Piranha

Chapter 7 In the hands of the gods

The screen blanked.

“Get them back,” Zen told Bison.

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” said the sergeant sitting at the com panel.

Zen pushed his chair back and then forward at an angle, as if realigning himself would make the picture from Quicksilver reappear.

“Get them back,” he said again, this time his voice softer.

“They’re off-line,” said Bison. “They were hit — they may be down.”

Zen pushed backward and wheeled to the door. One of the two navy people in the trailer said something, but Zen didn’t hear the words and wasn’t about to stop to ask him to repeat them. he had to reach awkwardly to open the door, pushing with his other hand on the wheel; he nearly fell out of his chair and down the ramp as he burst outside, downward momentum the only thing keeping him in the seat. He mastered it, got his balance, and continued to the oversized tent where Major Alou and the rest of the flight crew were just starting to brief for their mission. The fabric sides were rolled up.

“Merce — Quicksilver is down,” said Zen. “We need Iowa now.”

Without waiting for Major Alou to acknowledge, he wheeled back onto the path and headed for the aircraft.

It took nearly twenty minutes for the crew to get the Megafortress airborne. It was totally good time — the plane hadn’t been refueled, and the work on meshing the Piranha and Flighthawk systems was far from complete. Every second stretched to torturous infinity.

In the air, the buffeting pressure of the fresh storm system held them back. Zen launched the Flighthawk and pushed ahead, scanning through the thick rain even though they were still a hundred miles from the coordinates of Quicksilver’s last voice transmission. Other resources were being scrambled from the fleet, but at the moment they were the only ones on the scene, and certainly Bree’s best chance.

The storm was so severe, both the Chinese and Indians had landed all of their planes. The thick cloud cover made it impossible for satellites to scan the ocean, and at points Zen had a difficult time separating the waves from the much he was flying through. Ten miles from the gray splatch of sky where Quicksilver had been lost, he felt his arms and shoulders sag. Zen leaned his head forward. The fatigue nearly crushed him, pounding his temples. He saw Bree on their wedding day, the blue and pink flowered dress tight against her hips in the small chapel. Her mouth trembled ever so slightly, and when the minister had her repeat the words of the vows, she hesitated over “richer or poorer.”

Did not, she said that night, cuddled against his arms.

Did too, he told her.

Didn’t, she said a thousand times later.

Too, he replied.

But there’d been no hesitation on sickness. Ever.

“Commencing visual search.” Zen tightened his grip on the U/MF’s control and pushed the plane through a reef of wind and rain. Clouds came at him in a tumble of fists; the small plane knifed back and forth as it fell toward the dark ocean. Finally, he broke through the worst of it, though this was only a matter of degree; at three thousand feet he found a solid sheet of rain. Leveling off, Zen gingerly nudged off his power. Not exactly optimized for slow flight in the best weather, the U/MF had trouble staying stable under two hundred knots in the shifting winds. Zen had his hands and head full, constantly adjusting to stay on the flight path. But he needed to go as slow as possible, since it increased the video’s resolution and, more importantly, the computer’s ability to scan the fleeting images for signs of the survivors.

At least concentrating on flying meant he couldn’t think about anything else.

“Coming to the end of our search track,” said the copilot above.

“Roger that. Turning,” said Zen.

Zen selected IR view. The rain was too thick for it to fight through, and finally he decided to flip back to the optical view. Two long circuits took them slightly to the north. Iowa’s look-down radar fought through the storm to scan the roiling waves, but the conditions were severe. Zen punched over the waves at just under a thousand feet, convinced the U/MF’s video cams — and his eyes — were the best tools they had, at least for now.

A distress call came over the UHF circuit as one of the Sukhois ran out of fuel before he could complete a landing on his storm-shrouded carrier.

“Poor shit,” said somebody over the interphone circuit without thinking.

Yeah, thought Zen to himself. Poor shit. Then he pushed the Flighthawk lower to the ocean.

Flying as a passenger on a civilian airliner was bad enough, but Colonel Bastian had the bad luck to draw an overly talkative seventy-year-old as a seatmate. The woman spent roughly an hour detailing the cruise she had just been on; when that topic was exhausted, she moved on to the wallpaper she was putting in her bathroom, and finally the oranges she had ordered for her daughter’s upcoming birthday. Dog was too polite to tell her to shut up. By the time he got off the plane, his ear had a permanent buzz; he knew if he checked in a mirror it would be red.

He hadn’t decided how to get over to Edwards; thinking he might rent a car and drive, he headed in the direction of the Hertz booth. On the way, his eye caught the fleeting text on a TV screen set to deliver headline news.

“Fighting breaks out between China and India,” said the words.

Dog stopped so abruptly, a short man walking behind him bumped into him with his suitcase. Instead of accepting the man’s apology, he asked where the phones were.

“Major Ascenzio has a jet en route,” said Ax when Dog dialed into Dreamland. “I’ll transfer you down to him for the details.”

“Thanks, Ax.”

“Colonel, one thing — Breanna was aboard the plane.”

“What plane?” Dog asked.

For the first time since he’d known him, Chief Master Sergeant Terrence “Ax” Gibbs was lost for words.

“What plane?” Dog demanded when he didn’t answer.

“Quicksilver is down, sir.”

Twice Zen thought he found something, but the brief flickers from the computer proved to be anomalies. Jennifer Gleason worked the freeze-frames back and forth silently, sometimes calling up the radar and IR scans on her own. But none of the sensors picked up anything substantial in the swirling torrent.

They refueled the small plane three times. Knocking off the refueling probe and diving through the thick storms, Zen felt as if he had plunged back into the underworld, battling the winds of hell. He funneled his eyes into the viewscreen, scanning with the computer, looking, looking, looking. The copilot kept track of the search tracks; his announcements of the approaching turns marked the time like a grandfather clock clanging on the quarter hour.

Zen saw nothing. The radar found nothing. Still he flew, back and forth across the angry ocean, repeating the tracks.

In sickness and in health, she’d said. and she’d meant it.

“Jeff, we’re about three ounces from bingo.” Major Alou’s voice sounded as if he were speaking from the other end of a wide pipe.

“Where’s our tanker?”

“There are no tankers,” said Alou. “The storm’s too much and we’re too far. There’s no choice — we have to get down. I’ve already stretched it out.”

Zen didn’t answer.

“There’s a Navy P-3 out of Japan due in twenty minutes,” he told him. “They’re going to continue the search. As soon as the carrier can launch more planes, they’ll have another search package out. The F-14’s will stay over the area in the meantime. They’ll hear a transmission.”

Who the hell would manage to use a radio in this?

“Jeff, we’ll find her. They will, or we will. But we have to go. We’ll be out of the storm at least, so we can refuel and take off right away. It may be far east. Okay?”

“Yeah, Roger that.”

The flight from LAX to Dreamland was quick — Ax had sent an F-15E, and the pilot, Major Mack Smith, had probably broken the speed barrier twenty feet off the tarmac. Ax met Dog in a Jimmy SUV as the airplane taxied toward the hangar; the truck whipped over to Taj so fast Dog never got his seat belt buckled. Even the notoriously slow elevator seemed to understand this was a real emergency; it started downward three seconds after Dog touched the button for the subbasement level where the command center was located.

Major Ascenzio, Ray Rubeo, and about a half-dozen mission specialist were waiting for hi,

Rubeo stepped up and started to talk, telling the colonel they shared his concern for his daughter and the rest of the crew. The scientist was not only sincere, but actually seemed on the brink of becoming emotional — a development so out of character Dog felt worse than before.

“Thanks, Dog. Thanks, everybody. Let’s get to work. Who’s searching, what have we heard?”

“Iowa’s just knocking off for fuel,” said Gat. Major Ascenzio reached down to his desk and hit a key; a diagram of the search area appeared on the main screen at the front of the room. They had used data from Quicksilver’s transmission to plot its probably flight path after it was hit. Because of the clouds and Quicksilver’s altitude and position, there was no usable information from the Crystal asset — a KH-12 satellite — covering the area, but there was some possibility a satellite used to monitor missiles launches might have picked up explosions aboard the plane; they had a query in to the Natioanal Reconaissance Office to see. That information might help them tweak their search area, though Gat felt they had a decent handle on it.

One thing the major didn’t mention: Like much of the rest of the Air Force, Dreamland’s standard survival equipment included the PRC-90 survival radio. While the radio was a time-tested veteran, it had a limited range and was hardly state-of-the-art equipment. Newer versions utilizing satellite communications were hard to come by — a ridiculous budget constraint that might have proved fatal for Captain Scott O’Grady in Bosnia two years before. O’Grady’s heroism and resourcefulness notwithstanding, a more powerful radio with a locator would have shortened his ordeal considerably.

“We’ll find them,” said Gat. “A P-3 from the Pacific Fleet in en route.”

“That’s it?” said Dog.

“The weather is fierce,” said Gat. “Hurricane winds, hail, the works. Half the Pacific is covered by it. The carriers can’t launch aircraft.”

Dog folded his arms. The storm had even more serious implications for the people who had parachuted — if they parachuted — from the plane. Even if they somehow got into the water without injury, climbing into a life raft in mountainous seas could be an almost impossible task. And once you were in it — hell, you might as well go over Niagara Falls in a barrel.

“PacCom has lost at least one plane as well,” said Gat. “The storm is that bad. They feel they’ll be in a better position by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow afternoon? Fuck that. Fuck that!”

The words flew from his mouth like meteors, spitting down on everyone in the room.

“We need to organize the search,” said Dog, not apologizing. “We have three planes — two planes.” He caught himself. His breath was racing but he couldn’t corral it. “We’ll run eight-hour missions out of the Philippines.”

“Raven’s not ours,” Gat said. “And besides, the storm there is incredible. Kitty Hawk had to curtail operations, I had Major Alou divert all the way over to Japan.”

“Why didn’t he just refuel in the air and continue the search?”

“We didn’t have a tanker available.”

“Punch me through to Woods.”

“Yes, sir.” Gat grimaced. “It’ll be voice-only.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dog wasn’t mad at Gat — he wasn’t even mad at Woods, but he nonetheless barked at the Navy lieutenant who came on the line.

“Where’s our search team?”

“Excuse me, sir, this is lieutenant Santiago. The admiral is tied up.”

“I understand that,” said Dog. He pushed his arms tighter to his chest, as if by holding himself he could calm down. “I need help searching for my people.”

“We have a plane en route. I’m in charge of—”

“Get Admiral Woods for me,” said Dog.

“Uh—”

“Just do it.”

The line went dead for a moment.

The others in the room were trying to be discreet, but he knew they were watching him. He had to fight for his people — even if it wasn’t his daughter who’d gone down, he had to do everything he could to get them back.

“We have our hands full here, Colonel,” said Woods, his voice snapping though the speakers. “I understand the difficult position you are in, but I’ve lost another plane as well, and one of our destroyers was fired on inadvertently — at least we think inadvertently — by the Indians. One of our submarines has missed two scheduled transmissions, and at least one helicopter in an hour overdue. In the meantime, the Chinese ships up near Taiwan are in a frenzy. We are looking for your people, Tecumseh. They’re one of our priorities, just not the only one. The storm is complicating everything.”

“My plane on the Philippines can get around the storm,” said Dog.

“Those are my planes,” said Woods. “Now I’m not going to press the point, but Major Alou and his crew took off without orders and without authorization. Granted, it was an emergency, and I certainly would have approved — but that will not happen again. Those are my assets. I need to be able to control what’s going on, and that requires—”

Dog cut the connection. It was either that or punch something.

Rubeo broke the silence. “I have a suggestion,” said the scientist.

“And?”

“The UMB is due for a flight in six hours. We can use it to conduct the search. The mini-KH photo package is already scheduled for telemetry tests — completely unnecessary, I might add, given that we’ve already proven it works without flaws.”

“It won’t see through the storm,” said Dog.

“The imaging radar will. By coincidence, it happens to have been loaded into the plane just prior to your arrival. Merely to see if the double load would fit. The aircraft ad to go up anyway. We are merely speaking here of an inconsequential change in the flight plan.”

Dog considered the situation. The mini-KH gear not only could identify an object.3 meters in size — roughly a foot — but placed in the B-5, it could train its sensors wherever they wanted, without having to worry about the complications of earth orbit and maneuvering in space. Launching the plane and flying it over the Pacific was completely within his purview as Dreamland commander. There was only one problem — the UMB’s pilot went down in Quicksilver.

“The computer can fly it,” said Rubeo, anticipating Dog’s objection.

“We need a pilot,” said Dog. “Maybe Mack Smith—”

“Piffle.” Rubeo’s face contorted. “Smith would have it rolling into the ocean within minutes. Colonel, the computer can fly it. That’s what it’s designed to do.”

“I want someone at the controls.”

“Naturally. I’ll be at the controls, with Fichera as backup,” said Rubeo. “Along with the rest of the team. Precisely as designed. This is what the system was created for.”

“Where’s Zen?”

“Why Zen?”

“He’s flown the B-5.”

“He merely guided the computer by voice as far as that goes, he’s no more competent than I. Freddy, Colonel, I not only have considerably more experience flying the aircraft, but—”

“No offence, Doc, but I want a combat pilot at the controls.” Dog turned to the lieutenant handling the communications panel. “Get Major Stockard.”

“Colonel—”

“We’ve been over this, Ray. I appreciate your getting it ready — that was damn sharp of you. But I want an experienced pilot making the call when the shit hits the fan. The scramjets — they’re still a problem?”

“They function within parameters.”

“Plan the flight without using them.”

“That’s overly cautious,” said Rubeo. “The problem was in sensors. They’re due to be tested on the flight.”

“Then set it up so that they’re used on the back end of the flight — on the return to Dreamland.”

“There’s no reason not to use them in-flight,” insisted Rubeo.

“If they fail we’ll have to return home.”

Rubeo’s face paled ever so slightly. “As you wish,” he said.

“Major Stockard is on the line, sir. They’re just landing on Okinawa,” said the lieutenant.

“It’ll take ten or twelve hours to get here,” said Rubeo.

“Eight,” said Gat.

Ascenzio’s voice surprised Dog — he’d actually forgotten the others were in the room.

“Hardly,” hissed Rubeo. “But even if it were only eight, you want to lose all that time? We can have the UMB off the main runway in four hours, perhaps even less.”

“Zen doesn’t have to be here, does he?” asked Dog. “If he’d guiding by voice. You just have to work out a connection, right?”

“It’s not that simple.” Rubeo frowned, then put his finger on his small gold earring. “I’d have to talk to Dr. Gleason. Maybe,” he added, as if reluctant to concede his assistant would have the final say. “The communication protocols — if we use the channels reserved for the extra Flighthawks, and reprogram them into the network. Maybe. Yes.”

“Put Major Stockard on the screen.”

His son-in-law’s helmeted face came on the screen. Zen was still piloting a Flighthawk and had his visor down; he looked a bit like a race car driver in his crash cage, head bobbing left and right before he spoke. “Stockard.”

“Jeff, I want to talk with you, Major Alou, and Jennifer Gleason,” said Dog. “Dr. Rubeo has an idea—”

“This is not exactly my idea,” said Rubeo.

“I have an idea,” said Dog. The others plugged into the line and he laid it out.

“I think we can do it,” said Jennifer. “We may even be able to use the Flighthawk controls for limited maneuverability.”

“Don’t get fancy,” said Dog. “There’s no time.”

“It’s not fancy — we built the control section from the same module; it’s meant to be portable.”

“That storm’s pretty fierce,” said Zen.

“The KH Storm and Eyes modules are to be tested,” said Rubeo, using the nicknames for the sensor arrays. “We’ll see anything we want to see.”

“Can I see them on my screens?” asked Zen.

“That part’s easy,” said Jennifer.

“Voice commands can be issued by myself — or even you, Colonel,” said Rubeo. “There’s no need to create a camel here — with all due respect to Major Stockard, I’d imagine he’s tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“I want a combat pilot at the controls,” insisted Dog. “Major Alou, Admiral Woods may call you to assist other missions. Could you accomplish them while you’re handling this?”

“I don’t know that we can be in two places at one time,” said Major Alou.

“You won’t have to be,” said Jennifer. “It’ll be just like a regular mission with Flighthawks — except you won’t have to stay close to the UMB. We can do it, Tecumseh.”

Her use of his name paralyzed him; he felt a strange mix of love and fear.

“Ray,” she continued, “on the Piranha translation module, the 128 processor—”

“Yes. The assembler will—”

“But we won’t need the weapon section.”

“That’s where we’re routing the KH radar unit.”

“I can do it, I can do it. We can use the channels reserved for the helmets. I can do it!”

“Don’t play schoolgirl.”

“All right, listen,” said Dog. “Major Alou — you land your plane, gas up, take off ASAP. Dr. Gleason and Dog—” he pointed at Rubeo. “See what you can work out. I want a go, no-go recommendation in two hours. Less if possible.”

“It’s go,” said Zen.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” said Dog.

“What do I do if I’m given a mission before then?” asked Major Alou.

“Take it,” said Zen.

“We need to be on the ground for at least two hours,” said Jennifer. “Maybe a little more.”

“It’ll take a while to refuel,” said Alou. “And the weather may delay us too.”

“Two hours, go or no-go,” said Dog. “Lets get to work.”

Zen checked the instruments on Flighthawk One, preparing to land on Okinawa. Jennifer was bouncing up and down next to him, already working out the problems on one of her laptop computers. He could feel her adrenaline rush, the excitement that came with facing the impossible, the sureness it could be overcome.

He’d heard it in their voices back at Dreamland too. They all had it. Even Rubeo, despite grousing that the computers would do a better job than Zen could.

The one thing they hadn’t talked about was that Bree and the others were very likely dead already, blown to bits in the plane.

Which was why they didn’t talk about it.

She was the rain, soaking them. She was the wind sheering through their skulls. She was the tumult of the ocean, heaving her chest to plunge them into the black, salty hell, then lifting them up into the pure gray clouds. Again and again she twirled them back and forth, lashing them in every direction until she became them all, and they became her.

When Breanna Stockard pulled the handle on the ejection seat, time and space had merged. She now occupied all possible times and all possible places — the moment of the ejection seat exploding beneath her, the storm reaching down to take her from the plane, the universe roaring at her pointlessness.

She could see the canopy of the parachute. She could see the ocean collapsing around her. She could feel her helmet slamming against the slipstream; she could smell the rose water of a long-ago bath.

Somehow, the raft had inflated.

Stoner had saved her with his strong arms, pulling against the chute that wouldn’t release, but that finally, under his tugging, did release. Breanna had pulled at Ferris, who bobbed helmetless before her, but it had been Stoner who grabbed her. It was Stoner who disappeared.

She was the roll of the ocean and the explosion that sent them from the airplane. She was the storm soaking them all.

Stoner felt his fingers slipping again. They wouldn’t close. The best he could manage was to punch his hands on the raft, shifting his weight slightly as the wave swelled up. It threw him sideways and, whether because of good luck, or God, or just coincidence, the momentum of the raft and the swell threw him back into the small float, on top of the two pilots. Water surged up his nostrils; he shook his head violently, but the salt burned into his chest and lungs. Fortunately, he didn’t have anything left to puke.

The sea pushed him sideways and his body slipped downward. An arm grabbed his just as he went into the water. In the tumult, it wasn’t clear whether he pulled his rescuer into the sea or whether he’d been hooked and saved; lightening flashed and he realized he was on his back, lying across the other two, the man and the woman.

“Lash ourselves together,” he told them, the rain exploding into his face. “Keep ourselves together until the storm ends.”

The others moved, but not in reaction to what he said. they were gripping on to the boat, holding again as the waves pitched them upward.

“We can make it,” he said. “We’ll lash ourselves together.”

He reached for his knife at his leg, thinking he would use it to cut his pants leg into a rope. As he did, he touched bare skin on his leg.

They’d already tied themselves together. Somehow, in the nightmare, he’d forgotten.

The message was not entirely unexpected, but it nonetheless pained Chen Lo Fann greatly. In language bereft of polite formulas and its usual ambiguity, the government demanded an explanation for the activities of the past few days that “led to this dangerous instability.”

Dangerous instability. An interesting phrase.

Obviously, the Americans were making the presence felt. Peace was in the American interest, not theirs; true Chinese prayed for the day of return, the instatement of the proper government throughout all of the provinces of China. Inevitably, this war would lead to the destruction of the Communists.

The angry gods of the sea had thrown a typhoon against the two fleets, halting their battle after a few opening salvos. In the interim, the Americans, the British, and the UN had all stepped up their efforts to negotiate peace.

Surely that would fail. The Communists had lost an aircraft carrier and countless men. The storm would multiply the damage done to their ships. They would want revenge.

The Indians too would fight. They understood this battle was about their survival. If the Chinese and their Islamic allies were not stopped, the Hindus would be crushed.

Chen Lo Fann stood on the bridge as the storm lashed against the lass and rocked the long boat mercilessly. He had always understood that, as necessary as they were, the Americans were not, at heart, their brothers. When their interests did not coincide, they would betray his country — as Nixon had shown a generation earlier, bringing the criminals into the UN.

Lao Tze had spoken of this.

The god of heaven and earth show no pity. Straw dogs are forever trampled.

Now, his government was making him the straw dog. He needed leverage.

The American Megafortress had been shot down; undoubtedly its crew was dead. Americans were charmingly emotional about remains; a body or two, handled with the proper military honors. Even an arm or leg. Such could be found and prepared if the authentic article were not available.

Two of his ships were in the area. As soon as the storm abated, they would begin the search. After a short interval, they would find what they were looking for, one way or another.

Meanwhile, he would sail for Taiwan, as ordered.

Or perhaps not.

“Not there, Jen,” Zen told her.

“I’m working on it.”

Jennifer jammed the function keys on her IBM laptop, trying to get the requested program data to reload, Zen tapped anxiously on the small ledge below his flight controls. He was usually very good at corralling his frustration — to survive as a test pilot you had to — but today he was starting to fray.

Of course he was. If it was Tecumseh instead of Breanna down there, she’d be twenty times worse.

This ought to work — the program simply needed to know what frequency to try, that was all it needed, and she had it right on the screen.

It had accepted the array — she knew it had because when she looked at her dump of the variables, they were all filled.

So what the hell was the screwup?

Shit damn fuck and shit again.

“Dreamland Command — hey, Ray,” she said, banging her mile button on. “What the hell could be locking me out?”

“The list is exhaustive,” replied the scientist.

“Yeah, but what the hell could be locking me out?”

“You’re not being locked out,” he said. “The connection gets made. The handoff just isn’t completed.”

She picked up one of the two small laptops from the floor of the plane, sitting it over the big IMBer in her lap. It was wired into the circuit and set to show the results of the coding inquiries. Data was definitely flowing back and forth; something was keeping it from feeding into the Flighthawk control system.

The security protocols of C³ maybe? The system had a whole series of protocols and traps to keep out invaders. Even though the UMB plug-ins were being recognized as “native,” it was possible that, somewhere along the way, they weren’t kicking over the right flag.

She’d put them in after C³ was up. Maybe if she started from scratch.

Right?

Maybe.

But, God, that would take forever.

Kill the Flighthawk. They wouldn’t use it anyway, right?

That would save shitloads of time.

“Jeff, I’m going to try something, but to do it, I have to knock the Flighthawks off-line. You won’t be able to launch it.”

“Do it.”

“I guess I should check with Major Alou in case, you knot, it interferes with her mission.”

“Just do it.”

She guessed he’d be angry, but she went ahead and talked to Alou anyway.

“We won’t need the Flighthawk,” Alou told her. “Go ahead.”

“We’re doing an adequate job from here,” said Rubeo when she told him what she had in mind. “We’re already over the Pacific.”

“I think this might work.”

“You still have to take the computer off-line, enter new code, then reboot it. Twenty minutes from now, you’ll still be in diagnostic mode.”

“I’ll skip the test.”

“How will you know you load right?”

“It’ll work or it won’t. If it doesn’t, what have I lost?”

She found an error in one of the vector lines before taking the system down. She fixed it, then began the lengthy-procedure.

“Want a soda?” Zen asked, pulling his helmet.

“Love one, but—”

“I got it,” he said. he undid his restraints, pulled over his wheelchair — it was custom-strapped nearby — and then maneuvered himself into it. She’d seen him do this before, but never in the air. He looked awkward, vulnerable.

Would she have the guts to do that if she’d been paralyzed?

“We got Pepsi, Pepsi, and more Pepsi. All diet. Which do you want? Asked Zen.

“Pepsi.”

“Good choice.”

Ten minute later, C³ gave her a series of beeps — at one point she’d wanted the program in “Yankee Doodle” as the “I’m up” signal, but Rubeo had insisted — and then filled the screens with its wake-up test pattern.

Two minutes later, Zen shouted so loud she didn’t need the interphone.

“I’m in. I’m there. I have a view.” He worked the keyboard in front of the joystick. “Wow. All right. This is going to work. I can select the still camera, and I have a synthesized radar. At least that’s what it says.”

She glanced over and saw his hand working the joystick. “Woo — this is good.”

“Magnification on mini-KH Eye?” asked Jennifer. She couldn’t dupe the optical feed on her screen yet — she had to get the feedback through Dreamland’s circuit — but she didn’t have a control window with the raw numbers showing whether it was focused.

Rubeo was cursing over the Dreamland circuit, using words she’d never heard from his mouth before.

“Ray?”

“I’ve lost the visual feed, the synthetic radar, everything. Damn it, we’re blind here.”

“I can see,” said Zen.

“Well, we can’t,” insisted Rubeo. “Jennifer, kill the program now.”

“Hold on,” said Colonel Bastian over the circuit. “Major Stockard, do you have control of the aircraft?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can override it here,” said Rubeo.

“Jeff, we’ll back you up, but you’re the one I want on the line.”

“Colonel, I don’t believe that’s necessary,” said Rubeo.

“I want a pilot in the plane,” said Colonel Bastian. Jennifer recognized the words — they were the Colonel’s mantra in his debates with Rubeo over the future of air warfare.

“He’s not in the plane,” said Rubeo.

“Close enough,” said Dog.

The blur coalesced into lumps of reality, like the precipitate in a test-tube solution. The lumps had shiny edges, crystalline pieces — her head pounding in her helmet, a body pulling off the side of the raft, the waves turning from black to an opaque green.

Breanna’s flight suit felt both sodden and stiff. She pushed her hands down, felt the ocean giving way beneath her — she was on a raft, a survival raft.

They were in the ocean. The storm was passing beyond them.

Were they alive?

Slowly, she reached to take off her helmet. Her fingers groped for several seconds before she realized she’d pulled it off earlier.

Breanna managed to sit up. The air felt like salt in her lungs, but she breathed deeply anyway.

Chris Ferris lay curled against the sides of the raft. She leaned toward him, felt something heavy fall against her back — Stoner was sprawled against her, legs trailing into the water.

She pulled at Stoner’s thigh, trying to haul them up over the side. She got one, but not the other, finally decided that would have to do.

A PRC-90 emergency radio lay beneath Stoner’s calf. As Breanna reached for it, she felt something spring in her back, a muscle tearing. Pain shot from her spine to her fingers, but she managed to pick up the radio. She stared at it, her eyes barely focusing. It took a moment to remember how to use voice — even though it was only a matter of turning a small, well-marked switch — then held it to her head.

“Captain Breanna Stockard of Dreamland Quicksilver looking for any aircraft,” she said. “Looking for any aircraft — any ship. We’re on the ocean.”

She let go of the talk button, listening for an answer. There wasn’t even static.

The earphone?

Long gone. Was there even one?

A Walkman she’d had as a child.

Breanna held the PRC-90 down in her hand, staring at the controls, trying to make the radio into a familiar thing. On the right side there was a small dial switch, with the setting marked by a very obvious white arrow. There were only four settings; the top, a voice channel, was clearly selected. The volume slider, at the opposite side of the face, was at the top.

Madonna was singing. She was twelve.

Snoop Doggy Dog. Her very first boyfriend liked that.

Breanna broadcast again. Nothing.

Switching to the bottom voice channel, she tried again. This time too she heard nothing.

Shouldn’t she hear static at least?

The spins — they’d listen for her at a specific time

The hour on the hour or five past or ten past or twelve and a half past?

She couldn’t remember when she was supposed to broadcast. She couldn’t think. The salt had gotten into her brain and screwed it up.

Just use the damn thing.

Breanna pushed the dial to beacon mode, then propped the radio against Stoner so that the antenna was pointing nearly straight up.

Was the radio dead? She shook it, still not completely comprehending. She picked it back up. Flipped to talk mode, transmitted, listened.

Nothing.

“Chris, Chris,” she said, turning back to her copilot. “Hey — you all right?”

“Mama,” he said.

She laughed. Her ribs hurt and her eyes stung and all the muscles in her back went spastic, but she laughed.

“Mama,” he repeated.

“I don’t think so,” Bree told him softly. She patted him gently. Chris moaned in reply.

“Sleep,” she said. “There’s no school today.”

The storm and his enemy’s ineptness, as much as his skill and the crew’s dedication, had saved them. sitting below the cold layer of water just below test depth, waiting forever, listening to the enemy vessels pass — Admiral Balin had known they would survive. They sat there silently, packing their breaths, so quiet the sea gods themselves would surely think they had disappeared. The admiral waited until they very last moment to surface, remaining in the deep until the batteries were almost completely gone. In the foul air he had begun to hallucinate, hearing voices; if they had not been congratulating him for his glory, he might have thought they were real.

A light rain fell; they were on the back end of the enormous storm. The waves pushed the low-sitting submarine violently, but the weather that hid them was welcome.

“Every man a turn topsides,” he told Captain Varja.

Varja nodded solemnly.

The crew nodded to thoroughly inspect the vessel, but to Admiral Balin’s mind, no matter what they found, the damage was minor. At worse, a few more vents on the tanks were out of order, he still had his engines, propeller, and diving planes.

And he still had two torpedoes.

There was another carrier, and at least one large ship, a cruiser, several escorts. He would pursue his enemies until all his weapons and energy were gone, even if it meant death. For what was death but a promise of another rebirth? The next life would strive even higher after this glorious triumph of the soul.

“We will continue east, with our best speed,” he told the captain.

Varja hesitated.

“Do you disagree the enemy lies there?” asked Balin mildly.

The question seemed to take the captain by surprise. He considered it for a second, then shook his head. within moments, the submarine began to come about.

She was there, somewhere there. Zen rolled his head around his neck, trying to loosen his muscles. Flying the UMB was easier than flying the Flighthawk. In truth, he wasn’t actually flying the aircraft. He was more like an overseer, making sure the computer did what it was programmed to do.

And it always did, precisely to the letter.

The computer had a detailed and rather complicated three-dimensional flight plan worked out for the search pattern. Starting at a peak of 180,000 feet — roughly thirty-four miles high — the UMB spiraled downward across the search grid to precisely sixty thousand feet above sea level. At that point, it ignited the rocket motor and began to climb again, once more spiraling upward. Zen’s primary concern was monitoring the speed, since as the UMB dropped it began to lose some of its stability; it was hampered by its inability to use the scramjets to maintain airspeed through the “low” supersonic flight regimes.

He was the only one with real-time direct access to the plane’s native sensors; Jennifer had spent the hours since their takeoff trying to work out the problems in the link, but still didn’t have a solution. Rubeo had to content himself with the slightly delayed KH feeds; he wasn’t particularly happy and shared his displeasure freely.

They had pinned down the point where the Megafortress went into the ocean, about 150 miles west of the Chinese task force. A close examination of the debris on the water, while confirming it was Quicksilver, failed to turn up any survivors.

Or bodies.

If they’d gone out somewhere before the plane hit the water — and as far as Zen was concerned, that was the only possibility — they should be somewhere between the impact point and their last transmission location. They had now carefully mapped the entire area, and even accounted for the effects of the wind and stormy sea, but there was nothing there.

According to the computer, there was enough fuel to continue the search for another six hours. As far as Zen was concerned, he could sit here for a week.

But what was the sense of going over and over the same territory? Obviously, they were looking in the wrong place, but Zen wasn’t sure where the right place was.

Iowa, meanwhile, rode a surveillance track to the east of the battered Chinese fleet. The damaged carrier had sunk sometime during the night at the height of the storm, two of the destroyers were tied up together, apparently to help repair damage on one of the vessels. The Chinese were not in a good mood. Twice their aircraft had warned off Alou in rather abrupt English, though she had come no closer than thirty miles from the escort screen. In accordance with her orders, she moved off as directed. Iowa’s position did not affect Zen or the UMB.

“How are you doing?” Alou asked as Iowa reached the southernmost point of her patrol area.

“We’re just about done,” Zen told him.

“Nothing, huh?”

“I think the problem is we’re assuming they were flying a more or less straight line.”

Alou didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t sure what he expected him to say, but the silence angered him.

He switched abruptly into the Dreamland channel, where scientist Greg Meades had taken over com duties for the UMB team.

“We have to shift the search area,” Zen told him.

“We’re re-created the route they were flying,” said the scientist. “Based on our data.”

“Then the re-creation is wrong. If she was ducking back and forth, trying to avoid getting shot down, her path could be very different than what we computed.”

“Could be,” said Meade, though it was obvious he wasn’t convinced.

“Let’s try farther to the southwest. The plane could have swung back fifty miles, a hundred before they punched out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to humor me,” said Zen. He snapped the talk button off, then pushed it again. “I’m sorry. Set up a new search area, assuming they would have tried to go south as soon as they were hit.”

Danny Freah cleared his throat. “All right, listen up,” he told the eight men standing in front of the Dreamland MV-22. “We’re backup to the main team. Routine SAR mission. Latest intel is this — beacon believed from the Seahawk lost in the storm was heard, and we have a location that’s roughly a hundred miles from here. Other assets are already en route. Our speed’s going to get us there quick, though, so we may get into the mix, especially if they run into trouble. There’s a small island in the area, and it’s possible — small possibility — there may be other people there. If that happens, we’re definitely in the mix. Otherwise, what we’re doing primarily is using our eyes. Okay? Not a big deal. Just backups.” Danny paused. “You Marines who haven’t come with us before — welcome aboard.”

Danny smiled at the five Marine privates who had been detailed to fill out his squad. The oldest looked like he’d be eligible to shave in a year or so.

“A little word of advice,” Danny continued, “because I’m not really going to get a chance to give a pep talk if things get hot. I know how much everybody here, my guys especially, like pep talks.”

Bison and Pretty Boy were both grinning. Good to see them smiling after losing Powder.

“Your adrenaline’s going to pump like crazy, your heart’s gonna thump, you’re going to want to get right in the mix,” Danny said, addressing the young Marines. “I want you to stay within yourself, do your job. Listen to the sergeants. I don’t want any heroes — I want men who follow orders. Basically, I want Marines. Got it?”

The kids nodded.

Did he want heroes? Of course he did. He wanted Powder. And Liu out of the hospital.

Turn the other cheek? Bullshit on that.

So what the hell had Powder done that for? Had that passage read at his funeral?

“All right,” said Danny. “Let’s kick ass. Blow, load ’em up.”

“All aboard,” said Sergeant “Blow” Hernandez, using an exaggerated train conductor’s voice.

The Osprey pilot started the aircraft down the runway about a half-second after the hatch snapped shut. Danny cinched his seat restraints, then methodically took stock of his equipment. He’d done so on the ground — twice. Ordinarily, he didn’t worry himself into a mission, but today the review was soothing. He checked his pistols, first his service Beretta, then his personal Sig. He inventoried his grenades, checked his watch and the backup battery for his helmet. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the outer shell of the helmet. He retied his boots, pulling hard on the laces.

“Two minuets, Captain,” said the Osprey pilot crew chief, relaying the message from the pilots.

“All right boys, we’re just about on station,” Danny said. He took the aircraft headphones, got up, and braced himself so he could see out of the side windows. The sea was now so calm if looked as if it had been rolled out flat by a steam roller.

In the distance, he could see a dark blur Navy helicopter, part of the SAR team.

His own people had gone down somewhere about an hour north. But the odds were overwhelming they were dead; they’d gone down in the teeth of the storm.

Were the odds any worse than for the Seahawk?

“Navy’s coming up blank,” the Osprey pilot said. “We’re going to start crisscrossing northwest of the area where they think the signal came from.”

“Sounds good,” Danny told him. He told his guys what was happening, got them up looking out the windows.

“Tradition has it,” Danny told them, “that a downed pilot owes every member of the rescue team a case of beer. I’ll double that for the man who spots them first.”

“Kick ass, Captain,” said Powder.

Danny turned in shock toward the back of the Osprey. He’d heard Powder’s voice — absolutely heard Powder’s voice.

“Who said that?”

No one spoke.

“I’m sorry,” said Danny. “Was there a question?”

They were looking at him as if he’d seen — or heard — a ghost.

“All right then, let’s put our eyes to good use,” he said, struggling to raise his voice over the hum of the engines.

They had two bottles of water between the three of them, four “nutrition” bars, a working flare gun, and a radio. Chris Ferris had managed to save his pistol, but had inexplicably lost one of his boots. Breanna Stockard had her knife. Stoner had his compass.

Injury-wise, they were in decent shape, considering what they’d been through. Ferris probably had broken a rib, but otherwise claimed he was fine. Breanna had torn muscles in her back and shoulder, and had possibly broken her left tibia. Stoner had sprained both wrists and could only partially close his numb finders. All three of them had black eyes and various cuts and bruises on the heads. Their memories of what had happened since they ejected were mostly blank and in any event, irrelevant.

As were the fates of the rest of the crew, though Breanna insisted on scanning the water for them.

“Glare’s going to kill your eyes,” Stoner told her.

“Yeah,” she said, then kept on looking. He admired that kind of stubbornness. He also admired her toughness — not a hint of a whimper.

Their water would be gone in twenty-four hours, maybe less. They’d agreed to rationing a sip apiece on the hour, but the sun was climbing and Stoner knew that the sips would become gulps within a few hours.

Making it though the day and into the night was a realistic goal. They’d shoot for that. Twelve, fourteen hours of search time — that was the best they could hope for anyway. What they needed was something to do, something to keep them sharp.

“I think we should paddle,” he said.

Breanna turned toward him. Something happened with her eyes — she blinked as if reaching into his brain, then nodded.

She understood.

She was beautiful, wasn’t she? Her raven hair and soft lips, her blue-white skin — if he squinted she could be a mermaid, singing to a drowning sailor.

“We don’t have paddles,” she said.

“We can use our hands.”

“We can kick,” said Chris Ferris, the copilot. “Like we’re swimming.”

“Tire us out,” said Stoner.

“We’ll take shifts. I’ll take the first.” He pulled up his legs and untied his boot.

“What do you think happened to your other boot, Chris?” Breanna asked.

“I think I ate it,” said the copilot. He started to undo his vest to take off his flight suit.

“Want strip-tease music?” asked Breanna.

”How does that go?” Chris asked, then immediately began humming, or trying to hum, appropriate music. He kept it up as he got down to his underwear, which he kept on in the water. His right leg and arm were almost entirely black with bruises.

“That direction,” said Stoner, pointing west. “We’ll head toward the Chinese and Indians. More people to look for us.”

Ferris eased himself into the water. He claimed it felt good, though it was obviously colder than he’d expected. He began doing a scissor kick. “I used to be on the swim team,” he told them.

This was going to get old very quickly.

“I have a question,” said Stoner after Ferris grew silent. “Why Rap?”

“Short for Rapture,” said Breanna. “My mom was a hippie. It was either that or Acid Girl.”

“Really?”

“No. Mom’s pretty straight actually. She’s a doctor. Long story.

“That’s good,” said Stoner. “Maybe they’ll come looking for us.”

“They’ll definitely come looking for us,” said Ferris from the watter.

“A hotshot F-15 jock called me ‘Rapture’ a million years ago, right after I waxed his family in a Red Flag exercise. I was flying a B-52 at the time.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Flying the B-52 or waxing his fanny?”

“Both.”

“Both.” She laughed. “HE was trying to pick me up, I think. So I shot him down twice. How about you?”

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

“I mean, are you married?”

“No.” Stoner laughed.

“What’s so funny? Marriage is a good thing.”

“Good how?”

“In all ways you’d expect.”

“I’m not sure I expect any ways,” he told her, staring into her eyes. The raft was so small their faces were perhaps eight inches apart. If he wanted, he could lean forward and touch his mouth to her lips.

He did want to. He wanted to more than anything else.

She turned her head toward the sky. “We should see them soon. They’ll be here soon.”

“Yeah,” said Stoner. He turned his head and looked toward the sky as well.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” said Breanna.

“Great day for a picnic,” said Stoner.

He would kiss her. He must. He felt the weight of her leg leaning against his.

“Hear something?” she asked.

“Just your heart. And mine.”

“I think I heard a plane.” She jerked upright, scanned the sky.

There was no sound except the water lapping against the sides of the raft and Ferris’s breaths, now growing labored. Stoner wondered if she was hallucinating.

Or inventing an excuse not to be so close to him. He wanted to kiss her.

She leaned over the side toward Chris. “How you doing?” she asked.

“Good exercise. Come on. Water’s warm.”

“Later I think.” She lay back down, her head against the sides of the raft. She’d oriented herself a little farther from him — but their legs still touched.

“So, Mr. Stoner, you want to tell us your life story?” Breanna asked.

“No.”

“What will you tell us then?”

“Noting,” said Stoner.

“Private guy,” said Chris from the water.

“I didn’t know I was expected to perform,” he told them.

“You must have some battle stories. You were in the SEALs, right?” She leaned over, balancing on her left arm. A twinge of pain flashed across her face — her shoulder and back were undoubtedly complaining — but she kept her voice light. “Tell me a story, and then I’ll tell one. We’ve seen some shit,” she added.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell stories.”

“Neither are we.”

She wanted him. That’s why she was flirting.

He’d kiss her. He had to kiss her.

Stoner began to lean forward. She watched, doing nothing.

Chris Ferris screamed. The sound was loud and so distorted that it took Stoner a second to realize it was a real scream.

The raft tugged backward, and down. A huge fin appeared on the side. The raft spun fiercely to the right.

Ferris screamed again. Breanna began to move — began to slide toward him.

Water furled.

“The belts, cut the belts!” yelled Stoner.

“Chris! Chris!”

four, five fins appeared in the water and a sound like switchblades snapping open and shut filled the air. Stoner threw his upper body over her, grabbing Breanna as she slid toward the side. Teeth snapped in the air, and once more the raft spun right. From the corner of his eye, he saw a gun on the floor of the small rubber boat, and with one hand, lunged for it. A demon shrieked. Stoner emptied the magazine, but the scream continued. He pulled at Breanna and then saw a knife in her scabbard. He bent for it and felt her pulling away. Teeth and a gray snout leapt from the water. He sprang back, but managed with the knife to cut the line. They shot backward, the knife flying.

“Chris!” she screamed. “Chris! Chris!”

Stoner used all his strength to keep her at the bottom of the raft, and still she managed to squirm away. He grabbed her by the throat and pulled her so tight she began choking for air. She he held on, certain she would jump out for her copilot if he didn’t. only when her body grew limp did he finally let go, collapsing himself over her.

Dog took a large gulp of the extra-strong coffee and swallowed quickly, hoping the caffeine would rush to his brain cells.

As a fighter pilot, once or twice he had come close to resorting to greenies to stay awake at crucial points; he’d always hesitated, however, fearing they might become addictive — or worse, not work as advertised. If he had some now, he’d have swallowed them without hesitation. The few hours of sleep he’d managed had left him more groggy then refreshed, and as he walked down the hallway toward the elevator with his half-full coffee cup, he felt as if his head had been pushed down into his chest. He nodded at the security detail near the elevator, took another gulp of his coffee, then got into the car, waiting for it to trundle downward to the Command Center level.

Even though his quarters were just on the other side of the base, he’d slept on his office couch. He’d never down that before, anywhere.

Neither had he ever worried about losing Breanna.

Once, on the so-called “Nerve Center” mission, he’d had to authorize a plan to shoot her down. She was a passenger on a suicide mission to destroy an American city; the decision was a no-brainer.

This was different. She had been lost on a surveillance mission while technically under someone’s else command — was that the part that made it so hard to accept? Did he feel the mission was unworthy of her sacrifice?

Colonel Bastian commander a combat unit as well as a development facility. In either case, death was part of the portfolio. Who was to say what justified one instance and not the other? It was all the same to you, when you were gone.

He took another full gulp of the coffee, felt it burn is mouth. There was still a chance, slim but possible, that Bree and her people, his people, were alive.

They were alive.

Rubeo had just returned to the Command Center himself and was getting briefing from Greg Meades when Dog entered. Meades started over for the colonel, ignoring Rubeo’s frown.

The storm had passed out of the area a few hours before. Though they were mounting very aggressive patrols, the Chinese and Indians hadn’t fired on each other; they seemed to be spending much of their energy recovering from the initial battle and the storm. The diplomats were busting their backs trying to get a cease-fire in place.

Pacific Command had launched searches for the F-14 and a helicopter that had gone down in the storm. They were also looking for Indian and Chinese survivors as a goodwill gesture — a move interpreted by both sides as interference, if not spying, though they had taken no action to prevent it.

Admiral Woods had allocated two frigates and helicopters to the Megafortress search, and was detailing a P-3 as well, but the Navy had its hands full. Besides the three aircraft that had apparently been lost, two civilian ships had floundered in the storm. The only good news was the Navy had, at last, found its unaccounted-for submarine, safe and unharmed.

“How’s Zen?” Dog asked.

“We’ve expanded his search area,” said Meades. “He think they were farther south when they ejected, that the plane arches back northwards before it crashed. It’s possible.”

Dog nodded. The scientist began detailing the UMB’s performance — they were, after all, testing a new system, something that was easy to forget. The aircraft and sensor arrays were working fantastically.

“Fantastically,” repeated Meades. He trimmed the enthusiasm in his voice. “Though, of course, that’s small consolation.”

“It’s okay,” said Dog, going over to the communication desk. “Let me talk to Zen.”

The surprise and agony burned in her brain.

Breanna had felt it before — Jeff in the hospital when he woke up.

Bright light filled her eyes. Her forehead and hair were crusted with salt. How long had she lain in the raft? How long had her arms, back, and legs soaked in the water?

To die like that.

God, why have you saved me and not my crew?

Water.

“Captain Stockard?”

Something blocked out the sun.

Jeffrey.

Stoner, it was Stoner.

“Are you okay? Captain Stockard? Breanna?”

His face was right next to hers as her eyes opened fully.

“I’m all right,” she said. “God.”

“We’re all right.”

She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She’d held them back too long. She’d never let herself cry in Jeff’s room after his accident. She couldn’t cry now, even though she wanted to. She’d never be able to cry again.

“The sharks moved off. I shot a couple and they started eating each other. We’re okay.”

“Yeah,” she managed. “Peachy.”

Watching the optical feed from the mini-KH package in the UMB’s bay was like looking at a room through a strobe light. Zen’s head and upper body pitched slightly with each image, responding to the pulse like a dance moving to a beat. He stared at the images so long and so hard he found the radar, and even the video from the plane, disorienting. The computer could take care of everything else; he had to scan the images, examine each one, dance with the darkness between them.

“Dreamland Command to B-5. Zen, how are you doing?” asked Colonel Bastian over the Dreamland circuit.

“We’re on course.”

“Good.”

Bastian’s voice betrayed no emotion; he could have been asking if the garbage pickup had been made yet. Zen wanted to curse at him. Didn’t he feel anything for his daughter?

No one did. She was already dead as far as everyone else was concerned. He was just looking for bodies or debris.

But Zen knew she was there. He was going to find her.

“Keep us apprised,” said the colonel. “Dreamland Command out.”

Yeah, out.

Something tapped him on the shoulder. “You okay?” said Jennifer, leaning close and talking to him.

“Not a problem,” said Zen.

“Want something to eat? I smuggled in some cookies.”

Talking threw off his beat, and that made it harder to concentrate.

“No,” he said, willing his eyes back to the task. He pushed forward harder, scanning the emptiness below him.

This is what God sees, someone had told him once. It was an orientation flight in the backseat of an SR-71. They were at eighty thousand feet, looking down at Dreamland on a clear day.

Picture, new picture.

Here was something in the right corner of his screen, the first thing he’d seen in fifteen minutes.

The rail of a ship.

The fantail of a ship.

A trawler, the radar was telling him, or rather the computer was interpreting the radar and telling him, in its synthesized voice.

He locked it out. He had to concentrate.

One of the Taiwanese spy ships.

“You’re getting the ship?” Jennifer asked over the interphone, back at her station. Even though they were physically next to each other, she couldn’t get the photo or radar feed until it was processed and recorded by C³, which took a little over five seconds. At that point, it was available to Dreamland as well.

“One of the Taiwanese ships,” said Zen. “Maybe they’re on to something.”

He was past them now, still pulsing over the empty sea. Picture, new picture. Picture, new picture.

“PacCom checking in,” said Jennifer a few minutes later.

Picture, new picture.

“Anything you want to ask them? Or give them a lead or something?”

Picture, new picture.

“Zen?”

“No.”

Picture, new picture. He glanced down at the lower portion of his screen, reading the instruments — the fuel consumption was nudging a little higher than anticipated, but otherwise everything was in the green. He selected the forward video — nothing there, of course, since he was coming through sixty thousand feet — then went back to the routine.

Picture, new picture. Picture, new picture.

“Jeff, one of the Navy planes thinks it picked up a radio signal. We’re going to change our course and see if we can get over there,” said Major Alou. “It’s going to take us toward your search area. It’s about two hundred miles from our present position. So it’ll be a bit.”

Yes. Finally.

“Give me coordinates,” he said.

“I ill when we have them. we’re going very close to the Chinese fleet,” added Alou.

“Okay.” Zen reached to the console to pull up the mapping screen — he’d need to work out a new pattern with the team back at Dreamland, but he wanted a rough idea of it first. Just as his fingers hit the key sequence, something flickered at the right side of the picture.

“Dreamland is wondering about the performance of the number-two engine,” said Jennifer. “They’re worried about power going asymmetric.”

Asymmetric. Stinking scientists.

The map came up. Zen’s fingers fumbled — he wasn’t used to working these controls, couldn’t find the right sequence.

Picture, new picture.

“What should I tell them?” said Jennifer.

“We have a good location on that signal,” broke in Alou. “I’m going to turn you over—”

“Wait!” said Zen. He pushed up the visor and looked at the keyboard, finding the keys to bring the picture back up. “Everybody just give me a minute.”

As he leaned down toward her, something caught his attention. Stoner looked toward the horizon. There was something there — or he thought there was.

“Water,” she said.

He reached for the small metal bottle, gave it to her. She took half a gulp.

She was so beautiful.

“It’s almost empty,” she told him.

He nodded, took his own small sip, put it in his pants leg. “We have another,” he said.

“Where?”

Where? He didn’t see it.

She lifted up, looking.

It was gone. They must have lost it when the sharks attacked.

The radio was gone too. They had an empty water bottle and an empty gun.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “It’s okay — look.”

“What?”

He put his arms around her, then pointed toward the horizon.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Look,” he said. Stoner put his head on her shoulder, pointing with his arm. His cheek brushed hers. “There,” he said.

The resolution of the optics in the UMB’s belly were rated good enough to focus on a one-meter object at an altitude of 22,300 miles, roughly the height necessary for a geosynchronous orbit. A number or variables affected that focus, however, and the designers at Dreamland had found it more expedient and meaningful in presentations to say that, at any altitude above twenty thousand feet, the camera array could see what a person with 20/10 vision could see across a good-sized room. The metaphor was both memorable and accurate, and often illustrated with the added example that a person with that vision could read the letters on a bracelet as she reached to embrace and kiss her lover.

Zen saw it as clearly as that.

The edge of a raft. A foot. A leg.

Then bodies entwined.

Their cheeks were together — had they just kissed?

“I have them,” he said, mouth dry. “Here are the coordinates.”

“Don’t,” said Breanna, in a soft, hoarse voice.

“No?”

She could feel his heart beating next to hers. Desire began to well inside her, pushing her toward him. She needed him, needed to feel his arms wrapping around her, feel his skin on her skin. She needed to feel him push against her, wrap her legs around his.

“No,” she said.

“It’s there,” Stoner told her. She couldn’t tell whether he meant the ship he’d seen, or his feelings for her, or his lips. Suddenly she had an urge to throw herself into the water, just dive in. she started to move upward. Perhaps sensing her thoughts, he grabbed her; she slid into his arms and then said “no” again, the pointed.

Now she saw it too, a ship.

“The flare gun,” she said.

“We don’t have it,” said Stoner. The words emptied his eyes.

She’d seen the same blankness in Zen’s face when he told her she’d known for weeks, that he couldn’t feel his legs and would never feel them again.

Jeffrey. Her desire raged and she reached toward him. A wave pushed her to his chest, but then pulled the boat back; she struggled to push up, to throw herself around him, but Stoner was steadying himself in a crouch at the edge of the raft, trying to stand, or at least squat, waving.

“Balance me,” he told her without looking, his voice a whisper. “On the other end.”

She went to do so.

“No, they’re not going to see us. Paddle, we’ll have to paddle,” he said.

“The sharks,” she said, her words barely a whisper in her own ears. Before she could repeat them louder, he had slipped into the water/

“Wave,” he said. “Shout.”

“The sharks.”

“Wave, jump, anything. Get their attention.”

The idea came to Zen only after it was too late:

Block the transmission, kill the feed. No one will know.

It was absurd and murderous, and once it occurred to him he couldn’t forget it: anger, jealousy, and shame surging together. But it was too late, fortunately too late — Dreamland had the feed, the radar had a good lock, the GPS data was now being fed not just to Iowa’s flight deck but to the Whiplash Osprey.

Too late, thank God.

Zen took the UMB from the computer, altering the course and going over each move carefully with Dreamland. There was a minor problem in one of the engines.

The scientists wanted him to give back control, send the plane back to Dreamland.

Not yet. Not until the mission was complete.

He used the rocket, engine five, took the massive robot to 140,000 feet, setting up a ten-mile orbit. The computer cut the flight path into a perfect circle.

The Taiwanese trawler spotted earlier was headed in their general direction. Danny and his Osprey were about a half hour away. If it changed its course a little, the spy ship could reach them in fifteen minutes, maybe a little less.

“Dreamland Command, what do you think of giving the position to the trawler, see if they can pick them up?” said Zen.

“Zen, this is Bastian.

“Colonel.”

“Danny’s en route. The Chinese are tracking the trawler. We’re in contact with the Kitty Hawk on the eastern side of the Chinese fleet; one of the Hawkeyes is tracking the Chinese CAP. They think two planes from the carrier are vectoring toward that area. They’re a bit far away at the moment—”

“Hold on.” Zen went to the UMB’s native radar, bringing up the search-and-scan panel. Look-down mode was limited; the unit had been optimized for flight requirements and, at this altitude and distance, the Chinese planes didn’t show up.

“I’m going to have to take your word, because they’re not on my screen,” Zen told him. “Is it the CAP patrol?”

“Negative. They’re going out to that spy ship at a good clip, and very low,” said the colonel. “They may be armed with antiship missiles. Wait a second.”

The line went dead a second.

“Jeff, at their present course and speed they’re going to be on the Osprey as well. They should find her in about sixty seconds. Kitty Hawk is sending some Tomcats out there. They’re a good distance off, though.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks for the heads-up.”

Why had she kissed him? Why?

The ship was bigger. Breanna thought her shouts were bringing it closer, but it was impossible to tell.

Stoner was starting to tire. He punctuated his kicks with rests on the side of the raft the grew longer and longer.

The sharks must be nearby still. They’d hear the splashes, come for him.

She couldn’t see that again.

“Help!” she shouted with her hoarse voice. “Hey! Hey!”

There was an airplane in the distance, a jet — two or three maybe.

A pair of gray hawks broke over the horizon, thundering between them and the ship.

F-14’s? Or Sukhois?

The two planes rode up, then banked toward the south.

“Hey!” she shouted again, though her voice was so hoarse it was barely louder than a whisper. “Here! Hey! Hey!”

“We’re being challenged,” the pilot told Danny. “Pretty bad English.”

“What are they saying?”

“That we’re in protected airspace,” said the pilot.

“We’re being targeted,” said the copilot. “Trying to spike us, the bastards.”

“Shit,” said Danny.

“They’re just trying to scare us,” said the pilot.

“They’re doing a decent job,” said the copilot.

“Tell them we’re going to pick up survivors and split,” Danny said.

“I have twice,” said the pilot. “Here they come. Everybody hold on, it’s going to be close.”

As soon as Zen heard Danny tell Dog what was going on over the Dreamland circuit, he tucked his wing and plunged toward the sea. It was a mistake, a serious mistake — he wasn’t flying a Flighthawk, and the B-5 flipped awkwardly through a roll and then headed straight downward, speed increasing quickly. An alert sounded and Fichera back at Dreamland said something in his ear about letting the computer’s emergency protocol take over. Zen ignored the scientist and the computer; he held the stick gently, letting the plane’s aerodynamics assert themselves. the nose began to lift, and not the trick was to control it, not muscling it down, or shoving it around the way he would push the small Flighthawk, but gracefully, the way you rode an overemotional show horse.

The plane slid into a turn that recorded nine Gs against the fuselage. He took a slow breath, trying to hold his instinct back, trying to baby the hurtling, accelerating mass into a controlled flight path.

Flying the UMB was more thought and perseverance than muscle. Flying was always that for him now, without muscles in his legs, without his legs at all.

Without love either, it seemed.

The idea made him hesitate. He had the Sukhois now on the video; they’d turned south to intercept the Osprey. Zen tightened his hand around the joystick. He was at eighty thousand feet, still descending, coming through seventy-nine, seventy-eight, seventy-seven — the ladder rolled downward at a steady pace now, more controlled.

The video feed from B-5’s nose showed the Osprey at his far right, moving so slowly by comparison it seemed to be standing still on the water.

The Sukhois were on his left, not standing still—530 knots, according to the information synthesized by the computer. They were positioned to flash by, turn, run up the back of the Osprey.

I thought these bastards were going after the ship, for cryin’ out loud.

He wouldn’t reach them in time — he was still a good sixty seconds away.

He had to move faster. Engine five, the rocket motor?

Too much, too hard to control.

He needed the scramjets now.

“Computer, Engines three and four. Accelerate.”

“Engines are locked off until Flight Stage Three,” responded the plane.

“Computer, initiate Flight Stage Three.”

“Parameters are incorrect.”

“Override, damn it.”

“Authorization code required.”

“Authorization Zed-Zed-Zed,” said Zen.

The Sukhois had flown past the Osprey and were now turning.

“Active engines three and four. Accelerate to marked intercept at fastest possible speed.”

It was a bit too much. A half-second after the computer acknowledged, the jet whipped forward. He started to turn and managed to shoot between the Sukhois and their target at Mach 2.3, dipping up and then flying between the two planes. His separation from the first plane was less than fifty feet — hair-raisingly close, though it had no effect on the UMB.

Probably, the Sukhois hit their afterburners. Probably, they tried to pursue. Probably, the pilots would have to spend personal time with the dry cleaner.

By the time they got themselves sorted out, Zen had rocketed up past twenty thousand feet and started back in the other direction.

“Engine three and four at specified parameters,” reported the computer. It sounded as if it were chortling. “Phase Three test complete. Preparing for Phase Four.”

“Computer, cancel Phase Four. Authorization Zed-Zed-Zed.”

“Canceled.”

“Hey,” said Danny Freah over the Dreamland circuit. “We’re clear. Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

“Ten minutes to that raft — we don’t quite see it yet.”

“They’re all yours,” Zen told him.

The ship had stopped coming toward them. Even the Sukhois were gone. They were alone, as good as dead.

Bree sank to the bottom of the raft. Stoner had his arms draped over it, his head resting on the side.

Zen, she thought, I love you, baby. I love you. Why aren’t you here?

The sun flickered in her face.

If she’d lived, they would have had a kid. They should have. It wouldn’t be easy, would not have been easy, but they should have.

She felt bad for that. Jeffrey would have been good with a kid.

“Shit,” said Stoner softly.

The sharks, she though. Oh God.

She jumped up to help him, cringing.

But it wasn’t the sharks. There was another plane in the distance, to the south.

It moved too slowly to be a Sukhoi. It had propellers. It was loud.

It was an Osprey.

It was an Osprey!

Danny and Bison had stripped to their wet suits and waited by the door.

“You ready?” Danny asked the crew chief.

“Born ready, Cap.” The sergeant put his hand to his earphone. They had to be careful about getting too close to the small raft. The downdraft from the big rotos could be fierce. Danny and Bison would jump out with life jackets and a Dreamland-designed inflatable collar to add to the raft’s stability before the MV-22 moved in for a pickup.

“Here we go!” said the sergeant.

As they cruised parallel to the raft at low speed, Danny stepped off the aircraft, walking out as if walking off a board at the swimming pool. He felt his knees knock together as his feet impacted the water; his joints twinged a second, but then fell away. The water was cold — very, very cold. He pumped hard toward the raft, waiting for the surge of blood and adrenaline to warm him.

Bison got there a stroke ahead of him. The Whiplash trooper pushed Stoner into the raft, threw one of the preservers over his head.

“Here!” Danny yelled to Breanna as he reached the side. “Hey! Take the life preserver! Take it!”

Her face looked as if it had been pounded with a baseball bat. Her fingers were swollen and puffy. Danny pushed himself into the small boat, wrapped the preserver around her.

“We’re going home. We’re taking you back.”

Zen watched the Osprey come in as he climbed back — picture, next picture. It approached, it started to hover, someone was leaning from the door, a line was down, she was okay, she was okay.

He floated out over her, happy she was okay. He reached toward her but she was gone, the Osprey veering off.

“Jeff, we have that radio — it’s a PRC beacon,” said Major Alou.

“Roger that. I need the coordinates.”

“Dreamland has them. They’re plugged in. Thank God Bree’s alive.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Roger that,” he said.

Danny stumbled as he got into the Osprey, falling against Pretty Boy, who was helping one of the Marines wrap a blanket around Stoner. The other two Marines were stooped over Hernandez, who was kneeling over Breanna on the floor. The two rescuees had to be treated for shock and dehydration as well as wounds. Every member of Whiplash was trained in emergency medical care, and his two men were moving promptly and competently to treat the pair. Danny couldn’t help thinking of Liu, who nickname “Nurse” had earned several times over.

“Captain, we think we got another one,” said the crew chief.

“Where?” Danny asked.

“Pilots wants to talk to you.” The chief pointed him toward the bulkhead separating the flight deck and the cabin area. Danny leaned between the two pilots, who were just completing a circle to make sure there were no other survivors in the area.

“Here’s the deal,” said the copilot. “Beacon off a survival radio about a hundred miles east of here. Top speed, we can make it in roughly twelve minutes. Means we’ll have to tank on the way home, but we got a KC-10 en route with all the stops pulled out, so we think we can do it.”

“Well, let’s go,” said Danny.

The copilot looked across at the pilot.

“It’s right near the Chinese task group,” said the pilot. “And I mean right near.”

“Well, let’s get the fuck over there,” said Danny.

“That’s what we say,” said the copilot. “Navy has its own package en route with Tomcats and Hornets as escorts, but even with all the stops out, their helos are a good half hour off, if not more. Escorts’ll have to stay with them, pretty much.”

“Screw ’em.”

The pilots answered by mashing the throttle to max.

Thirty seconds after the Dreamland Osprey told Dog they were headed to the new location, Admiral Woods’s voice came over the line. The screen remained blank.

“Bastian, we understand you have another beacon.”

“Yes, we do,” Dog told him. “My Osprey is en route.”

“It is? I thought they were on another rescue.”

“They’ve completed that.”

“I see. I’m told we have a package on its way already.”

“It’s likely we’ll get there first,” said Dog.

“We’ll coordinate. Very clever using another aircraft,” added the admiral.

It was impossible to know how he meant that — was he mad that Dog had sent another airplane into “his” territory? It could be interpreted as going against orders.

“The platform was scheduled to be tested,” said Dog.

“Yes,” said Woods. “Good recovery. Lets’ work together on this next pickup.”

“We have been.”

“Good.”

The line snapped clear.

The temptation was overwhelming. The Chinese destroyer was no just within his range; he could get his torpedoes off before they had time to spot him, but they had heard other contacts in the distance. Admiral Balin was determined to see what other targets the gods were presenting.

“Sonar Contact One is changing course,” relayed the sonar room, referring to the destroyer. They gave a distance and a bearing. It was heading roughly across their path, bit not quite on a direct course.

Attack now and destroy it? Or let it pass and hope for a juicer target?

“Other contacts?” asked Balin.

“Negative,” came the reply. They were using only their passive sonar.

“Periscope.”

If the destroyer attacked, they would lose their easy shot, and perhaps not get another one.

If a better target was nearby, though, he would not forgive himself.

Greed?

“Active sonar,” decided Balin. “Prepare torpedoes to fire.”

Twenty seconds alter, the sonar room reported a large contact two miles beyond the destroyer.

“What is it?” asked Captain Varja.

“Unknown,” was the answer. “Large, very large.”

“Direct our course for it,” Balin told Varja.

“The destroyer is changing course. They’re heading for us.”

“Target the largest contact,” said Balin.

“It is a good day,” said Varja.

“Yes,” said Balin.

“We have a destroyer bearing down on the marker,” Iowa copilot told Danny over the Dreamland circuit.

“Yeah, we got him on long-distance radar,” Danny replied. “We’re still a good five minutes away.”

“I have the raft,” said Zen. “Somebody’s in it. One person.”

“Understood,” replied Danny. “How close is the destroyer?”

“Two hundred yards. Shit,” yelled Zen. “They’re firing at them!”

The first depth charge exploded well off the port side. The second and third were even farther. As the sub shook ever so slightly form the fourth, the sonar room reported the large contact was slowing, probably to turn. It was now less than two and a half miles away.

“Is it the carrier,” answered Varja.

“Prepare to fire.”

The submarine rocked with a fresh explosion. The lights blinked off; it took a second for the systems and the crew to recover.

“We have severe damage — we’ve lost control of the diving planes,” said Varja as the reports came in. “Ballast tanks blown — we’re surfacing.”

“Keep us down.”

“We’re trying, Admiral.”

Varja said nothing else, but it was obvious what he meant to tell the admiral — they were no longer in position to fire. The ASW weapons had jammed the hydroplanes upward and mangled the controls on the ballast tanks, robbing them of their ability to maneuver below the water. “Surface,” said Balin, accepting the inevitable. “Then we will fire.”

“Hey, Captain! Navy’s found something south of us,” reported the Osprey crew chief as Danny and Bison hunkered by the door. “The helo that was coming north for this raft, backing us up — they just spotted some wreckage. They think they may have a body.”

“A body or a person?” asked Danny.

“They said body, sir. They’re checking it out. They want to know if we need them, or if they can concentrate on that.”

“Yeah, release ’em,” shouted Danny. “What about the Hornets?”

“Inbound.”

“Chinese answer the hails?”

“No, don’t worry. The F/A-18’s’ll nail the bastards.”

Danny didn’t answer. They were still a good two minutes off; he couldn’t see the Chinese ships from where he was standing.

Bastards — he’d strangle each one of them personally.

Bison looked at him across the doorway. If the Chinese were shooting at unarmed men in a raft, they’d sure as hell fire at the Osprey. But there was no way he was stopping now.

Bastards!

If the Hornets didn’t take out the destroyers, Zen decided, he’d crash the stinking UMB into it. Let them court-martial him — shit, he’d willingly spend the rest of his life in Leavenworth or wherever the hell they sent him.

Might just as well now. Breanna didn’t love him.

God, Bree.

Picture, new picture.

The gun on the side of the destroyer fired again. As it did, the sea exploded beyond it.

Bastards couldn’t hit the side of a barn, thank God.

The fact that they were terrible shots wasn’t going to get them off. Bastards. What the hell kind of people were they?

Picture, new picture.

A ridge erupted in the sea at the far end of his screen, behind the destroyer.

Picture, new picture.

Zen hit the resolution, backing off for a wider shot. There was another ship, a cruiser beyond the destroyer.

Picture, new picture.

It took the computer three more shots to get the focus right. By then, the ridge that had appeared was on the surface of the water.

A submarine.

The Chinese weren’t attacking the raft at all — they were going after a sub.

As he reached the bridge, Admiral Balin saw his crew had been mistaken — the large contact was a cruiser, not the carrier.

It mattered little. The submarine sat cockeyed in the water, heeling over to the left. They were an easy target.

A shell splashed into the water a hundred yards away.

“They destroyer will hit us eventually,” said Varja behind him.

Balin gripped the small rail before him and took a long deep breath. The sun shone down strong upon him, the sea barely swelled, the air had a fine salty mist.

Would he remember this in his next life?

The cruiser was at 3,300 meters — not optimum, but acceptable, given the circumstances. His shot was dead-on.

“Fire torpedoes,” he said, as the next shell from the destroyer’s deck gun landed twenty yards away.

It took perhaps five seconds for the order to be carried out. In those seconds Balin felt every failure and mistake of his life rise in his chest, pounding like a thousand iron fists on his frail frame. But as the first torpedo left the boat, the regrets dissolved. He took a deep breath, felt the sea in his lungs. It was as sweet and heavy as the first breath he’d ever taken at sea. He turned his head upward, and in the last half-second of his life saw the approaching shell descending toward his vessel’s hull.

They didn’t have time to finesse this approach. The Osprey banked low and slow. Danny jumped, so anxious he didn’t tuck his legs right before hitting the water. He shook off the shock and, without bothering to check for Bison, began stroking toward the raft, which bobbed about thirty yards away.

There were explosions nearby. The Chinese were firing, but not in his direction. They weren’t interested in the raft, or the Osprey.

When he was five yards from the raft, it ducked downward as if pulled toward the depths. Danny took a breath and prepared to dive after it, then saw it bob back up with Bison at its side. With one hard overhand stroke he reached it, grabbing the side with both hand and pulling his body over it.

“Dead,” Bison told him.

“Shit,” said Danny.

“Dolk,” added Bison, turning the prostrate body over. “I don’t see any wounds. Might’ve been internal injuries. Hey—” A plastic container slipped to the bottom of the raft; it was attached via a chain to Torbin’s wrist.

“Those are discs from the mission,” said Danny. “Security protocol is to take ’em out if you go. He did his job to the end.”

He saw Dolk’s radio near the dead man’s foot.

The Osprey was approaching, its hoist line draping into the water.

“Sucks,” said Bison, fitting a life preserver around the dead man’s torso.

“Yeah,” said Danny. “Big-time.”

Zen listened to the Osprey pilot calling off the Hornets, telling them the Chinese were not going after their people. Anger seized him, surging over his shoulders like a physical thing, a bear gripping its thick paws into his flesh and howling in his ear. The Chinese hadn’t just shot down Breanna; they had made her unfaithful.

He hated them. He’d kill everyone of them. he could order the Hornets in, claim he saw guns being trained on the Osprey or the people in the water. The F/A-18’s would sink the Chinese ships.

Maybe, in the confusion, Breanna herself would die.

He didn’t wish for that; he couldn’t wish for that, but he could accept it, willingly. His anger that great. Uncontrollable, unending rage.

“Dreamland B05 to Hornet Strike Leader,” he said, punching the talk button and transmitting on the strike frequency. “Confirming what you’ve heard. Chinese are not firing on our people. Repeat, Chinese are not firing on our people. Do not attack. Do not attack.”

The Hornets acknowledged. Zen took a deep breath.

“All right,” he told Major Alou. “We still have one crew member MIA. I’m going to set up for a fresh search pattern.”