Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (45 page)

 
          
Captain
Varka
gave the order to change their course. They
came around quickly and began closing on the Chinese vessel.

 
          
The
Kali weapons and their assorted equipment had robbed
Balin
of precious space, leaving him room for only six torpedoes. He would fire two
at the destroyer, holding the others for whatever target he would find later.

 
          
“Sir,”
said Captain
Varja
. “We have additional contacts. A
carrier.”

 
          
“A
carrier?”

 
          
“Making
good speed,” added the captain. “Other vessels as well. Beyond the destroyer.”

 
          
Balin
put his eyes back to the periscope view. There was
only gray beyond the destroyer.

 
          
They
were using only their passive sonar. To use the active array would surely alert
the Chinese to their presence—but would also provide a good deal more information.

 
          
He
wanted it too badly; he must be cautious.

 
          
Balin
stepped away from the periscope. His eyes met
Varja’s
. The captain surely had the same thoughts.

 
          
“We
must find it,” said
Balin
softly.

 
          
“Agreed.”

 
          
Varja
gave the orders to use the sonar.

 
          
One
carrier, less than three miles away. It was the
Shangi
-Ti;
the sound signature left no doubt.

 
          
There
was another—another very large contact in the distance, more than likely a
vessel of the same size as
Shangi
-Ti.

 
          
A
second carrier!

 
          
Again
the gods had been beneficent, guiding them here so they could strike both.

 
          
The
sonar room gave a fresh warning—the frigate was turning in their direction.

 
          
“Return
to passive sensors. Take us to a safer depth.”

 
          
Swiftly,
the crew moved to obey.

 
          
Philippines

 
          
The
water lapped at Danny Freah’s waist clear and warm, if it weren’t for the roar
of the approaching F/A-18’s, he could have believed he was wading out from an
exclusive private beach.

 
          
It
wasn’t exactly private, but thanks to a contingent of Marine guards and
Dreamland security protecting the island and this cove below the airstrip, it
was very exclusive.

 
          
Danny
slid onto his side and began swimming parallel to the shore. When he’d gone
about twenty yards, he turned back. He used large boulders on the hillside as
markers, treading back and forth as if working out, though he didn’t keep track
of his many laps. He swam a backstroke to the south, the sidestroke or
breaststroke to the north. He was not a big swimmer, and his muscles soon began
to tire with the unfamiliar exertion. He kept on paddling, the burn creeping
down from his shoulders to his arms, out from his hips to his thighs, and then
all the way to his calf muscles. He swam until the tingling sensation weighed
him down. Finally, he stopped abruptly, putting his feet down to stand on the
coral and rock-strewn ocean floor, but his path had taken him into deeper
water. He floundered for a second, water lapping over his face. He pushed up
with his arms, and in a burst of energy began swimming and laughing at the same
time. How ignoble would that be, he wondered to himself, to die recreating in a
combat zone?

 
          
He
didn’t stand until the water was less than waist-deep. When he reached his
blanket on the shore, he saw Bison heading down the rock-strewn path from the
airstrip.

 
          
“Hey,
Cap—Colonel Bastian looking to talk to you up at the command post,” said the
sergeant.

 
          
“Thanks,”
said Danny, toweling off. Bison stood a short distance away, staring at the
water. Danny suddenly felt modest and, though no one was looking at him, pulled
his shorts off below his towel and then pulled his uniform pants up, forgoing
underwear.

 
          
“Water
warm?” asked Bison.

 
          
“Yeah,”
said Danny, pulling on a T-shirt.

 
          
“Say
Captain, mind if I ask you something?”

 
          
“What’s
that?”

 
          
“How
come Powder chose that reading?”

 
          
“Sorry?”
said Danny, thinking he’d misunderstood.

 
          
“Powder—Liu
told me to make sure the chaplain got the verse right. That’s what he wanted
read? Turn the other cheek and all that shit? I don’t get it.”

 
          
Danny
pulled on his shirt. “I don’t know,” he said. He hadn’t realized Powder himself
had chosen the reading.

 
          
“It’s
supposed to be a message to us, sure, all right, I can understand that,” said
Bison. “But from Powder? Man, he liked to shoot things up. Now he’s telling us
to turn the other cheek? Shit. Powder?”

 
          
Bison—who’d
never gotten along particularly well with Powder while he was alive—looked a
little as if he was going to cry.

 
          
“To
be honest, I don’t get it either,” said Danny. “I miss him, though. Already.”

 
          
“Yeah,
weird. Powder. Fuck. It sucks, Captain.”

 
          
“It
does suck, Bison. Big time.”

 
          
“He
told us about you in Sarajevo, how you saved his life that time.”

 
          
“It
wasn’t Sarajevo,” said Danny. He ran his pinkie around the corner of his ear,
clearing out the water. Bison was waiting for the full story, but Danny didn’t
feel like telling it. He gave the short version. “We were in town about twenty
miles south of there. Guy came around the corner. I popped him. That was it,
basically.”

 
          
“I’m
glad you did.”

 
          
Danny
laughed as he pulled on his shirt. “Yeah, me too. Because the son of a bitch
would’ve popped me next. Had a stinking Uzi—where the hell do you think he got
an Uzi, huh? Those things are supposed
tp
be damn
expensive.”

 
          
By
the time the captain reached the trailer, Dog was already giving the pilots the
lowdown. Even before he heard the words, Danny knew from the colonel’s face a
heap of bullshit had gone down. Colonel Bastian always wore “the Pentagon
stare” when he had to dish out a line he didn’t agree with. Today it was mixed
with something else Danny saw even less often, genuine anger, though Bastian
wasn’t venting.

 
          
“Bottom
line, we continue monitoring the Chinese sub until further notice. Bree, your
plane’s out in three hours, relieving Major Alou. My replacement will take Iowa
six hours after that. We’ll keep turning it around until we’re ordered to go
home.”

 
          
Zen
raised his hand to interrupt. “Colonel, Jen and I have been doing a little
thinking. With a little work, we may be able to squeeze the gear tightly enough
and route things so Raven and Quicksilver can fly one of the Flighthawks and
handle Piranha at the same time.”

 
          
“Well,
that’s not really necessary,” said Bastian.

 
          
“It
would keep the Chinese off us,” said Zen. “The way things are going, it makes
sense for a Flighthawk to be along.”

 
          
“Our
orders are not to engage the enemy,” Colonel Bastian’s eyes were almost
glassy—obviously that was the heart of the trouble.

 
          
“Flighthawks
can help hold them off,” said Zen. “Bree wouldn’t have had to get that close to
the Viking. Besides, if the subs surfaces, the Flighthawk can get up close and
personal.”

 
          
The
colonel turned to Jennifer Gleason. “Is it doable?” he asked.

 
          
One
thing Danny had to give Dog—there was no visible sign that he was sleeping with
her; his voice was as gruff with her as it was with anyone.

 
          
Another
thing he had to give Bastian—the
ol
’ dog sure could
pick ’
em
.

 
          
“We
can do it, but only with Iowa because of the second control bay. I just don’t
have the space to get the computer into Quicksilver and Raven. I mean, if we
had more time—”

 
          
Dog
held up his hand. “How long?”

 
          
“Six
or seven hours. Tommy Jacobs is coming in on the next flight with the pilot,
and he’s bring a full—”

 
          
“Okay,”
said Dog.

 
          
“I’ll
take Zen’s place on Quicksilver,” said Fentress.

 
          
Bastian’s
Pentagon stare dissolved into a faint smile. He folded his arms in front of his
chest. “So what else have you decided in my absence?”

 
          
“We
didn’t decide,” said Bree innocently.

 
          
“We
might have discussed it a little,” said Fentress.

 
          
Colonel
Bastian shook his head and turned to Danny. “Captain Freah, you missed a little
at the top there. I have business at Dreamland. The mission continues;
reconnaissance only. You will continue to provide security for the
Megafortresses. I realize it’s superfluous,” he added. “I trust the Marines,
but I want at least a token presence. Work out what equipment and personnel we
need to keep here.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” said Danny.

 
          
“All
right, well, let’s get cranking then. I have to pack. Commander Stein will be
in charge of operation as of ten seconds ago.” Dog glanced at his watch, then
back at them. “I expect everyone to follow orders to the best of their ability.
And in some cases, beyond.”

 
          
Zen
let his wheelchair slide down the ramp, rushing so close to Breanna he nearly
spun her around.

 
          
“Hey,
hot rod,” she said, grabbing hold of the side. “Watch where you’re going.”

 
          
“Gimps
have the right of way,” said Zen.

 
          
“I
thought you weren’t going to say that anymore,” Bree told him. “I hate that
word.”

 
          
“I
calls ’
em
like I sees ’
em
,”
he told her.

 
          
“You
like to piss me off, don’t you?”

 
          
“Favorite
thing in the word, next to kissing you,” he said truthfully. “So you ready for
the mission?”

 
          
“I
can handle it.”

 
          
“No
shooting down Chinese planes.”

 
          
“I
will if I have to,” she said.

 
          
Zen
laughed, but he believed her. “You going to be okay without me riding shotgun
for you?” he said as they continued toward the planes.