Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (11 page)

 
          
The
Su-33’s were launched with the help of a special catapult system on a ramped
deck, then recovered with the help or arrestor gear. It was an awkward system
in some respects, still in need of refinement; even with the ramp, the heavy
Sukhois dipped low over the bow on takeoff, and botched landings were
particularly unforgiving. The maritime versions of the planes were fairly short-ranged,
and the Dauphins’ ASW gear somewhat old. But the crews were well trained and
dedicated.

 
          
And
unlike the Mao, which had originally been built by Russia, the two pocket
carriers were an all-Chinese design—not counting, of course, certain useful
items of technology that had originated abroad and found their way
surrepitiously
to Asia.

 
          
Know
white, be black.

 
          
Fann’s
thought and gaze turned southward, in roughly the
direction of the Spratly Islands. Another task force was making its way
northward there, this one also centered around an aircraft carrier—the Indian
Vikrant. Just out of dry dock where she had received new avionics and a ramped
deck, the ship was roughly the same size as the
Shangi
-Ti,
though its basic layout harked back to World War II. Originally built by the
English and refurbished several times, she boasted eighteen Harrier II jump
jets, along with four or five helicopters and one rather limited radar plane.

 
          
Ostensibly,
both forces were sailing into the South China Sea to protect ships bound for
their home ports. The reality was more complicated—and less so. On their
present courses, it would take only a few days for them to meet.

 
          
Everything
Chen did aimed at that moment of intersection.

 
          
He
himself commanded five ships. The naked eye, all were noncombatants, weak and
vulnerable sisters that had no business near the caldron of battle. Four were
similar to the small freighter on whose bridge he stood. They looked innocent,
but their simple superstructures and wide hulls were crammed with spying gear,
and their sophisticated communications devices kept them in constant touch
though they were spread across several thousand square miles of ocean.

 
          
The
fifth vessel, still far to the north, was unlike them in many ways. To the
naked eye from one hundred yards, it looked only like a decrepit oil tanker.
But it held Chen’s greatest tool—robot planes the scientists called Dragons.
They would not be available for several days. Even then, it was doubtful what
the aircraft could accomplish; they were still experimental.

 
          
They
would extend his eyesight, which was enough. His more conventional tools were
sufficient to his larger purpose.

 
          
Know
white, be black. Be a model for the empire.

 
          
Chen
satisfied, put down his glasses and went to have his morning tea.

 
          
New
Lebanon, Nevada (near Las Vegas)

 
          
August
21, 1997, 1530 local

 
          
Jeffrey
“Zen” Stockard had faced considerable danger and hardship during his Air Force
career; he had gunned down MiGs, nailed enemy antiaircraft sites, and lost the
use of his legs in a horrific accident while testing robot fighters. He’d dealt
with enemies ranging from poorly trained Libyan pilots to highly polished
government bureaucrats, vanquishing all. His confinement to a wheelchair had
not prevented him from deftly directing one of the most important programs at
Dreamland. If any man might truly earn the title “courageous,” it was Zen
Stockard. If he was not fearless—no man in full possession of his wits is
completely devoid of some silver of fear—he was so much a master of fear as to
be without peer in military service.

 
          
There
was one thing, however, that turned his resolute will into quivering mass of
jelly:

 
          
The
whine of a dentist’s drill.

 
          
Zen
took a last, sharp breath as the dentist closed in, aiming at a molar deep in
his mouth. The way had been prepared with a heavy dose of Novocain, and in
truth Zen couldn’t feel much of anything as the drill bit touched the tooth.

 
          
But
he could hear its nerve-wracking, cell-tingling howl, a shriek of devastation
so violent it reverberated in the suddenly hollow ventricles of his heart.
Pain, incredible pain, pulsed through every vein, every artery, every
capillary, coursing through his body like hot electricity. The world went
black.

 
          
And
then, thankfully, the storm broke. Pain and fear retreated. The viper had
stopped his hiss.

 
          
Only
to gather strength for a curdling scream five octaves higher as it tore through
the vulnerable enamel and weakened dentin of the defenseless back tooth.

 
          
“Got
to get it all,” growled the dentist, as if Zen had somehow hidden part of the
cavity to spite him.

 
          
The
worst thing was, the sadist enjoyed it all. When he finally stopped, he smiled
and held the drill triumphantly in one hand, waving it like a victory flag.

 
          
“See—that
wasn’t bad at all, right?”

 
          
“
Awgrhfkhllmk
,” said Zen. It was the most coherent sound he
could manage with his mouth full of dentist tools.

 
          
“Geez,
you’d think I was an Air Force dentist.” Dr. Gideon—Ken to friends and victims
alike—poked fun at the Air Force whenever possible. His discharge papers from
the Navy were prominently displayed in the hallway.

 
          
Sure
they discharge him. He was a dentist.

 
          
“
Awgrh
,” said Zen.

 
          
“Maybe
I’ll break for coffee,” teased Gideon.

 
          
“
Awgrh-agrh
.” Zen tried to make the mumble sound threatening,
but there was only so much you could do with a sucked clawing at your gum.
Gideon picked up another tool and shot cold air into the hole he had just
created.

 
          
The
pain nearly knocked Zen unconscious.

 
          
“You
know, Jeff, I really have to compliment you. You’ve become a much better
patient over the past year. Must be your wife’s influence.”

 
          
“
Awrgr-kerl-wushump
.”

 
          
“Yeah,
Breanna is a perfect patient. Never a word of pain. I don’t think she needs
Novocain at all. Wonderful woman. You’re lucky to have her. You guys should
think about kids.”

 
          
“
Awrgr-kerl-wushump
.”

 
          
Gideon
took Zen’s garbled protest as an invitation to expound on the joys of
fatherhood. He had three children, all between the ages of five and ten. They
all loved to play dentist—more proof that evil hereditary.

 
          
“Due
for their checkups soon,” added Gideon. “We started ’
em
young.”

 
          
“I
thought child abuse was illegal in this state,” said Zen. With the Novocain and
dental equipment, the sentence came out sounding like “
thickel
giggle
hissss
.”

 
          
“Yeah,
they’re cute, all right. You ought to think about having some. Seriously.”

 
          
Gideon
prolonged Zen’s agony by polishing down the filling and then using what looked
and tasted like old carbon paper to perfect the bite. By the time he was done,
Zen suspected the dentist could see himself in the surface.

 
          
“Very
good,” said Gideon, standing back as if to take a bow. “Want to grab coffee?
I’m free for the rest of the day.”

 
          
“You
just want to see me with coffee dribbling down my face,” said Zen.

 
          
The
actual sound was more like: “
Yuwwa
see
muf
fee
dippling
dowt
mek
fack
.”

 
          
“What
language are you speaking, Jeff?”

 
          
“Novocain.”

 
          
“See
you in six months.”

 
          
“Not
if I can help it.”

 
          
The Nevada Desert

 
          
Mark
Stoner shifted his eyes from the highway to the bluffs in the distance and then
back, scanning every possible place an ambush might be launched from. It was
the sort of thing he couldn’t turn off; ten years as a covert CIA officer on
top of six years as a SEAL rewired your brain.

 
          
Not
that he or Jed Barclay, the man driving the car, were in any danger of being
ambushed. Coming from Washington in a scheduled flight offered expediency, but
led Stoner to insist on a number of precautions, most of which caused Barclay
to roll his eyes: dummy reservations, Agency-supplied false documents, even an
elaborate cover story designed to be overheard—all routine precautions for
Stoner. The fact they were traveling to a top-secret,
ultrasecure
facility changed nothing.

 
          
Stoner
had never dealt with Whiplash before, and knew only vaguely about Dreamland. He
tended to be agnostic about organizations and people until he saw them under
fire; so he had formed no opinion on Whiplash, or even on Jed, though his youth
and overabundance of nervous energy tended to grate.

 
          
Stoner
noticed a small pile of rocks ahead, off on the right, seemingly haphazardly
piled there.

 
          
“Security
cam,” he said.

 
          
“Yeah.
They’re all along the road,” said Jed. “We’re being watched via satellite too.”

 
          
Stoner
cracked the window slightly, listening to the rush of air passing over the car.
The road changed abruptly, taking a sharp turn down into a suddenly exposed
ravine. Barclay had to slow to barely ten miles an hour as he made his way
through a series of switchbacks. Undoubtedly that was the idea, and Stoner
noticed the random rock piles were now much closer together.

 
          
They
must have remote weapons as well as sensors here, thought Stoner.

 
          
These
guys knew what they were doing, at least in terms of guarding their perimeter.
There’d be holes, though. There always were.

 
          
The
dirt road at the base of the slope extended for roughly a quarter mile, then
suddenly trailed off. Jed drove about two hundred yards further, then stopped
the car. They looked to be in the middle of nowhere. “Wrong turn?” asked
Stoner.

 
          
“No.
You wanted to do it the hard way. I told you, if we didn’t go through Edwards—”

 
          
“Easier
to keep it compartmented.”

 
          
“If
we don’t go through Edwards or get a direct flight, this is the way we have to
do it.” Barclay hit his radio scan, pushing the FM frequency to exactly 100.00.
all they could hear was static.

 
          
A
small cloud of dust appeared directly ahead. The ground began to shake. As
Stoner stared, the cloud separated into two Ospreys,
roto
-tipped
aircraft capable of hovering like helicopters. These were unlike any Ospreys
Stoner had ever seen, however; beneath their chins were swivel-mounted chain
guns similar to those used in Apache gunships, and there were triple-rack
missile launchers on their wings and the side of their fuselages.