Piranha

South China Sea, approaching Taiwan

August 31, 1997, 0910 local

Chen Lo Fa

More importantly, it appeared he had not been detected. The Americans and the Chinese knew the spy ships were ROC vessels, and it was probably the Americans suspected the atoll spy stations had belonged to him, not the Communists, but there was no evidence to show he had assisted the Indians.

While the diplomats had succeeded in imposing a cease-fire, the enmity between the two South Asia powers still simmered. His hope of drawing the Americans into a war had been too ambitious—but that element had not been part of his original plan anyway. the Dragon had proven itself in flight and had, it seemed, gone undetected.

Objectively, a successful mission; but would his government see it that way?

Chen Lo Fa

Lao Tze had written it was wise to retire when the task was done. But the way was a subtle way, a myriad winding of various wills. Chen Lo Fa

Surely, he could.

Aboard Dreamland Transport Two, approaching Hawaii

August 31, 1997, 1636 local

Dog was on the stairs again in the Metro, back in his dreams, looking for his daughter. Zen was there, and by some miracle, he could use his legs. But he acted oddly, sulking behind Dog as he trotted up the steps, angry about something he wouldn’t share.

Brea

She was safe now, his conscious mind blurted, trying to break into the imaginary world. There was no need for him to be haunted by this nightmare.

“I’m not going any further,” said Zen behind him.

Somehow, in the dream Dog managed to keep jogging up the steps and yet turn around and yell to his son-in-law at the same time. “Don’t give up,” he heard himself say. “Let’s go. Don’t give up.”

“Sir?”

Dog jerked awake and found himself staring into the face of the C-26’s copilot. The lieutenant stood in the aisle of the transport with a quizzical look.

“Sir, Admiral Woods wants to speak with you,” said the copilot. “You said if there was anything important, to wake you up.”

“Yes, of course.”

Dog rubbed his eyes and forehead, shaking off the dream.

“So you hit a home run,” said Woods as Dog plugged his headset into the panel next to his seat. The light, dual-engined utility aircraft had Dreamland-issue communications gear, allowing secure transmissions via satellite like any other member of the Dreamland fleet.

“Admiral?”

“The Pentagon and the White House are singing your praises, Tecumseh. Admiral Allen told me a little while ago he’s convinced you averted a world war. Not to mention helped get the results on a top-secret Indian weapon and flush out a Chinese submarine no one had seen in the ocean before. Admiral Allen almost sounded like he wanted to have you come over to our side.”

“I am on your side,” said Dog.

“I meant, join the Navy.”

Dog, who’d known very well what he meant, smiled to himself and leaned back in the seat. Colonel Bastian didn’t like Woods, and thought more than ever that he was a jerk. But his animosity toward Woods had dissipated. Maybe that was because, as Woods put it, Dreamland had hit a home run.

Or more likely, losing several of his best men in the interests of preventing a world war had left him with other things to think about than an admiral’s pettiness.

“You and your people did a good job as well,” Dog told Woods. He was sincere—though the emphasis fell more heavily on the Navy perso

“I’m sorry about the people you lost.”

“So am I,” said Dog. Beside Chris and Torbin Dolk, one other member of Brea

Woods cleared his throat. For a second—perhaps less than that—Dog thought the cocksure-of-himself admiral was actually going to apologize for kicking him out of the Philippines.