The Tomcats riding shotgun for the Navy patrol plane further south didn’t particularly appreciate the gesture, though they maintained good discipline, staying in their escort pattern. They could afford to, knowing they could splash the Su-33’s in maybe ten seconds flat if that was what they decided to do; the Chinese planes were well within reach of their long-legged Phoenix missiles.

“Contact — I have — a launch — two launches,” said Rosen suddenly. “Shit — tracking — we have a cruise missile — two cruise missiles, breaking the surface. Fifty miles, bearing on nine-zero, exactly nine-zero.”

There was no time to consider whether the missiles were aimed at the Chinese carrier or the Australian ships; both were in range.

“Target Scorpions,” said Dog.

“Need you to cut, uh, need you at two-seventy,” said Rosen, giving Dog the turn they needed to launch their missiles. “Tracking One. Tracking Two. Okay, okay. No locks. Come on, baby.”

Dog pushed his stick to the left, riding the big plane hard. He nosed the plane down at the same time his hand reached for the throttle bar, picking up speed for the launch. The AMRAAM-pluses sat in their launchers near the wingtips, their brains seething for the targeting data.

“Okay — locked on Two!” said Rosen.

“Fire.”

“Launching. Launching. Two missiles away. Good read. Still looking for One. Still looking — can you cut twenty north — north, I need you north.”

Dog pushed the jet hard, following his copilot’s directions. Rosen gave another correction — they were almost out of time, the missile hunkering low against the waves, accelerating. Dog slid the stick back, his body practically jumping in the ejection seat to slap the Megafortress onto the proper bearing.

“Locked on One! Locked!”

“Fire,” said Dog softly.

The first Scorpion came off the wing with a thud so loud, Dog first thought there had been a malfunction, but it burst ahead a second later when the main rocket ignited, its nose rising briefly before settling down.

The Sukhois had rolled downward and were now five miles behind the Megafortress, closing fast.

The RWR blared.

“Flares,” Dog told Rosen calmly. “Hang on everyone.”

He threw the big plane onto its wing as the Chinese interceptors launched a volley of missiles. After seeing the Megafortress launch, they had incorrectly concluded it had fired on their ship.

“Two more Sukhois,” said Rosen as Dog whipped them into a seven-G turn. “Bearrrrrrrrring—”

Gravity slurred Rosen’s words as Dog whipped the plane back and then pushed the wing down, not merely changing direction, but dropping altitude dramatically. The Megafortress temporarily became more brick than aircraft, whipping toward the waves just barely under control. The two Russian-made heat-seekers sailed well over them; by the time they realized they’d missed their target and lit their proximity fuses, Dog had already wrestled Iowa level in the opposite direction. He was nose-on to one of the Sukhois and had he harbored any hostile intent — or a cannon in his nose — he could have waxed the Chinese pilot in a heartbeat. Instead, he merely pushed the throttle glide for more giddyyap. The Sukhoi shot below as Dog upward toward a stray bank of clouds, looking for temporary respite.

He hadn’t quite reached cover when the RWR announced there were radar missiles in the air. Rosen cranked the ECMs. They fired off chaff, and once more began jucking and jiving in the sky. The easily confused radar missiles sailed away harmlessly.

“Two is cooked! Splash cruise missile two,” said Rosen, somehow managed to keep track of his missile shots despite working the countermeasures.

“Where are the Sukhois?” asked Dog.

“Two are heading back to the carrier. Ditto the one that just launched the homers,” said Rosen, meaning the radar missiles. “Tomcats are sixty seconds away.”

Dog hit the radio. “Dreamland Iowa to Tomcat Top Flight — do not take hostile action. Stand off.”

“Missile three is terminal — missed, shit.” said Rosen.

Dog ran out of clouds and tucked toward the ocean, his altitude dropping through five thousand feet. A geyser shot up in the distance.

“Four is-is,” stuttered Rosen, eyes fixed on his targeting radar screen. “Four — yes! Grand slam! Grand slam! Got both those suckers!”

“Relax, Captain.” Dog swung his eyes around his instruments, getting his bearings quickly. The sitrep map showed the Tomcats are within twenty-five miles. There were two Sukhois directly over the Chinese carrier Shang-Ti. A flight of four, undoubtedly from the T’ien to the north, was coming down with afterburners lit.

“They’re looking for us,” said Rosen.

“ECMs.”

“I’m singing every tune I can think of,” said Rosen. The computer was jamming the Sukhois’ “Slotback” Phazotron N001 Zhuck radars, making it impossible for them to lock on the Megafortress, or anything else nearby, including the much more obvious Orion to the south.

As Dog banked, he turned his head toward the side windscreen, looking at the sea where the missiles had originated. “Tell our Chinese friend we just saved their butts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Delaford, you have a line on the Indian submarine?”

“Not a specific location, but they’re definitely in range for Piranha. We’ll have tons of data on Kali now,” he added. “Very interesting.”

“No response from the Chinese,” said Rosen. “Helos launching — looks like one of the destroyers changing course.”

“I don’t see much sense launching Piranha now,” Dog told Delaford. “The Chinese will be throwing depth chares left and right.”

“By the time they get near the sub, it’ll be long gone,” said Delaford. “But I concur, Colonel. At this point I’d suggest we stand off and watch.”

Dog gave the lead Tomcat pilot a quick brief after being asked for a rundown.

“I’d prefer we didn’t have to shoot them down,” he added.

The Navy pilots didn’t respond.

“You got that, commander?” Dog added.

“Lightning Flight acknowledges transmission,” said the pilot. “With due respect, Colonel, it’s my call.”

“Listen, Captain, at this point, we do not need to escalate. Hold your fire unless the Chinese get aggressive.”

“Just because you have a fancy ol’ plane, doesn’t mean you’re king of the hill,” said the Tomcat jock.

“Set the ECMs to break their missiles if they fire,” Dog told Rosen over the interphone.

“The Chinese?”

“The Tomcats.”

“Yes, sir. Four helos now, coming out from the task force. Hold on here. Got some transmission.” Rosen listened a moment more, then laughed. “The Chinese are demanding we tell them were the Indian sub is.”

“Tell ’em damned if we know. Just like that.”

“Just like that?”

“Verbatim.” Dog switched his radio to the shared frequency again. This time talking to the Orion pilot. They decided to hold off dropping more buoys — no sense helping the Chinese any more than they already had.

In the background, Dog heard a transmission from one of the Tomcats pilots to another group of Navy fighters coming from the south: “Watch out for the cranky AF transport driver.”

Dog didn’t mind being called cranky. The slur on the Megafortress was hard to take, though.

“They’re damned lucky we’re out of Scorpions,” said Rosen, who’d flipped into the circuit just in time to hear the crack. “Show ’em cranky.”

Dog looked to the west at the slowly approaching storm. All things considered, it was probably better they hadn’t launched Piranha; tracking it through the storm would have been difficult.

“Can you get me a weather update?” he asked the copilot.

“Worse and worser,” replied Rosen before proceeding to retrieve the more official version — which used a few more words to say the same thing.

“Plot a course back for the Philippines,” Dog told him. “We’ll let the Navy guys take if from here.”

“Sure you don’t want to shoot down one of the Tomcats before we go?” joked Rosen.

“Very tempting, Captain,” said Dog, starting to track south.

It happened Chen Lo Fann was staring at a map showing the respective positions of the Chinese and Indian fleets when the message came that Americans had shot down the Indian missiles before they could strike the carrier. He read the note calmly, then nodded to dismiss the messenger. He resisted the impulse to go to the radio; there would be no further details, or at least none of any import. Instead, he locked the door to his cabin, then sat cross-legged on the deck in front of the large map.

It was undoubtedly the first time he had sat on the floor of a cabin since he was young man, and probably the first time he had done so when not playing dice. He could feel the ship here, and through it, the sea, the endless energy of the complicated sea.

Perhaps the information was incorrect or incomplete. He needed more. The Dragon ship was still too far off; he had to rely on his network.

He stared at his map, eyes blurring. The coldness of the ocean seemed to come up through the deck, though he was a good distance from the water.

While his men gathered their information, he could only wait.