The two men stared at each other. Dog waited for Woods to soften what he’d just said, take it back by adding, “that’s what you think, isn’t it?” But he didn’t.”
“You’re in over your head on this operation,” the admiral said finally. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re competent, capable, even a hotshot. But Dreamland and Whiplash—you need perspective. You’ll understand what I’m saying in five or six years.”
“I understand now.”
“The surveillance mission with Piranha will continue,” said Woods. “That’s a direct order from the President I can’t and won’t ignore, but the mission will be carried out under my personal direction. You’re no longer in the loop, Colonel. You have a lot of work to do at Dreamland.”
“What?”
“It’s not necessary to embarrass you in front of your people. But I will. Go home.”
Dog had to physically bite his lip to keep himself from saying or doing anything else. It was only after he boarded his transport helicopter topside that he realized blood had dribbled down his chin.
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
August 27, 1997, 1326
They came to periscope depth cautiously, aware the sonar contact was a Chinese destroyer. Admiral Balin confirmed the crew’s prediction quickly; they were almost perpendicular, and close enough for Balin to see the two large guns at either end. The ship was surely a Jianghu frigate.
Captain Varka gave the order to change their course. They came around quickly and began closing on the Chinese vessel.
The Kali weapons and their assorted equipment had robbed Balin of precious space, leaving him room for only six torpedoes. He would fire two at the destroyer, holding the others for whatever target he would find later.
“Sir,” said Captain Varja. “We have additional contacts. A carrier.”
“A carrier?”
“Making good speed,” added the captain. “Other vessels as well. Beyond the destroyer.”
Balin put his eyes back to the periscope view. There was only gray beyond the destroyer.
They were using only their passive sonar. To use the active array would surely alert the Chinese to their presence—but would also provide a good deal more information.
He wanted it too badly; he must be cautious.
Balin stepped away from the periscope. His eyes met Varja’s. The captain surely had the same thoughts.
“We must find it,” said Balin softly.
“Agreed.”
Varja gave the orders to use the sonar.
One carrier, less than three miles away. It was the Shangi-Ti; the sound signature left no doubt.
There was another—another very large contact in the distance, more than likely a vessel of the same size as Shangi-Ti.
A second carrier!
Again the gods had been beneficent, guiding them here so they could strike both.
The sonar room gave a fresh warning—the frigate was turning in their direction.
“Return to passive sensors. Take us to a safer depth.”
Swiftly, the crew moved to obey.
Philippines
1326
The water lapped at Danny Freah’s waist clear and warm, if it weren’t for the roar of the approaching F/A-18’s, he could have believed he was wading out from an exclusive private beach.
It wasn’t exactly private, but thanks to a contingent of Marine guards and Dreamland security protecting the island and this cove below the airstrip, it was very exclusive.
Danny slid onto his side and began swimming parallel to the shore. When he’d gone about twenty yards, he turned back. He used large boulders on the hillside as markers, treading back and forth as if working out, though he didn’t keep track of his many laps. He swam a backstroke to the south, the sidestroke or breaststroke to the north. He was not a big swimmer, and his muscles soon began to tire with the unfamiliar exertion. He kept on paddling, the burn creeping down from his shoulders to his arms, out from his hips to his thighs, and then all the way to his calf muscles. He swam until the tingling sensation weighed him down. Finally, he stopped abruptly, putting his feet down to stand on the coral and rock-strewn ocean floor, but his path had taken him into deeper water. He floundered for a second, water lapping over his face. He pushed up with his arms, and in a burst of energy began swimming and laughing at the same time. How ignoble would that be, he wondered to himself, to die recreating in a combat zone?
He didn’t stand until the water was less than waist-deep. When he reached his blanket on the shore, he saw Bison heading down the rock-strewn path from the airstrip.
“Hey, Cap—Colonel Bastian looking to talk to you up at the command post,” said the sergeant.
“Thanks,” said Danny, toweling off. Bison stood a short distance away, staring at the water. Danny suddenly felt modest and, though no one was looking at him, pulled his shorts off below his towel and then pulled his uniform pants up, forgoing underwear.