by Dale Brown
“Got a couple of shots on their bow,” said Chris. His helmet was touching the display where the Stinger target box was displayed. “I don’t think we hurt anybody. They all ran aft. Ship’s dead in the water, eight, ten feet from the buoy.”
“Get ready to launch,” said Bree calmly.
“Okay, right.”
“Fentress?” she asked.
“Not as much static. Geez, those bullets make a hell of a racket hitting the water. You should see them on the display screen—look like volcanoes erupting on top of you, then there’s this wild crisscross pattern in different shades of red and blue. Very 1960s. I had to hit the manual filter and—”
Fentress stopped abruptly.
“We’re at launch point,” said Chris.
“Wait,” she told him. “Fentress? Kevin? You okay down there?”
“Torpedoes in the water.”
“What?”
“Back by the carrier,” said Fentress. “Have two, three warning blocks.”
“Launch the buoy,” she told Chris. “Kevin. We’re launching. You sure about the torpedoes?”
“Yes ma’am. Have another sub.”
“Give the coordinates to Chris as soon as you can. Buoys first.”
Aboard the Dragon Ship in the South China Sea
1838
Realizing his presence made the men nervous, Chen Lo Fann had refrained from coming into the operator’s suite until the robot planes were approaching the fleet. Now, his place was in this room.
They rose as one as he entered, bowing stiffly. After he returned their salute, they went back to what they were doing.
The long LCD screen at the center of the room was gray. He started at it, wondering why he had not been told of the malfunction, before realizing he was seeing clouds.
“We will descend from the clouds in thirty seconds,” said Professor Ai. Overcoming the mishap with the crane seemed somehow to have calmed him, or at least drained some of his energy. He spoke slowly now, more himself. “The carriers will be in the far corner to your left. There is one Sukhoi approaching, but its radar has not detected us.”
“At what point will it do so?” asked Chen.
“We are not sure. We will be ready in any event.”
“Yes,” said Chen.
One of the radio operators at the far corner of the room held up his hand. “There is a report the Megafortress is firing on our ship near its probe,” said the man.
Chen considered this. “Have them back away. Tell them to leave the area.”
The robot supplying the video feed finally broke through the cloud bank. The operator adjusted the picture, compensating for the fading light. The Chinese aircraft carrier sat like a large, gray cow at the top of the screen.
His robot was equipped with two small missiles, adapted from antitank weapons. They would do almost no damage on a target so vast. The thought occurred to him that he could crash his plane into the carrier, it would not sink, but the fire would kill many men.
Relatives of his perhaps; much of his family had not escaped the Communists, and he knew that a few were now in their Navy. Fortune’s irony.
“The Indian planes?” he asked Professor Ai.
“They are still in their patrol pattern to the south.”
“Look!” said one of the men at the console. He jumped to his feet and pointed at the LCD screen.
Something blossomed beyond the Chinese aircraft carrier, the dull bud of an early spring flower.
There were two other wakes approaching it.
Torpedoes. Either they had come from the Indian submarine that had failed earlier, or from the American.
It must have been an American. For surely, the Indian was gone by now.
“Halt the attack,” said Chen Lo Fann, his satisfaction so deep that he could not possibly hide it. “Stay only close enough to observe the destruction, but remain undetected if possible.”
Aboard the Quicksilver
1838
“Can we stop the torpedoes?” Bree asked.
“No way,” said Chris.
“They see them,” said Collins. “They’re trying to get out of the way. Too late.”
There was an explosion in the water, a geyser back near the carrier force. But Breanna was too busy to watch it.
“Long-range radar I can’t ID,” said Torbin.
“Indians?”
“Wrong direction,” said the radar intercept officer. “I-band, okay. Woah, woah. APG-73—no way!”
“Torbinm what the hell are you talking about?”
“The radar—the computer is IDing the source as an F/A-18 unit. No way.”
“One torpedoes hit the carrier, maybe two,” said Chris.
“I have telemetry out near your contact,” Collins told Torbin
“I don’t know what the hell kind of radar this is,” said Torbin. “Shit. I mean, it could be an F/A-18. Chris?”
“No American flights within a hundred miles. I have nothing on radar. You sure about this?”
“Sure as shit.”
“All right, everybody take a breath,” Breanna said in her calmest command voice. “Fentress, did we sink that buoy?”
“Still trying to get the connection to the first one.”
“Tell me when we’re on.”
“Explosion!” said Chris. “Carrier’s hit.”
“I need you to stay close to the buoy,” said Fentress.
“Sukhois are trying to lock on us—we’re spiked!” said Torbin. The RWR screen flashed with a warning as well, showing the bearing of the radar looking for them.
“Full ECMS,” said Breanna. “Hang on everyone.”
Breanna threw the Megafortress into as sharp a turn as she could manage, dipping the wing and sliding in the direction of the buoy. Fentress, Collins, and Torbin all tried to speak at the same time; the computer gave her a warning she was approaching maximum Gs. Breanna filtered everything out but the plane, trying to beam the Doppler-pulse radar that had locked on them. there was a missile warning—one of the Sukhois had launched.
“Chris, when you have the chance, broadcast the we’re-the-white-hats message in every language you can think of,” she said calmly.
“I am.” His voice was three octaves higher than normal, which itself wasn’t exactly a bass.
A silver needle shot across Quicksilver’s bow, no more than fifty yards away. It was the missile.
“Optically aimed flak from that destroyer,” said the copilot. “Way out of range.”
“I see it,” said Bree.
“Sukhois coming down through ten thousand feet. “We’re jamming. They’re going to line up for an IR shot.”
“Get the Stinger ready.”
“On it.”
“SAM radar active. I’m jamming,” said Torbin.
“Fentress, we have to get moving here, friend,” said Bree.
“I’m still having trouble with the link,” he said. “We’re too high. I need you as close as you can get. The jinking’s not helping.”
“Getting shot down won’t help either.” She regretted snapping back like that, but there was no time to apologize—one of the ships launched antiaircraft missiles.
“SA-N-4, basicallt an SA-8 tweaked for shipboard use,” reported Torbin. “We’re at the far end of their envelope. Jamming.”
“Chaff, flares, kitchen sink,” she said.
Breanna began to turn, then realized she was moving toward the Sukhois. She pulled back on the stick abruptly, then twisted her left wing downward. The big jet did a half-gainer toward the waves, gravity and momentum pulling at its wings badly, one of the sensors in the wing-root assembly freaked out. The alert board lit with possible structural damage and the computer squawked at her for exceeding the design limit of the plane—not an easy feat.
Breanna’s body was pounded by the rush of Gs; she felt as if her head had been pounded by an anvil. A gray fuzz pushed in from her temples and something cold and prickly filled her lungs; she started to cough, bu
t something scraped deep down in her throat. There were all sorts of warning lights now, but she rode the wild maneuver steady, forcing the plane through an invert as the Sukhois she had spotted earlier fired its missiles from almost head-on. Fortunately, they were both heat-seekers, and despite their advertised all-aspect ability, were easily shunted by the flares Chris had managed to dish out into the air.
As the gray veil pulled back, Breanna saw a much darker one reaching up from the sea to smack her. Her maneuvers had taken her back toward the Chinese fleet. She was now dead-on for the flak; there was nothing to do but ride it out, struggling to keep the Megafortress level as they passed through percolating air.
“Damage to our right wing,” reported Chris. He was breathing hard. “Lost the Sukhois at least.”
“All right,” said Bree, suddenly conscious of her own breathing. “Kevin, we need that connection, and we need it now.”
“You have to get closer.”
“They’re launching more planes,” reported Collins.
“Indians too. This it total war,” said Chris. He was gasping for breath, hyperventilating.
“Dreamland Command to Quicksilver.” Major Alou “Gat” Ascenzio’s voice sounded a little tinny on her circuit; Breanna glanced at her com screen and saw that the message wasn’t coded.
“Quicksilver.”
“Get out of there.”
“We’re trying,” she said. then. Remembering the line was in the clear—and hopefully being intercepted by the Chinese—she added. “We’re taken no hostile act. We believe an Indian submarine fired torpedoes at a Chinese aircraft carrier.”
“We confirm one hit and one near miss,” said Gat. “Serious damage. Fires. Get out of there.”
“Quicksilver,” she said.
“I got it!” said Fentress.
“Sink the first buoy.”
“I need you to get lower. Get over it.”
“Bree,” said Chris. He didn’t have to say anything else; his meaning was clear—we have to leave now.
“I’m trying, Kevin,” she told Fentress.
“Missiles in the air!” said Torbin.
Philippines
1840
“Fuck!”
Once again the video feed in his Flighthawk control helmet dissolved into a test screen. Zen slammed his fist on the console and leaned back, cursing.
“I know, I know,” said Jennifer over the interphone. She was in the bomb bay, helping one of the technicians adjust the link server. “We’ll get it.”
“Yeah,” he said. He slid the headset back off his head, letting it fall around his neck. He was restless, frustrated.
It was more than difficulties getting the Flighthawk linked back into the circuit—he could feel his heart pounding.
He thought of Bree.
He was pissed at her for acting like a jerk before.
That wasn’t it.
She had been a jerk, but he wasn’t pissed at her, not exactly.
He was worried about her.
He picked up the headset, put it back on. His heart pounded so badly, he could feel the phones reverberating against his ears.
“Hey, Jen, I’m going to take a break,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Yeah. I’m going to go get something to eat. Ring-Dings or something.”
“Ring-Dings? I thought you couldn’t stand Ring-Dings.”
He couldn’t—they were Bree’s favorite pig-out food.
“I’m going to swing by the trailer and see what’s up on the way,” he told her.
“We’ll have it ready by the time you get back.”
Aboard Quicksilver
1840
A giant snake wrapped itself around Stoner’s body and squeezed, pushing his blood toward his mouth. He felt the warm liquid on his tongue, knowing he was forcing himself to breathe the long, quiet breath of purity. The universe collapsed on top of him, but Stoner sat as still as a pillar, remembering the advice of the bent old man who had taught him: you are the light of the candle, the flame that cannot be extinguished.
But no religion or philosophy, Eastern or Western, could overcome the simple, overwhelming urge of gravity. The plane jerked back and forth, trying desperately to avoid being hit while Fentress worked to sink both Piranha com buoys. He’d already managed to put the probe on the automated escape route—or at least that was how Stoner interpreted the groans and grunts he’d heard among the cacophony of voices in his earphones.
The sitrep was still on his screen. One of the carriers had been hit badly, though at least two planes had managed to get off in the chaos. Planes were swarming off the other. An Indian flight was coming north to meet them. There were missiles in the air, and flak all over the place. The destroyers on the eastern flank were attacking the submarine that had launched the torpedoes.
The lights in the cabin flashed off and on; there was a warning buzzer, another flash. The snake curled tighter.
Stoner pushed his hand to his face mask, making sure his oxygen was working. Two or three voices shouted at him from far away, urging him into the darkness. He forced his lungs to empty their oxygen slowly into the red flame of the candle in the center of his body.
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1843
A fresh found of depth charges exploded over the conning tower; the submarine bobbed downward as if her namesake had smashed his powerful leg against its bow. Admiral Balin fell forward against the map table, then slid to the floor.
One of the electrical circuit had blown. It was impossible at the moment to assess the damage, but he would welcome death now. At least one of the torpedoes had exploded directly beneath the aircraft carrier; the damage would be overwhelming. The failure of the Kali weapons had been requited.
Calmly, Balin rose. Accepting fate did not mean wishing for death—he turned his attention to his escape.
Someone screamed nearby, seized by panic.
“There will be none of that,” he said in a loud, calm tone before making his way toward the helmsman. “We will carry on as we were born to do. We will survive this.”
Aboard Quicksilver
1845
“We lost engine three,” Chris told her.
Breanna didn’t acknowledge. The Indian MiGs had sent a volley of missiles at long range at the Sukhois; there was so much metal in the sky now, it was impossible to avoid getting hit.
“It’s sunk, it’s sunk,” said Fentress. “Both buoys are down!”
“Fighter on our tail,” said Chris. “Out of air mines.
She could feel the bullets slicing into her, ripping across her neck. Breanna pushed the stick and stomped the pedals, trying to flip the big jet away from the fighter. But the Sukhois was more maneuverable than the Megafortress, and the Chinese pilot was smart enough not to get too close or overreact. He wasn’t that good a shot—maybe one out of four of is slugs found its target, a half dozen at a time—but he was content with that.
“Four’s gone,” said Chris.
“Restart.”
“Trying.”
Her warning panel was a solid bank of red. Part of the rear stabilizers had been shot away; they were leaking fuel from one of the main tanks. The leading-edge flap on the left wing wouldn’t extend properly, complicating her attempts to compensate for the dead engines.
They were going in.
Breanna fought off the flicker of despair. She pushed herself toward the windscreen, as if she might somehow add her weight to the plane’s forward momentum. The Sukhois that had been dogging them pass off to the right; he’d undoubtedly run out of bullets, or fuel, or both.
About time they got a break.
Ahead, a jagged bolt of lightening flashed down from the clouds. It seemed to splatter into a million pieces as it hit the ocean, its electricity running off in every direction.
Zen, why aren’t you here with me? I need you.
Jeffrey!
the altimeter ladder began to move—somehow the big Megafortr
ess was managing to climb.
“Come on, baby,” she told it. “Hang with me.”
“I can’t get four,” said Chris, who’d been trying to restart the engine. “Fuel’s bad. Fire in the bay. Fire—”
“Auto extinguish.”
“I’ve tried twice,” he said.
“Dump the AMRAAMS,” she told him.
“No targets?”
“Let’s not take sides at this point. Kevin—put Piranha into auto-return and sink the probe we just launched.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As Chris fired one of the missiles, there was a slight shudder in the rear.
“Fire won’t go out,” the copilot told her. “I think the extinguisher system has been compromised.”
“Okay,” she said.
They absolutely had to go out, and they had to go out now.
“Dreamland Command, this is Quicksilver. Gat, you hear me?” she said over the Dreamland line.
There was no answer. It was possible the fire had already damaged the radio or antennas, but she trued again, then broadcast their position and that they were ditching.
“Bree, we’re running out of fuel,” said Chris. “And the temp is climbing. The fumes will explode.”
“Prepare to eject,” she told him. “Crew—prepare to eject.”
The leading edge of the storm front punched at the persiplex glass in front of her. Windswept hail whipped in her face.
“I don’t know if we’re going to make it,” said Chris.
The panic hit her then, panic and fear and adrenaline. Someone grabbed hold of her hair and pulled her up from her seat, dangling her in midair, twirling her around.
Jeff, honey, where the hell are you when I need you?
“Crew, listen to me,” Breanna said calmly. “We’re all going out together. Cinch your restraints. Put your legs and arms inside your body. Check in, everybody—Chris?”
“Ferris.”
“Dolk.”
“Collins.”
“Fentress.”
There was no answer from Stoner.