Piranha

DREAMLAND

DUTY ROSTER

LT. COLONEL TECUMSEH “DOG” BASTIAN

Once one of the county’s elite fighter jocks, now Dog is whipping Dreamland into shape the only what he knows how—with blood, sweat, and tears—and proving that his bite is just as bad as his bark …

CAPTAIN BREANNA BASTIAN STOCKARD

Like father, like daughter, Brea

MAJOR JEFFREY “ZEN” STOCKARD

A top fighter pilot until a runway crash at Dreamland left him paraplegic. Now, Zen is at the helm of the ambitious Flighthawk program, piloting the hypersonic remote-controlled aircraft from the seat of his wheelchair—and watching what’s left of his marriage crash and burn …

MAJOR MACK “THE KNIFE” SMITH

A top gun with an attitude to match. Knife has a MiG kill in the Gulf War—and won’t let anyone forget it. Though resentful that his campaign to head Dreamland stalled, Knife’s the guy you want on your wing when the bogies start biting …

MAJOR NANCY CHESHIRE

A woman in a man’s world, Cheshire has more than proven herself as the Megafortress’s senior project officer. But when Dog comes to town, Cheshire must stake out her territory once again—or watch the Megafortress project go down in flames …

CAPTAIN DANNY FREAH

Freah made a name for himself by heading a daring rescue of a U-2 pilot in Iraq. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, Freah’s constantly under fire, as commander of the top-secret “Whiplash” rescue and support team—and Dog’s right-hand man …

Chapter One

Piranha

South China Sea

August 17, 1997, 0800 local (August 16, 1400 Hawaii)

The ocean sat before him like an azure mirror, its surface gleaming with a light haze of silky heat. His small sloop glided forward slowly, as if too much movement would disturb the tranquility. There was no wind for the sail and he had just cut the engine, content to drift into the calm of the open sea. A man could count on one hand the number of days he might encounter such perfect peace, and as Mark Stoner gripped the rail of his boat, the Samsara, a sensation of great ease came over him, a taste of the nirvana his Zen Buddhist teachers promised would come when he managed to shed worldly desire. The moment lingered around him, vanquishing time in its perfection. As the thick muscles of his neck and shoulders loosened, the rest of his body seemed to float upward, assimilating into the universe.

But all was not as it appeared.

A geyser broke three hundred yards off Samsara’s port bow, the water erupting as if a volcano had tossed a fireball into the sky. The blue water furled green and black as a thick spear crashed upwards, rising quickly from the ocean’s surface. It stuttered momentarily, as if it were a fish shocked at the sudden loss of water flowing over its grills. Then it steadied and began picking up speed, rocketing north by northeast at something over five hundred miles an hour.

“Shit,” said Stoner aloud, though he was the only one on the boat. “Hole shit.”

Then he ran back to the cabin to make sure the recording devices were working.

Aboard EB-52, “Iowa,” west of Hawaii

August 16, 1400 local time

Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian slipped the throttle the throttle forward, continuing to pick up speed as they approached the approximate location of Task Force Nirvana. The Megafortress’s forward airspeed push up past five hundred knots as the big plane shot no more than twenty feet over the ocean swells. Dog hated flying over the ocean, especially at low altitude; he somehow couldn’t shake the feeling that a massive tsunami lurked just ahead, ready to rise up and engulf him. Even at high altitude, he had a landlubber’s paranoia about going down in the water. Something about the idea of struggling to inflate and then board a tiny rubber raft filled him with irrational dread. It didn’t help that any time he thought about it, his mind supplied a posse of circling sharks to supervise the operation.

“Should be able to see the test area buoys in sixty seconds,” said Bastian’s copilot, Chris Ferris. “We’ll have the feed of the Flighthawk.”

“Roger that,” replied the colonel. “Zen, how are we looking?” he asked over the Dreamland com circuit.

“Ocean’s clean,” replied Major Jeff “Zen” Stockard. Stockard was flying two U/MF-3’s or Unma

Galatica, on the left wing, had a radar suite comparable to an E-3 AWACS. Since the powerful radar would alert their quarry, it was currently in passive mode—for all intents and purposes turned off.

Raven, at the right of the formation, featured a suite of electronic listening devices that would rival any Rivet Joint RC-135 spy plane. A myriad of ante