“The container ships,” reported Collins a few minutes later. “I have an SOS. Fire. People in the water. Doesn’t look good.
A lifetime ago, American Aircobra P-39s had flown off the hard-packed dirt beneath Danny’s feet. An unusual design for an American aircraft, the original models were hopelessly outclassed and outnumbered by the Japanese Mitsubishi A6M Zero-Sen, otherwise known as the “Zero,” one of the best early design of the war. The Aircobra was nonetheless a decent performer and a tough aircraft. Those that had flown from his base had played an important role helping to mop up Japanese resistance and provide air cover over a wide swath of the nearby Pacific.
Other aircraft had used the base as well — P-38’s, some P-40’s, B-25’s, B-26’s, and on several occasions B- 29’s. but if the ghosts of old machines could be said to haunt a place, it was the spirit of the P-39 that remained: tough, somewhat misunderstood jungle fighters who spit 37mm bullets from their nose and drummed through the air with a guttural hum.
Danny Freah didn’t believe in ghosts — and yet he sensed something watched him now as he trudged up the hillside. He slid his helmet visor down and clicked into IR scan. The Computer’s shape-recognition program flashed a bright blue pinhole in a brighter blue circle at the top right-hand corner, showing that it was operating, but aside from a few rodentlike creatures about fifty or sixty feet away, the jungle was empty. Danny held his new MP-5 in his right hand as he climbed up slowly, stepping gingerly. The wrap on his knees held them tight, their thick band doing some of the muscles’ and ligaments’ work holding the two halves of his legs together. The injury didn’t bother him as he sidestepped down the hill; in fact, he thought it was easier than working on the stair machine, which was part of his regular rehab assignment.
Jemma would be heading back home by now. He could see her jaw set, her slight nod to the man asking if he could take her bags at the hotel.
A flicker of blue print at the right side of his viewscreen sharply brought back his attention. A yellow shape materialized from the foggy green and black shadows.
“CAT” said the legend below the small shape at the base of the tree.
Danny switched from IR to magnified optical, popping the scene magnification to five times. The computer was close — the Philippines leopard cat was roughly the size of a house tabby, though it wasn’t likely to run up to Danny and ask for a bowl of milk. It stared in his direction, peering curiously from between the rattan and tree trunks. It curled its lip, hissing, then darted away.
Something else moved, fifty yards farther down the slope. Danny flicked back to IR mode, scanning slowly. A figure floated across his screen, ghostlike.
It took a moment before he realized the figure was actually in the trees. The computer, meanwhile, realized the figure was human. It didn’t note any weapons.
The ghost began moving downward. The program now had measurements to work with; just under five feet, one hundred pounds.
More a kid than a man, and unarmed, Danny thought. He watched as the Filipino began to move through the woods, pushing through the underbrush. He followed slowly, as quietly as he could. There weren’t supposed to be people here.
Danny hunkered down as he came to a narrow stream. It coursed down a run of odd rocks; the far bank was exposed. He waited until the figure was no longer visible, then picked his way across and continued downward in the direction the figure had gone.
He debated whether to try talking to the Filipino or not. He’d memorized a few words on the way out; while it was likely the person would know English — a large number of Filipinos used it as their second or even first language — Danny reasoned that using the national language would at least show he was trying to be friendly. The words for good morning—
He could link to Dreamland Command and get a native speaker whispering in his ear if he had to. He’d take the first shot on his own, make the effort.
Danny pushed toward a thick clump of vegetation clustered around a row of gnarled tree trunks. He struggled through about ten or twelve feet of thick bamboo before he could see beyond. Finally, he saw a swamp and pond about twenty yards across, beyond the edge of the thickest brush. Two small patches of dull brown appeared about twenty-five yards to the left just above the shoreline, partly obscured by rocks or old tree trunks. High magnification showed they were sheets.
IR view picked up the embers of a fire beyond them. a cooking fire, probably; the vegetation was too thick to see clearly.
A whistle broke the silence. Danny looked toward the water as a duck darted downward, grabbed something from just the surface, and then flapped its wings in an arc away, the prize in its beak.
The person he’d been following was crouched at the edge of the water, thirty-five yards away.
Watching him? Or the whistling duck?
Danny thought of standing and waving. Before he could decide, the figure turned and moved away, walking slowly, without alarm, past the sheets. There looked like there might be a hut there, but Danny couldn’t get an angle to see.
He’d have to find out more about the camp. Maybe go in there, find out who these people were. At the moment, though, there were more important things to do — he could hear the distant thump of helicopters bringing in supplies.
Couple of people in the jungle weren’t much of a threat, especially if they stayed were they were. He’d set up a sensor picket, keep tabs on the ridge and the valley until he decided what to do, or got some advice from the colonel. They might have to move these folks out.
They could use that stream for a sensor line. Put some video cams on the swamp and pond. There looked like only one way across the water and deep muck, off on the right, not counting the sharply rising slope to the left.
Danny began moving back up the hill, pausing every so often to make sure he wasn’t being followed. It was presumptuous to think of moving the people who lived here. How the hell would he feel if someone snuck into his neighborhood, spoke a few words in halting English, claimed to be long-lost friends, then said, sorry, you gotta go? We have a top-secret? We have a top-secret airfield in your backyard and we cant; have you stripping over it.
But that was the way it went sometimes.
As Colonel Bastian took a fresh gulp of coffee, he told himself the scratch in his eyes was due to the ventilation system’s lack of humidity. Under other circumstances, he’d been snoring in bed. He’d put in a long day, and unlike the crews that had flown out to the Philippines, didn’t have an opportunity to take a nap; he always felt he ought to be the one in the Command Center
when the shit hit the fan — as it was now. He rubbed his eyes, then began pacing near the large screen at the front of the room.
The Chinese aircraft had gone down on its own, obviously because the idiot pilot decided to play cowboy with the Megafortress. The Chinese were out-of-their-minds furious about it; they’d already filed a protest note in Washington claiming it had been shot down. While the politicians postured, Dog considered the more important development: the sinking of the container ship. The attack seemed to have been the work of the weapon they were supposed to be gathering data on, the Kali missiles, apparently launched at long range by a diesel-powered snorkler—
Had Breanna simply ignored the Chinese aircraft and continued on her patrol, that wouldn’t have been the case.
Not that she necessarily should have. Still …
According to the analysts who had examined the data, the radar indications and probable warhead size
