Iowa, meanwhile, rode a surveillance track to the east of the battered Chinese fleet. The damaged carrier had sunk sometime during the night at the height of the storm, two of the destroyers were tied up together, apparently to help repair damage on one of the vessels. The Chinese were not in a good mood. Twice their aircraft had warned off Alou in rather abrupt English, though she had come no closer than thirty miles from the escort screen. In accordance with her orders, she moved off as directed. Iowa’s position did not affect Zen or the UMB.
“How are you doing?” Alou asked as Iowa reached the southernmost point of her patrol area.
“We’re just about done,” Zen told him.
“Nothing, huh?”
“I think the problem is we’re assuming they were flying a more or less straight line.”
Alou didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t sure what he expected him to say, but the silence angered him.
He switched abruptly into the Dreamland channel, where scientist Greg Meades had taken over com duties for the UMB team.
“We have to shift the search area,” Zen told him.
“We’re re-created the route they were flying,” said the scientist. “Based on our data.”
“Then the re-creation is wrong. If she was ducking back and forth, trying to avoid getting shot down, her path could be very different than what we computed.”
“Could be,” said Meade, though it was obvious he wasn’t convinced.
“Let’s try farther to the southwest. The plane could have swung back fifty miles, a hundred before they punched out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t have to humor me,” said Zen. He snapped the talk button off, then pushed it again. “I’m sorry. Set up a new search area, assuming they would have tried to go south as soon as they were hit.”
Danny Freah cleared his throat. “All right, listen up,” he told the eight men standing in front of the Dreamland MV-22. “We’re backup to the main team. Routine SAR mission. Latest intel is this — beacon believed from the Seahawk lost in the storm was heard, and we have a location that’s roughly a hundred miles from here. Other assets are already en route. Our speed’s going to get us there quick, though, so we may get into the mix, especially if they run into trouble. There’s a small island in the area, and it’s possible — small possibility — there may be other people there. If that happens, we’re definitely in the mix. Otherwise, what we’re doing primarily is using our eyes. Okay? Not a big deal. Just backups.” Danny paused. “You Marines who haven’t come with us before — welcome aboard.”
Danny smiled at the five Marine privates who had been detailed to fill out his squad. The oldest looked like he’d be eligible to shave in a year or so.
“A little word of advice,” Danny continued, “because I’m not really going to get a chance to give a pep talk if things get hot. I know how much everybody here, my guys especially, like pep talks.”
Bison and Pretty Boy were both grinning. Good to see them smiling after losing Powder.
“Your adrenaline’s going to pump like crazy, your heart’s gonna thump, you’re going to want to get right in the mix,” Danny said, addressing the young Marines. “I want you to stay within yourself, do your job. Listen to the sergeants. I don’t want any heroes — I want men who follow orders. Basically, I want
The kids nodded.
Did he want heroes? Of course he did. He wanted Powder. And Liu out of the hospital.
Turn the other cheek? Bullshit on that.
So what the hell had Powder done that for? Had that passage read at his funeral?
“All right,” said Danny. “Let’s kick ass. Blow, load ’em up.”
“All aboard,” said Sergeant “Blow” Hernandez, using an exaggerated train conductor’s voice.
The Osprey pilot started the aircraft down the runway about a half-second after the hatch snapped shut. Danny cinched his seat restraints, then methodically took stock of his equipment. He’d done so on the ground — twice. Ordinarily, he didn’t worry himself into a mission, but today the review was soothing. He checked his pistols, first his service Beretta, then his personal Sig. He inventoried his grenades, checked his watch and the backup battery for his helmet. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the outer shell of the helmet. He retied his boots, pulling hard on the laces.
“Two minuets, Captain,” said the Osprey pilot crew chief, relaying the message from the pilots.
“All right boys, we’re just about on station,” Danny said. He took the aircraft headphones, got up, and braced himself so he could see out of the side windows. The sea was now so calm if looked as if it had been rolled out flat by a steam roller.
In the distance, he could see a dark blur Navy helicopter, part of the SAR team.
His own people had gone down somewhere about an hour north. But the odds were overwhelming they were dead; they’d gone down in the teeth of the storm.
Were the odds any worse than for the Seahawk?
“Navy’s coming up blank,” the Osprey pilot said. “We’re going to start crisscrossing northwest of the area where they think the signal came from.”
“Sounds good,” Danny told him. He told his guys what was happening, got them up looking out the windows.
“Tradition has it,” Danny told them, “that a downed pilot owes every member of the rescue team a case of beer. I’ll double that for the man who spots them first.”
“Kick ass, Captain,” said Powder.
Danny turned in shock toward the back of the Osprey. He’d heard Powder’s voice — absolutely heard Powder’s voice.
“Who said that?”
No one spoke.
“I’m sorry,” said Danny. “Was there a question?”
They were looking at him as if he’d seen — or heard — a ghost.
“All right then, let’s put our eyes to good use,” he said, struggling to raise his voice over the hum of the engines.
They had two bottles of water between the three of them, four “nutrition” bars, a working flare gun, and a radio. Chris Ferris had managed to save his pistol, but had inexplicably lost one of his boots. Breanna Stockard had her knife. Stoner had his compass.
Injury-wise, they were in decent shape, considering what they’d been through. Ferris probably had broken a rib, but otherwise claimed he was fine. Breanna had torn muscles in her back and shoulder, and had possibly broken her left tibia. Stoner had sprained both wrists and could only partially close his numb finders. All three of them had black eyes and various cuts and bruises on the heads. Their memories of what had happened since they ejected were mostly blank and in any event, irrelevant.
As were the fates of the rest of the crew, though Breanna insisted on scanning the water for them.
“Glare’s going to kill your eyes,” Stoner told her.
“Yeah,” she said, then kept on looking. He admired that kind of stubbornness. He also admired her toughness — not a hint of a whimper.
Their water would be gone in twenty-four hours, maybe less. They’d agreed to rationing a sip apiece on the hour, but the sun was climbing and Stoner knew that the sips would become gulps within a few hours.
Making it though the day and into the night was a realistic goal. They’d shoot for that. Twelve, fourteen hours of search time — that was the best they could hope for anyway. What they needed was something to do, something to keep them sharp.
“I think we should paddle,” he said.
Breanna turned toward him. Something happened with her eyes — she blinked as if reaching into his brain, then nodded.
