Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (50 page)

 
          
But
no religion or philosophy, Eastern or Western, could overcome the simple,
overwhelming urge of gravity. The plane jerked back and forth, trying
desperately to avoid being hit while Fentress worked to sink both Piranha com
buoys. He’d already managed to put the probe on the automated escape route—or
at least that was how Stoner interpreted the groans and grunts he’d heard among
the cacophony of voices in his earphones.

 
          
The
sitrep was still on his screen. One of the carriers had been hit badly, though
at least two planes had managed to get off in the chaos. Planes were swarming
off the other. An Indian flight was coming north to meet them. There were
missiles in the air, and flak all over the place. The destroyers on the eastern
flank were attacking the submarine that had launched the torpedoes.

 
          
The
lights in the cabin flashed off and on; there was a warning buzzer, another
flash. The snake curled tighter.

 
          
Stoner
pushed his hand to his face mask, making sure his oxygen was working. Two or
three voices shouted at him from far away, urging him into the darkness. He
forced his lungs to empty their oxygen slowly into the red flame of the candle
in the center of his body.

 
          
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea

 
          
A
fresh found of depth charges exploded over the conning tower; the submarine
bobbed downward as if her namesake had smashed his powerful leg against its
bow. Admiral
Balin
fell forward against the map
table, then slid to the floor.

 
          
One
of the electrical circuit had blown. It was impossible at the moment to assess
the damage, but he would welcome death now. At least one of the torpedoes had
exploded directly beneath the aircraft carrier; the damage would be
overwhelming. The failure of the Kali weapons had been requited.

 
          
Calmly,
Balin
rose. Accepting fate did not mean wishing for
death—he turned his attention to his escape.

 
          
Someone
screamed nearby, seized by panic.

 
          
“There
will be none of that,” he said in a loud, calm tone before making his way
toward the helmsman. “We will carry on as we were born to do. We will survive
this.”

 
          
Aboard Quicksilver

 
          
“We
lost engine three,” Chris told her.

 
          
Breanna
didn’t acknowledge. The Indian MiGs had sent a volley of missiles at long range
at the Sukhois; there was so much metal in the sky now, it was impossible to
avoid getting hit.

 
          
“It’s
sunk, it’s sunk,” said Fentress. “Both buoys are down!”

 
          
“Fighter
on our tail,” said Chris. “Out of air mines.

 
          
She
could feel the bullets slicing into her, ripping across her neck. Breanna
pushed the stick and stomped the pedals, trying to flip the big jet away from
the fighter. But the Sukhois was more maneuverable than the Megafortress, and
the Chinese pilot was smart enough not to get too close or overreact. He wasn’t
that good a shot—maybe one out of four of
is
slugs
found its target, a half dozen at a time—but he was content with that.

 
          
“Four’s
gone,” said Chris.

 
          
“Restart.”

 
          
“Trying.”

 
          
Her
warning panel was a solid bank of red. Part of the rear stabilizers had been
shot away; they were leaking fuel from one of the main tanks. The leading-edge
flap on the left wing wouldn’t extend properly, complicating her attempts to
compensate for the dead engines.

 
          
They
were going in.

 
          
Breanna
fought off the flicker of despair. She pushed herself toward the windscreen, as
if she might somehow add her weight to the plane’s forward momentum. The
Sukhois that had been dogging them pass off to the right; he’d undoubtedly run
out of bullets, or fuel, or both.

 
          
About
time they got a break.

 
          
Ahead,
a jagged bolt of lightning flashed down from the clouds. It seemed to splatter
into a million pieces as it hit the ocean, its electricity running off in every
direction.

 
          
Zen,
why aren’t you here with me? I need you.

 
          
Jeffrey!

 
          
The
altimeter ladder began to move—somehow the big Megafortress was managing to
climb.

 
          
“Come
on, baby,” she told it. “Hang with me.”

 
          
“I
can’t get four,” said Chris, who’d been trying to restart the engine. “Fuel’s
bad. Fire in the bay. Fire—”

 
          
“Auto
extinguish.”

 
          
“I’ve
tried twice,” he said.

 
          
“Dump
the AMRAAMS,” she told him.

 
          
“No
targets?”

 
          
“Let’s
not take sides at this point. Kevin—put Piranha into auto-return and sink the probe
we just launched.”

 
          
“Yes,
ma’am.”

 
          
As
Chris fired one of the missiles, there was a slight shudder in the rear.

 
          
“Fire
won’t go out,” the copilot told her. “I think the extinguisher system has been
compromised.”

 
          
“Okay,”
she said.

 
          
They
absolutely had to go out, and they had to go out now.

 
          
“Dreamland
Command, this is Quicksilver. Gat, you hear me?” she said over the Dreamland
line.

 
          
There
was no answer. It was possible the fire had already damaged the radio or
antennas, but she tried again, then broadcast their position and that they were
ditching.

 
          
“Bree,
we’re running out of fuel,” said Chris. “And the temp is climbing. The fumes
will explode.”

 
          
“Prepare
to eject,” she told him. “Crew—prepare to eject.”

 
          
The
leading edge of the storm front punched at the
persiplex
glass in front of her. Windswept hail whipped in her face.

 
          
“I
don’t know if we’re going to make it,” said Chris.

 
          
The
panic hit her then, panic and fear and adrenaline. Someone grabbed hold of her
hair and pulled her up from her seat, dangling her in midair, twirling her
around.

 
          
Jeff,
honey, where the hell are you when I need you?

 
          
“Crew,
listen to me,” Breanna said calmly. “We’re all going out together. Cinch your
restraints. Put your legs and arms inside your body. Check in,
everybody—Chris?”

 
          
“Ferris.”

 
          
“
Dolk
.”

 
          
“Collins.”

 
          
“Fentress.”

 
          
There
was no answer from Stoner.

 
          
“Stoner?”
she said.

 
          
Nothing.

 
          
“Stoner?”

 
          
Engine
two—” Chris started to tell her the engine had just died, but it was
unnecessary—the thump jerked her so hard she nearly let go of the stick.

 
          
“Manage
our fuel,” she told him. “Fentress—where’s Stoner?”

 
          
“He’s
here, he’s here—his radio’s out. He’s ready.”

 
          
“Crew,
we’re going out on three. I have the master eject, authorization Breanna Rap
Bastian Stockard One
One
Rap One,” she told the
computer in her level voice.

 
          
The
computer didn’t answer, as if it were hesitating , as if it didn’t want to lose
its crew. Then it came back and repeated the authorization. All the seats would
now be ejected when she pulled her handle; the Dreamland system would greatly
increase the probability they could find each other after the chutes deployed.

 
          
“The
weather’s hell out there,” she told her men. “Let the chutes deploy
automatically. Just enjoy the ride.”

 
          
Given
the intensity of the storm they were flying into, it was probably suicidal to
go out now. She reached for the throttle slide, pushing for more speed, hoping
to maybe get beyond the storm, or at least through the worst of it.

 
          
“Fire
in the Gat compartment,” said Chris. “We’re going to blow.”

 
          
Breanna
heard a rumble and then a pop from the rear of the plane. She reached down to
the yellow handle at the side of her seat.

 
          
“Three-two-one,”
she said quickly, and the universe turned into a tornado.

 
          
Philippines

 
          
August
28, 1997, 1847

 
          
The
screen blanked.

 
          
“Get
them back,” Zen told Bison.

 
          
“I’m
not sure what’s going on,” said the sergeant sitting at the com panel.

 
          
Zen
pushed his chair back and then forward at an angle, as if realigning himself
would make the picture from Quicksilver reappear.

 
          
“Get
them back,” he said again, this time his voice softer.

 
          
“They’re
off-line,” said Bison. “They were hit—they may be down.”

 
          
Zen
pushed backward and wheeled to the door. One of the two navy people in the
trailer said something, but Zen didn’t hear the words and wasn’t about to stop
to ask him to repeat them. he had to reach awkwardly to open the door, pushing
with his other hand on the wheel; he nearly fell out of his chair and down the
ramp as he burst outside, downward momentum the only thing keeping him in the
seat. He mastered it, got his balance, and continued to the oversized tent
where Major Alou and the rest of the flight crew were just starting to brief
for their mission. The fabric sides were rolled up.

 
          
“
Merce
—Quicksilver is down,” said Zen. “We need Iowa now.”

 
          
Without
waiting for Major Alou to acknowledge, he wheeled back onto the path and headed
for the aircraft.

 
          
It
took nearly twenty minutes for the crew to get the Megafortress airborne. It
was totally good time—the plane hadn’t been refueled, and the work on meshing
the Piranha and Flighthawk systems was far from complete. Every second
stretched to torturous infinity.

 
          
In
the air, the buffeting pressure of the fresh storm system held them back. Zen
launched the Flighthawk and pushed ahead, scanning through the thick rain even
though they were still a hundred miles from the coordinates of Quicksilver’s
last voice transmission. Other resources were being scrambled from the fleet,
but at the moment they were the only ones on the scene, and certainly
Bree’s
best chance.