down that before, anywhere.
Neither had he ever worried about losing Breanna.
Once, on the so-called “Nerve Center” mission, he’d had to authorize a plan to shoot her down. She was a passenger on a suicide mission to destroy an American city; the decision was a no-brainer.
This was different. She had been lost on a surveillance mission while technically under someone’s else command — was that the part that made it so hard to accept? Did he feel the mission was unworthy of her sacrifice?
Colonel Bastian commander a combat unit as well as a development facility. In either case, death was part of the portfolio. Who was to say what justified one instance and not the other? It was all the same to you, when you were gone.
He took another full gulp of the coffee, felt it burn is mouth. There was still a chance, slim but possible, that Bree and her people,
They were alive.
Rubeo had just returned to the Command Center himself and was getting briefing from Greg Meades when Dog entered. Meades started over for the colonel, ignoring Rubeo’s frown.
The storm had passed out of the area a few hours before. Though they were mounting very aggressive patrols, the Chinese and Indians hadn’t fired on each other; they seemed to be spending much of their energy recovering from the initial battle and the storm. The diplomats were busting their backs trying to get a cease-fire in place.
Pacific Command had launched searches for the F-14 and a helicopter that had gone down in the storm. They were also looking for Indian and Chinese survivors as a goodwill gesture — a move interpreted by both sides as interference, if not spying, though they had taken no action to prevent it.
Admiral Woods had allocated two frigates and helicopters to the Megafortress search, and was detailing a P-3 as well, but the Navy had its hands full. Besides the three aircraft that had apparently been lost, two civilian ships had floundered in the storm. The only good news was the Navy had, at last, found its unaccounted-for submarine, safe and unharmed.
“How’s Zen?” Dog asked.
“We’ve expanded his search area,” said Meades. “He think they were farther south when they ejected, that the plane arches back northwards before it crashed. It’s possible.”
Dog nodded. The scientist began detailing the UMB’s performance — they were, after all, testing a new system, something that was easy to forget. The aircraft and sensor arrays were working fantastically.
“Fantastically,” repeated Meades. He trimmed the enthusiasm in his voice. “Though, of course, that’s small consolation.”
“It’s okay,” said Dog, going over to the communication desk. “Let me talk to Zen.”
The surprise and agony burned in her brain.
Breanna had felt it before — Jeff in the hospital when he woke up.
Bright light filled her eyes. Her forehead and hair were crusted with salt. How long had she lain in the raft? How long had her arms, back, and legs soaked in the water?
To die like that.
God, why have you saved me and not my crew?
Water.
“Captain Stockard?”
Something blocked out the sun.
Jeffrey.
Stoner, it was Stoner.
“Are you okay? Captain Stockard? Breanna?”
His face was right next to hers as her eyes opened fully.
“I’m all right,” she said. “God.”
“We’re all right.”
She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She’d held them back too long. She’d never let herself cry in Jeff’s room after his accident. She couldn’t cry now, even though she wanted to. She’d never be able to cry again.
“The sharks moved off. I shot a couple and they started eating each other. We’re okay.”
“Yeah,” she managed. “Peachy.”
Watching the optical feed from the mini-KH package in the UMB’s bay was like looking at a room through a strobe light. Zen’s head and upper body pitched slightly with each image, responding to the pulse like a dance moving to a beat. He stared at the images so long and so hard he found the radar, and even the video from the plane, disorienting. The computer could take care of everything else; he had to scan the images, examine each one, dance with the darkness between them.
“Dreamland Command to B-5. Zen, how are you doing?” asked Colonel Bastian over the Dreamland circuit.
“We’re on course.”
“Good.”
Bastian’s voice betrayed no emotion; he could have been asking if the garbage pickup had been made yet. Zen wanted to curse at him. Didn’t he feel anything for his daughter?
No one did. She was already dead as far as everyone else was concerned. He was just looking for bodies or debris.
But Zen knew she was there. He was going to find her.
“Keep us apprised,” said the colonel. “Dreamland Command out.”
Yeah, out.
Something tapped him on the shoulder. “You okay?” said Jennifer, leaning close and talking to him.
“Not a problem,” said Zen.
“Want something to eat? I smuggled in some cookies.”
Talking threw off his beat, and that made it harder to concentrate.
“No,” he said, willing his eyes back to the task. He pushed forward harder, scanning the emptiness below him.
This is what God sees, someone had told him once. It was an orientation flight in the backseat of an SR-71. They were at eighty thousand feet, looking down at Dreamland on a clear day.
Picture, new picture.
Here was something in the right corner of his screen, the first thing he’d seen in fifteen minutes.
The rail of a ship.
The fantail of a ship.
A trawler, the radar was telling him, or rather the computer was interpreting the radar and telling him, in its synthesized voice.
He locked it out. He had to concentrate.
One of the Taiwanese spy ships.
“You’re getting the ship?” Jennifer asked over the interphone, back at her station. Even though they were physically next to each other, she couldn’t get the photo or radar feed until it was processed and recorded by C?, which took a little over five seconds. At that point, it was available to Dreamland as well.
“One of the Taiwanese ships,” said Zen. “Maybe they’re on to something.”
He was past them now, still pulsing over the empty sea. Picture, new picture. Picture, new picture.
“PacCom checking in,” said Jennifer a few minutes later.
Picture, new picture.
“Anything you want to ask them? Or give them a lead or something?”
Picture, new picture.
