Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (60 page)

 
          
Bastards—he’d
strangle each one of them personally.

 
          
Bison
looked at him across the doorway. If the Chinese were shooting at unarmed men
in a raft, they’d sure as hell fire at the Osprey. But there was no way he was
stopping now.

 
          
Bastards!

 
          
Aboard Iowa

 
          
If
the Hornets didn’t take out the destroyers, Zen decided, he’d crash the stinking
UMB into it. Let them court-martial him—shit, he’d willingly spend the rest of
his life in Leavenworth or wherever the hell they sent him.

 
          
Might
just as well now. Breanna didn’t love him.

 
          
God,
Bree.

 
          
Picture,
new picture.

 
          
The
gun on the side of the destroyer fired again. As it did, the sea exploded
beyond it.

 
          
Bastards
couldn’t hit the side of a barn, thank God.

 
          
The
fact that they were terrible shots wasn’t going to get them off. Bastards. What
the hell kind of people were they?

 
          
Picture,
new picture.

 
          
A
ridge erupted in the sea at the far end of his screen, behind the destroyer.

 
          
Picture,
new picture.

 
          
Zen
hit the resolution, backing off for a wider shot. There was another ship, a
cruiser beyond the destroyer.

 
          
Picture,
new picture.

 
          
It
took the computer three more shots to get the focus right. By then, the ridge
that had appeared was on the surface of the water.

 
          
A
submarine.

 
          
The
Chinese weren’t attacking the raft at all—they were going after a sub.

 
          
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea

 
          
As
he reached the bridge, Admiral
Balin
saw his crew had
been mistaken—the large contact was a cruiser, not the carrier.

 
          
It
mattered little. The submarine sat cockeyed in the water, heeling over to the
left. They were an easy target.

 
          
A
shell splashed into the water a hundred yards away.

 
          
“They
destroyer will hit us eventually,” said
Varja
behind
him.

 
          
Balin
gripped the small rail before him and took a long
deep breath. The sun shone down strong upon him, the sea barely swelled, the
air had a fine salty mist.

 
          
Would
he remember this in his next life?

 
          
The
cruiser was at 3,300 meters—not optimum, but acceptable, given the
circumstances. His shot was dead-on.

 
          
“Fire
torpedoes,” he said, as the next shell from the destroyer’s deck gun landed
twenty yards away.

 
          
It
took perhaps five seconds for the order to be carried out. In those seconds
Balin
felt every failure and mistake of his life rise in
his chest, pounding like a thousand iron fists on his frail frame. But as the
first torpedo left the boat, the regrets dissolved. He took a deep breath, felt
the sea in his lungs. It was as sweet and heavy as the first breath he’d ever
taken at sea. He turned his head upward, and in the last half-second of his
life saw the approaching shell descending toward his vessel’s hull.

 
          
Aboard Dreamland Osprey

 
          
They
didn’t have time to finesse this approach. The Osprey banked low and slow.
Danny jumped, so anxious he didn’t tuck his legs right before hitting the
water. He shook off the shock and, without bothering to check for Bison, began
stroking toward the raft, which bobbed about thirty yards away.

 
          
There
were explosions nearby. The Chinese were firing, but not in his direction. They
weren’t interested in the raft, or the Osprey.

 
          
When
he was five yards from the raft, it ducked downward as if pulled toward the
depths. Danny took a breath and prepared to dive after it, then saw it bob back
up with Bison at its side. With one hard overhand stroke he reached it,
grabbing the side with both hand and pulling his body over it.

 
          
“Dead,”
Bison told him.

 
          
“Shit,”
said Danny.

 
          
“
Dolk
,” added Bison, turning the prostrate body over. “I
don’t see any wounds. Might’ve been internal injuries. Hey—” A plastic
container slipped to the bottom of the raft; it was attached via a chain to
Torbin’s
wrist.

 
          
“Those
are discs from the mission,” said Danny. “Security protocol is to take ’
em
out if you go. He did his job to the end.”

 
          
He
saw
Dolk’s
radio near the dead man’s foot.

 
          
The
Osprey was approaching, its hoist line draping into the water.

 
          
“Sucks,”
said Bison, fitting a life preserver around the dead man’s torso.

 
          
“Yeah,”
said Danny. “
Bigtime
.”

 
          
Aboard Iowa

 
          
Zen
listened to the Osprey pilot calling off the Hornets, telling them the Chinese
were not going after their people. Anger seized him, surging over his shoulders
like a physical thing, a bear gripping its thick paws into his flesh and
howling in his ear. The Chinese hadn’t just shot down Breanna; they had made
her unfaithful.

 
          
He
hated them. He’d kill everyone of them. he could order the Hornets in, claim he
saw guns being trained on the Osprey or the people in the water. The F/A-18’s
would sink the Chinese ships.

 
          
Maybe,
in the confusion, Breanna herself would die.

 
          
He
didn’t wish for that; he couldn’t wish for that, but he could accept it,
willingly. His anger that great. Uncontrollable, unending rage.

 
          
“Dreamland
B05 to Hornet Strike Leader,” he said, punching the talk button and
transmitting on the strike frequency. “Confirming what you’ve heard. Chinese
are not firing on our people. Repeat, Chinese are not firing on our people. Do
not attack. Do not attack.”

 
          
The
Hornets acknowledged. Zen took a deep breath.

 
          
“All
right,” he told Major Alou. “We still have one crew member MIA. I’m going to set
up for a fresh search pattern.”

 
          
South China Sea, approaching Taiwan

 
          
August
31, 1997, 0910 local

 
          
Chen
Lo
Fann’s
tea had turned slightly bitter, but he
savored it anyway. His mission, while not quite an unqualified success, had
cost the Communists one of their prized possessions. At the same time, he had
gathered considerable information about their other capabilities, and,
incidentally, gained information about the Americans as well. A successful
mission indeed.

 
          
More
importantly, it appeared he had not been detected. The Americans and the
Chinese knew the spy ships were ROC vessels, and it was probably the Americans
suspected the atoll spy stations had belonged to him, not the Communists, but
there was no evidence to show he had assisted the Indians.

 
          
While
the diplomats had succeeded in imposing a cease-fire, the enmity between the
two South Asia powers still simmered. His hope of drawing the Americans into a
war had been too ambitious—but that element had not been part of his original
plan anyway. the Dragon had proven itself in flight and had, it seemed, gone
undetected.

 
          
Objectively,
a successful mission; but would his government see it that way?

 
          
Chen
Lo
Fann
took a long sip of his tea. In some ways, he
regretted he had not had the chance to use the robot plane to attack the
Communists. Perhaps fate would provide an opportunity in the future.

 
          
Lao
Tze
had written it was wise to retire when the task
was done. But the way was a subtle way, a myriad winding of various wills. Chen
Lo
Fann
recognized this; it was how he, a man of
action, could accept the passivity implicit in the Tao. For now he would
retire, deal with his government and its requirements. Fortune would once more
present itself, if he were patient.

 
          
Surely,
he could.

 
          
Aboard Dreamland Transport Two, approaching
Hawaii

 
          
August
31, 1997, 1636 local

 
          
Dog
was on the stairs again in the Metro, back in his dreams, looking for his
daughter. Zen was there, and by some miracle, he could use his legs. But he acted
oddly, sulking behind Dog as he trotted up the steps, angry about something he
wouldn’t share.

 
          
Breanna
was just beyond the next turn, Dog thought. And yet she wasn’t. He pushed up
the steps faster, worried about her, fearing he’d never get to her.

 
          
She
was safe now, his conscious mind blurted, trying to break into the imaginary
world. There was no need for him to be haunted by this nightmare.

 
          
“I’m
not going any further,” said Zen behind him.

 
          
Somehow,
in the dream Dog managed to keep jogging up the steps and yet turn around and
yell to his son-in-law at the same time. “Don’t give up,” he heard himself say.
“Let’s go. Don’t give up.”

 
          
“Sir?”

 
          
Dog
jerked awake and found himself staring into the face of the C-26’s copilot. The
lieutenant stood in the aisle of the transport with a quizzical look.

 
          
“Sir,
Admiral Woods wants to speak with you,” said the copilot. “You said if there
was anything important, to wake you up.”

 
          
“Yes,
of course.”

 
          
Dog
rubbed his eyes and forehead, shaking off the dream.

 
          
“So
you hit a home run,” said Woods as Dog plugged his headset into the panel next
to his seat. The light, dual-
engined
utility aircraft
had Dreamland-issue communications gear, allowing secure transmissions via
satellite like any other member of the Dreamland fleet.

 
          
“Admiral?”

 
          
“The
Pentagon and the White House are singing your praises, Tecumseh. Admiral Allen
told me a little while ago he’s convinced you averted a world war. Not to
mention helped get the results on a top-secret Indian weapon and flush out a
Chinese submarine no one had seen in the ocean before. Admiral Allen almost
sounded like he wanted to have you come over to our side.”