Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (46 page)

 
          
“I
don’t need you to watch my back,” she said.

 
          
“Hey,”
Zen grabbed at her hand, but missed. “You mad?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“Bree?
I was just kidding about the gimp thing.”

 
          
“I’m
fine,” she said, still walking.

 
          
“Hey,
what are you mad at?”

 
          
She
turned toward the mess tent.

 
          
Zen
began to follow. Ordinarily, she simply teased back. But this wasn’t teasing.

 
          
“Hey,”
he said, rolling to the door.

 
          
“Just
feeding my face before the flight,” she said, letting the screen door on the
tent slam closed behind her.

 
          
Stoner
let his breath flow from his chest softly, each cell in his lungs reluctantly
surrendering its molecule of oxygen. A yellow light filed the center of his
head. His body melted. Stoner’s consciousness became a long note vibrating in
the empty tent. He slipped into a deep, meditative trance.

 
          
It
was then he realized what had happened.

 
          
Deliberately,
he unfolded his legs, then rose. He stooped down for a sip of water from the
bottle near his bed mat and roll—he didn’t use a cot—then went to find Colonel
Bastian.

 
          
“The
lookout post belonged to the Taiwanese,” Stoner told the colonel when he found
him. “All of them. The Chinese don’t need them. They must be helping the
Indians.”

 
          
Bastian
nodded. “Have you spoken to Langley?”

 
          
“Not
yet. But it makes sense. I’ll talk to Jed Barclay too.”

 
          
“Why
would they fire on us?” asked Bastian.

 
          
Us,
not you. Stoner like that. He knew Bastian had, without complaint, taken the
hit for what went down on the island. Protecting his people, even though they
could have plausibly been blamed for messing up. He had grown to admire
Bastian; he was a man he could work with.

 
          
“Because
they fear discovery. Possibly they expected the Chinese, but more likely they
knew it would be us. Taiwan can’t appear to be taking sides or provoking a
confrontation. They want to hurt Mainland China, but if they do something that
looks to us like it’s belligerent, like it’s against our interests, we might
crush them. simply moving our fleet away would hurt them.”

 
          
Bastian
nodded.

 
          
“I’d
like to join the next patrol flight,” added Stoner.

 
          
“The
Taiwanese spy ships that have been tracking the submarine, I want to find out
about them. I think there’s some operation under way.”

 
          
“They’re
not part of our mission.”

 
          
“Their
goal isn’t peace, or coexistence with the Mainland. They want the same thing
the Communists want—one China. They just want it on their terms.”

 
          
“That
may be,” said the colonel. “But at the moment, that’s not our concern.”

 
          
“I
won’t be just a passenger. There’s no one here who knows more about Chinese and
Indian capabilities than I do. I’m the one who found Kali. I’d be very useful
tracking the Chinese submarines.”

 
          
“Okay,”
said Bastian finally. “Work it out with Captain Stockard. Stoner—” Bastian
pointed a finger at him. “This operation ultimately answers to Admiral Woods,
not me.”

 
          
“Took
him longer to kick you out than I expected,” said the CIA officer. “He must
like you.”

 
          
Aboard the Dragon Ship in the South China
Sea

 
          
Chen
Lo
Fann
walked the deck of the former tanker, his
mind heavy with though. Professor AI
Hira
Bai
, the scientist who led the team that developed the
Dragons, percolated next to him, bouncing with every step. The launch procedure
was not particularly difficult. The small robot was lowered from the side of
the ship onto the surface of the water, where it rested on a pair of skis. A
solid propellant rocket propelled it into the sky; once it was safely above the
spray, its jet engine was activated. The place looked somewhat like a
miniaturized Su-33UB, except its engine inlets—two on top, two on the
bottom—rather than the more traditional double
tailplane
of the experimental
Sukhoi
.

 
          
And,
of course, there was no place for a pilot.

 
          
Chen
turned and looked at the horizon while Professor Ai conferred with some of his
technicians. The water had a dark green tint to it today; he felt a fresh storm
approaching.

 
          
In
a hundred years, no one would remember the weather or the color of the sea.
They would think only of the destruction wrought as the two Navies met.

 
          
A
storm indeed.

 
          
One
of the men assigned to relay messages approached as Chen stared out at the
water.

 
          
“Yes”
he asked without turning.

 
          
The
man held out a slip of paper. Chen let his eyes linger, then turned and took
the message.

 
          
The
captain of one of the trawlers had seen the American Megafortresses drop an
unknown type of buoy into the water. Photos of the buoy did not match any of
the ASW types the Americans typically used. Interestingly, the trawler—equipped
with an array of high-tech snooping gear that worked both under and above the
water—had been unable to pick up any transmissions to or from that buoy, or a
second one dropped sometime later, at least not at the distance he had been
ordered to stay from any American asset. The captain wanted permission to
investigate, and perhaps retrieve one of the buoys if the opportunity presented
itself.

 
          
Chen
weighed the matter. Despite being allies, the Americans were hardly forthcoming
when it came to sharing new technology. The appearance of the EB-52’s—which had
not been used in marine patrol or ASW roles before—surely meant they were using
some new device. Whatever it was—a passive
sonar
system perhaps?—would be of great value in dealing with the Communists.

 
          
He
would not, and could not, provoke an incident with the Americans. But surely
this was worth studying. What if he snatched the device, then claimed to have
thought it was a Mainland weapon?

 
          
In
the confusion of battle, such an explanation would be accepted, if only
reluctantly. In such a case, the asset would be returned—after it was examined,
of course.

 
          
Chen
took a pen and wrote his orders to the captain, telling his to proceed. He
handed the message back to the courier, who immediately retreated for the radio
room.

 
          
“Ready,
Commander,” said Professor AI, who’d been waiting.

 
          
“Then
begin.”

 
          
Fann
turned toward the crane as the taro was taken off the
small aircraft. The large hook, very old and heavy, swung freely above, making
him slightly apprehensive; its weight could easily damage the robot. The crew
was well trained and practiced, however. Two men grabbed the hook as it came
toward them, then fit it into the harness. One of them climbed up above the
Dragon and onto the chain. It must seem like the greatest job in the world,
riding on the hoist as it swung out, waiting as the four men in the water
carefully undid the sling, then riding back to the deck.

 
          
For
Chen, the elation would come later, much later—he hoped to see one of the
carriers in flames before the end of the day.

 
          
Professor
Ai looked at him, and
Fann
realized the scientist was
waiting for his order to begin.
Fann
nodded. The
scientist smiled broadly, then turned and waved to the crane operator, who
stood a short distance away with a wired remote. The man pushed one of the
levers and the motor on the crane whirled.

 
          
There
was a loud grinding noise. Someone shouted. Smoke appeared from the crane
house. Professor Ai leaped toward the robot cursing.

 
          
Fann
stood impassively, watching.

 
          
Who
was riding the donkey now? Which way did Fortune blow?

 
          
“It’s
a problem with the crane,” said the scientist a few minutes later.

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“We
have to use the backup.”

 
          
“Do
so.”

 
          
“It
will take time.”

 
          
“Do
it as quickly as you can,” said Chen. He turned and went back to his cabin.

 
          
Philippines

 
          
Dog
took a last check of the situation at the Whiplash trailer, touching base with
Dreamland Command before leaving. Major Alou and Raven were on station, Alou
being extra careful to stay outside the patrol area the Chinese fighters had
established. Piranha sat about tem miles away from the Chinese submarine. The
sub had taken up an almost stationary position to the southwest of the carrier
task force. A U.S. sub had already found the other Chinese submarine on the
eastern side of the Chinese fleet. Within the next twelve hours, a second SSN
should be on Piranha’s target as well. Whiplash could close up shop.

 
          
The
fate of the Indian sub remained a mystery. Though the profile wasn’t a good
match, the contact Piranha had seen was discounted as American SSN, which had
indeed been in the vicinity. Intercepts of Chinese Mainland transmissions by
the NSA showed the Chinese believe the submarine had been sunk, but the
analysts weren’t completely sure. There was no hard evidence it had gone down,
and it clearly had the capability to stay submerged for several days. It could
still be shadowing the Chinese fleet, or it could have set sail south to return
to India.

 
          
Whiplash
had accomplished its mission. The data they had gathered would provide a
hundred analysts useful employment for the next year or more. Just as
importantly, they demonstrated they value of Piranha and its technology.

 
          
Yet
Colonel Bastian felt as if he’d failed. Because he’d lost a man? Or because
he’d had his tail whacked by Woods?

 
          
Definitely
the tail-whacking. He’d lost men before—good men, friends. It was the cost of
freedom, as corny and trite as that sounded. The sorrow of their deaths was as
much part of his job as the speed-suit he donned to fly. But getting treated
like—like what, exactly? A lieutenant colonel?

 
          
He
missed General Magnus now. The three-star general would have insulated him from
this BS. He had in Turkey, when Central Command tried to get its fingers in.

 
          
Problem
was, at the time he’d thought Magnus was a bit of pain as well. So the real
problem was his ego.

 
          
“Something
up, Colonel?” asked Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd, who was at the communication desk.