Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (56 page)

 
          
“What’s
so funny? Marriage is a good thing.”

 
          
“Good
how?”

 
          
“In
all ways you’d expect.”

 
          
“I’m
not sure I expect any ways,” he told her, staring into her eyes. The raft was
so small their faces were perhaps eight inches apart. If he wanted, he could
lean forward and touch his mouth to her lips.

 
          
He
did want to. He wanted to more than anything else.

 
          
She
turned her head toward the sky. “We should see them soon. They’ll be here
soon.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
said Stoner. He turned his head and looked toward the sky as well.

 
          
“Not
a cloud in the sky,” said Breanna.

 
          
“Great
day for a picnic,” said Stoner.

 
          
He
would kiss her. He must. He felt the weight of her leg leaning against his.

 
          
“Hear
something?” she asked.

 
          
“Just
your heart. And mine.”

 
          
“I
think I heard a plane.” She jerked upright, scanned the sky.

 
          
There
was no sound except the water lapping against the sides of the raft and
Ferris’s breaths, now growing labored. Stoner wondered if she was
hallucinating.

 
          
Or
inventing an excuse not to be so close to him. He wanted to kiss her.

 
          
She
leaned over the side toward Chris. “How you doing?” she asked.

 
          
“Good
exercise. Come on. Water’s warm.”

 
          
“Later
I think.” She lay back down, her head against the sides of the raft. She’d
oriented herself a little farther from him—but their legs still touched.

 
          
“So,
Mr. Stoner, you want to tell us your life story?” Breanna asked.

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“What
will you tell us then?”

 
          
“Noting,”
said Stoner.

 
          
“Private
guy,” said Chris from the water.

 
          
“I
didn’t know I was expected to perform,” he told them.

 
          
“You
must have some battle stories. You were in the SEALs, right?” She leaned over,
balancing on her left arm. A twinge of pain flashed across her face—her
shoulder and back were undoubtedly complaining—but she kept her voice light.
“Tell me a story, and then I’ll tell one. We’ve seen some shit,” she added.

 
          
“I
don’t think I’m allowed to tell stories.”

 
          
“Neither
are we.”

 
          
She
wanted him. That’s why she was flirting.

 
          
He’d
kiss her. He had to kiss her.

 
          
Stoner
began to lean forward. She watched, doing nothing.

 
          
Chris
Ferris screamed. The sound was loud and so distorted that it took Stoner a
second to realize it was a real scream.

 
          
The
raft tugged backward, and down. A huge fin appeared on the side. The raft spun
fiercely to the right.

 
          
Ferris
screamed again. Breanna began to move—began to slide toward him.

 
          
Water
furled.

 
          
“The
belts, cut the belts!” yelled Stoner.

 
          
“Chris!
Chris!”

 
          
Four,
five fins appeared in the water and a sound like switchblades snapping open and
shut filled the air. Stoner threw his upper body over her, grabbing Breanna as
she slid toward the side. Teeth snapped in the air, and once more the raft spun
right. From the corner of his eye, he saw a gun on the floor of the small
rubber boat, and with one hand, lunged for it. A demon shrieked. Stoner emptied
the magazine, but the scream continued. He pulled at Breanna and then saw a
knife in her scabbard. He bent for it and felt her pulling away. Teeth and a
gray snout leapt from the water. He sprang back, but managed with the knife to
cut the line. They shot backward, the knife flying.

 
          
“Chris!”
she screamed. “Chris! Chris!”

 
          
Stoner
used all his strength to keep her at the bottom of the raft, and still she
managed to squirm away. He grabbed her by the throat and pulled her so tight
she began choking for air. She he held on, certain she would jump out for her
copilot if he didn’t. only when her body grew limp did he finally let go,
collapsing himself over her.

 
          
Taj
building, Dreamland

 
          
August
28, 1997, 2100 local (August 29, 1997, 1200 Philippines)

 
          
Dog
took a large gulp of the extra-strong coffee and swallowed quickly, hoping the
caffeine would rush to his brain cells.

 
          
As
a fighter pilot, once or twice he had come close to resorting to greenies to
stay awake at crucial points; he’d always hesitated, however, fearing they
might become addictive—or worse, not work as advertised. If he had some now,
he’d have swallowed them without hesitation. The few hours of sleep he’d
managed had left him more groggy then refreshed, and as he walked down the
hallway toward the elevator with his half-full coffee cup, he felt as if his
head had been pushed down into his chest. He nodded at the security detail near
the elevator, took another gulp of his coffee, then got into the car, waiting
for it to trundle downward to the Command Center level.

 
          
Even
though his quarters were just on the other side of the base, he’d slept on his
office couch. He’d never down that before, anywhere.

 
          
Neither
had he ever worried about losing Breanna.

 
          
Once,
on the so-called “Nerve Center” mission, he’d had to authorize a plan to shoot
her down. She was a passenger on a suicide mission to destroy an American city;
the decision was a no-brainer.

 
          
This
was different. She had been lost on a surveillance mission while technically
under someone’s else command—was that the part that made it so hard to accept?
Did he feel the mission was unworthy of her sacrifice?

 
          
Colonel
Bastian commander a combat unit as well as a development facility. In either
case, death was part of the portfolio. Who was to say what justified one
instance and not the other? It was all the same to you, when you were gone.

 
          
He
took another full gulp of the coffee, felt it burn is mouth. There was still a
chance, slim but possible, that Bree and her people, his people, were alive.

 
          
They
were alive.

 
          
Rubeo
had just returned to the Command Center himself and was getting briefing from
Greg
Meades
when Dog entered.
Meades
started over for the colonel, ignoring
Rubeo’s
frown.

 
          
The
storm had passed out of the area a few hours before. Though they were mounting
very aggressive patrols, the Chinese and Indians hadn’t fired on each other;
they seemed to be spending much of their energy recovering from the initial
battle and the storm. The diplomats were busting their backs trying to get a
cease-fire in place.

 
          
Pacific
Command had launched searches for the F-14 and a helicopter that had gone down
in the storm. They were also looking for Indian and Chinese survivors as a
goodwill gesture—a move interpreted by both sides as interference, if not
spying, though they had taken no action to prevent it.

 
          
Admiral
Woods had allocated two frigates and helicopters to the Megafortress search,
and was detailing a P-3 as well, but the Navy had its hands full. Besides the
three aircraft that had apparently been lost, two civilian ships had floundered
in the storm. The only good news was the Navy had, at last, found its unaccounted-for
submarine, safe and unharmed.

 
          
“How’s
Zen?” Dog asked.

 
          
“We’ve
expanded his search area,” said
Meades
. “He think
they were farther south when they ejected, that the plane arches back
northwards before it crashed. It’s possible.”

 
          
Dog
nodded. The scientist began detailing the UMB’s performance—they were, after
all, testing a new system, something that was easy to forget. The aircraft and
sensor arrays were working fantastically.

 
          
“Fantastically,”
repeated
Meades
. He trimmed the enthusiasm in his
voice. “Though, of course, that’s small consolation.”

 
          
“It’s
okay,” said Dog, going over to the communication desk. “Let me talk to Zen.”

 
          
The
South China Sea

 
          
Date
and time unknown

 
          
The
surprise and agony burned in her brain.

 
          
Breanna
had felt it before—Jeff in the hospital when he woke up.

 
          
Bright
light filled her eyes. Her forehead and hair were crusted with salt. How long
had she lain in the raft? How long had her arms, back, and legs soaked in the
water?

 
          
To
die like that.

 
          
God,
why have you saved me and not my crew?

 
          
Water.

 
          
“Captain
Stockard?”

 
          
Something
blocked out the sun.

 
          
Jeffrey.

 
          
Stoner,
it was Stoner.

 
          
“Are
you okay? Captain Stockard? Breanna?”

 
          
His
face was right next to hers as her eyes opened fully.

 
          
“I’m
all right,” she said. “God.”

 
          
“We’re
all right.”

 
          
She
wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She’d held them back too long.
She’d never let herself cry in Jeff’s room after his accident. She couldn’t cry
now, even though she wanted to. She’d never be able to cry again.

 
          
“The
sharks moved off. I shot a couple and they started eating each other. We’re
okay.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
she managed. “Peachy.”

 
          
Aboard Iowa

 
          
August
29, 1997, 1346 local (August 28, 1997, 2146 Dreamland)

 
          
Watching
the optical feed from the mini-KH package in the UMB’s bay was like looking at
a room through a strobe light. Zen’s head and upper body pitched slightly with
each image, responding to the pulse like a dance moving to a beat. He stared at
the images so long and so hard he found the radar, and even the video from the
plane, disorienting. The computer could take care of everything else; he had to
scan the images, examine each one, dance with the darkness between them.