“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” said Stoner. He heard the words of his Zen master at the back of his head, telling him to breathe, telling him to maintain the center of the burning candle flame in his chest.
“Granted,” said Freah. “But this is the best way to proceed if we’re going to keep this base covert.”
The captain was a young guy, with an impressive war record. He probably also thought he could deck Stoner if it came to that.
“Captain, please let go of my phone,” he said gently. “We’ll do it your way — but let me just tell you something.” He paused, waiting for the officer to let go of the phone. Released, he brought his arm down and bowed his head — then in a flash put his arm at Danny’s neck, fingertips precisely on the two common carotid arteries. “Do not touch me again. Sometimes reflexes can be deadly.”
He pulled his hand back quickly.
The Whiplash trooper who’d been watching the video cams was standing behind him, his MP-5 pointed at Stoner’s head.
“Good point,” said Danny — whose pistol was out and pointed at Stoner’s stomach.
The flames licking up form the blackened metal were surprisingly small. The smoke, on the other hand,
furled in all directions, a massive squat funnel that stretched all the way toward the debris field where the first ship had gone down. Zen took Hawk Two through the thick hedge of black, and gray; not even the high-tech array of sensors on the Flighthawk could penetrate it.
“Can’t quite get a visual,” he told Breanna. “I think she’s broken in two, but still attached, if you know what I mean. Like a twig that snapped but it has the top back attached.”
“Copy that,” she replied. “Be advised they’re repeating their SOS and saying they’re abandoning ship.”
“Hawk Leader.” He banked as he cleared the heavy smog. A small portion of the rear of the tanker was visible below the smoke; he came back and crossed through the clear space, maybe eight or nine feet over the waves. A Zodiac-type rubber boat had been set into the water and was pulling away.
“I see the crew,” said Zen. “What’s up with that cruise ship?”
“They’re still southeast,” said Collins. “Moving at about four knots.”
Zen pushed the Flighthawk skyward, toying with the idea of buzzing the liner. But that would serve no purpose; you really couldn’t blame the captain for getting the hell out of there.
“Tell him there’s a Zodiac with the crew of the tanker heading in his direction,” Zen said.
“The captain says he’ll stand by to pick up survivors, but they have to come to him,” said Collins.
Zen brought Hawk Two back over the Zodiac. There were six or seven men in the boat.
Six or seven. How many manned a ship like that? Had to be more.
Damn. Damn.
“Hawk Leader, we’re getting pretty far into our fuel reserves,” said Breanna. “We’re talking to Dreamland now — we can land at the Philippines.”
“Hawk Leader.”
“How’s your fuel?” she asked.
“Yeah, I have to refuel,” he said.
“We’ll get into an orbit. We’ll hold here until the last possible second,” added Breanna.
“Yeah.”
Zen pushed Hawk Two into a bank, sliding toward the Zodiac. Someone in the front of the small boat waved. He wagged his wings in recognition.
Poor SOB was probably cursing him out.
“Navy Orion is now zero-five away,” said Chris. “I gave them the lowdown,” he added. “They claim they can see the smoke from where they are.”
“Yeah,” was all Zen could say.
When lieutenant Colonel Bastian put his hands to his neck and stretched them backward, his vertebrae cracked so loudly the lieutenant at the communications desk jerked his head around.
“Just a little stiff,” said Dog. He glanced toward Major Lou “Gat” Ascenzio, who’d come in to spell him nearly an hour before. Gat — he’d earned his nickname as an A-10A “driver” in Iraq — was a recent arrival at Dreamland, assigned to head the tactical satellites and related projects. “I’m going to grab some Zs,” Dog told him. “Anything comes up, beep me, all right?”
“Yes, sir. You ought to get some rest.”
“Thank you, Major,” snapped Dog — Gat’s habit of restating the obvious annoyed the hell out of him. But as Ascenzio started to frown, he added, “It’s all right, Gat, I know I’m tired. I’m sorry.”
He took the elevator upstairs, then walked out to the Taj’s lobby, where the security staff jumped to attention. One asked if he needed a driver; Dog declined.
“Walk will do me good,” he said.
The air had a dry, crisp quality, a sharpness that took away his fatigue. The stiffness that had twisted his upper body and legs evaporated before he’d gone more than a half mile.
His mind, however, remained in knots. Three men were missing from the tanker the Sukhois had hit; an untold number on the container ship had died, and the survivors still hadn’t all been picked up. Then were was the Chinese Sukhois pilot, apparently still lost at sea.
Arguably, Quicksilver had saved countless lives by shooting down the other antiship missiles. Somehow, that didn’t assuage his conscience.
What if Allen was right? What if the plane incident started a war with China — a real war this time, the kind of war Brad Elliot had tried to prevent? The Chinese military was still potent; after all, that was undoubtedly their point now in the South China Sea.
What if they simple encouraged their Islamic allies in a campaign of terror? Six months, a year from now, something might happen in a quiet corner of the U.S. Would it be his fault?
They’d done everything they could to save lives, not take them. Yet the Chinese were unlikely to see it that way. Hell, not even Admiral Allen saw it that way, and he wasn’t exactly China’s best friend.
Dog turned down the access road toward his bungalow, a low-slung contemporary-style ranch that looked over a boneyard: hunks of old aircraft nestled in the starlight. Most were simply planes that had been parked here for storage and then forgotten. The inventory showed several B-29’s and B-50’s, as well as three C-47’s (or DC-3’s, as they were known in civilian guise). There were also the remains of Dreamland failures, aircraft tested here that didn’t quite make the cut or no longer had much value. The shadows were a graphic reminder of the old Latin maxim, carpe diem; your time came and went very quickly.
Dog walked up the short crushed-stone path to his door, his shoes crunching stones that reportedly had been smuggled in a duffel bag by the past commander of Dreamland, General Brad Elliot. It was undoubtedly an apocryphal story, but Dog liked it; it added a touch of eccentricity to a commander well known for his efficiency and precision.
He hit his access code for the lock, then pushed in the door. Cool air hit him in a wave, refreshing him. As he turned and locked up, someone grabbed him from behind, wrapping his arms around his neck.
Her arms around his neck. He pulled his assailant to his chest.
“Hi,” said Jennifer Gleason as they kissed. “About time.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Hours,” she said, and even though he knew it must be a lie, he apologized and kissed her again. He slipped his hands into the back of her jeans, beneath her ultrasensible cotton briefs, feeling the coolness of her skin. She folded into his body, sliding her own fingers to his buttons. Colonel Bastian moved his hands to her sides and lifted her shirt over her head; she writhed out of it like a snake shedding its skin, he undid her bra, her peach-sized breasts gently unfolding from the material. They kissed again, tongues meshing, lips warming each other, and still kissing they began walking toward the bedroom. They made love in a long moment that shattered the boundaries of time, then gave way to a warm bath of sleep.