Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Negative as well,” said Collins, who was essentially an eavesdropper on radio transmissions.

“Rain’s moving in pretty fast,” added the copilot. “Wet down there, Zen.”

“I brought my umbrella.”

The storm front a few miles to the north covered the rest of the atolls with heavy rain and fog. Even their high-tech gear would have trouble seeing through it.

“Looks like a lean-to on that northern end,” said Zen. “Stoner?”

He turned to the smaller screen, rewinding and then magnifying. Three trees had been laid across a large rock near the water.

“Might shelter a canoe, swimming gear,” Stoner told him. He worked the slider, getting a wide-angle view. “Don’t see anything else.”

“Stand by for a second run-through.”

“Hawk Leader, we have an unidentified flight one hundred-twenty miles southwest of our target atoll, very low to the water,” said Ferris. “Course unclear at the moment. Not getting an identifier.”

“Hawk Leader.”

“Hold that—positive ID. U.S. Navy flight. An F/A-18,” said the copilot, who had used special gear designed to “tickle” an unknown plane and find out if it was friend or foe.

“Hawk Leader. We’re done on Angie. What’s next—Bella?”

“That would be Atoll Two,” snapped the pilot. “Jeff, I’m going to take it up another five thousand feet over this storm. It’s pretty fierce.”

“Hawk Leader.”

Stoner pushed his head toward the main video screen as the robot surveyed the next collection of rocks and coral. He felt the big plane tilt backward, the acceleration pushing him against the seat. If Zen felt it, he gave no indication as the Flighthawk looped twice around the atoll, its cameras covering every inch of ground.

“Nothing,” said Zen finally.

“I concur,” said Stoner.

“On to the next stop,” said Ferris, the copilot. “Should I tell our guests what they’ll win if the prize is behind door number-three?”

“Go for it,” said the pilot.

“A goat.”

“No sex jokes, please.”

Her voice was so serious it took Stoner a second to realize Captain Breanna Stockard was joking. She was gorgeous, cool, and obviously well-trained. Stoner had never like the idea of women in the military, and as a SEAL had never actually had to deal with any, but Breanna Stockard might make him rethink his attitude.

Too bad she was married.

The third target was much larger than the others, more an island than an atoll. It had a U-shaped lagoon and what seemed to be skid marks from a boat on the beach. There was a tarp covering something about twenty yards from the water, half-hidden by the trees.

“No radar operating,” said Torbin.

“That tarp is big enough for one,” said Zen.

“Yeah, interesting,” said Stoner. “Can you get a close-up?”

“Copy that,” said Zen.

A severe wind whipped the trees. Zen’s grunts and groans increased. Stoner guessed it was hard to hold the small place on course at low speed, but the video remained steady and in focus. They couldn’t find anything besides the tarp.

The nearby fourth target proved to be a pile of coral perhaps ten by fifteen meters. There was nothing on the jagged surface.

By the time they reached the fifth atoll, rain had begun to fall. The computer compensated, but the view on the large screen was still grainy. Oddly, the smaller screen seemed easier to read. Stoner watched the Flighthawk come over the island at just under 180 knots and two thousand feet.

“There’s a buoy in the water, a line up the beach,” said Zen.

Stoner put his face practically on the screen and still couldn’t see it.

“Here,” said Zen. He did something with his controls and muttered something to the computer that Stoner didn’t quite catch; the large screen flashed with a close-up of a small round circle in the water, boxed in by hash marks drawn by the computer.

“Could be part of a long-wave device,” Stoner told him.

“Panel—there’s a radar set. Look at it. Yeah, small. Infrared.”

The screen blurred.

“Too much rain,” said Zen. “Torbin, you have anything?”

“Negative. No transmissions of any type.”

“Same here,” said Collins.

They took two more runs over the island, switching back and forth between optical, infrared, and synthetic radar scans. None of them produced a very clear picture as the storm began to kick up fiercely, but there was definitely some sort of installation here.

“Maybe a long-wave com setup,” suggested Stoner. “Surface radar, sends information out to ships.”

“That radio mast in the tree?” asked Zen.

Stoner had trouble seeing the tree, let alone the antenna. “Don’t know,” he said finally.

“Who’s it working for?”

“Good question. I’d guess Chinese. Have to see the equipment, thought. Could be the Indians. Early warning, something comes south. Radar might scan a hundred miles, give or take. Like to look at it up close, on foot.”

“Yeah,” said Zen.

Zen took Hawk One up off the deck, rising through the clouds to get out of the storm. Even with the computer’s help, it was a hitch flying low and slow in the shifting air currents, their violent downdrafts and rain pounding on his head.

There were two more atolls nearby, both now covered by heavy fog, clouds, and rain. He took a breath, checked his gear—instruments were all in the green, everything running at spec—then plunged back downward. He ran over both a little faster and higher than he wanted, but saw nothing.

“We still have some time,” Bree told him as he came off his last pass. “We can check out those islands to the east as we head for the patrol area. Beyond that, though, we’ll have to call it a day.”

“Hawk Leader.” Zen punched his mission map into the lower left-hand screen, got himself oriented, then checked his fuel panel. It’d be tight, but he could wait to refuel after the flyovers, then launch Hawk Two. He touched base with Ferris to make sure that would be okay, and got an update on some ships they’d seen. Most were civilians, sailing well clear of yesterday’s trouble spot.

“Two Indian destroyers off to the southwest, in the thick of the storm,” the copilot added over the interphone. “If they stay on their present course, they’ll reach the patrol area about five hours from now, maybe a little sooner. Depends on the weather, though. They may not get anywhere.”

“Maybe they’re heading for that atoll we saw with the radar,” suggested Stoner.

Zen grunted. He resented someone else cutting into his conversation. He avoided the temptation to cut him off the circuit, which he could do with the Flighthawk control board.

“More likely they’re scouting for the carrier group to the south,” injected Ferris. “About a day’s sail behind according to the intel brief.”

“I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

Zen took Hawk One back toward the ocean, riding down through the angry carpet of whirling wind and water toward the target, a doublet of coral and rock. The thick drops of precipitation rendered the IR gear useless, and the optic feed was nearly as bad. The synthesized radar did the best, but the Flighthawk’s speed made it nearly impossible to get any details out of the view. The computer assured him there were no “correlations to man-made objects” on the first group of rocks. Approaching the second, he saw a shadow that might be a small boat, or perhaps a large log, or even a series of rocks. He came in higher than he wanted, catching an odd wave of wind. Two more flyovers into the teeth of the storm failed to reveal anything else.

“I think it was rocks,” said Stoner.

“We’ll analyze it later,” Zen told him.

“Hawk Leader, we’re starting to get close to pumpkin time,” Breanna told him.

“Roger that. I need to refuel,” said Zen, pointing his nose upward.

Aboard the submarine Shiva , in the South China Sea

0852

“Up scope.”

Admiral Ari Balin waited as Shiva’s periscope rose. His arms were at his chest, his eyes already starting to narrow. He placed his finger deliberately on the handles as the scope stopped climbing, then began his scan with deliberate, easy motion.

The gods were beneficent; they had lost the noisy Chinese submarine, and were now in the middle of a storm that would further confuse anyone trying to track them. it was the perfect preparation for the next phase of their mission, a sign that theirs was indeed the proper path.

Satisfied there were no other ships nearby, Admiral Balin stepped back. Captain Varja, the submarine’s commander, took his turn at the periscope. Where Balin was slow and graceful, the younger man was sharp and quick; it was a good match.

They had down well so far. The weapon had worked perfectly, and the information that had come to them provided two perfect hits. The real test, however, lay ahead.

“Clear,” said Varja, turning away from the scope.

“You may surface,” Balin told him. He felt almost fatherly as the diesel-powered submarine responded to the crew’s well-practiced routine; they began to glide toward the surface.

As built, the Russian Kilo class of submarine possessed an austere efficiency. Their full complement was no more than sixty men; they could manage twenty-four knots submerged and dive to 650 meters. While their reliance on diesel and battery power had drawbacks, they could be made exceedingly quiet and could operate for considerable periods of time before needing to surface.

Shiva—named after the Hindu god of destruction—had been improved from the base model in several respects. Her battery array was probably the most significant; they nearly doubled her speed or submerged range, depending on how they were used. The passive sonar in her nose and the other sensors in the improved tower were surely important, with almost half again as effective a detection range as those the Russian supplied—and the Chinese copied. For Balin, the advanced automation and controls the Indian shipyard had added were most important; they allowed him to operate with half the standard crew size.

They too were the fruits of Hindu labor and inspiration, true testaments to the ability of his people and their future.

“We are on the surface, Admiral,” reported Captain Varja.

“Very good.”

Balin’s bones complained slightly as he climbed the ladder to the conning tower, and his cheeks immediately felt the cold, wet wind. He struggled to the side fumbling for his glasses.

As he looked out over the ocean, he felt warm again; peaceful. Dull and gray, stretching forever, the universe lay before his eyes, waiting for him to make the future coalesce.

The Chinese aircraft carrier should now be less than one hundred miles away.

He put the glasses down, reminding himself to guard against overconfidence. His role was to fulfill destiny, not to seek glory.

“We will stay on the surface at present course for forty-five minutes,” the admiral told the captain. “The batteries will be back at eight percent by then.”

“I would prefer one hundred percent,” said Varja.

“Yes,” he answered mildly before going to the hatchway and returning below.

Aboard Iowa, approaching the Philippines

August 25, 1997, 0852 local

Dog ran through the indicators with his copilot, Captain Tommy Rosen, making sure the plane was in good shape as they headed onto their last leg of the flight. In truth, the meticulous review of the different instrument readings wasn’t necessary—the computer would automatically advise the pilots of any problem, and a quick glance at the special graphic displays showed green across the board, demonstrating everything was fine, but the routine itself had value. Checking and rechecking the dials—or in this case, digital readouts—focused the crew’s attention. It was a ritual practiced by pilots since shortly after the Wrights had pointed their Flyer into the wind at Kitty Hawk; it had saved many a man and woman’s life, quite a number without their even realizing it.

Checks complete, Dog spoke to each crew member in turn, making sure they were okay. Again, the ritual itself was important; its meaning was far deeper than the exchange of a few words. It was ceremony, a kind of communion, strengthening the link that would be critical in a difficult mission or emergency situation.

All his career, Dog had been a fast-plane jock, piloting mostly single-seat interceptors. You were never truly alone, of course; you had a wingman, other members of your flight and mission package, gobs of support personnel both in the air and on the ground. There was, however, more of a feeling of being on your own; certainly you were more independent than in a big aircraft like the Megafortress. Flying the EB-52 was entirely different thing. As pilot, you were responsible for an entire crew. Your family, in a way; they were always in the back of your mind.

“All right folks. We’re about twenty minutes out. After we land and have the plane checked, I’d like to try and get back up in the air as quickly as we can. I know we’ve all taken naps, and we’re going to pretend we’re refreshed, but—seriously, now—if anyone feels tired, talk to me when we’re down. I know how hard it is to adjust.”

He didn’t expect anyone to admit they were beat, but still, he had to offer them the possibility. Most of the target area was covered by a slow-moving storm that made it difficult to patrol, and would certainly hinder the launch of the Piranha device. Being ready to go might be academic.

The portion of the panel at the left side of the dash that Dog had designated for the com link flashed gray and the words “DREAMLAND COMMAND LINK PENDING” appeared at the bottom. Dog authorized the link, and Major “Gat” Ascenzio’s face beamed into the LCDs.

“Quicksilver thinks it has a location on the Indian submarine,” said Gat. “On the surface, about seventy miles from the Chinese carrier. They’re having a difficult time with the weather; hard to get a definitive read.”

“Can you patch us together?” Dog asked.

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Gat. He turned away from the screen and the image popped gray. An instant later, the space was filled by a slightly scratched flight helmet.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Captain Stockard, good morning. We understand you have a possible location on the submarine.”

“That’s affirmative. A long-distance contact. The Flighthawks haven’t seen anything and our radar looks clean, though the storm’s pretty fierce. We’ll transfer the data. Be advised the Chinese have aircraft aloft north of the target area.”

“Copy.”

“They haven’t challenged us. We’ve been giving them a wide berth; they’re doing the same.”

“Good.”

Dog waited while Rosen and Delaford worked on the details from the uploaded information. “We’re about two hundred and thirty miles away, as the Megafortress flies,” said the copilot finally. “Half hour we’re there. If we push up the power we could get in range to launch Piranha in twenty minutes; maybe even a little quicker. Assuming they moved at top speed after submerging, we still have about thirty-mile radius, and we can cheat north toward the Chinese, where they’d likely be going.”

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

Chapter 4

Chopped

Philippines

August 25, 1997, 1013 local

Dog and his copilot kept Iowa in the holding pattern over the island, orbiting as a pair of C-130’s low on fuel made their way onto the runway. It had been roughly an hour since the change in orders, but already Admiral Woods was making his mark on the base, flying in Seabees and Marines to improve it so the base could also be used for patrols. An Orion and its support team had already arrived; another was due soon. Cubi Field, the former Naval Air Station at Subic Bay, was much larger and would have offered considerably better facilities and potential, but the political ramifications of a large U.S. force reappearing during election season made the Dreamland base the place to be. Dog couldn’t help but think another factor was involved: putting Navy people on the ground next to Whiplash was another way Woods could keep Whiplash under his thumb.

He seemed to want to do so personally—Dog noticed a C-12 VIP transport in the parking area as they took a turn waiting to be cued in to land.

“Admiral wants to see you in his headquarters ASAP,” shouted a combat-dressed Marine as Dog came down Iowa’s ladder a short time later. The Marine added the word “Sir” and snapped to attention, saluting and manipulating his M-16 so quickly it seemed a stage prop.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Bastian, tossing back a salute.

“Sir, I have a vehicle.”

“Thank you, son. I’ll get there on my own.”

“Sir?”

Dog ignored the Marine, scanning the area for Danny Freah or one of his people.

“Uh, sir, my orders—”

Dog turned toward the Marine, intending to tell him what he could do with his orders, but the pained expression on the young man’s face somehow pushed away his annoyance. “Tag along,” said Dog, quite possible speaking as mildly as he’d ever spoken to someone in uniform. “We’ll get there. It’ll be alright, son.”

The Marine’s expression didn’t change, but he was smart enough to follow without further comment as Dog strode up the long, dirt access road that paralleled the runway. A Herc transport hunkered in as he walked, its broad shoulders delivering more supplies for the Seabees swarming over the base. Two crews with surveying equipment were setting up near the aircraft parking area; another was already working on the far end of the runway. Large metal poles, the skeleton framework for a building or hangar, were being off-loaded from one of the C-130’s that had just landed. By the end of next week, the Navy would have a base here twice the size of Norfolk.

Sergeant Jack Floyd, otherwise known as “Pretty Boy,” guarded the entrance to the mobile Dreamland command unit. He snapped to attention as the colonel approached, then cast a rather jaundiced look at the trailing Marine. Pretty Boy had his carbon-boron vest on; his helmet hung off a loop at the side like a nail gun off a carpenter’s tool belt.

“Hey, Sergeant,” said Dog. “Where’s Captain Freah?”

“He and the guys snagged a local in the woods, Colonel,” said Pretty Boy. “Looks like she was spying on us. They’re bringing her up to the med tent. Liu says she’s got a concussion or something. Went for the stretcher, whole nine yards.”

“Okay,” said Dog, starting toward the small flight of stairs to the trailer.

“Uh, sir,” said Floyd. “Something you oughta know, uh, the admiral—”

“About time you got here, Bastian,” said Admiral Woods, opening the door to the trailer.

The Marine jumped to attention so quickly Dog thought he heard the air snap. Pretty Boy scowled deeply, his back to the admiral.

“Hello, Admiral,” said Dog. “Good day to you too”

Woods said nothing, disappearing inside. Dreamland’s ultra-top-secret facility was now crowded with Navy people. The lone member of the Whiplash team inside was Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez, who sat at the com panel toward the back.

“Out,” demanded Dog. “Everyone the hell out of here.”

“Belay that!” said Woods.

“Belay bullshit,” said Dog. “This is a code-word-classified installation. Everyone the hell out.”

“Belay that!”

Woods, his hands balled into fists that perched on his hips, stood in front of Dog, his face the color of a ripe strawberry. Dog’s was undoubtedly the same shade. It was only with the greatest effort he kept himself from physically pushing the Navy people out the door.

“Admiral, let’s be clear about this,” he said. “The gear in this trailer, let alone the network it connects to and the information it accesses, are covered by six different code-word clearances, none of which I guarantee you or your men have,” said Dog. “You’re not even cleared to know the existence of the damn classification.”

“And let me be clear about this,” said Woods. “You work for me.”

“The chain of command is going to make little difference in Leavenworth,” said Dog.

Dog wasn’t particularly tall; fight pilots rarely were. Woods was only an inch or two taller than Dog, though his frame held at least thirty more pounds. The two men glared at each other, their eyes only a few millimeters apart.

“Colonel, uh, I have a link pending here from NSC. Need your voice confirmation,” said Hernandez. Among other things, the Whiplash team member had helped make a daylight rescue under fire during Gulf War, but his voice now had a worried tremble to it.

Dog managed to unball his hands.

“I have to get that,” he told Woods. “The computer won’t let the communication proceed with anyone else in view, even if I wear headphones.”

“Understood,” said Woods.

The two men held each other’s glare for a few seconds more. Then simultaneously, Dog turned toward the com area, and Woods nodded to his men. They filed out quietly, undoubtedly glad to escape without having been scorched. Hernandez looked at Dog, silently asking if he should go too. Dog decided it might be an appropriate diplomatic gesture and nodded.

Woods stood quietly by the table, out of line-of-sight of the com screen. Dog, meanwhile, picked up a headset and spoke his name into the microphone. Jed Barclay’s face snapped into view.

“Hi, Colonel.”

“Jed. What’s up?”

“Wanted to brief you on the situation with China and India. Um, and um, to uh, well, the way you got the news, I would’ve preferred to give you a better heads-up.”

“Understood,” Dog told him. “You’re just the messenger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s all right, Jed. I’m a big boy,” said Dog. When he’d first met Barclay, he hadn’t thought much of the NSC aide; he was a pimple-faced kid who stuttered when he spoke. Hell, he was also a computer whiz, quite possibly as adept at the science as Jennifer Gleason, though his interests were more in international politics than hand-constructed integrated circuits. Barclay combined the technical knowledge with a surprisingly deft feel for foreign relations, and could analyze the international implications of anything from ATM machines to U/MFs. What he did for Dreamland and Whiplash—basically acting as a liaison for the NSC director and the President—involved perhaps one one-hundredth of his skills.

“Well, okay,” said Jed. He began running down the situation between China and India, starting with the present force structure.

Dog stopped him.

“I have Admiral Woods here,” he said. “Maybe he ought to listen in.”

“Okay. Sure. Good idea,” said Jed. While he authorized the feed from his end, Dog took off his headset and called Woods over.

The admiral too had calmed somewhat. He came over without saying anything, frowned, then looked at what was now a blank screen.

“You’ll have to give your name and rank to the computer,” Dog told him. “Just do it once, and do it in as natural a voice as you can. If the voice pattern is not already in the system, you’ll be asked for a retina scan and a fingerprint. You put your hand there.”

Dog pointed toward a small glass panel at the side of the auxiliary keyboard to the com set. Woods nodded.

“Authorize additional com link,” began Dog, starting off the procedure. He nodded at Woods, who spoke so slowly the computer asked him to repeat in a natural voice.

Dog suppressed a grin as Woods repeated his name, this time somewhat sternly. When he finished, the admiral started to laugh.

“Jesus,” said Woods. “It’s come to this.”

“Please maintain level composure,” snapped the computer.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It needs to look at your eyes. Poor choice of words,” said Dog.

Woods began to laugh. “What does it know? It’s a computer.”

Dog started to laugh too, though not quite for the same reason. The words had been chosen by Ray Rubeo, who was twice as arbitrary as any computer in existence.

Jed Barclay’s face came back on the screen.

“So here’s the thing,” said Barclay, launching back into the point he’d been making earlier. “The Indians use new technology, the Chinese feel they have to retaliate. Up the ante. They’re in big trouble domestically, and if they can’t go to war against us, and quite another for the Indians to do it. They have a second carrier en route; we suspect two more subs—nukes this time.”

“Two? The Xias?” asked the admiral, referring to the most advanced submarine the Chinese were known to have.

“Actually, Admiral, we think they’re Trafalgar clones. We’re still trying to develop information on them. that’s uh, what we want from Whiplash. I mean, from the Dreamland contingent.”

“Where would the Chinese have gotten British attack submarines?” asked Woods.

“Well, these aren’t Trafalgars per se,” said Jed. “Thougj we think they do have the pump-jet propulsion system. We’re pretty sure about that. The question is whether they’re some kind of Chinese take on the Akula or a totally different design. We’re really interested in the diving capability and we don’t have a sound signature, for obvious reasons.”

“You guys are losing me,” said Dog. “Give me a little background, okay?”

Woods explained the Akula was a very good Russian nuclear attack boat, capable of high speeds and deep depths. The British submarines were also among the best all-around attack subs in the world, though the Trafalgar class represented a slightly different philosophy, one that emphasized silence over sheer performance. Its pump-jet propulsion system was notably quieter than a traditional propeller-driver boat. With their hulls covered in a special rubber material and a range of other improvements, the submarines were about as quiet as anything in the ocean, including diesels using batteries.

“They can dive to about the same depth as the Akula,” said Woods, “though the Brits tend to be more conservative than the Russians. Pick your poison really—they’re both excellent subs. If the Chinese have anything similar to either, they’re pretty potent weapons.”

He turned back to the screen. “But nowhere in any briefing that I’ve seen has anyone said the Chinese have such advanced submarines. We haven’t seen them at sea, certainly. They had plans to purchase two Akula from the Ruskies, supposedly, but that hadn’t gone through. This is out of left field.”

“Which is my point,” said Jed. “The two boats left Behai eighteen hours ago. We have a good read on their initial direction, but beyond that we’re empty.”

“Behai? On the Gulf of Tonkin? There’s no facility there.”

“Yes, Admiral, exactly. The thinking is a shallow-water facility in some sheds about fifty yards from the waterline. They’re doing a history run on satellite photos. It’s at least technically feasible. Otherwise the subs just appeared from nowhere. Pacific Fleet has the northern coastline bottled up,” Jed added. “So we don’t think they could have snuck down past.”

Woods furled his brow.

“What’s most important,” Dog asked. “Kali or the subs?”

“The six-million-dollar question,” said Jed. “NSC is split. CIA wants both.”

“That’s not very helpful, Jed,” said Dog.

“Tactical situation to dictate,” said Jed. “Uh, the exact assignment would be Admiral Allen’s call. He’s already been informed.”

“Okay,” said Dog.

“That’s all I have,” said Jed.

“Thanks.” Dog cut the connection by pushing a button on the console. “My plan was to use Piranha to track the Indian sub,” Colonel Bastian told the admiral. “We can do the same for the Chinese. We have two units available; they can operate for roughly eighteen hours. We’re bringing in additional control units so we can run the Megafortresses in shifts gathering the data. We hope to have other probes out here shortly.”

“Right now, our orders are to keep the sea lanes open. That’s our top priority,” said Woods. “But I would say the more information about the Chinese submarines the better. From what Barclay just said, they’d probably be hunting for the Indian sub anyway. We might be able to catch them all together.”

“Okay.”

“Akula can be a true pain in the ass,” said the admiral, speaking as if from personal experience. He took a step away, thinking. “Can the Megafortresses look for the submarines while keeping tabs on surface shipping? Send back data, I mean.”

“You mean tell you what ships are down there while we’re running Piranha? That’s easy.”

“That’s what we’ll do. My carrier group will soon be close enough to handle the surface patrol. We’ll move in ASW units to help you.”

“Okay,” said Dog.

“I’ll talk to Admiral Allen right away. I know you’re one of the Jedi, Bastian,” he added. “I’ll try not to hold it against you.”

“I’m not really involved in Beltway politics,” said Dog.

Though the exact usage varied, “Jedi” was a term often applied to a group of military officers and others connected with defense issues who advocated different approaches to traditional forces and thinking. It was generally used in a disparaging way.

“You think the Navy’s obsolete,” said Woods.

“Not at all.”

“I’ve read the report that led to Whiplash,” said Woods. “Asymmetric technology edge,” he added. The phrase, which had been one of the section subheads, had become a buzz phrase in the administration—unfortunately, without the context that followed the headline.