by Dale Brown
The girl’s breathing and heart rate were normal, and though unconscious, she didn’t seem to have been severely injured. They brought her to a small tent at the far end of the base, letting her rest on the air-cushion stretcher that carried her. Liu and the others had turned from warriors to mother hens, watching for signs of her revival.
Bison had told Danny about the change in their orders, but the captain hadn’t had time to think about the implications until he reached the medical tent. There were Navy people all over the place, off-loading equipment from transports, revving up bulldozers, and staking out building sites.
Ordinarily, Danny Freah didn’t put too much stock in interservice rivalry. In the modern military, the Joint Service Command structure meant Air Force people and Army people and Navy people often mixed in together. Danny had worked with Marines several times since coming to Dreamland; before that, he had drawn assignments with several Army Special Forces teams, including one from Delta.
However, besides heading the Whiplash ground team, he was responsible for Dreamland security, and this many people running around presented a serious problem, no matter what uniform they wore. Even the observation post and its displays were classified. While allowances had to be made for “live” operations, he had to make sure everyone up and down the command chain understood there were fences.
“Okay, sergeant,” he told Liu. “Keep me posted on the girl while I sort the security stuff out.”
“Gotcha, Cap.”
Danny’s ear bud vibrated with a page.
“Colonel’s looking for you,” said Bison. “He’s headed your way.”
“Good. What’s our status with the Megafortresses?”
“Our guys’ll watch ’em after they come in,” said Bison. “Marines know they’re out of bounds. Colonel Bastian kicked the admiral’s staff out of the trailer.”
“What staff?” said Danny. “What the hell were they doing in the trailer?”
“Uh, Captain, did you want Pretty Boy to shoot them?”
“Damn straight,” said Danny, who wasn’t kidding. “Shit. Why hell didn’t you tell me, Bison?”
“I told you the admiral was going there.”
“Just the admiral, you said.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you meant the whole staff could wait there.”
“Bison. Shit.”
Danny’s anger was temporary diverted by a moan from the stretcher.
“Girl’s waking up,” said Liu.
“I’ll get back to you.” Danny told his sergeant.
The Filipino jerked straight upright on the cot, disoriented and angry. Liu put his hand on her shoulder. She pushed forward, and his grip tightened just enough to stop her from moving any further. The anger on her face changed to fear, then something like curiosity, then back to anger.
“Are you okay?” Danny asked her.
She frowned. Her reaction convinced Danny she spoke English, like most, though not all, of her countrymen.
“You’re okay,” he said. “Does your head hurt? You may have a concussion.”
“Captain Freah?”
Danny turned toward the door of the tent. A Marine captain and two of his men had come in.
“I’m Freah.”
“Name’s Petersin. Justin Peterson.” He held out his hand, which Danny shook professionally. “Prisoner?”
“Not exactly,” said Danny. He gestured toward the door and they wen out to talk. The wind was whipping up with a fresh storm; Danny could taste moisture on his lips and his breaths were heavy with the approaching rain.
“I’m in charge of securing the base area,” said Peterson. “I understand you guys have some high-tech gizmos set up.”
“The sensors themselves aren’t that high-tech,” said Danny. “Camera, some IR gear. But what we have controlling them—that’s classified.”
“Oh?” Peterson’s tone was somewhere between a challenge and genuine puzzlement.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a pain in the ass, but I’d like to get some compartmentalization,” said Danny. “I’m thinking my guys work the gear. We feed information to your guys. I don’t know what personnel you’ll have.”
“A company. We can get what we need, though.”
“Company’s fine. I’ll go over the perimeter with you, and you can decide how you want to handle it. We had a similar arrangement with some guys from the 24th MEU (SOC),” added Danny, pronouncing the words as if they were “Mew-sock.” “Seemed to work out. We can get you some of our como gear, but not the helmets we use.”
Danny smiled. “You’d never give ’em back,” he added.
“Okay. I heard a little about you,” said Peterson.
“Me or my unit?”
“Both. You sure you’re not Marines under those black vests?”
Danny knew he was being buttered up—but still, Peterson seemed all right. They’d get along okay.
“So what’s with the prisoner?” asked the Marine.
“Native we found approaching our perimeter,” said Danny. “She’s not really a prisoner. Technically.”
“Don’t think she’s a guerrilla?”
“No,” said Danny quickly. He’d decided he was holding on to her himself until he had things figured out. Giving details of what had happened—such as the fact that she had a gun—would jeopardize that.
He wasn’t just going out on the limb personally here, but potentially endangering the entire mission. Yet he knew that wasn’t the case. She hadn’t been trying to attack them; she was just protecting herself, as he would have done.
Danny was sure he was right. He just needed some time to talk to her, to prove it. Until then, they’d keep an eye on the village. They could take it out quickly enough.
“How can you be sure she’s not a guerrilla?” said Peterson.
Danny shrugged. “There’s a tiny little village in the other side of that hilltop there, down the slope, across a swamp.”
“Going to have to evac it, no?”
“Well, I didn’t want to,” said Danny. “Kinda sucks telling people they have to leave their homes.”
Peterson took of his soft campaign cap, scratching his head. For a Marina, he had relatively long hair—it might measure a full inch. Most of it stood straight up, as if at attention.
“We gotta do what we gotta do,” said Peterson finally.
“Yeah. I know. At the moment, I want to make sure she’s okay, then find out what she’s up to, move off of that.”
“Who we talking about?” said Colonel Bastian.
“Colonel.”
Peterson saluted sharply. Danny introduced him, then told him about the girl—still leaving out the detail about the gun. “She can’t stay here,” said Dog. “What has she seen?”
“She just came to. She hasn’t not gone out of the tent,” said Danny. “I want to see what she was up to.”
“Captain, excuse me a second,” Colonel Bastian said to Peterson.
“Yeah, I have some things to check out,” said the Marine. “Captain Freah, if I could meet you at the Whiplash observation post in an hour maybe? If you can get the radios for us, I’d appreciate it.”
“That’d be good.”
“There more to this than you’re saying?” Colonel Bastian asked after the Marine and his two men left.
“How so, sir?”
“You sound a little protective.”
“No, sir.”
“Why was she unconscious?”
“We had to knock her out to take her into custody,” said Danny.
“You weren’t thinking of setting her free, were you?”
“Absolutely not,” said Danny truthfully. “I’m honestly not sure what to do with her, though. I mean, frankly—she hasn’t done anything except cross an invisible line we set up in the jungle. I’m not sure what I can do. And the local government—from what I heard, it’s best not to get them involved.”
Colonel Bastian had a way of pushing up his cheeks and squinting when he heard so
mething he found difficult to believe. Danny saw that look now.
If this had been Dreamland, Danny would have had the girl in a hood before being transported to the medical area. While she was isolated there, her prints would have been checked against innumerable databases. She’d be in Dreamland-issued clothing. She’d be guarded by two tiers of guards. He’d have a list of legal charges—civilian as well as military—pending against her. All might ultimately be dropped, but they’d be signed and sealed, ready to be used if necessary.
This wasn’t Dreamland. Still, he was definitely being lax, at least by his standards/
He felt—what? Sorry for her?
She would have killed him, though.
“All right, Captain. For now, keep her isolated. We’re going to have to consult with Admiral Woods on what to do with her,” said Bastian. “But under no circumstances is she going anywhere without my specific approval.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Even if Woods tells you something else.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dog frowned. The steady hum of a Megafortress grew in the distance. “We’ve been chopped to PACCOM, but we’re supposed to maintain strategic security,” added the colonel. “I’m not exactly sure how we’re supposed to accomplish that. Especially given that Admiral Woods is a class-one—”
The roar of a Megafortress landing on the nearby runway drowned out the end of Dog’s sentence, but it wasn’t particularly difficult to fill in the blank.
Philippines
1200
Bree absentmindedly ran her hand along the back of her husband’s wheelchair, listening as the Navy intelligence officer continued his briefing about the layout of Chinese and Indian forces in the area. Her father stood next to him, arms tightly folded and eyes fixed in a glare. He’d already snapped twice at errors the man had made when talking about the Megafortresses’ capabilities. He appeared fully capable of strangling him if he misspoke again; his glare looked more potent than the Razor antiaircraft laser.
Breanna hadn’t seen him so belligerent since his first few weeks at Dreamland. He didn’t like Woods, that much was clear—he frowned every time the admiral started to speak. Breanna had heard about the admiral’s antics during the Piranha test, and so she understood there’d be some competitive animosity, but this seemed to go beyond that. Woods, though a bit gruff and obviously used to having his way, seemed competent and intelligent, traits her father normally held in high regard.
There were two battle groups in the South China Sea; the Chinese were at the north, the Indians at the south. Numerically, the Chinese held a serious advantage. They now had two small aircraft carriers with supporting destroyers and a cruiser. The Chinese carriers were a little less than seven hundred feet long and drew about twenty thousand tons fully loaded; by contrast the U.S.’s Lincoln measured over a thousand feet and displaced more than a hundred thousand tons. Size-wise, they were more equivalent to American assault carriers like the Wasp than what the U.S. considered front-line aircraft carriers. They were, nonetheless, potent, able to project serious airpower and the centerpiece of a major task force.
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 admi
ral 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.
