Piranha

“We’ve expanded his search area,” said Meades. “He think they were farther south when they ejected, that the plane arches back northwards before it crashed. It’s possible.”

Dog nodded. The scientist began detailing the UMB’s performance—they were, after all, testing a new system, something that was easy to forget. The aircraft and sensor arrays were working fantastically.

“Fantastically,” repeated Meades. He trimmed the enthusiasm in his voice. “Though, of course, that’s small consolation.”

“It’s okay,” said Dog, going over to the communication desk. “Let me talk to Zen.”

The South China Sea

Date and time unknown

The surprise and agony burned in her brain.

Brea

Bright light filled her eyes. Her forehead and hair were crusted with salt. How long had she lain in the raft? How long had her arms, back, and legs soaked in the water?

To die like that.

God, why have you saved me and not my crew?

Water.

“Captain Stockard?”

Something blocked out the sun.

Jeffrey.

Stoner, it was Stoner.

“Are you okay? Captain Stockard? Brea

His face was right next to hers as her eyes opened fully.

“I’m all right,” she said. “God.”

“We’re all right.”

She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She’d held them back too long. She’d never let herself cry in Jeff’s room after his accident. She couldn’t cry now, even though she wanted to. She’d never be able to cry again.

“The sharks moved off. I shot a couple and they started eating each other. We’re okay.”

“Yeah,” she managed. “Peachy.”

Aboard Iowa

August 29, 1997, 1346 local (August 28, 1997, 2146 Dreamland)

Watching the optical feed from the mini-KH package in the UMB’s bay was like looking at a room through a strobe light. Zen’s head and upper body pitched slightly with each image, responding to the pulse like a dance moving to a beat. He stared at the images so long and so hard he found the radar, and even the video from the plane, disorienting. The computer could take care of everything else; he had to scan the images, examine each one, dance with the darkness between them.

“Dreamland Command to B-5. Zen, how are you doing?” asked Colonel Bastian over the Dreamland circuit.

“We’re on course.”

“Good.”

Bastian’s voice betrayed no emotion; he could have been asking if the garbage pickup had been made yet. Zen wanted to curse at him. Didn’t he feel anything for his daughter?

No one did. She was already dead as far as everyone else was concerned. He was just looking for bodies or debris.

But Zen knew she was there. He was going to find her.

“Keep us apprised,” said the colonel. “Dreamland Command out.”

Yeah, out.

Something tapped him on the shoulder. “You okay?” said Je

“Not a problem,” said Zen.

“Want something to eat? I smuggled in some cookies.”

Talking threw off his beat, and that made it harder to concentrate.

“No,” he said, willing his eyes back to the task. He pushed forward harder, sca

This is what God sees, someone had told him once. It was an orientation flight in the backseat of an SR-71. They were at eighty thousand feet, looking down at Dreamland on a clear day.

Picture, new picture.

Here was something in the right corner of his screen, the first thing he’d seen in fifteen minutes.

The rail of a ship.

The fantail of a ship.

A trawler, the radar was telling him, or rather the computer was interpreting the radar and telling him, in its synthesized voice.

He locked it out. He had to concentrate.

One of the Taiwanese spy ships.

“You’re getting the ship?” Je

“One of the Taiwanese ships,” said Zen. “Maybe they’re on to something.”

He was past them now, still pulsing over the empty sea. Picture, new picture. Picture, new picture.

“PacCom checking in,” said Je