He told Breanna that at least one SSN had been detailed south to try to intercept and trail the Chinese subs; Delaford though Woods would end the Piranha mission once he was sure the attack sub was on the trail. In the meantime, other ASW assets were moving in on the eastern side of the Chinese fleet. It was possible they too would make contact, at which point their job would likewise, be ended. The idea was to switch to the least sensitive method of data-gathering as soon as possible.
That, and to make sure Dreamland couldn’t grab all the credit.
“One thing you want to watch out for, Captain,” he added when he had exhausted his official brief, “is Admiral Woods. He seems to have a stick up his ass. He takes it out and beats me with it at every opportunity. He blamed us for the contact with the Chinese interceptors.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have buzzed Beijing,” said Breanna.
“Stay clear of the carrier air screen if at all possible,” Dog told her, not particularly appreciating the joke.
“That’s kind of up to them, isn’t it? If the subs keep going the way they’re going, it’ll only take another two hours or so before we’re in their patrol area,” said Bree. “Sooner or later they’re going to see us.”
“Understood,” said Dog.
“Anything else, Daddy?”
“Captain, I’d appreciate it—”
“Bag the Daddy stuff. Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
He longed to ask to speak to Jennifer—she was on board Quicksilver, helping Zen—but it was too much of an indulgence.
“All right, Quicksilver. See you later.”
“Roger that.”
Dog broke the Megafortress out of her figure-eight track and found his bearings for the Philippine base. They were just climbing through twenty-five thousand feet when the computer buzzed with an interruption on the Whiplash command link. The words INCOMING TRANSMISSION. PRIORITY: DOG EARS appeared on the HUD screen.
Danny Freah’s voice, but no image, came through after Dog authorized the feed.
“Colonel Bastian?”
“Daniel. How we doing?”
“Not good, sir. We’ve lost one of our men. Sergeant Talcom. Powder.”
Dog listened as Captain Freah described the operation in cold, sober tones.
“I understand,” he said when the captain was finished. “I’ll notify Admiral Woods. Where are you now?”
“We’re still at the site, waiting for the Osprey to return from transporting Sergeant Liu.”
Dog listened as Danny told him what they’d found—not much actually. They still had the mission tapes to analyze. The dead enemy soldiers who hadn’t been charred beyond seemed to be Chinese; they figured the atoll had been a spy site.
“We think there’s a whole chain of them, running north,” said Danny. “Stoner thinks that, but they’re not using known Chinese codes; or Indian codes for that matter. CIA’s pretty interested.”
“I’m assuming you don’t require my assistance,” said Dog.
“Affirmative. We’re ready to bug out.”
“I’ll see you back at the FOA.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hang in there, Danny.” The words were trite, way too automatice—he had to say something but couldn’t come up with anything profound. “Iowa out.”
He killed the connection, then went through the plane’s status with Rosen. He checked on the other members of the crew, talked to Delaford about the way Zen had handled Piranha, asked Ensign English what it was like a hundred meters below the ocean during a storm—all delaying actions before telling the rest of the Dreamland team their friend was dead.
He punched through the circuit that connected back to Dreamland, bringing the command center on-line in what amounted to a conference call with the other Megafortresses and the mobile base back at the Philippines.
“I have some very sad news. Today, Technical Sergeant Perse ‘Powder’ Talcom lost his life to an enemy mine in a reconnaissance mission in the South China Sea. Powder was an exceptional man, an important member of the Whiplash action team, a cutup at times, and a ferocious fighter.”
Dog stopped abruptly. He couldn’t sum up a man in a sentence, and there was no need to. The people listening knew him pretty well, most of them probably better than Dog did.
“Colonel Bastian out.”
Aboard Quicksilver
2012
“God, Sergeant Powder,” said Jennifer. Tears started to slip from her eyes. “He was so sweet—he was one of the people who helped deliver that baby in Turkey. God.”
She started sobbing, then brought her hand up to clear her eyes so she could see the display. The communication algorithms didn’t require any tweaking—the Piranha system as a whole was probably the least bug-ridden project she’d ever worked on—but she ran a test on the signal strength anyway.
“You okay, Jen?” asked Zen. He was sitting a short distance away on the Flighthawk control deck.
“Oh, yeah, I’m all right.”
“It sucks. Powder.”
“Yeah.”
The sobs bubbled up again. She pushed back her teeth together, trying to force them away. She barely knew the sergeant, barely knew most of the enlisted men in Whiplash and at Dreamland.
What if Colonel Bastian were killed? What if his plane went down? It was not impossible—the EB-52’s weren’t invincible. A mechanical problem, a screwup in the computer system that helped run the plane…
She’d worked on that system. Maybe she hadn’t tested it properly, maybe there was something she’d messed up. God, she’d worked so hard she must have forgotten a million things, screwed up in a million ways.
“Jen?”
“I’m okay,” she said. She reached to push her hair back, forgetting she was wearing a helmet. “I’m all right,” she insisted again.
“It’ll help a little if you focus on the mission,” said Zen.
“Since when did you become a fucking shrink?”
The remark was wildly inappropriate, but Zen didn’t say anything, and she couldn’t find a way to take it back.
Bree settled onto the flight-eight pattern above the Piranha buoy. The sea was almost glasslike, and though it was getting dark, the sky was so clear, if you squinted just right you could see Australia, or at least think you could.
Thoughts of Sergeant Powder’s family crowded into her head as she went through some routine instrument checks with her copilot. She didn’t know Powder very well—he was a bit crude, a class clown, not the kind of man she liked—but he was a member of the team, of their family.
She could imagine his mother getting the news.
The nights by Zen’s bedside came back to her.
“Engines so in the green I think they’re sprouting buds,” said Chris, subtly hinting that she’d started to daydream.
“Roger that.”
He read the fuel states—having tanked before coming on station, they had more than ten hours of flying time. Breanna glanced at the long-range radar, which showed the Sukhois patrolling over the Chinese carriers one hundred miles away. It was unlikely they didn’t know the Megafortress was there, or why.
Powder’s poor mother would never know what happened. They wouldn’t be allowed to tell her much.
“Captain, we’re intercepting broadcast from that Taiwanese spy ship,” said Freddy Collins, handling the Elint board. “Should I roll tape?”
“Go for it,” said Breanna. The transmission were actually recorded on computer disk, but there was no ring to “imprint electrons.”
“Whole lot of talking going on,” added Collins. “But they’re using a very sophisticated code.”
“Can’t break it?”
“As a matter of fact, no, not with our equipment,” said Collins. “The computer claims it’s using some sort of bizarre fractal code on top of a 128-byte thing—and they’re skipping frequencies on some sort of ultrarandom basis besides. The boys at the NSA are going to want to see this.”
“Probably talking about
us,” said Chris.
“Torbin, what kind of radar is that Taiwanese vessel using?” she asked.
“Negative on that. Don’t have transmissions. Sukhois have standard Slot Back radar. They’re not close to picking us up. You want data on the carrier and the escorts?”
“They tracking us?”
“Negative. I’d compare the carrier’s radar capabilities to the AN/SPG-60 the Navy uses. Not particularly a problem for us; they can’t see their own planes beyond fifty miles. No airborne radar capacity.”
“You sound a little disappointed.”
“You always like to go against the best.”
“Don’t get too cocky.”
“Yes, ma’am; thank you, ma’am.”
Torbin was a big blond Norseman, a rogue throwback to the days of the Vikings they’d shanghaied from a terminal Wild Weasel posting in Turkey. He fit right into the Dreamland crew.
All they’d give the poor woman was a folded flag and some well-meaning salutes.
Zen nudged the joystick ever so slightly to the right, trying to keep the closest white blur in the center of his screen. Like the Flighthawks, Piranha had a set of preprogrammed routines, one of which allowed it to simply trail its designated target. Still, he preferred to manually steer the probe—otherwise, he really had no function.
They were about twenty miles from the end of their effective communication range; they’d have to drop another buoy soon.
The submarines were changing course, making a slight arc that took them due east. They were well behind the carrier group—Zen started to slow, remembering Delaford’s warning they would probably spin around to look for him, but they didn’t. They had their throttles open, plunging ahead at thirty-eight knots. Much faster and he’d have trouble keeping up.
Zen hit the toggle, changing the synthesized view from sonar to temp. the nearest submarine looked like an orange funnel in a greenish-brown mist; the other was such a faint blur, he wasn’t sure he would have seen it without the computer legend. The computer used all of its sensors to keep track of the targets, and could synthesize a plot from any angle. Jeff briefly toggled into front and top views. I was important—but difficult—to remember the views were based only on sensor information; he wasn’t looking at reality, but a very simplified slice of it. Anything outside of the sensor’s sensitivity was missing from the scene. That meant, for instance, when he looked at the thermal image, anything precisely the temperature of the water wouldn’t show up.
He went back to the passive sonar feed, the easiest to use when controlling the probe. The lower portion of the screen looked foamy and white, a by-product of the sound reflections the device picked up. As Jennifer had explained, it was a kind of refracted energy, similar to glare bouncing off sand. The computer could only filter so much of it out, but a good operator could compensate for the blind spot by changing the position of the nose every so often. In effect, pushing the spotlight into the darkness. Zen nudged the nose down slightly, peering into the basement, then tucked back to keep his target in sight.
They were turning again, this time south. Zen made another course correction, then studied his sitrep map on the far-right screen. He guessed the subs were making an end run around the back of the carrier task force.
Zen glanced over at Jennifer. She seemed more herself, her nose almost touching one of the computer screens. The only signs she was still upset were that she wasn’t talking to herself or sipping her diet soda.
“Hey, Jen, we’re going to have to drop a buoy soon.” He said.
“Yeah,” she said. “I just want to make sure they’re going to hold roughly this course. I’ll work it out with Captain Stockard.”
“You have to watch the carriers.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.”
“There’s a comeback for that, but I don’t remember what it is.”
Zen turned his attention back to the screen. He realized he’d slipped a big off-line, and started to correct a little too quickly. The probe went too far right, then wallowed a bit as he overcorrected. He backed off, easing his grip.
A warning tone buzzed in his ear. He started to frown, thinking the computer was scolding him, then he realized it was showing a new contact.
“Jennifer—I have a new contact. No range markings,” he said. He flipped back into the thermal mode—there were only two funnels. He went back—the third shadow was off to the left; it didn’t seem to be moving.
Jennifer punched buttons at her station. “Roughly thirty-eight miles away, but the probe isn’t sure. Very quiet, angled away—could be a submarine using only its battery. I’m guessing it’s the Indian sub.”
“Not one of ours?”
“Hang on.”
He could hear her pounding her keys.
“Doesn’t appear to match. We can check with PacCOm, though, see if the position would match. I think it’s the Indian. It’s got to be. Can you hold your position while I talk to the Piranha people and see if I can get more data?”
“The Chinese subs are trucking,” he told her.
“Well, hang back a little while I get Commander Delaford. They’re not using active sonar?”
“They haven’t since we came on.”
The probe’s nose began to oscillate; he’d moved it too fast. Zen gently applied pressure to get it into a wide circle, where it stabilized.
“The Indian sub is supposed to be further south and to the east,” said Jennifer. “Commander Delaford says it’s possible it is one of the American attack subs at a good distance, beyond what the probe is reading. He can go through the data later. Stay with the Chinese. We’re going to check in with PacCom.”
“We’re going to need that buoy soon,” Zen said, pushing up his speed.
Aboard the trawler Gui in the South China Sea
2100
It would not be an exaggeration to say things had gone in completely the opposite direction from what Chen Lo Fann had intended. Now that he had all of the data and weighed all of the evidence—the attack on his post, the interception of the missiles, the communications showing the American and Chinese pilots joked freely—it was clear a secret agreement had been reached between the two countries. They somehow saw India as a common enemy, and if they joined together against India so quickly after the animosity of a few months past—what would that mean for his Free China?
Annihilation, surely.
The course must be reversed. To do this, however, he would have to go well beyond his mandate. He would have to violate his orders. In a way that was most unambiguous.
There was no choice, though. He would use the robot planes; not to spy, but to provoke the Communists. They would think they were American U/MFs; they would attack in turn. The Americans would have to retaliate. It would be a replay of the events a few months before, but this time the Americans would have no reason to stop. This time, they would annihilate the Communists. China would once more be unified under a free government.
His own government would be displeased with his methods. Despite the outcome, he would be punished. But Chen had no choice. Disaster loomed, and he could not count on fortune reversing herself without his own action.
As he went to board the helicopter that would take him to the dragon ship, Fann told himself that this was the way it must be.
Aboard Quicksilver
2100
“Redtail One to Quicksilver. You reading us there, Air Force?”
Breanna clicked the talk button. “We have you, Redtail,” she said, acknowledging the communications from the S-3B, an ASW aircraft launched from the USS Independence. The two-engined Lockheed Viking was an incredibly versatile craft developed primarily for antisubmarine warfare. Packed with electronic equipment, it could launch and monitor up to sixty sonar buoys; it was also equipped with an inverse-synthetic-aperture radar for finding surfaced submarines at long range. When feeling aggressive, the S-3s could pack everything from antisub torpedoes to Harpoons and even Rockeye clus
ter bombs. They could also carry nuclear depth charges, though as a general rule these were not deployed.
Like all Vikings in the Navy, this one was scheduled to lose its ASW role in the next few months. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the conflict with China, it probably already would have changed roles. Orions and helicopters were set to take on the task, though as this plane’s presence showed, neither aircraft could quite completely take the versatile little Lockheed’s place.
This particular S-3B happened to be a member of a storied squadron, the oldest dedicated carrier ASW group in operation, the Fighting Redtails. While their planes and detection gear had changed dramatically since the squadron was first organized in 1945 (it didn’t gain its nickname until 1950), the pilots and crew members still showed the determination born in a period of worldwide strife.
They also liked to rag on the Air Force whenever possible.
“What the hell you doing out over water, Air Force?” mocked the Redtail pilot. His plane was roughly fifty miles to the southeast, approaching at about 320 knots. “You lost?”
“We hear you Navy boys needed your hands held,” replied Breanna.
“Hey, Air Force, either you’re a woman or real popular with the choir.”
“Want to hear me sing?”
“Only if it’s ‘Anchors Away.’ ”
“Sorry, my plane is programmed to self-destruct if I sing that. You want a fix on our contacts or what?”
“Roger that, good-lookin’.”
“My, what a charmer,” Bree said to Chris. “Give the joker what he’s looking for.”
“A punch in the mouth.”
“Just the coordinates for now,” she said. “You can protect my honor later.”
As Chris filled Redtail in on the submarine contacts, Torbin told Breanna the Chinese were scrambling a pair or fighters after the S-3.
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