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—magandang umaga po—stuck in his head; he couldn’t quite remember the combination for good afternoon, which was very similar—magandang hapon po or something like that.
Hapon, like harpon, only without the R.
Magandang hapon po.
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—seemed and apparently being the operative words, since Quicksilver had been too far away to gather meaningful data on the weapon or launch platform.
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 showed interesting parallels to the Russian SS-N-12, a very large antiship missile known as “Sandbox.” But the SS-N-12 was far too big to fit into a submarine or be launched from beneath the water.
Presumably anyway.
“Sir, stand by for communication from the White House Situation Room,” said the lieutenant at the com console. “Mr. Barclay.”
“Go,” said Dog.
The lieutenant’s fingers pounded on his keyboard. Jed Barclay’s pimple-strewn face flashed onto the screen. He had deep black bags under both eyes; back East it was around three in the morning.
“Colonel, uh, Jed Barclay here.”
“Go ahead, Jed.”
“Pacific Fleet’s making some noise. The boss man wanted me to give you a heads-up. USCINCPACCOM’s throwing a territory fit.”
“Acknowledged,” said Dog, who actually would have preferred to say something else.
“Whiplash order is being reviewed. They’re going to look for an opinion from you,” added Jed.
“Opinion on what?”
“Whether the Megafortresses can stop ships from being sunk.”
“Okay, we’ll start working on it.” Colonel Bastian wasn’t sure they could; they had no ASW weapons on the Megafortresses. Besides, protecting shipping was a Navy task, and if that became the primary mission, the Pacific Fleet would surely get the job. Their most likely role would be working with PACCOM as they had with CENTCOM in the Middle East, thought the personalities here were considerably more prickly.
“I think the Navy may suggest escorts, flagships, like they did in 1987 with tankers in the Persian Gulf, the oil crisis,” added Jed. “But most of the fleet is still up near Taiwan and Japan, uh, due to the situation on the mainland. The other major assets are near India and the Gulf — I guess you know that. So, uh, they’re scrambling to figure out where to allocate what. I don’t know how long it will be before there’s a decision. Might be days or weeks.”
“Okay,” said Dog.
Barclay blinked.
“Maybe you ought to catch some Zs, Jed,” said Dog. “Have you slept since you got back?”
“Thanks, Colonel.” Barclay managed a weak smile. “You look a little tired yourself.”
“A little.”
“You have any more information about the Chinese plane?” asked Jed.
“NO. I imagine the pilot make it,” said Dog. “Zen had a Flighthawk nearby and we don’t have any video showing an ejection, let alone a chute.”
“Yeah. Tough luck for him.”
Dog nodded, thought he felt more sympathetic. While the Chinese pilot wasn’t exactly an ally, it seemed a waste that he had died. Dog hated the idea of any pilot dying in accident, even if he’d caused it himself.