Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (52 page)

 
          
“Where’s
our search team?”

 
          
“Excuse
me, sir, this is lieutenant Santiago. The admiral is tied up.”

 
          
“I
understand that,” said Dog. He pushed his arms tighter to his chest, as if by
holding himself he could calm down. “I need help searching for my people.”

 
          
“We
have a plane en route. I’m in charge of—”

 
          
“Get
Admiral Woods for me,” said Dog.

 
          
“Uh—”

 
          
“Just
do it.”

 
          
The
line went dead for a moment.

 
          
The
others in the room were trying to be discreet, but he knew they were watching
him. He had to fight for his people—even if it wasn’t his daughter who’d gone
down, he had to do everything he could to get them back.

 
          
“We
have our hands full here, Colonel,” said Woods, his voice snapping though the
speakers. “I understand the difficult position you are in, but I’ve lost
another plane as well, and one of our destroyers was fired on inadvertently—at
least we think inadvertently—by the Indians. One of our submarines has missed
two scheduled transmissions, and at least one helicopter in an hour overdue. In
the meantime, the Chinese ships up near Taiwan are in a frenzy. We are looking
for your people, Tecumseh. They’re one of our priorities, just not the only
one. The storm is complicating everything.”

 
          
“My
plane on the Philippines can get around the storm,” said Dog.

 
          
“Those
are my planes,” said Woods. “Now I’m not going to press the point, but Major
Alou and his crew took off without orders and without authorization. Granted,
it was an emergency, and I certainly would have approved—but that will not
happen again. Those are my assets. I need to be able to control what’s going
on, and that requires—”

 
          
Dog
cut the connection. It was either that or punch something.

 
          
Rubeo
broke the silence. “I have a suggestion,” said the scientist.

 
          
“And?”

 
          
“The
UMB is due for a flight in six hours. We can use it to conduct the search. The
mini-KH photo package is already scheduled for telemetry tests—completely
unnecessary, I might add, given that we’ve already proven it works without
flaws.”

 
          
“It
won’t see through the storm,” said Dog.

 
          
“The
imaging radar will. By coincidence, it happens to have been loaded into the
plane just prior to your arrival. Merely to see if the double load would fit.
The aircraft ad to go up anyway. We are merely speaking here of an
inconsequential change in the flight plan.”

 
          
Dog
considered the situation. The mini-KH gear not only could identify an object .3
meters in size—roughly a foot—but placed in the B-5, it could train its sensors
wherever they wanted, without having to worry about the complications of earth
orbit and maneuvering in space. Launching the plane and flying it over the
Pacific was completely within his purview as Dreamland commander. There was
only one problem—the UMB’s pilot went down in Quicksilver.

 
          
“The
computer can fly it,” said Rubeo, anticipating Dog’s objection.

 
          
“We
need a pilot,” said Dog. “Maybe Mack Smith—”

 
          
“Piffle.”
Rubeo’s
face contorted. “Smith would have it rolling into
the ocean within minutes. Colonel, the computer can fly it. That’s what it’s
designed to do.”

 
          
“I
want someone at the controls.”

 
          
“Naturally.
I’ll be at the controls, with
Fichera
as backup,”
said Rubeo. “Along with the rest of the team. Precisely as designed. This is
what the system was created for.”

 
          
“Where’s
Zen?”

 
          
“Why
Zen?”

 
          
“He’s
flown the B-5.”

 
          
“He
merely guided the computer by voice as far as that goes, he’s no more competent
than I. Freddy, Colonel, I not only have considerably more experience flying
the aircraft, but—”

 
          
“No
offence, Doc, but I want a combat pilot at the controls.” Dog turned to the
lieutenant handling the communications panel. “Get Major Stockard.”

 
          
“Colonel—”

 
          
“We’ve
been over this, Ray. I appreciate your getting it ready—that was damn sharp of
you. But I want an experienced pilot making the call when the shit hits the
fan. The scramjets—they’re still a problem?”

 
          
“They
function within parameters.”

 
          
“Plan
the flight without using them.”

 
          
“That’s
overly cautious,” said Rubeo. “The problem was in sensors. They’re due to be
tested on the flight.”

 
          
“Then
set it up so that they’re used on the back end of the flight—on the return to
Dreamland.”

 
          
“There’s
no reason not to use them in-flight,” insisted Rubeo.

 
          
“If
they fail we’ll have to return home.”

 
          
Rubeo’s
face paled ever so slightly. “As you wish,” he
said.

 
          
“Major
Stockard is on the line, sir. They’re just landing on Okinawa,” said the
lieutenant.

 
          
“It’ll
take ten or twelve hours to get here,” said Rubeo.

 
          
“Eight,”
said Gat.

 
          
Ascenzio’s
voice surprised Dog—he’d actually forgotten the
others were in the room.

 
          
“Hardly,”
hissed Rubeo. “But even if it were only eight, you want to lose all that time?
We can have the UMB off the main runway in four hours, perhaps even less.”

 
          
“Zen
doesn’t have to be here, does he?” asked Dog. “If he’d guiding by voice. You
just have to work out a connection, right?”

 
          
“It’s
not that simple.” Rubeo frowned, then put his finger on his small gold earring.
“I’d have to talk to Dr. Gleason. Maybe,” he added, as if reluctant to concede
his assistant would have the final say. “The communication protocols—if we use
the channels reserved for the extra Flighthawks, and reprogram them into the
network. Maybe. Yes.”

 
          
“Put
Major Stockard on the screen.”

 
          
His
son-in-law’s helmeted face came on the screen. Zen was still piloting a
Flighthawk and had his visor down; he looked a bit like a race car driver in
his crash cage, head bobbing left and right before he spoke. “Stockard.”

 
          
“Jeff,
I want to talk with you, Major Alou, and Jennifer Gleason,” said Dog. “Dr.
Rubeo has an idea—”

 
          
“This
is not exactly my idea,” said Rubeo.

 
          
“I
have an idea,” said Dog. The others plugged into the line and he laid it out.

 
          
“I
think we can do it,” said Jennifer. “We may even be able to use the Flighthawk
controls for limited maneuverability.”

 
          
“Don’t
get fancy,” said Dog. “There’s no time.”

 
          
“It’s
not fancy—we built the control section from the same module; it’s meant to be
portable.”

 
          
“That
storm’s pretty fierce,” said Zen.

 
          
“The
KH Storm and Eyes modules are to be tested,” said Rubeo, using the nicknames
for the sensor arrays. “We’ll see anything we want to see.”

 
          
“Can
I see them on my screens?” asked Zen.

 
          
“That
part’s easy,” said Jennifer.

 
          
“Voice
commands can be issued by myself—or even you, Colonel,” said Rubeo. “There’s no
need to create a camel here—with all due respect to Major Stockard, I’d imagine
he’s tired.”

 
          
“I’m
fine.”

 
          
“I
want a combat pilot at the controls,” insisted Dog. “Major Alou, Admiral Woods
may call you to assist other missions. Could you accomplish them while you’re
handling this?”

 
          
“I
don’t know that we can be in two places at one time,” said Major Alou.

 
          
“You
won’t have to be,” said Jennifer. “It’ll be just like a regular mission with
Flighthawks—except you won’t have to stay close to the UMB. We can do it,
Tecumseh.”

 
          
Her
use of his name paralyzed him; he felt a strange mix of love and fear.

 
          
“Ray,”
she continued, “on the Piranha translation module, the 128 processor—”

 
          
“Yes.
The assembler will—”

 
          
“But
we won’t need the weapon section.”

 
          
“That’s
where we’re routing the KH radar unit.”

 
          
“I
can do it, I can do it. We can use the channels reserved for the helmets. I can
do it!”

 
          
“Don’t
play schoolgirl.”

 
          
“All
right, listen,” said Dog. “Major Alou—you land your plane, gas up, take off
ASAP. Dr. Gleason and Dog—” he pointed at Rubeo. “See what you can work out. I
want a go, no-go recommendation in two hours. Less if possible.”

 
          
“It’s
go,” said Zen.

 
          
“I
appreciate the sentiment,” said Dog.

 
          
“What
do I do if I’m given a mission before then?” asked Major Alou.

 
          
“Take
it,” said Zen.

 
          
“We
need to be on the ground for at least two hours,” said Jennifer. “Maybe a
little more.”

 
          
“It’ll
take a while to refuel,” said Alou. “And the weather may delay us too.”

 
          
“Two
hours, go or no-go,” said Dog. “Let’s get to work.”

 
          
Aboard Iowa

 
          
August
29, 1997, 0207 local (August 28, 1997, 1107 Dreamland)

 
          
Zen
checked the instruments on Flighthawk One, preparing to land on Okinawa.
Jennifer was bouncing up and down next to him, already working out the problems
on one of her laptop computers. He could feel her adrenaline rush, the
excitement that came with facing the impossible, the sureness it could be
overcome.

 
          
He’d
heard it in their voices back at Dreamland too. They all had it. Even Rubeo,
despite grousing that the computers would do a better job than Zen could.

 
          
The
one thing they hadn’t talked about was that Bree and the others were very
likely dead already, blown to bits in the plane.

 
          
Which
was why they didn’t talk about it.