by Dale Brown
He hated them. He’d kill everyone of them. he could order the Hornets in, claim he saw guns being trained on the Osprey or the people in the water. The F/A-18’s would sink the Chinese ships.
Maybe, in the confusion, Breanna herself would die.
He didn’t wish for that; he couldn’t wish for that, but he could accept it, willingly. His anger that great. Uncontrollable, unending rage.
“Dreamland B05 to Hornet Strike Leader,” he said, punching the talk button and transmitting on the strike frequency. “Confirming what you’ve heard. Chinese are not firing on our people. Repeat, Chinese are not firing on our people. Do not attack. Do not attack.”
The Hornets acknowledged. Zen took a deep breath.
“All right,” he told Major Alou. “We still have one crew member MIA. I’m going to set up for a fresh search pattern.”
Chapter 8
Into the future
South China Sea, approaching Taiwan
August 31, 1997, 0910 local
Chen Lo Fann’s tea had turned slightly bitter, but he savored it anyway. his mission, while not quite an unqualified success, had cost the Communists one of their prized possessions. At the same time, he had gathered considerable information about their other capabilities, and, incidentally, gained information about the Americans as well. A successful mission indeed.
More importantly, it appeared he had not been detected. The Americans and the Chinese knew the spy ships were ROC vessels, and it was probably the Americans suspected the atoll spy stations had belonged to him, not the Communists, but there was no evidence to show he had assisted the Indians.
While the diplomats had succeeded in imposing a cease-fire, the enmity between the two South Asia powers still simmered. His hope of drawing the Americans into a war had been too ambitious—but that element had not been part of his original plan anyway. the Dragon had proven itself in flight and had, it seemed, gone undetected.
Objectively, a successful mission; but would his government see it that way?
Chen Lo Fann took a long sip of his tea. In some ways, he regretted he had not had the chance to use the robot plane to attack the Communists. Perhaps fate would provide an opportunity in the future.
Lao Tze had written it was wise to retire when the task was done. But the way was a subtle way, a myriad winding of various wills. Chen Lo Fann recognized this; it was how he, a man of action, could accept the passivity implicit in the Tao. For now he would retire, deal with his government and its requirements. Fortune would once more present itself, if he were patient.
Surely, he could.
Aboard Dreamland Transport Two, approaching Hawaii
August 31, 1997, 1636 local
Dog was on the stairs again in the Metro, back in his dreams, looking for his daughter. Zen was there, and by some miracle, he could use his legs. But he acted oddly, sulking behind Dog as he trotted up the steps, angry about something he wouldn’t share.
Breanna was just beyond the next turn, Dog thought. And yet she wasn’t. he pushed up the steps faster, worried about her, fearing he’d never get to her.
She was safe now, his conscious mind blurted, trying to break into the imaginary world. There was no need for him to be haunted by this nightmare.
“I’m not going any further,” said Zen behind him.
Somehow, in the dream Dog managed to keep jogging up the steps and yet turn around and yell to his son-in-law at the same time. “Don’t give up,” he heard himself say. “Let’s go. Don’t give up.”
“Sir?”
Dog jerked awake and found himself staring into the face of the C-26’s copilot. The lieutenant stood in the aisle of the transport with a quizzical look.
“Sir, Admiral Woods wants to speak with you,” said the copilot. “You said if there was anything important, to wake you up.”
“Yes, of course.”
Dog rubbed his eyes and forehead, shaking off the dream.
“So you hit a home run,” said Woods as Dog plugged his headset into the panel next to his seat. The light, dual-engined utility aircraft had Dreamland-issue communications gear, allowing secure transmissions via satellite like any other member of the Dreamland fleet.
“Admiral?”
“The Pentagon and the White House are singing your praises, Tecumseh. Admiral Allen told me a little while ago he’s convinced you averted a world war. Not to mention helped get the results on a top-secret Indian weapon and flush out a Chinese submarine no one had seen in the ocean before. Admiral Allen almost sounded like he wanted to have you come over to our side.”
“I am on your side,” said Dog.
“I meant, join the Navy.”
Dog, who’d known very well what he meant, smiled to himself and leaned back in the seat. Colonel Bastian didn’t like Woods, and thought more than ever that he was a jerk. But his animosity toward Woods had dissipated. Maybe that was because, as Woods put it, Dreamland had hit a home run.
Or more likely, losing several of his best men in the interests of preventing a world war had left him with other things to think about than an admiral’s pettiness.
“You and your people did a good job as well,” Dog told Woods. He was sincere—though the emphasis fell more heavily on the Navy personnel working for Woods rather than the admiral himself.
“I’m sorry about the people you lost.”
“So am I,” said Dog. Beside Chris and Torbin Dolk, one other member of Breanna’s EB-52 was officially listed as killed in action—Lieutenant Freddy Collins. His body had been discovered by the Navy patrol that was backing Danny up when they recovered Dolk. Captain Kevin “Curly” Fentress was officially MIA, but he was almost certainly dead as well. A thorough search of the area, both by the UMB and the Navy, had failed to turn up any trace of the young Flighthawk pilot.
Woods cleared his throat. For a second—perhaps less than that—Dog thought the cocksure-of-himself admiral was actually going to apologize for kicking him out of the Philippines.
Then he realized the fleet would sink before that happened.
“Piranha and your robot planes obviously did well,” said Woods, the edge back in his voice. “You must be feeling pretty good.”
“Actually, the only thing I feel at the moment is tired,” said Dog, killing the transmission.
He looked up. The copilot was just emerging from the cockpit. “Colonel, you have another call pending. Dr. Rubeo.”
All of his favorite people were tormenting him today, thought Dog. All he needed next was a call from his ex-wife.
“Doc, talk to me,” said Dog, clicking into the circuit.
“The disc that was recovered from the downed Megafortress contains an unidentified contact at long range that appears to be a U/MF,” said the scientist.
“What?” said Dog. “Is it the search team?”
“Hardly,” said Rubeo. “This occurred just prior to the shoot-down. We had no assets in the vicinity. The contact was a small, extremely robust aircraft, nothing on the order of the first- or second-generation UAVs available to the Chinese, or Russians for that matter. Nor was it large enough to be a MiG-29, which is another theory you’ll hear. I’m quite sure, Colonel. I have one of the radar specialists and a member of the U/MF development team here to talk you through the data, I wanted to make sure you knew about this as soon as possible.”
“Go ahead and plug them into the circuit,” said Dog grimly.
Jennifer managed to wait until the cabin door of the small aircraft cranked open. Then she launched herself at the steps catching Dog about midway down.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself,” she said, hugging him tightly. She’d been waiting here for nearly six hours. Zen and Jennifer had arrived on the islands on a commercial flight out of Japan, which Iowa and the rest of her crew returned directly to Dreamland, their deployment over.
“I was worried about you,” Dog told Jennifer.
“Me?” She took a step down to the Tarmac. “Why?”
“Because I was worried,” said Dog.
“Oh, please. Why would you worry?”
Seeing he was going to explain, Jennifer did the only sensible thing—she leaned close and kissed him.
“People are watching,” he said when they parted.
“You think we can do better?”
Without waiting for an answer, Jennifer kissed him again. When their lips parted, Jennifer leaned her head back slightly, then smiled.
“Third time’s a charm,” she said, kissing him again. It did do the trick; she felt him finally relax.
“What’s the word on Breanna?” he asked when they finally started walking away from the plane.
“She’s getting better,” said Jennifer. “She’s at Bright Memorial.”
“I’m going to go over there right now,” said Dog.
“I thought you would. I have a car waiting for you in front of the hangar.”
“You coming?”
“I’m supposed to have a phone conference with the people on the Piranha team in about fifteen minutes,” said Jennifer. “They’ve been asked to make a presentation to the White House first thing in the morning, so they’re scrambling. Ray talked to you?”
Dog nodded.
“It’s possible that the radar image is an echo of the Megafortress’s own Flighthawks,” she told him. “If the gear was malfunctioning because of the fire, it’s possible. We’ll have to carefully analyze the tape.”
“Dr. Rubeo doesn’t think that’s likely,” said Dog.
Jennifer nodded. She agreed with Ray.
“Where’s Zen?” Dog asked.
“I think he’s at the hospital. I haven’t seen him since we landed in Honolulu.”
Dog gave her one of his uh-grunts, the sort he used when he was processing several things at once. “We’ll hook up later,” he said.
“At the hotel,” she said. “We’ll have room service dinner and then R&R.”
“Sounds good.” He turned and kissed her again. “I love you,” he whispered.
“Hold that though,” she said, barely managing to twist herself away.
An hour later, Colonel Bastian waited at the visitor’s desk of Bright Memorial Hospital Honolulu as a volunteer fumbled through a stack of old-fashioned visitor cards, looking for Breanna’s room number. “I’ll find it, I’ll find it,” insisted the woman, talking more to herself than him.
Dog glanced down the hallway. His uniform would probably get him up to her room without a problem—except he wasn’t sure where exactly it was. Not only was the private hospital immense, it had been cobbled together under several different administrations. Each wing seemed to be a maze unto itself. He didn’t need a pass; he needed directions.
That or a GPS device.
“Here, oh, yes, here she is,” said the woman, pulling the card from her file. “Breanna Stockard. What sort of name is that?”
A name that her stubborn mother insisted on, thought Dog. He answered that it was Irish.
“Hmmm. She has a visitor,” added the volunteer after giving him directions and a color-coded map.
Probably Zen, thought Dog. But it was Danny Freah he found standing at Breanna’s bedside.
“Hey, you,” he told Breanna.
“Hi, Daddy,” She started to push up.
“It’s okay, baby,” he told her, putting his hand on her shoulder gently. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She pulled her arms around him; he could feel her tears on his cheek.
His tears too, maybe.
“I’m damn glad you made it,” he told her.
“Me too.” She looked toward Danny.
“And you!” Dog turned and gave his captain a hug. “Thanks. Thanks.”
Danny, looking embarrassed, shrugged when Dog let him go.
“Where’s Jeff?” asked Breanna.
“I thought Zen was here already,” said Dog.
“I haven’t seen him since I woke up,” said Breanna.
“Probably ducked out for dinner or lunch or something. I’m sure he’ll be back,” said Dog. He felt a flush of anger at his son-in-law for not sitting at Breanna’s side, where he belonged.
“He flew the B-5,” said Danny, obviously sticking up for Zen. “That’s how we found you. They loaded a mini-KH package in the belly, rigged up a way for him to fly it from Iowa, and he found you. Thank God.”
“So where is he?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
Dog looked at Danny, who shrugged.
“TV was on when I came in,” said Danny. “You were just kind of drifting awake.”
Breanna’s face was puffy. Her eyes seemed to have trouble focusing, and Dog could tell that her head was fuzzy, either from concussion or from the painkillers they’d given her. She had sprained her wrist and torn ligaments in her knee during the ejection; she also had deep bruising to her sternum and back. But mostly she was just suffering from dehydration and exposure. The doctors had told Dog she’d be up and around in a day or so.
“CNN was saying India and China have agreed to a cease-fire,” said Danny, trying to change the subject. He laughed. “Of course, they also had unnamed sources claiming the Navy stopped a war. We did all the work, and they all get the credit.”
“Piranha has to remain secret,” said Dog. “And the Navy did do a lot.”
“Didn’t say they didn’t,” said Danny.
“I saw Chris die,” said Breanna. Her voice was weak and hoarse, but still the words seemed to shake the room. “He was my copilot. I couldn’t save him.”
Dog looked at her, unable to think of anything to say. “And Kevin. Did they find him?” she asked, referring to Fentress.
“We have to assume he’s dead, Bree.” Dog felt the words sticking to his throat, but he pushed them out, feeling it was his duty to tell her, not to sugarcoat anything, not to leave any doubt. “In that storm, with the rain and the wind, it probably took him under right away.”
“We made it,” she said.
Thank God, he thought, though all he could do was put his hand on hers.
Danny broke the awkward silence. “I have to get going. Bree, I’m really glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks.”
“Colonel, if I could just have a brief word? If you don’t mind, Bree.”
“Just give him back when you’re done,” she said.
Dog followed Danny outside and down the hall, around a corner.
“Thanks, Danny. You and your men did an incredible job.”
“Colonel, there’s just no good way to say this,” started Danny. His lower lip was trembling. “ I want to resign my commission. I want to leave the Air Force.”
“What?”
“It’s a lot of things.”
“Danny, you can’t leave now. Losing Sergeant Talcom, and the others—I know it was an incredible blow …”
“I’m not quitting because of that.” His voice wasn’t entirely convincing.
“I know it was—is—difficult,” said Dog. “For all of us, but you especially.”
Danny nodded. “It is. But I have an opportunity. It has nothing to do with Powder.”
“What kind of opportunity?”
“An election. Some people in New York want me to run for Congress. They think I can get the nomination. My wife’s pretty involved.”
“Congress? Really? Jesus—great,” said Dog sincerely. “Great. That is great.”
“You think so?”
“You’d be a hell of a Congressman—if you can deal with the bullshit.”
Danny smiled. Still, it was a nervous smile.
“What’s your timetable?” asked Dog.
“I’m not sure yet. I-I just decided this. Couple of months, I guess. The election isn’t until next year, but I’d need time to get around and meet people, raise money.”
The colonel nodded. “There is something I need you to do, or at least get a start on.”
“What’s that?”
Dog hesitated. “The disc you picked up from Captain Dolk—it’s
a record of all the radar contacts.”
“Uh-huh?”
“There was a Flighthawk profile on the disk that we can’t explain.”
“I’m not following, Colonel.”
“Well, the scientists are still analyzing it.”
Dog heard footsteps coming down the hall. He took Danny down another corridor, turning and finding an even more secluded corridor.
“It looks like, or it may be, that someone was flying another Flighthawk. Not one of ours,” Dog told Danny.
“A Flighthawk?”
“Either a clone or something very, very similar. Some of the scientists think it’s just a reflection or a problem in the equipment; it’s at long range and the disc itself isn’t in the best shape, but Dr. Rubeo is convinced. That’s pretty convincing in and of itself. Given Dreamland’s history,” added Dog, “this will require thorough investigation.”
“If someone else has a Flighthawk,” said Danny, “they stole the technology from us.”
“Not necessarily,” said Dog. “Several countries have unmanned vehicle programs in the works. But we have to rile that out. Absolutely.”
“Agreed.”
“Don’t let this stand in your way,” Dog told him. “If there was a security breach, it would’ve been earlier than your assignment here. It’s no reflection on you. It wouldn’t have been on your watch. You should run for Congress. Do it.”
Danny nodded, then turned away. Dog watched him until he disappeared around the corner.
He’d make a damn fine Congressman. He’d have Dog’s vote, no hesitation.
Maybe he shouldn’t have told him at all. Let him start the paperwork, at least.
Dog was preoccupied second-guessing himself and missed Breanna’s door. As he turned back, he heard her laugh, then heard another woman’s voice as he entered.
A vaguely familiar, vaguely enticing voice.
“How are you, Tecumseh?” said his ex-wife, standing at their daughter’s bedside.
“I’m fine, Karen,” he said, letting the door close behind him.
“So what do you think of the news?” she added. She fingered her stethoscope—she was a doctor on staff, and had arranged for Breanna to be admitted here.
“What news?”
“I just got an offer as chief of the medical staff at St. Simon’s out in Las Vegas. We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.” She curled her hand around his. “Maybe we can get Bree and her husband working on a new addition. What do you say?”
