Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

The spot they’d found for the village was on another island about fifteen minutes to the south. Blow, squeezing over to Freah, told him some Navy SeaBees were at the new village site already; they’d cleared it with a dozer, erected some temporary canvas tent, and were digging so they could pour foundations—three small prefab housing units had been located by the ever-resourceful engineers and were en route.

“Build a skyscraper if you let ’em,” said the sergeant. “Peterson really kicked some butt. Gotta give it to the Marines. Except that they’re Marines, they’d be okay.”

“Yeah,” said Danny. “Locals give you any trouble?”

“Not really. Just the silent treatment. I’m sorry about Powder,” added Blow. “That sucks horseshit.”

““Yeah,” said Danny. “Locals give you any trouble?”

“Not really. Just the silent treatment. I’m sorry about Powder,” added Blow. “That sucks horseshit.”

“Yeah.”

“You see it happen, Cap?”

Was he asking because he was accusing him of screwing up?

Danny looked down at Hernandez, who was six or seven inches shorter than him. There wasn’t any anger in his face, just confusion, a little sorrow.

“Yeah. He was a few yards away,” Danny told his team’s pointman gently. “If Powder didn’t get it, I would have. Sucks.”

“Dedicated,” said Danny.

“Crazy fucks.”

“Yeah.”

The helo settled down. Unlike the last village, this one had a good view of the shoreline, which lay a quarter mile below the settlement area. Danny guessed the Filipinos might not appreciate that. They wanted a place where they could hide, and the clear view worked both ways, but it was too late to worry about it. He jumped out as the helo touched down, then helped the Navy people unpack the villagers’ gear.

“Got a Lieutenant Simmons wants to see you,” said one of the sailors on the ground. “He’s a liaison guy. He helped set this up. Some paperwork, and I think he needs some advice on classification or some such thing.”

“Yeah, okay. I gotta get back, thought,” said Danny. He put down the box of cooking gear he’d taken from the helicopter. As he rose, the girl he’d taken prisoner passed in front of him.

It was as if he wasn’t there, just another ghost in the jungle. Danny felt anger well up—he’d busted his ass for these people, for her, and they just went on like he wasn’t there.

“Hey,” said Danny. He grabbed her arm. She jerked it back. “You gonna thank me?” he said.

she reared back her head. if it hadn’t been for the wind from the blades of the helo, he spittle probably would have struck him in the face.

Aboard Quicksilver, over the South China Sea

2140

The consensus was clear—definitely a Sikorsky, definitely something very similar to Searchwater, though

not quite an exact match. It looked like it might be a bit harder to jam, according to Torbin, who immediately volunteered to try.

“Let ’em be,” said Breanna. “Chris, get on the line to Dreamland Command and tell them about this. They’re going to be very interested.”

The helicopter climbed into an orbit over the aircraft carrier. As interesting as it was, the Sukhois that had charged after the Viking were a higher priority; and so Breanna sidled in their direction, making sure to stay within ten miles of the Viking, the Sukhois stared to sandwich the Navy plane in a high-low hello-there routine; one Chinese pilot came in over the S-3 while the other came in below. Even at five hundred knots, it was doubtful the separation between the three planes added up to ten feet.

“They’re crazy,” said Chris. “They’ll hit ’em for sure. They can’t fly that well in the damn daylight, let alone in the dark.”

The radar shoed the Chinese fighters merging with the Viking and, looking at the display, it seemed as if they had crashed. Instead, they had simultaneously sandwiched the S-3 swooping across in opposite direction. It would have been an impressive move at an air show.

“All right, let’s see if we can get their attention so our Navy friend can drop his buoys,” Bree said, reaching for the throttle bar. The engine control on the Megafortress was fully electronic, and unlike the old lollipop-like sticks in the original B-52, consisted of a master glide bar that could be separated into four smaller segments. Unless the individual controls were activated, the flight computer assumed that it had discretion to fine-tune any discrepancies in the engine performance to maintain uniform acceleration.

Not that any aircraft maintained by a member of a ground crew under the direct supervision of Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons would dare show any discrepancies.

Breanna couldn’t get close to the Chinese without getting close to the S-3 as well. Even so, she got close enough to send a serious vortex of air currents across their wings.

Not that it had any effect.

“They’re really a pain in the ass, ain’t they?” said the pilot in Redtail One. “They’re not going to keep me from doing my job,” he added.

Possibly hearing the comment, the Sukhois below the S-3 accelerated and popped up in front of the Viking’s nose. Redtail One fluttered; as the plane started to bank the Chinese planes seemed to swarm tighter. Two Sukhois flying over the Shangi-Ti changed course and headed in the S-3’s direction.

Jennifer Gleason, meanwhile, had filled the S-3 pilot in on the submarines they were tracking and their present course. As the pilot tacked toward it, the other fighters arrived. Though he chopped his speed, he couldn’t shake the weaving Sukhois.

Zen, eavesdropping on the radio communications, had an almost overwhelming urge to hit the gas and chase off the Chinese planes, and had to keep reminding himself he was controlling a robot probe under the water. Maybe because of the distraction, it took him a few extra seconds to realize the two subs he was following were splitting up.

“Bree—our targets are splitting. I’m with the one heading west. We’re going to need another buoy soon.”

“Roger that, Hawk Leader. Ms. Gleason, give all the data to our Navy friends.”

“Already have, Captain.”

“Can we help you somehow?” Bree asked the Redtail pilot as the Sukhois swarmed around the Viking.

“Short of firing at them? Negative.”

“Yeah, my orders suck too,” said the Navy pilot, referring to his rules of engagement, which, because of the complicated political situation, strictly forbade him from doing anything but running away. “Current ROEs are bullshit on top of bullshit.”

“I didn’t know you had antiair weapons,” said Breanna.

“At this range, I could hit them with my Beretta,” said the pilot.

One of the Chinese Sukhois nearly clipped the S-3’s wing as he rose up suddenly. The Redtail pilot cursed over the fighters. Undaunted, the two other Chinese planes stayed right on this tail. As the S-3 leveled off, one slipped beneath him.

“What do you think they’ll do if we activate our gun radar?” Bree asked Chris.

“Activate theirs?”

As Bree considered it, one of the Chinese planes came at the S-3 head-on.

“Man, they’re out of their minds,” said Chris.

Breanna checked her position, then switched back into the radio circuit. “We’re going to have to cut out of this dance in a few minutes,” she told Redtail One, starting another pass in an attempt to pull the Sukhois away.

“Acknowledged,” said the pilot tersely.

The interceptors took no notice of the bigger plane, ducking and weaving with the S-3.

“We’re going to have to leave you, Navy,” said Breanna.

“Been fun, Air Force.”

Breanna tucked her wings and pushed the Megafortress west toward the coordinates Jennifer Gleason had plotted for the next buoy drop. She was just about to give the order to open the bomb bay doors when Torbin’s deep voice rattled in her headset.

“Sukhois have activated gun radars!” he barked.

“ECMs,” said Bree. It was undoubtedly another ratchet in their harassment campaign, but she wasn’t going to just stand there. “Hawk Leader, I mean Piranha, we’re going to have put that buoy drop off for a second.”

“Copy that,” said Zen.

Bree pitched the Megafortress around, taking nearly eight Gs to get back on an intercept. “Chris—tell Redtail we’re coming back. Then target these motherfuckers. Excuse my French.”

The copilot’s answer was garbled by the force of gravity as the big plane’s momentum shifted. The Megafortress’s electronic countermeasures filled the air with a thick radio fog, but at close range from behind the plane the Sukhois pilots could have used straws and spitballs and still brought the Viking down. That didn’t seem to be their intent—at least not yet. The lead Sukhois accelerated on a diagonal, crossing so close over the S-3 they seemed to collide.

“Shit,” said Redtail One over the radio. The plane tucked toward the waves, but then righted itself.

“Scoprions,” Bree told Chris.

“Our orders—”

“Fuck our orders.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Another copilot might have pointed out the captain was about to set herself up for a court-martial—and was taking him along, but Chris had flown with Bree forever and helped her ignore any number of orders. “Let me offer a suggestion—we’re close enough for the Stinger air mines.”

“Stinger then. Good idea.”

Chris brought the tail gun on line as Bree began banking.

“Redtail One, I’m going to come right over you and nail those mothers,” she told the pilot. “Just hold your course.”

“Negative, Air Force. Negative. Shit.”

“Redtail?”

“I’m ordered to return to my carrier. Repeat, I just got the order to break off. I have to scrub.”

“Scrub? You’re kidding,” blurted Chris.

The Navy pilot didn’t respond, but his actions showed he was dead serious—he began a slow bank to the east. The Sukhois continued to dog him, not yet realizing they’d won.

“Quicksilver, what’s going on up there?” asked Zen.

“Just the normal command bullshit,’ said Breanna. She scanned her instruments, trying to control her anger.

“We need to drop the buoy, Bree,” Zen reminded her.

“On it,” she said, pulling the big plane back toward the drop point.

Philippines

2300

It was a long green bag, a simple thing, the kind of wrapping that emphasized the one enduring truth of man’s existence.

“Shoulder, arms!”

Like everything Whiplash did, the service was a bit ad hoc—and utterly suited to the task at hand. All Dreamland personnel available gathered near the edge of the runway, standing between the long dark bag and the gray C-130 waiting to take it home. The powerful lights of the Seabee work crews turned the night a silvery yellow as four members of the action team, four of Powder’s closest friends in the universe, walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea. Each man shouldered a different weapon—an M-16, an MP-5, a Beretta pistol, and a Squad Automatic Weapon. One by one, they pointed their guns skyward and fired off a burst in his memory. Each weapon had been Sergeant Talcom’s.

Danny Freah held the pistol. A sensation came over him as he pulled the trigger. He wanted to fling the gun in, throw it into the water, one last offering to the universe. But he was an officer, and he was a man of discipline and self-control, so he simply turned and led the others back. As the chaplain thumbed through his Bible, he couldn’t help thinking this might very well be the first time Powder had ever sat through a reading from the Scriptures.

“I say unto you which hear,” began the reverend, “love your enemies, do good to them which hate you. Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And unto him that smitheth thee on the one cheek offer also the other …”

The words, from Luke 6, struck Danny off balance. Why was this idiot talking of mercy when his man was dead?

Turn the other cheek? Bullshit!

A new urge came over him. Danny wanted to grab the minister, throttle him, make him say something more appropriate, more comforting.

But Danny Freah was a man of discipline and self-control; he did nothing.

“Love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil.”

The words drifted away. The chaplain stepped back. On a tape player found by one of the Marines, a recorded bugle began its lonesome wail. Powder’s best friends in the universe each went to the corners of his remains, then gently placed him on board for the journey home.

Chapter 6

The verdict of fortune

South of Taiwan, aboard the command ship Blue Ridge

August 27, 1997, 1023 local

“What do you and your people don’t seem to appreciate here, Colonel, is that we’re suppose to be the peacemakers. Are you seriously interested in starting World War Three?”

Wood’s face puffed out with anger. The admiral turned sideways for a moment, staring at the wall as if he could see something through the ship’s steel.

“I authorize you to conduct a simple reconnaissance mission and you obliterate an atoll,” continued Woods finally. “Tell me—is your base located over radioactive material? Do X-rays fry your brains?”

“Admiral,” Dog stopped himself. There was no point in trying to explain the mission again. Not only had he told Woods everything, but the admiral had the tapes of the incident and Danny Freah’s report sitting on his desk.

“Well?” said Woods.

“Nothing,” said Dog.

The admiral turned back to the wall. Maybe he really could see through it—maybe he could see beyond it to the forces gathering on either side of the American task force. “In tow hours, the Indian and Chinese fleets will be able to bomb the hell out of each other. The President has sent the Secretary of State—the fucking Secretary of State—to New Delhi to negotiate a cease-fire. You know what my orders are, Tecumseh?”

“No, sir,” said Dog. It was the first time Woods had used his given name.

“If it were up to me, if it were truly up to me, I’d let them fight it out. Hell, I think it’s our best interests. I don’t have to tell you about the Chinese. The Indians are trouble as well. As long as the extremists are in control, the Indians are trouble as well. But if I had to choose, at this point, I’d side with the Indians. Hell, I’m tempted to help them even now. My orders, though—and unlike you, I actually believe in following orders—are to keep the two sides apart, and to do nothing to increase hostilities. Nothing! Now how the hell am I supposed to do that? Put myself directly between them?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Twenty-four hours from now, that’s where I’ll be. Kitty Hawk and her escorts will be positioned to blow both of their fleets out of the water. Hell, I could do it now. If I got the order.

“Yes, sir.”

“But blowing them up wouldn’t bring peace, would it?”

“No, sir,” said Dog.

“Which is my mission, whether I like it or not. Now how can I fulfill that mission with a bunch of cowboys running around shooting things up? Very good cowboys,” added Woods before could object. “Excellent cowboys. But your job was reconnaissance—spying. Not fighting.”

Woods emphasized the words the way one might talk to a five-year-old. Colonel Bastian had pretty much reached the end of his patience.

“I thought the SEALs were bad,” added the admiral. “You guys make them look like kids on their way to First Holy Communion.”

“I don’t know that that’s accurate, sir,” said Dog. “On that atoll, my people were fired on; they responded. At sea, we shot down two missiles. Missile that surely would have sunk the Chinese carrier, which ought to count for something.”

The admiral frowned; Dog couldn’t help but wonder if he would have preferred the carrier went down.

“In the air, every incident with the Chinese was initiated by the Chinese,” said Colonel Bastian in a level voice. “You have the tapes and the data from every flight. We’re not cowboys, sir. We’re just our job, as ordered.”

“I’m not unreasonable, Tecumseh. Truly, I’m not. I had the Filipinos moved at you request.”

“ I didn’t say you were unreasonable, Admiral.”

“But?”

“You do seem to go out of your way to make me your whipping boy.”

“That’s because I don’t like you,” said Woods.

The two men stared at each other. Dog waited for Woods to soften what he’d just said, take it back by adding, “that’s what you think, isn’t it?” But he didn’t.”

“You’re in over your head on this operation,” the admiral said finally. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re competent, capable, even a hotshot. But Dreamland and Whiplash—you need perspective. You’ll understand what I’m saying in five or six years.”

“I understand now.”

“The surveillance mission with Piranha will continue,” said Woods. “That’s a direct order from the President I can’t and won’t ignore, but the mission will be carried out under my personal direction. You’re no longer in the loop, Colonel. You have a lot of work to do at Dreamland.”

“What?”

“It’s not necessary to embarrass you in front of your people. But I will. Go home.”

Dog had to physically bite his lip to keep himself from saying or doing anything else. It was only after he boarded his transport helicopter topside that he realized blood had dribbled down his chin.

Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea

August 27, 1997, 1326

They came to periscope depth cautiously, aware the sonar contact was a Chinese destroyer. Admiral Balin confirmed the crew’s prediction quickly; they were almost perpendicular, and close enough for Balin to see the two large guns at either end. The ship was surely a Jianghu frigate.

Captain Varka gave the order to change their course. They came around quickly and began closing on the Chinese vessel.

The Kali weapons and their assorted equipment had robbed Balin of precious space, leaving him room for only six torpedoes. He would fire two at the destroyer, holding the others for whatever target he would find later.

“Sir,” said Captain Varja. “We have additional contacts. A carrier.”

“A carrier?”

“Making good speed,” added the captain. “Other vessels as well. Beyond the destroyer.”

Balin put his eyes back to the periscope view. There was only gray beyond the destroyer.

They were using only their passive sonar. To use the active array would surely alert the Chinese to their presence—but would also provide a good deal more information.

He wanted it too badly; he must be cautious.

Balin stepped away from the periscope. His eyes met Varja’s. The captain surely had the same thoughts.

“We must find it,” said Balin softly.

“Agreed.”

Varja gave the orders to use the sonar.

One carrier, less than three miles away. It was the Shangi-Ti; the sound signature left no doubt.

There was another—another very large contact in the distance, more than likely a vessel of the same size as Shangi-Ti.

A second carrier!

Again the gods had been beneficent, guiding them here so they could strike both.

The sonar room gave a fresh warning—the frigate was turning in their direction.

“Return to passive sensors. Take us to a safer depth.”

Swiftly, the crew moved to obey.

Philippines

1326

The water lapped at Danny Freah’s waist clear and warm, if it weren’t for the roar of the approaching F/A-18’s, he could have believed he was wading out from an exclusive private beach.

It wasn’t exactly private, but thanks to a contingent of Marine guards and Dreamland security protecting the island and this cove below the airstrip, it was very exclusive.

Danny slid onto his side and began swimming parallel to the shore. When he’d gone about twenty yards, he turned back. He used large boulders on the hillside as markers, treading back and forth as if working out, though he didn’t keep track of his many laps. He swam a backstroke to the south, the sidestroke or breaststroke to the north. He was not a big swimmer, and his muscles soon began to tire with the unfamiliar exertion. He kept on paddling, the burn creeping down from his shoulders to his arms, out from his hips to his thighs, and then all the way to his calf muscles. He swam until the tingling sensation weighed him down. Finally, he stopped abruptly, putting his feet down to stand on the coral and rock-strewn ocean floor, but his path had taken him into deeper water. He floundered for a second, water lapping over his face. He pushed up with his arms, and in a burst of energy began swimming and laughing at the same time. How ignoble would that be, he wondered to himself, to die recreating in a combat zone?

He didn’t stand until the water was less than waist-deep. When he reached his blanket on the shore, he saw Bison heading down the rock-strewn path from the airstrip.

“Hey, Cap—Colonel Bastian looking to talk to you up at the command post,” said the sergeant.

“Thanks,” said Danny, toweling off. Bison stood a short distance away, staring at the water. Danny suddenly felt modest and, though no one was looking at him, pulled his shorts off below his towel and then pulled his uniform pants up, forgoing underwear.

“Water warm?” asked Bison.

“Yeah,” said Danny, puling on a T-shirt.

“Say Captain, mind if I ask you something?”

“What’s that?”

“How come Powder chose that reading?”

“Sorry?” said Danny, thinking he’d misunderstood.

“Powder—Liu told me to make sure the chaplain got the verse right. That’s what he wanted read? Turn the other cheek and all that shit? I don’t get it.”

Danny pulled on his shirt. “I don’t know,” he said. he hadn’t realized Powder himself had chosen the reading.

“It’s supposed to be a message to us, sure, all right, I can understand that,” said Bison. “But from Powder? Man, he liked to shoot things up. Now he’s telling us to turn the other cheek? Shit. Powder?”

bison—who’d never gotten along particularly well with Powder while he was alive—looked a little as if he was going to cry.

“To be honest, I don’t get it either,” said Danny. “I miss him, though. Already.”

“Yeah, weird. Powder. Fuck. It sucks, Captain.”

“It does suck, Bison. Big time.”

“He told us about you in Sarajevo, how you saved his life that time.”

“It wasn’t Sarajevo,” said Danny. He ran his pinkie around the corner of his ear, clearing out the water. Bison was waiting for the full story, but Danny didn’t feel like telling it. He gave the short version. “We were in town about twenty miles south of there. Guy came around the corner. I popped him. That was it, basically.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Danny laughed as he pulled on his shirt. “Yeah, me too. Because the son of a bitch would’ve popped me next. Had a stinking Uzi—where the hell do you think he got an Uzi, huh? Those things are supposed tp be damn expensive.”

By the time the captain reached the trailer, Dog was already giving the pilots the lowdown. Even before he heard the words, Danny knew from the colonel’s face a heap of bullshit had gone down. Colonel Bastian always wore “the Pentagon stare” when he had to dish out a line he didn’t agree with. Today it was mixed with something else Danny saw even less often, genuine anger, though Bastian wasn’t venting.

“Bottom line, we continue monitoring the Chinese sub until further notice. Bree, your plane’s out in three hours, relieving Major Alou. My replacement will take Iowa six hours after that. We’ll keep turning it around until we’re ordered to go home.”

Zen raised his hand to interrupt. “Colonel, Jen and I have been doing a little thinking. With a little work, we may be able to squeeze the gear tightly enough and route things so Raven and Quicksilver can fly one of the Flighthawks and handle Piranha at the same time.”

“Well, that’s not really necessary,” said Bastian.

“It would keep the Chinese off us,” said Zen. “The way things are going, it makes sense for a Fligthhawk to be along.”

“Our orders are not to engage the enemy,” Colonel Bastian’s eyes were almost glassy—obviously that was the heart of the trouble.

“Flighthawks can help hold them off,” said Zen. “Bree wouldn’t have had to get that close to the Viking. Besides, if the subs surfaces, the Flighthawk can get up close and personal.”

The colonel turned to Jennifer Gleason. “Is it doable?” he asked.

One thing Danny had to give Dog—there was no visible sign that he was sleeping with her; his voice was as gruff with her as it was with anyone.

Another thing he had to give Bastian—the ol’ dog sure could pick ’em.

“We can do it, but only with Iowa because of the second control bay. I just don’t have the space to get the computer into Quicksilver and Raven. I mean, if we had more time—”

Dog held up his hand. “How long?”

“Six or seven hours. Tommy Jacobs is coming in on the next flight with the pilot, and he’s bring a full—”

“Okay,” said Dog.

“I’ll take Zen’s place on Quicksilver,” said Fentress.

Bastian’s Pentagon stare dissolved into a faint smile. He folded his arms in front of his chest. “So what else have you decided in my absence?”

“We didn’t decide,” said Bree innocently.

“We might have discussed it a little,” said Fentress.

Colonel Bastian shook his head and turned to Danny. “Captain Freah, you missed a little at the top there. I have business at Dreamland. The mission continues; reconnaissance only. You will continue to provide security for the Megafortresses. I realize it’s superfluous,” he added. “I trust the Marines, but I want at least a token presence. Work out what equipment and personnel we need to keep here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Danny.

“All right, well, let’s get cranking then. I have to pack. Commander Stein will be in charge of operation as of ten seconds ago.” Dog glanced at his watch, then back at them. “I expect everyone to follow orders to the best of their ability. And in some cases, beyond.”

Zen let his wheelchair slide down the ramp, rushing so close to Breanna he nearly spun her around.

“Hey, hot rod,” she said, grabbing hold of the side. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Gimps have the right of way,” said Zen.

“I thought you weren’t going to say that anymore,” Bree told him. “I hate that word.”

“I calls ’em like I sees ’em,” he told her.

“You like to piss me off, don’t you?”

“Favorite thing in the word, next to kissing you,” he said truthfully. “So you ready for the mission?”

“I can handle it.”

“No shooting down Chinese planes.”

“I will if I have to,” she said.

Zen laughed, but he believed her. “You going to be okay without me riding shotgun for you?” he said as they continued toward the planes.

“I don’t need you to watch my back,” she said.

“Hey,” Zen grabbed at her hand, but missed. “You mad?”

“No.”

“Bree? I was just kidding about the gimp thing.”

“I’m fine,” she said, still walking.

“Hey, what are you mad at?”

She turned toward the mess tent.

Zen began to follow. Ordinarily, she simply teased back. But this wasn’t teasing.

“Hey,” he said, rolling to the door.

“Just feeding my face before the flight,” she said, letting the screen door on the tent slam closed behind her.

Stoner let his breath flow from his chest softly, each cell in his lungs reluctantly surrendering its molecule of oxygen. A yellow light filed the center of his head. His body melted. Stoner’s consciousness became a long note vibrating in the empty tent. He slipped into a deep, meditative trance.

It was then he realized what had happened.

Deliberately, he unfolded his legs, then rose. He stooped down for a sip of water from the bottle near his bed mat and roll—he didn’t use a cot—then went to find Colonel Bastian.

“The lookout post belonged to the Taiwanese,” Stoner told the colonel when he found him. “All of them. the Chinese don’t need them. they must be helping the Indians.”

Bastian nodded. “Have you spoken to Langley?”

“Not yet. But it makes sense. I’ll talk to Jed Barclay too.”

“Why would they fire on us?” asked Bastian.

Us, not you. Stoner like that. He knew Bastian had, without complaint, taken the hit for what went down on the island. Protecting his people, even though they could have plausibly been blamed for messing up. He had grown to admire Bastian; he was a man he could work with.

“Because they fear discovery. Possibly they expected the Chinese, but more likely they knew it would be us. Taiwan can’t appear to be taking sides or provoking a confrontation. They want to hurt Mainland China, but if they do something that looks to us like it’s belligerent, like it’s against our interests, we might crush them. simply moving our fleet away would hurt them.”

Bastian nodded.

“I’d like to join the next patrol flight,” added Stoner.

“The Taiwanese spy ships that have been tracking the submarine, I want to find out about them. I think there’s some operation under way.”

“They’re not part of our mission.”

“Their goal isn’t peace, or coexistence with the Mainland. They want the same thing the Communists want—one China. They just want it on their terms.”

“That may be,” said the colonel. “But at the moment, that’s not our concern.”

“I won’t be just a passenger. There’s no one here who knows more about Chinese and Indian capabilities than I do. I’m the one who found Kali. I’d be very useful tracking the Chinese submarines.”

“Okay,” said Bastian finally. “Work it out with Captain Stockard. Stoner—” Bastian pointed a finger at him. “This operation ultimately answers to Admiral Woods, not me.”

“Took him longer to kick you out than I expected,” said the CIA officer. “He must like you.”

Aboard the Dragon Ship in the South China Sea

1326

Chen Lo Fann walked the deck of the former tanker, his mind heavy with though. Professor AI Hira Bai, the scientist who led the team that developed the Dragons, percolated next to him, bouncing with every step. The launch procedure was not particularly difficult. The small robot was lowered from the side of the ship onto the surface of the water, where it rested on a pair of skis. A solid propellant rocket propelled it into the sky; once it was safely above the spray, its jet engine was activated. The place looked somewhat like a miniaturized Su-33UB, except its engine inlets—two on top, two on the bottom—rather than the more traditional double tailplane of the experimental Sukhoi.

And, of course, there was no place for a pilot.

Chen turned and looked at the horizon while Professor Ai conferred with some of his technicians. The water had a dark green tint to it today; he felt a fresh storm approaching.

In a hundred years, no one would remember the weather or the color of the sea. They would think only of the destruction wrought as the two Navies met.

A storm indeed.