by Dale Brown
“I can handle it.”
“No shooting down Chinese planes.”
“I will if I have to,” she said.
Zen laughed, but he believed her. “You going to be okay without me riding shotgun for you?” he said as they continued toward the planes.
“I don’t need you to watch my back,” she said.
“Hey,” Zen grabbed at her hand, but missed. “You mad?”
“No.”
“Bree? I was just kidding about the gimp thing.”
“I’m fine,” she said, still walking.
“Hey, what are you mad at?”
She turned toward the mess tent.
Zen began to follow. Ordinarily, she simply teased back. But this wasn’t teasing.
“Hey,” he said, rolling to the door.
“Just feeding my face before the flight,” she said, letting the screen door on the tent slam closed behind her.
Stoner let his breath flow from his chest softly, each cell in his lungs reluctantly surrendering its molecule of oxygen. A yellow light filed the center of his head. His body melted. Stoner’s consciousness became a long note vibrating in the empty tent. He slipped into a deep, meditative trance.
It was then he realized what had happened.
Deliberately, he unfolded his legs, then rose. He stooped down for a sip of water from the bottle near his bed mat and roll—he didn’t use a cot—then went to find Colonel Bastian.
“The lookout post belonged to the Taiwanese,” Stoner told the colonel when he found him. “All of them. the Chinese don’t need them. they must be helping the Indians.”
Bastian nodded. “Have you spoken to Langley?”
“Not yet. But it makes sense. I’ll talk to Jed Barclay too.”
“Why would they fire on us?” asked Bastian.
Us, not you. Stoner like that. He knew Bastian had, without complaint, taken the hit for what went down on the island. Protecting his people, even though they could have plausibly been blamed for messing up. He had grown to admire Bastian; he was a man he could work with.
“Because they fear discovery. Possibly they expected the Chinese, but more likely they knew it would be us. Taiwan can’t appear to be taking sides or provoking a confrontation. They want to hurt Mainland China, but if they do something that looks to us like it’s belligerent, like it’s against our interests, we might crush them. simply moving our fleet away would hurt them.”
Bastian nodded.
“I’d like to join the next patrol flight,” added Stoner.
“The Taiwanese spy ships that have been tracking the submarine, I want to find out about them. I think there’s some operation under way.”
“They’re not part of our mission.”
“Their goal isn’t peace, or coexistence with the Mainland. They want the same thing the Communists want—one China. They just want it on their terms.”
“That may be,” said the colonel. “But at the moment, that’s not our concern.”
“I won’t be just a passenger. There’s no one here who knows more about Chinese and Indian capabilities than I do. I’m the one who found Kali. I’d be very useful tracking the Chinese submarines.”
“Okay,” said Bastian finally. “Work it out with Captain Stockard. Stoner—” Bastian pointed a finger at him. “This operation ultimately answers to Admiral Woods, not me.”
“Took him longer to kick you out than I expected,” said the CIA officer. “He must like you.”
Aboard the Dragon Ship in the South China Sea
1326
Chen Lo Fann walked the deck of the former tanker, his mind heavy with though. Professor AI Hira Bai, the scientist who led the team that developed the Dragons, percolated next to him, bouncing with every step. The launch procedure was not particularly difficult. The small robot was lowered from the side of the ship onto the surface of the water, where it rested on a pair of skis. A solid propellant rocket propelled it into the sky; once it was safely above the spray, its jet engine was activated. The place looked somewhat like a miniaturized Su-33UB, except its engine inlets—two on top, two on the bottom—rather than the more traditional double tailplane of the experimental Sukhoi.
And, of course, there was no place for a pilot.
Chen turned and looked at the horizon while Professor Ai conferred with some of his technicians. The water had a dark green tint to it today; he felt a fresh storm approaching.
In a hundred years, no one would remember the weather or the color of the sea. They would think only of the destruction wrought as the two Navies met.
A storm indeed.
One of the men assigned to relay messages approached as Chen stared out at the water.
“Yes” he asked without turning.
The man held out a slip of paper. Chen let his eyes linger, then turned and took the message.
The captain of one of the trawlers had seen the American Megafortresses drop an unknown type of buoy into the water. Photos of the buoy did not match any of the ASW types the Americans typically used. Interestingly, the trawler—equipped with an array of high-tech snooping gear that worked both under and above the water—had been unable to pick up any transmissions to or from that buoy, or a second one dropped sometime later, at least not at the distance he had been ordered to stay from any American asset. The captain wanted permission to investigate, and perhaps retrieve one of the buoys if the opportunity presented itself.
Chen weighed the matter. Despite being allies, the Americans were hardly forthcoming when it came to sharing new technology. The appearance of the EB-52’s—which had not been used in marine patrol or ASW roles before—surely meant they were using some new device. Whatever it was—a passive sonar system perhaps?—would be of great value in dealing with the Communists.
He would not, and could not, provoke an incident with the Americans. But surely this was worth studying. What if he snatched the device, then claimed to have thought it was a Mainland weapon?
In the confusion of battle, such an explanation would be accepted, if only reluctantly. In such a case, the asset would be returned—after it was examined, of course.
Chen took a pen and wrote his orders to the captain, telling his to proceed. He handed the message back to the courier, who immediately retreated for the radio room.
“Ready, Commander,” said Professor AI, who’d been waiting.
“Then begin.”
Fann turned toward the crane as the taro was taken off the small aircraft. The large hook, very old and heavy, swung freely above, making him slightly apprehensive; its weight could easily damage the robot. The crew was well trained and practiced, however. Two men grabbed the hook as it came toward them, then fit it into the harness. One of them climbed up above the Dragon and onto the chain. It must seem like the greatest job in the world, riding on the hoist as it swung out, waiting as the four men in the water carefully undid the sling, then riding back to the deck.
For Chen, the elation would come later, much later—he hoped to see one of the carriers in flames before the end of the day.
Professor Ai looked at him, and Fann realized the scientist was waiting for his order to begin. Fann nodded. The scientist smiled broadly, then turned and waved to the crane operator, who stood a short distance away with a wired remote. The man pushed one of the levers and the motor on the crane whirled.
There was a loud grinding noise. Someone shouted. Smoke appeared from the crane house. Professor Ai leaped toward the robot cursing.
Fann stood impassively, watching.
Who was riding the donkey now? Which way did Fortune blow?
“It’s a problem with the crane,” said the scientist a few minutes later.
“Yes.”
“We have to use the backup.”
“Do so.”
“It will take time.”
“Do it as quickly as you can,” said Chen. He turned and went back to his cabin.
Philippines
1346
Dog took a la
st check of the situation at the Whiplash trailer, touching base with Dreamland Command before leaving. Major Alou and Raven were on station, Alou being extra careful to stay outside the patrol area the Chinese fighters had established. Piranha sat about tem miles away from the Chinese submarine. The sub had taken up an almost stationary position to the southwest of the carrier task force. A U.S. sub had already found the other Chinese submarine on the eastern side of the Chinese fleet. Within the next twelve hours, a second SSN should be on Piranha’s target as well. Whiplash could close up shop.
The fate of the Indian sub remained a mystery. Though the profile wasn’t a good match, the contact Piranha had seen was discounted as American SSN, which had indeed been in the vicinity. Intercepts of Chinese Mainland transmissions by the NSA showed the Chinese believe the submarine had been sunk, but the analysts weren’t completely sure. There was no hard evidence it had gone down, and it clearly had the capability to stay submerged for several days. It could still be shadowing the Chinese fleet, or it could have set sail south to return to India.
Whiplash had accomplished its mission. The data they had gathered would provide a hundred analysts useful employment for the next year or more. Just as importantly, they demonstrated they value of Piranha and its technology.
Yet Colonel Bastian felt as if he’d failed. Because he’d lost a man? Or because he’d had his tail whacked by Woods?
Definitely the tail-whacking. He’d lost men before—good men, friends. It was the cost of freedom, as corny and trite as that sounded. The sorrow of their deaths was as much part of his job as the speed-suit he donned to fly. But getting treated like—like what, exactly? A lieutenant colonel?
He missed General Magnus now. The three-star general would have insulated him from this BS. He had in Turkey, when Central Command tried to get its fingers in.
Problem was, at the time he’d thought Magnus was a bit of pain as well. So the real problem was his ego.
“Something up, Colonel?” asked Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd, who was at the communication desk.
“Just getting ready to hit the road, Sergeant,” he told him.
“Yes, sir. Coffee’s better over at the Navy tent,” he added. “Liu’s the only one on the team who can make a decent pot.”
“Better pray he gets out of the hospital soon then, huh?” said Dog.
“Yes, sir,” said Floyd, who didn’t quite take it as lightly as it was intended.
“He’ll be okay, Sergeant,” Dog added. “You hang in there.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Outside, the air was heavy with humidity; another storm was approaching. Sweat began to leak from his pores as he headed toward the Navy C-9B waiting to take him to Manila, where he’d hop a civilian flight to L.A.
The schedule was tight. Unlike the Navy plane, the civilian 747 wasn’t going to wait, but midway to his plane Dog took a detour, deciding he really had to say goodbye to one more member of his command.
Jennifer Gleason stood on the hard-packed dirt near Iowa, hands on hips. Several access panels directly behind the crew area of the plane were open; a portable platform was set up below the EB-52’s belly. Three or four techies hunched over the equipment on a nearby pallet, flashing screwdrivers; a sailor carried a disk array the size of a pizza box up the plane’s access ramp. Gleason was shaking her head in obvious disgust.
“Hey, Gleason, what’s up?” said Dog.
“These guys handle the computers like they’re crystal,” she complained. “They’re designed to take over twelve Gs for cryin’ out loud. We won’t be ready for hours.”
“You look pretty when you’re fretting.” Dog allowed himself a light touch on her shoulder. “You don’t want them to throw the gear up there, do you?”
“Be faster.”
God, she was beautiful.
“I have to go home,” he said.
“Uh-huh.” She flicked her hair back behind her ear. “I’m okay here.”
“I know that,” said Dog.
Something near the plane caught her eye and she turned back. “Excuse me, Colonel.” She started to trot toward the plane. “Hey! Hey!”
Dog watched the sway of her hips in the fatigue pants, then abruptly started for the Navy plane. If he didn’t get aboard now …
Aboard Quicksilver, above the South China Sea
1636
Guiding the Piranha probe was considerably easier than flying the Flighthawk. Fentress ran through some simple maneuvers and flipped back and forth between the views as Delaford watched from aboard the other Megafortress. They had made a few adjustments in the simulated 3-D screen since he had sat in on the development sessions, but it wasn’t difficult at all to get comfortable. He even remembered, without prompting, how to split the screen so he could see a forward and a sitrep view at the same time.
The probe was within thirteen miles of the Chinese submarine, which was moving at three knots south. Another fifteen miles away was the lead Chinese aircraft carrier. The Piranha communications buoy had been dropped thirty-five miles further west, allowing the EB-52 to stay outside of carrier CAP.
Delaford had launched this probe a few hours before to replace the first, whose fuel had lasted slightly longer than they’d originally calculated. It was now moving southwest in low-power mode, and would be picked up by the Dreamland Osprey in a few hours, if the weather held. A new storm system was approaching rather quickly.
“You look like you’re on top of it,” said Delaford. “See you down the line.”
“I’ll be here.” The line snapped clear; he was on his own.
Upstairs on the flight deck, Breanna reviewed her fuel situation and went through a quick instrument check. With everything in the green, she turned the plane over to Chris and eased out of the driver’s seat, intending to take a short break. Among Quicksilver’s custom touches was a small refrigerator located at the back end of the flight deck. Breanna had often joked that, with missions sometimes stretching over twelve hours, a full gallery ought to be provided, and one of the engineers had suggested adding a microwave.
She’d have a full gallery when she flew the UMB. Even better, a full bathroom.
Hell, one of the geeks said she could fly if from her bedroom via laptop—now wouldn’t that be a trip?
Breanna checked on Freddy and Torbin, both hard at work parsing their data from the Chinese and Indian forces. Freddy fed most of his communications intercepts directly back to Dreamland, where a team of language experts were monitoring the transmission. Given that both sides realized they were being listened to, there was a surprising amount of traffic.
Breanna squatted in front of the refrigerator and took out a diet cola. She opened it and took a sip, then leaned against the bulkhead and looked at her crew.
Did she want to leave this behind?
Maybe. This was fairly routine. Almost boring.
Not that the business the other day had been.
It made sense from a career angle, certainly. It’d be easier on her back, which was crinked from the cot she’d slept on last night. She’d see Zen more. Not that she didn’t see him all the time now.
The thoughts came to her in a sarcastic tone, almost as if someone else had said it. She was mad at her husband, though she wasn’t exactly sure why.
Because he was working with Jenn-i-fer?
Whom she hated. But Zen was always working with Jenn-i-fer; it wasn’t that big a deal.
Was it?
“Hey,” said a voice behind her. It startled her so badly she nearly lost her balance.
Stoner, the CIA officer aboard to act as general intelligence consultant and Fentress’s gofer.
“Mr. Stoner. We would prefer it if you kept your seat,” she told him.
“You’re up.”
“What can I do for you?” she said frostily.
“I was wondering if I could listen in on some of the com intercepts from the trawler, if they’re in the clear.”
“You speak Chinese?”
<
br /> “A bit.”
“I doubt they’re in the clear,” she told him. “But we may be able to pipe them through. G back to your station and I’ll see.”
“Can I view them?”
civilians just didn’t get it sometimes.
“We’re too far from the actual position of the ships on the surface to seem them. We have radar indications, that’s all.”
“If you get close to them, I’d like to take a look. I might be able to tell you what kind of equipment they have. I’d be very interested.”