Piranha

Stoner had saved her with his strong arms, pulling against the chute that wouldn’t release, but that finally, under his tugging, did release. Brea

She was the roll of the ocean and the explosion that sent them from the airplane. She was the storm soaking them all.

Stoner felt his fingers slipping again. They wouldn’t close. The best he could manage was to punch his hands on the raft, shifting his weight slightly as the wave swelled up. It threw him sideways and, whether because of good luck, or God, or just coincidence, the momentum of the raft and the swell threw him back into the small float, on top of the two pilots. Water surged up his nostrils; he shook his head violently, but the salt burned into his chest and lungs. Fortunately, he didn’t have anything left to puke.

The sea pushed him sideways and his body slipped downward. An arm grabbed his just as he went into the water. In the tumult, it wasn’t clear whether he pulled his rescuer into the sea or whether he’d been hooked and saved; lightening flashed and he realized he was on his back, lying across the other two, the man and the woman.

“Lash ourselves together,” he told them, the rain exploding into his face. “Keep ourselves together until the storm ends.”

The others moved, but not in reaction to what he said. they were gripping on to the boat, holding again as the waves pitched them upward.

“We can make it,” he said. “We’ll lash ourselves together.”

He reached for his knife at his leg, thinking he would use it to cut his pants leg into a rope. As he did, he touched bare skin on his leg.

They’d already tied themselves together. Somehow, in the nightmare, he’d forgotten.

Aboard the Dragon Ship in the South China Sea

August 29, 1997, 0800

The message was not entirely unexpected, but it nonetheless pained Chen Lo Fa

Dangerous instability. An interesting phrase.

Obviously, the Americans were making the presence felt. Peace was in the American interest, not theirs; true Chinese prayed for the day of return, the instatement of the proper government throughout all of the provinces of China. Inevitably, this war would lead to the destruction of the Communists.

The angry gods of the sea had thrown a typhoon against the two fleets, halting their battle after a few opening salvos. In the interim, the Americans, the British, and the UN had all stepped up their efforts to negotiate peace.

Surely that would fail. The Communists had lost an aircraft carrier and countless men. The storm would multiply the damage done to their ships. They would want revenge.

The Indians too would fight. They understood this battle was about their survival. If the Chinese and their Islamic allies were not stopped, the Hindus would be crushed.

Chen Lo Fa

Lao Tze had spoken of this.

The god of heaven and earth show no pity. Straw dogs are forever trampled.

Now, his government was making him the straw dog. He needed leverage.

The American Megafortress had been shot down; undoubtedly its crew was dead. Americans were charmingly emotional about remains; a body or two, handled with the proper military honors. Even an arm or leg. Such could be found and prepared if the authentic article were not available.

Two of his ships were in the area. As soon as the storm abated, they would begin the search. After a short interval, they would find what they were looking for, one way or another.

Meanwhile, he would sail for Taiwan, as ordered.

Or perhaps not.

Aboard Iowa

August 29, 1997, 1036 local (August 28, 1997, 1936 Dreamland)

“Not there, Jen,” Zen told her.

“I’m working on it.”

Je

Of course he was. If it was Tecumseh instead of Brea

This ought to work—the program simply needed to know what frequency to try, that was all it needed, and she had it right on the screen.