Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (15 page)

 
          
Powder
picked up one of the four flamethrowers they’d brought to burn off the
undergrowth, and hoisted the pack onto his back.

 
          
“Hold
off on that, Powder,” Danny told him. “Don’t go starting fires until we have
firebreaks and everything else in place.”

 
          
“Just
making sure it works, Cap,” said Powder, flicking the trigger. The device
didn’t light at first, and Danny half-worried that the sergeant would set
himself on fire before he got it going. “Woo—what I’m talking about,” said
Powder as a long red flame jetted from the nozzle.

 
          
“Sometimes
I swear to God I’m a goddamn kindergarten teacher,” said Danny, shaking his
head.

 
          
“Powder
never made it to Kindergarten, Captain,” said Bison, taking out the chain saws.
“Got left back in preschool.”

 
          
Powder
put the flamethrowers back down. He took one of the large chain saws Bison had
laid out and fueled. “Wait till I get this little humdinger
goin
’,
Cap.
Gonna
call me Mr. Jungle.”

 
          
“Mr.
Jungle Rot, more like it,” said Bison.

 
          
“Just
get going,” Danny told them. “I want enough space for the MH-17 to land before
nightfall so we can get the trailer in.”

 
          
The
trailer was an RV adapted for use as Whiplash’s mobile command post.

 
          
“This
is what I’m
talkin
’ about,” said Powder, revving his
saw.

 
          
Aboard Quicksilver, above the South China
Sea

 
          
Zen
could see the two Sukhois on his long-range scan as he approached. They were
flying a figure-eight pattern over the aircraft carrier task force, their
patrol circle never more than twenty miles from the surface ships. Unlike an
American battle group, there was no radar plane aloft, and the carrier would be
vulnerable to an attack by any aircraft equipped with American Harpoon missiles
or even
Exocets
, which, at least in theory, could
strike from about twenty-five miles away. Of course, the Chinese were probably
counting on the radars in the Su-33’s to pick up approaching aircraft before
they were in range to attack, a not unreasonable expectation—unless the
aircraft attacking were American.

 
          
The
Flighthawks were not equipped for surface attack, and the Megafortress was not
carrying AGMs; nor were they authorized to attack the Chinese, or any ship for
that matter. If they were, the Chinese would be out one pocket carrier. The
stealthy Flighthawks began turning at five miles from the carrier, still
undetected by any of the screening radars. Zen split the Flighthawks, riding
Two ahead of Quicksilver and trailing with One, just in case the Sukhois
finally got curious. But they didn’t.

 
          
“Two
helicopters operating with the carrier,” reported Collins, who as analyzing
some of the signal intelligence and magnified visual information they’d
gathered.

 
          
“Probably
looking for subs,” said Ferris.

 
          
“Torbin,
do you have a plane near eight-four-zero, mark, three-two? Over that atoll”
asked Ferris.

 
          
“Uh,
something way down south there, beyond our range—probably just a bleep or an
echo,” said the radar-intercept specialist. Zen could hear him punching the
keys at his station. “Nothing. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

 
          
“No
ships there,” said Collins.

 
          
“Probably
just a weird flake out,” said Ferris.

 
          
They
continued south, tracking over the mostly empty ocean. Zen tried to stay sharp
by having the Flighthawks change positions, but this was a long and boring
patrol, especially after the long flight to get out here.

 
          
“Okay,
we have two ships traveling together, cargo containers. Tankers beyond that,”
said Collins finally, feeding Zen the coordinates. He put Hawk Two in trail
behind Quicksilver, then took One into a shallow dive toward the two
freighters. Traveling roughly a mile apart, the ships were stacked with cargo
containers, trailers that could be ferried by truck of train once ashore. The
containers could carry just about anything, and it was impossible to tell from
the air what they held.

 
          
Hawk
One nosed through some thin clouds, continuing downward through three thousand
feet. He could see an Australian flag flapping at the rear of the tanker about
three fourths of a mile away. He slid his right wing up slightly, gliding over
the starboard side of the vessel, the belly video cam freezing on the ship.
Collins, meanwhile, checked all of the ships against their listing, keeping
track of what was down there.

 
          
“Not
a known bad guy in the bunch,” he said.

 
          
“Lots
of little boats ahead,” said Zen, nudging back on the throttle so he was making
just under three hundred knots. “Let’s take a look.”

 
          
The
small boats were clustered around several atolls at the western side of their
patrol run. Two or three were fishing boats, flat-bottomed boats similar to
Chinese junks. The others looked like open whaleboats with large motors, odd
vessels to be this far from land, Zen thought.

 
          
“Brief
says there’s pirates and smugglers all through there,” said Collins. “Sometimes
they off-load at sea.”

 
          
Contraband
cargo often found its way to any of the various shores via boats; though the
dangers were

 
          
Many,
the rewards were high. Drugs, arms, and ammunition were perennial favorites,
but the real moneymakers here were mundane items, like cigarettes, booze, and,
of all things, women’s tampons. There was also the occasional cargo of humans
and, for the big operators, automobiles.

 
          
“I’ll
run over low and slow again,” said Zen. “See if we see any weapons.”

 
          
Most
of the boats had two or three people in them; in a few cases they seemed to be
tending nets. No weapons were visible.

 
          
The
Chinese aircraft carrier had made good progress in the hour or so since they’d
last seen him. Zen pushed the two Flighthawks into a one-mile separation,
running seven miles in front of the EB-52 at 28,000 and 31,000 feet as they
approached the group. The Sukhois were
noodling
along
at about four hundred knots a good five thousand feet below the lowest U/MF.

 
          
“Turn
at two miles,” said Bree. “Let’s get a full read on their radars, their
electronics, everything.”

 
          
“Still
not tracking us,” said Torbin.

 
          
The
Su-33’s passed over the carriers as Zen started to make his turn. All of a
sudden they hit their afterburners.

 
          
“Got
their attention,” said Chris. “We’re on their radar. “Two bandits, bearing—”

 
          
“Yeah,
I got ’
em
,” said Zen, who simply held his flight
pattern as the Megafortress continued in its southern bank. The Chinese
fighters apparently didn’t picked up the smaller planes with their passive gear
or their eyeballs, because as they passed, Zen tucked down over their wings.
Had he lit his cannons, the carrier would have had to scramble all available
SAR assets posthaste.

 
          
The
Sukhoi
pilots
jinked
downward sharply, kicking out flares and tinsel, undoubtedly mistaking the
small fighters for missiles.

 
          
“More
aircraft coming off the carrier,” warned Torbin.

 
          
“They
think the Flighthawks are missiles,” said Zen “Better ID ourselves as three
planes.”

 
          
“Roger
that, Hawk Leader,” said Breanna. “Chris—”

 
          
Before
the copilot could respond, the RWR lit up.

 
          
“We’re
spiked,” said Chris.

 
          
“Break
it,” said Breanna coldly. “Evasive maneuvers. Tell them we’re not hostile.”

 
          
“Yup.”

 
          
The
plane shifted left and right as Zen brought the Flighthawks around. The Sukhois
had fired their missiles, then broken off—good, safe tactics, and in any
events, Zen wasn’t in a position to pursue, since he had to stay close to the
mother ship and wasn’t authorized to fire anyway.

 
          
“Broke
it. We’re clean,” reported Chris. “Second set of fighters.”

 
          
“No
radar missiles,” reported Torbin. “At least not active.”

 
          
“Tell
’
em
we’re peaceful,” said Bree.

 
          
“I
am,” said Chris. “They’re not answering.”

 
          
Zen
felt the big plane jerk hard to the right. The forward
viewscreen
from Hawk Two showed the pair of radar missiles ducking downward, decked by
either ECMs or chaff or both.

 
          
“Bandits
Three and Four are coming at us,” said Chris. “Twenty miles, accelerating.
Looks like they want heater shots.”

 
          
“I’ll
duck them off,” said Zen, flicking his wrist as he jumped back into Hawk One.
One of the Sukhois was closing on the rear of the Megafortress and climbing at
the same time, pushing the Saturn AL-31RM turbofans to the redline. Zen had a
good angle to cut him off; he flicked the nose of Hawk One downward, running a
direct intercept on the
Sukhoi’s
canopy. C³ gasped—to
the computer it looked as if the pilot was going to put the plane’s left wing
directly through the
persipex
. Once more, the
relatively limited radar in the Chinese plane had trouble finding the slippery,
Miata-sized interceptor until it was almost in its face; the pilot threw his
plane over so sharply that the Sukhois began to spin. Zen whipped past, then
circled back. The other Sukhois broke off. As Zen turned Hawk One back toward
the Megafortress, he expected to see the Su-33 recovering and climbing out at
the left side of his screen, but it wasn’t there. He selected the wider angle
to find it spinning furiously toward the water.

 
          
“Bandit
Three is in trouble,” said Chris.

 
          
“He’s
going in,” said Zen. “He’s wet.” He jumped into Two momentarily, making sure
that none of the other Sukhois were close enough to threaten the Megafortress.
Then he took over One from the computer, riding down toward the sea as the
plane augured in.

 
          
“No
chute,” said Chris. “Shit. Shit.”

 
          
The
Sukhois pilot’s own stupidity had led to his apparent death. Still, Zen felt a
hole opening in his stomach.

 
          
“Two
more planes coming off the carrier,” said Torbin.

 
          
“Chris,
tell them we’re not hostile,” said Breanna.

 
          
“They’re
either deaf or refusing to respond,” said Ferris.

 
          
“Did
you try the preprogrammed Chinese message?” she asked.

 
          
“Yes,
ma’am. SAM indications—they’re trying to lock us,” he added.

 
          
“Break
them. I want to stay in this area and help them locate the pilots.”

 
          
“Going
to be rough, Quicksilver,” said Zen, who saw on his screens the two fresh Sukhois
were trying to get their radar missiles on the Megafortress as well.