Dreamland: Piranha

by Dale Brown

  The Indians currently had eight destroyers and two guided-missile cruisers heading toward the Chinese fleet. About a day behind them was an ancient aircraft carrier named Vikrant, originally named Hercules when build by the British in 1946. The Indians had bought it soon afterward, operating her for nearly forty years before taking her into dock for repair and refurbishment. Another round of repairs and renovations had just been completed, adding a British ski jump to her flight deck, among other things. Also tiny by American standards, she was a bit bigger than the Chinese carriers but probably roughly their equivalent.

  Her aircraft complement was unknown, but certainly included first-generation Harrier jump jets. There were also reliable reports that a version of the MiG-29K had been adapted by the Russian specifically for the Indian aircraft carrier. The MiG had lost a fly-off to the sea version of the Su-27/Su-33 as the preferred multirole fighter for the stillborn Russian carrier navy, but many analysts felt the smaller MiG-29K would have been a far better choice; its only shortcoming—albeit a serious one—was its more limited endurance.

  “We haven’t seen those planes yet,” said the intelligence officer, tapping on the map spread out on the table. “One theory is they’re being kept belowdecks to escape satellite surveillance. If so, there wouldn’t be more than six. I have to admit, our intelligence on the Vikrant isn’t good. The Indians bought the ship into dry dock last year and claimed it was beyond repair. We know a lot more about a sister ship, or close to a sister ship, called the Viraat. It has eighteen Harriers and some Russian ASW helicopters. It’s back here, near India. We don’t expect it to be a player at this time.”

  “What about the submarines we’re supposed to find?” asked Zen.

  “Ah yes, the subs.” He pulled an overlay out from under the map. It was a large, clear transparency with yellow and red circles. “The two new Chinese attack subs were spotted around here,” he said, pointing to an area of the Chinese coast just to the right of Vietnam, “eighteen hours ago. You’ll appreciate that I can’t discuss the specific intelligence methods used to find them,” he added.

  It was a snotty allusion to Dreamland’s security protocols, and drew a snort from nearly everyone in the room. The Fleet hadn’t found the subs at all—they’d been spotted by satellite, and all the details were readily available to the Dreamland team.

  The intelligence officer continued, comparing the submarines to high-tech British attack boats powered by an ultraquiet propulsion system. Roughly as silent as the Indian ship on battery power, Piranha would have to stay closer than twenty miles to track them. The Indian submarine was bound to be easier to find initially, since it had to eventually come up for air and recharging.

  “Your job is to find all the submarines and keep tabs on them,” said Woods. “You’ll work with our standard ASW patrols. We have two submarines en route, as well as several surface ships that can be tasked to shadow the submarines once they’re located. Those assets are all some distances away, however.”

  “Iowa, with Commander Delaford and Ensign English, will take the first shift,” said Colonel Bastian. “Because the launch and initial tracking are most critical. We’ll hand off to Quicksilver and Zen, then Raven.”

  Major Alou and his crew were currently out on patrol, keeping tabs on the Chinese and Indian fleets.

  “Assuming the new control set is in and you’re comfortable,” added the colonel, looking at Zen.

  “I’ll be comfortable,” said Zen, who had been grousing about the Piranha controls ever since he’d heard he was going to have to “pilot” one. Delaford had brought along a sim program, which Zen had already begun working with. Typically, he’d nailed the high-proficiency score on first try. “What about the Flighthawks?”

  “From what Rubeo told me, we have to leave them on the ground,” said Dog. “It won’t be that big a deal. We’ll just have to forgo close-in CAP and configure the missions accordingly. We figured we cold place double-launchers on the wing hard-points for Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses, since the bay will be loaded with buoys. That’s four missiles, and we should be able to get some long-range escorts, or at least standby escort, from the Fleet.”

  Woods nodded. One of the Navy officers took over, running down some details about flight operations. A squadron of F/A-18’s was en route from Hawaii and would be available for whatever contingency arose. He also briefly ran down some of the differences in Navy rescue procedures; downed Navy aviators used different “spins” for contacting rescue units. Though the difference was subtle, it could be vital in an emergency; coming up on a radio at five minutes after the hour when people were listening for you at ten might mean the difference between life and death.

  “Gentlemen,” said Woods, bringing the briefing to a close, “now that we understand each other. Let’s get moving.”

  Gentlemen? Bree felt her face turning red. The admiral was looking straight at her.

  Gentlemen, huh? We’ll see about that.

  “There’s another matter I’d like to address,” said Stoner. The CIA officer had sat quietly in the corner of the room, saying nothing and seemingly overlooked.

  “There are some spy sites, or possibly some spy sites, on the atolls along the western end of the patrol area. At least one has radar. Captain Freah suggested they be investigated and I concur.”

  Woods frowned at Stoner.

  “I suggest we use the Birds and the Osprey,” added Danny. We think there’s probably a whole string of them, but looking at one would tell us a lot about the others.”

  “What sites? Who are they working for?” asked Woods.

  “We’re not sure,” said Stoner. “My guess is they’re with the Chinese, but that’s why we’d like to go in. Major Stockard and the Quicksilver crew have data on them.”

  They discussed the sites briefly. Woods seemed to actively dislike Stoner, and pointed out twice this was not a CIA operation. Stoner didn’t respond to the provocations.

  His sunburned face had a harsh ruggedness that was attractive, Bree thought, even when he frowned. And those eyes—gray-blue. Pretty.

  In the end, Woods agreed investigating the sites would be useful—but at the moment they weren’t authorized to strike force on either side of the conflict.

  “Draw up a plan for my review,” he said. “Gentlemen, good-bye.”

  Drafted into the fucking Navy,” said Zen, rolling toward the tent that had been designated as their temporary quarters. “I’m a fucking sailor.”

  “At least he got your sex right,” said Breanna, walking alongside his wheelchair.

  “Navy bullshit,” grumbled Zen, pushing inside.

  “How’s the tooth?”

  “Still there.” Zen pushed his tongue back toward the filling. “So he must’ve done a good job, huh?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not bothering you. So going to the dentist isn’t a bad thing.”

  “Yes, Captain. Right again.”

  She ran her hands from the back of his neck across his face, her thick, strong hands lingering on his cheeks. Zen felt reluctant to let the bad mood drop, but her touch softened the muscles in his face. She moved closer and pushed her body against him, leaning her breast into the side of his face.

  “Maybe having nothing to do for a few hours isn’t so bad,” she said.

  “Ya think?” said Zen. He pulled her down for a kiss. Except for the tooth, it was perfect; along, slow melt into the softness she kept behind the bomber-pilot face.

  “Mmmmm,” she said.

  “Mmmmm,” he repeated, his fingers sliding to the top of her flight suit. They had just started south when there was a scream outside.

  Zen jerked back and grabbed the wheels of his chair, Breanna rushed ahead of him, running to the medical tent ten yards away. Two Whiplash team members, fully armed, came on a dead run, one dropping to his knee just outside the tent and talking into his microphone. Danny Freah barked something and the door to the big tent flew open. Freah, Sergeant Liu, and a Navy corpsman p
ushed out dragging a small Filipino. It was the woman they’d captured below, her shirt hanging half off.

  “She grabbed a scissors,” said Liu. “She tried to stab the captain.”

  “Guerrilla,” said Stoner, appearing behind Zen.

  “Maybe she just doesn’t like the idea of being manhandled,” said Breanna. The young woman had collapsed to the ground. Bree went to her and kneeled down.

  “Careful, Captain,” said Danny.

  “Were there all men in there?” asked Bree.

  “I don’t think that was the problem,” said Liu. “We took a gun from her earlier.”

  Breanna squatted in front of the Filipino. “Are you okay?”

  The young woman didn’t answer.

  “restraints,” said Danny. Liu nodded and went back inside the tent.

  “CPP,” said a Marine officer who’d joined the semicircle. “Commie.”

  “No. she’s a Muslim,” said Stoner. “Ask her.”

  “What difference does that make?” said the Marine.

  Stoner said nothing, but came over and lowered himself into a squat next to Breanna. Danny, standing behind the Filipino and still holding her shirt, stooped slightly. A light drizzle had started to fall; the rain was warm, like the sprinkle from a shower.

  “What are you doing on this island?” asked Stoner. “You don’t come from here.”

  The young woman spit at him, but the spook didn’t react.

  “We’re not your friends, but we’re not interested in hurting you either,” he said. “Tell us why you’re here. Otherwise we’ll turn you over to the Army.”

  She said nothing. They stared at each other a few seconds more; then Stoner rose.

  “She’s a guerrilla,” said Captain Peterson. “You’ll have to give her over to Western Command, the Filipino Army. Her people were probably planning a raid.”

  “She’s not CPP, and she wasn’t planning a raid,” said Stoner.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Peterson said.

  Stoner gave the Marine a half smile but didn’t answer his question. He turned to Zen instead—he was the ranking officer, but even so, Zen thought it odd—and told him. “The people in that settlement are probably all related; came here from one of the other islands. Luzon or someplace. They’ll have a horror story.” Stoner then turned abruptly and walked away.

  “Whether she’s a Commie or not,” said Peterson, “you’re going to have to turn her over to her government.”

  “She’s my prisoner,” said Danny. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with her yet.”

  Peterson took a long breath obviously designed to underline what he was going to say next. “Captain, you have to follow proper procedures. And if there’s a village that’s threatening our post, then—”

  “We’ll survey the village to see if it’s a threat,” said Danny. “In the meantime, this woman may have to stand charges.”

  “For grabbing some scissors?” said Bree.

  Danny glared at her.

  “I want to talk to Colonel Bastian,” said Danny. He turned to Liu. “Put her in the tent. Keep her hands cuffed. Behind her.”

  Stoner walked along the perimeter of the airstrip, letting the light rain soak his face and clothes. He knew he wanted it to purge his anger. He also knew it wouldn’t work, not completely.

  Desire was the cause of all suffering. He stared into the droplets of rain, gazing out at the ocean. The furling waves had no desire; they were just drop of water pushed by physics.

  Like him.

  Not like him. He hated Woods—he hated all of the Navy people. And the Marines. Especially the Marines.

  Irrationally, ridiculously. He had been a SEAL, and yet he hated the Navy. His assignments with the Company made use of his Navy expertise. Yet he hated the Navy. With no reason, beyond a hundred thousand insults and injuries, all to his ego, all meaningless in the great flow of life.

  He would never be a true Buddhist, since he could not denounce is ego. Maybe he didn’t want to be a true Buddhist—which, ironically, would make him closer to being one. The koan of it was a beautiful, humorous circle.

  Stoner held his fingers together, his arms down at his sides, absorbing the rain. He actually liked Freah for not wanting to turn the idiot girl over to the Filipino Army. He liked all the Dreamland people—Zen Stockard especially. The major had just sat there, listening, not forming a judgement. The guy knew shit every second he was awake, but he didn’t bitch about it.

  And his wife, his beautiful wife …

  Stoner let the idea float out toward the water. Desire was the cause of all suffering, the Buddha taught, and this was still the most difficult lesson to reconcile.

  Danny knew from Bison he wouldn’t find Colonel Bastian in the trailer, but he went there first anyway. Then he walked very deliberately—to the tent that had been designated as Colonel Bastian’s quarters. He knew he wouldn’t find the colonel there either. So by the time he went to look for him where he had known all along he would be—Iowa, getting ready to takeoff—it was too late. The Megafortress’s four engines rumbled and flared as Danny watched from twenty or thirty yards away; slowly being towed toward the runway, preparing to take off.

  “Hey, Cap,” said Powder as Danny watched the Megafortress put her nose into the wind. “Getting wet, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said Danny. If he wanted, he could use his smart helmet to talk to the colonel right now, ask him what to do. But he didn’t.

  “So what’s with the girl?” asked Powder. “Tried to shoot your head off?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Like that girl is Bosnia, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said Danny, who hadn’t even thought about that incident.

  Oh, he realized.

  Oh!

  “Spooky replay, huh?”

  Danny put his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the rain. Powder had been with him in Bosnia.

  “You know, I hadn’t even thought about it,” he told the sergeant. “I didn’t even remember that.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Danny laughed.

  “Really, Cap? You blocked the whole sucker out?”

  More or less. It had probably poked at him when he realized the person he’d grabbed was a woman, but he hadn’t really remembered, or thought about it, maybe because he was too focused on doing his job. Or maybe the memory was just too much.

  The other woman was a Muslim too.

  “Shit,” said Danny.

  “Captain?”

  “Let’s go get some coffee,” he told Powder. “Assuming these Navy guys know how to make it.”

  He’d been in Italy as part of a Special Tactics Squadron, and through a series of related and unrelated developments, wound up being assigned with two of his men to accompany a UN negotiating team. The UN people were to meet with government officials at a police station in an obscure hillside town. The day before Danny, Powder, and another STS sergeant named Dave Chafetz went into the town with two plainclothes Yugoslavian policemen to familiarize themselves with the area. The policemen were scared shitless about something, even though they were in ostensibly friendly territory.

  Scouting the ingress and egress routes went quickly. The police station was located near the town’s biggest intersection, which, despite the Yug’s assurance, was highly problematic. Danny and his team members took mental notes of several evacuation points, including the police station roof. They planned to have a pair of Blackhawks and some scout helicopters no more than two minutes away, and a ground unit with armored vehicles within striking distance. With Danny taking pains not to tip off his assessments to his Yugoslav escorts, it took about four hours to scout the whole place. Danny’s efforts were more professional than practical; it wouldn’t take a genius to know roughly where an emergency rendezvous or pickup would be planned.

  The policemen kept asking nervously if he’d seen enough, hinting almost to the point of insistence that it was time for them to return to their UN bas
e. Finally, Powder suggested they look at the building next to the police station; it was a grocery-type store, though from the window and door facing the street, the shelves looked pretty bare.