Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (58 page)

 
          
Zen
took the UMB from the computer, altering the course and going over each move
carefully with Dreamland. There was a minor problem in one of the engines.

 
          
The
scientists wanted him to give back control, send the plane back to Dreamland.

 
          
Not
yet. Not until the mission was complete.

 
          
He
used the rocket, engine five, took the massive robot to 140,000 feet, setting
up a ten-mile orbit. The computer cut the flight path into a perfect circle.

 
          
The
Taiwanese trawler spotted earlier was headed in their general direction. Danny
and his Osprey were about a half hour away. If it changed its course a little,
the spy ship could reach them in fifteen minutes, maybe a little less.

 
          
“Dreamland
Command, what do you think of giving the position to the trawler, see if they
can pick them up?” said Zen.

 
          
“Zen,
this is Bastian.

 
          
“Colonel.”

 
          
“Danny’s
en route. The Chinese are tracking the trawler. We’re in contact with the Kitty
Hawk on the eastern side of the Chinese fleet; one of the Hawkeyes is tracking
the Chinese CAP. They think two planes from the carrier are vectoring toward
that area. They’re a bit far away at the moment—”

 
          
“Hold
on.” Zen went to the UMB’s native radar, bringing up the search-and-scan panel.
Look-down mode was limited; the unit had been optimized for flight requirements
and, at this altitude and distance, the Chinese planes didn’t show up.

 
          
“I’m
going to have to take your word, because they’re not on my screen,” Zen told
him. “Is it the CAP patrol?”

 
          
“Negative.
They’re going out to that spy ship at a good clip, and very low,” said the
colonel. “They may be armed with
antiship
missiles.
Wait a second.”

 
          
The
line went dead a second.

 
          
“Jeff,
at their present course and speed they’re going to be on the Osprey as well.
They should find her in about sixty seconds. Kitty Hawk is sending some Tomcats
out there. They’re a good distance off, though.”

 
          
“Yeah,
okay, thanks for the heads-up.”

 
          
Why
had she kissed him? Why?

 
          
The South China Sea

 
          
Date
and time unknown

 
          
The
ship was bigger. Breanna thought her shouts were bringing it closer, but it was
impossible to tell.

 
          
Stoner
was starting to tire. He punctuated his kicks with rests on the side of the
raft that grew longer and longer.

 
          
The
sharks must be nearby still. They’d hear the splashes, come for him.

 
          
She
couldn’t see that again.

 
          
“Help!”
she shouted with her hoarse voice. “Hey! Hey!”

 
          
There
was an airplane in the distance, a jet—two or three maybe.

 
          
A
pair of gray hawks broke over the horizon, thundering between them and the
ship.

 
          
F-14’s?
Or Sukhois?

 
          
The
two planes rode up, then banked toward the south.

 
          
“Hey!”
she shouted again, though her voice was so hoarse it was barely louder than a
whisper. “Here! Hey! Hey!”

 
          
Aboard Dreamland Osprey

 
          
“We’re
being challenged,” the pilot told Danny. “Pretty bad English.”

 
          
“What
are they saying?”

 
          
“That
we’re in protected airspace,” said the pilot.

 
          
“We’re
being targeted,” said the copilot. “Trying to spike us, the bastards.”

 
          
“Shit,”
said Danny.

 
          
“They’re
just trying to scare us,” said the pilot.

 
          
“They’re
doing a decent job,” said the copilot.

 
          
“Tell
them we’re going to pick up survivors and split,” Danny said.

 
          
“I
have twice,” said the pilot. “Here they come. Everybody hold on, it’s going to
be close.”

 
          
Aboard Iowa

 
          
As
soon as Zen heard Danny tell Dog what was going on over the Dreamland circuit,
he tucked his wing and plunged toward the sea. It was a mistake, a serious
mistake—he wasn’t flying a Flighthawk, and the B-5 flipped awkwardly through a
roll and then headed straight downward, speed increasing quickly. An alert
sounded and
Fichera
back at Dreamland said something
in his ear about letting the computer’s emergency protocol take over. Zen
ignored the scientist and the computer; he held the stick gently, letting the
plane’s aerodynamics assert themselves. the nose began to lift, and not the
trick was to control it, not muscling it down, or shoving it around the way he
would push the small Flighthawk, but gracefully, the way you rode an
overemotional show horse.

 
          
The
plane slid into a turn that recorded nine Gs against the fuselage. He took a
slow breath, trying to hold his instinct back, trying to baby the hurtling,
accelerating mass into a controlled flight path.

 
          
Flying
the UMB was more thought and perseverance than muscle. Flying was always that
for him now, without muscles in his legs, without his legs at all.

 
          
Without
love either, it seemed.

 
          
The
idea made him hesitate. He had the Sukhois now on the video; they’d turned
south to intercept the Osprey. Zen tightened his hand around the joystick. He
was at eighty thousand feet, still descending, coming through seventy-nine,
seventy-eight, seventy-seven—the ladder rolled downward at a steady pace now,
more controlled.

 
          
The
video feed from B-5’s nose showed the Osprey at his far right, moving so slowly
by comparison it seemed to be standing still on the water.

 
          
The
Sukhois were on his left, not standing still—530 knots, according to the
information synthesized by the computer. They were positioned to flash by,
turn, run up the back of the Osprey.

 
          
I
thought these bastards were going after the ship, for
cryin
’
out loud.

 
          
He
wouldn’t reach them in time—he was still a good sixty seconds away.

 
          
He
had to move faster. Engine five, the rocket motor?

 
          
Too
much, too hard to control.

 
          
He
needed the scramjets now.

 
          
“Computer,
Engines three and four. Accelerate.”

 
          
“Engines
are locked off until Flight Stage Three,” responded the plane.

 
          
“Computer,
initiate Flight Stage Three.”

 
          
“Parameters
are incorrect.”

 
          
“Override,
damn it.”

 
          
“Authorization
code required.”

 
          
“Authorization
Zed-Zed-Zed,” said Zen.

 
          
The
Sukhois had flown past the Osprey and were now turning.

 
          
“Active
engines three and four. Accelerate to marked intercept at fastest possible
speed.”

 
          
It
was a bit too much. A half-second after the computer acknowledged, the jet
whipped forward. He started to turn and managed to shoot between the Sukhois
and their target at Mach 2.3, dipping up and then flying between the two
planes. His separation from the first plane was less than fifty
feet—hair-raisingly close, though it had no effect on the UMB.

 
          
Probably,
the Sukhois hit their afterburners. Probably, they tried to pursue. Probably,
the pilots would have to spend personal time with the dry cleaner.

 
          
By
the time they got themselves sorted out, Zen had rocketed up past twenty
thousand feet and started back in the other direction.

 
          
“Engine
three and four at specified parameters,” reported the computer. It sounded as
if it were chortling. “Phase Three test complete. Preparing for Phase Four.”

 
          
“Computer,
cancel Phase Four. Authorization Zed-Zed-Zed.”

 
          
“Canceled.”

 
          
“Hey,”
said Danny Freah over the Dreamland circuit. “We’re clear. Thanks.”

 
          
“Not
a problem.”

 
          
“Ten
minutes to that raft—we don’t quite see it yet.”

 
          
“They’re
all yours,” Zen told him.

 
          
South China Sea

 
          
The
ship had stopped coming toward them. Even the Sukhois were gone. They were
alone, as good as dead.

 
          
Bree
sank to the bottom of the raft. Stoner had his arms draped over it, his head
resting on the side.

 
          
Zen,
she thought, I love you, baby. I love you. Why aren’t you here?

 
          
The
sun flickered in her face.

 
          
If
she’d lived, they would have had a kid. They should have. It wouldn’t be easy,
would not have been easy, but they should have.

 
          
She
felt bad for that. Jeffrey would have been good with a kid.

 
          
“Shit,”
said Stoner softly.

 
          
The
sharks, she though. Oh God.

 
          
She
jumped up to help him, cringing.

 
          
But
it wasn’t the sharks. There was another plane in the distance, to the south.

 
          
It
moved too slowly to be a
Sukhoi
. It had propellers.
It was loud.

 
          
It
was an Osprey.

 
          
It
was an Osprey!

 
          
Aboard Dreamland Osprey

 
          
Danny
and Bison had stripped to their wet suits and waited by the door.

 
          
“You
ready?” Danny asked the crew chief.

 
          
“Born
ready, Cap.” The sergeant put his hand to his earphone. They had to be careful
about getting too close to the small raft. The downdraft from the big
rotos
could be fierce. Danny and Bison would jump out with
life jackets and a Dreamland-designed inflatable collar to add to the raft’s
stability before the MV-22 moved in for a pickup.