by Dale Brown
Starship frowned at them as they rolled through inverts while rocketing past. Pointy-nose zippersuits were all alike—always showing off.
Not that he wouldn’t have done the same thing if he were flying an F-15.
Another warship loomed to his right, three miles ahead. From the distance it looked as if it were the size of a battleship, and in many respects it was as powerful as a World War II battlewagon. But the ship was actually a destroyer—the Fu Zhou, which carried four-packs of cruise missiles on each side. The cruise missiles were 3M-80 Moskits—SS-N-22 “Sunburns” in NATO parlance, supersonic antiship missiles with a larger warhead and greater range than the American Harpoon. With a top speed of Mach 2.5, the missile was extremely difficult to defend against, even for a state-of-the-art warship like the Abner Read.
Updated by the Chinese, the vessel had been laid down as a Russian Sovremennyy destroyer. As they often did, the Chinese had built on Russian technology, adding improvements and funding weapons purchases the cash-strapped Russians could only dream of. The result was a ship that was not quite state-of-the-art, but was nonetheless an awesome power.
A half mile beyond the destroyer was a vessel that was state-of-the-art, as advanced as anything on the water, including the Abner Read: the People’s Liberation Army Navy’s pride and joy, the aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping.
The nickname “flattop” fit Deng Xiaoping perfectly. Unlike nearly every other aircraft carrier in the world since the CV-1 Langley, the Deng Xiaoping did not have an island. Her surface and antiair radars were located at the sides of the craft, adjacent to but not on the flight-deck surface.
The Deng Xiaoping’s flat deck was shaped like a fat V, with elevated ramps placed at each head. The arrangement allowed the carrier to launch two J-13s almost simultaneously, and still have space to land planes behind them. Besides thirty-six J-13 fighters, Deng carried four KA-27 Helix helicopters for antisubmarine warfare and six Z-8 helicopters, which were Chinese versions of the French Super Frelon, equipped with uprated engines and avionics systems. Four Z-8s had large radar units that hung off the side of the aircraft like a large water pail; when airborne, they provided radar coverage for the carrier. The other two were used for search and rescue operations.
“American helicopter, this is the People’s Liberation Army Navy Aircraft Carrier Deng Xiaoping. Identify yourself.”
“Dreamland Werewolf Two from the Littoral Warship Abner Read,” said Starship. “Captain Gale extends his compliments to the captain of the vessel, and wishes to present a token of his admiration. Requesting permission to land.”
“Dreamland?” said the carrier radioman, his voice losing its businesslike snap.
“Affirmative. This aircraft is currently assigned to the Abner Read.”
“You know Colonel Dog Bastian?”
“He’s my commander.”
“American helicopter, you will change course,” said the controller. He directed the Werewolf to proceed west for a mile, then to fall into a landing pattern approaching from the ship’s stern.
“I believe they’ve given me permission to land,” Starship told Eyes.
“Good. What was that business about Dreamland?”
“Got me.”
Starship followed the controller’s directions, angling toward the carrier as if he were one of its aircraft. The approach gave him—and the Abner Read’s crew—a good look at the side of the ship, which was faceted to lower its radar profile. It was somewhat lower to the water than an American carrier would have been, though it still towered over the Abner Read, whose deck was always awash with the sea.
“There’s a J-13 on deck, ready to launch,” he told Eyes. “I’ll get good video of it.”
“Keep the cameras rolling.”
After operating off the Abner Read for the last several weeks, the Deng Xiaoping’s deck looked like the entire state of Kansas spread out in front of him. As Starship skipped in over the stern, he saw a dozen sailors race from the port side, parallel to the landing area. Unsure what was going on, he slowed down, barely moving forward.
“I got a dozen guys with guns running onto the deck,” Starship told Eyes. “You think they don’t understand I’m a robot and they’re trying to kidnap the crew or something?”
“Be ready to get out of there.”
Starship reached the third white circle on the deck, where he’d been directed to stop. As he settled onto the flattop he finally realized what the sailors were doing—they were an honor guard.
“The People’s Liberation Army Navy Aircraft Carrier Deng Xiaoping welcomes Dreamland,” said the controller. “It is an honor and a pleasure to host you.”
“Same to you,” said Starship. “There…um, when the rotors stop, remove the case from the area between the skids. Just cut the ropes.”
There was a bottle of scotch in the case. Starship watched as two sailors—not part of the honor guard—approached. Even though the rotors had stopped spinning, they crawled toward the aircraft on their hands and knees, cut away the case, and took Storm’s present away.
“Dreamland Werewolf, you are cleared to take off. Our compliments to your commander, Captain Gale. And please remember us to the colonel, Dog Bastian.”
“Roger that, Deng. Pleasure’s all mine,” said Starship, revving the Werewolf for takeoff.
Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,
the Arabian Sea
0630
THE MASTER OF THE DENG XIAOPING, CAPTAIN YAUN Hongwu, smiled when he saw the bottle. Americans were fond of such gestures. He would have to think of something appropriate in return.
Hongwu knew of Captain Gale’s ship, the Abner Read. Like his own, it belonged more to the twenty-first century than the twentieth. Though it was the size of a coastal corvette, he would not like to have to take it on.
The aircraft had been something new all together. It looked like a miniaturized version of the Russian Hokum; undoubtedly it would be several times as powerful, coming from Dreamland.
All China knew of Dreamland. Barely a year before, the brave crew of a Dreamland Megafortress had saved Beijing from certain annihilation by intercepting a rogue nuclear missile a few miles from the city, dodging Chinese warplanes and missiles to do so. The man who had commanded the flight, Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian, was a hero to Hongwu personally—his actions had saved Hongwu’s mother and father, his younger sister, and countless aunts, uncles, and cousins.
Perhaps in the future he would have a chance to thank the colonel personally.
Allegro, Nevada
1800
THE TIME DIFFERENCES COULD DRIVE YOU NUTS. WHEN IT WAS six P.M., or 1800 in Nevada, it was seven A.M. in Karachi—tomorrow. Today was already yesterday there.
Six P.M. was also time for Zen to talk to Breanna, the best part of his day.
And the worst. He missed her incredibly. Separation was a fact of life in the military, but the truth was, they’d never been separated on a deployment since their marriage. If one was in danger, the other was. He’d never even thought about it before.
“Dreamland Command,” answered Danny Freah when Zen dialed the special 800 number that connected with the Dreamland Command trailer. The line allowed family members to stay in contact during missions.
“Hey, Danny. Bree around?”
“No, uh, tied up.”
The line was not secure, and both men had to be careful what they said.
“Running late?” asked Zen.
“Late and hairy.”
Zen felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.
“Hairy?”
“She’s OK,” said Danny quickly.
“What’s going on?”
“Jeff, I can’t get into details here. I’m sorry. I’ll have her call you, OK?”
No, it wasn’t OK. Not at all.
He should be there. Rather than getting himself stuck in the back with needles that weren’t doing anything and wouldn’t do anything.
“Yeah, sure. Have her
call me when she gets a chance.”
“I wouldn’t wait by the phone, if you get my drift. Could be hours,” asked Danny.
“I’m easy,” lied Zen.
Drigh Road
1200
“YOU WERE UNDER ORDERS TO GET OUT OF THAT AREA, BREANNA. Why didn’t you follow them?”
Breanna looked at her father. She’d worked with him now for more than a year and a half, and yet she still felt awkward.
“Innocent people were being attacked,” said Breanna. “I couldn’t turn away.”
Some commanders might have told her that her first duty was to her own crew and country; others might have reminded her that lawful orders were to obeyed. But the colonel only frowned and said nothing.
“My mistake was not acting right away,” Breanna told him. “If I’d acted right away, then maybe I could have prevented the attack. I second-guessed myself, and I don’t know why.”
“You honestly think that’s the problem?”
She nodded.
“Breanna, the situation here is extremely volatile. The Indians are pressing for a formal investigation. If that happens, you’re not going to be on very firm ground. You were given an order, started to comply, then changed your mind for no good reason that I can see.”
“I’ll deal with that if I have to,” she said.
“If I had more Megafortress pilots, I’d put you on furlough. I really would.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Daddy, you would have done the same thing.”
His face blanched as soon as she said Daddy.
“I did what I thought was right. I’m willing to deal with the consequences if I have to.”
“I wonder if you really are,” said the colonel. “Dismissed.”
The words wounded her more deeply than any criticism of the mission. Walking back to her room, Breanna felt hot tears slipping from her eyes.
DOG HAD FINALLY MANAGED TO MAKE HIS WAY TO HIS TEMPORARY quarters and was just taking off his clothes to catch a nap when a sharp rap at the door interrupted him.
“Go away, Danny,” he said, recognizing the knock instantly.
“Colonel, I will if you want me to, but Storm is looking for you on the Dreamland channel and claims it’s urgent.”
“I’ll be right there,” grumbled Bastian.
He tucked his shirt back in, rubbed his eyes and opened the door. Captain Danny Freah stood in the hallway, shifting his weight from one foot to another, looking a little sheepish.
“I’m sorry,” said Danny.
“Not your fault,” said Dog.
“Haven’t had much sleep, huh?” asked Danny, following as Dog walked toward the door.
“No rest for the wicked.”
“You ought to get another pilot to sit in for you,” suggested Danny.
“I look that tired?”
“You do.”
Dog laughed. “I respect your honesty, Captain.”
“Just telling it like it is.”
“How’s security?”
“Pakistanis have been cooperative. They have close to three companies on our perimeter, along with two armored vehicles. Politicians are protesting, but the people here are OK. Hasn’t been stirring in town about us, and of course everybody’s been keeping a low profile. I thought I ought to mention—the Levitow’s encounter with the Indian carrier aircraft has gotten back to the base commander. He wants to host the crew for lunch.”
“Just what we need,” said Dog.
The bright noonday sun hit him in the face as they went outside the building and crossed to the Dreamland trailer. Sergeant Kurt “Jonesy” Jones snapped to attention outside the trailer; inside, Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland got up from the console as the colonel and Freah came in.
“At ease, Boston,” Dog told the sergeant. “How are things?”
“All quiet, Colonel.”
Dog slipped in behind the communications console. He put on the headset, then authorized the encrypted communication. Storm’s face immediately appeared in the screen.
“I hope you’re happy, Bastian,” said the Navy captain. “Now we’re peacekeepers.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“The President wants Xray Pop to sail east into the Arabian Sea. We’re supposed to help encourage the Indians and the Pakistanis to make peace.”
“All right.”
“You talked to the NSC about that loony theory that a plane dropped the torpedo that attacked the Indian destroyer?”
“It’s not a loony theory, Storm. It’s the only explanation for what happened.”
“So where’d the plane go?”
“I don’t know for sure. My guess, though, is somewhere in Iran.”
“We’ll need to set up new patrol grids. Eyes will contact you with the information when we have the plan worked out.”
“What exactly are we supposed to do?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe Washington thinks the Indians and Pakistanis will run away if we show our faces,” said Storm. “We’re to patrol in the Arabian Sea. I need around-the-clock air cover as well as radar surveillance, airborne and on the surface. Not only are the Indians there, but the Chinese aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping is on a course due east. It’ll be in the Arabian Sea no later than twenty-four hours from now. The Chinese don’t like the Indians.”
“What about whoever it is who’s attacking the Indians?”
“We watch for them. But—and let me make this as absolutely crystal clear as I possibly can—under no circumstance, absolutely no circumstance, are you to engage anyone without a specific order from me personally. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Make sure all your people get the word. And knock some sense through your daughter’s thick skull before she ends up being court-martialed—if it isn’t already too late for that.”
The screen blanked.
BREANNA WANTED TO TALK TO ZEN, BUT SHE DIDN’T WANT TO go back to the Dreamland Command trailer. So she hiked over to the Pakistani side of the base, found a pay phone, and used her international phone card to make the call.
It was a bit past eleven P.M. back in Nevada, and she wasn’t sure that Zen would still be up, but her husband grabbed the phone before the first ring ended.
“Yeah,” he snapped.
“Jeff?”
“Bree, God, are you OK?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I was worried.”
“I’m fine.” Breanna ran her finger down the metal wire connecting the handpiece to the phone. “How did everything go today?”
“Same old, same old. Boring.”
“Are you doing well?”
“Doc says so. I don’t feel bupkus. And still no beer.” He laughed, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. You shouldn’t worry.”
“Hey, I’m not worried.”
Among the many things she loved about her husband was the fact that he was a terrible liar. But she let this one go, and matched it with her own.
“We’re doing fine out here. I’m doing great. Piece of cake,” she told him. “I want you to get better. OK?”
“Getting better every day. You’re OK?”
“Yes.” Breanna glanced to the side and saw two other people waiting to use the phone. “I do have to go, though. Take care, OK?”
“Roger that.”
“I love you.”
“Me too, babe.”
MACK WALKED SULLENLY TO THE DREAMLAND COMMAND trailer, where Dog had just convened a meeting with all of the flight crews and officers. He’d spent the last hour reviewing the tapes of his encounters. He’d severely damaged at least one of the planes, and managed to get lead into everything he tangoed with. But he hadn’t shot anybody down, and as far as he was concerned, that was as bad as missing completely.
“Hey, Major, heard you had some fun,” shouted Cantor, trotting up behind him.
“Yeah,�
� muttered Mack.
“Got pieces of three of them?”
“Don’t rub it in,” snapped Mack, pushing through the small crowd at the door of the trailer.
A five-handed poker game made the command trailer seem crowded. With nearly two dozen people crammed inside, it felt like the mosh pit of a rock concert. The air conditioner couldn’t keep up with the load, and the place smelled sweaty. Mack managed to squeeze to the far side of table at the center of the room, standing behind Stewart, who’d gotten there early enough to snag a seat.
“All right, I think we’re all here,” said Colonel Bastian, standing near a large map of the Arabian Sea. “Thanks for coming over. I know some of you were sleeping. If it’s any consolation, so was I. Or I should say, I was about to.”
Mack listened as Dog laid out the change in orders and their mission.
“More peacekeeping crap,” Mack groused.
“That’ll do, Major,” said Dog.
“Aw, come on, Colonel. You know this is garbage. They’re sending the Abner Read to stand between two aircraft carriers? That’s like sending a canoe to tow the Titanic into port.”
Everyone laughed, or at least snickered—except for Bastian.
“Then start thinking of yourself as an iceberg, Mack,” said the colonel. “And shut up.”
Mack clamped his teeth together as Dog laid out the change in patrol areas and schedules. They would continue to have two Megafortresses in the air at all times. One would orbit in the eastern Arabian Sea. The other would patrol to the west—first near the coast of Iran, then eastward, following the Abner Read as it made its way to the northern Arabian Sea.
“I want to still look for that airplane,” said Dog. “The one we believe fired the torpedo.”
“Waste of time,” said Mack under his breath—or so he thought.
“Excuse me, Major?”
“Nothing.”
“Out with it, Mack.”
“I looked at those images and the intercepts. I have to tell you, Colonel, no disrespect to the eggheads and Dr. Ray, but there’s just no way, no way, that little plane carried a torpedo, let alone fired it.”
“Then who did?”
“Either the oil tanker or a submarine. My money’s on a Chinese sub, probably doing some advance scouting for the Deng Xiaoping. He saw his shot, knew he could get away with it. The Indians couldn’t find a lit Christmas tree in a bathtub at night. And the Abner Read—well, no offense to our Navy friends, but they’re in the Navy for a reason, if you know what I mean.”
