by Dale Brown
“Two? The Xias?” asked the admiral, referring to the most advanced submarine the Chinese were known to have.
“Actually, Admiral, we think they’re Trafalgar clones. We’re still trying to develop information on them. that’s uh, what we want from Whiplash. I mean, from the Dreamland contingent.”
“Where would the Chinese have gotten British attack submarines?” asked Woods.
“Well, these aren’t Trafalgars per se,” said Jed. “Thougj we think they do have the pump-jet propulsion system. We’re pretty sure about that. The question is whether they’re some kind of Chinese take on the Akula or a totally different design. We’re really interested in the diving capability and we don’t have a sound signature, for obvious reasons.”
“You guys are losing me,” said Dog. “Give me a little background, okay?”
Woods explained the Akula was a very good Russian nuclear attack boat, capable of high speeds and deep depths. The British submarines were also among the best all-around attack subs in the world, though the Trafalgar class represented a slightly different philosophy, one that emphasized silence over sheer performance. Its pump-jet propulsion system was notably quieter than a traditional propeller-driver boat. With their hulls covered in a special rubber material and a range of other improvements, the submarines were about as quiet as anything in the ocean, including diesels using batteries.
“They can dive to about the same depth as the Akula,” said Woods, “though the Brits tend to be more conservative than the Russians. Pick your poison really—they’re both excellent subs. If the Chinese have anything similar to either, they’re pretty potent weapons.”
He turned back to the screen. “But nowhere in any briefing that I’ve seen has anyone said the Chinese have such advanced submarines. We haven’t seen them at sea, certainly. They had plans to purchase two Akula from the Ruskies, supposedly, but that hadn’t gone through. This is out of left field.”
“Which is my point,” said Jed. “The two boats left Behai eighteen hours ago. We have a good read on their initial direction, but beyond that we’re empty.”
“Behai? On the Gulf of Tonkin? There’s no facility there.”
“Yes, Admiral, exactly. The thinking is a shallow-water facility in some sheds about fifty yards from the waterline. They’re doing a history run on satellite photos. It’s at least technically feasible. Otherwise the subs just appeared from nowhere. Pacific Fleet has the northern coastline bottled up,” Jed added. “So we don’t think they could have snuck down past.”
Woods furled his brow.
“What’s most important,” Dog asked. “Kali or the subs?”
“The six-million-dollar question,” said Jed. “NSC is split. CIA wants both.”
“That’s not very helpful, Jed,” said Dog.
“Tactical situation to dictate,” said Jed. “Uh, the exact assignment would be Admiral Allen’s call. He’s already been informed.”
“Okay,” said Dog.
“That’s all I have,” said Jed.
“Thanks.” Dog cut the connection by pushing a button on the console. “My plan was to use Piranha to track the Indian sub,” Colonel Bastian told the admiral. “We can do the same for the Chinese. We have two units available; they can operate for roughly eighteen hours. We’re bringing in additional control units so we can run the Megafortresses in shifts gathering the data. We hope to have other probes out here shortly.”
“Right now, our orders are to keep the sea lanes open. That’s our top priority,” said Woods. “But I would say the more information about the Chinese submarines the better. From what Barclay just said, they’d probably be hunting for the Indian sub anyway. We might be able to catch them all together.”
“Okay.”
“Akula can be a true pain in the ass,” said the admiral, speaking as if from personal experience. He took a step away, thinking. “Can the Megafortresses look for the submarines while keeping tabs on surface shipping? Send back data, I mean.”
“You mean tell you what ships are down there while we’re running Piranha? That’s easy.”
“That’s what we’ll do. My carrier group will soon be close enough to handle the surface patrol. We’ll move in ASW units to help you.”
“Okay,” said Dog.
“I’ll talk to Admiral Allen right away. I know you’re one of the Jedi, Bastian,” he added. “I’ll try not to hold it against you.”
“I’m not really involved in Beltway politics,” said Dog.
Though the exact usage varied, “Jedi” was a term often applied to a group of military officers and others connected with defense issues who advocated different approaches to traditional forces and thinking. It was generally used in a disparaging way.
“You think the Navy’s obsolete,” said Woods.
“Not at all.”
“I’ve read the report that led to Whiplash,” said Woods. “Asymmetric technology edge,” he added. The phrase, which had been one of the section subheads, had become a buzz phrase in the administration—unfortunately, without the context that followed the headline.
“The report clearly noted that conventional forces still have a primary role,” said Dog. “The idea is to develop next-generation weapons and get them into use as soon as possible. Piranha’s a good example.”
“I know you don’t like me,” said Woods. “I’m not asking you to. I understand you have a lot of experience. Good experience; and success. Candidly, Colonel—you’re a very capable officer with an enviable track record. But you work for me now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dog.
“Map out a plan to look for the subs. If we find one, Indian or Chinese, we’ll still with it. The others are bound to show up eventually,” said Woods. With that, he turned and walked quickly out of the trailer.
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 something 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 abo
ut 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.
