Dreamland: Piranha Page 16

  “You may surface,” Balin told him. He felt almost fatherly as the diesel-powered submarine responded to the crew’s well-practiced routine; they began to glide toward the surface.

  As built, the Russian Kilo class of submarine possessed an austere efficiency. Their full complement was no more than sixty men; they could manage twenty-four knots submerged and dive to 650 meters. While their reliance on diesel and battery power had drawbacks, they could be made exceedingly quiet and could operate for considerable periods of time before needing to surface.

  Shiva—named after the Hindu god of destruction—had been improved from the base model in several respects. Her battery array was probably the most significant; they nearly doubled her speed or submerged range, depending on how they were used. The passive sonar in her nose and the other sensors in the improved tower were surely important, with almost half again as effective a detection range as those the Russian supplied—and the Chinese copied. For Balin, the advanced automation and controls the Indian shipyard had added were most important; they allowed him to operate with half the standard crew size.

  They too were the fruits of Hindu labor and inspiration, true testaments to the ability of his people and their future.

  “We are on the surface, Admiral,” reported Captain Varja.

  “Very good.”

  Balin’s bones complained slightly as he climbed the ladder to the conning tower, and his cheeks immediately felt the cold, wet wind. He struggled to the side fumbling for his glasses.

  As he looked out over the ocean, he felt warm again; peaceful. Dull and gray, stretching forever, the universe lay before his eyes, waiting for him to make the future coalesce.

  The Chinese aircraft carrier should now be less than one hundred miles away.

  He put the glasses down, reminding himself to guard against overconfidence. His role was to fulfill destiny, not to seek glory.

  “We will stay on the surface at present course for forty-five minutes,” the admiral told the captain. “The batteries will be back at eight percent by then.”

  “I would prefer one hundred percent,” said Varja.

  “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

  Chapter 4

  Chopped

  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 chang
e 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.”

  “The chain of command is going to make little difference in Leavenworth,” said Dog.

  Dog wasn’t particularly tall; fight pilots rarely were. Woods was only an inch or two taller than Dog, though his frame held at least thirty more pounds. The two men glared at each other, their eyes only a few millimeters apart.

  “Colonel, uh, I have a link pending here from NSC. Need your voice confirmation,” said Hernandez. Among other things, the Whiplash team member had helped make a daylight rescue under fire during Gulf War, but his voice now had a worried tremble to it.

  Dog managed to unball his hands.

  “I have to get that,” he told Woods. “The computer won’t let the communication proceed with anyone else in view, even if I wear headphones.”

  “Understood,” said Woods.

  The two men held each other’s glare for a few seconds more. Then simultaneously, Dog turned toward the com area, and Woods nodded to his men. They filed out quietly, undoubtedly glad to escape without having been scorched. Hernandez looked at Dog, silently asking if he should go too. Dog decided it might be an appropriate diplomatic gesture and nodded.

  Woods stood quietly by the table, out of line-of-sight of the com screen. Dog, meanwhile, picked up a headset and spoke his name into the microphone. Jed Barclay’s face snapped into view.

  “Hi, Colonel.”

  “Jed. What’s up?”

  “Wanted to brief you on the situation with China and India. Um, and um, to uh, well, the way you got the news, I would’ve preferred to give you a better heads-up.”

  “Understood,” Dog told him. “You’re just the messenger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s all right, Jed. I’m a big boy,” said Dog. When he’d first met Barclay, he hadn’t thought much of the NSC aide; he was a pimple-faced kid who stuttered when he spoke. Hell, he was also a computer whiz, quite possibly as adept at the science as Jennifer Gleason, though his interests were more in international politics than hand-constructed integrated circuits. Barclay combined the technical knowledge with a surprisingly deft feel for foreign relations, and could analyze the international implications of anything from ATM machines to U/MFs. What he did for Dreamland and Whiplash—basically acting as a liaison for the NSC director and the President—involved perhaps one one-hundredth of his skills.

  “Well, okay,” said Jed. He began running down the situation between China and India, starting with the present force structure.

  Dog stopped him.

  “I have Admiral Woods here,” he said. “Maybe he ought to listen in.”

  “Okay. Sure. Good idea,” said Jed. While he authorized the feed from his end, Dog took off his headset and called Woods over.

  The admiral too had calmed somewhat. He came over without saying anything, frowned, then looked at what was now a blank screen.

  “You’ll have to give your name and rank to the computer,” Dog told him. “Just do it once, and do it in as natural a voice as you can. If the voice pattern is not already in the system, you’ll be asked for a retina scan and a fingerprint. You put your hand there.”

  Dog pointed toward a small glass panel at the side of the auxiliary keyboard to the com set. Woods nodded.

  “Authorize additional com link,” began Dog, starting off the procedure. He nodded at Woods, who spoke so slowly the computer asked him to repeat in a natural voice.

  Dog suppressed a grin as Woods repeated his name, this time somewhat sternly. When he finished
, the admiral started to laugh.

  “Jesus,” said Woods. “It’s come to this.”

  “Please maintain level composure,” snapped the computer.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It needs to look at your eyes. Poor choice of words,” said Dog.

  Woods began to laugh. “What does it know? It’s a computer.”

  Dog started to laugh too, though not quite for the same reason. The words had been chosen by Ray Rubeo, who was twice as arbitrary as any computer in existence.

  Jed Barclay’s face came back on the screen.

  “So here’s the thing,” said Barclay, launching back into the point he’d been making earlier. “The Indians use new technology, the Chinese feel they have to retaliate. Up the ante. They’re in big trouble domestically, and if they can’t go to war against us, and quite another for the Indians to do it. They have a second carrier en route; we suspect two more subs—nukes this time.”