Dreamland: Piranha

by Dale Brown

  This particular S-3B happened to be a member of a storied squadron, the oldest dedicated carrier ASW group in operation, the Fighting Redtails. While their planes and detection gear had changed dramatically since the squadron was first organized in 1945 (it didn’t gain its nickname until 1950), the pilots and crew members still showed the determination born in a period of worldwide strife.

  They also liked to rag on the Air Force whenever possible.

  “What the hell you doing out over water, Air Force?” mocked the Redtail pilot. His plane was roughly fifty miles to the southeast, approaching at about 320 knots. “You lost?”

  “We hear you Navy boys needed your hands held,” replied Breanna.

  “Hey, Air Force, either you’re a woman or real popular with the choir.”

  “Want to hear me sing?”

  “Only if it’s ‘Anchors Away.’ ”

  “Sorry, my plane is programmed to self-destruct if I sing that. You want a fix on our contacts or what?”

  “Roger that, good-lookin’.”

  “My, what a charmer,” Bree said to Chris. “Give the joker what he’s looking for.”

  “A punch in the mouth.”

  “Just the coordinates for now,” she said. “You can protect my honor later.”

  As Chris filled Redtail in on the submarine contacts, Torbin told Breanna the Chinese were scrambling a pair or fighters after the S-3.

  “Redtail, be advised you have some tagalongs,” Bree told the Navy flight.

  “We always dig a little faster and a little harder when people are watching,” answered the pilot.

  “Come again?”

  “Line from ‘Mike Mulligan,’ ” explained the Navy aviator. “You know, Maryanne and the Steam Shovel. Kids book.”

  “You got me.”

  “You don’t have kids?”

  “Negative.”

  “I’ll give you one of mine.”

  Two Sukhois from one of the Chinese carriers rode out to shake hands with the S-3. Chris tracked them for the Viking, then helped Breanna get ready for the buoy drop, now less than five minutes away. After they opened the bay doors and started to nose downward, the radar picked up a new flight taking off from the T’ien, the Chinese carrier that had recently entered the arena.

  “Sikorsky SH-3,” said Chris, his voice jumping an octave. “Wow. Where’d that come from?”

  “Range?”

  “One hundred miles. That’s a Sikorsky. The Chinese don’t have it,” added Chris. The venerable SH-3 had served with many countries, but wasn’t listed in the inventory of Chinese aircraft. “Those are ours.”

  “Want me to tell them to give is back?”

  “Captain, I have an active search radar off a Sea King AEW Mark 2 British helicopter,” reported Torbin. “Hey, this is pretty interesting stuff—the Chinese have a Sea King bag on that Sikorsky. Searchwater. Getting parameters.”

  Torbin was using the slang term for the special airborne early warning system installed in Royal Navy Sea Kings. The British had pioneered the use of AEW systems on helicopters, installing what they called Searchwater radar with a data link to their Harrier aircraft. Mounted in what looked like a large spaghetti pot off the starboard side of the aircraft, the radar gave roughly a hundred-mile coverage when the helicopter reached ten thousand feet.

  “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 ghos
t 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, had 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, Br
ee,” 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.