Piranha

Philippines

1730

Mark Stoner stepped off the helicopter swiftly, ducking reflexively as the whirling rotors whipped grit against his face and clothes. He moved quickly toward the edge of the concrete, lugging his two Alice packs with him. The concrete ran surprisingly smooth, though there were a few spots where men were working on burning up roots and vines, and at the northern end a bulldozer and a buzz saw or two were hacking down a thick row of overhanging trees. Overall, the strip looked long, wide, and amazingly well-prepared.

The Whiplash people had established a sensor perimeter, using audio sensors, land radar, and optical and IR mini-cams tied by land lines to a sandbagged area about ten yards off the southern end of the airstrip. Stoner spotted it and began walking in that direction, ignoring the wind whipping from the wash of the Chinook that had deposited him on the island. Captain Da

Stoner recognized the captain’s frown; he’d seen it on the face of every one of is superiors when he was in the Navy. Bastards must be issued it the day they graduate officer’s school.

“Captain,” said Stoner.

“Hey,” responded Da

“Impressive,” said Stoner when Da

“Yeah,” said Da

“What’s that?” One of the video screens was focused on two pieces of cloth stretched in a clearing beyond a small pond.

“Looks like a little village,” said Da

“I can get them moved,” said Stoner. He reached into his pack for his satellite phone.

“That’s not necessary. Not yet,” said Da

“No, it is.”

“My call here,” said the captain.

“No, it’s not.”

Da

“With all due respect, Mr. Stoner, I’m responsible for security here. My call.”

“This is my mission,” said Stoner flatly. He pushed the cover of the phone up, and dialed his Agency liaison in Manila, the deputy station chief.

He’d hit the last digit when the captain’s thick black hand folded around the phone.

“No,” said Da

Stoner took a deep breath and straightened his body, fully relaxed except for his grip on the phone. If he jerked his knee up and pushed his left elbow, the Air Force officer would fall to the ground with a collapsed windpipe.

“Let me spell it out,” said Da

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” said Stoner. He heard the words of his Zen master at the back of his head, telling him to breathe, telling him to maintain the center of the burning candle flame in his chest.

“Granted,” said Freah. “But this is the best way to proceed if we’re going to keep this base covert.”

The captain was a young guy, with an impressive war record. He probably also thought he could deck Stoner if it came to that.

“Captain, please let go of my phone,” he said gently. “We’ll do it your way—but let me just tell you something.” He paused, waiting for the officer to let go of the phone. Released, he brought his arm down and bowed his head—then in a flash put his arm at Da

He pulled his hand back quickly.

The Whiplash trooper who’d been watching the video cams was standing behind him, his MP-5 pointed at Stoner’s head.

“Good point,” said Da

Aboard Quicksilver, over the South China Sea

1732

The flames licking up form the blackened metal were surprisingly small. The smoke, on the other hand,

furled in all directions, a massive squat fu

“Can’t quite get a visual,” he told Brea