by Dale Brown
“Yes, sir.”
“I can override it here,” said Rubeo.
“Jeff, we’ll back you up, but you’re the one I want on the line.”
“Colonel, I don’t believe that’s necessary,” said Rubeo.
“I want a pilot in the plane,” said Colonel Bastian. Jennifer recognized the words — they were the Colonel’s mantra in his debates with Rubeo over the future of air warfare.
“He’s not in the plane,” said Rubeo.
“Close enough,” said Dog.
Somewhere in the South China Sea
Time and date unknown
The blur coalesced into lumps of reality, like the precipitate in a test-tube solution. The lumps had shiny edges, crystalline pieces — her head pounding in her helmet, a body pulling off the side of the raft, the waves turning from black to an opaque green.
Breanna’s flight suit felt both sodden and stiff. She pushed her hands down, felt the ocean giving way beneath her — she was on a raft, a survival raft.
They were in the ocean. The storm was passing beyond them.
Were they alive?
Slowly, she reached to take off her helmet. Her fingers groped for several seconds before she realized she’d pulled it off earlier.
Breanna managed to sit up. The air felt like salt in her lungs, but she breathed deeply anyway.
Chris Ferris lay curled against the sides of the raft. She leaned toward him, felt something heavy fall against her back — Stoner was sprawled against her, legs trailing into the water.
She pulled at Stoner’s thigh, trying to haul them up over the side. She got one, but not the other, finally decided that would have to do.
A PRC-90 emergency radio lay beneath Stoner’s calf. As Breanna reached for it, she felt something spring in her back, a muscle tearing. Pain shot from her spine to her fingers, but she managed to pick up the radio. She stared at it, her eyes barely focusing. It took a moment to remember how to use voice — even though it was only a matter of turning a small, well-marked switch — then held it to her head.
“Captain Breanna Stockard of Dreamland Quicksilver looking for any aircraft,” she said. “Looking for any aircraft — any ship. We’re on the ocean.”
She let go of the talk button, listening for an answer. There wasn’t even static.
The earphone?
Long gone. Was there even one?
A Walkman she’d had as a child.
Breanna held the PRC-90 down in her hand, staring at the controls, trying to make the radio into a familiar thing. On the right side there was a small dial switch, with the setting marked by a very obvious white arrow. There were only four settings; the top, a voice channel, was clearly selected. The volume slider, at the opposite side of the face, was at the top.
Madonna was singing. She was twelve.
Snoop Doggy Dog. Her very first boyfriend liked that.
Breanna broadcast again. Nothing.
Switching to the bottom voice channel, she tried again. This time too she heard nothing.
Shouldn’t she hear static at least?
The spins — they’d listen for her at a specific time
The hour on the hour or five past or ten past or twelve and a half past?
She couldn’t remember when she was supposed to broadcast. She couldn’t think. The salt had gotten into her brain and screwed it up.
Just use the damn thing.
Breanna pushed the dial to beacon mode, then propped the radio against Stoner so that the antenna was pointing nearly straight up.
Was the radio dead? She shook it, still not completely comprehending. She picked it back up. Flipped to talk mode, transmitted, listened.
Nothing.
“Chris, Chris,” she said, turning back to her copilot. “Hey — you all right?”
“Mama,” he said.
She laughed. Her ribs hurt and her eyes stung and all the muscles in her back went spastic, but she laughed.
“Mama,” he repeated.
“I don’t think so,” Bree told him softly. She patted him gently. Chris moaned in reply.
“Sleep,” she said. “There’s no school today.”
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1102 local
The storm and his enemy’s ineptness, as much as his skill and the crew’s dedication, had saved them. sitting below the cold layer of water just below test depth, waiting forever, listening to the enemy vessels pass — Admiral Balin had known they would survive. They sat there silently, packing their breaths, so quiet the sea gods themselves would surely think they had disappeared. The admiral waited until they very last moment to surface, remaining in the deep until the batteries were almost completely gone. In the foul air he had begun to hallucinate, hearing voices; if they had not been congratulating him for his glory, he might have thought they were real.
A light rain fell; they were on the back end of the enormous storm. The waves pushed the low-sitting submarine violently, but the weather that hid them was welcome.
“Every man a turn topsides,” he told Captain Varja.
Varja nodded solemnly.
The crew nodded to thoroughly inspect the vessel, but to Admiral Balin’s mind, no matter what they found, the damage was minor. At worse, a few more vents on the tanks were out of order, he still had his engines, propeller, and diving planes.
And he still had two torpedoes.
There was another carrier, and at least one large ship, a cruiser, several escorts. He would pursue his enemies until all his weapons and energy were gone, even if it meant death. For what was death but a promise of another rebirth? The next life would strive even higher after this glorious triumph of the soul.
“We will continue east, with our best speed,” he told the captain.
Varja hesitated.
“Do you disagree the enemy lies there?” asked Balin mildly.
The question seemed to take the captain by surprise. He considered it for a second, then shook his head. within moments, the submarine began to come about.
Aboard Iowa over the South China Sea
1102
She was there, somewhere there. Zen rolled his head around his neck, trying to loosen his muscles. Flying the UMB was easier than flying the Flighthawk. In truth, he wasn’t actually flying the aircraft. He was more like an overseer, making sure the computer did what it was programmed to do.
And it always did, precisely to the letter.
The computer had a detailed and rather complicated three-dimensional flight plan worked out for the search pattern. Starting at a peak of 180,000 feet — roughly thirty-four miles high — the UMB spiraled downward across the search grid to precisely sixty thousand feet above sea level. At that point, it ignited the rocket motor and began to climb again, once more spiraling upward. Zen’s primary concern was monitoring the speed, since as the UMB dropped it began to lose some of its stability; it was hampered by its inability to use the scramjets to maintain airspeed through the “low” supersonic flight regimes.
He was the only one with real-time direct access to the plane’s native sensors; Jennifer had spent the hours since their takeoff trying to work out the problems in the link, but still didn’t have a solution. Rubeo had to content himself with the slightly delayed KH feeds; he wasn’t particularly happy and shared his displeasure freely.
They had pinned down the point where the Megafortress went into the ocean, about 150 miles west of the Chinese task force. A close examination of the debris on the water, while confirming it was Quicksilver, failed to turn up any survivors.
Or bodies.
If they’d gone out somewhere before the plane hit the water — and as far as Zen was concerned, that was the only possibility — they should be somewhere between the impact point and their last transmission location. They had now carefully mapped the entire area, and even accounted for the effects of the wind and stormy sea, but there was nothing there.
According to the computer, there was enough fuel to continue the s
earch for another six hours. As far as Zen was concerned, he could sit here for a week.
But what was the sense of going over and over the same territory? Obviously, they were looking in the wrong place, but Zen wasn’t sure where the right place was.
Iowa, meanwhile, rode a surveillance track to the east of the battered Chinese fleet. The damaged carrier had sunk sometime during the night at the height of the storm, two of the destroyers were tied up together, apparently to help repair damage on one of the vessels. The Chinese were not in a good mood. Twice their aircraft had warned off Alou in rather abrupt English, though she had come no closer than thirty miles from the escort screen. In accordance with her orders, she moved off as directed. Iowa’s position did not affect Zen or the UMB.
“How are you doing?” Alou asked as Iowa reached the southernmost point of her patrol area.
“We’re just about done,” Zen told him.
“Nothing, huh?”
“I think the problem is we’re assuming they were flying a more or less straight line.”
Alou didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t sure what he expected him to say, but the silence angered him.
He switched abruptly into the Dreamland channel, where scientist Greg Meades had taken over com duties for the UMB team.
“We have to shift the search area,” Zen told him.
“We’re re-created the route they were flying,” said the scientist. “Based on our data.”
“Then the re-creation is wrong. If she was ducking back and forth, trying to avoid getting shot down, her path could be very different than what we computed.”
“Could be,” said Meade, though it was obvious he wasn’t convinced.
“Let’s try farther to the southwest. The plane could have swung back fifty miles, a hundred before they punched out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t have to humor me,” said Zen. He snapped the talk button off, then pushed it again. “I’m sorry. Set up a new search area, assuming they would have tried to go south as soon as they were hit.”
Philippines
1130
Danny Freah cleared his throat. “All right, listen up,” he told the eight men standing in front of the Dreamland MV-22. “We’re backup to the main team. Routine SAR mission. Latest intel is this — beacon believed from the Seahawk lost in the storm was heard, and we have a location that’s roughly a hundred miles from here. Other assets are already en route. Our speed’s going to get us there quick, though, so we may get into the mix, especially if they run into trouble. There’s a small island in the area, and it’s possible — small possibility — there may be other people there. If that happens, we’re definitely in the mix. Otherwise, what we’re doing primarily is using our eyes. Okay? Not a big deal. Just backups.” Danny paused. “You Marines who haven’t come with us before — welcome aboard.”
Danny smiled at the five Marine privates who had been detailed to fill out his squad. The oldest looked like he’d be eligible to shave in a year or so.
“A little word of advice,” Danny continued, “because I’m not really going to get a chance to give a pep talk if things get hot. I know how much everybody here, my guys especially, like pep talks.”
Bison and Pretty Boy were both grinning. Good to see them smiling after losing Powder.
“Your adrenaline’s going to pump like crazy, your heart’s gonna thump, you’re going to want to get right in the mix,” Danny said, addressing the young Marines. “I want you to stay within yourself, do your job. Listen to the sergeants. I don’t want any heroes — I want men who follow orders. Basically, I want Marines. Got it?”
The kids nodded.
Did he want heroes? Of course he did. He wanted Powder. And Liu out of the hospital.
Turn the other cheek? Bullshit on that.
So what the hell had Powder done that for? Had that passage read at his funeral?
“All right,” said Danny. “Let’s kick ass. Blow, load ’em up.”
“All aboard,” said Sergeant “Blow” Hernandez, using an exaggerated train conductor’s voice.
The Osprey pilot started the aircraft down the runway about a half-second after the hatch snapped shut. Danny cinched his seat restraints, then methodically took stock of his equipment. He’d done so on the ground — twice. Ordinarily, he didn’t worry himself into a mission, but today the review was soothing. He checked his pistols, first his service Beretta, then his personal Sig. He inventoried his grenades, checked his watch and the backup battery for his helmet. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the outer shell of the helmet. He retied his boots, pulling hard on the laces.
“Two minuets, Captain,” said the Osprey pilot crew chief, relaying the message from the pilots.
“All right boys, we’re just about on station,” Danny said. He took the aircraft headphones, got up, and braced himself so he could see out of the side windows. The sea was now so calm if looked as if it had been rolled out flat by a steam roller.
In the distance, he could see a dark blur Navy helicopter, part of the SAR team.
His own people had gone down somewhere about an hour north. But the odds were overwhelming they were dead; they’d gone down in the teeth of the storm.
Were the odds any worse than for the Seahawk?
“Navy’s coming up blank,” the Osprey pilot said. “We’re going to start crisscrossing northwest of the area where they think the signal came from.”
“Sounds good,” Danny told him. He told his guys what was happening, got them up looking out the windows.
“Tradition has it,” Danny told them, “that a downed pilot owes every member of the rescue team a case of beer. I’ll double that for the man who spots them first.”
“Kick ass, Captain,” said Powder.
Danny turned in shock toward the back of the Osprey. He’d heard Powder’s voice — absolutely heard Powder’s voice.
“Who said that?”
No one spoke.
“I’m sorry,” said Danny. “Was there a question?”
They were looking at him as if he’d seen — or heard — a ghost.
“All right then, let’s put our eyes to good use,” he said, struggling to raise his voice over the hum of the engines.
The South China Sea
Date and time unknown
They had two bottles of water between the three of them, four “nutrition” bars, a working flare gun, and a radio. Chris Ferris had managed to save his pistol, but had inexplicably lost one of his boots. Breanna Stockard had her knife. Stoner had his compass.
Injury-wise, they were in decent shape, considering what they’d been through. Ferris probably had broken a rib, but otherwise claimed he was fine. Breanna had torn muscles in her back and shoulder, and had possibly broken her left tibia. Stoner had sprained both wrists and could only partially close his numb finders. All three of them had black eyes and various cuts and bruises on the heads. Their memories of what had happened since they ejected were mostly blank and in any event, irrelevant.
As were the fates of the rest of the crew, though Breanna insisted on scanning the water for them.
“Glare’s going to kill your eyes,” Stoner told her.
“Yeah,” she said, then kept on looking. He admired that kind of stubbornness. He also admired her toughness — not a hint of a whimper.
Their water would be gone in twenty-four hours, maybe less. They’d agreed to rationing a sip apiece on the hour, but the sun was climbing and Stoner knew that the sips would become gulps within a few hours.
Making it though the day and into the night was a realistic goal. They’d shoot for that. Twelve, fourteen hours of search time — that was the best they could hope for anyway. What they needed was something to do, something to keep them sharp.
“I think we should paddle,” he said.
Breanna turned toward him. Something happened with her eyes — she blinked as if reaching into his brain, then nodded.
She understood.
&nbs
p; She was beautiful, wasn’t she? Her raven hair and soft lips, her blue-white skin — if he squinted she could be a mermaid, singing to a drowning sailor.
“We don’t have paddles,” she said.
“We can use our hands.”
“We can kick,” said Chris Ferris, the copilot. “Like we’re swimming.”
“Tire us out,” said Stoner.
“We’ll take shifts. I’ll take the first.” He pulled up his legs and untied his boot.
“What do you think happened to your other boot, Chris?” Breanna asked.
“I think I ate it,” said the copilot. He started to undo his vest to take off his flight suit.
“Want strip-tease music?” asked Breanna.
”How does that go?” Chris asked, then immediately began humming, or trying to hum, appropriate music. He kept it up as he got down to his underwear, which he kept on in the water. His right leg and arm were almost entirely black with bruises.
“That direction,” said Stoner, pointing west. “We’ll head toward the Chinese and Indians. More people to look for us.”
Ferris eased himself into the water. He claimed it felt good, though it was obviously colder than he’d expected. He began doing a scissor kick. “I used to be on the swim team,” he told them.
This was going to get old very quickly.
“I have a question,” said Stoner after Ferris grew silent. “Why Rap?”
“Short for Rapture,” said Breanna. “My mom was a hippie. It was either that or Acid Girl.”
“Really?”
“No. Mom’s pretty straight actually. She’s a doctor. Long story.
“That’s good,” said Stoner. “Maybe they’ll come looking for us.”
“They’ll definitely come looking for us,” said Ferris from the watter.
“A hotshot F-15 jock called me ‘Rapture’ a million years ago, right after I waxed his family in a Red Flag exercise. I was flying a B-52 at the time.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Flying the B-52 or waxing his fanny?”
“Both.”
“Both.” She laughed. “HE was trying to pick me up, I think. So I shot him down twice. How about you?”
