by Dale Brown
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.
South China Sea
1515
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!
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
1520
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.”
Aboard Iowa
1535
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.
South China Sea
1540
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.
Dreamland Command
August 28, 1997, 0050 local (Au
gust 29, 1997, 1550 Philippines)
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.
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1612
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.
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
1616
“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!”
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1620
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.”
Aboard the Dreamland Osprey
1622
“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!
Aboard Iowa
1624
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.
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1625
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 t
oward his vessel’s hull.
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
1626
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.”
Aboard Iowa
1632
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.