Piranha

Though it wasn’t visible, a village lay about seven miles to the south, at the extreme tip of the island. According to their briefing papers, there were less than a hundred people there. The rest of the island was uninhabited.

“All right, let’s get down and get to work,” Da

The Quick Bird managed to find a clear spot on the gray-brown concrete big enough to land nearly side by side. Gear off-loaded, the two choppers tipped forward and rose, leaving Da

“All right, we have forty-five minutes before the helos get back with the rest of our gear,” Da

Powder picked up one of the four flamethrowers they’d brought to burn off the undergrowth, and hoisted the pack onto his backk.

“Hold off on that, Powder,” Da

“Just making sure it works, Cap,” said Powder, flicking the trigger. The device didn’t light at first, and Da

“Sometimes I swear to God I’m a goddamn kindergarten teacher,” said Da

“Powder never made it to Kindergarten, Captain,” said Bison, taking out the chain saws. “Got left back in preschool.”

Powder put the flamethrowers back down. He took one of the large chain saws Bison had laid out and fueled. “Wait till I get this little humdinger goin’, Cap. Go

“Mr. Jungle Rot, more like it,” said Bison.

“Just get going,” Da

The trailer was an RV adapted for use as Whiplash’s mobile command post.

“This is what I’m talkin’ about,” said Powder, revving his saw.

Aboard Quicksilver, above the South China Sea

1230

Zen could see the two Sukhois on his long-range scan as he approached. They were flying a figure-eight pattern over the aircraft carrier task force, their patrol circle never more than twenty miles from the surface ships. Unlike an American battle group, there was no radar plane aloft, and the carrier would be vulnerable to an attack by any aircraft equipped with American Harpoon missiles or even Exocets, which, at least in theory, could strike from about twenty-five miles away. Of course, the Chinese were probably counting on the radars in the Su-33’s to pick up approaching aircraft before they were in range to attack, a not unreasonable expectation—unless the aircraft attacking were American.

The Flighthawks were not equipped for surface attack, and the Megafortress was not carrying AGMs; nor were they authorized to attack the Chinese, or any ship for that matter. If they were, the Chinese would be out one pocket carrier. The stealthy Flighthawks began turning at five miles from the carrier, still undetected by any of the screening radars. Zen split the Flighthawks, riding Two ahead of Quicksilver and trailing with One, just in case the Sukhois finally got curious. But they didn’t.

“Two helicopters operating with the carrier,” reported Collins, who as analyzing some of the signal intelligence and magnified visual information they’d gathered.

“Probably looking for subs,” said Ferris.

“Torbin, do you have a plane near eight-four-zero, mark, three-two? Over that atoll” asked Ferris.

“Uh, something way down south there, beyond our range—probably just a bleep or an echo,” said the radar-intercept specialist. Zen could hear him punching the keys at his station. “Nothing. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

“No ships there,” said Collins.

“Probably just a weird flake out,” said Ferris.

They continued south, tracking over the mostly empty ocean. Zen tried to stay sharp by having the Flighthawks change positions, but this was a long and boring patrol, especially after the long flight to get out here.

“Okay, we have two ships traveling together, cargo containers. Tankers beyond that,” said Collins finally, feeding Zen the coordinates. He put Hawk Two in trail behind Quicksilver, then took One into a shallow dive toward the two freighters. Traveling roughly a mile apart, the ships were stacked with cargo containers, trailers that could be ferried by truck of train once ashore. The containers could carry just about anything, and it was impossible to tell from the air what they held.

Hawk One nosed through some thin clouds, continuing downward through three thousand feet. He could see an Australian flag flapping at the rear of the tanker about three fourths of a mile away. He slid his right wing up slightly, gliding over the starboard side of the vessel, the belly video cam freezing on the ship. Collins, meanwhile, checked all of the ships against their listing, keeping track of what was down there.

“Not a known bad guy in the bunch,” he said.

“Lots of little boats ahead,” said Zen, nudging back on the throttle so he was making just under three hundred knots. “Let’s take a look.”

The small boats were clustered around several atolls at the western side of their patrol run. Two or three were fishing boats, flat-bottomed boats similar to Chinese junks. The others looked like open whaleboats with large motors, odd vessels to be this far from land, Zen thought.