Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (61 page)

 
          
“I
am on your side,” said Dog.

 
          
“I
meant, join the Navy.”

 
          
Dog,
who’d known very well what he meant, smiled to himself and leaned back in the
seat. Colonel Bastian didn’t like Woods, and thought more than ever that he was
a jerk. But his animosity toward Woods had dissipated. Maybe that was because,
as Woods put it, Dreamland had hit a home run.

 
          
Or
more likely, losing several of his best men in the interests of preventing a
world war had left him with other things to think about than an admiral’s
pettiness.

 
          
“You
and your people did a good job as well,” Dog told Woods. He was sincere—though
the emphasis fell more heavily on the Navy personnel working for Woods rather
than the admiral himself.

 
          
“I’m
sorry about the people you lost.”

 
          
“So
am I,” said Dog. Beside Chris and Torbin
Dolk
, one
other member of Breanna’s EB-52 was officially listed as killed in action—Lieutenant
Freddy Collins. His body had been discovered by the Navy patrol that was
backing Danny up when they recovered
Dolk
. Captain
Kevin “Curly” Fentress was officially MIA, but he was almost certainly dead as
well. A thorough search of the area, both by the UMB and the Navy, had failed
to turn up any trace of the young Flighthawk pilot.

 
          
Woods
cleared his throat. For a second—perhaps less than that—Dog thought the
cocksure-of-himself admiral was actually going to apologize for kicking him out
of the Philippines.

 
          
Then
he realized the fleet would sink before that happened.

 
          
“Piranha
and your robot planes obviously did well,” said Woods, the edge back in his
voice. “You must be feeling pretty good.”

 
          
“Actually,
the only thing I feel at the moment is tired,” said Dog, killing the
transmission.

 
          
He
looked up. The copilot was just emerging from the cockpit. “Colonel, you have
another call pending. Dr. Rubeo.”

 
          
All
of his favorite people were tormenting him today, thought Dog. All he needed
next was a call from his ex-wife.

 
          
“Doc,
talk to me,” said Dog, clicking into the circuit.

 
          
“The
disc that was recovered from the downed Megafortress contains an unidentified
contact at long range that appears to be a U/MF,” said the scientist.

 
          
“What?”
said Dog. “Is it the search team?”

 
          
“Hardly,”
said Rubeo. “This occurred just prior to the shoot-down. We had no assets in
the vicinity. The contact was a small, extremely robust aircraft, nothing on
the order of the first-or second-generation UAVs available to the Chinese, or
Russians for that matter. Nor was it large enough to be a MiG-29, which is
another theory you’ll hear. I’m quite sure, Colonel. I have one of the radar
specialists and a member of the U/MF development team here to talk you through
the data, I wanted to make sure you knew about this as soon as possible.”

 
          
“Go
ahead and plug them into the circuit,” said Dog grimly.

 
          
Jennifer
managed to wait until the cabin door of the small aircraft cranked open. Then
she launched herself at the steps catching Dog about midway down.

 
          
“Hey,”
he said.

 
          
“Hey
yourself,” she said, hugging him tightly. She’d been waiting here for nearly
six hours. Zen and Jennifer had arrived on the islands on a commercial flight
out of Japan, which Iowa and the rest of her crew returned directly to
Dreamland, their deployment over.

 
          
“I
was worried about you,” Dog told Jennifer.

 
          
“Me?”
She took a step down to the Tarmac. “Why?”

 
          
“Because
I was worried,” said Dog.

 
          
“Oh,
please. Why would you worry?”

 
          
Seeing
he was going to explain, Jennifer did the only sensible thing—she leaned close
and kissed him.

 
          
“People
are watching,” he said when they parted.

 
          
“You
think we can do better?”

 
          
Without
waiting for an answer, Jennifer kissed him again. When their lips parted,
Jennifer leaned her head back slightly, then smiled.

 
          
“Third
time’s a charm,” she said, kissing him again. It did do the trick; she felt him
finally relax.

 
          
“What’s
the word on Breanna?” he asked when they finally started walking away from the
plane.

 
          
“She’s
getting better,” said Jennifer. “She’s at Bright Memorial.”

 
          
“I’m
going to go over there right now,” said Dog.

 
          
“I
thought you would. I have a car waiting for you in front of the hangar.”

 
          
“You
coming?”

 
          
“I’m
supposed to have a phone conference with the people on the Piranha team in
about fifteen minutes,” said Jennifer. “They’ve been asked to make a
presentation to the White House first thing in the morning, so they’re
scrambling. Ray talked to you?”

 
          
Dog
nodded.

 
          
“It’s
possible that the radar image is an echo of the Megafortress’s own
Flighthawks,” she told him. “If the gear was malfunctioning because of the
fire, it’s possible. We’ll have to carefully analyze the tape.”

 
          
“Dr.
Rubeo doesn’t think that’s likely,” said Dog.

 
          
Jennifer
nodded. She agreed with Ray.

 
          
“Where’s
Zen?” Dog asked.

 
          
“I
think he’s at the hospital. I haven’t seen him since we landed in Honolulu.”

 
          
Dog
gave her one of his uh-grunts, the sort he used when he was processing several
things at once. “We’ll hook up later,” he said.

 
          
“At
the hotel,” she said. “We’ll have room service dinner and then R&R.”

 
          
“Sounds
good.” He turned and kissed her again. “I love you,” he whispered.

 
          
“Hold
that though,” she said, barely managing to twist herself away.

 
          
An
hour later, Colonel Bastian waited at the visitor’s desk of Bright Memorial
Hospital Honolulu as a volunteer fumbled through a stack of old-fashioned
visitor cards, looking for Breanna’s room number. “I’ll find it, I’ll find it,”
insisted the woman, talking more to herself than him.

 
          
Dog
glanced down the hallway. His uniform would probably get him up to her room
without a problem—except he wasn’t sure where exactly it was. Not only was the
private hospital immense, it had been cobbled together under several different
administrations. Each wing seemed to be a maze unto itself. He didn’t need a
pass; he needed directions.

 
          
That
or a GPS device.

 
          
“Here,
oh, yes, here she is,” said the woman, pulling the card from her file. “Breanna
Stockard. What sort of name is that?”

 
          
A
name that her stubborn mother insisted on, thought Dog. He answered that it was
Irish.

 
          
“Hmmm.
She has a visitor,” added the volunteer after giving him directions and a
color-coded map.

 
          
Probably
Zen, thought Dog. But it was Danny Freah he found standing at Breanna’s
bedside.

 
          
“Hey,
you,” he told Breanna.

 
          
“Hi,
Daddy,” She started to push up.

 
          
“It’s
okay, baby,” he told her, putting his hand on her shoulder gently. He leaned
down and kissed her forehead. She pulled her arms around him; he could feel her
tears on his cheek.

 
          
His
tears too, maybe.

 
          
“I’m
damn glad you made it,” he told her.

 
          
“Me
too.” She looked toward Danny.

 
          
“And
you!” Dog turned and gave his captain a hug. “Thanks. Thanks.”

 
          
Danny,
looking embarrassed, shrugged when Dog let him go.

 
          
“Where’s
Jeff?” asked Breanna.

 
          
“I
thought Zen was here already,” said Dog.

 
          
“I
haven’t seen him since I woke up,” said Breanna.

 
          
“Probably
ducked out for dinner or lunch or something. I’m sure he’ll be back,” said Dog.
He felt a flush of anger at his son-in-law for not sitting at Breanna’s side,
where he belonged.

 
          
“He
flew the B-5,” said Danny, obviously sticking up for Zen. “That’s how we found
you. They loaded a mini-KH package in the belly, rigged up a way for him to fly
it from Iowa, and he found you. Thank God.”

 
          
“So
where is he?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

 
          
Dog
looked at Danny, who shrugged.

 
          
“TV
was on when I came in,” said Danny. “You were just kind of drifting awake.”

 
          
Breanna’s
face was puffy. Her eyes seemed to have trouble focusing, and Dog could tell
that her head was fuzzy, either from concussion or from the painkillers they’d
given her. She had sprained her wrist and torn ligaments in her knee during the
ejection; she also had deep bruising to her sternum and back. But mostly she
was just suffering from dehydration and exposure. The doctors had told Dog
she’d be up and around in a day or so.

 
          
“CNN
was saying India and China have agreed to a cease-fire,” said Danny, trying to
change the subject. He laughed. “Of course, they also had unnamed sources
claiming the Navy stopped a war. We did all the work, and they all get the
credit.”

 
          
“Piranha
has to remain secret,” said Dog. “And the Navy did do a lot.”

 
          
“Didn’t
say they didn’t,” said Danny.

 
          
“I
saw Chris die,” said Breanna. Her voice was weak and hoarse, but still the
words seemed to shake the room. “He was my copilot. I couldn’t save him.”

 
          
Dog
looked at her, unable to think of anything to say. “And Kevin. Did they find
him?” she asked, referring to Fentress.

 
          
“We
have to assume he’s dead, Bree.” Dog felt the words sticking to his throat, but
he pushed them out, feeling it was his duty to tell her, not to sugarcoat
anything, not to leave any doubt. “In that storm, with the rain and the wind,
it probably took him under right away.”

 
          
“We
made it,” she said.

 
          
Thank
God, he thought, though all he could do was put his hand on hers.

 
          
Danny
broke the awkward silence. “I have to get going. Bree, I’m really glad you’re
okay.”