Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (22 page)

 
          
“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 could 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.