The sharks must be nearby still. They’d hear the splashes, come for him.
She couldn’t see that again.
“Help!” she shouted with her hoarse voice. “Hey! Hey!”
There was an airplane in the distance, a jet—two or three maybe.
A pair of gray hawks broke over the horizon, thundering between them and the ship.
F-14’s? Or Sukhois?
The two planes rode up, then banked toward the south.
“Hey!” she shouted again, though her voice was so hoarse it was barely louder than a whisper. “Here! Hey! Hey!”
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
1505
“We’re being challenged,” the pilot told Danny. “Pretty bad English.”
“What are they saying?”
“That we’re in protected airspace,” said the pilot.
“We’re being targeted,” said the copilot. “Trying to spike us, the bastards.”
“Shit,” said Danny.
“They’re just trying to scare us,” said the pilot.
“They’re doing a decent job,” said the copilot.
“Tell them we’re going to pick up survivors and split,” Danny said.
“I have twice,” said the pilot. “Here they come. Everybody hold on, it’s going to be close.”
Aboard Iowa
1509
As soon as Zen heard Danny tell Dog what was going on over the Dreamland circuit, he tucked his wing and plunged toward the sea. It was a mistake, a serious mistake—he wasn’t flying a Flighthawk, and the B-5 flipped awkwardly through a roll and then headed straight downward, speed increasing quickly. An alert sounded and Fichera back at Dreamland said something in his ear about letting the computer’s emergency protocol take over. Zen ignored the scientist and the computer; he held the stick gently, letting the plane’s aerodynamics assert themselves. the nose began to lift, and not the trick was to control it, not muscling it down, or shoving it around the way he would push the small Flighthawk, but gracefully, the way you rode an overemotional show horse.
The plane slid into a turn that recorded nine Gs against the fuselage. He took a slow breath, trying to hold his instinct back, trying to baby the hurtling, accelerating mass into a controlled flight path.
Flying the UMB was more thought and perseverance than muscle. Flying was always that for him now, without muscles in his legs, without his legs at all.
Without love either, it seemed.
The idea made him hesitate. He had the Sukhois now on the video; they’d turned south to intercept the Osprey. Zen tightened his hand around the joystick. He was at eighty thousand feet, still descending, coming through seventy-nine, seventy-eight, seventy-seven—the ladder rolled downward at a steady pace now, more controlled.
The video feed from B-5’s nose showed the Osprey at his far right, moving so slowly by comparison it seemed to be standing still on the water.
The Sukhois were on his left, not standing still—530 knots, according to the information synthesized by the computer. They were positioned to flash by, turn, run up the back of the Osprey.
I thought these bastards were going after the ship, for cryin’ out loud.
He wouldn’t reach them in time—he was still a good sixty seconds away.
He had to move faster. Engine five, the rocket motor?
Too much, too hard to control.
He needed the scramjets now.
“Computer, Engines three and four. Accelerate.”
“Engines are locked off until Flight Stage Three,” responded the plane.
“Computer, initiate Flight Stage Three.”
“Parameters are incorrect.”
“Override, damn it.”
“Authorization code required.”
“Authorization Zed-Zed-Zed,” said Zen.
The Sukhois had flown past the Osprey and were now turning.
“Active engines three and four. Accelerate to marked intercept at fastest possible speed.”
It was a bit too much. A half-second after the computer acknowledged, the jet whipped forward. He started to turn and managed to shoot between the Sukhois and their target at Mach 2.3, dipping up and then flying between the two planes. His separation from the first plane was less than fifty feet—hair-raisingly close, though it had no effect on the UMB.
Probably, the Sukhois hit their afterburners. Probably, they tried to pursue. Probably, the pilots would have to spend personal time with the dry cleaner.