Piranha

“Get him out,” Da

“Inbound,” said Bison. The MV-22 was just approaching the dogleg part of the atoll.

“All right. Get him back ASAP. Just go,” Da

“I’m okay,” Liu protested.

“Go.” Da

“You got a mine detector in that helmet?” Stoner asked.

“I got infrared.”

“That works?”

“Seems to,” said Da

“This ain’t worth getting blown up.”

“Now you fuckin’ tell me that,” said Da

“You see it?”

“Not well,” Da

“Yeah,” said Stoner.

“Yeah.” Da

“Maybe they weren’t armed. Get attacked, they hit the radio and turn it on,” suggested Stoner.

“Yeah,” said Da

“Protecting something.”

“I think that was a long-wave-communication device out by the shore they blew up,” said Stoner. “Looked like big fishing poles? Use it to communicate with submarines.”

“So this was an Indian post?”

“Guys looked Chinese to me.”

The Osprey, already loaded with Liu, buzzed low over the water and headed out, its large rotors whipping it toward its top speed of 425 knots, twice as fast as any helicopter in the world.

“He go

“He said he would. He’s just about a doctor, so he’s probably right,” said Da

“Yeah.”

“My footsteps.”

“I’m right behind you.”

Bison had started toward them with his gear, moving very slowly and marking the mines with reed-thin flags. It was as if he were laying out an odd golf course.

“They must’ve had some pretty high-tech stuff here,” said Stoner as they walked. “They sure as shit fought to protect it.”

“Yeah, they did.”

“That hump down by the water didn’t blow completely. Was probably a radar.”

“Yeah,” said Da

“Look at it once the mines are clear.”

“After we secure my sergeant’s body, yes.”

Aboard Quicksilver, over the South China Sea

2002

“We’re ready,” said Je

Zen stared at the screen. “Nothing. Didn’t work, Jen.”

“All right, hold on.”

Zen pushed back in the seat. The sim program included a short-handoff module, but it wasn’t much of a workout—on the program, the screen appeared and you went.

No screen, no go.

“All right, let’s try again,” said Je

Zen’s main screen turned green. White axis lines dissected it into four quadrants. Two white blobs sat in the upper quarter, percolating like tiny Alka-Selzer tablets.

“Hey, got radar feed,” said Zen.

“Sonar!” corrected Je

“Yeah, sorry. Got it. Okay, this is the synthetic thermal feed?”

“Right.”

“Looks like I’m flying in soup. Except for the grid, there’s no reference.”

“You’re swimming, not flying.”

“Whatever. Ru

“I’m watching everything you do,” said the Navy commander from Iowa, which was orbiting the ocean a short distance away.

Zen’s Flighthawk controls had been replaced by two oversized keyboards and a control stick large, but considerably less flexible, than the Flighthawks’. While Piranha’s full range of commands could be entered through the keyboards, Zen’s interest—and training—was confined to a very small subset, which could be handled by preset buttons carefully marked with tape. He could flip between a view synthesized from either passive sonar or temperature-deviant sensors. The computer automatically processed the contact data, displaying a small amount of its information in captions beneath each of the white synthesized images on his main screen; more information on each could be called up on the auxiliary screen. His speed controls were also worked by dedicated keys on the left board.