maneuvers had taken her back toward the Chinese fleet. She was now dead-on for the flak; there was nothing to do but ride it out, struggling to keep the Megafortress level as they passed through percolating air.
“Damage to our right wing,” reported Chris. He was breathing hard. “Lost the Sukhois at least.”
“All right,” said Bree, suddenly conscious of her own breathing. “Kevin, we need that connection, and we need it now.”
“You have to get closer.”
“They’re launching more planes,” reported Collins.
“Indians too. This it total war,” said Chris. He was gasping for breath, hyperventilating.
“Dreamland Command to Quicksilver.” Major Alou “Gat” Ascenzio’s voice sounded a little tinny on her circuit; Breanna glanced at her com screen and saw that the message wasn’t coded.
“Quicksilver.”
“Get out of there.”
“We’re trying,” she said. then. Remembering the line was in the clear — and hopefully being intercepted by the Chinese — she added. “We’re taken no hostile act. We believe an Indian submarine fired torpedoes at a Chinese aircraft carrier.”
“We confirm one hit and one near miss,” said Gat. “Serious damage. Fires. Get out of there.”
“Quicksilver,” she said.
“I got it!” said Fentress.
“Sink the first buoy.”
“I need you to get lower. Get over it.”
“Bree,” said Chris. He didn’t have to say anything else; his meaning was clear — we have to leave
“I’m trying, Kevin,” she told Fentress.
“Missiles in the air!” said Torbin.
“Fuck!”
Once again the video feed in his Flighthawk control helmet dissolved into a test screen. Zen slammed his fist on the console and leaned back, cursing.
“I know, I know,” said Jennifer over the interphone. She was in the bomb bay, helping one of the technicians adjust the link server. “We’ll get it.”
“Yeah,” he said. He slid the headset back off his head, letting it fall around his neck. He was restless, frustrated.
It was more than difficulties getting the Flighthawk linked back into the circuit — he could feel his heart pounding.
He thought of Bree.
He was pissed at her for acting like a jerk before.
That wasn’t it.
She had been a jerk, but he wasn’t pissed at her, not exactly.
He was worried about her.
He picked up the headset, put it back on. His heart pounded so badly, he could feel the phones reverberating against his ears.
“Hey, Jen, I’m going to take a break,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Yeah. I’m going to go get something to eat. Ring-Dings or something.”
“Ring-Dings? I thought you couldn’t stand Ring-Dings.”
He couldn’t — they were Bree’s favorite pig-out food.
“I’m going to swing by the trailer and see what’s up on the way,” he told her.
“We’ll have it ready by the time you get back.”
A giant snake wrapped itself around Stoner’s body and squeezed, pushing his blood toward his mouth. He felt the warm liquid on his tongue, knowing he was forcing himself to breathe the long, quiet breath of purity. The universe collapsed on top of him, but Stoner sat as still as a pillar, remembering the advice of the bent old man who had taught him: you are the light of the candle, the flame that cannot be extinguished.
But no religion or philosophy, Eastern or Western, could overcome the simple, overwhelming urge of gravity. The plane jerked back and forth, trying desperately to avoid being hit while Fentress worked to sink both Piranha com buoys. He’d already managed to put the probe on the automated escape route — or at least that was how Stoner interpreted the groans and grunts he’d heard among the cacophony of voices in his earphones.
The sitrep was still on his screen. One of the carriers had been hit badly, though at least two planes had managed to get off in the chaos. Planes were swarming off the other. An Indian flight was coming north to meet them. There were missiles in the air, and flak all over the place. The destroyers on the eastern flank were attacking the submarine that had launched the torpedoes.
The lights in the cabin flashed off and on; there was a warning buzzer, another flash. The snake curled tighter.
Stoner pushed his hand to his face mask, making sure his oxygen was working. Two or three voices shouted at him from far away, urging him into the darkness. He forced his lungs to empty their oxygen slowly into the red flame of the candle in the center of his body.
A fresh found of depth charges exploded over the conning tower; the submarine bobbed downward as if her namesake had smashed his powerful leg against its bow. Admiral Balin fell forward against the map table, then slid to the floor.
One of the electrical circuit had blown. It was impossible at the moment to assess the damage, but he would welcome death now. At least one of the torpedoes had exploded directly beneath the aircraft carrier; the damage would be overwhelming. The failure of the Kali weapons had been requited.
Calmly, Balin rose. Accepting fate did not mean wishing for death — he turned his attention to his escape.
Someone screamed nearby, seized by panic.
“There will be none of that,” he said in a loud, calm tone before making his way toward the helmsman. “We will carry on as we were born to do. We will survive this.”
“We lost engine three,” Chris told her.
Breanna didn’t acknowledge. The Indian MiGs had sent a volley of missiles at long range at the Sukhois; there was so much metal in the sky now, it was impossible to avoid getting hit.
“It’s sunk, it’s sunk,” said Fentress. “Both buoys are down!”
“Fighter on our tail,” said Chris. “Out of air mines.
She could feel the bullets slicing into her, ripping across her neck. Breanna pushed the stick and stomped the pedals, trying to flip the big jet away from the fighter. But the Sukhois was more maneuverable than the Megafortress, and the Chinese pilot was smart enough not to get too close or overreact. He wasn’t that good a shot — maybe one out of four of is slugs found its target, a half dozen at a time — but he was content with that.
“Four’s gone,” said Chris.
“Restart.”
“Trying.”
Her warning panel was a solid bank of red. Part of the rear stabilizers had been shot away; they were leaking fuel from one of the main tanks. The leading-edge flap on the left wing wouldn’t extend properly, complicating her attempts to compensate for the dead engines.
They were going in.
