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
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”
