by Dale Brown
The admiral frowned; Dog couldn’t help but wonder if he would have preferred the carrier went down.
“In the air, every incident with the Chinese was initiated by the Chinese,” said Colonel Bastian in a level voice. “You have the tapes and the data from every flight. We’re not cowboys, sir. We’re just our job, as ordered.”
“I’m not unreasonable, Tecumseh. Truly, I’m not. I had the Filipinos moved at you request.”
“ I didn’t say you were unreasonable, Admiral.”
“But?”
“You do seem to go out of your way to make me your whipping boy.”
“That’s because I don’t like you,” said Woods.
The two men stared at each other. Dog waited for Woods to soften what he’d just said, take it back by adding, “that’s what you think, isn’t it?” But he didn’t.”
“You’re in over your head on this operation,” the admiral said finally. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re competent, capable, even a hotshot. But Dreamland and Whiplash—you need perspective. You’ll understand what I’m saying in five or six years.”
“I understand now.”
“The surveillance mission with Piranha will continue,” said Woods. “That’s a direct order from the President I can’t and won’t ignore, but the mission will be carried out under my personal direction. You’re no longer in the loop, Colonel. You have a lot of work to do at Dreamland.”
“What?”
“It’s not necessary to embarrass you in front of your people. But I will. Go home.”
Dog had to physically bite his lip to keep himself from saying or doing anything else. It was only after he boarded his transport helicopter topside that he realized blood had dribbled down his chin.
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
August 27, 1997, 1326
They came to periscope depth cautiously, aware the sonar contact was a Chinese destroyer. Admiral Balin confirmed the crew’s prediction quickly; they were almost perpendicular, and close enough for Balin to see the two large guns at either end. The ship was surely a Jianghu frigate.
Captain Varka gave the order to change their course. They came around quickly and began closing on the Chinese vessel.
The Kali weapons and their assorted equipment had robbed Balin of precious space, leaving him room for only six torpedoes. He would fire two at the destroyer, holding the others for whatever target he would find later.
“Sir,” said Captain Varja. “We have additional contacts. A carrier.”
“A carrier?”
“Making good speed,” added the captain. “Other vessels as well. Beyond the destroyer.”
Balin put his eyes back to the periscope view. There was only gray beyond the destroyer.
They were using only their passive sonar. To use the active array would surely alert the Chinese to their presence—but would also provide a good deal more information.
He wanted it too badly; he must be cautious.
Balin stepped away from the periscope. His eyes met Varja’s. The captain surely had the same thoughts.
“We must find it,” said Balin softly.
“Agreed.”
Varja gave the orders to use the sonar.
One carrier, less than three miles away. It was the Shangi-Ti; the sound signature left no doubt.
There was another—another very large contact in the distance, more than likely a vessel of the same size as Shangi-Ti.
A second carrier!
Again the gods had been beneficent, guiding them here so they could strike both.
The sonar room gave a fresh warning—the frigate was turning in their direction.
“Return to passive sensors. Take us to a safer depth.”
Swiftly, the crew moved to obey.
Philippines
1326
The water lapped at Danny Freah’s waist clear and warm, if it weren’t for the roar of the approaching F/A-18’s, he could have believed he was wading out from an exclusive private beach.
It wasn’t exactly private, but thanks to a contingent of Marine guards and Dreamland security protecting the island and this cove below the airstrip, it was very exclusive.
Danny slid onto his side and began swimming parallel to the shore. When he’d gone about twenty yards, he turned back. He used large boulders on the hillside as markers, treading back and forth as if working out, though he didn’t keep track of his many laps. He swam a backstroke to the south, the sidestroke or breaststroke to the north. He was not a big swimmer, and his muscles soon began to tire with the unfamiliar exertion. He kept on paddling, the burn creeping down from his shoulders to his arms, out from his hips to his thighs, and then all the way to his calf muscles. He swam until the tingling sensation weighed him down. Finally, he stopped abruptly, putting his feet down to stand on the coral and rock-strewn ocean floor, but his path had taken him into deeper water. He floundered for a second, water lapping over his face. He pushed up with his arms, and in a burst of energy began swimming and laughing at the same time. How ignoble would that be, he wondered to himself, to die recreating in a combat zone?
He didn’t stand until the water was less than waist-deep. When he reached his blanket on the shore, he saw Bison heading down the rock-strewn path from the airstrip.
“Hey, Cap—Colonel Bastian looking to talk to you up at the command post,” said the sergeant.
“Thanks,” said Danny, toweling off. Bison stood a short distance away, staring at the water. Danny suddenly felt modest and, though no one was looking at him, pulled his shorts off below his towel and then pulled his uniform pants up, forgoing underwear.
“Water warm?” asked Bison.
“Yeah,” said Danny, puling on a T-shirt.
“Say Captain, mind if I ask you something?”
“What’s that?”
“How come Powder chose that reading?”
“Sorry?” said Danny, thinking he’d misunderstood.
“Powder—Liu told me to make sure the chaplain got the verse right. That’s what he wanted read? Turn the other cheek and all that shit? I don’t get it.”
Danny pulled on his shirt. “I don’t know,” he said. he hadn’t realized Powder himself had chosen the reading.
“It’s supposed to be a message to us, sure, all right, I can understand that,” said Bison. “But from Powder? Man, he liked to shoot things up. Now he’s telling us to turn the other cheek? Shit. Powder?”
bison—who’d never gotten along particularly well with Powder while he was alive—looked a little as if he was going to cry.
“To be honest, I don’t get it either,” said Danny. “I miss him, though. Already.”
“Yeah, weird. Powder. Fuck. It sucks, Captain.”
“It does suck, Bison. Big time.”
“He told us about you in Sarajevo, how you saved his life that time.”
“It wasn’t Sarajevo,” said Danny. He ran his pinkie around the corner of his ear, clearing out the water. Bison was waiting for the full story, but Danny didn’t feel like telling it. He gave the short version. “We were in town about twenty miles south of there. Guy came around the corner. I popped him. That was it, basically.”
“I’m glad you did.”
Danny laughed as he pulled on his shirt. “Yeah, me too. Because the son of a bitch would’ve popped me next. Had a stinking Uzi—where the hell do you think he got an Uzi, huh? Those things are supposed tp be damn expensive.”
By the time the captain reached the trailer, Dog was already giving the pilots the lowdown. Even before he heard the words, Danny knew from the colonel’s face a heap of bullshit had gone down. Colonel Bastian always wore “the Pentagon stare” when he had to dish out a line he didn’t agree with. Today it was mixed with something else Danny saw even less often, genuine anger, though Bastian wasn’t venting.
“Bottom line, we continue monitoring the Chinese sub until further notice. Bree, your plane’s out in three hours, relieving Major Alou. My replacement will take
Iowa six hours after that. We’ll keep turning it around until we’re ordered to go home.”
Zen raised his hand to interrupt. “Colonel, Jen and I have been doing a little thinking. With a little work, we may be able to squeeze the gear tightly enough and route things so Raven and Quicksilver can fly one of the Flighthawks and handle Piranha at the same time.”
“Well, that’s not really necessary,” said Bastian.
“It would keep the Chinese off us,” said Zen. “The way things are going, it makes sense for a Fligthhawk to be along.”
“Our orders are not to engage the enemy,” Colonel Bastian’s eyes were almost glassy—obviously that was the heart of the trouble.
“Flighthawks can help hold them off,” said Zen. “Bree wouldn’t have had to get that close to the Viking. Besides, if the subs surfaces, the Flighthawk can get up close and personal.”
The colonel turned to Jennifer Gleason. “Is it doable?” he asked.
One thing Danny had to give Dog—there was no visible sign that he was sleeping with her; his voice was as gruff with her as it was with anyone.
Another thing he had to give Bastian—the ol’ dog sure could pick ’em.
“We can do it, but only with Iowa because of the second control bay. I just don’t have the space to get the computer into Quicksilver and Raven. I mean, if we had more time—”
Dog held up his hand. “How long?”
“Six or seven hours. Tommy Jacobs is coming in on the next flight with the pilot, and he’s bring a full—”
“Okay,” said Dog.
“I’ll take Zen’s place on Quicksilver,” said Fentress.
Bastian’s Pentagon stare dissolved into a faint smile. He folded his arms in front of his chest. “So what else have you decided in my absence?”
“We didn’t decide,” said Bree innocently.
“We might have discussed it a little,” said Fentress.
Colonel Bastian shook his head and turned to Danny. “Captain Freah, you missed a little at the top there. I have business at Dreamland. The mission continues; reconnaissance only. You will continue to provide security for the Megafortresses. I realize it’s superfluous,” he added. “I trust the Marines, but I want at least a token presence. Work out what equipment and personnel we need to keep here.”
“Yes, sir,” said Danny.
“All right, well, let’s get cranking then. I have to pack. Commander Stein will be in charge of operation as of ten seconds ago.” Dog glanced at his watch, then back at them. “I expect everyone to follow orders to the best of their ability. And in some cases, beyond.”
Zen let his wheelchair slide down the ramp, rushing so close to Breanna he nearly spun her around.
“Hey, hot rod,” she said, grabbing hold of the side. “Watch where you’re going.”
“Gimps have the right of way,” said Zen.
“I thought you weren’t going to say that anymore,” Bree told him. “I hate that word.”
“I calls ’em like I sees ’em,” he told her.
“You like to piss me off, don’t you?”
“Favorite thing in the word, next to kissing you,” he said truthfully. “So you ready for the mission?”
“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 l
et 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.
