Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (47 page)

 
          
“Just
getting ready to hit the road, Sergeant,” he told him.

 
          
“Yes,
sir. Coffee’s better over at the Navy tent,” he added. “Liu’s the only one on
the team who can make a decent pot.”

 
          
“Better
pray he gets out of the hospital soon then, huh?” said Dog.

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” said Floyd, who didn’t quite take it as lightly as it was intended.

 
          
“He’ll
be okay, Sergeant,” Dog added. “You hang in there.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. Thank you.”

 
          
Outside,
the air was heavy with humidity; another storm was approaching. Sweat began to
leak from his pores as he headed toward the Navy C-9B waiting to take him to
Manila, where he’d hop a civilian flight to L.A.

 
          
The
schedule was tight. Unlike the Navy plane, the civilian 747 wasn’t going to
wait, but midway to his plane Dog took a detour, deciding he really had to say
goodbye to one more member of his command.

 
          
Jennifer
Gleason stood on the hard-packed dirt near Iowa, hands on hips. Several access
panels directly behind the crew area of the plane were open; a portable
platform was set up below the EB-52’s belly. Three or four techies hunched over
the equipment on a nearby pallet, flashing screwdrivers; a sailor carried a
disk array the size of a pizza box up the plane’s access ramp. Gleason was
shaking her head in obvious disgust.

 
          
“Hey,
Gleason, what’s up?” said Dog.

 
          
“These
guys handle the computers like they’re crystal,” she complained. “They’re
designed to take over twelve Gs for
cryin
’ out loud.
We won’t be ready for hours.”

 
          
“You
look pretty when you’re fretting.” Dog allowed himself a light touch on her
shoulder. “You don’t want them to throw the gear up there, do you?”

 
          
“Be
faster.”

 
          
God,
she was beautiful.

 
          
“I
have to go home,” he said.

 
          
“Uh-huh.”
She flicked her hair back behind her ear. “I’m okay here.”

 
          
“I
know that,” said Dog.

 
          
Something
near the plane caught her eye and she turned back. “Excuse me, Colonel.” She
started to trot toward the plane. “Hey! Hey!”

 
          
Dog
watched the sway of her hips in the fatigue pants, then abruptly started for
the Navy plane. If he didn’t get aboard now …

 
          
Aboard Quicksilver, above the South China
Sea

 
          
Guiding
the Piranha probe was considerably easier than flying the Flighthawk. Fentress
ran through some simple maneuvers and flipped back and forth between the views
as Delaford watched from aboard the other Megafortress. They had made a few
adjustments in the simulated 3-D screen since he had sat in on the development
sessions, but it wasn’t difficult at all to get comfortable. He even
remembered, without prompting, how to split the screen so he could see a
forward and a sitrep view at the same time.

 
          
The
probe was within thirteen miles of the Chinese submarine, which was moving at
three knots south. Another fifteen miles away was the lead Chinese aircraft
carrier. The Piranha communications buoy had been dropped thirty-five miles
further west, allowing the EB-52 to stay outside of carrier CAP.

 
          
Delaford
had launched this probe a few hours before to replace the first, whose fuel had
lasted slightly longer than they’d originally calculated. It was now moving
southwest in low-power mode, and would be picked up by the Dreamland Osprey in
a few hours, if the weather held. A new storm system was approaching rather
quickly.

 
          
“You
look like you’re on top of it,” said Delaford. “See you down the line.”

 
          
“I’ll
be here.” The line snapped clear; he was on his own.

 
          
Upstairs
on the flight deck, Breanna reviewed her fuel situation and went through a
quick instrument check. With everything in the green, she turned the plane over
to Chris and eased out of the driver’s seat, intending to take a short break.
Among Quicksilver’s custom touches was a small refrigerator located at the back
end of the flight deck. Breanna had often joked that, with missions sometimes
stretching over twelve hours, a full gallery ought to be provided, and one of
the engineers had suggested adding a microwave.

 
          
She’d
have a full gallery when she flew the UMB. Even better, a full bathroom.

 
          
Hell,
one of the geeks said she could fly if from her bedroom via laptop—now wouldn’t
that be a trip?

 
          
Breanna
checked on Freddy and Torbin, both hard at work parsing their data from the
Chinese and Indian forces. Freddy fed most of his communications intercepts
directly back to Dreamland, where a team of language experts were monitoring
the transmission. Given that both sides realized they were being listened to,
there was a surprising amount of traffic.

 
          
Breanna
squatted in front of the refrigerator and took out a diet cola. She opened it
and took a sip, then leaned against the bulkhead and looked at her crew.

 
          
Did
she want to leave this behind?

 
          
Maybe.
This was fairly routine. Almost boring.

 
          
Not
that the business the other day had been.

 
          
It
made sense from a career angle, certainly. It’d be easier on her back, which
was
crinked
from the cot she’d slept on last night.
She’d see Zen more. Not that she didn’t see him all the time now.

 
          
The
thoughts came to her in a sarcastic tone, almost as if someone else had said it.
She was mad at her husband, though she wasn’t exactly sure why.

 
          
Because
he was working with Jenn-
i
-
fer
?

 
          
Whom
she hated. But Zen was always working with Jenn-
i
-
fer
; it wasn’t that big a deal.

 
          
Was
it?

 
          
“Hey,”
said a voice behind her. It startled her so badly she nearly lost her balance.

 
          
Stoner,
the CIA officer aboard to act as general intelligence consultant and
Fentress’s
gofer.

 
          
“Mr.
Stoner. We would prefer it if you kept your seat,” she told him.

 
          
“You’re
up.”

 
          
“What
can I do for you?” she said frostily.

 
          
“I
was wondering if I could listen in on some of the com intercepts from the
trawler, if they’re in the clear.”

 
          
“You
speak Chinese?”

 
          
“A
bit.”

 
          
“I
doubt they’re in the clear,” she told him. “But we may be able to pipe them
through. G back to your station and I’ll see.”

 
          
“Can
I view them?”

 
          
Civilians
just didn’t get it sometimes.

 
          
“We’re
too far from the actual position of the ships on the surface to see them. We
have radar indications, that’s all.”

 
          
“If
you get close to them, I’d like to take a look. I might be able to tell you
what kind of equipment they have. I’d be very interested.”

 
          
He
had a handsome face, deep blue eyes that seemed out of place with his dark
hair.

 
          
We’ll
try. Use the interphone from now on,” she told him. “Downstairs.”

 
          
He
stared at her a while longer, then nodded.

 
          
“Kind
of a jerk,” she said as she sat back in her seat.

 
          
“Who?”
said Chris.

 
          
“Stoner.”

 
          
“Yeah?
Seemed okay to me. First CIA guy I ever met.”

 
          
“Give
him a sitrep screen, all right? Show him where everything is.”

 
          
Breanna
checked with Collins about the intercepts. They’d only isolated one or two from
the spy ships, and they were all heavily encoded. “Give Mr. Stoner a lowdown,
would you?”

 
          
“Not
a problem.”

 
          
Restraints
snugged
, Breanna checked their position as well as
that of the other players. The Chinese and Indian fleets were moving slowly
toward each other. Two Sukhois had begun shadowing the Megafortress in a long
oval track three miles to the east. Same old, same old.

 
          
“Trawler’s
heading off south,” Chris pointed out, referring to the Taiwanese spy ship.
“Wimping out?”

 
          
“Just
getting out of the way for the showdown” said Breanna.

 
          
Stoner
folded his arms in front of his chest, staring at the video screen. Both the
Chinese and the Indians had their chessmen in place; they could start
duking
it out in an hour.

 
          
So
what were the Taiwanese up to anyway? Egging the Indians on? Usually, they took
a more laid-back approach, but they had spy ships all over the place, including
one so close it was going to catch shrapnel when the fighting started.

 
          
Stoner
stared at the fifteen-inch display screen where the sitrep view was displayed.
It was a simple thing, a plot of positions against longitude and latitude, yet
cobbling it together was not exactly child’s play. To get all these different
inputs, process them, out them on the screen so that even an untrained operator
like himself could see what was going on—Dreamland indeed.

 
          
“Say,
uh, Captain Ferris. Chris. This is Stoner. What’s the green triangle on my
screen?”

 
          
“On
the sitrep? That’s the marker for the Piranha buoy. It’s tied into the tactical
system so it comes on the display. Sorry if it’s confusing.”

 
          
“That
Taiwanese trawler is going to run right over our buoy if they stay on that
course. Is he tracking it?”

 
          
“No
way,” said Ferris.

 
          
“Well,
he’s going to run over it anyway.”

 
          
Breanna
pushed the plane down through the leading edge of the fast-moving cloud front,
trying to get low enough for a visual on the players—and the trawler that was on
a collision course for their buoy. “Stoner’s right—they’re aimed almost
perfectly for it,” said Chris as they broke through the clouds into the gray
stillness above the water. The spy ship looked like a child’s boat in a
bathtub. “Should I try hailing them?”

 
          
“What
are you going to tell them?” asked Bree. “That they’re about to run over a
top-secret communications system for a high-tech weapon?”