“Dreamland is being folded back, um, um, into the c-c-command structure.”
“There’s a positive spin for you. What are they going to do with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not kicking you out too, are they?”
“N-N-Not that I know.”
“Kissing up to Balboa, huh?”
“No.”
McGraw laughed. She was a section leader in the NSA analysis section. Jed had met her only once or twice in person, but had spoken to her several times a week for more than a year.
“To work,” she said. “There’s a definite connection between the Kashmir guerrillas and China. They’re going crazy looking for the gadget.”
“Gadget” was McGraw’s way of saying warhead. She summarized a set of NSA intercepts and decrypted messages, 246
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then told Jed that the CIA had somewhat similar information from “humanint”—human sources, or spies.
“Word is, though, DIA and Navy intelligence are poo-pooing it,” added McGraw. “They think China is neutral.”
“Why?”
“Because the words ‘Navy’ and ‘intelligence’ don’t go together?” McGraw laughed. “Did I ever tell you what DIA stands for?”
“Like twenty times,” said Jed.
“Aw, ain’t that cute—you’re turning red.” McGraw chuckled.
“How do you know that?” said Jed, who was.
She laughed even harder.
“The Ch-Ch-Chinese have been firing on Dreamland aircraft,” said Jed.
“Absolutely. But, see, it hasn’t happened to a Navy ship, so they still think China’s neutral,” said McGraw. “I’m forwarding you a report on what we have. We have traffic back and forth, but the encryptions are good. We haven’t broken them.”
“When will you?”
“Don’t know. Not my department. It’s immaterial,” McGraw added. “What do you think they’re talking about? The price of tea?”
“Uh, no.”
“Good. Well, let’s wrap this up, hon. I don’t want to keep you from any hot dates.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
ZEN WOKE THIRSTY, HIS ENTIRE BODY ACHING FOR WATER.
For a second he thought he was home, and he reached his hand toward the small table at the side of the bed, where by habit he usually kept a bottle of springwater. But of course he wasn’t at home, and instead of finding water, his hand swung against the side of his makeshift tent, collapsing it.
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247
The struggle to fix the shelter took his mind off his thirst for a few minutes, but the craving soon returned. His lips felt as if they had shriveled into briquettes of charcoal. His throat had turned to rock, his tongue to sand.
There was about a half liter left in the bottle from his survival pack. How long could he make that last?
Grudgingly, Zen pulled himself to a sitting position and picked up the bottle. Two sips, he told himself. Small ones.
The first was small, but on the second his parched lips took over and he caught himself gulping.
Enough, he told himself, capping the bottle.
If he was thirsty, Breanna must be even more so.
“Hey, are you awake? Bree? Bree?”
He touched her gently, brushing away her hair. Then he moved his hand to her shoulder and pushed more firmly, as if she’d overslept the morning of a mission.
“Bree, come on now. Come on. Got some water. Let’s go.”
She didn’t move. She was breathing, but still far away.
Was she even breathing?
Zen uncapped the bottle and dripped some of the water onto his fingers, then rubbed it onto her lips, his forefinger grabbing at the chapped flesh. It didn’t seem like enough—he cupped his hand in front of her mouth and dribbled it from the bottle, pushing it toward her mouth. But she didn’t drink, and the water slipped away to the ground.
“Come on, Bree. We can’t waste this!”
For a moment he was angry at her, mad as he hadn’t been in months, years—since his accident, when he was mad at everything and everyone, at the world.
“Damn it, Breanna. Get the hell up. Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”
He balled his hand into a fist and pounded his own forehead. The anger disintegrated into fear. Slowly, he recapped the bottle. Tucking it away, he sucked the remaining moisture from his fingers, then crawled out of the tent to see what the new day would bring.
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Aboard the Abner Read
0600
STORM STOOD ON THE DECK, IGNORING THE SPRAY AS THE
ship’s low-slung bow ducked up and down in the waves. In order to provide the smallest possible radar signature to an enemy, the Abner Read was designed to sit very low in the water, which meant the deck of its tumble-form hull was always wet. It was not exactly a good place to stroll, even on the calmest of days.
Storm liked it, though; standing on it gave you the feeling that you were part of the water. The salt really was in the wind, as the old cliché had it, and that wind rubbed your face and hands raw. It flapped against your sides, scrubbing the diseases of land away, rubbing off the pollution of politics and bureaucratic bullshit.
Should he defy Woods? The admiral was wrong, clearly wrong—even if the Chinese weren’t preparing the Khan for an attack, even if they had no intention of breaking the truce, wasn’t it in America’s best interests to sink her?
Especially since she had a nuclear weapon aboard.
Sink her. It would take less than a half hour now.
The opportunity was slipping through his grasp. The Khan would be out of range in a few hours.
A gust of wind caught him off balance, nearly sending him off his feet.
Storm steadied himself. He would follow his orders, even if they were misguided. It was his job and his duty. Besides, Eyes would never go against the admiral. He would have to lock him up.
No, that was foolishness. Woods had taken his moment of glory away out of jealousy, and Storm knew there was nothing he could do about it but stand and stare in the Khan’s direction, knowing that somewhere in the future they would meet again.
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Base Camp One
0600
LIEUTENANT DANCER WAS WAITING FOR DANNY WHEN THE
Osprey touched with its water-logged load at the Marine camp in the Indian desert. The sun was just starting to rise, and it sent a pink glow across the sand, bathing the woman in an ethereal, angel-like light. It was a good thing Jennifer was with him, Danny thought, because he wouldn’t have trusted himself otherwise.
“Captain Freah, welcome back,” said Dancer, stepping forward and extending her hand. “Glad you’re in one piece.”
“Never a doubt,” said Danny. “How are you, Lieutenant?”
Dancer gave Jennifer a puzzled look. “How did you get here?”
“We needed an expert to look at some of the wiring and circuits on the missiles,” said Danny. “And Jen was available.
She jumped in with the Whiplash team.”
“You’re qualified to jump?”
“Jumping’s the easy part,” said Jennifer. “It’s the landing that’s tough.”
Dancer turned back to Danny. “Captain, we have to talk.
What happened out there?”
Danny explained about the stillborn baby and the disaster that had followed its birth. Dancer had already heard a similar version of the story from the Marines who were on the mission—including Gunny, who had made it a point to say that he’d advised against sending the men.
“He did,” said Danny. “I take responsibility for my men.”
“The general is worried about how it will look public-relations-wise,” said Dancer. She seemed to disapprove as well, though she didn’t say so.
“Nothing I can do about that.”
Dancer nodded grimly. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” said Danny.
“I have to talk to the pilots,” said Dancer. “I’ll be back.”