Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (29 page)

 
          
The
roar of a Megafortress landing on the nearby runway drowned out the end of
Dog’s sentence, but it wasn’t particularly difficult to fill in the blank.

 
          
Philippines

 
          
Bree
absentmindedly ran her hand along the back of her husband’s wheelchair,
listening as the Navy intelligence officer continued his briefing about the
layout of Chinese and Indian forces in the area. Her father stood next to him,
arms tightly folded and eyes fixed in a glare. He’d already snapped twice at
errors the man had made when talking about the Megafortresses’ capabilities. He
appeared fully capable of strangling him if he misspoke again; his glare looked
more potent than the Razor antiaircraft laser.

 
          
Breanna
hadn’t seen him so belligerent since his first few weeks at Dreamland. He
didn’t like Woods, that much was clear—he frowned every time the admiral
started to speak. Breanna had heard about the admiral’s antics during the
Piranha test, and so she understood there’d be some competitive animosity, but
this seemed to go beyond that. Woods, though a bit gruff and obviously used to
having his way, seemed competent and intelligent, traits her father normally
held in high regard.

 
          
There
were two battle groups in the South China Sea; the Chinese were at the north,
the Indians at the south. Numerically, the Chinese held a serious advantage.
They now had two small aircraft carriers with supporting destroyers and a
cruiser. The Chinese carriers were a little less than seven hundred feet long
and drew about twenty thousand tons fully loaded; by contrast the U.S.’s
Lincoln measured over a thousand feet and displaced more than a hundred
thousand tons. Size-wise, they were more equivalent to American assault
carriers like the Wasp than what the U.S. considered front-line aircraft
carriers. They were, nonetheless, potent, able to project serious airpower and
the centerpiece of a major task force.

 
          
The
Indians currently had eight destroyers and two guided-missile cruisers heading
toward the Chinese fleet. About a day behind them was an ancient aircraft carrier
named Vikrant, originally named Hercules when build by the British in 1946. The
Indians had bought it soon afterward, operating her for nearly forty years
before taking her into dock for repair and refurbishment. Another round of
repairs and renovations had just been completed, adding a British ski jump to
her flight deck, among other things. Also tiny by American standards, she was a
bit bigger than the Chinese carriers but probably roughly their equivalent.

 
          
Her
aircraft complement was unknown, but certainly included first-generation
Harrier jump jets. There were also reliable reports that a version of the
MiG-29K had been adapted by the Russian specifically for the Indian aircraft
carrier. The MiG had lost a fly-off to the sea version of the Su-27/Su-33 as
the preferred multirole fighter for the stillborn Russian carrier navy, but
many analysts felt the smaller MiG-29K would have been a far better choice; its
only shortcoming—albeit a serious one—was its more limited endurance.

 
          
“We
haven’t seen those planes yet,” said the intelligence officer, tapping on the
map spread out on the table. “One theory is they’re being kept belowdecks to
escape satellite surveillance. If so, there wouldn’t be more than six. I have
to admit, our intelligence on the Vikrant isn’t good. The Indians bought the
ship into dry dock last year and claimed it was beyond repair. We know a lot
more about a sister ship, or close to a sister ship, called the
Viraat
. It has eighteen Harriers and some Russian ASW
helicopters. It’s back here, near India. We don’t expect it to be a player at
this time.”

 
          
“What
about the submarines we’re supposed to find?” asked Zen.

 
          
“Ah
yes, the subs.” He pulled an overlay out from under the map. It was a large,
clear transparency with yellow and red circles. “The two new Chinese attack
subs were spotted around here,” he said, pointing to an area of the Chinese
coast just to the right of Vietnam, “eighteen hours ago. You’ll appreciate that
I can’t discuss the specific intelligence methods used to find them,” he added.

 
          
It
was a snotty allusion to Dreamland’s security protocols, and drew a snort from
nearly everyone in the room. The Fleet hadn’t found the subs at all—they’d been
spotted by satellite, and all the details were readily available to the Dreamland
team.

 
          
The
intelligence officer continued, comparing the submarines to high-tech British
attack boats powered by an
ultraquiet
propulsion
system. Roughly as silent as the Indian ship on battery power, Piranha would
have to stay closer than twenty miles to track them. The Indian submarine was
bound to be easier to find initially, since it had to eventually come up for
air and recharging.

 
          
“Your
job is to find all the submarines and keep tabs on them,” said Woods. “You’ll
work with our standard ASW patrols. We have two submarines en route, as well as
several surface ships that can be tasked to shadow the submarines once they’re
located. Those assets are all some distances away, however.”

 
          
“Iowa,
with Commander Delaford and Ensign English, will take the first shift,” said
Colonel Bastian. “Because the launch and initial tracking are most critical.
We’ll hand off to Quicksilver and Zen, then Raven.”

 
          
Major
Alou and his crew were currently out on patrol, keeping tabs on the Chinese and
Indian fleets.

 
          
“Assuming
the new control set is in and you’re comfortable,” added the colonel, looking
at Zen.

 
          
“I’ll
be comfortable,” said Zen, who had been grousing about the Piranha controls
ever since he’d heard he was going to have to “pilot” one. Delaford had brought
along a
sim
program, which Zen had already begun
working with. Typically, he’d nailed the high-proficiency score on first try.
“What about the Flighthawks?”

 
          
“From
what Rubeo told me, we have to leave them on the ground,” said Dog. “It won’t
be that big a deal. We’ll just have to forgo close-in CAP and configure the
missions accordingly. We figured we could place double-launchers on the wing
hard-points for Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses, since the bay will be loaded with
buoys. That’s four missiles, and we should be able to get some long-range
escorts, or at least standby escort, from the Fleet.”

 
          
Woods
nodded. One of the Navy officers took over, running down some details about
flight operations. A squadron of F/A-18’s was en route from Hawaii and would be
available for whatever contingency arose. He also briefly ran down some of the
differences in Navy rescue procedures; downed Navy aviators used different
“spins” for contacting rescue units. Though the difference was subtle, it could
be vital in an emergency; coming up on a radio at five minutes after the hour
when people were listening for you at ten might mean the difference between
life and death.

 
          
“Gentlemen,”
said Woods, bringing the briefing to a close, “now that we understand each
other. Let’s get moving.”

 
          
Gentlemen?
Bree felt her face turning red. The admiral was looking straight at her.

 
          
Gentlemen,
huh? We’ll see about that.

 
          
“There’s
another matter I’d like to address,” said Stoner. The CIA officer had sat
quietly in the corner of the room, saying nothing and seemingly overlooked.

 
          
“There
are some spy sites, or possibly some spy sites, on the atolls along the western
end of the patrol area. At least one has radar. Captain Freah suggested they be
investigated and I concur.”

 
          
Woods
frowned at Stoner.

 
          
“I
suggest we use the Birds and the Osprey,” added Danny. We think there’s
probably a whole string of them, but looking at one would tell us a lot about
the others.”

 
          
“What
sites? Who are they working for?” asked Woods.

 
          
“We’re
not sure,” said Stoner. “My guess is they’re with the Chinese, but that’s why
we’d like to go in. Major Stockard and the Quicksilver crew have data on them.”

 
          
They
discussed the sites briefly. Woods seemed to actively dislike Stoner, and
pointed out twice this was not a CIA operation. Stoner didn’t respond to the
provocations.

 
          
His
sunburned face had a harsh ruggedness that was attractive, Bree thought, even
when he frowned. And those eyes—gray-blue. Pretty.

 
          
In
the end, Woods agreed investigating the sites would be useful—but at the moment
they weren’t authorized to strike force on either side of the conflict.

 
          
“Draw
up a plan for my review,” he said. “Gentlemen, goodbye.”

 
          
Drafted
into the fucking Navy,” said Zen, rolling toward the tent that had been
designated as their temporary quarters. “I’m a fucking sailor.”

 
          
“At
least he got your sex right,” said Breanna, walking alongside his wheelchair.

 
          
“Navy
bullshit,” grumbled Zen, pushing inside.

 
          
“How’s
the tooth?”

 
          
“Still
there.” Zen pushed his tongue back toward the filling. “So he must’ve done a
good job, huh?”

 
          
“Why?”

 
          
“It’s
not bothering you. So going to the dentist isn’t a bad thing.”

 
          
“Yes,
Captain. Right again.”

 
          
She
ran her hands from the back of his neck across his face, her thick, strong
hands lingering on his cheeks. Zen felt reluctant to let the bad mood drop, but
her touch softened the muscles in his face. She moved closer and pushed her
body against him, leaning her breast into the side of his face.

 
          
“Maybe
having nothing to do for a few hours isn’t so bad,” she said.

 
          
“
Ya
think?” said Zen. He pulled her down for a kiss. Except
for the tooth, it was perfect; along, slow melt into the softness she kept
behind the bomber-pilot face.

 
          
“
Mmmmm
,” she said.

 
          
“
Mmmmm
,” he repeated, his fingers sliding to the top of her
flight suit. They had just started south when there was a scream outside.

 
          
Zen
jerked back and grabbed the wheels of his chair, Breanna rushed ahead of him,
running to the medical tent ten yards away. Two Whiplash team members, fully
armed, came on a dead run, one dropping to his knee just outside the tent and
talking into his microphone. Danny Freah barked something and the door to the
big tent flew open. Freah, Sergeant Liu, and a Navy corpsman pushed out
dragging a small Filipino. It was the woman they’d captured below, her shirt
hanging half off.

 
          
“She
grabbed a scissors,” said Liu. “She tried to stab the captain.”

 
          
“Guerrilla,”
said Stoner, appearing behind Zen.

 
          
“Maybe
she just doesn’t like the idea of being manhandled,” said Breanna. The young
woman had collapsed to the ground. Bree went to her and kneeled down.

 
          
“Careful,
Captain,” said Danny.

 
          
“Were
there all men in there?” asked Bree.

 
          
“I
don’t think that was the problem,” said Liu. “We took a gun from her earlier.”

 
          
Breanna
squatted in front of the Filipino. “Are you okay?”