Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (55 page)

 
          
“We’re
just about done,” Zen told him.

 
          
“Nothing,
huh?”

 
          
“I
think the problem is we’re assuming they were flying a more or less straight
line.”

 
          
Alou
didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t sure what he expected him to say, but the silence
angered him.

 
          
He
switched abruptly into the Dreamland channel, where scientist Greg
Meades
had taken over com duties for the UMB team.

 
          
“We
have to shift the search area,” Zen told him.

 
          
“We’re
recreated the route they were flying,” said the scientist. “Based on our data.”

 
          
“Then
the recreation is wrong. If she was ducking back and forth, trying to avoid
getting shot down, her path could be very different than what we computed.”

 
          
“Could
be,” said Meade, though it was obvious he wasn’t convinced.

 
          
“Let’s
try farther to the southwest. The plane could have swung back fifty miles, a
hundred before they punched out.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
“You
don’t have to humor me,” said Zen. He snapped the talk button off, then pushed
it again. “I’m sorry. Set up a new search area, assuming they would have tried
to go south as soon as they were hit.”

 
          
Philippines

 
          
Danny
Freah cleared his throat. “All right, listen up,” he told the eight men
standing in front of the Dreamland MV-22. “We’re backup to the main team.
Routine SAR mission. Latest
intel
is this—beacon
believed from the Seahawk lost in the storm was heard, and we have a location
that’s roughly a hundred miles from here. Other assets are already en route.
Our speed’s going to get us there quick, though, so we may get into the mix,
especially if they run into trouble. There’s a small island in the area, and
it’s possible—small possibility—there may be other people there. If that
happens, we’re definitely in the mix. Otherwise, what we’re doing primarily is
using our eyes. Okay? Not a big deal. Just backups.” Danny paused. “You Marines
who haven’t come with us before—welcome aboard.”

 
          
Danny
smiled at the five Marine privates who had been detailed to fill out his squad.
The oldest looked like he’d be eligible to shave in a year or so.

 
          
“A
little word of advice,” Danny continued, “because I’m not really going to get a
chance to give a pep talk if things get hot. I know how much everybody here, my
guys especially, like pep talks.”

 
          
Bison
and Pretty Boy were both grinning. Good to see them smiling after losing
Powder.

 
          
“Your
adrenaline’s going to pump like crazy, your heart’s
gonna
thump, you’re going to want to get right in the mix,” Danny said, addressing
the young Marines. “I want you to stay within yourself, do your job. Listen to
the sergeants. I don’t want any heroes—I want men who follow orders. Basically,
I want Marines. Got it?”

 
          
The
kids nodded.

 
          
Did
he want heroes? Of course he did. He wanted Powder. And Liu out of the
hospital.

 
          
Turn
the other cheek? Bullshit on that.

 
          
So
what the hell had Powder done that for? Had that passage read at his funeral?

 
          
“All
right,” said Danny. “Let’s kick ass. Blow, load ’
em
up.”

 
          
“All
aboard,” said Sergeant “Blow” Hernandez, using an exaggerated train conductor’s
voice.

 
          
The
Osprey pilot started the aircraft down the runway about a half-second after the
hatch snapped shut. Danny cinched his seat restraints, then methodically took
stock of his equipment. He’d done so on the ground—twice. Ordinarily, he didn’t
worry himself into a mission, but today the review was soothing. He checked his
pistols, first his service Beretta, then his personal Sig. He inventoried his
grenades, checked his watch and the backup battery for his helmet. He ran his
fingers over the smooth surface of the outer shell of the helmet. He
retied
his boots, pulling hard on the laces.

 
          
“Two
minutes, Captain,” said the Osprey pilot crew chief, relaying the message from
the pilots.

 
          
“All
right boys, we’re just about on station,” Danny said. He took the aircraft
headphones, got up, and braced himself so he could see out of the side windows.
The sea was now so calm if looked as if it had been rolled out flat by a steam
roller.

 
          
In
the distance, he could see a dark blur Navy helicopter, part of the SAR team.

 
          
His
own people had gone down somewhere about an hour north. But the odds were
overwhelming they were dead; they’d gone down in the teeth of the storm.

 
          
Were
the odds any worse than for the Seahawk?

 
          
“Navy’s
coming up blank,” the Osprey pilot said. “We’re going to start crisscrossing
northwest of the area where they think the signal came from.”

 
          
“Sounds
good,” Danny told him. He told his guys what was happening, got them up looking
out the windows.

 
          
“Tradition
has it,” Danny told them, “that a downed pilot owes every member of the rescue
team a case of beer. I’ll double that for the man who spots them first.”

 
          
“Kick
ass, Captain,” said Powder.

 
          
Danny
turned in shock toward the back of the Osprey. He’d heard Powder’s
voice—absolutely heard Powder’s voice.

 
          
“Who
said that?”

 
          
No
one spoke.

 
          
“I’m
sorry,” said Danny. “Was there a question?”

 
          
They
were looking at him as if he’d seen—or heard—a ghost.

 
          
“All
right then, let’s put our eyes to good use,” he said, struggling to raise his
voice over the hum of the engines.

 
          
The
South China Sea

 
          
Date
and time unknown

 
          
They
had two bottles of water between the three of them, four “nutrition” bars, a
working flare gun, and a radio. Chris Ferris had managed to save his pistol,
but had inexplicably lost one of his boots. Breanna Stockard had her knife.
Stoner had his compass.

 
          
Injury-wise,
they were in decent shape, considering what they’d been through. Ferris
probably had broken a rib, but otherwise claimed he was fine. Breanna had torn
muscles in her back and shoulder, and had possibly broken her left tibia.
Stoner had sprained both wrists and could only partially close his numb
finders. All three of them had black eyes and various cuts and bruises on the
heads. Their memories of what had happened since they ejected were mostly blank
and in any event, irrelevant.

 
          
As
were the fates of the rest of the crew, though Breanna insisted on scanning the
water for them.

 
          
“Glare’s
going to kill your eyes,” Stoner told her.

 
          
“Yeah,”
she said, then kept on looking. He admired that kind of stubbornness. He also
admired her toughness—not a hint of a whimper.

 
          
Their
water would be gone in twenty-four hours, maybe less. They’d agreed to
rationing a sip apiece on the hour, but the sun was climbing and Stoner knew
that the sips would become gulps within a few hours.

 
          
Making
it though the day and into the night was a realistic goal. They’d shoot for
that. Twelve, fourteen hours of search time—that was the best they could hope
for anyway. What they needed was something to do, something to keep them sharp.

 
          
“I
think we should paddle,” he said.

 
          
Breanna
turned toward him. Something happened with her eyes—she blinked as if reaching
into his brain, then nodded.

 
          
She
understood.

 
          
She
was beautiful, wasn’t she? Her raven hair and soft lips, her blue-white skin—if
he squinted she could be a mermaid, singing to a drowning sailor.

 
          
“We
don’t have paddles,” she said.

 
          
“We
can use our hands.”

 
          
“We
can kick,” said Chris Ferris, the copilot. “Like we’re swimming.”

 
          
“Tire
us out,” said Stoner.

 
          
“We’ll
take shifts. I’ll take the first.” He pulled up his legs and untied his boot.

 
          
“What
do you think happened to your other boot, Chris?” Breanna asked.

 
          
“I
think I ate it,” said the copilot. He started to undo his vest to take off his
flight suit.

 
          
“Want
strip-tease music?” asked Breanna.

 
          
”How
does that go?” Chris asked, then immediately began humming, or trying to hum,
appropriate music. He kept it up as he got down to his underwear, which he kept
on in the water. His right leg and arm were almost entirely black with bruises.

 
          
“That
direction,” said Stoner, pointing west. “We’ll head toward the Chinese and
Indians. More people to look for us.”

 
          
Ferris
eased himself into the water. He claimed it felt good, though it was obviously
colder than he’d expected. He began doing a scissor kick. “I used to be on the
swim team,” he told them.

 
          
This
was going to get old very quickly.

 
          
“I
have a question,” said Stoner after Ferris grew silent. “Why Rap?”

 
          
“Short
for Rapture,” said Breanna. “My mom was a hippie. It was either that or Acid
Girl.”

 
          
“Really?”

 
          
“No.
Mom’s pretty straight actually. She’s a doctor. Long story.

 
          
“That’s
good,” said Stoner. “Maybe they’ll come looking for us.”

 
          
“They’ll
definitely come looking for us,” said Ferris from the water.

 
          
“A
hotshot F-15 jock called me ‘Rapture’ a million years ago, right after I waxed
his family in a Red Flag exercise. I was flying a B-52 at the time.”

 
          
“That’s
a good thing, right?”

 
          
“Flying
the B-52 or waxing his fanny?”

 
          
“Both.”

 
          
“Both.”
She laughed. “HE was trying to pick me up, I think. So I shot him down twice.
How about you?”

 
          
“I’m
not trying to pick you up.”

 
          
“I
mean, are you married?”

 
          
“No.”
Stoner laughed.