by Dale Brown
“Chinese don’t have this sucker,” added Torbin.
“Yeah, so you think the Queen defected?” asked Breanna.
“More like someone from Spain. They use this configuration. Wait, though. You know, it’s not exactly a Searchwater.”
“Does he have us?”
“Uh, negative on that. Our profile’s too small for him.”
“Okay, everybody take a breath,” said Breanna. “Let’s drop the buoy, then recheck your gear and make sure our Ids are right. Major Stockard, Ms. Gleason, we’re about thirty seconds away from the drop.”
Philippines
2120
Danny Freah’s legs wobbled as he stepped out of the Quick Bird; he had to grab on to Stoner to keep his balance. The rest of the team was waiting near the edge of the runway. For some reason, he had expected Powder’s remains to be waiting there as well, though, as protocol demanded, the dead man had already been removed to a proper area to await disposition.
“Colonel’s inbound,” reported Bison. His eyes looked red, but his face was set in its usual frown.
“Okay.”
“Marines found a place for the villagers,” added the Whiplash trooper.
“The Marines?”
“Peterson worked it out with some Navy people. The word came down. No government, just do it. They’re about to take off now.”
“Where?”
Bison thumbed toward a “Frog”—a general-purpose transport helo that looked like a Chinook shrunk to half size. “Blow’s with ’em,” said Bison, referring to Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez. “They thought you might like to go, so they waited a little. Been two or three minutes.”
“Yeah, maybe I will. All right. Stoner?”
“I gotta make a report.”
“How’s Liu?” Danny asked Bison.
“Claim’s he’d rather fix himself than let a corpsman near him.”
“Good,” said Danny. “I’ll be back.”
He began trotting toward the waiting Navy helicopter. The crewman at the door waved and helped him in; a moment later the helicopter lifted off.
The villagers didn’t have much, but the rear of the chopper wasn’t all that big, and in order to fit, Danny had to stand next to the door. The Filipino girl he’d captured stood against the opposite wall, staring at him. Danny tried smiling at her, but she didn’t respond.
The spot they’d found for the village was on another island about fifteen minutes to the south. Blow, squeezing over to Freah, told him some Navy SeaBees were at the new village site already; they’d cleared it with a dozer, erected some temporary canvas tent, and were digging so they could pour foundations—three small prefab housing units had been located by the ever-resourceful engineers and were en route.
“Build a skyscraper if you let ’em,” said the sergeant. “Peterson really kicked some butt. Gotta give it to the Marines. Except that they’re Marines, they’d be okay.”
“Yeah,” said Danny. “Locals give you any trouble?”
“Not really. Just the silent treatment. I’m sorry about Powder,” added Blow. “That sucks horseshit.”
““Yeah,” said Danny. “Locals give you any trouble?”
“Not really. Just the silent treatment. I’m sorry about Powder,” added Blow. “That sucks horseshit.”
“Yeah.”
“You see it happen, Cap?”
Was he asking because he was accusing him of screwing up?
Danny looked down at Hernandez, who was six or seven inches shorter than him. There wasn’t any anger in his face, just confusion, a little sorrow.
“Yeah. He was a few yards away,” Danny told his team’s pointman gently. “If Powder didn’t get it, I would have. Sucks.”
“Dedicated,” said Danny.
“Crazy fucks.”
“Yeah.”
The helo settled down. Unlike the last village, this one had a good view of the shoreline, which lay a quarter mile below the settlement area. Danny guessed the Filipinos might not appreciate that. They wanted a place where they could hide, and the clear view worked both ways, but it was too late to worry about it. He jumped out as the helo touched down, then helped the Navy people unpack the villagers’ gear.
“Got a Lieutenant Simmons wants to see you,” said one of the sailors on the ground. “He’s a liaison guy. He helped set this up. Some paperwork, and I think he needs some advice on classification or some such thing.”
“Yeah, okay. I gotta get back, thought,” said Danny. He put down the box of cooking gear he’d taken from the helicopter. As he rose, the girl he’d taken prisoner passed in front of him.
It was as if he wasn’t there, just another ghost in the jungle. Danny felt anger well up—he’d busted his ass for these people, for her, and they just went on like he wasn’t there.
“Hey,” said Danny. He grabbed her arm. She jerked it back. “You gonna thank me?” he said.
she reared back her head. if it hadn’t been for the wind from the blades of the helo, he spittle probably would have struck him in the face.
Aboard Quicksilver, over the South China Sea
2140
The consensus was clear—definitely a Sikorsky, definitely something very similar to Searchwater, though not quite an exact match. It looked like it might be a bit harder to jam, according to Torbin, who immediately volunteered to try.
“Let ’em be,” said Breanna. “Chris, get on the line to Dreamland Command and tell them about this. They’re going to be very interested.”
The helicopter climbed into an orbit over the aircraft carrier. As interesting as it was, the Sukhois that had charged after the Viking were a higher priority; and so Breanna sidled in their direction, making sure to stay within ten miles of the Viking, the Sukhois stared to sandwich the Navy plane in a high-low hello-there routine; one Chinese pilot came in over the S-3 while the other came in below. Even at five hundred knots, it was doubtful the separation between the three planes added up to ten feet.
“They’re crazy,” said Chris. “They’ll hit ’em for sure. They can’t fly that well in the damn daylight, let alone in the dark.”
The radar shoed the Chinese fighters merging with the Viking and, looking at the display, it seemed as if they had crashed. Instead, they had simultaneously sandwiched the S-3 swooping across in opposite direction. It would have been an impressive move at an air show.
“All right, let’s see if we can get their attention so our Navy friend can drop his buoys,” Bree said, reaching for the throttle bar. The engine control on the Megafortress was fully electronic, and unlike the old lollipop-like sticks in the original B-52, consisted of a master glide bar that could be separated into four smaller segments. Unless the individual controls were activated, the flight computer assumed that it had discretion to fine-tune any discrepancies in the engine performance to maintain uniform acceleration.
Not that any aircraft maintained by a member of a ground crew under the direct supervision of Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons would dare show any discrepancies.
Breanna couldn’t get close to the Chinese without getting close to the S-3 as well. Even so, she got close enough to send a serious vortex of air currents across their wings.
Not that it had any effect.
“They’re really a pain in the ass, ain’t they?” said the pilot in Redtail One. “They’re not going to keep me from doing my job,” he added.
Possibly hearing the comment, the Sukhois below the S-3 accelerated and popped up in front of the Viking’s nose. Redtail One fluttered; as the plane started to bank the Chinese planes seemed to swarm tighter. Two Sukhois flying over the Shangi-Ti changed course and headed in the S-3’s direction.
Jennifer Gleason, meanwhile, had filled the S-3 pilot in on the submarines they were tracking and their present course. As the pilot tacked toward it, the other fighters arrived. Though he chopped his speed, he couldn’t shake the weaving Sukhois.
Zen, eavesdropping on the radio communications, ha
d an almost overwhelming urge to hit the gas and chase off the Chinese planes, and had to keep reminding himself he was controlling a robot probe under the water. Maybe because of the distraction, it took him a few extra seconds to realize the two subs he was following were splitting up.
“Bree—our targets are splitting. I’m with the one heading west. We’re going to need another buoy soon.”
“Roger that, Hawk Leader. Ms. Gleason, give all the data to our Navy friends.”
“Already have, Captain.”
“Can we help you somehow?” Bree asked the Redtail pilot as the Sukhois swarmed around the Viking.
“Short of firing at them? Negative.”
“Yeah, my orders suck too,” said the Navy pilot, referring to his rules of engagement, which, because of the complicated political situation, strictly forbade him from doing anything but running away. “Current ROEs are bullshit on top of bullshit.”
“I didn’t know you had antiair weapons,” said Breanna.
“At this range, I could hit them with my Beretta,” said the pilot.
One of the Chinese Sukhois nearly clipped the S-3’s wing as he rose up suddenly. The Redtail pilot cursed over the fighters. Undaunted, the two other Chinese planes stayed right on this tail. As the S-3 leveled off, one slipped beneath him.
“What do you think they’ll do if we activate our gun radar?” Bree asked Chris.
“Activate theirs?”
As Bree considered it, one of the Chinese planes came at the S-3 head-on.
“Man, they’re out of their minds,” said Chris.
Breanna checked her position, then switched back into the radio circuit. “We’re going to have to cut out of this dance in a few minutes,” she told Redtail One, starting another pass in an attempt to pull the Sukhois away.
“Acknowledged,” said the pilot tersely.
The interceptors took no notice of the bigger plane, ducking and weaving with the S-3.
“We’re going to have to leave you, Navy,” said Breanna.
“Been fun, Air Force.”
Breanna tucked her wings and pushed the Megafortress west toward the coordinates Jennifer Gleason had plotted for the next buoy drop. She was just about to give the order to open the bomb bay doors when Torbin’s deep voice rattled in her headset.
“Sukhois have activated gun radars!” he barked.
“ECMs,” said Bree. It was undoubtedly another ratchet in their harassment campaign, but she wasn’t going to just stand there. “Hawk Leader, I mean Piranha, we’re going to have put that buoy drop off for a second.”
“Copy that,” said Zen.
Bree pitched the Megafortress around, taking nearly eight Gs to get back on an intercept. “Chris—tell Redtail we’re coming back. Then target these motherfuckers. Excuse my French.”
The copilot’s answer was garbled by the force of gravity as the big plane’s momentum shifted. The Megafortress’s electronic countermeasures filled the air with a thick radio fog, but at close range from behind the plane the Sukhois pilots could have used straws and spitballs and still brought the Viking down. That didn’t seem to be their intent—at least not yet. The lead Sukhois accelerated on a diagonal, crossing so close over the S-3 they seemed to collide.
“Shit,” said Redtail One over the radio. The plane tucked toward the waves, but then righted itself.
“Scoprions,” Bree told Chris.
“Our orders—”
“Fuck our orders.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Another copilot might have pointed out the captain was about to set herself up for a court-martial—and was taking him along, but Chris had flown with Bree forever and helped her ignore any number of orders. “Let me offer a suggestion—we’re close enough for the Stinger air mines.”
“Stinger then. Good idea.”
Chris brought the tail gun on line as Bree began banking.
“Redtail One, I’m going to come right over you and nail those mothers,” she told the pilot. “Just hold your course.”
“Negative, Air Force. Negative. Shit.”
“Redtail?”
“I’m ordered to return to my carrier. Repeat, I just got the order to break off. I have to scrub.”
“Scrub? You’re kidding,” blurted Chris.
The Navy pilot didn’t respond, but his actions showed he was dead serious—he began a slow bank to the east. The Sukhois continued to dog him, not yet realizing they’d won.
“Quicksilver, what’s going on up there?” asked Zen.
“Just the normal command bullshit,’ said Breanna. She scanned her instruments, trying to control her anger.
“We need to drop the buoy, Bree,” Zen reminded her.
“On it,” she said, pulling the big plane back toward the drop point.
Philippines
2300
It was a long green bag, a simple thing, the kind of wrapping that emphasized the one enduring truth of man’s existence.
“Shoulder, arms!”
Like everything Whiplash did, the service was a bit ad hoc—and utterly suited to the task at hand. All Dreamland personnel available gathered near the edge of the runway, standing between the long dark bag and the gray C-130 waiting to take it home. The powerful lights of the Seabee work crews turned the night a silvery yellow as four members of the action team, four of Powder’s closest friends in the universe, walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea. Each man shouldered a different weapon—an M-16, an MP-5, a Beretta pistol, and a Squad Automatic Weapon. One by one, they pointed their guns skyward and fired off a burst in his memory. Each weapon had been Sergeant Talcom’s.
Danny Freah held the pistol. A sensation came over him as he pulled the trigger. He wanted to fling the gun in, throw it into the water, one last offering to the universe. But he was an officer, and he was a man of discipline and self-control, so he simply turned and led the others back. As the chaplain thumbed through his Bible, he couldn’t help thinking this might very well be the first time Powder had ever sat through a reading from the Scriptures.
“I say unto you which hear,” began the reverend, “love your enemies, do good to them which hate you. Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And unto him that smitheth thee on the one cheek offer also the other …”
The words, from Luke 6, struck Danny off balance. Why was this idiot talking of mercy when his man was dead?
Turn the other cheek? Bullshit!
A new urge came over him. Danny wanted to grab the minister, throttle him, make him say something more appropriate, more comforting.
But Danny Freah was a man of discipline and self-control; he did nothing.
“Love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil.”
The words drifted away. The chaplain stepped back. On a tape player found by one of the Marines, a recorded bugle began its lonesome wail. Powder’s best friends in the universe each went to the corners of his remains, then gently placed him on board for the journey home.
Chapter 6
The verdict of fortune
South of Taiwan, aboard the command ship Blue Ridge
August 27, 1997, 1023 local
“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.”