Piranha

Chapter 6 The verdict of fortune

“What do you and your people don’t seem to appreciate here, Colonel, is that we’re suppose to be the peacemakers. Are you seriously interested in starting World War Three?”

Wood’s face puffed out with anger. The admiral turned sideways for a moment, staring at the wall as if he could see something through the ship’s steel.

“I authorize you to conduct a simple reconnaissance mission and you obliterate an atoll,” continued Woods finally. “Tell me — is your base located over radioactive material? Do X-rays fry your brains?”

“Admiral,” Dog stopped himself. There was no point in trying to explain the mission again. Not only had he told Woods everything, but the admiral had the tapes of the incident and Danny Freah’s report sitting on his desk.

“Well?” said Woods.

“Nothing,” said Dog.

The admiral turned back to the wall. Maybe he really could see through it — maybe he could see beyond it to the forces gathering on either side of the American task force. “In tow hours, the Indian and Chinese fleets will be able to bomb the hell out of each other. The President has sent the Secretary of State — the fucking Secretary of State — to New Delhi to negotiate a cease-fire. You know what my orders are, Tecumseh?”

“No, sir,” said Dog. It was the first time Woods had used his given name.

“If it were up to me, if it were truly up to me, I’d let them fight it out. Hell, I think it’s our best interests. I don’t have to tell you about the Chinese. The Indians are trouble as well. As long as the extremists are in control, the Indians are trouble as well. But if I had to choose, at this point, I’d side with the Indians. Hell, I’m tempted to help them even now. My orders, though — and unlike you, I actually believe in following orders — are to keep the two sides apart, and to do nothing to increase hostilities. Nothing! Now how the hell am I supposed to do that? Put myself directly between them?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Twenty-four hours from now, that’s where I’ll be. Kitty Hawk and her escorts will be positioned to blow both of their fleets out of the water. Hell, I could do it now. If I got the order.

“Yes, sir.”

“But blowing them up wouldn’t bring peace, would it?”

“No, sir,” said Dog.

“Which is my mission, whether I like it or not. Now how can I fulfill that mission with a bunch of cowboys running around shooting things up? Very good cowboys,” added Woods before could object. “Excellent cowboys. But your job was reconnaissance — spying. Not fighting.”

Woods emphasized the words the way one might talk to a five-year-old. Colonel Bastian had pretty much reached the end of his patience.

“I thought the SEALs were bad,” added the admiral. “You guys make them look like kids on their way to First Holy Communion.”

“I don’t know that that’s accurate, sir,” said Dog. “On that atoll, my people were fired on; they responded. At sea, we shot down two missiles. Missile that surely would have sunk the Chinese carrier, which ought to count for something.”

The admiral frowned; Dog couldn’t help but wonder if he would have preferred the carrier went down.

“In the air, every incident with the Chinese was initiated by the Chinese,” said Colonel Bastian in a level voice. “You have the tapes and the data from every flight. We’re not cowboys, sir. We’re just our job, as ordered.”

“I’m not unreasonable, Tecumseh. Truly, I’m not. I had the Filipinos moved at you request.”

“ I didn’t say you were unreasonable, Admiral.”

“But?”

“You do seem to go out of your way to make me your whipping boy.”

“That’s because I don’t like you,” said Woods.

The two men stared at each other. Dog waited for Woods to soften what he’d just said, take it back by adding, “that’s what you think, isn’t it?” But he didn’t.”

“You’re in over your head on this operation,” the admiral said finally. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re competent, capable, even a hotshot. But Dreamland and Whiplash — you need perspective. You’ll understand what I’m saying in five or six years.”

“I understand now.”

“The surveillance mission with Piranha will continue,” said Woods. “That’s a direct order from the President I can’t and won’t ignore, but the mission will be carried out under my personal direction. You’re no longer in the loop, Colonel. You have a lot of work to do at Dreamland.”

“What?”

“It’s not necessary to embarrass you in front of your people. But I will. Go home.”

Dog had to physically bite his lip to keep himself from saying or doing anything else. It was only after he boarded his transport helicopter topside that he realized blood had dribbled down his chin.

They came to periscope depth cautiously, aware the sonar contact was a Chinese destroyer. Admiral Balin confirmed the crew’s prediction quickly; they were almost perpendicular, and close enough for Balin to see the two large guns at either end. The ship was surely a Jianghu frigate.

Captain Varka gave the order to change their course. They came around quickly and began closing on the Chinese vessel.

The Kali weapons and their assorted equipment had robbed Balin of precious space, leaving him room for only six torpedoes. He would fire two at the destroyer, holding the others for whatever target he would find later.

“Sir,” said Captain Varja. “We have additional contacts. A carrier.”

“A carrier?”

“Making good speed,” added the captain. “Other vessels as well. Beyond the destroyer.”

Balin put his eyes back to the periscope view. There was only gray beyond the destroyer.

They were using only their passive sonar. To use the active array would surely alert the Chinese to their presence — but would also provide a good deal more information.

He wanted it too badly; he must be cautious.

Balin stepped away from the periscope. His eyes met Varja’s. The captain surely had the same thoughts.

“We must find it,” said Balin softly.

“Agreed.”

Varja gave the orders to use the sonar.

One carrier, less than three miles away. It was the Shangi-Ti; the sound signature left no doubt.

There was another — another very large contact in the distance, more than likely a vessel of the same size as Shangi-Ti.

A second carrier!

Again the gods had been beneficent, guiding them here so they could strike both.

The sonar room gave a fresh warning — the frigate was turning in their direction.

“Return to passive sensors. Take us to a safer depth.”

Swiftly, the crew moved to obey.

The water lapped at Danny Freah’s waist clear and warm, if it weren’t for the roar of the approaching F/A-18’s, he could have believed he was wading out from an exclusive private beach.

It wasn’t exactly private, but thanks to a contingent of Marine guards and Dreamland security protecting the island and this cove below the airstrip, it was very exclusive.

Danny slid onto his side and began swimming parallel to the shore. When he’d gone about twenty yards, he turned back. He used large boulders on the hillside as markers, treading back and forth as if working out, though he didn’t keep track of his many laps. He swam a backstroke to the south, the sidestroke or breaststroke to the north. He was not a big swimmer, and his muscles soon began to tire with the unfamiliar exertion. He kept on paddling, the burn creeping down from his shoulders to his arms, out from his hips to his thighs, and then all the way to his calf muscles. He swam until the tingling sensation weighed him down. Finally, he stopped abruptly, putting his feet down to stand on the coral and rock-strewn ocean floor, but his path had taken him into deeper water. He floundered for a second, water lapping over his face. He pushed up with his arms, and in a burst of energy began swimming and laughing at the same time. How ignoble would that be, he wondered to himself, to die recreating in a combat zone?

He didn’t stand until the water was less than waist-deep. When he reached his blanket on the shore, he saw Bison heading down the rock-strewn path from the airstrip.

“Hey, Cap — Colonel Bastian looking to talk to you up at the command post,” said the sergeant.

“Thanks,” said Danny, toweling off. Bison stood a short distance away, staring at the water. Danny suddenly felt modest and, though no one was looking at him, pulled his shorts off below his towel and then pulled his uniform pants up, forgoing underwear.

“Water warm?” asked Bison.

“Yeah,” said Danny, puling on a T-shirt.

“Say Captain, mind if I ask you something?”

“What’s that?”

“How come Powder chose that reading?”

“Sorry?” said Danny, thinking he’d misunderstood.

“Powder — Liu told me to make sure the chaplain got the verse right. That’s what he wanted read? Turn the other cheek and all that shit? I don’t get it.”

Danny pulled on his shirt. “I don’t know,” he said. he hadn’t realized Powder himself had chosen the reading.

“It’s supposed to be a message to us, sure, all right, I can understand that,” said Bison. “But from Powder? Man, he liked to shoot things up. Now he’s telling us to turn the other cheek? Shit. Powder?”

bison — who’d never gotten along particularly well with Powder while he was alive — looked a little as if he was going to cry.

“To be honest, I don’t get it either,” said Danny. “I miss him, though. Already.”

“Yeah, weird. Powder. Fuck. It sucks, Captain.”

“It does suck, Bison. Big time.”

“He told us about you in Sarajevo, how you saved his life that time.”

“It wasn’t Sarajevo,” said Danny. He ran his pinkie around the corner of his ear, clearing out the water. Bison was waiting for the full story, but Danny didn’t feel like telling it. He gave the short version. “We were in town about twenty miles south of there. Guy came around the corner. I popped him. That was it, basically.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Danny laughed as he pulled on his shirt. “Yeah, me too. Because the son of a bitch would’ve popped me next. Had a stinking Uzi — where the hell do you think he got an Uzi, huh? Those things are supposed tp be damn expensive.”

By the time the captain reached the trailer, Dog was already giving the pilots the lowdown. Even before he heard the words, Danny knew from the colonel’s face a heap of bullshit had gone down. Colonel Bastian always wore “the Pentagon stare” when he had to dish out a line he didn’t agree with. Today it was mixed with something else Danny saw even less often, genuine anger, though Bastian wasn’t venting.

“Bottom line, we continue monitoring the Chinese sub until further notice. Bree, your plane’s out in three hours, relieving Major Alou. My replacement will take Iowa six hours after that. We’ll keep turning it around until we’re ordered to go home.”

Zen raised his hand to interrupt. “Colonel, Jen and I have been doing a little thinking. With a little work, we may be able to squeeze the gear tightly enough and route things so Raven and Quicksilver can fly one of the Flighthawks and handle Piranha at the same time.”

“Well, that’s not really necessary,” said Bastian.

“It would keep the Chinese off us,” said Zen. “The way things are going, it makes sense for a Fligthhawk to be along.”

“Our orders are not to engage the enemy,” Colonel Bastian’s eyes were almost glassy — obviously that was the heart of the trouble.

“Flighthawks can help hold them off,” said Zen. “Bree wouldn’t have had to get that close to the Viking. Besides, if the subs surfaces, the Flighthawk can get up close and personal.”

The colonel turned to Jennifer Gleason. “Is it doable?” he asked.

One thing Danny had to give Dog — there was no visible sign that he was sleeping with her; his voice was as gruff with her as it was with anyone.

Another thing he had to give Bastian — the ol’ dog sure could pick ’em.

“We can do it, but only with Iowa because of the second control bay. I just don’t have the space to get the computer into Quicksilver and Raven. I mean, if we had more time—”

Dog held up his hand. “How long?”

“Six or seven hours. Tommy Jacobs is coming in on the next flight with the pilot, and he’s bring a full—”

“Okay,” said Dog.

“I’ll take Zen’s place on Quicksilver,” said Fentress.

Bastian’s Pentagon stare dissolved into a faint smile. He folded his arms in front of his chest. “So what else have you decided in my absence?”

“We didn’t decide,” said Bree innocently.

“We might have discussed it a little,” said Fentress.

Colonel Bastian shook his head and turned to Danny. “Captain Freah, you missed a little at the top there. I have business at Dreamland. The mission continues; reconnaissance only. You will continue to provide security for the Megafortresses. I realize it’s superfluous,” he added. “I trust the Marines, but I want at least a token presence. Work out what equipment and personnel we need to keep here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Danny.

“All right, well, let’s get cranking then. I have to pack. Commander Stein will be in charge of operation as of ten seconds ago.” Dog glanced at his watch, then back at them. “I expect everyone to follow orders to the best of their ability. And in some cases, beyond.”

Zen let his wheelchair slide down the ramp, rushing so close to Breanna he nearly spun her around.

“Hey, hot rod,” she said, grabbing hold of the side. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Gimps have the right of way,” said Zen.

“I thought you weren’t going to say that anymore,” Bree told him. “I hate that word.”

“I calls ’em like I sees ’em,” he told her.

“You like to piss me off, don’t you?”

“Favorite thing in the word, next to kissing you,” he said truthfully. “So you ready for the mission?”

“I can handle it.”

“No shooting down Chinese planes.”

“I will if I have to,” she said.

Zen laughed, but he believed her. “You going to be okay without me riding shotgun for you?” he said as they continued toward the planes.

“I don’t need you to watch my back,” she said.

“Hey,” Zen grabbed at her hand, but missed. “You mad?”

“No.”

“Bree? I was just kidding about the gimp thing.”

“I’m fine,” she said, still walking.

“Hey, what are you mad at?”

She turned toward the mess tent.

Zen began to follow. Ordinarily, she simply teased back. But this wasn’t teasing.

“Hey,” he said, rolling to the door.

“Just feeding my face before the flight,” she said, letting the screen door on the tent slam closed behind her.

Stoner let his breath flow from his chest softly, each cell in his lungs reluctantly surrendering its molecule of oxygen. A yellow light filed the center of his head. His body melted. Stoner’s consciousness became a long note vibrating in the empty tent. He slipped into a deep, meditative trance.

It was then he realized what had happened.

Deliberately, he unfolded his legs, then rose. He stooped down for a sip of water from the bottle near his bed mat and roll — he didn’t use a cot — then went to find Colonel Bastian.

“The lookout post belonged to the Taiwanese,” Stoner told the colonel when he found him. “All of them. the Chinese don’t need them. they must be helping the Indians.”

Bastian nodded. “Have you spoken to Langley?”

“Not yet. But it makes sense. I’ll talk to Jed Barclay too.”

“Why would they fire on us?” asked Bastian.

Us, not you. Stoner like that. He knew Bastian had, without complaint, taken the hit for what went down on the island. Protecting his people, even though they could have plausibly been blamed for messing up. He had grown to admire Bastian; he was a man he could work with.

“Because they fear discovery. Possibly they expected the Chinese, but more likely they knew it would be us. Taiwan can’t appear to be taking sides or provoking a confrontation. They want to hurt Mainland China, but if they do something that looks to us like it’s belligerent, like it’s against our interests, we might crush them. simply moving our fleet away would hurt them.”

Bastian nodded.

“I’d like to join the next patrol flight,” added Stoner.

“The Taiwanese spy ships that have been tracking the submarine, I want to find out about them. I think there’s some operation under way.”

“They’re not part of our mission.”

“Their goal isn’t peace, or coexistence with the Mainland. They want the same thing the Communists want — one China. They just want it on their terms.”

“That may be,” said the colonel. “But at the moment, that’s not our concern.”

“I won’t be just a passenger. There’s no one here who knows more about Chinese and Indian capabilities than I do. I’m the one who found Kali. I’d be very useful tracking the Chinese submarines.”

“Okay,” said Bastian finally. “Work it out with Captain Stockard. Stoner—” Bastian pointed a finger at him. “This operation ultimately answers to Admiral Woods, not me.”

“Took him longer to kick you out than I expected,” said the CIA officer. “He must like you.”

Chen Lo Fann walked the deck of the former tanker, his mind heavy with though. Professor AI Hira Bai, the scientist who led the team that developed the Dragons, percolated next to him, bouncing with every step. The launch procedure was not particularly difficult. The small robot was lowered from the side of the ship onto the surface of the water, where it rested on a pair of skis. A solid propellant rocket propelled it into the sky; once it was safely above the spray, its jet engine was activated. The place looked somewhat like a miniaturized Su-33UB, except its engine inlets — two on top, two on the bottom — rather than the more traditional double tailplane of the experimental Sukhoi.

And, of course, there was no place for a pilot.

Chen turned and looked at the horizon while Professor Ai conferred with some of his technicians. The water had a dark green tint to it today; he felt a fresh storm approaching.

In a hundred years, no one would remember the weather or the color of the sea. They would think only of the destruction wrought as the two Navies met.

A storm indeed.

One of the men assigned to relay messages approached as Chen stared out at the water.

“Yes” he asked without turning.

The man held out a slip of paper. Chen let his eyes linger, then turned and took the message.

The captain of one of the trawlers had seen the American Megafortresses drop an unknown type of buoy into the water. Photos of the buoy did not match any of the ASW types the Americans typically used. Interestingly, the trawler — equipped with an array of high-tech snooping gear that worked both under and above the water — had been unable to pick up any transmissions to or from that buoy, or a second one dropped sometime later, at least not at the distance he had been ordered to stay from any American asset. The captain wanted permission to investigate, and perhaps retrieve one of the buoys if the opportunity presented itself.

Chen weighed the matter. Despite being allies, the Americans were hardly forthcoming when it came to sharing new technology. The appearance of the EB-52’s — which had not been used in marine patrol or ASW roles before — surely meant they were using some new device. Whatever it was — a passive sonar system perhaps? — would be of great value in dealing with the Communists.

He would not, and could not, provoke an incident with the Americans. But surely this was worth studying. What if he snatched the device, then claimed to have thought it was a Mainland weapon?

In the confusion of battle, such an explanation would be accepted, if only reluctantly. In such a case, the asset would be returned — after it was examined, of course.

Chen took a pen and wrote his orders to the captain, telling his to proceed. He handed the message back to the courier, who immediately retreated for the radio room.

“Ready, Commander,” said Professor AI, who’d been waiting.

“Then begin.”

Fann turned toward the crane as the taro was taken off the small aircraft. The large hook, very old and heavy, swung freely above, making him slightly apprehensive; its weight could easily damage the robot. The crew was well trained and practiced, however. Two men grabbed the hook as it came toward them, then fit it into the harness. One of them climbed up above the Dragon and onto the chain. It must seem like the greatest job in the world, riding on the hoist as it swung out, waiting as the four men in the water carefully undid the sling, then riding back to the deck.

For Chen, the elation would come later, much later — he hoped to see one of the carriers in flames before the end of the day.

Professor Ai looked at him, and Fann realized the scientist was waiting for his order to begin. Fann nodded. The scientist smiled broadly, then turned and waved to the crane operator, who stood a short distance away with a wired remote. The man pushed one of the levers and the motor on the crane whirled.

There was a loud grinding noise. Someone shouted. Smoke appeared from the crane house. Professor Ai leaped toward the robot cursing.

Fann stood impassively, watching.

Who was riding the donkey now? Which way did Fortune blow?

“It’s a problem with the crane,” said the scientist a few minutes later.

“Yes.”

“We have to use the backup.”

“Do so.”

“It will take time.”

“Do it as quickly as you can,” said Chen. He turned and went back to his cabin.

Dog took a last check of the situation at the Whiplash trailer, touching base with Dreamland Command before leaving. Major Alou and Raven were on station, Alou being extra careful to stay outside the patrol area the Chinese fighters had established. Piranha sat about tem miles away from the Chinese submarine. The sub had taken up an almost stationary position to the southwest of the carrier task force. A U.S. sub had already found the other Chinese submarine on the eastern side of the Chinese fleet. Within the next twelve hours, a second SSN should be on Piranha’s target as well. Whiplash could close up shop.

The fate of the Indian sub remained a mystery. Though the profile wasn’t a good match, the contact Piranha had seen was discounted as American SSN, which had indeed been in the vicinity. Intercepts of Chinese Mainland transmissions by the NSA showed the Chinese believe the submarine had been sunk, but the analysts weren’t completely sure. There was no hard evidence it had gone down, and it clearly had the capability to stay submerged for several days. It could still be shadowing the Chinese fleet, or it could have set sail south to return to India.

Whiplash had accomplished its mission. The data they had gathered would provide a hundred analysts useful employment for the next year or more. Just as importantly, they demonstrated they value of Piranha and its technology.

Yet Colonel Bastian felt as if he’d failed. Because he’d lost a man? Or because he’d had his tail whacked by Woods?

Definitely the tail-whacking. He’d lost men before — good men, friends. It was the cost of freedom, as corny and trite as that sounded. The sorrow of their deaths was as much part of his job as the speed-suit he donned to fly. But getting treated like — like what, exactly? A lieutenant colonel?

He missed General Magnus now. The three-star general would have insulated him from this BS. He had in Turkey, when Central Command tried to get its fingers in.

Problem was, at the time he’d thought Magnus was a bit of pain as well. So the real problem was his ego.

“Something up, Colonel?” asked Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd, who was at the communication desk.

“Just getting ready to hit the road, Sergeant,” he told him.

“Yes, sir. Coffee’s better over at the Navy tent,” he added. “Liu’s the only one on the team who can make a decent pot.”

“Better pray he gets out of the hospital soon then, huh?” said Dog.

“Yes, sir,” said Floyd, who didn’t quite take it as lightly as it was intended.

“He’ll be okay, Sergeant,” Dog added. “You hang in there.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Outside, the air was heavy with humidity; another storm was approaching. Sweat began to leak from his pores as he headed toward the Navy C-9B waiting to take him to Manila, where he’d hop a civilian flight to L.A.

The schedule was tight. Unlike the Navy plane, the civilian 747 wasn’t going to wait, but midway to his plane Dog took a detour, deciding he really had to say goodbye to one more member of his command.

Jennifer Gleason stood on the hard-packed dirt near Iowa, hands on hips. Several access panels directly behind the crew area of the plane were open; a portable platform was set up below the EB-52’s belly. Three or four techies hunched over the equipment on a nearby pallet, flashing screwdrivers; a sailor carried a disk array the size of a pizza box up the plane’s access ramp. Gleason was shaking her head in obvious disgust.

“Hey, Gleason, what’s up?” said Dog.

“These guys handle the computers like they’re crystal,” she complained. “They’re designed to take over twelve Gs for cryin’ out loud. We won’t be ready for hours.”

“You look pretty when you’re fretting.” Dog allowed himself a light touch on her shoulder. “You don’t want them to throw the gear up there, do you?”

“Be faster.”

God, she was beautiful.

“I have to go home,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” She flicked her hair back behind her ear. “I’m okay here.”

“I know that,” said Dog.

Something near the plane caught her eye and she turned back. “Excuse me, Colonel.” She started to trot toward the plane. “Hey! Hey!”

Dog watched the sway of her hips in the fatigue pants, then abruptly started for the Navy plane. If he didn’t get aboard now …

Guiding the Piranha probe was considerably easier than flying the Flighthawk. Fentress ran through some simple maneuvers and flipped back and forth between the views as Delaford watched from aboard the other Megafortress. They had made a few adjustments in the simulated 3-D screen since he had sat in on the development sessions, but it wasn’t difficult at all to get comfortable. He even remembered, without prompting, how to split the screen so he could see a forward and a sitrep view at the same time.

The probe was within thirteen miles of the Chinese submarine, which was moving at three knots south. Another fifteen miles away was the lead Chinese aircraft carrier. The Piranha communications buoy had been dropped thirty-five miles further west, allowing the EB-52 to stay outside of carrier CAP.

Delaford had launched this probe a few hours before to replace the first, whose fuel had lasted slightly longer than they’d originally calculated. It was now moving southwest in low-power mode, and would be picked up by the Dreamland Osprey in a few hours, if the weather held. A new storm system was approaching rather quickly.

“You look like you’re on top of it,” said Delaford. “See you down the line.”

“I’ll be here.” The line snapped clear; he was on his own.

Upstairs on the flight deck, Breanna reviewed her fuel situation and went through a quick instrument check. With everything in the green, she turned the plane over to Chris and eased out of the driver’s seat, intending to take a short break. Among Quicksilver’s custom touches was a small refrigerator located at the back end of the flight deck. Breanna had often joked that, with missions sometimes stretching over twelve hours, a full gallery ought to be provided, and one of the engineers had suggested adding a microwave.

She’d have a full gallery when she flew the UMB. Even better, a full bathroom.

Hell, one of the geeks said she could fly if from her bedroom via laptop — now wouldn’t that be a trip?

Breanna checked on Freddy and Torbin, both hard at work parsing their data from the Chinese and Indian forces. Freddy fed most of his communications intercepts directly back to Dreamland, where a team of language experts were monitoring the transmission. Given that both sides realized they were being listened to, there was a surprising amount of traffic.

Breanna squatted in front of the refrigerator and took out a diet cola. She opened it and took a sip, then leaned against the bulkhead and looked at her crew.

Did she want to leave this behind?

Maybe. This was fairly routine. Almost boring.

Not that the business the other day had been.

It made sense from a career angle, certainly. It’d be easier on her back, which was crinked from the cot she’d slept on last night. She’d see Zen more. Not that she didn’t see him all the time now.

The thoughts came to her in a sarcastic tone, almost as if someone else had said it. She was mad at her husband, though she wasn’t exactly sure why.

Because he was working with Jenn-i-fer?

Whom she hated. But Zen was always working with Jenn-i-fer; it wasn’t that big a deal.

Was it?

“Hey,” said a voice behind her. It startled her so badly she nearly lost her balance.

Stoner, the CIA officer aboard to act as general intelligence consultant and Fentress’s gofer.

“Mr. Stoner. We would prefer it if you kept your seat,” she told him.

“You’re up.”

“What can I do for you?” she said frostily.

“I was wondering if I could listen in on some of the com intercepts from the trawler, if they’re in the clear.”

“You speak Chinese?”

“A bit.”

“I doubt they’re in the clear,” she told him. “But we may be able to pipe them through. G back to your station and I’ll see.”

“Can I view them?”

civilians just didn’t get it sometimes.

“We’re too far from the actual position of the ships on the surface to seem them. We have radar indications, that’s all.”

“If you get close to them, I’d like to take a look. I might be able to tell you what kind of equipment they have. I’d be very interested.”

He had a handsome face, deep blue eyes that seemed out of place with his dark hair.

We’ll try. Use the interphone from now on,” she told him. “Downstairs.”

He stared at her a while longer, then nodded.

“Kind of a jerk,” she said as she sat back in her seat.

“Who?” said Chris.

“Stoner.”

“Yeah? Seemed okay to me. First CIA guy I ever met.”

“Give him a sitrep screen, all right? Show him where everything is.”

Breanna checked with Collins about the intercepts. They’d only isolated one or two from the spy ships, and they were all heavily encoded. “Give Mr. Stoner a lowdown, would you?”

“Not a problem.”

Restraints snugged, Breanna checked their position as well as that of the other players. The Chinese and Indian fleets were moving slowly toward each other. Two Sukhois had begun shadowing the Megafortress in a long oval track three miles to the east. Same old, same old.

“Trawler’s heading off south,” Chris pointed out, referring to the Taiwanese spy ship. “Wimping out?”

“Just getting out of the way for the showdown” said Breanna.

Stoner folded his arms in front of his chest, staring at the video screen. Both the Chinese and the Indians had their chessmen in place; they could start duking it out in an hour.

So what were the Taiwanese up to anyway? Egging the Indians on? Usually, they took a more laid-back approach, but they had spy ships all over the place, including one so close it was going to catch shrapnel when the fighting started.

Stoner stared at the fifteen-inch display screen where the sitrep view was displayed. It was a simple thing, a plot of positions against longitude and latitude, yet cobbling it together was not exactly child’s play. To get all these different inputs, process them, out them on the screen so that even an untrained operator like himself could see what was going on — Dreamland indeed.

“Say, uh, Captain Ferris. Chris. This is Stoner. What’s the green triangle on my screen?”

“On the sitrep? That’s the marker for the Piranha buoy. It’s tied into the tactical system so it comes on the display. Sorry if it’s confusing.”

“That Taiwanese trawler is going to run right over our buoy if they stay on that course. Is he tracking it?”

“No way,” said Ferris.

“Well, he’s going to run over it anyway.”

Breanna pushed the plane down through the leading edge of the fast-moving cloud front, trying to get low enough for a visual on the players — and the trawler that was on a collision course for their buoy. “Stoner’s right — they’re aimed almost perfectly for it,” said Chris as they broke through the clouds into the gray stillness above the water. The spy ship looked like a child’s boat in a bathtub. “Should I try hailing them?”

“What are you going to tell them?” asked Bree. “That they’re about to run over a top-secret communications system for a high-tech weapon?”

“I probably wouldn’t want to say that,” said Chris contritely.

If the trawler hit the buoy, they would most likely lose their connection — and Piranha. It occurred to Breanna the ocean was awful big and the buoy awfully small — and yet the ship was uncannily on course for the device.

“Could they track the transmission, you think?”

“Well, the Navy couldn’t,” said Chris. “But in theory, it’s possible. That ship had been around — they might have seen the buoy launched.”

“Fentress’s — how’s your connection with Piranha?” Bree asked.

“As far as I can tell, Captain, they’re not interfering.”

“Going through two thousand feet to nineteen hundred, eighteen hundred,” said the copilot, belatedly calling out their altitude. “We’re getting low.”

“Is there enough time to auto-sink this buoy and launch another?” Bree asked Chris and Fentress as she leveled off.

“Sinking procedure takes a hundred and eighty seconds,” said Fentress. “I have the screen up.”

“We have to get the new one in the water first,” said Chris.

“Pick a spot about five miles away. Make it ten.”

“Hang on.” He worked on his screens, plotting a course. “Five minutes total. If they’re watching and they’re interested, there’s no guarantee they won’t see us, Bree. They’ll know what we’re doing and get at least a rough idea of where we launch. The Chinese may too.”

“I don’t know that we have any other choice. Give me the course. Kevin, be ready with the self-destruct.”

“I can’t get that panel once we’re trying to reconnect,” he told her. “What I mean is, it’ll take a few more seconds.”

“They’re just about alongside,” said Chris.

If Zen were here, she’d have him send the Flighthawks to buzz the spy ship.

So where the hell was he when she needed him?

“Think they’ll back off if we buzz them?” she asked Chris.

“Don’t know,” said the copilot. “Sure get them talking about us, though.”

Breanna slid the Megafortress onto her left wing, pirouetting back toward the trawler and kicking up her speed. ‘They may be armed,” said Stoner over the interphone.

“Don’t be so optimistic,” said Breanna. She pushed the EB-52 to just three hundred feet over the white-capped waves, the plane a black finger wagging at the trawler not to be naughty. They could see the people on the deck duck as they roared over.

“One more time,” she said, picking up the plane’s nose and then pedaling into a tight bank. “And this time, we’re going to one hundred feet.”

“We can snap their aerial if you want,” offered Chris.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Two hundred fifty feet,” said the copilot. As he continued to read the descending numbers, a bit of a tremble entered his voice. They cleared the upper mast by maybe ten feet.

“They stop?” Breanna asked.

“Not sure. They’re on the deck.”

“One more pass. Prepare to deploy buoy,” said Breanna.

This time they cleared the mast by inches rather than feet, but the trawler had continued moving and was no practically alongside the buoy. Two or three crew members were leaning over the rail there.

“Getting static here,” said Fentress as they cleared the shop.

“Activate the targeting radar for the air mines,” said Breanna.

“Captain?” said Ferris.

“We’ll get their attention, launch another probe while we’re firing, sink the first, launch a third further away, then sink the second,” said Breanna. “Calculate it so we come close, but don’t hit them with the shrapnel.”

“I’m not sure I can do that. I don’t even know if I can get the gun on them.”

“You can do anything, Chris.” She swung the Megafortress through another turn so she could get her tail aimed at the spy ship.

“All right. We cross over the trawler, bank, take our shot, then launch.”

“You disappoint me,” she told him, hitting the throttle for more speed.

“How’s that?”

“All that potential and no sexual innuendo?”

“Yeah, well, you should hear what I’m thinking.”

IT wasn’t until he was four miles from the aircraft carrier that the Chinese destroyer picked up Balin’s submarine. Even then, the destroyer wasn’t quite sure what if had found, or where its quarry was — the ship began tracking north, probably after one of the other subs Balin’s men had detected in the vicinity. And so he managed to get nearly two miles closer before Captain Varja passed the word that the enemy escort was now bearing down on them.

“Prepare torpedoes,” said Balin calmly.

“Torpedoes ready,” said Varja.

“Range to target?”

“Three thousand, five hundred meters,” reported the captain.

The others in the control room were trying to strangle their excitement; the few words they exchanged as they prepared to fire were high-pitched and anxious. Varja, though, was calm. Balin appreciated that; he felt he had taught the young man something worthwhile.

“We will fire at three thousand meters,” Balin said.

A moment later, a depth charge exploded somewhere behind them. The boat shook off the shrudder and the helmsman managed to stay on course, but Balin realized this had only been the opening blow.

“Launch torpedoes,” said the admiral. “Sink them.”

In order to get the air mines where Chris wanted them, Breanna had to practically stand the Megafortress on its tail, fighting all of Newton’s laws — not to mention those of common sense. Breanna barely managed to control the big plane, sliding sideways across the waves at a mere thousand feet. She finally had to let her left wing sail downward; the front windscreen filled with blue before she could recover.

“Got a couple of shots on their bow,” said Chris. His helmet was touching the display where the Stinger target box was displayed. “I don’t think we hurt anybody. They all ran aft. Ship’s dead in the water, eight, ten feet from the buoy.”

“Get ready to launch,” said Bree calmly.

“Okay, right.”

“Fentress?” she asked.

“Not as much static. Geez, those bullets make a hell of a racket hitting the water. You should see them on the display screen — look like volcanoes erupting on top of you, then there’s this wild crisscross pattern in different shades of red and blue. Very 1960s. I had to hit the manual filter and—”

Fentress stopped abruptly.

“We’re at launch point,” said Chris.

“Wait,” she told him. “Fentress? Kevin? You okay down there?”

“Torpedoes in the water.”

“What?”

“Back by the carrier,” said Fentress. “Have two, three warning blocks.”

“Launch the buoy,” she told Chris. “Kevin. We’re launching. You sure about the torpedoes?”

“Yes ma’am. Have another sub.”

“Give the coordinates to Chris as soon as you can. Buoys first.”

Realizing his presence made the men nervous, Chen Lo Fann had refrained from coming into the operator’s suite until the robot planes were approaching the fleet. Now, his place was in this room.

They rose as one as he entered, bowing stiffly. After he returned their salute, they went back to what they were doing.

The long LCD screen at the center of the room was gray. He started at it, wondering why he had not been told of the malfunction, before realizing he was seeing clouds.

“We will descend from the clouds in thirty seconds,” said Professor Ai. Overcoming the mishap with the crane seemed somehow to have calmed him, or at least drained some of his energy. He spoke slowly now, more himself. “The carriers will be in the far corner to your left. There is one Sukhoi approaching, but its radar has not detected us.”

“At what point will it do so?” asked Chen.

“We are not sure. We will be ready in any event.”

“Yes,” said Chen.

One of the radio operators at the far corner of the room held up his hand. “There is a report the Megafortress is firing on our ship near its probe,” said the man.

Chen considered this. “Have them back away. Tell them to leave the area.”

The robot supplying the video feed finally broke through the cloud bank. The operator adjusted the picture, compensating for the fading light. The Chinese aircraft carrier sat like a large, gray cow at the top of the screen.

His robot was equipped with two small missiles, adapted from antitank weapons. They would do almost no damage on a target so vast. The thought occurred to him that he could crash his plane into the carrier, it would not sink, but the fire would kill many men.

Relatives of his perhaps; much of his family had not escaped the Communists, and he knew that a few were now in their Navy. Fortune’s irony.

“The Indian planes?” he asked Professor Ai.

“They are still in their patrol pattern to the south.”

“Look!” said one of the men at the console. He jumped to his feet and pointed at the LCD screen.

Something blossomed beyond the Chinese aircraft carrier, the dull bud of an early spring flower.

There were two other wakes approaching it.

Torpedoes. Either they had come from the Indian submarine that had failed earlier, or from the American.

It must have been an American. For surely, the Indian was gone by now.

“Halt the attack,” said Chen Lo Fann, his satisfaction so deep that he could not possibly hide it. “Stay only close enough to observe the destruction, but remain undetected if possible.”

“Can we stop the torpedoes?” Bree asked.

“No way,” said Chris.

“They see them,” said Collins. “They’re trying to get out of the way. Too late.”

There was an explosion in the water, a geyser back near the carrier force. But Breanna was too busy to watch it.

“Long-range radar I can’t ID,” said Torbin.

“Indians?”

“Wrong direction,” said the radar intercept officer. “I-band, okay. Woah, woah. APG-73—no way!”

“Torbinm what the hell are you talking about?”

“The radar — the computer is IDing the source as an F/A-18 unit. No way.”

“One torpedoes hit the carrier, maybe two,” said Chris.

“I have telemetry out near your contact,” Collins told Torbin

“I don’t know what the hell kind of radar this is,” said Torbin. “Shit. I mean, it could be an F/A-18. Chris?”

“No American flights within a hundred miles. I have nothing on radar. You sure about this?”

“Sure as shit.”

“All right, everybody take a breath,” Breanna said in her calmest command voice. “Fentress, did we sink that buoy?”

“Still trying to get the connection to the first one.”

“Tell me when we’re on.”

“Explosion!” said Chris. “Carrier’s hit.”

“I need you to stay close to the buoy,” said Fentress.

“Sukhois are trying to lock on us — we’re spiked!” said Torbin. The RWR screen flashed with a warning as well, showing the bearing of the radar looking for them.

“Full ECMS,” said Breanna. “Hang on everyone.”

Breanna threw the Megafortress into as sharp a turn as she could manage, dipping the wing and sliding in the direction of the buoy. Fentress, Collins, and Torbin all tried to speak at the same time; the computer gave her a warning she was approaching maximum Gs. Breanna filtered everything out but the plane, trying to beam the Doppler-pulse radar that had locked on them. there was a missile warning — one of the Sukhois had launched.

“Chris, when you have the chance, broadcast the we’re-the-white-hats message in every language you can think of,” she said calmly.

“I am.” His voice was three octaves higher than normal, which itself wasn’t exactly a bass.

A silver needle shot across Quicksilver’s bow, no more than fifty yards away. It was the missile.

“Optically aimed flak from that destroyer,” said the copilot. “Way out of range.”

“I see it,” said Bree.

“Sukhois coming down through ten thousand feet. “We’re jamming. They’re going to line up for an IR shot.”

“Get the Stinger ready.”

“On it.”

“SAM radar active. I’m jamming,” said Torbin.

“Fentress, we have to get moving here, friend,” said Bree.

“I’m still having trouble with the link,” he said. “We’re too high. I need you as close as you can get. The jinking’s not helping.”

“Getting shot down won’t help either.” She regretted snapping back like that, but there was no time to apologize — one of the ships launched antiaircraft missiles.

“SA-N-4, basicallt an SA-8 tweaked for shipboard use,” reported Torbin. “We’re at the far end of their envelope. Jamming.”

“Chaff, flares, kitchen sink,” she said.

Breanna began to turn, then realized she was moving toward the Sukhois. She pulled back on the stick abruptly, then twisted her left wing downward. The big jet did a half-gainer toward the waves, gravity and momentum pulling at its wings badly, one of the sensors in the wing-root assembly freaked out. The alert board lit with possible structural damage and the computer squawked at her for exceeding the design limit of the plane — not an easy feat.

Breanna’s body was pounded by the rush of Gs; she felt as if her head had been pounded by an anvil. A gray fuzz pushed in from her temples and something cold and prickly filled her lungs; she started to cough, but something scraped deep down in her throat. There were all sorts of warning lights now, but she rode the wild maneuver steady, forcing the plane through an invert as the Sukhois she had spotted earlier fired its missiles from almost head-on. Fortunately, they were both heat-seekers, and despite their advertised all-aspect ability, were easily shunted by the flares Chris had managed to dish out into the air.

As the gray veil pulled back, Breanna saw a much darker one reaching up from the sea to smack her. Her maneuvers had taken her back toward the Chinese fleet. She was now dead-on for the flak; there was nothing to do but ride it out, struggling to keep the Megafortress level as they passed through percolating air.

“Damage to our right wing,” reported Chris. He was breathing hard. “Lost the Sukhois at least.”

“All right,” said Bree, suddenly conscious of her own breathing. “Kevin, we need that connection, and we need it now.”

“You have to get closer.”

“They’re launching more planes,” reported Collins.

“Indians too. This it total war,” said Chris. He was gasping for breath, hyperventilating.

“Dreamland Command to Quicksilver.” Major Alou “Gat” Ascenzio’s voice sounded a little tinny on her circuit; Breanna glanced at her com screen and saw that the message wasn’t coded.

“Quicksilver.”

“Get out of there.”

“We’re trying,” she said. then. Remembering the line was in the clear — and hopefully being intercepted by the Chinese — she added. “We’re taken no hostile act. We believe an Indian submarine fired torpedoes at a Chinese aircraft carrier.”

“We confirm one hit and one near miss,” said Gat. “Serious damage. Fires. Get out of there.”

“Quicksilver,” she said.

“I got it!” said Fentress.

“Sink the first buoy.”

“I need you to get lower. Get over it.”

“Bree,” said Chris. He didn’t have to say anything else; his meaning was clear — we have to leave now.

“I’m trying, Kevin,” she told Fentress.

“Missiles in the air!” said Torbin.

“Fuck!”

Once again the video feed in his Flighthawk control helmet dissolved into a test screen. Zen slammed his fist on the console and leaned back, cursing.

“I know, I know,” said Jennifer over the interphone. She was in the bomb bay, helping one of the technicians adjust the link server. “We’ll get it.”

“Yeah,” he said. He slid the headset back off his head, letting it fall around his neck. He was restless, frustrated.

It was more than difficulties getting the Flighthawk linked back into the circuit — he could feel his heart pounding.

He thought of Bree.

He was pissed at her for acting like a jerk before.

That wasn’t it.

She had been a jerk, but he wasn’t pissed at her, not exactly.

He was worried about her.

He picked up the headset, put it back on. His heart pounded so badly, he could feel the phones reverberating against his ears.

“Hey, Jen, I’m going to take a break,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Yeah. I’m going to go get something to eat. Ring-Dings or something.”

“Ring-Dings? I thought you couldn’t stand Ring-Dings.”

He couldn’t — they were Bree’s favorite pig-out food.

“I’m going to swing by the trailer and see what’s up on the way,” he told her.

“We’ll have it ready by the time you get back.”

A giant snake wrapped itself around Stoner’s body and squeezed, pushing his blood toward his mouth. He felt the warm liquid on his tongue, knowing he was forcing himself to breathe the long, quiet breath of purity. The universe collapsed on top of him, but Stoner sat as still as a pillar, remembering the advice of the bent old man who had taught him: you are the light of the candle, the flame that cannot be extinguished.

But no religion or philosophy, Eastern or Western, could overcome the simple, overwhelming urge of gravity. The plane jerked back and forth, trying desperately to avoid being hit while Fentress worked to sink both Piranha com buoys. He’d already managed to put the probe on the automated escape route — or at least that was how Stoner interpreted the groans and grunts he’d heard among the cacophony of voices in his earphones.

The sitrep was still on his screen. One of the carriers had been hit badly, though at least two planes had managed to get off in the chaos. Planes were swarming off the other. An Indian flight was coming north to meet them. There were missiles in the air, and flak all over the place. The destroyers on the eastern flank were attacking the submarine that had launched the torpedoes.

The lights in the cabin flashed off and on; there was a warning buzzer, another flash. The snake curled tighter.

Stoner pushed his hand to his face mask, making sure his oxygen was working. Two or three voices shouted at him from far away, urging him into the darkness. He forced his lungs to empty their oxygen slowly into the red flame of the candle in the center of his body.

A fresh found of depth charges exploded over the conning tower; the submarine bobbed downward as if her namesake had smashed his powerful leg against its bow. Admiral Balin fell forward against the map table, then slid to the floor.

One of the electrical circuit had blown. It was impossible at the moment to assess the damage, but he would welcome death now. At least one of the torpedoes had exploded directly beneath the aircraft carrier; the damage would be overwhelming. The failure of the Kali weapons had been requited.

Calmly, Balin rose. Accepting fate did not mean wishing for death — he turned his attention to his escape.

Someone screamed nearby, seized by panic.

“There will be none of that,” he said in a loud, calm tone before making his way toward the helmsman. “We will carry on as we were born to do. We will survive this.”

“We lost engine three,” Chris told her.

Breanna didn’t acknowledge. The Indian MiGs had sent a volley of missiles at long range at the Sukhois; there was so much metal in the sky now, it was impossible to avoid getting hit.

“It’s sunk, it’s sunk,” said Fentress. “Both buoys are down!”

“Fighter on our tail,” said Chris. “Out of air mines.

She could feel the bullets slicing into her, ripping across her neck. Breanna pushed the stick and stomped the pedals, trying to flip the big jet away from the fighter. But the Sukhois was more maneuverable than the Megafortress, and the Chinese pilot was smart enough not to get too close or overreact. He wasn’t that good a shot — maybe one out of four of is slugs found its target, a half dozen at a time — but he was content with that.

“Four’s gone,” said Chris.

“Restart.”

“Trying.”

Her warning panel was a solid bank of red. Part of the rear stabilizers had been shot away; they were leaking fuel from one of the main tanks. The leading-edge flap on the left wing wouldn’t extend properly, complicating her attempts to compensate for the dead engines.

They were going in.

Breanna fought off the flicker of despair. She pushed herself toward the windscreen, as if she might somehow add her weight to the plane’s forward momentum. The Sukhois that had been dogging them pass off to the right; he’d undoubtedly run out of bullets, or fuel, or both.

About time they got a break.

Ahead, a jagged bolt of lightening flashed down from the clouds. It seemed to splatter into a million pieces as it hit the ocean, its electricity running off in every direction.

Zen, why aren’t you here with me? I need you.

Jeffrey!

the altimeter ladder began to move — somehow the big Megafortress was managing to climb.

“Come on, baby,” she told it. “Hang with me.”

“I can’t get four,” said Chris, who’d been trying to restart the engine. “Fuel’s bad. Fire in the bay. Fire—”

“Auto extinguish.”

“I’ve tried twice,” he said.

“Dump the AMRAAMS,” she told him.

“No targets?”

“Let’s not take sides at this point. Kevin — put Piranha into auto-return and sink the probe we just launched.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As Chris fired one of the missiles, there was a slight shudder in the rear.

“Fire won’t go out,” the copilot told her. “I think the extinguisher system has been compromised.”

“Okay,” she said.

They absolutely had to go out, and they had to go out now.

“Dreamland Command, this is Quicksilver. Gat, you hear me?” she said over the Dreamland line.

There was no answer. It was possible the fire had already damaged the radio or antennas, but she trued again, then broadcast their position and that they were ditching.

“Bree, we’re running out of fuel,” said Chris. “And the temp is climbing. The fumes will explode.”

“Prepare to eject,” she told him. “Crew — prepare to eject.”

The leading edge of the storm front punched at the persiplex glass in front of her. Windswept hail whipped in her face.

“I don’t know if we’re going to make it,” said Chris.

The panic hit her then, panic and fear and adrenaline. Someone grabbed hold of her hair and pulled her up from her seat, dangling her in midair, twirling her around.

Jeff, honey, where the hell are you when I need you?

“Crew, listen to me,” Breanna said calmly. “We’re all going out together. Cinch your restraints. Put your legs and arms inside your body. Check in, everybody — Chris?”

“Ferris.”

“Dolk.”

“Collins.”

“Fentress.”

There was no answer from Stoner.

“Stoner?” she said.

Nothing.

“Stoner?”

Engine two—” Chris started to tell her the engine had just died, but it was unnecessary — the thump jerked her so hard she nearly let go of the stick.

“Manage our fuel,” she told him. “Fentress — where’s Stoner?”

“He’s here, he’s here — his radio’s out. He’s ready.”

“Crew, we’re going out on three. I have the master eject, authorization Breanna Rap Bastian Stockard One One Rap One,” she told the computer in her level voice.

The computer didn’t answer, as if it were hesitating, as if it didn’t want to lose its crew. Then it came back and repeated the authorization. All the seats would now be ejected when she pulled her handle; the Dreamland system would greatly increase the probability they could find each other after the chutes deployed.

“The weather’s hell out there,” she told her men. “Let the chutes deploy automatically. Just enjoy the ride.”

Given the intensity of the storm they were flying into, it was probably suicidal to go out now. She reached for the throttle slide, pushing for more speed, hoping to maybe get beyond the storm, or at least through the worst of it.

“Fire in the Gat compartment,” said Chris. “We’re going to blow.”

Breanna heard a rumble and then a pop from the rear of the plane. She reached down to the yellow handle at the side of her seat.

“Three-two-one,” she said quickly, and the universe turned into a tornado.