Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (14 page)

 
          
It
could have been worse. Bree had put her foot down on a list of kung-fu heroes.

 
          
“Ten
minutes to launch area,” she told Zen, who was below on the Flighthawk deck.

 
          
“Ready
to begin fueling, Quicksilver,” he told her.

 
          
“All
right. Chris?”

 
          
“As
Li Po would say, ‘The sun rises with anticipation.’ ”

 
          
“Li
Po would be a Chinese philosopher?” Bree asked innocently.

 
          
“My
barber,” he answered, guffawing.

 
          
Zen
watched the countdown impatiently, waiting for the Megafortress to being the
alpha maneuver that would increase the separation forces and helped propel the
Flighthawk off the wing of the big plane. The vortices thrown off by the
Megafortress were a complicated series of mini-tornadoes, but the computer and
untold practice sessions made the launch almost routine. As the Megafortress
dipped and then lifted away, Zen dropped downward with the Flighthawk, hurtling
toward the sparkling ocean; the plane’s engine rippled with acceleration. He
pulled back on the stick, rocketing ahead of the Megafortress. No amount of
practice, no amount of routine, could change the thrill he felt, the
electricity that sparked from his fingers and up through his skull as gravity
grappled for the plane, losing—temporarily at least—the age-old battle of
primitive forces.

 
          
And
yet, he was sitting in an aircraft more than three, now four miles away, flying
level and true at 350 knots.

 
          
“Launch
procedure on Hawk Two at your convenience, Hawk Leader,” said Bree.

 
          
“Ready
when you are, Quicksilver.”

 
          
They
launched the second Flighthawk, then worked into their search pattern, a
250-mile narrow oval or “race-track” over the ocean. The earlier spin around
the surveillance area had shown there were a half-dozen merchant vessels in the
sea lanes but no military vessels. Likewise, the sky was clear.

 
          
“We
have a PS-5 at seventy-five miles,” said Chris, reading off the coordinates for
a Chinese patrol plane coming south from the area above Vietnam. Known to the
West as the PS-5, the flying boat was designated a Harbin “
Shuishang
Hongzhaji
,” or “marine bomber,” SH-5 by the Chinese;
the SH-5 had limited
antiship
and antisubmarine
capabilities. With a boat-shaped hull and floats beyond the turboprops at the
ends of its wings, the PS-5 belonged to an early generation of waterborne
aircraft.

 
          
Anything
but fast, the PS-5 was lumbering about three thousand feet above the waves at
140 knots. Zen noted the location, which was fed from Quicksilver’s radar
systems into C³. The long-range sitrep map showed the patrol aircraft as a red
diamond in the left-hand corner of his screen, moving at a thirty-degree angle
to his course.

 
          
Just
beyond it were two circles, civilian ships on the water, one a Japanese tanker,
the other a Burmese freighter, according to a registry check performed by
Lieutenant Freddy Collins. Collins handled the radio intercept gear, and had
been tasked with keeping tabs on ship traffic as well. The other specialist,
Torbin
Dolk
, handled the radar intercepts and
advanced ECMs, backing up and feeding Chris Ferris, the copilot.

 
          
“Getting
some hits just beyond our turnaround point,” warned Torbin. “Radar just out of
range.”

 
          
“Unidentified
ship at grid coordinate one-one-seven-point-three-two at two-zero-zero-one,”
said Collins. “Could be a warship.”

 
          
“Roger
that,” said Zen. He pushed the Flighthawks further ahead of the Megafortress,
running close to the edge of their control range at ten miles.

 
          
“Looks
like a destroyer,” said Collins.

 
          
“On
its own?” asked Bree.

 
          
“There
may be something beyond it but I can’t pick it out.”

 
          
“Definitely
something out there—I have two Su-33’s at two hundred thirteen nautical miles
right on our nose,” said Chris. “They don’t see us—turning—looks like they’re
high cap for somebody.”

 
          
“Have
another destroyer—looks like we have a location on the entire Chinese Navy,”
said Collins.

 
          
“Radar
contact is
Slotback
; we’re out of range. Computer
thinks Su-33’s or Su-27Ks, same thing,” said Torbin.

 
          
“That
would fit with the
Shangi
-Ti, the Chinese pocket
carrier,” said Collins. “Should be right about the edge of their patrol area.”

 
          
The
Su-33—originally designated Su-27K by the Russians—was a Naval version of the
potent Su-27, most of its modifications were minor, helping adapt the fighter
to carrier landings and midair refueling. It could be configured for either
fighter or attack roles, and despite its alterations remained as maneuverable
as any piloted aircraft in the U.S. inventory. The Chinese air-to-air missile
systems were not particularly advanced, but nonetheless got the job done, and
the 30mm cannons in their noses tossed serious hunks of metal in the air.

 
          
“Okay,
that puts the carrier one hundred nautical miles beyond Confucius,” said Chris
Ferris, collating all the data.

 
          
“Typical
CAP?”

 
          
“Usually
two Sukhois in the air; they should have two others ready to launch. They have
to go one at a time so it takes them a bit to cycle up. Endurance is limited.
We don’t have a lot of data on what sort of refueling procedures they use.
Carriers are brand-new.”

 
          
“What
do you say we change our patrol area to get a better look at them,” said Bree.
“Roll tape from four or five miles away. What do you think, Hawk Leader?”

 
          
“Hawk
Leader copies,” Zen told his wife. “I’ll wave to them.”

 
          
“Roger
that.”

 
          
Northern Philippines

 
          
Danny
Freah curled his fingers around one of the handholds at the side of the
helicopter as it took a sharp turn to the left, riding the nap of the jungle
valley toward their destination. It was his first ride in the Dreamland Quick
Bird, a veritable sports car compared to the Pave Lows and the MV-22 Ospreys he
was used to.

 
          
Starting
with a McDonald-Douglas MD530N NOTAR (for no tail rotor) Little Bird, the
engineers had made several modifications to the small scouts. The most
noticeable was the reworking of the fuselage, trading its thin skin for faceted
carbon-boron panels similar to the material used in the body armor Whiplash
troopers dressed in. even though comparatively light, the panels were too heavy
to cover the entire aircraft. However, the protection offered by strategically
placed panels meant the aircraft could take a direct hit from a ZSU-23 at a
hundred feet without serious damage.

 
          
Uprated
engines compensated for the weight penalty; the
single Alison
turboshaft
that motivated a “normal”
Little Bird was replaced with a pair of smaller but more powerful turbo based
on an Italian design. The techies joked the motors had been taken from
supercharged spaghetti makers; they were in fact intended for lightweight
hydrofoils and had a tendency to overheat when pushed to the max. However, the
little
turbos
delivered over seven hundred horsepower
(actually, 713.2) apiece, compared to the 650 generated by a standard Alison,
itself no slouch. The fuselage now had a triple wedge at the bottom, the
blisters helping accommodate additional fuel as well as adding hard-points for
Hellfire missiles and other munitions. A pair of 7.62mm chain-guns were
embedded in the oversized landing skids, so that even when on a transport
mission, as it was now, the aircraft was never unarmed.

 
          
I
was impossible to effectively reduce the helicopter’s radar signature; flying
more than a few feet off the ground would make it visible to any powerful
active radar. The NOTAR helped funnel its heat signature, however, making
if
difficult to detect with infrared gear. It was
relatively quiet as well, and could cruise at just over 170 knots; its top
speed was beyond 220, though no one was entirely sure, due to the performance
limits placed on the engines until the overheating problems were solved.

 
          
The
Quick Bird couldn’t quite keep up with the Osprey, which cruised around four
hundred knots, nor did it have the range of the Pave Low or even the ubiquitous
Blackhawk, but the little scout was clearly an improvement over the AH-6
Special Forces-optimized Little Bird, and that was high praise indeed. Easily
transportable by cargo plane, two had been packed inside “
Quickmover
,”
the MC-17 that brought Danny and his team to the Philippines. Without breaking
a sweat, off-loading them at the Philippines Air Force base had taken the crew
less than ten minutes.

 
          
Danny
glanced at the paper map in his lap, trying to correlate it and the satellite
snaps he had on his clipboard with what he was seeing out of the bubble of the
helo
cockpit. The southeastern islands of the Philippines
were pristine jewels of unfettered nature, wild amalgams of jungle, volcano,
and desert island. The Quick Birds’ destination sat on the side of one of these
gems, now less than five minutes away. Somewhat overgrown, the base had served
as first a Japanese, and then an Allied, airport during World War II.
Afterwards, it had seen use as a reserve and emergency airstrip and then a
remote training area, its concrete ran nearly 2,500 yards, more than enough for
the Megafortresses to land and take off—once the jungle was cleared away and
steel mesh put down to even out the rough spots.

 
          
“There
it is,” said the help pilot, pointing ahead. “We got that spot at the north end
we’ll try for, Cap,” said the pilot.

 
          
“Good,”
said Danny. The satellite photo seemed to show about seventy-five yards of
clear area at the northern end, but even without pulling up his binoculars,
Danny could see there were thick vines covering a good portion of it.

 
          
“Couple
of clear spots I think,” added the pilot, dropping his airspeed to hover.

 
          
“Let’s
survey the area before we land,” said Danny. “I know you don’t have too much
fuel, but I’d like to get a feel for the terrain first.”

 
          
“Not
a problem,” said the pilot, radioing the second
helo
.

 
          
The
airstrip edged out over the sea, paralleling a cliff that hung over a
rock-strewn, sandy beach. The light-blue water revealed it was partly protected
by coral reefs. Just to the south was a jutting stone, an oddly shaped piece of
yellow rock that would provide a good point for one of their radar surveillance
units. A road had once wound into the jungle near the southwestern end of the
strip; from the air it seemed almost entirely overgrown.

 
          
Though
it wasn’t visible, a village lay about seven miles to the south, at the extreme
tip of the island. According to their briefing papers, there were less than a
hundred people there. The rest of the island was uninhabited.

 
          
“All
right, let’s get down and get to work,” Danny told the pilot.

 
          
The
Quick Bird managed to find a clear spot on the gray-brown concrete big enough
to land nearly side by side. Gear off-loaded, the two choppers tipped forward
and rose, leaving Danny and his six men alone with a collection of
flamethrowers, buzz saws, and other jungle-removing gear.

 
          
“All
right, we have forty-five minutes before the helos get back with the rest of
our gear,” Danny told his men. “Half hour after that, the mesh for the runway
should start arriving, powder and Bison, I want a landing area hacked out so
the helos can get down without breaking our stuff. Nurse, you and
Jonesy
do a perimeter sweep south and west. Pretty boy,
Blow—you guys do the same north and east. No chances, okay? I’ll set up the com
gear.”