Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

He’d lost something and had to turn back. At first, he didn’t know what it was. As he reached the second landing, he saw the luminescent white rectangle thrown on the concrete floor by a light panel below the banister rail.

He was looking for his daughter. It wasn’t Breanna as he knew now—it was Breanna as a four-year-old. In real life, he’d rarely, if ever, been with her at this age. He’d been divorced right after she was born, and sent overseas besides; he didn’t see much of her until she was twelve or thirteen, when he was back in California, and then D.C. In the dream, she had been with him when he started down the steps, and now he felt panic that she wasn’t there.

He kept on going up the steps, turning and twisting with each flight, expecting, hoping to find her. His knees and calf muscles started to hurt, the tendons pulling taut.

Why had he let go of her hand? How could he have come so far without her?

He told himself it was a dream, and yet that made the panic more real. He walked and he walked, the staircase unending.

Jeff Stockard joined him, not as a boy but as a man. In the dream, Jeff could walk, wasn’t Bree’s husband or even in the Air Force, but just a friend of his, a man trying to help. He asked where he’d last seen her, and assured Dog she’d be just up the next flight.

He pushed on, starting to run. “Where is she?” he said out loud.

Finally, he woke up. It took forever for his eyes to focus. When they did, he saw Jennifer had gone.

It wasn’t a surprise really—she was a workaholic, used to keeping odd hours; he knew he’d probably find her over in one of the computer labs working on the latest project. In a way, her habit of sneaking out late at night was a blessing; it lessened the chances of others getting embarrassed if they happened to trop over her in the morning.

But he wished she were here now. He wished he could fold himself around her warmth, sink into her, fall back to sleep.

He pulled the covers over him for a moment, but when his mind drifted back to the dream, he pulled himself out of bed, got dressed, and headed back to Dreamland Command.

Philippines

August 23, 1997, 2008 local (August 23, 1997, 0508 Dreamland)

From the outside, the Whiplash mobile command center looked like an RV trailer pained dark green, with twelve squat wheels and an array of satellite dishes and antennas. Inside, it looked like a cross between a powerplant control room and a frat-house living area. About two thirds of the interior was wide open, dominated by a pair of tables just big enough for a serious game of poker. They could be joined together and extended by panels that folded up and out from their sides. At the far end from the door was a counter with several video monitors; a large, flat television screen sat against the wall. The monitors were worked from a dedicated control station that looked like a slight oversized personal computer desk; the gear tied into Dreamland Command via a dedicated secure satellite link.

On the other side of the partition was a bathroom, a storage area crammed with spare parts for the computers, a com section, and a tiny “suite” that was intended as a bedroom for the Whiplash commander. Since the trailer always had to be manned, Danny Freah had found it more expedient to sleep in a tent on their last deployment and intended to do so this time as well—assuming, that is, he ever went to bed. He’d been up since they landed.

Quicksilver’s crew sat at the pushed-together tables, going over their patrol for Stoner—and just as importantly, themselves. though exhausted, they’d described the encounters minutely, several times pausing to work out the exact details. Stoner listened impassively; his only comments were aimed at the Kali weapon. Unfortunately, the Megafortress had gathered relatively little data on the missile.

“So why are these guys shooting at each other?” Zen asked him finally.

“They don’t like each other,” said the spook blandly. “Advances their agenda.”

“Yeah.”

Stoner shrugged,

“All right, it’s getting late,” said Bree. “We can all use some sleep.”

“I have to finish uploading the data,” said Collins.

“Yeah, me too,” said Torbin. “The radar hits we got on the way back kind of distracted me.”

“Which hits were those?” Stoner asked.

“Couple of anomalies we read as we tracked back here. Looked like radars coming on real quick and then turning off, but they were real weak. Collins got some radio signals as well. We think they’re spy stations.”

Stoner glared over the map spread across the table.

“No ships out there?” he asked.

“Not that we saw,” said Breanna. “You have a theory?”

“There could be spy posts on these atolls here.” He pointed his finger at some brown dots on the map. “That might be one way the Indians or Chinese are keeping track of what’s coming down the pipe. Or the Russians. Or us.”

“Us?” asked Zen.

“You never know.”

Danny looked over at the islands, which were part of the Spratly chain extending southward. The Spratly Islands—more like a vast series of atolls—were claimed by several different countries, including China, Vietnam, and the Philippines. For the most part uninhabitable mounds of rock, they were valuable because vast gas and petroleum deposits were supposedly located beneath them.

Not that most of the claimants needed such a good reason to disagree.

“We can dogleg off a mission and check it out,” said Zen.

“What if it’s defended?” asked Breanna.

“That’s why we use a Flighthawk.”

“We could get on those islands with the Osprey,” said Danny. “Give them a real look. MV-22’s due here in about an hour.”

“Yeah,” said Stoner. Danny thought it might be the first time he’d said anything nonbelligerent since he’d landed.

“I think we ought to recon it first,” said Zen. “You guys got enough to do here. Besides, we don’t even have a real location for you, do we, Torbin?”

The radar intercept expert looked like a blond bear, shrugging and shaking head. “I can get it down to a few miles. We can pass it on to Major Alou, have them take a look if they get a chance.”

“All right.”

“Sooner’s better than later,” said Stoner.

The others looked at him. Danny saw Breanna rolling her eyes.

Good, he thought to himself. It’s not just me. The spook is a jerk.

Aboard the trawler Gui in the South China Sea

August 24, 1997, 0823

Chen Lo Fann saw the two aircraft appear over the water, his powerful binoculars straining to follow them as they rocketed upward from the carrier.

The limitations of the Russian-made planes had been clear before the accident with the Americans, but Beijing had reacted with shock and dismay, sending a long, rashly worded message filled with outrage.

To his credit, the admiral in charge of the task force had not tried to hide what had happened; he could easily have blamed the Americans for the accident or even claimed they had shot down his plane. Instead, the transmissions back and forth to the mainland made it clear that he was a man of integrity. While his actions cold be questioned—he clearly should not have authorized his attack planes to fire at the Indian submarine from long distance—his honor could not.

Undoubtedly he would be rewarded for his honesty with disgrace.

Reinforcements were on the way.

Opportunity, Fann thought, yet the Americans had complicated the picture.

What if they prevented the inevitable confrontation? What if they forced the navies back?

Until the arrival of the Megafortresses, the American posture seemed clear. The Pacific Fleet, concentrating on protecting vessels bound for Korea and Japan, was too far north to intervene in a clash, nor did its commanders seem of much mind to do so. Diplomatically, there was a lean toward India, and relations with Mainland China were as low as, if not lower than, at any time since Nixon’s trip to Beijing a generation ago.

But the Megafortresses represented unwelcome change.

Chen had promised conflict. His position with the government rested entirely on that promise.

This was not a time for panic. Surely, fortune continued to smile. Within a day, if not hours, there would be two aircraft carriers sailing southward. The Indians must react to their presence.

Chen was sure the submarine would act tomorrow; he was staking is career on it. At that point, fortune would take over.

The Taoist master Lao Tzu said the river was king because it knew how to take the low path. The river did not shrink from its strength, but it bided its time.

The sea was merely the river at large.

The Megafortresses and their small escorts presented a difficult problem, but as Chen considered it, he realized they represented opportunity as well. Perhaps there was more potential than the mere conflict he had seen. Perhaps there was an opportunity others might only dream of.

Dreamland

August 23, 1723 local (August 24, 1997, 0823 Philippines)

Jennifer Gleason leaned back from the computer, rubbing her eyes.

“So?” asked Ray Rubeo, standing on the sides of his shoes. “Work or not?”

“It’ll work,” Jennifer told him.

“Good, let’s go tell your sweetheart. He’s still up in his office. I’ll have Commander Delaford meet us there.”

Jennifer felt her entire body flashing red.

“You know, Ray, you can be a real jackass,” she said, grabbing the Zip disk as it popped out from its drive.

“What?” asked Rubeo.

“We’re not in Junior high.”

“Hmmmph,” said her boss. He touched his small gold earring nervously, but said nothing else as they walked to the elevator. The computer labs were housed in the same underground complex as the Megafortress project, a convenient arrangement when Jennifer’s main responsibilities were the computers governing flight operations for both the Megafortresses and the U/MFs. Now, however, her duties were much more diverse. She often found she had to travel either to one of the other bunker areas or to Taj, the main administrative building that also housed Dreamland Command and some of the labs dedicated to the UMB. While she could have a car or an SUV, Jennifer found it much more convenient to get around by bike. As they walked down the ramp, she reached into her pocket and took out two large rubber bands, which she used to keep her pants legs from fouling the chain.

“You’re not cycling, are you?” hissed Rubeo.

“Why not?”

“We’ll take my car.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Rubeo said something under his breath.

“You shouldn’t talk to yourself, Ray.” Jennifer stopped and rolled the bands over the legs of her jeans, refusing to make eye contact. “It just reinforces the eccentric stereotype.” She took out another band for her hair and tied it back, then picked up the bike and rode over to the Taj.

She parked her bike—there was no need to lock it at Dreamland—and went inside to the notoriously slow elevator as Rubeo appeared in the lobby doorway. Finished with its complicated security protocol, the elevator doors began to close. Under other circumstances, Jennifer would have pushed the hold button, and clearly Rubeo expected her to, walking toward her nonchalantly.

Too damn bad, she thought to herself, letting them slam closed as she looked right at him.

Chief Master Sergeant Terrence “Ax” Gibbs met her in the hallway outside Dog’s office.

“Ma,am, pleasure to see you,” said Ax. “Colonel’s inside; I’m on my way to get him a little coffee. You want a little something?”

“Not really.”

He smiled. “A pineapple Danish maybe?”

“Well, you twisted my arm. Thanks, Chief.”

“You know, you really should call me Ax,” he said.

“I’ll try to remember.”

He smiled, bowed—actually, really, truly, bowed—then vanished through the door to the stairway.

Jennifer went into Colonel Bastian’s outer office, a medium-sized bullpen dominated by Gibb’s desk. Sally, a staff sergeant who oversaw much of the paperwork in Ax’s absence, greeted her and told Jennifer the colonel was inside on the phone.

“I have to wait for Dr. Rubeo and Commander Delaford anyway,” said Jennifer. She sat down in one of the metal folding chairs lined up against the wall. The metal chairs had recently replaced a set of plush velour seats. Jennifer suspected that was Ax’s doing, not Colonel Bastian’s. the chief master sergeant had a simple but straightforward philosophy regarding visitors—discourage them as much as possible. Most of the scientist grumbled privately about the hard seats; the military people didn’t seem to notice.

“So you beat me,” said Rubeo, entering the office. He looked out of breath, as if he had taken the stairs, though that was unlikely. “Congratulations.”

“I didn’t know it was a race.”

“The colonel is off the phone,” said Sally.

“He expects us,” said Rubeo. “Is Delaford in there?”

Before the sergeant could say anything, Rubeo pushed inside with a brisk but short knock. Jennifer followed a few paces behind; there was no reason to wait now.

“We’re ready to deploy Piranha,” said Rubeo before he even sat down. “The new E-PROMs will be down within the hour. All we have to do is select a recovery site for them to default to.”

“Already?” said Colonel Bastian.

Rubeo touched his small gold earring. “Of course.”

Anyone else saying that might have smiled. The scientist was dead serious and even a little dismissive.

Jennifer watched as a small smile curled at the corner of Colonel Bastian’s mouth. She hated calling him Dog; Tecumseh was such a beautiful, different name, and it described him perfectly—tough and solid, protective, yet capable in a gently way. It suggested thick muscles and, at the same time, nooks where you cold let your fingers linger.

“Some of the Navy people are drawing up plans for a makeshift warhead,” added Rubeo. “There are guidance issues, however.”

“I doubt it’ll be necessary.”

“Gives them something to do,” said Rubeo. “Otherwise, they tend to bother my people.”

That wasn’t true—the Navy people and the Dreamland scientists got along very well.

Ax opened the door, backing in with a tray of coffee and soda. Lieutenant Commander Delaford came in behind him, looking rumpled and tired. He’d left the computer lab about an hour before to take a nap.

“Don’t you ever knock?” Rubeo asked Ax.

“Hey, Doc, got you some of that green tea you like. Got some coffee for your Navy friend, needs it. Pepsi for you, ma’am. Diet, of course.”

Ax winked as he gave her the soda and Danish. She noticed she was the only one with pastry,

“Thanks, Chief.”

“Ax. Call me Ax. More papers for you, Colonel. When you get a breather.” He disappeared through the door.

“I’m just telling the colonel we’re ready to deploy,” said Rubeo. The tea actually seemed to have an effect—he seemed almost human.

Almost.

“I’d like to make another recommendation,” Rubeo told Colonel Bastian. “I want to add the UMB to the search matrix. It can survey the entire area and stay on station for nearly twenty-four hours. We could incorporate some of the testing schedule—”

“The B-5 has only had a dozen flights,” said Dog. “No way.”

“Colonel, the idea of Whiplash is to test new technology in real situations,” said Rubeo.

Dog grimaced—his own words were being used against him.

“The UMB has a long way to go,” said Dog. “There have been difficulties with the engines, as well as delays with the control surfaces.”

“The hydrogen-fueled engine would not be necessary for this mission,” said Rubeo. “Otherwise, Colonel—”

“And besides,” said Colonel Bastian,” the UMB’s pilot is in the Philippines.” He glanced at Delaford, silently reminding him with a half-nod that he knew nothing about the UMB and had not heard any of his highly classified discussion. Delaford had been at Dreamland long enough to nod in reply.

“The UMB pilot is superfluous,” said Rubeo. “Four different scientists, myself included, are trained to handle the plane. During simulations—”

“The simulations are not the real thing. We’ve got a lot of other things to worry about right now. Let’s not get too complicated. End of discussion, Doc.” He put his arms down on his desk and leaned forward. “Good work getting Piranha ready.”

“Yes,” said Rubeo.

“Thanks,” said Jennifer. His glance at her felt like a physical thing, a caress. “We got a few breaks.”

“I want to deploy Iowa as soon as possible,” said Dog, turning to Delaford. “We can use it to gather more data on the Indian submarine. We have a location from the last encounter.”

“I’m with you, Colonel,” said Delaford.

“Tonight if we can. I’ll fly it myself.”

“Ensign English and I will be ready,” said Delaford.

“We’ll want technical people as well.” Colonel Bastian turned to Rubeo. “How many other command sets for the device?”

“We’ll have the backup and one additional unit ready within twenty-four hours,” said the scientist. “But they’ll have to be installed in the Flighthawk bays. We can do two more planes. We’ll need two full teams, though. I’d say about—”

“I’m in,” interrupted Jennifer. “On the technical team, I want to go.

“It’s not your project,” said Rubeo.

“Baloney—I handled all the communications compressions, and the native intelligence sections on the probe. I just fixed the E-PROM for you. I should be there.”

“I’d agree,” said Delaford.

Rubeo rolled his eyes but gave up—on her, at least. “Colonel, if I may—your place really is at the Command Center. Captain Teijen can fly the aircraft.”

“I think I’ll make the call on personnel, Doctor, especially on military assignments. If you care to recommend more technical people. I’m all ears.”

Dog listened as Delaford and Rubeo ran down the possibilities of technicians to handle the mechanical systems of the Piranha device. They were talking about twenty people, a small portion of the development team but far larger than a normal field deployment under Whiplash. It was one thing to send military people into a combat zone, and quite another to put scientists there. Nonetheless, if they were going to use Piranha, they had to support it adequately.

“All right,” said Dog finally. “Pick the people you want. You and Ensign English will fly in Iowa. We’ll go straight out and deploy the device, assuming we can get a reasonable fix on the sub’s location.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Dog rose, indicating the meeting was over. There were two lit buttons on the bank for encrypted calls, indicating calls on hold. As the others got up and filed out, he put his eyes down at his desk, pretending to study the papers there. He didn’t want to be caught eyeing Jennifer, but it was difficult. Finally, he glanced up, and saw the slight sway of her hips through the doorway. It wasn’t in any way provocative, it was just walking—but desire rushed into his veins nonetheless. He sat back down in his seat, took a sip of his coffee, then punched one of the buttons on hold without waiting for Ax to tell him who it was.

“Bastian.”

“Um, Colonel, good,” said Jed Barclay. “Sir, uh, standby for the President of the, um, United States.”

Dog sat upright in his seat.

“Colonel, how the hell are you?” said President Kevin Martindale breezily. The President had taken a liking to Colonel Bastian early in his administration, and his tone always implied that they were friends.

“Sir, very well.”

“Good. Now I’ve had the full briefings, and even young Jed here has filled me in, but I’d like to hear from you—the Chinese plane. What happened?” asked the President.

Dog explained carefully and as fully as he could, then segued from that into a description of the ensuing engagement between the Sukhois and the Indian sub, which had resulted in the sinking of the oil tanker and the probable loss of three men.

“Thank you, Dog.” The President’s voice remained friendly; they could had been discussing a hunting trip where they’d come up empty.

“Sir, we do have plans in place now to track the Indian submarine,” Dog added.

“Well, you carry on, Colonel,” said the President. “I’m afraid I have some pressing matters.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” said Dog reflexively. It was doubtful that the President heard his last few words; the line had snapped dead before he finished.

His intercom buzzed. Dog picked it up and barked at Ax. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that was the President on hold?”

“Didn’t know it was the President,” said Ax. “It was Mr. Barclay, as far as I knew. And he wasn’t on hold more than ten seconds. Line two Admiral Allen. He’s spitting bullets.”

“Why?”

“Born that way.”

“Listen, Ax, I’m going to be deploying to the Philippines—”

“Camp Paradise, huh? Pack a bathing suit, and a raincoat—there’s monsoons this time of year.”

“Thanks. Make sure everything’s in order. Is Major Ascenzio still in the secure center?”

“Far as I know, Colonel. How long will you be gone?”

“A few days.”

“Just wanted to know how many signatures I’ll need to forge.”

“Very funny, Ax.”

Dog punched the phone button and got a tired-sounding lieutenant on Admiral Allen’s staff.

“The admiral wants to speak to you, sir,” said the lieutenant.

“That’s why I’m here,” said Dog.

“Tecumseh, what the hell is going on?” said Allen, coming on the line a few seconds later.

“Not exactly sure what we’re talking about, Admiral.”

“I hear from my sources you’re looking for authority to fire at Chinese vessels.”

“Not at all, Admiral.”

“Don’t give me that crap. What are you trying to do, Colonel? Start World War III?”

“Admiral—I don’t know where that rumor came from,” said Dog. “I haven’t asked for authority to do anything.”

“What happened with the tanker?” asked Allen.

“The Chinese aircraft were firing at an Indian submarine,” Dog told him.

“Which conveniently disappeared.”

“We have tape of the incident,” said Dog. He wondered if Allen was being sabotaged by enemies over at the Pentagon—or if he was the target. “The details should have reached you by now.”

“They haven’t. I want to see it.”

“I’m sure if you called over to the NSC—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” said Allen.

“Admiral, my hands are tied.”

“From now on, you check with my people before running any more missions.”

“I can’t do that, Admiral,” said Dog. “And I won’t.

the line went dead.

Philippines

August 25, 1997, 0600 local

From the way he looked at him, Zen could tell Stoner was wondering how he managed to get from his wheelchair to inside the airplane, and how he maneuvered once there. It was the sort of question everyone had, though almost no one asked.

There were a lot of things no one asked. At first, this was fine with Zen—he couldn’t stand bullshit sympathy, which was always in the air whenever an AB—an able-bodied person—asked about his useless legs. Gradually, however, people’s avoidance of the topic began to annoy him, as if by not saying anything they were pretending he didn’t exist. Now his attitude was complicated. Sometimes he thought it was funny, sometimes he thought it was insulting, sometimes he thought it was ridiculous, sometimes he thought it was almost endearing. Watching how a person handled the awkwardness could tell you a lot about them, if you cared.

In Stoner’s case, he didn’t. he didn’t like the CIA agent, probably because he’d copped an attitude toward Danny. He was one of those “been-there, done-that” types who spread a know-it-all air everywhere he went. Stoner had suggested he come along to get a firsthand look at things; Major Alou and Bree had thought it a good idea.

“We go up the ramp, Stoner,” Zen told him, pushing his wheelchair toward the ladder that led down from the crew area of the Megafortress. When Zen reached the stairway he swung around quickly, backing into the attachment device the Dreamland engineers had added to all of the Flighthawk-equipped EB-52’s. The Zen Clamp, as they called it, hooked his chair into an elevator they’d rigged to work off electricity or stored compressed air, so no matter what was going on with the plane he had a way in or out. Two small metal panels folded down from the sides of the ladder; Zen backed onto them and then pulled thick U-bolts across the fronts of is read wheels.

“Gimps going up,” said Zen, hitting the switch. He had to push back in the seat to keep his balance and avoid scraping his head; there wasn’t a particularly huge amount of clearance and, once moving, the elevator didn’t stop.

His greatest fear was falling out onto the runway. While it might be more embarrassing than painful, it was one bit of ignominy he preferred to avoid.

At the top, he backed onto the Flighthawk deck. He’d put on his speed-suit already, but Stoner would have to take one of the spares they kept during Whiplash deployment. He unlatched the wardrobe locker at the back of the compartment—an Eb-52 special feature—then wheeled back as Stoner came up.

“You have to put on a suit,” he told the CIA officer. “We pull serious Gs. Helmet too. I’ll show you how to hook into the gear when you sit down.”

Stoner selected the suit closest to his six-foot frame, pulling it over his borrowed jumpsuit. Zen stopped him when it was done, inspecting to make sure it was rigged right. It was, and he knew it was since he ‘d watched him suit up, but something about the spook’s presumption ticked him off.

“Life-support guy will be here by tomorrow,” said Zen, clearing Stoner to pass. “He’ll measure you up for a suit if you’re going to be flying with us.”

“This is fine.”

“Your seat’s on the left. Don’t touch anything.” Zen watched Stoner slip into the straight-backed ejection seat and begin to snap up. Ordinarily, he sat first—it was easier to maneuver into his seat if he could lean all the way over into the other station, but he could do it just as well with someone sitting there.

“Incoming,” he said, backing his wheelchair against his own seat. He set the wheel brake on the left side, then pushed his weight forward, beginning the pirouette into his seat. The techies had tried several modifications, including an experiment with a sliding track that let the ejection seat turn. They’d also played with a wheel-in arrangement that allowed Zen to use a special wheelchair during the mission, but they couldn’t make it ejectable.

Of course, he wouldn’t stand much chance going out. Unless, ironically enough, it was over water, where he could use his upper body to swim—something he did a lot during rehab.

He swung into place, curling his chest across and landing slightly off-kilter, but it was close enough. He wedged himself into place and pulled on his straps, then turned to Stoner, who’d already worked out the oxygen and com hook-ins on his own.

“All right,” Zen told him over the interphone. “Preflight’s going to take a while. You’re just a spectator.”

“Yes,” said the CIA officer.

“You see how to adjust your headphones?”

“Got it.”

“You can check the oxygen hookup—”

“Yes, I know.”

Been-there-done-that. Right.

Zen punched up C³ and went to work.

Upstairs on the flight deck, Breanna finished going through the main preflight checklist, then stretched her neck back and turned to Chris, who was doing another double check of the mission course they’d programmed earlier.

“So?” she asked.

“Ready to rock, Boss. You think we ought to give these atolls names?”

“Numbers are fine.”

“I’m thinking rock songs with a common theme. Say all Rolling Stones songs. Get it?”

“No,” she said.

“First up, ‘Angie.’ A, Angie. Get it?”

“Chris, maybe we should do the preflight again.”

“Your call. Next rock would be ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ ”

“That’s a Beatles song.”

“You are into this, huh?”

“How’s the weather?”

“Still sucks,” said Chris. “At least it’s not raining here.”

As he said that, lightening flashed in the distance.

“Somebody heard me,” said Chris.

“That or they’re reacting to your song titles.”

“Hey, I could do puns. Do not ask for whom the a-toll

tolls. John Donne,” he added, giving the name of the poet for the butchered line of verse.

They came off the runway swift and smooth, the big plane’s wings catching a ride on the stiff breeze blowing the storm front in. Breanna felt the wheels push up, the engines rumbling easily as they headed over the storm front. They got clear of the clouds and turbulent air, rising swiftly and then tracking toward the atoll.

“Angie in fifteen,” said Chris as they hit their waymarker.

“Quicksilver, this is Hawk Leader. Ready to fuel and prepare for launch,” said Zen.

“Copy that,” she said. “How’s our passenger?”

“Breathing.”

Zen’s voice told her Stoner had rubbed him the wrong way. The feeling seemed to be unanimous among the Whiplash people who’d dealt with him. Breanna was trying to withhold judgement. So far the only trait she’d formed an opinion on was his eyes—they were nice.

“Begin fuel sequence on Flighthawks,” she said. “Prepare for launch.”

The gear blew Stoner away. The video being fed from the robot plane onto the large tube in front of him looked remarkably clear and focused, even though the aircraft feeding it was moving at nearly five hundred knots.

Barclay had been right; the Dreamland people did know what they were doing. Touchy bastards, full of themselves, but at least they were competent. He could live with that.

Zen had said the large display was infinitely configurable, but it wasn’t clear exactly what that meant. Though it was intended as a second Flighthawk station, its flight-control section had been locked out, and there was no joystick or any switch gear to control the robot. He had figured out how to stop, slow, and replay the main video feed on a second, dedicated screen on his left. A slider and a small panel very similar to standard VCR controls worked the tube; he could also select a bird’s-eye or sitrep view and a map overlay. Undoubtedly the damn thing made coffee too, if you hit the right combination of switches.

An atoll began to grow in the left-hand corner of the main screen. Stoner heard the pilot grunting and groaning as he flew. He ducked his body with the aircraft, as if he were in the cockpit, not sitting here miles away.

Stoner wanted to ask him about his nickname, Zen. Practitioners of the way were rare in the military, and it was possible, maybe even likely, it was just a nickname. It seemed an improbably one, unless it had come before the pilot had lost the use of his legs. Jed Barclay was his cousin, but hadn’t said very much about Zen on the way out.

“Slowing for our run,” reported Zen. “No radar spotted, nothing active.”

“I have nothing,” said Torbin, whose gear scanned for radar emissions.