by Dale Brown
“SA-N-4, basicallt an SA-8 tweaked for shipboard use,” reported Torbin. “We’re at the far end of their envelope. Jamming.”
“Chaff, flares, kitchen sink,” she said.
Breanna began to turn, then realized she was moving toward the Sukhois. She pulled back on the stick abruptly, then twisted her left wing downward. The big jet did a half-gainer toward the waves, gravity and momentum pulling at its wings badly, one of the sensors in the wing-root assembly freaked out. The alert board lit with possible structural damage and the computer squawked at her for exceeding the design limit of the plane—not an easy feat.
Breanna’s body was pounded by the rush of Gs; she felt as if her head had been pounded by an anvil. A gray fuzz pushed in from her temples and something cold and prickly filled her lungs; she started to cough, but something scraped deep down in her throat. There were all sorts of warning lights now, but she rode the wild maneuver steady, forcing the plane through an invert as the Sukhois she had spotted earlier fired its missiles from almost head-on. Fortunately, they were both heat-seekers, and despite their advertised all-aspect ability, were easily shunted by the flares Chris had managed to dish out into the air.
As the gray veil pulled back, Breanna saw a much darker one reaching up from the sea to smack her. Her maneuvers had taken her back toward the Chinese fleet. She was now dead-on for the flak; there was nothing to do but ride it out, struggling to keep the Megafortress level as they passed through percolating air.
“Damage to our right wing,” reported Chris. He was breathing hard. “Lost the Sukhois at least.”
“All right,” said Bree, suddenly conscious of her own breathing. “Kevin, we need that connection, and we need it now.”
“You have to get closer.”
“They’re launching more planes,” reported Collins.
“Indians too. This it total war,” said Chris. He was gasping for breath, hyperventilating.
“Dreamland Command to Quicksilver.” Major Alou “Gat” Ascenzio’s voice sounded a little tinny on her circuit; Breanna glanced at her com screen and saw that the message wasn’t coded.
“Quicksilver.”
“Get out of there.”
“We’re trying,” she said. then. Remembering the line was in the clear—and hopefully being intercepted by the Chinese—she added. “We’re taken no hostile act. We believe an Indian submarine fired torpedoes at a Chinese aircraft carrier.”
“We confirm one hit and one near miss,” said Gat. “Serious damage. Fires. Get out of there.”
“Quicksilver,” she said.
“I got it!” said Fentress.
“Sink the first buoy.”
“I need you to get lower. Get over it.”
“Bree,” said Chris. He didn’t have to say anything else; his meaning was clear—we have to leave now.
“I’m trying, Kevin,” she told Fentress.
“Missiles in the air!” said Torbin.
Philippines
1840
“Fuck!”
Once again the video feed in his Flighthawk control helmet dissolved into a test screen. Zen slammed his fist on the console and leaned back, cursing.
“I know, I know,” said Jennifer over the interphone. She was in the bomb bay, helping one of the technicians adjust the link server. “We’ll get it.”
“Yeah,” he said. He slid the headset back off his head, letting it fall around his neck. He was restless, frustrated.
It was more than difficulties getting the Flighthawk linked back into the circuit—he could feel his heart pounding.
He thought of Bree.
He was pissed at her for acting like a jerk before.
That wasn’t it.
She had been a jerk, but he wasn’t pissed at her, not exactly.
He was worried about her.
He picked up the headset, put it back on. His heart pounded so badly, he could feel the phones reverberating against his ears.
“Hey, Jen, I’m going to take a break,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Yeah. I’m going to go get something to eat. Ring-Dings or something.”
“Ring-Dings? I thought you couldn’t stand Ring-Dings.”
He couldn’t—they were Bree’s favorite pig-out food.
“I’m going to swing by the trailer and see what’s up on the way,” he told her.
“We’ll have it ready by the time you get back.”
Aboard Quicksilver
1840
A giant snake wrapped itself around Stoner’s body and squeezed, pushing his blood toward his mouth. He felt the warm liquid on his tongue, knowing he was forcing himself to breathe the long, quiet breath of purity. The universe collapsed on top of him, but Stoner sat as still as a pillar, remembering the advice of the bent old man who had taught him: you are the light of the candle, the flame that cannot be extinguished.
But no religion or philosophy, Eastern or Western, could overcome the simple, overwhelming urge of gravity. The plane jerked back and forth, trying desperately to avoid being hit while Fentress worked to sink both Piranha com buoys. He’d already managed to put the probe on the automated escape route—or at least that was how Stoner interpreted the groans and grunts he’d heard among the cacophony of voices in his earphones.
The sitrep was still on his screen. One of the carriers had been hit badly, though at least two planes had managed to get off in the chaos. Planes were swarming off the other. An Indian flight was coming north to meet them. There were missiles in the air, and flak all over the place. The destroyers on the eastern flank were attacking the submarine that had launched the torpedoes.
The lights in the cabin flashed off and on; there was a warning buzzer, another flash. The snake curled tighter.
Stoner pushed his hand to his face mask, making sure his oxygen was working. Two or three voices shouted at him from far away, urging him into the darkness. He forced his lungs to empty their oxygen slowly into the red flame of the candle in the center of his body.
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1843
A fresh found of depth charges exploded over the conning tower; the submarine bobbed downward as if her namesake had smashed his powerful leg against its bow. Admiral Balin fell forward against the map table, then slid to the floor.
One of the electrical circuit had blown. It was impossible at the moment to assess the damage, but he would welcome death now. At least one of the torpedoes had exploded directly beneath the aircraft carrier; the damage would be overwhelming. The failure of the Kali weapons had been requited.
Calmly, Balin rose. Accepting fate did not mean wishing for death—he turned his attention to his escape.
Someone screamed nearby, seized by panic.
“There will be none of that,” he said in a loud, calm tone before making his way toward the helmsman. “We will carry on as we were born to do. We will survive this.”
Aboard Quicksilver
1845
“We lost engine three,” Chris told her.
Breanna didn’t acknowledge. The Indian MiGs had sent a volley of missiles at long range at the Sukhois; there was so much metal in the sky now, it was impossible to avoid getting hit.
“It’s sunk, it’s sunk,” said Fentress. “Both buoys are down!”
“Fighter on our tail,” said Chris. “Out of air mines.
She could feel the bullets slicing into her, ripping across her neck. Breanna pushed the stick and stomped the pedals, trying to flip the big jet away from the fighter. But the Sukhois was more maneuverable than the Megafortress, and the Chinese pilot was smart enough not to get too close or overreact. He wasn’t that good a shot—maybe one out of four of is slugs found its target, a half dozen at a time—but he was content with that.
“Four’s gone,” said Chris.
“Restart.”
“Trying.”
Her warning panel was a solid bank of red. Part of the rear stabilizers had been shot away; they were leakin
g fuel from one of the main tanks. The leading-edge flap on the left wing wouldn’t extend properly, complicating her attempts to compensate for the dead engines.
They were going in.
Breanna fought off the flicker of despair. She pushed herself toward the windscreen, as if she might somehow add her weight to the plane’s forward momentum. The Sukhois that had been dogging them pass off to the right; he’d undoubtedly run out of bullets, or fuel, or both.
About time they got a break.
Ahead, a jagged bolt of lightening flashed down from the clouds. It seemed to splatter into a million pieces as it hit the ocean, its electricity running off in every direction.
Zen, why aren’t you here with me? I need you.
Jeffrey!
the altimeter ladder began to move—somehow the big Megafortress was managing to climb.
“Come on, baby,” she told it. “Hang with me.”
“I can’t get four,” said Chris, who’d been trying to restart the engine. “Fuel’s bad. Fire in the bay. Fire—”
“Auto extinguish.”
“I’ve tried twice,” he said.
“Dump the AMRAAMS,” she told him.
“No targets?”
“Let’s not take sides at this point. Kevin—put Piranha into auto-return and sink the probe we just launched.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As Chris fired one of the missiles, there was a slight shudder in the rear.
“Fire won’t go out,” the copilot told her. “I think the extinguisher system has been compromised.”
“Okay,” she said.
They absolutely had to go out, and they had to go out now.
“Dreamland Command, this is Quicksilver. Gat, you hear me?” she said over the Dreamland line.
There was no answer. It was possible the fire had already damaged the radio or antennas, but she trued again, then broadcast their position and that they were ditching.
“Bree, we’re running out of fuel,” said Chris. “And the temp is climbing. The fumes will explode.”
“Prepare to eject,” she told him. “Crew—prepare to eject.”
The leading edge of the storm front punched at the persiplex glass in front of her. Windswept hail whipped in her face.
“I don’t know if we’re going to make it,” said Chris.
The panic hit her then, panic and fear and adrenaline. Someone grabbed hold of her hair and pulled her up from her seat, dangling her in midair, twirling her around.
Jeff, honey, where the hell are you when I need you?
“Crew, listen to me,” Breanna said calmly. “We’re all going out together. Cinch your restraints. Put your legs and arms inside your body. Check in, everybody—Chris?”
“Ferris.”
“Dolk.”
“Collins.”
“Fentress.”
There was no answer from Stoner.
“Stoner?” she said.
Nothing.
“Stoner?”
Engine two—” Chris started to tell her the engine had just died, but it was unnecessary—the thump jerked her so hard she nearly let go of the stick.
“Manage our fuel,” she told him. “Fentress—where’s Stoner?”
“He’s here, he’s here—his radio’s out. He’s ready.”
“Crew, we’re going out on three. I have the master eject, authorization Breanna Rap Bastian Stockard One One Rap One,” she told the computer in her level voice.
The computer didn’t answer, as if it were hesitating , as if it didn’t want to lose its crew. Then it came back and repeated the authorization. All the seats would now be ejected when she pulled her handle; the Dreamland system would greatly increase the probability they could find each other after the chutes deployed.
“The weather’s hell out there,” she told her men. “Let the chutes deploy automatically. Just enjoy the ride.”
Given the intensity of the storm they were flying into, it was probably suicidal to go out now. She reached for the throttle slide, pushing for more speed, hoping to maybe get beyond the storm, or at least through the worst of it.
“Fire in the Gat compartment,” said Chris. “We’re going to blow.”
Breanna heard a rumble and then a pop from the rear of the plane. She reached down to the yellow handle at the side of her seat.
“Three-two-one,” she said quickly, and the universe turned into a tornado.
Chapter 7
In the hands of the gods
Philippines
August 28, 1997, 1847
The screen blanked.
“Get them back,” Zen told Bison.
“I’m not sure what’s going on,” said the sergeant sitting at the com panel.
Zen pushed his chair back and then forward at an angle, as if realigning himself would make the picture from Quicksilver reappear.
“Get them back,” he said again, this time his voice softer.
“They’re off-line,” said Bison. “They were hit—they may be down.”
Zen pushed backward and wheeled to the door. One of the two navy people in the trailer said something, but Zen didn’t hear the words and wasn’t about to stop to ask him to repeat them. he had to reach awkwardly to open the door, pushing with his other hand on the wheel; he nearly fell out of his chair and down the ramp as he burst outside, downward momentum the only thing keeping him in the seat. He mastered it, got his balance, and continued to the oversized tent where Major Alou and the rest of the flight crew were just starting to brief for their mission. The fabric sides were rolled up.
“Merce—Quicksilver is down,” said Zen. “We need Iowa now.”
Without waiting for Major Alou to acknowledge, he wheeled back onto the path and headed for the aircraft.
It took nearly twenty minutes for the crew to get the Megafortress airborne. It was totally good time—the plane hadn’t been refueled, and the work on meshing the Piranha and Flighthawk systems was far from complete. Every second stretched to torturous infinity.
In the air, the buffeting pressure of the fresh storm system held them back. Zen launched the Flighthawk and pushed ahead, scanning through the thick rain even though they were still a hundred miles from the coordinates of Quicksilver’s last voice transmission. Other resources were being scrambled from the fleet, but at the moment they were the only ones on the scene, and certainly Bree’s best chance.
The storm was so severe, both the Chinese and Indians had landed all of their planes. The thick cloud cover made it impossible for satellites to scan the ocean, and at points Zen had a difficult time separating the waves from the much he was flying through. Ten miles from the gray splatch of sky where Quicksilver had been lost, he felt his arms and shoulders sag. Zen leaned his head forward. The fatigue nearly crushed him, pounding his temples. He saw Bree on their wedding day, the blue and pink flowered dress tight against her hips in the small chapel. Her mouth trembled ever so slightly, and when the minister had her repeat the words of the vows, she hesitated over “richer or poorer.”
Did not, she said that night, cuddled against his arms.
Did too, he told her.
Didn’t, she said a thousand times later.
Too, he replied.
But there’d been no hesitation on sickness. Ever.
“Commencing visual search.” Zen tightened his grip on the U/MF’s control and pushed the plane through a reef of wind and rain. Clouds came at him in a tumble of fists; the small plane knifed back and forth as it fell toward the dark ocean. Finally, he broke through the worst of it, though this was only a matter of degree; at three thousand feet he found a solid sheet of rain. Leveling off, Zen gingerly nudged off his power. Not exactly optimized for slow flight in the best weather, the U/MF had trouble staying stable under two hundred knots in the shifting winds. Zen had his hands and head full, constantly adjusting to stay on the flight path. But he needed to go as slow as possible, since it increased the video’s resolution and, more importantly, the computer’s abilit
y to scan the fleeting images for signs of the survivors.
At least concentrating on flying meant he couldn’t think about anything else.
“Coming to the end of our search track,” said the copilot above.
