Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“We can make it,” he said. “We’ll lash ourselves together.”

He reached for his knife at his leg, thinking he would use it to cut his pants leg into a rope. As he did, he touched bare skin on his leg.

They’d already tied themselves together. Somehow, in the nightmare, he’d forgotten.

Aboard the Dragon Ship in the South China Sea

August 29, 1997, 0800

The message was not entirely unexpected, but it nonetheless pained Chen Lo Fann greatly. In language bereft of polite formulas and its usual ambiguity, the government demanded an explanation for the activities of the past few days that “led to this dangerous instability.”

Dangerous instability. An interesting phrase.

Obviously, the Americans were making the presence felt. Peace was in the American interest, not theirs; true Chinese prayed for the day of return, the instatement of the proper government throughout all of the provinces of China. Inevitably, this war would lead to the destruction of the Communists.

The angry gods of the sea had thrown a typhoon against the two fleets, halting their battle after a few opening salvos. In the interim, the Americans, the British, and the UN had all stepped up their efforts to negotiate peace.

Surely that would fail. The Communists had lost an aircraft carrier and countless men. The storm would multiply the damage done to their ships. They would want revenge.

The Indians too would fight. They understood this battle was about their survival. If the Chinese and their Islamic allies were not stopped, the Hindus would be crushed.

Chen Lo Fann stood on the bridge as the storm lashed against the lass and rocked the long boat mercilessly. He had always understood that, as necessary as they were, the Americans were not, at heart, their brothers. When their interests did not coincide, they would betray his country—as Nixon had shown a generation earlier, bringing the criminals into the UN.

Lao Tze had spoken of this.

The god of heaven and earth show no pity. Straw dogs are forever trampled.

Now, his government was making him the straw dog. He needed leverage.

The American Megafortress had been shot down; undoubtedly its crew was dead. Americans were charmingly emotional about remains; a body or two, handled with the proper military honors. Even an arm or leg. Such could be found and prepared if the authentic article were not available.

Two of his ships were in the area. As soon as the storm abated, they would begin the search. After a short interval, they would find what they were looking for, one way or another.

Meanwhile, he would sail for Taiwan, as ordered.

Or perhaps not.

Aboard Iowa

August 29, 1997, 1036 local (August 28, 1997, 1936 Dreamland)

“Not there, Jen,” Zen told her.

“I’m working on it.”

Jennifer jammed the function keys on her IBM laptop, trying to get the requested program data to reload, Zen tapped anxiously on the small ledge below his flight controls. He was usually very good at corralling his frustration—to survive as a test pilot you had to—but today he was starting to fray.

Of course he was. If it was Tecumseh instead of Breanna down there, she’d be twenty times worse.

This ought to work—the program simply needed to know what frequency to try, that was all it needed, and she had it right on the screen.

It had accepted the array—she knew it had because when she looked at her dump of the variables, they were all filled.

So what the hell was the screwup?

Shit damn fuck and shit again.

“Dreamland Command—hey, Ray,” she said, banging her mile button on. “What the hell could be locking me out?”

“The list is exhaustive,” replied the scientist.

“Yeah, but what the hell could be locking me out?”

“You’re not being locked out,” he said. “The connection gets made. The handoff just isn’t completed.”

She picked up one of the two small laptops from the floor of the plane, sitting it over the big IMBer in her lap. It was wired into the circuit and set to show the results of the coding inquiries. Data was definitely flowing back and forth; something was keeping it from feeding into the Flighthawk control system.

The security protocols of C³ maybe? The system had a whole series of protocols and traps to keep out invaders. Even though the UMB plug-ins were being recognized as “native,” it was possible that, somewhere along the way, they weren’t kicking over the right flag.

She’d put them in after C³ was up. Maybe if she started from scratch.

Right?

Maybe.

But, God, that would take forever.

Kill the Flighthawk. They wouldn’t use it anyway, right?

That would save shitloads of time.

“Jeff, I’m going to try something, but to do it, I have to knock the Flighthawks off-line. You won’t be able to launch it.”

“Do it.”

“I guess I should check with Major Alou in case, you knot, it interferes with her mission.”

“Just do it.”

She guessed he’d be angry, but she went ahead and talked to Alou anyway.

“We won’t need the Flighthawk,” Alou told her. “Go ahead.”

“We’re doing an adequate job from here,” said Rubeo when she told him what she had in mind. “We’re already over the Pacific.”

“I think this might work.”

“You still have to take the computer off-line, enter new code, then reboot it. Twenty minutes from now, you’ll still be in diagnostic mode.”

“I’ll skip the test.”

“How will you know you load right?”

“It’ll work or it won’t. If it doesn’t, what have I lost?”

She found an error in one of the vector lines before taking the system down. She fixed it, then began the lengthy-procedure.

“Want a soda?” Zen asked, pulling his helmet.

“Love one, but—”

“I got it,” he said. he undid his restraints, pulled over his wheelchair—it was custom-strapped nearby—and then maneuvered himself into it. She’d seen him do this before, but never in the air. He looked awkward, vulnerable.

Would she have the guts to do that if she’d been paralyzed?

“We got Pepsi, Pepsi, and more Pepsi. All diet. Which do you want? Asked Zen.

“Pepsi.”

“Good choice.”

Ten minute later, C³ gave her a series of beeps—at one point she’d wanted the program in “Yankee Doodle” as the “I’m up” signal, but Rubeo had insisted—and then filled the screens with its wake-up test pattern.

Two minutes later, Zen shouted so loud she didn’t need the interphone.

“I’m in. I’m there. I have a view.” He worked the keyboard in front of the joystick. “Wow. All right. This is going to work. I can select the still camera, and I have a synthesized radar. At least that’s what it says.”

She glanced over and saw his hand working the joystick. “Woo—this is good.”

“Magnification on mini-KH Eye?” asked Jennifer. She couldn’t dupe the optical feed on her screen yet—she had to get the feedback through Dreamland’s circuit—but she didn’t have a control window with the raw numbers showing whether it was focused.

Rubeo was cursing over the Dreamland circuit, using words she’d never heard from his mouth before.

“Ray?”

“I’ve lost the visual feed, the synthetic radar, everything. Damn it, we’re blind here.”

“I can see,” said Zen.

“Well, we can’t,” insisted Rubeo. “Jennifer, kill the program now.”

“Hold on,” said Colonel Bastian over the circuit. “Major Stockard, do you have control of the aircraft?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can override it here,” said Rubeo.

“Jeff, we’ll back you up, but you’re the one I want on the line.”

“Colonel, I don’t believe that’s necessary,” said Rubeo.

“I want a pilot in the plane,” said Colonel Bastian. Jennifer recognized the words—they were the Colonel’s mantra in his debates with Rubeo over the future of air warfare.

“He’s not in the plane,” said Rubeo.

“Close enough,” said Dog.

somewhere in the South China Sea

Time and date unknown

The blur coalesced into lumps of reality, like the precipitate in a test-tube solution. The lumps had shiny edges, crystalline pieces—her head pounding in her helmet, a body pulling off the side of the raft, the waves turning from black to an opaque green.

Breanna’s flight suit felt both sodden and stiff. She pushed her hands down, felt the ocean giving way beneath her—she was on a raft, a survival raft.

They were in the ocean. The storm was passing beyond them.

Were they alive?

Slowly, she reached to take off her helmet. Her fingers groped for several seconds before she realized she’d pulled it off earlier.

Breanna managed to sit up. The air felt like salt in her lungs, but she breathed deeply anyway.

Chris Ferris lay curled against the sides of the raft. She leaned toward him, felt something heavy fall against her back—Stoner was sprawled against her, legs trailing into the water.

She pulled at Stoner’s thigh, trying to haul them up over the side. She got one, but not the other, finally decided that would have to do.

A PRC-90 emergency radio lay beneath Stoner’s calf. As Breanna reached for it, she felt something spring in her back, a muscle tearing. Pain shot from her spine to her fingers, but she managed to pick up the radio. She stared at it, her eyes barely focusing. It took a moment to remember how to use voice—even though it was only a matter of turning a small, well-marked switch—then held it to her head.

“Captain Breanna Stockard of Dreamland Quicksilver looking for any aircraft,” she said. “Looking for any aircraft—any ship. We’re on the ocean.”

She let go of the talk button, listening for an answer. There wasn’t even static.

The earphone?

Long gone. Was there even one?

A Walkman she’d had as a child.

Breanna held the PRC-90 down in her hand, staring at the controls, trying to make the radio into a familiar thing. On the right side there was a small dial switch, with the setting marked by a very obvious white arrow. There were only four settings; the top, a voice channel, was clearly selected. The volume slider, at the opposite side of the face, was at the top.

Madonna was singing. She was twelve.

Snoop Doggy Dog. Her very first boyfriend liked that.

Breanna broadcast again. Nothing.

Switching to the bottom voice channel, she tried again. This time too she heard nothing.

Shouldn’t she hear static at least?

The spins—they’d listen for her at a specific time

The hour on the hour or five past or ten past or twelve and a half past?

She couldn’t remember when she was supposed to broadcast. She couldn’t think. The salt had gotten into her brain and screwed it up.

Just use the damn thing.

Breanna pushed the dial to beacon mode, then propped the radio against Stoner so that the antenna was pointing nearly straight up.

Was the radio dead? She shook it, still not completely comprehending. She picked it back up. Flipped to talk mode, transmitted, listened.

Nothing.

“Chris, Chris,” she said, turning back to her copilot. “Hey—you all right?”

“Mama,” he said.

She laughed. Her ribs hurt and her eyes stung and all the muscles in her back went spastic, but she laughed.

“Mama,” he repeated.

“I don’t think so,” Bree told him softly. She patted him gently. Chris moaned in reply.

“Sleep,” she said. “There’s no school today.”

Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea

1102 local

The storm and his enemy’s ineptness, as much as his skill and the crew’s dedication, had saved them. sitting below the cold layer of water just below test depth, waiting forever, listening to the enemy vessels pass—Admiral Balin had known they would survive. They sat there silently, packing their breaths, so quiet the sea gods themselves would surely think they had disappeared. The admiral waited until they very last moment to surface, remaining in the deep until the batteries were almost completely gone. In the foul air he had begun to hallucinate, hearing voices; if they had not been congratulating him for his glory, he might have thought they were real.

A light rain fell; they were on the back end of the enormous storm. The waves pushed the low-sitting submarine violently, but the weather that hid them was welcome.

“Every man a turn topsides,” he told Captain Varja.

Varja nodded solemnly.

The crew nodded to thoroughly inspect the vessel, but to Admiral Balin’s mind, no matter what they found, the damage was minor. At worse, a few more vents on the tanks were out of order, he still had his engines, propeller, and diving planes.

And he still had two torpedoes.

There was another carrier, and at least one large ship, a cruiser, several escorts. He would pursue his enemies until all his weapons and energy were gone, even if it meant death. For what was death but a promise of another rebirth? The next life would strive even higher after this glorious triumph of the soul.

“We will continue east, with our best speed,” he told the captain.

Varja hesitated.

“Do you disagree the enemy lies there?” asked Balin mildly.

The question seemed to take the captain by surprise. He considered it for a second, then shook his head. within moments, the submarine began to come about.

Aboard Iowa over the South China Sea

1102

She was there, somewhere there. Zen rolled his head around his neck, trying to loosen his muscles. Flying the UMB was easier than flying the Flighthawk. In truth, he wasn’t actually flying the aircraft. He was more like an overseer, making sure the computer did what it was programmed to do.

And it always did, precisely to the letter.

The computer had a detailed and rather complicated three-dimensional flight plan worked out for the search pattern. Starting at a peak of 180,000 feet—roughly thirty-four miles high—the UMB spiraled downward across the search grid to precisely sixty thousand feet above sea level. At that point, it ignited the rocket motor and began to climb again, once more spiraling upward. Zen’s primary concern was monitoring the speed, since as the UMB dropped it began to lose some of its stability; it was hampered by its inability to use the scramjets to maintain airspeed through the “low” supersonic flight regimes.

He was the only one with real-time direct access to the plane’s native sensors; Jennifer had spent the hours since their takeoff trying to work out the problems in the link, but still didn’t have a solution. Rubeo had to content himself with the slightly delayed KH feeds; he wasn’t particularly happy and shared his displeasure freely.

They had pinned down the point where the Megafortress went into the ocean, about 150 miles west of the Chinese task force. A close examination of the debris on the water, while confirming it was Quicksilver, failed to turn up any survivors.

Or bodies.

If they’d gone out somewhere before the plane hit the water—and as far as Zen was concerned, that was the only possibility—they should be somewhere between the impact point and their last transmission location. They had now carefully mapped the entire area, and even accounted for the effects of the wind and stormy sea, but there was nothing there.

According to the computer, there was enough fuel to continue the search for another six hours. As far as Zen was concerned, he could sit here for a week.

But what was the sense of going over and over the same territory? Obviously, they were looking in the wrong place, but Zen wasn’t sure where the right place was.

Iowa, meanwhile, rode a surveillance track to the east of the battered Chinese fleet. The damaged carrier had sunk sometime during the night at the height of the storm, two of the destroyers were tied up together, apparently to help repair damage on one of the vessels. The Chinese were not in a good mood. Twice their aircraft had warned off Alou in rather abrupt English, though she had come no closer than thirty miles from the escort screen. In accordance with her orders, she moved off as directed. Iowa’s position did not affect Zen or the UMB.

“How are you doing?” Alou asked as Iowa reached the southernmost point of her patrol area.

“We’re just about done,” Zen told him.

“Nothing, huh?”

“I think the problem is we’re assuming they were flying a more or less straight line.”

Alou didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t sure what he expected him to say, but the silence angered him.

He switched abruptly into the Dreamland channel, where scientist Greg Meades had taken over com duties for the UMB team.

“We have to shift the search area,” Zen told him.

“We’re re-created the route they were flying,” said the scientist. “Based on our data.”

“Then the re-creation is wrong. If she was ducking back and forth, trying to avoid getting shot down, her path could be very different than what we computed.”

“Could be,” said Meade, though it was obvious he wasn’t convinced.

“Let’s try farther to the southwest. The plane could have swung back fifty miles, a hundred before they punched out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to humor me,” said Zen. He snapped the talk button off, then pushed it again. “I’m sorry. Set up a new search area, assuming they would have tried to go south as soon as they were hit.”

Philippines

1130

Danny Freah cleared his throat. “All right, listen up,” he told the eight men standing in front of the Dreamland MV-22. “We’re backup to the main team. Routine SAR mission. Latest intel is this—beacon believed from the Seahawk lost in the storm was heard, and we have a location that’s roughly a hundred miles from here. Other assets are already en route. Our speed’s going to get us there quick, though, so we may get into the mix, especially if they run into trouble. There’s a small island in the area, and it’s possible—small possibility—there may be other people there. If that happens, we’re definitely in the mix. Otherwise, what we’re doing primarily is using our eyes. Okay? Not a big deal. Just backups.” Danny paused. “You Marines who haven’t come with us before—welcome aboard.”

Danny smiled at the five Marine privates who had been detailed to fill out his squad. The oldest looked like he’d be eligible to shave in a year or so.

“A little word of advice,” Danny continued, “because I’m not really going to get a chance to give a pep talk if things get hot. I know how much everybody here, my guys especially, like pep talks.”

Bison and Pretty Boy were both grinning. Good to see them smiling after losing Powder.

“Your adrenaline’s going to pump like crazy, your heart’s gonna thump, you’re going to want to get right in the mix,” Danny said, addressing the young Marines. “I want you to stay within yourself, do your job. Listen to the sergeants. I don’t want any heroes—I want men who follow orders. Basically, I want Marines. Got it?”

The kids nodded.

Did he want heroes? Of course he did. He wanted Powder. And Liu out of the hospital.

Turn the other cheek? Bullshit on that.

So what the hell had Powder done that for? Had that passage read at his funeral?

“All right,” said Danny. “Let’s kick ass. Blow, load ’em up.”

“All aboard,” said Sergeant “Blow” Hernandez, using an exaggerated train conductor’s voice.

The Osprey pilot started the aircraft down the runway about a half-second after the hatch snapped shut. Danny cinched his seat restraints, then methodically took stock of his equipment. He’d done so on the ground—twice. Ordinarily, he didn’t worry himself into a mission, but today the review was soothing. He checked his pistols, first his service Beretta, then his personal Sig. He inventoried his grenades, checked his watch and the backup battery for his helmet. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the outer shell of the helmet. He retied his boots, pulling hard on the laces.

“Two minuets, Captain,” said the Osprey pilot crew chief, relaying the message from the pilots.

“All right boys, we’re just about on station,” Danny said. He took the aircraft headphones, got up, and braced himself so he could see out of the side windows. The sea was now so calm if looked as if it had been rolled out flat by a steam roller.

In the distance, he could see a dark blur Navy helicopter, part of the SAR team.

His own people had gone down somewhere about an hour north. But the odds were overwhelming they were dead; they’d gone down in the teeth of the storm.

Were the odds any worse than for the Seahawk?

“Navy’s coming up blank,” the Osprey pilot said. “We’re going to start crisscrossing northwest of the area where they think the signal came from.”

“Sounds good,” Danny told him. He told his guys what was happening, got them up looking out the windows.

“Tradition has it,” Danny told them, “that a downed pilot owes every member of the rescue team a case of beer. I’ll double that for the man who spots them first.”

“Kick ass, Captain,” said Powder.

Danny turned in shock toward the back of the Osprey. He’d heard Powder’s voice—absolutely heard Powder’s voice.

“Who said that?”

No one spoke.

“I’m sorry,” said Danny. “Was there a question?”

They were looking at him as if he’d seen—or heard—a ghost.

“All right then, let’s put our eyes to good use,” he said, struggling to raise his voice over the hum of the engines.

The South China Sea

Date and time unknown

They had two bottles of water between the three of them, four “nutrition” bars, a working flare gun, and a radio. Chris Ferris had managed to save his pistol, but had inexplicably lost one of his boots. Breanna Stockard had her knife. Stoner had his compass.

Injury-wise, they were in decent shape, considering what they’d been through. Ferris probably had broken a rib, but otherwise claimed he was fine. Breanna had torn muscles in her back and shoulder, and had possibly broken her left tibia. Stoner had sprained both wrists and could only partially close his numb finders. All three of them had black eyes and various cuts and bruises on the heads. Their memories of what had happened since they ejected were mostly blank and in any event, irrelevant.

As were the fates of the rest of the crew, though Breanna insisted on scanning the water for them.

“Glare’s going to kill your eyes,” Stoner told her.

“Yeah,” she said, then kept on looking. He admired that kind of stubbornness. He also admired her toughness—not a hint of a whimper.

Their water would be gone in twenty-four hours, maybe less. They’d agreed to rationing a sip apiece on the hour, but the sun was climbing and Stoner knew that the sips would become gulps within a few hours.

Making it though the day and into the night was a realistic goal. They’d shoot for that. Twelve, fourteen hours of search time—that was the best they could hope for anyway. What they needed was something to do, something to keep them sharp.

“I think we should paddle,” he said.

Breanna turned toward him. Something happened with her eyes—she blinked as if reaching into his brain, then nodded.

She understood.

She was beautiful, wasn’t she? Her raven hair and soft lips, her blue-white skin—if he squinted she could be a mermaid, singing to a drowning sailor.

“We don’t have paddles,” she said.

“We can use our hands.”

“We can kick,” said Chris Ferris, the copilot. “Like we’re swimming.”

“Tire us out,” said Stoner.

“We’ll take shifts. I’ll take the first.” He pulled up his legs and untied his boot.

“What do you think happened to your other boot, Chris?” Breanna asked.

“I think I ate it,” said the copilot. He started to undo his vest to take off his flight suit.

“Want strip-tease music?” asked Breanna.

”How does that go?” Chris asked, then immediately began humming, or trying to hum, appropriate music. He kept it up as he got down to his underwear, which he kept on in the water. His right leg and arm were almost entirely black with bruises.

“That direction,” said Stoner, pointing west. “We’ll head toward the Chinese and Indians. More people to look for us.”

Ferris eased himself into the water. He claimed it felt good, though it was obviously colder than he’d expected. He began doing a scissor kick. “I used to be on the swim team,” he told them.

This was going to get old very quickly.

“I have a question,” said Stoner after Ferris grew silent. “Why Rap?”

“Short for Rapture,” said Breanna. “My mom was a hippie. It was either that or Acid Girl.”

“Really?”

“No. Mom’s pretty straight actually. She’s a doctor. Long story.

“That’s good,” said Stoner. “Maybe they’ll come looking for us.”

“They’ll definitely come looking for us,” said Ferris from the watter.

“A hotshot F-15 jock called me ‘Rapture’ a million years ago, right after I waxed his family in a Red Flag exercise. I was flying a B-52 at the time.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Flying the B-52 or waxing his fanny?”

“Both.”

“Both.” She laughed. “HE was trying to pick me up, I think. So I shot him down twice. How about you?”

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

“I mean, are you married?”

“No.” Stoner laughed.

“What’s so funny? Marriage is a good thing.”

“Good how?”

“In all ways you’d expect.”

“I’m not sure I expect any ways,” he told her, staring into her eyes. The raft was so small their faces were perhaps eight inches apart. If he wanted, he could lean forward and touch his mouth to her lips.

He did want to. He wanted to more than anything else.

She turned her head toward the sky. “We should see them soon. They’ll be here soon.”

“Yeah,” said Stoner. He turned his head and looked toward the sky as well.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” said Breanna.

“Great day for a picnic,” said Stoner.

He would kiss her. He must. He felt the weight of her leg leaning against his.

“Hear something?” she asked.

“Just your heart. And mine.”

“I think I heard a plane.” She jerked upright, scanned the sky.

There was no sound except the water lapping against the sides of the raft and Ferris’s breaths, now growing labored. Stoner wondered if she was hallucinating.

Or inventing an excuse not to be so close to him. He wanted to kiss her.

She leaned over the side toward Chris. “How you doing?” she asked.

“Good exercise. Come on. Water’s warm.”

“Later I think.” She lay back down, her head against the sides of the raft. She’d oriented herself a little farther from him—but their legs still touched.

“So, Mr. Stoner, you want to tell us your life story?” Breanna asked.

“No.”

“What will you tell us then?”

“Noting,” said Stoner.

“Private guy,” said Chris from the water.

“I didn’t know I was expected to perform,” he told them.

“You must have some battle stories. You were in the SEALs, right?” She leaned over, balancing on her left arm. A twinge of pain flashed across her face—her shoulder and back were undoubtedly complaining—but she kept her voice light. “Tell me a story, and then I’ll tell one. We’ve seen some shit,” she added.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell stories.”

“Neither are we.”

She wanted him. That’s why she was flirting.

He’d kiss her. He had to kiss her.

Stoner began to lean forward. She watched, doing nothing.

Chris Ferris screamed. The sound was loud and so distorted that it took Stoner a second to realize it was a real scream.

The raft tugged backward, and down. A huge fin appeared on the side. The raft spun fiercely to the right.

Ferris screamed again. Breanna began to move—began to slide toward him.

Water furled.

“The belts, cut the belts!” yelled Stoner.

“Chris! Chris!”

four, five fins appeared in the water and a sound like switchblades snapping open and shut filled the air. Stoner threw his upper body over her, grabbing Breanna as she slid toward the side. Teeth snapped in the air, and once more the raft spun right. From the corner of his eye, he saw a gun on the floor of the small rubber boat, and with one hand, lunged for it. A demon shrieked. Stoner emptied the magazine, but the scream continued. He pulled at Breanna and then saw a knife in her scabbard. He bent for it and felt her pulling away. Teeth and a gray snout leapt from the water. He sprang back, but managed with the knife to cut the line. They shot backward, the knife flying.

“Chris!” she screamed. “Chris! Chris!”

Stoner used all his strength to keep her at the bottom of the raft, and still she managed to squirm away. He grabbed her by the throat and pulled her so tight she began choking for air. She he held on, certain she would jump out for her copilot if he didn’t. only when her body grew limp did he finally let go, collapsing himself over her.

Taj building, Dreamland

August 28, 1997, 2100 local (August 29, 1997, 1200 Philippines)

Dog took a large gulp of the extra-strong coffee and swallowed quickly, hoping the caffeine would rush to his brain cells.

As a fighter pilot, once or twice he had come close to resorting to greenies to stay awake at crucial points; he’d always hesitated, however, fearing they might become addictive—or worse, not work as advertised. If he had some now, he’d have swallowed them without hesitation. The few hours of sleep he’d managed had left him more groggy then refreshed, and as he walked down the hallway toward the elevator with his half-full coffee cup, he felt as if his head had been pushed down into his chest. He nodded at the security detail near the elevator, took another gulp of his coffee, then got into the car, waiting for it to trundle downward to the Command Center level.

Even though his quarters were just on the other side of the base, he’d slept on his office couch. He’d never down that before, anywhere.

Neither had he ever worried about losing Breanna.

Once, on the so-called “Nerve Center” mission, he’d had to authorize a plan to shoot her down. She was a passenger on a suicide mission to destroy an American city; the decision was a no-brainer.

This was different. She had been lost on a surveillance mission while technically under someone’s else command—was that the part that made it so hard to accept? Did he feel the mission was unworthy of her sacrifice?

Colonel Bastian commander a combat unit as well as a development facility. In either case, death was part of the portfolio. Who was to say what justified one instance and not the other? It was all the same to you, when you were gone.

He took another full gulp of the coffee, felt it burn is mouth. There was still a chance, slim but possible, that Bree and her people, his people, were alive.

They were alive.

Rubeo had just returned to the Command Center himself and was getting briefing from Greg Meades when Dog entered. Meades started over for the colonel, ignoring Rubeo’s frown.

The storm had passed out of the area a few hours before. Though they were mounting very aggressive patrols, the Chinese and Indians hadn’t fired on each other; they seemed to be spending much of their energy recovering from the initial battle and the storm. The diplomats were busting their backs trying to get a cease-fire in place.