One thing the major didn’t mention: Like much of the rest of the Air Force, Dreamland’s standard survival equipment included the PRC-90 survival radio. While the radio was a time-tested veteran, it had a limited range and was hardly state-of-the-art equipment. Newer versions utilizing satellite communications were hard to come by—a ridiculous budget constraint that might have proved fatal for Captain Scott O’Grady in Bosnia two years before. O’Grady’s heroism and resourcefulness notwithstanding, a more powerful radio with a locator would have shortened his ordeal considerably.
“We’ll find them,” said Gat. “A P-3 from the Pacific Fleet in en route.”
“That’s it?” said Dog.
“The weather is fierce,” said Gat. “Hurricane winds, hail, the works. Half the Pacific is covered by it. The carriers can’t launch aircraft.”
Dog folded his arms. The storm had even more serious implications for the people who had parachuted—if they parachuted—from the plane. Even if they somehow got into the water without injury, climbing into a life raft in mountainous seas could be an almost impossible task. And once you were in it—hell, you might as well go over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
“PacCom has lost at least one plane as well,” said Gat. “The storm is that bad. They feel they’ll be in a better position by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tomorrow afternoon? Fuck that. Fuck that!”
The words flew from his mouth like meteors, spitting down on everyone in the room.
“We need to organize the search,” said Dog, not apologizing. “We have three planes—two planes.” He caught himself. His breath was racing but he couldn’t corral it. “We’ll run eight-hour missions out of the Philippines.”
“Raven’s not ours,” Gat said. “And besides, the storm there is incredible. Kitty Hawk had to curtail operations, I had Major Alou divert all the way over to Japan.”
“Why didn’t he just refuel in the air and continue the search?”
“We didn’t have a tanker available.”
“Punch me through to Woods.”
“Yes, sir.” Gat grimaced. “It’ll be voice-only.”
“Yeah, okay.” Dog wasn’t mad at Gat—he wasn’t even mad at Woods, but he nonetheless barked at the Navy lieutenant who came on the line.
“Where’s our search team?”
“Excuse me, sir, this is lieutenant Santiago. The admiral is tied up.”
“I understand that,” said Dog. He pushed his arms tighter to his chest, as if by holding himself he could calm down. “I need help searching for my people.”
“We have a plane en route. I’m in charge of—”
“Get Admiral Woods for me,” said Dog.
“Uh—”
“Just do it.”
The line went dead for a moment.
The others in the room were trying to be discreet, but he knew they were watching him. He had to fight for his people—even if it wasn’t his daughter who’d gone down, he had to do everything he could to get them back.
“We have our hands full here, Colonel,” said Woods, his voice snapping though the speakers. “I understand the difficult position you are in, but I’ve lost another plane as well, and one of our destroyers was fired on inadvertently—at least we think inadvertently—by the Indians. One of our submarines has missed two scheduled transmissions, and at least one helicopter in an hour overdue. In the meantime, the Chinese ships up near Taiwan are in a frenzy. We are looking for your people, Tecumseh. They’re one of our priorities, just not the only one. The storm is complicating everything.”
“My plane on the Philippines can get around the storm,” said Dog.
“Those are my planes,” said Woods. “Now I’m not going to press the point, but Major Alou and his crew took off without orders and without authorization. Granted, it was an emergency, and I certainly would have approved—but that will not happen again. Those are my assets. I need to be able to control what’s going on, and that requires—”
Dog cut the connection. It was either that or punch something.
Rubeo broke the silence. “I have a suggestion,” said the scientist.
“And?”
“The UMB is due for a flight in six hours. We can use it to conduct the search. The mini-KH photo package is already scheduled for telemetry tests—completely unnecessary, I might add, given that we’ve already proven it works without flaws.”
“It won’t see through the storm,” said Dog.
“The imaging radar will. By coincidence, it happens to have been loaded into the plane just prior to your arrival. Merely to see if the double load would fit. The aircraft ad to go up anyway. We are merely speaking here of an inconsequential change in the flight plan.”
Dog considered the situation. The mini-KH gear not only could identify an object .3 meters in size—roughly a foot—but placed in the B-5, it could train its sensors wherever they wanted, without having to worry about the complications of earth orbit and maneuvering in space. Launching the plane and flying it over the Pacific was completely within his purview as Dreamland commander. There was only one problem—the UMB’s pilot went down in Quicksilver.
“The computer can fly it,” said Rubeo, anticipating Dog’s objection.