by Dale Brown
“They said body, sir. They’re checking it out. They want to know if we need them, or if they can concentrate on that.”
“Yeah, release ’em,” shouted Danny. “What about the Hornets?”
“Inbound.”
“Chinese answer the hails?”
“No, don’t worry. The F/A-18’s’ll nail the bastards.”
Danny didn’t answer. They were still a good two minutes off; he couldn’t see the Chinese ships from where he was standing.
Bastards—he’d strangle each one of them personally.
Bison looked at him across the doorway. If the Chinese were shooting at unarmed men in a raft, they’d sure as hell fire at the Osprey. But there was no way he was stopping now.
Bastards!
Aboard Iowa
1624
If the Hornets didn’t take out the destroyers, Zen decided, he’d crash the stinking UMB into it. Let them court-martial him—shit, he’d willingly spend the rest of his life in Leavenworth or wherever the hell they sent him.
Might just as well now. Breanna didn’t love him.
God, Bree.
Picture, new picture.
The gun on the side of the destroyer fired again. As it did, the sea exploded beyond it.
Bastards couldn’t hit the side of a barn, thank God.
The fact that they were terrible shots wasn’t going to get them off. Bastards. What the hell kind of people were they?
Picture, new picture.
A ridge erupted in the sea at the far end of his screen, behind the destroyer.
Picture, new picture.
Zen hit the resolution, backing off for a wider shot. There was another ship, a cruiser beyond the destroyer.
Picture, new picture.
It took the computer three more shots to get the focus right. By then, the ridge that had appeared was on the surface of the water.
A submarine.
The Chinese weren’t attacking the raft at all—they were going after a sub.
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1625
As he reached the bridge, Admiral Balin saw his crew had been mistaken—the large contact was a cruiser, not the carrier.
It mattered little. The submarine sat cockeyed in the water, heeling over to the left. They were an easy target.
A shell splashed into the water a hundred yards away.
“They destroyer will hit us eventually,” said Varja behind him.
Balin gripped the small rail before him and took a long deep breath. The sun shone down strong upon him, the sea barely swelled, the air had a fine salty mist.
Would he remember this in his next life?
The cruiser was at 3,300 meters—not optimum, but acceptable, given the circumstances. His shot was dead-on.
“Fire torpedoes,” he said, as the next shell from the destroyer’s deck gun landed twenty yards away.
It took perhaps five seconds for the order to be carried out. In those seconds Balin felt every failure and mistake of his life rise in his chest, pounding like a thousand iron fists on his frail frame. But as the first torpedo left the boat, the regrets dissolved. He took a deep breath, felt the sea in his lungs. It was as sweet and heavy as the first breath he’d ever taken at sea. He turned his head upward, and in the last half-second of his life saw the approaching shell descending toward his vessel’s hull.
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
1626
They didn’t have time to finesse this approach. The Osprey banked low and slow. Danny jumped, so anxious he didn’t tuck his legs right before hitting the water. He shook off the shock and, without bothering to check for Bison, began stroking toward the raft, which bobbed about thirty yards away.
There were explosions nearby. The Chinese were firing, but not in his direction. They weren’t interested in the raft, or the Osprey.
When he was five yards from the raft, it ducked downward as if pulled toward the depths. Danny took a breath and prepared to dive after it, then saw it bob back up with Bison at its side. With one hard overhand stroke he reached it, grabbing the side with both hand and pulling his body over it.
“Dead,” Bison told him.
“Shit,” said Danny.
“Dolk,” added Bison, turning the prostrate body over. “I don’t see any wounds. Might’ve been internal injuries. Hey—” A plastic container slipped to the bottom of the raft; it was attached via a chain to Torbin’s wrist.
“Those are discs from the mission,” said Danny. “Security protocol is to take ’em out if you go. He did his job to the end.”
He saw Dolk’s radio near the dead man’s foot.
The Osprey was approaching, its hoist line draping into the water.
“Sucks,” said Bison, fitting a life preserver around the dead man’s torso.
“Yeah,” said Danny. “Big-time.”
Aboard Iowa
1632
Zen listened to the Osprey pilot calling off the Hornets, telling them the Chinese were not going after their people. Anger seized him, surging over his shoulders like a physical thing, a bear gripping its thick paws into his flesh and howling in his ear. The Chinese hadn’t just shot down Breanna; they had made her unfaithful.
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.
[b]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.
