Probably, the Sukhois hit their afterburners. Probably, they tried to pursue. Probably, the pilots would have to spend personal time with the dry cleaner.
By the time they got themselves sorted out, Zen had rocketed up past twenty thousand feet and started back in the other direction.
“Engine three and four at specified parameters,” reported the computer. It sounded as if it were chortling. “Phase Three test complete. Preparing for Phase Four.”
“Computer, cancel Phase Four. Authorization Zed-Zed-Zed.”
“Canceled.”
“Hey,” said Danny Freah over the Dreamland circuit. “We’re clear. Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
“Ten minutes to that raft — we don’t quite see it yet.”
“They’re all yours,” Zen told him.
The ship had stopped coming toward them. Even the Sukhois were gone. They were alone, as good as dead.
Bree sank to the bottom of the raft. Stoner had his arms draped over it, his head resting on the side.
Zen, she thought, I love you, baby. I love you. Why aren’t you here?
The sun flickered in her face.
If she’d lived, they would have had a kid. They should have. It wouldn’t be easy, would not have been easy, but they should have.
She felt bad for that. Jeffrey would have been good with a kid.
“Shit,” said Stoner softly.
The sharks, she though. Oh God.
She jumped up to help him, cringing.
But it wasn’t the sharks. There was another plane in the distance, to the south.
It moved too slowly to be a Sukhoi. It had propellers. It was loud.
It was an Osprey.
It was an Osprey!
Danny and Bison had stripped to their wet suits and waited by the door.
“You ready?” Danny asked the crew chief.
“Born ready, Cap.” The sergeant put his hand to his earphone. They had to be careful about getting too close to the small raft. The downdraft from the big rotos could be fierce. Danny and Bison would jump out with life jackets and a Dreamland-designed inflatable collar to add to the raft’s stability before the MV-22 moved in for a pickup.
“Here we go!” said the sergeant.
As they cruised parallel to the raft at low speed, Danny stepped off the aircraft, walking out as if walking off a board at the swimming pool. He felt his knees knock together as his feet impacted the water; his joints twinged a second, but then fell away. The water was cold — very, very cold. He pumped hard toward the raft, waiting for the surge of blood and adrenaline to warm him.
Bison got there a stroke ahead of him. The Whiplash trooper pushed Stoner into the raft, threw one of the preservers over his head.
“Here!” Danny yelled to Breanna as he reached the side. “Hey! Take the life preserver! Take it!”
Her face looked as if it had been pounded with a baseball bat. Her fingers were swollen and puffy. Danny pushed himself into the small boat, wrapped the preserver around her.
“We’re going home. We’re taking you back.”
Zen watched the Osprey come in as he climbed back — picture, next picture. It approached, it started to hover, someone was leaning from the door, a line was down, she was okay, she was okay.
He floated out over her, happy she was okay. He reached toward her but she was gone, the Osprey veering off.
“Jeff, we have that radio — it’s a PRC beacon,” said Major Alou.
“Roger that. I need the coordinates.”
“Dreamland has them. They’re plugged in. Thank God Bree’s alive.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“Roger that,” he said.
Danny stumbled as he got into the Osprey, falling against Pretty Boy, who was helping one of the Marines wrap a blanket around Stoner. The other two Marines were stooped over Hernandez, who was kneeling over Breanna on the floor. The two rescuees had to be treated for shock and dehydration as well as wounds. Every member of Whiplash was trained in emergency medical care, and his two men were moving promptly and competently to treat the pair. Danny couldn’t help thinking of Liu, who nickname “Nurse” had earned several times over.
“Captain, we think we got another one,” said the crew chief.
“Where?” Danny asked.
“Pilots wants to talk to you.” The chief pointed him toward the bulkhead separating the flight deck and the cabin area. Danny leaned between the two pilots, who were just completing a circle to make sure there were no other survivors in the area.
“Here’s the deal,” said the copilot. “Beacon off a survival radio about a hundred miles east of here. Top speed, we can make it in roughly twelve minutes. Means we’ll have to tank on the way home, but we got a KC-10 en route with all the stops pulled out, so we think we can do it.”
“Well, let’s go,” said Danny.
The copilot looked across at the pilot.
“It’s right near the Chinese task group,” said the pilot. “And I mean right near.”
“Well, let’s get the fuck over there,” said Danny.
“That’s what we say,” said the copilot. “Navy has its own package en route with Tomcats and Hornets as escorts, but even with all the stops out, their helos are a good half hour off, if not more. Escorts’ll have to stay with them, pretty much.”
“Screw ’em.”
The pilots answered by mashing the throttle to max.
Thirty seconds after the Dreamland Osprey told Dog they were headed to the new location, Admiral Woods’s voice came over the line. The screen remained blank.
“Bastian, we understand you have another beacon.”
“Yes, we do,” Dog told him. “My Osprey is en route.”
“It is? I thought they were on another rescue.”
“They’ve completed that.”
“I see. I’m told we have a package on its way already.”
“It’s likely we’ll get there first,” said Dog.
“We’ll coordinate. Very clever using another aircraft,” added the admiral.
It was impossible to know how he meant that — was he mad that Dog had sent another airplane into “his” territory? It could be interpreted as going against orders.
“The platform was scheduled to be tested,” said Dog.
“Yes,” said Woods. “Good recovery. Lets’ work together on this next pickup.”
“We have been.”
“Good.”
The line snapped clear.
The temptation was overwhelming. The Chinese destroyer was no just within his range; he could get his torpedoes off before they had time to spot him, but they had heard other contacts in the distance. Admiral Balin was determined to see what other targets the gods were presenting.
“Sonar Contact One is changing course,” relayed the sonar room, referring to the destroyer. They gave a distance and a bearing. It was heading roughly across their path, bit not quite on a direct course.
Attack now and destroy it? Or let it pass and hope for a juicer target?
“Other contacts?” asked Balin.
“Negative,” came the reply. They were using only their passive sonar.