Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (26 page)

 
          
“Yes,”
he answered mildly before going to the hatchway and returning below.

 
          
Aboard
Iowa, approaching the Philippines

 
          
August
25, 1997, 0852 local

 
          
Dog
ran through the indicators with his copilot, Captain Tommy Rosen, making sure
the plane was in good shape as they headed onto their last leg of the flight.
In truth, the meticulous review of the different instrument readings wasn’t necessary—the
computer would automatically advise the pilots of any problem, and a quick
glance at the special graphic displays showed green across the board,
demonstrating everything was fine, but the routine itself had value. Checking
and rechecking the dials—or in this case, digital readouts—focused the crew’s
attention. It was a ritual practiced by pilots since shortly after the Wrights
had pointed their Flyer into the wind at Kitty Hawk; it had saved many a man
and woman’s life, quite a number without their even realizing it.

 
          
Checks
complete, Dog spoke to each crew member in turn, making sure they were okay.
Again, the ritual itself was important; its meaning was far deeper than the
exchange of a few words. It was ceremony, a kind of communion, strengthening
the link that would be critical in a difficult mission or emergency situation.

 
          
All
his career, Dog had been a fast-plane jock, piloting mostly single-seat
interceptors. You were never truly alone, of course; you had a wingman, other
members of your flight and mission package, gobs of support personnel both in
the air and on the ground. There was, however, more of a feeling of being on
your own; certainly you were more independent than in a big aircraft like the
Megafortress. Flying the EB-52 was entirely different thing. As pilot, you were
responsible for an entire crew. Your family, in a way; they were always in the
back of your mind.

 
          
“All
right folks. We’re about twenty minutes out. After we land and have the plane
checked, I’d like to try and get back up in the air as quickly as we can. I
know we’ve all taken naps, and we’re going to pretend we’re refreshed,
but—seriously, now—if anyone feels tired, talk to me when we’re down. I know
how hard it is to adjust.”

 
          
He
didn’t expect anyone to admit they were beat, but still, he had to offer them
the possibility. Most of the target area was covered by a slow-moving storm
that made it difficult to patrol, and would certainly hinder the launch of the
Piranha device. Being ready to go might be academic.

 
          
The
portion of the panel at the left side of the dash that Dog had designated for
the com link flashed gray and the words “DREAMLAND COMMAND LINK PENDING”
appeared at the bottom. Dog authorized the link, and Major “Gat”
Ascenzio’s
face beamed into the LCDs.

 
          
“Quicksilver
thinks it has a location on the Indian submarine,” said Gat. “On the surface,
about seventy miles from the Chinese carrier. They’re having a difficult time
with the weather; hard to get a definitive read.”

 
          
“Can
you patch us together?” Dog asked.

 
          
“That’s
what I was thinking,” said Gat. He turned away from the screen and the image
popped gray. An instant later, the space was filled by a slightly scratched
flight helmet.

 
          
“Hey,
Daddy.”

 
          
“Captain
Stockard, good morning. We understand you have a possible location on the
submarine.”

 
          
“That’s
affirmative. A long-distance contact. The Flighthawks haven’t seen anything and
our radar looks clean, though the storm’s pretty fierce. We’ll transfer the
data. Be advised the Chinese have aircraft aloft north of the target area.”

 
          
“Copy.”

 
          
“They
haven’t challenged us. We’ve been giving them a wide berth; they’re doing the
same.”

 
          
“Good.”

 
          
Dog
waited while Rosen and Delaford worked on the details from the uploaded
information. “We’re about two hundred and thirty miles away, as the
Megafortress flies,” said the copilot finally. “Half hour we’re there. If we
push up the power we could get in range to launch Piranha in twenty minutes;
maybe even a little quicker. Assuming they moved at top speed after submerging,
we still have about thirty-mile radius, and we can cheat north toward the
Chinese, where they’d likely be going.”

 
          
Not
quite an exact match. It looked like it might be a bit harder to jam, according
to Torbin, who immediately volunteered to try.

 
          
“Let
’
em
be,” said Breanna. “Chris, get on the line to
Dreamland Command and tell them about this. They’re going to be very
interested.”

 
          
The
helicopter climbed into an orbit over the aircraft carrier. As interesting as
it was, the Sukhois that had charged after the Viking were a higher priority;
and so Breanna sidled in their direction, making sure to stay within ten miles
of the Viking, the Sukhois stared to sandwich the Navy plane in a high-low
hello-there routine; one Chinese pilot came in over the S-3 while the other
came in below. Even at five hundred knots, it was doubtful the separation
between the three planes added up to ten feet.

 
          
“They’re
crazy,” said Chris. “They’ll hit ‘
em
for sure. They
can’t fly that well in the damn daylight, let alone in the dark.”

 
          
The
radar shoed the Chinese fighters merging with the Viking and, looking at the
display, it seemed as if they had crashed. Instead, they had simultaneously
sandwiched the S-3 swooping across in opposite direction. It would have been an
impressive move at an air show.

 
          
“All
right, let’s see if we can get their attention so our Navy friend can drop his
buoys,” Bree said, reaching for the throttle bar. The engine control on the
Megafortress was fully electronic, and unlike the old lollipop-like sticks in
the original B-52, consisted of a master glide bar that could be separated into
four smaller segments. Unless the individual controls were activated, the
flight

 
          
Philippines

 
          
August
25, 1997, 1013 local

 
          
Dog
and his copilot kept Iowa in the holding pattern over the island, orbiting as a
pair of C-130’s low on fuel made their way onto the runway. It had been roughly
an hour since the change in orders, but already Admiral Woods was making his
mark on the base, flying in Seabees and Marines to improve it so the base could
also be used for patrols. An Orion and its support team had already arrived;
another was due soon.
Cubi
Field, the former Naval
Air Station at Subic Bay, was much larger and would have offered considerably
better facilities and potential, but the political ramifications of a large
U.S. force reappearing during election season made the Dreamland base the place
to be. Dog couldn’t help but think another factor was involved: putting Navy
people on the ground next to Whiplash was another way Woods could keep Whiplash
under his thumb.

 
          
He
seemed to want to do so personally—Dog noticed a C-12 VIP transport in the
parking area as they took a turn waiting to be cued in to land.

 
          
“Admiral
wants to see you in his headquarters ASAP,” shouted a combat-dressed Marine as
Dog came down Iowa’s ladder a short time later. The Marine added the word “Sir”
and snapped to attention, saluting and manipulating his M-16 so quickly it
seemed a stage prop.

 
          
“Yeah,
thanks,” said Bastian, tossing back a salute.

 
          
“Sir,
I have a vehicle.”

 
          
“Thank
you, son. I’ll get there on my own.”

 
          
“Sir?”

 
          
Dog
ignored the Marine, scanning the area for Danny Freah or one of his people.

 
          
“Uh,
sir, my orders—”

 
          
Dog
turned toward the Marine, intending to tell him what he could do with his
orders, but the pained expression on the young man’s face somehow pushed away
his annoyance. “Tag along,” said Dog, quite possible speaking as mildly as he’d
ever spoken to someone in uniform. “We’ll get there. It’ll be alright, son.”

 
          
The
Marine’s expression didn’t change, but he was smart enough to follow without
further comment as Dog strode up the long, dirt access road that paralleled the
runway. A
Herc
transport hunkered in as he walked,
its broad shoulders delivering more supplies for the Seabees swarming over the
base. Two crews with surveying equipment were setting up near the aircraft
parking area; another was already working on the far end of the runway. Large
metal poles, the skeleton framework for a building or hangar, were being
off-loaded from one of the C-130’s that had just landed. By the end of next
week, the Navy would have a base here twice the size of Norfolk.

 
          
Sergeant
Jack Floyd, otherwise known as “Pretty Boy,” guarded the entrance to the mobile
Dreamland command unit. He snapped to attention as the colonel approached, then
cast a rather jaundiced look at the trailing Marine. Pretty Boy had his
carbon-boron vest on; his helmet hung off a loop at the side like a nail gun
off a carpenter’s tool belt.

 
          
“Hey,
Sergeant,” said Dog. “Where’s Captain Freah?”

 
          
“He
and the guys snagged a local in the woods, Colonel,” said Pretty Boy. “Looks
like she was spying on us. They’re bringing her up to the med tent. Liu says
she’s got a concussion or something. Went for the stretcher, whole nine yards.”

 
          
“Okay,”
said Dog, starting toward the small flight of stairs to the trailer.

 
          
“Uh,
sir,” said Floyd. “Something you
oughta
know, uh, the
admiral—”

 
          
“About
time you got here, Bastian,” said Admiral Woods, opening the door to the
trailer.

 
          
The
Marine jumped to attention so quickly Dog thought he heard the air snap. Pretty
Boy scowled deeply, his back to the admiral.

 
          
“Hello,
Admiral,” said Dog. “Good day to you too”

 
          
Woods
said nothing, disappearing inside. Dreamland’s ultra-top-secret facility was
now crowded with Navy people. The lone member of the Whiplash team inside was
Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez, who sat at the com panel toward the back.

 
          
“Out,”
demanded Dog. “Everyone the hell out of here.”

 
          
“Belay
that!” said Woods.

 
          
“Belay
bullshit,” said Dog. “This is a code-word-classified installation. Everyone the
hell out.”

 
          
“Belay
that!”

 
          
Woods,
his hands balled into fists that perched on his hips, stood in front of Dog,
his face the color of a ripe strawberry. Dog’s was undoubtedly the same shade.
It was only with the greatest effort he kept himself from physically pushing
the Navy people out the door.

 
          
“Admiral,
let’s be clear about this,” he said. “The gear in this trailer, let alone the
network it connects to and the information it accesses, are covered by six
different code-word clearances, none of which I guarantee you or your men
have,” said Dog. “You’re not even cleared to know the existence of the damn
classification.”

 
          
“And
let me be clear about this,” said Woods. “You work for me.”