Dreamland: Piranha

by Dale Brown

  “That long?”

  “My best advice, Captain, is not to let them try the weapon until then. That boy Powder especially; he’ll never give it up. Want to take another crack at the target? Best two out of three. You can use your visor if you want.”

  Aboard the trawler Gui, South China Sea

  August 22, 1997, 0600 local (August 21, 1997, 100 Dreamland)

  KNOW WHITE, BE BLACK

  Chen Lo Fann held the ideograms in his head as he scanned the horizon. The thick brush strokes and their stark ideas contrasted with the haze of the horizon, the fickle world flowing in its chaos. The words from the twenty-fifth chapter of the Tao Te Ching draped themselves across his consciousness, the old master’s voice as real in his thoughts as the shadows of the ships in the distance.

  Know white, be black. Be the empire’s model.

  There was no more perfect statement of his mission, nor his desire in life.

  Chen focused his binoculars on the closest shadow, a mere speck even at highest magnification. It was a destroyer, an escort for the largest ship in the squadron just over the horizon, the aircraft carrier Shangi-Ti. Named for an ancient creator god, the carrier was considerably smaller than the Mao, the pride of the Chinese Mainland Navy. But though half Mao’s size, Shangi-Ti and her sister ship, T’ien, were nonetheless potent crafts, similar in many ways to the British Invincible class. Displacing about twenty thousand tons, Shangi-Ti and T’ien held four Dauphin multirole helicopters and a dozen Chinese versions of the Sukhoi Su-33.

  The Su-33’s were launched with the help of a special catapult system on a ramped deck, then recovered with the help or arrestor gear. It was an awkward system in some respects, still in need of refinement; even with the ramp, the heavy Sukhois dipped low over the bow on takeoff, and botched landings were particularly unforgiving. The maritime versions of the planes were fairly short-ranged, and the Dauphins’ ASW gear somewhat old. But the crews were well trained and dedicated.

  And unlike the Mao, which had originally been built by Russia, the two pocket carriers were an all-Chinese design—not counting, of course, certain useful items of technology that had originated abroad and found their way surrepitiously to Asia.

  Know white, be black.

  Fann’s thought and gaze turned southward, in roughly the direction of the Spratly Islands. Another task force was making its way northward there, this one also centered around an aircraft carrier—the Indian Vikrant. Just out of dry dock where she had received new avionics and a ramped deck, the ship was roughly the same size as the Shangi-Ti, though its basic layout harked back to World War II. Originally built by the English and refurbished several times, she boasted eighteen Harrier II jump jets, along with four or five helicopters and one rather limited radar plane.

  Ostensibly, both forces were sailing into the South China Sea to protect ships bound for their home ports. The reality was more complicated—and less so. On their present courses, it would take only a few days for them to meet.

  Everything Chen did aimed at that moment of intersection.

  He himself commanded five ships. The naked eye, all were noncombatants, weak and vulnerable sisters that had no business near the caldron of battle. Four were similar to the small freighter on whose bridge he stood. They looked innocent, but their simple superstructures and wide hulls were crammed with spying gear, and their sophisticated communications devices kept them in constant touch though they were spread across several thousand square miles of ocean.

  The fifth vessel, still far to the north, was unlike them in many ways. To the naked eye from one hundred yards, it looked only like a decrepit oil tanker. But it held Chen’s greatest tool—robot planes the scientists called Dragons. They would not be available for several days. Even then, it was doubtful what the aircraft could accomplish; they were still experimental.

  They would extend his eyesight, which was enough. His more conventional tools were sufficient to his larger purpose.

  Know white, be black. Be a model for the empire.

  Chen satisfied, put down his glasses and went to have his morning tea.

  New Lebanon, Nevada (near Las Vegas)

  August 21, 1997, 1530 local

  Jeffrey “Zen” Stockard had faced considerable danger and hardship during his Air Force career; he had gunned down MiGs, nailed enemy antiaircraft sites, and lost the use of his legs in a horrific accident while testing robot fighters. He’d dealt with enemies ranging from poorly trained Libyan pilots to highly polished government bureaucrats, vanquishing all. His confinement to a wheelchair had not prevented him from deftly directing one of the most important programs at Dreamland. If any man might truly earn the title “courageous,” it was Zen Stockard. If he was not fearless—no man in full possession of his wits is completely devoid of some silver of fear—he was so much a master of fear as to be without peer in military service.

  There was one thing, however, that turned his resolute will into quivering mass of jelly:

  The whine of a dentist’s drill.

  Zen took a last, sharp breath as the dentist closed in, aiming at a molar deep in his mouth. The way had been prepared with a heavy dose of Novocain, and in truth Zen couldn’t feel much of anything as the drill bit touched the tooth.

  But he could hear its nerve-wracking, cell-tingling howl, a shriek of devastation so violent it reverberated in the suddenly hollow ventricles of his heart. Pain, incredible pain, pulsed through every vein, every artery, every capillary, coursing through his body like hot electricity. The world went black.

  And then, thankfully, the storm broke. Pain and fear retreated. The viper had stopped his hiss.

  Only to gather strength for a curdling scream five octaves higher as it tore through the vulnerable enamel and weakened dentin of the defenseless back tooth.

  “Got to get it all,” growled the dentist, as if Zen had somehow hidden part of the cavity to spite him.

  The worst thing was, the sadist enjoyed it all. When he finally stopped, he smiled and held the drill triumphantly in one hand, waving it like a victory flag.

  “See—that wasn’t bad at all, right?”

  “Awgrhfkhllmk,” said Zen. It was the most coherent sound he could manage with his mouth full of dentist tools.

  :Geez, you’d think I was an Air Force dentist.” Dr. Gideon—Ken to friends and victims alike—poked fun at the Air Force whenever possible. His discharge papers from the Navy were prominently displayed in the hallway.

  Sure they discharge him. He was a dentist.

  “Awgrh,” said Zen.

  “Maybe I’ll break for coffee,” teased Gideon.

  “Awgrh-agrh.” Zen tried to make the mumble sound threatening, but there was only so much you could do with a sucked clawing at your gum. Gideon picked up another tool and shot cold air into the hole he had just created.

  The pain nearly knocked Zen unconscious.

  “you know, Jeff, I really have to compliment you. You’ve become a much better patient over the past year. Must be your wife’s influence.”

  “Awrgr-kerl-wushump.”

  “Yeah, Breanna is a perfect patient. Never a word of pain. I don’t think she needs Novocain at all. Wonderful woman. You’re lucky to have her. You guys should think about kids.”

  “Awrgr-kerl-wushump.”

  Gideon took Zen’s garbled protest as an invitation to expound on the joys of fatherhood. He had three children, all between the ages of five and ten. They all loved to play dentist—more proof that evil hereditary.

  “Due for their checkups soon,” added Gideon. “We started ’em young.”

  “I thought child abuse was illegal in this state,” said Zen. With the Novocain and dental equipment, the sentence came out sounding like “thickel giggle hissss.”

  “Yeah, they’re cute, all right. You ought to think about having some. Seriously.”

  Gideon prolonged Zen’s agony by polishing down the filling and then using what looked and tasted like old carbon paper to perfect the bi
te. By the time he was done, Zen suspected the dentist could see himself in the surface.

  “Very good,” said Gideon, standing back as if to take a bow. “Want to grab coffee? I’m free for the rest of the day.”

  “You just want to see me with coffee dribbling down my face,” said Zen.

  The actual sound was more like: “Yuwwa see muf fee dippling dowt mek fack.”

  “What language are you speaking, Jeff?”

  “Novocain.”

  “See you in six months.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  The Nevada Desert

  1600

  Mark Stoner shifted his eyes from the highway to the bluffs in the distance and then back, scanning every possible place an ambush might be launched from. It was the sort of thing he couldn’t turn off; ten years as a covert CIA officer on top of six years as a SEAL rewired your brain.

  Not that he or Jed Barclay, the man driving the car, were in any danger of being ambushed. Coming from Washington in a scheduled flight offered expediency, but led Stoner to insist on a number of precautions, most of which caused Barclay to roll his eyes: dummy reservations, Agency-supplied false documents, even an elaborate cover story designed to be overheard—all routine precautions for Stoner. The fact they were traveling to a top-secret, ultrasecure facility changed nothing.

  Stoner had never dealt with Whiplash before, and knew only vaguely about Dreamland. He tended to be agnostic about organizations and people until he saw them under fire; so he had formed no opinion on Whiplash, or even on Jed, though his youth and overabundance of nervous energy tended to grate.

  Stoner noticed a small pile of rocks ahead, off on the right, seemingly haphazardly piled there.

  “Security cam,” he said.

  “Yeah. They’re all along the road,” said Jed. “We’re being watched via satellite too.”

  Stoner cracked the window slightly, listening to the rush of air passing over the car. The road changed abruptly, taking a sharp turn down into a suddenly exposed ravine. Barclay had to slow to barely ten miles an hour as he made his way through a series of switchbacks. Undoubtedly that was the idea, and Stoner noticed the random rock piles were now much closer together.

  They must have remote weapons as well as sensors here, thought Stoner.

  These guys knew what they were doing, at least in terms of guarding their perimeter. There’d be holes, though. There always were.

  The dirt road at the base of the slope extended for roughly a quarter mile, then suddenly trailed off. Jed drove about two hundred yards further, then stopped the car. They looked to be in the middle of nowhere. “Wrong turn?” asked Stoner.

  “No. You wanted to do it the hard way. I told you, if we didn’t go through Edwards—”

  “Easier to keep it compartmented.”

  “If we don’t go through Edwards or get a direct flight, this is the way we have to do it.” Barclay hit his radio scan, pushing the FM frequency to exactly 100.00. all they could hear was static.

  A small cloud of dust appeared directly ahead. The ground began to shake. As Stoner stared, the cloud separated into two Ospreys, roto-tipped aircraft capable of hovering like helicopters. These were unlike any Ospreys Stoner had ever seen, however; beneath their chins were swivel-mounted chain guns similar to those used in Apache gunships, and there were triple-rack missile launchers on their wings and the side of their fuselages.

  Stoner started to unlock the door.

  “Uh, no, not until they say it’s okay.” Jed reached across and grabbed him. “They’ll blow us up if you get out.”

  Stoner let go of the door handle. One of the Ospreys whipped past, its big shadow covering thee car. The other slowed to a hover about twenty yards away. The reflection of the sun made if hard to see, but from where Stoner was sitting there didn’t seem to be a pilot.

  “Blue Taurus, license plate X-ray Tetra Vector, exit your vehicle and stand by for identification,” said a sharp, clear voice on the radio.

  “That would be us,” said Jed, unlocking the door. Stoner watched and then copied his actions, taking a few steps away and holding out his hands. He looked upward as the hovering Osprey moved forward slowly, its gun rotating, there was a camera pod behind the weapon.

  The Osprey leapt upward. Stoner waited as the wash from the second aircraft pushed his pants and shit to the side.

  “Okay, let’s go,” said Jed, who was already trotting forward. The first Osprey landed about fifty yards ahead; the second, meanwhile, had plopped down behind them, depositing two fully armed Air Force special tactics team members to inspect and investigate the vehicle.

  The door to the Osprey sprang open as Jed and Stoner approached. “Welcome, Mr. Barclay.”

  “Hey,” said Jed.

  “There’s nobody flying this thing,” said Stoner as he climbed inside.

  “This is Dreamland,” said Jed. “What did you expect?”

  Prince Hotel, Las Vegas

  1800

  The silkiness of his wife’s body worked like a drug, loosening knots Danny didn’t know he had. He ran his hand slowly over her belly and breast, gently skimming along the surface. The tips of his fingers tingled, as if electricity were flowing from her. He pulled her hip toward him, rolling on top to make love again. His mouth dove into hers. Jemma’s tongue slid along the bottom of his lips; something tight in his neck let loose and he fell inside her, his whole body plunging into a warm cave. He rolled through it, luxuriating in the liberating heat.

  How long it lasted, Danny couldn’t say. At some point, he felt as if he were floating at the top of an ocean; shortly afterward, he washed up on a beach, still basking in the warmth of the summer sun.

  “Good,” said Jemma.

  “Good,” said Danny.

  “We could do this more often.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  Jemma reached over to the floor, where they’d set the room service tray with its decanter of tea. Danny slide his arm under the pillow, wallowing in the decadence of the large bed. Living halfway across the country from his wife sucked—but it sure did make things sweeter when they saw each other.

  “I talked to Jim Stephens the other day,” said Jemma, slipping back in bed with her tea, an herbal blend that smelled like orange and cinnamon. Its perfume added to his intoxication.

  “Uh-huh,” said Danny, not really paying attention.

  “There’s a primary coming up this fall. A perfect shot. Happens to be the district where I’m staying—and it’s an open seat.”

  “You should run,” he said, starting to drift toward sleep.

  “Not me,” she said. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” she took a sip of her tea. “You did talk to Jim Stephens, right? I know you did, because he told me he had an excellent conversation with you. And he’s very, very high on you.”

  Stephens—election. Jemma’s master plan make him the next President of the United States.

  “I can’t run for office while I’m in the Air Force,” said Danny, still drifting.

  “Oh, Jimmy can fix that. Don’t worry.”

  Danny reached his hand over to his wife’s breast. His fingers slid gently across her nipple, brushing it erect.

  “Changing the subject?” she asked.

  “Fact-finding mission,” he said.

  “Oh? And what fact are you looking for?”

  “Whether you’re still horny or not.”

  “Again?” She said.

  She reached over and put her tea on the side table. As she turned back, Danny’s cell phone began to buzz.

  Danny sighed, and immediately slide upright.

  “Daniel.”

  “They wouldn’t call unless it was important.”

  “Everything’s important,” She reached her hand down to stroke his leg.

  “Mmmmph.” Danny pulled the phone over from the stand on his side of the bed.


  “Freah,” he said after clicking the talk button.

  “Captain, sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Whiplash order,” said Lieutenant McNally. “Colonel needs you ASAP.”

  “I’m on my way.” Danny clicked the phone off and rolled out of bed.

  “Oh, no,” said Jemma.

  “I’ll call as soon as I can,” said Danny, grabbing his pants.

  “At least put underwear on,” she called after him.