“Zen, this is Bastian.
“Colonel.”
“Danny’s en route. The Chinese are tracking the trawler. We’re in contact with the Kitty Hawk on the eastern side of the Chinese fleet; one of the Hawkeyes is tracking the Chinese CAP. They think two planes from the carrier are vectoring toward that area. They’re a bit far away at the moment—”
“Hold on.” Zen went to the UMB’s native radar, bringing up the search-and-scan panel. Look-down mode was limited; the unit had been optimized for flight requirements and, at this altitude and distance, the Chinese planes didn’t show up.
“I’m going to have to take your word, because they’re not on my screen,” Zen told him. “Is it the CAP patrol?”
“Negative. They’re going out to that spy ship at a good clip, and very low,” said the colonel. “They may be armed with antiship missiles. Wait a second.”
The line went dead a second.
“Jeff, at their present course and speed they’re going to be on the Osprey as well. They should find her in about sixty seconds. Kitty Hawk is sending some Tomcats out there. They’re a good distance off, though.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks for the heads-up.”
Why had she kissed him? Why?
The South China Sea
Date and time unknown
The ship was bigger. Breanna thought her shouts were bringing it closer, but it was impossible to tell.
Stoner was starting to tire. He punctuated his kicks with rests on the side of the raft the grew longer and longer.
The sharks must be nearby still. They’d hear the splashes, come for him.
She couldn’t see that again.
“Help!” she shouted with her hoarse voice. “Hey! Hey!”
There was an airplane in the distance, a jet—two or three maybe.
A pair of gray hawks broke over the horizon, thundering between them and the ship.
F-14’s? Or Sukhois?
The two planes rode up, then banked toward the south.
“Hey!” she shouted again, though her voice was so hoarse it was barely louder than a whisper. “Here! Hey! Hey!”
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
1505
“We’re being challenged,” the pilot told Danny. “Pretty bad English.”
“What are they saying?”
“That we’re in protected airspace,” said the pilot.
“We’re being targeted,” said the copilot. “Trying to spike us, the bastards.”
“Shit,” said Danny.
“They’re just trying to scare us,” said the pilot.
“They’re doing a decent job,” said the copilot.
“Tell them we’re going to pick up survivors and split,” Danny said.
“I have twice,” said the pilot. “Here they come. Everybody hold on, it’s going to be close.”
Aboard Iowa
1509
As soon as Zen heard Danny tell Dog what was going on over the Dreamland circuit, he tucked his wing and plunged toward the sea. It was a mistake, a serious mistake—he wasn’t flying a Flighthawk, and the B-5 flipped awkwardly through a roll and then headed straight downward, speed increasing quickly. An alert sounded and Fichera back at Dreamland said something in his ear about letting the computer’s emergency protocol take over. Zen ignored the scientist and the computer; he held the stick gently, letting the plane’s aerodynamics assert themselves. the nose began to lift, and not the trick was to control it, not muscling it down, or shoving it around the way he would push the small Flighthawk, but gracefully, the way you rode an overemotional show horse.
The plane slid into a turn that recorded nine Gs against the fuselage. He took a slow breath, trying to hold his instinct back, trying to baby the hurtling, accelerating mass into a controlled flight path.
Flying the UMB was more thought and perseverance than muscle. Flying was always that for him now, without muscles in his legs, without his legs at all.
Without love either, it seemed.
The idea made him hesitate. He had the Sukhois now on the video; they’d turned south to intercept the Osprey. Zen tightened his hand around the joystick. He was at eighty thousand feet, still descending, coming through seventy-nine, seventy-eight, seventy-seven—the ladder rolled downward at a steady pace now, more controlled.
The video feed from B-5’s nose showed the Osprey at his far right, moving so slowly by comparison it seemed to be standing still on the water.
The Sukhois were on his left, not standing still—530 knots, according to the information synthesized by the computer. They were positioned to flash by, turn, run up the back of the Osprey.
I thought these bastards were going after the ship, for cryin’ out loud.
He wouldn’t reach them in time—he was still a good sixty seconds away.
He had to move faster. Engine five, the rocket motor?
Too much, too hard to control.
He needed the scramjets now.
“Computer, Engines three and four. Accelerate.”
“Engines are locked off until Flight Stage Three,” responded the plane.
“Computer, initiate Flight Stage Three.”
“Parameters are incorrect.”
“Override, damn it.”
“Authorization code required.”
“Authorization Zed-Zed-Zed,” said Zen.
The Sukhois had flown past the Osprey and were now turning.
“Active engines three and four. Accelerate to marked intercept at fastest possible speed.”
It was a bit too much. A half-second after the computer acknowledged, the jet whipped forward. He started to turn and managed to shoot between the Sukhois and their target at Mach 2.3, dipping up and then flying between the two planes. His separation from the first plane was less than fifty feet—hair-raisingly close, though it had no effect on the UMB.
Probably, the Sukhois hit their afterburners. Probably, they tried to pursue. Probably, the pilots would have to spend personal time with the dry cleaner.
By the time they got themselves sorted out, Zen had rocketed up past twenty thousand feet and started back in the other direction.
“Engine three and four at specified parameters,” reported the computer. It sounded as if it were chortling. “Phase Three test complete. Preparing for Phase Four.”
“Computer, cancel Phase Four. Authorization Zed-Zed-Zed.”
“Canceled.”
“Hey,” said Danny Freah over the Dreamland circuit. “We’re clear. Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
“Ten minutes to that raft—we don’t quite see it yet.”
“They’re all yours,” Zen told him.
South China Sea
1515
The ship had stopped coming toward them. Even the Sukhois were gone. They were alone, as good as dead.
Bree sank to the bottom of the raft. Stoner had his arms draped over it, his head resting on the side.
Zen, she thought, I love you, baby. I love you. Why aren’t you here?
The sun flickered in her face.
If she’d lived, they would have had a kid. They should have. It wouldn’t be easy, would not have been easy, but they should have.
She felt bad for that. Jeffrey would have been good with a kid.
“Shit,” said Stoner softly.
The sharks, she though. Oh God.
She jumped up to help him, cringing.
But it wasn’t the sharks. There was another plane in the distance, to the south.
It moved too slowly to be a Sukhoi. It had propellers. It was loud.
It was an Osprey.
It was an Osprey!
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
1520
Danny and Bison had stripped to their wet suits and waited by the door.
“You ready?” Danny asked the crew chief.
“Born ready, Cap.” The sergeant put his hand to his earphone. They had to be careful about getting too close to the small raft. The downdraft from the
big rotos could be fierce. Danny and Bison would jump out with life jackets and a Dreamland-designed inflatable collar to add to the raft’s stability before the MV-22 moved in for a pickup.
“Here we go!” said the sergeant.
As they cruised parallel to the raft at low speed, Danny stepped off the aircraft, walking out as if walking off a board at the swimming pool. He felt his knees knock together as his feet impacted the water; his joints twinged a second, but then fell away. The water was cold—very, very cold. He pumped hard toward the raft, waiting for the surge of blood and adrenaline to warm him.
Bison got there a stroke ahead of him. The Whiplash trooper pushed Stoner into the raft, threw one of the preservers over his head.
“Here!” Danny yelled to Breanna as he reached the side. “Hey! Take the life preserver! Take it!”
Her face looked as if it had been pounded with a baseball bat. Her fingers were swollen and puffy. Danny pushed himself into the small boat, wrapped the preserver around her.
“We’re going home. We’re taking you back.”
Aboard Iowa
1535
Zen watched the Osprey come in as he climbed back—picture, next picture. It approached, it started to hover, someone was leaning from the door, a line was down, she was okay, she was okay.
He floated out over her, happy she was okay. He reached toward her but she was gone, the Osprey veering off.
“Jeff, we have that radio—it’s a PRC beacon,” said Major Alou.
“Roger that. I need the coordinates.”
“Dreamland has them. They’re plugged in. Thank God Bree’s alive.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“Roger that,” he said.
South China Sea
1540
Danny stumbled as he got into the Osprey, falling against Pretty Boy, who was helping one of the Marines wrap a blanket around Stoner. The other two Marines were stooped over Hernandez, who was kneeling over Breanna on the floor. The two rescuees had to be treated for shock and dehydration as well as wounds. Every member of Whiplash was trained in emergency medical care, and his two men were moving promptly and competently to treat the pair. Danny couldn’t help thinking of Liu, who nickname “Nurse” had earned several times over.
“Captain, we think we got another one,” said the crew chief.
“Where?” Danny asked.
“Pilots wants to talk to you.” The chief pointed him toward the bulkhead separating the flight deck and the cabin area. Danny leaned between the two pilots, who were just completing a circle to make sure there were no other survivors in the area.
“Here’s the deal,” said the copilot. “Beacon off a survival radio about a hundred miles east of here. Top speed, we can make it in roughly twelve minutes. Means we’ll have to tank on the way home, but we got a KC-10 en route with all the stops pulled out, so we think we can do it.”
“Well, let’s go,” said Danny.
The copilot looked across at the pilot.
“It’s right near the Chinese task group,” said the pilot. “And I mean right near.”
“Well, let’s get the fuck over there,” said Danny.
“That’s what we say,” said the copilot. “Navy has its own package en route with Tomcats and Hornets as escorts, but even with all the stops out, their helos are a good half hour off, if not more. Escorts’ll have to stay with them, pretty much.”
“Screw ’em.”
The pilots answered by mashing the throttle to max.
Dreamland Command
August 28, 1997, 0050 local (August 29, 1997, 1550 Philippines)
Thirty seconds after the Dreamland Osprey told Dog they were headed to the new location, Admiral Woods’s voice came over the line. The screen remained blank.
“Bastian, we understand you have another beacon.”
“Yes, we do,” Dog told him. “My Osprey is en route.”
“It is? I thought they were on another rescue.”
“They’ve completed that.”
“I see. I’m told we have a package on its way already.”
“It’s likely we’ll get there first,” said Dog.
“We’ll coordinate. Very clever using another aircraft,” added the admiral.
It was impossible to know how he meant that—was he mad that Dog had sent another airplane into “his” territory? It could be interpreted as going against orders.
“The platform was scheduled to be tested,” said Dog.
“Yes,” said Woods. “Good recovery. Lets’ work together on this next pickup.”
“We have been.”
“Good.”
The line snapped clear.
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1612
The temptation was overwhelming. The Chinese destroyer was no just within his range; he could get his torpedoes off before they had time to spot him, but they had heard other contacts in the distance. Admiral Balin was determined to see what other targets the gods were presenting.
“Sonar Contact One is changing course,” relayed the sonar room, referring to the destroyer. They gave a distance and a bearing. It was heading roughly across their path, bit not quite on a direct course.
Attack now and destroy it? Or let it pass and hope for a juicer target?
“Other contacts?” asked Balin.
“Negative,” came the reply. They were using only their passive sonar.
“Periscope.”
If the destroyer attacked, they would lose their easy shot, and perhaps not get another one.
If a better target was nearby, though, he would not forgive himself.
Greed?
“Active sonar,” decided Balin. “Prepare torpedoes to fire.”
Twenty seconds alter, the sonar room reported a large contact two miles beyond the destroyer.
“What is it?” asked Captain Varja.
“Unknown,” was the answer. “Large, very large.”
“Direct our course for it,” Balin told Varja.
“The destroyer is changing course. They’re heading for us.”
“Target the largest contact,” said Balin.
“It is a good day,” said Varja.
“Yes,” said Balin.
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
1616
“We have a destroyer bearing down on the marker,” Iowa copilot told Danny over the Dreamland circuit.
“Yeah, we got him on long-distance radar,” Danny replied. “We’re still a good five minutes away.”
“I have the raft,” said Zen. “Somebody’s in it. One person.”
“Understood,” replied Danny. “How close is the destroyer?”
“Two hundred yards. Shit,” yelled Zen. “They’re firing at them!”
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1620
The first depth charge exploded well off the port side. The second and third were even farther. As the sub shook ever so slightly form the fourth, the sonar room reported the large contact was slowing, probably to turn. It was now less than two and a half miles away.
“Is it the carrier,” answered Varja.
“Prepare to fire.”
The submarine rocked with a fresh explosion. The lights blinked off; it took a second for the systems and the crew to recover.
“We have severe damage—we’ve lost control of the diving planes,” said Varja as the reports came in. “Ballast tanks blown—we’re surfacing.”
“Keep us down.”
“We’re trying, Admiral.”
Varja said nothing else, but it was obvious what he meant to tell the admiral—they were no longer in position to fire. The ASW weapons had jammed the hydroplanes upward and mangled the controls on the ballast tanks, robbing them of their ability to maneuver below the water. “Surface,” said Balin, accepting the inevitable. “Then we will fire.”
Aboard the Dreamland Osprey
1622
“Hey, Captain! Navy’s found something s
outh of us,” reported the Osprey crew chief as Danny and Bison hunkered by the door. “The helo that was coming north for this raft, backing us up—they just spotted some wreckage. They think they may have a body.”
“A body or a person?” asked Danny.
“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.
Brown, Dale - Dreamland 04 Page 32
