Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (43 page)

 
          
“Colonel’s
inbound,” reported Bison. His eyes looked red, but his face was set in its
usual frown.

 
          
“Okay.”

 
          
“Marines
found a place for the villagers,” added the Whiplash trooper.

 
          
“The
Marines?”

 
          
“Peterson
worked it out with some Navy people. The word came down. No government, just do
it. They’re about to take off now.”

 
          
“Where?”

 
          
Bison
thumbed toward a “Frog”—a general-purpose transport
helo
that looked like a Chinook shrunk to half size. “Blow’s with ’
em
,” said Bison, referring to Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez.
“They thought you might like to go, so they waited a little. Been two or three
minutes.”

 
          
“Yeah,
maybe I will. All right. Stoner?”

 
          
“I
gotta
make a report.”

 
          
“How’s
Liu?” Danny asked Bison.

 
          
“Claim’s
he’d rather fix himself than let a corpsman near him.”

 
          
“Good,”
said Danny. “I’ll be back.”

 
          
He
began trotting toward the waiting Navy helicopter. The crewman at the door
waved and helped him in; a moment later the helicopter lifted off.

 
          
The
villagers didn’t have much, but the rear of the chopper wasn’t all that big,
and in order to fit, Danny had to stand next to the door. The Filipino girl
he’d captured stood against the opposite wall, staring at him. Danny tried
smiling at her, but she didn’t respond.

 
          
The
spot they’d found for the village was on another island about fifteen minutes
to the south. Blow, squeezing over to Freah, told him some Navy
SeaBees
were at the new village site already; they’d
cleared it with a dozer, erected some temporary canvas tent, and were digging
so they could pour foundations—three small prefab housing units had been
located by the ever-resourceful engineers and were en route.

 
          
“Build
a skyscraper if you let ’
em
,” said the sergeant.
“Peterson really kicked some butt.
Gotta
give it to
the Marines. Except that they’re Marines, they’d be okay.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
said Danny. “Locals give you any trouble?”

 
          
“Not
really. Just the silent treatment. I’m sorry about Powder,” added Blow. “That
sucks horseshit.”

 
          
““Yeah,”
said Danny. “Locals give you any trouble?”

 
          
“Not
really. Just the silent treatment. I’m sorry about Powder,” added Blow. “That
sucks horseshit.”

 
          
“Yeah.”

 
          
“You
see it happen, Cap?”

 
          
Was
he asking because he was accusing him of screwing up?

 
          
Danny
looked down at Hernandez, who was six or seven inches shorter than him. There
wasn’t any anger in his face, just confusion, a little sorrow.

 
          
“Yeah.
He was a few yards away,” Danny told his team’s
pointman
gently. “If Powder didn’t get it, I would have. Sucks.”

 
          
“Dedicated,”
said Danny.

 
          
“Crazy
fucks.”

 
          
“Yeah.”

 
          
The
helo
settled down. Unlike the last village, this one
had a good view of the shoreline, which lay a quarter mile below the settlement
area. Danny guessed the Filipinos might not appreciate that. They wanted a
place where they could hide, and the clear view worked both ways, but it was too
late to worry about it. He jumped out as the
helo
touched down, then helped the Navy people unpack the villagers’ gear.

 
          
“Got
a Lieutenant Simmons wants to see you,” said one of the sailors on the ground.
“He’s a liaison guy. He helped set this up. Some paperwork, and I think he
needs some advice on classification or some such thing.”

 
          
“Yeah,
okay. I
gotta
get back, thought,” said Danny. He put
down the box of cooking gear he’d taken from the helicopter. As he rose, the
girl he’d taken prisoner passed in front of him.

 
          
It
was as if he wasn’t there, just another ghost in the jungle. Danny felt anger
well up—he’d busted his ass for these people, for her, and they just went on
like he wasn’t there.

 
          
“Hey,”
said Danny. He grabbed her arm. She jerked it back. “You
gonna
thank me?” he said.

 
          
She
reared back her head. If it hadn’t been for the wind from the blades of the
helo
, the spittle probably would have struck him in the
face.

 
          
Aboard Quicksilver, over the South China
Sea

 
          
The
consensus was clear—definitely a Sikorsky, definitely something very similar to
Searchwater
, though not quite an exact match. It
looked like it might be a bit harder to jam, according to Torbin, who
immediately volunteered to try.

 
          
“Let
’
em
be,” said Breanna. “Chris, get on the line to
Dreamland Command and tell them about this. They’re going to be very
interested.”

 
          
The
helicopter climbed into an orbit over the aircraft carrier. As interesting as
it was, the Sukhois that had charged after the Viking were a higher priority;
and so Breanna sidled in their direction, making sure to stay within ten miles
of the Viking, the Sukhois stared to sandwich the Navy plane in a high-low
hello-there routine; one Chinese pilot came in over the S-3 while the other
came in below. Even at five hundred knots, it was doubtful the separation
between the three planes added up to ten feet.

 
          
“They’re
crazy,” said Chris. “They’ll hit ’
em
for sure. They
can’t fly that well in the damn daylight, let alone in the dark.”

 
          
The
radar shoed the Chinese fighters merging with the Viking and, looking at the
display, it seemed as if they had crashed. Instead, they had simultaneously
sandwiched the S-3 swooping across in opposite direction. It would have been an
impressive move at an air show.

 
          
“All
right, let’s see if we can get their attention so our Navy friend can drop his
buoys,” Bree said, reaching for the throttle bar. The engine control on the
Megafortress was fully electronic, and unlike the old lollipop-like sticks in
the original B-52, consisted of a master glide bar that could be separated into
four smaller segments. Unless the individual controls were activated, the
flight computer assumed that it had discretion to fine-tune any discrepancies
in the engine performance to maintain uniform acceleration.

 
          
Not
that any aircraft maintained by a member of a ground crew under the direct
supervision of Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons would dare show any
discrepancies.

 
          
Breanna
couldn’t get close to the Chinese without getting close to the S-3 as well.
Even so, she got close enough to send a serious vortex of air currents across
their wings.

 
          
Not
that it had any effect.

 
          
“They’re
really a pain in the ass, ain’t they?” said the pilot in
Redtail
One. “They’re not going to keep me from doing my job,” he added.

 
          
Possibly
hearing the comment, the Sukhois below the S-3 accelerated and popped up in
front of the Viking’s nose.
Redtail
One fluttered; as
the plane started to bank the Chinese planes seemed to swarm tighter. Two
Sukhois flying over the
Shangi
-Ti changed course and
headed in the S-3’s direction.

 
          
Jennifer
Gleason, meanwhile, had filled the S-3 pilot in on the submarines they were
tracking and their present course. As the pilot tacked toward it, the other
fighters arrived. Though he chopped his speed, he couldn’t shake the weaving
Sukhois.

 
          
Zen,
eavesdropping on the radio communications, had an almost overwhelming urge to
hit the gas and chase off the Chinese planes, and had to keep reminding himself
he was controlling a robot probe under the water. Maybe because of the
distraction, it took him a few extra seconds to realize the two subs he was
following were splitting up.

 
          
“Bree—our
targets are splitting. I’m with the one heading west. We’re going to need
another buoy soon.”

 
          
“Roger
that, Hawk Leader. Ms. Gleason, give all the data to our Navy friends.”

 
          
“Already
have, Captain.”

 
          
“Can
we help you somehow?” Bree asked the
Redtail
pilot as
the Sukhois swarmed around the Viking.

 
          
“Short
of firing at them? Negative.”

 
          
“Yeah,
my orders suck too,” said the Navy pilot, referring to his rules of engagement,
which, because of the complicated political situation, strictly forbade him
from doing anything but running away. “Current ROEs are bullshit on top of
bullshit.”

 
          
“I
didn’t know you had
antiair
weapons,” said Breanna.

 
          
“At
this range, I could hit them with my Beretta,” said the pilot.

 
          
One
of the Chinese Sukhois nearly clipped the S-3’s wing as he rose up suddenly.
The
Redtail
pilot cursed over the fighters.
Undaunted, the two other Chinese planes stayed right on this tail. As the S-3
leveled off, one slipped beneath him.

 
          
“What
do you think they’ll do if we activate our gun radar?” Bree asked Chris.

 
          
“Activate
theirs?”

 
          
As
Bree considered it, one of the Chinese planes came at the S-3 head-on.

 
          
“Man,
they’re out of their minds,” said Chris.

 
          
Breanna
checked her position, then switched back into the radio circuit. “We’re going
to have to cut out of this dance in a few minutes,” she told
Redtail
One, starting another pass in an attempt to pull
the Sukhois away.

 
          
“Acknowledged,”
said the pilot tersely.

 
          
The
interceptors took no notice of the bigger plane, ducking and weaving with the
S-3.

 
          
“We’re
going to have to leave you, Navy,” said Breanna.

 
          
“Been
fun, Air Force.”

 
          
Breanna
tucked her wings and pushed the Megafortress west toward the coordinates
Jennifer Gleason had plotted for the next buoy drop. She was just about to give
the order to open the bomb bay doors when
Torbin’s
deep voice rattled in her headset.

 
          
“Sukhois
have activated gun radars!” he barked.

 
          
“ECMs,”
said Bree. It was undoubtedly another ratchet in their harassment campaign, but
she wasn’t going to just stand there. “Hawk Leader, I mean Piranha, we’re going
to have put that buoy drop off for a second.”