Piranha

A submarine.

The Chinese weren’t attacking the raft at all—they were going after a sub.

Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea

1625

As he reached the bridge, Admiral Balin saw his crew had been mistaken—the large contact was a cruiser, not the carrier.

It mattered little. The submarine sat cockeyed in the water, heeling over to the left. They were an easy target.

A shell splashed into the water a hundred yards away.

“They destroyer will hit us eventually,” said Varja behind him.

Balin gripped the small rail before him and took a long deep breath. The sun shone down strong upon him, the sea barely swelled, the air had a fine salty mist.

Would he remember this in his next life?

The cruiser was at 3,300 meters—not optimum, but acceptable, given the circumstances. His shot was dead-on.

“Fire torpedoes,” he said, as the next shell from the destroyer’s deck gun landed twenty yards away.

It took perhaps five seconds for the order to be carried out. In those seconds Balin felt every failure and mistake of his life rise in his chest, pounding like a thousand iron fists on his frail frame. But as the first torpedo left the boat, the regrets dissolved. He took a deep breath, felt the sea in his lungs. It was as sweet and heavy as the first breath he’d ever taken at sea. He turned his head upward, and in the last half-second of his life saw the approaching shell descending toward his vessel’s hull.

Aboard Dreamland Osprey

1626

They didn’t have time to finesse this approach. The Osprey banked low and slow. Da

There were explosions nearby. The Chinese were firing, but not in his direction. They weren’t interested in the raft, or the Osprey.

When he was five yards from the raft, it ducked downward as if pulled toward the depths. Da

“Dead,” Bison told him.

“Shit,” said Da

“Dolk,” added Bison, turning the prostrate body over. “I don’t see any wounds. Might’ve been internal injuries. Hey—” A plastic container slipped to the bottom of the raft; it was attached via a chain to Torbin’s wrist.

“Those are discs from the mission,” said Da

He saw Dolk’s radio near the dead man’s foot.

The Osprey was approaching, its hoist line draping into the water.

“Sucks,” said Bison, fitting a life preserver around the dead man’s torso.

“Yeah,” said Da

Aboard Iowa

1632

Zen listened to the Osprey pilot calling off the Hornets, telling them the Chinese were not going after their people. Anger seized him, surging over his shoulders like a physical thing, a bear gripping its thick paws into his flesh and howling in his ear. The Chinese hadn’t just shot down Brea

He hated them. He’d kill everyone of them. he could order the Hornets in, claim he saw guns being trained on the Osprey or the people in the water. The F/A-18’s would sink the Chinese ships.

Maybe, in the confusion, Brea

He didn’t wish for that; he couldn’t wish for that, but he could accept it, willingly. His anger that great. Uncontrollable, unending rage.

“Dreamland B05 to Hornet Strike Leader,” he said, punching the talk button and transmitting on the strike frequency. “Confirming what you’ve heard. Chinese are not firing on our people. Repeat, Chinese are not firing on our people. Do not attack. Do not attack.”

The Hornets acknowledged. Zen took a deep breath.

“All right,” he told Major Alou. “We still have one crew member MIA. I’m going to set up for a fresh search pattern.”

Chapter 8

Into the future