“What will you tell us then?”

“Noting,” said Stoner.

“Private guy,” said Chris from the water.

“I didn’t know I was expected to perform,” he told them.

“You must have some battle stories. You were in the SEALs, right?” She leaned over, balancing on her left arm. A twinge of pain flashed across her face—her shoulder and back were undoubtedly complaining—but she kept her voice light. “Tell me a story, and then I’ll tell one. We’ve seen some shit,” she added.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell stories.”

“Neither are we.”

She wanted him. That’s why she was flirting.

He’d kiss her. He had to kiss her.

Stoner began to lean forward. She watched, doing nothing.

Chris Ferris screamed. The sound was loud and so distorted that it took Stoner a second to realize it was a real scream.

The raft tugged backward, and down. A huge fin appeared on the side. The raft spun fiercely to the right.

Ferris screamed again. Breanna began to move—began to slide toward him.

Water furled.

“The belts, cut the belts!” yelled Stoner.

“Chris! Chris!”

four, five fins appeared in the water and a sound like switchblades snapping open and shut filled the air. Stoner threw his upper body over her, grabbing Breanna as she slid toward the side. Teeth snapped in the air, and once more the raft spun right. From the corner of his eye, he saw a gun on the floor of the small rubber boat, and with one hand, lunged for it. A demon shrieked. Stoner emptied the magazine, but the scream continued. He pulled at Breanna and then saw a knife in her scabbard. He bent for it and felt her pulling away. Teeth and a gray snout leapt from the water. He sprang back, but managed with the knife to cut the line. They shot backward, the knife flying.

“Chris!” she screamed. “Chris! Chris!”

Stoner used all his strength to keep her at the bottom of the raft, and still she managed to squirm away. He grabbed her by the throat and pulled her so tight she began choking for air. She he held on, certain she would jump out for her copilot if he didn’t. only when her body grew limp did he finally let go, collapsing himself over her.

Taj building, Dreamland

August 28, 1997, 2100 local (August 29, 1997, 1200 Philippines)

Dog took a large gulp of the extra-strong coffee and swallowed quickly, hoping the caffeine would rush to his brain cells.

As a fighter pilot, once or twice he had come close to resorting to greenies to stay awake at crucial points; he’d always hesitated, however, fearing they might become addictive—or worse, not work as advertised. If he had some now, he’d have swallowed them without hesitation. The few hours of sleep he’d managed had left him more groggy then refreshed, and as he walked down the hallway toward the elevator with his half-full coffee cup, he felt as if his head had been pushed down into his chest. He nodded at the security detail near the elevator, took another gulp of his coffee, then got into the car, waiting for it to trundle downward to the Command Center level.

Even though his quarters were just on the other side of the base, he’d slept on his office couch. He’d never down that before, anywhere.

Neither had he ever worried about losing Breanna.

Once, on the so-called “Nerve Center” mission, he’d had to authorize a plan to shoot her down. She was a passenger on a suicide mission to destroy an American city; the decision was a no-brainer.

This was different. She had been lost on a surveillance mission while technically under someone’s else command—was that the part that made it so hard to accept? Did he feel the mission was unworthy of her sacrifice?

Colonel Bastian commander a combat unit as well as a development facility. In either case, death was part of the portfolio. Who was to say what justified one instance and not the other? It was all the same to you, when you were gone.

He took another full gulp of the coffee, felt it burn is mouth. There was still a chance, slim but possible, that Bree and her people, his people, were alive.

They were alive.

Rubeo had just returned to the Command Center himself and was getting briefing from Greg Meades when Dog entered. Meades started over for the colonel, ignoring Rubeo’s frown.

The storm had passed out of the area a few hours before. Though they were mounting very aggressive patrols, the Chinese and Indians hadn’t fired on each other; they seemed to be spending much of their energy recovering from the initial battle and the storm. The diplomats were busting their backs trying to get a cease-fire in place.

Pacific Command had launched searches for the F-14 and a helicopter that had gone down in the storm. They were also looking for Indian and Chinese survivors as a goodwill gesture—a move interpreted by both sides as interference, if not spying, though they had taken no action to prevent it.

Admiral Woods had allocated two frigates and helicopters to the Megafortress search, and was detailing a P-3 as well, but the Navy had its hands full. Besides the three aircraft that had apparently been lost, two civilian ships had floundered in the storm. The only good news was the Navy had, at last, found its unaccounted-for submarine, safe and unharmed.

“How’s Zen?” Dog asked.