Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (8 page)

 
          
“Turning
now to the program,” said Delaford, nodding at Dog, “our next phase of study
adds autonomous modes and more stealthy communications techniques, useful for
submarine applications. And, of course, the warhead launching modes. We’re
confident we could put a fully suitable version, based on the test article,
into production immediately. Using this propulsion system and the
communications-link technologies Dreamland has developed, the production model
would be controllable from fifty to seventy-five miles, either by airplane as
we’ve demonstrated, or small surface craft. The submarine version is a little
further behind, due to the
detectability
issues.
We’re confident, though, of eighteen-month viability. That’s a year and a half
from the word ‘go.’ ”

 
          
“Budget
line,” said the admiral.

 
          
Delaford,
who was unpracticed in the art of winning funds, hesitated and then lost his
way, trying to argue for the project rather than simply giving Allen a number.

 
          
“Well,
as a whole, compared to previous projects, say the probes for the
Seawolf
, the UUVs, it—”

 
          
“How
much?”

 
          
“That
would depend on the configuration, sir. And in, um, perspective—”

 
          
“What
I think Commander Delaford is trying to point out, said Dog, who thought the
program was worthwhile even though it belonged to the Navy, “is that you have
to compare the cost to an entire weapons system. The fact that its intended to
be expendable means the low per-unit cost ups the overall budget. Still, in a
combat situation, the cost per engagement would be very low, since it would, by
definition, be replaced.”

 
          
“Is
it worth two nuclear submarines?” asked Allen.

 
          
“Well,
that’s your call, Admiral,” said Dog.

 
          
“It’s
not my call,” said the admiral. “But if It were, I’d take the submarines.”

 
          
“Actually,
sir, at three hundred and forty million for the whole project,” said Delaford,
regaining his balance, “it’s considerably less than a submarine. And
tactically, it can do the job of a submarine without the exposure of, uh, risk,
as the tests off Hawaii show.”

 
          
“I’m
well aware of the results of the tests,” said the admiral.

 
          
Danny
Freah, standing behind the admiral, suppressed a smile. Colonel Bastian
belatedly realized what the visit was all about.

 
          
“Yes,
the results were impressive,” continued Allen. “But once countermeasures are
employed, the device will be easily countered.”

 
          
“Hardly,”
said Rubeo, characteristically choosing the most undiplomatic moment to butt
in. “Face it, Admiral, large ships are obsolete.”

 
          
Allen
snorted. “That’s been said since galleys ruled the ocean. Colonel—I’d like some
lunch.”

 
          
“I’m
told it’s ready when you are,” said Dog.

 
          
“Yes,”
said Allen. “I’m sorry, the colonel and I are meeting alone,” he added, as if
Delaford and the others had actually volunteered to accompany them. “I’ll be
back.”

 
          
“We’ll
wait,” said Rubeo.

 
          
Fortunately
for the scientist, Allen either didn’t hear what he said, or had a tin ear when
it came to go acerbic irony. Dog led Allen back to the elevator, Captain Freah
trailing behind him.

 
          
“Do
we need a shadow?” the admiral asked as they got inside the car.

 
          
“I’m
afraid close security is the order of the day here,” said Dog. “All visitors,
no matter how high their rank.”

 
          
“Even
a theater commander.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” said Dog. He could have told Danny to make himself scarce; the orders to
shadow Allen were his own. But he was a bit ticked at the surprise visit, and
even more so now that he suspected Allen had come to lobby him on the report.
Allen seemed to mellow ever so slightly, and in fact his mood visibly improved
fifteen minutes later in Cafeteria Two, a private dining area known as the Red Room
because of the décor, when the airman serving them told him that Thai-infused
salmon headed the menu.

 
          
“I
don’t want sushi,” said the admiral.

 
          
“No,
sir, of course not, sir. It can be cooked to your specification.”

 
          
“Medium
then, but still moist.”

 
          
“To
drink?” said the airman, with the precise intonation of a waiter in a
high-class restaurant.

 
          
A
true achievement, since the man was a bomb
ordie
on
special assignment. Dog marked him down mentally for a weekend pass.

 
          
“Water,”
said the admiral.

 
          
“Evian,
or perhaps
Dolmechi
?”

 
          
“
Dolmechi
?” said the admiral. “The Italian mineral water?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
“Very
good,” said Allen. “I haven’t had that since I visited Naples.”

 
          
The
waiter—who had obviously been heavily briefed by Ax—turned toward the colonel.

 
          
“I’ll
have a burger,” said Dog. “And a Coke.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. Captain?”

 
          
Danny
glanced at Dog. “I was thinking I might catch up on some items,” said Freah.
“Since we’re not in a secure area.”

 
          
“Very
good, Danny.”

 
          
“Admiral.”
Danny nodded, getting up to go.

 
          
“Just
a second.” Allen rose and stuck out his hand. “Some of my Marines made sure I
heard about what you did in Iran for them. Good work, son.”

 
          
“Thank
you, sir,” said Danny.

 
          
“You
ever think of switching commands, remember the Pacific,” said Allen.

 
          
Danny
smiled and nodded, then left.

 
          
“An
impressive officer,” said Allen.

 
          
“One
of the best,” said Dog. “That’s why he’s here.”

 
          
“And
you’re wondering why I am, aren’t you?” said Allen. He smiled, showing signs
that somewhere beneath the weight of command he did have a sense of
self-deprecating humor.

 
          
Maybe.

 
          
“Actually,
Admiral, what I’m wondering is why you didn’t give us a heads-up that you were
coming,” said Dog.

 
          
“That’s
not the way I do things,” he said abruptly.

 
          
The
colonel looked over at the airman approaching with their drinks. He didn’t
intend on getting into a pissing match with Allen, who as commander in chief of
the Pacific Command (USCINCPAC) was one of the most powerful people in the
military. The admiral commanded all forces in the Pacific, including Air Force
and Army units as well as Navy. He also had considerable input at the Pentagon
and, more important, the White House.

 
          
On
the other hand, Dog wasn’t going to roll over for anyone. Allen had no more
real business here than Dog did on the flight deck of his carriers.

 
          
Admiral
Allen took a small, almost dainty sip from his mineral water as the waiter
retreated. “Colonel. Tecumseh—can I call you that?”

 
          
“My
friends call me Dog.”

 
          
Allen
smiled indulgently. “Dog. How’d you earn that?”

 
          
“It’s
God spelled backwards,” said the colonel, who didn’t mind telling the story on
himself. “I was a flight leader with a bit too much of an attitude, and some
people thought it fit. They were probably right.”

 
          
Allen
laughed. “This was before you shot down the MiGs in the Gulf, or after?”

 
          
“My
kills were unconfirmed,” said Dog, though there was little doubt he had indeed
splashed the enemy planes.

 
          
Another
indulgent smile from Allen. “Let’s cut to the chase,” said the admiral. “The
Piranha report—what’s it going to say?”

 
          
“I
would imagine it will say something along the lines of what Commander Delaford
said—the system is ready to be implemented, and it’s ready for the next phase
of tests, if that’s approved.”

 
          
“Specifically,
concerning the test.”

 
          
Allen
was undoubtedly worried about the details of the test engagement, which would
show his Navy commanders—Woods especially—in a somewhat embarrassing light.
With the proper emphasis, Admiral Woods—and, by extension, Admiral Allen—could
be seen not only as enemies of the program, but as going overboard to scuttle
it. In a politically charged atmosphere, such nuances could be deadly.

 
          
Or
not. It was a game Dog had long ago decided not to play.

 
          
“Writing
the report itself is not generally regarded as one of my duties,” said the
colonel.

 
          
“You’ll
sign off on it, though.”

 
          
“As
I see my job, Admiral, it’s to develop weapons, not worry about egos that might
be bruised because test results make them look bad. If you have a specific
worry, maybe you ought to lay it out.”

 
          
“Steady
there, Colonel. Steady.”

 
          
There
were once more interrupted by the waiter, who brought out two dishes of fancy
salad. Dog now regretted letting Danny leave; courtesy demanded someone keep
the admiral company, and he didn’t feel like hanging around to be harangued on
what he considered a minor matter. He was somewhat surprised that Allen himself
changed the conversation, turning to a totally neutral topic—the Megafortress.

 
          
Allen
claimed to have long admired the big bombers, and was impressed by their
showing during the recent showdown with China. Politely, Dog offered to put him
in a copilot’s seat on an orientation flight.

 
          
“Can’t
do it, unfortunately,” said the admiral. “Ever since the flare-up, we’ve been
going nonstop. I guess you heard the press is calling it the Fatal Terrain
affair. Makes good headlines for them, I guess.” He smiled wryly, but then
added, “I was sorry about General Elliott.”

 
          
“Yes,”
said Dog. In a brief but brutal encounter between America and China known to
some as the “Fatal Terrain” affair, Elliott had given his life. He’d died
successfully preventing an all-out nuclear war between the U.S. and China. He
was a
bonafide
war hero—at least to some people who
criticized the maverick general. They didn’t realize how close the communists
had come to running over Taiwan—and starting World War III.

 
          
“Things
are still hot there. Touchy. We’ve got a lot of assets along the coast.”

 
          
“You’re
probably stretched thin,” said Dog.