“I didn’t know you had antiair weapons,” said Breanna.
“At this range, I could hit them with my Beretta,” said the pilot.
One of the Chinese Sukhois nearly clipped the S-3’s wing as he rose up suddenly. The Redtail pilot cursed over the fighters. Undaunted, the two other Chinese planes stayed right on this tail. As the S-3 leveled off, one slipped beneath him.
“What do you think they’ll do if we activate our gun radar?” Bree asked Chris.
“Activate theirs?”
As Bree considered it, one of the Chinese planes came at the S-3 head-on.
“Man, they’re out of their minds,” said Chris.
Breanna checked her position, then switched back into the radio circuit. “We’re going to have to cut out of this dance in a few minutes,” she told Redtail One, starting another pass in an attempt to pull the Sukhois away.
“Acknowledged,” said the pilot tersely.
The interceptors took no notice of the bigger plane, ducking and weaving with the S-3.
“We’re going to have to leave you, Navy,” said Breanna.
“Been fun, Air Force.”
Breanna tucked her wings and pushed the Megafortress west toward the coordinates Jennifer Gleason had plotted for the next buoy drop. She was just about to give the order to open the bomb bay doors when Torbin’s deep voice rattled in her headset.
“Sukhois have activated gun radars!” he barked.
“ECMs,” said Bree. It was undoubtedly another ratchet in their harassment campaign, but she wasn’t going to just stand there. “Hawk Leader, I mean Piranha, we’re going to have put that buoy drop off for a second.”
“Copy that,” said Zen.
Bree pitched the Megafortress around, taking nearly eight Gs to get back on an intercept. “Chris—tell Redtail we’re coming back. Then target these motherfuckers. Excuse my French.”
The copilot’s answer was garbled by the force of gravity as the big plane’s momentum shifted. The Megafortress’s electronic countermeasures filled the air with a thick radio fog, but at close range from behind the plane the Sukhois pilots could have used straws and spitballs and still brought the Viking down. That didn’t seem to be their intent—at least not yet. The lead Sukhois accelerated on a diagonal, crossing so close over the S-3 they seemed to collide.
“Shit,” said Redtail One over the radio. The plane tucked toward the waves, but then righted itself.
“Scoprions,” Bree told Chris.
“Our orders—”
“Fuck our orders.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Another copilot might have pointed out the captain was about to set herself up for a court-martial—and was taking him along, but Chris had flown with Bree forever and helped her ignore any number of orders. “Let me offer a suggestion—we’re close enough for the Stinger air mines.”
“Stinger then. Good idea.”
Chris brought the tail gun on line as Bree began banking.
“Redtail One, I’m going to come right over you and nail those mothers,” she told the pilot. “Just hold your course.”
“Negative, Air Force. Negative. Shit.”
“Redtail?”
“I’m ordered to return to my carrier. Repeat, I just got the order to break off. I have to scrub.”
“Scrub? You’re kidding,” blurted Chris.
The Navy pilot didn’t respond, but his actions showed he was dead serious—he began a slow bank to the east. The Sukhois continued to dog him, not yet realizing they’d won.
“Quicksilver, what’s going on up there?” asked Zen.
“Just the normal command bullshit,’ said Breanna. She scanned her instruments, trying to control her anger.
“We need to drop the buoy, Bree,” Zen reminded her.
“On it,” she said, pulling the big plane back toward the drop point.
Philippines
2300
It was a long green bag, a simple thing, the kind of wrapping that emphasized the one enduring truth of man’s existence.
“Shoulder, arms!”
Like everything Whiplash did, the service was a bit ad hoc—and utterly suited to the task at hand. All Dreamland personnel available gathered near the edge of the runway, standing between the long dark bag and the gray C-130 waiting to take it home. The powerful lights of the Seabee work crews turned the night a silvery yellow as four members of the action team, four of Powder’s closest friends in the universe, walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea. Each man shouldered a different weapon—an M-16, an MP-5, a Beretta pistol, and a Squad Automatic Weapon. One by one, they pointed their guns skyward and fired off a burst in his memory. Each weapon had been Sergeant Talcom’s.
Danny Freah held the pistol. A sensation came over him as he pulled the trigger. He wanted to fling the gun in, throw it into the water, one last offering to the universe. But he was an officer, and he was a man of discipline and self-control, so he simply turned and led the others back. As the chaplain thumbed through his Bible, he couldn’t help thinking this might very well be the first time Powder had ever sat through a reading from the Scriptures.