“Clear,” said Varja, turning away from the scope.
“You may surface,” Balin told him. He felt almost fatherly as the diesel-powered submarine responded to the crew’s well-practiced routine; they began to glide toward the surface.
As built, the Russian Kilo class of submarine possessed an austere efficiency. Their full complement was no more than sixty men; they could manage twenty-four knots submerged and dive to 650 meters. While their reliance on diesel and battery power had drawbacks, they could be made exceedingly quiet and could operate for considerable periods of time before needing to surface.
Shiva—named after the Hindu god of destruction—had been improved from the base model in several respects. Her battery array was probably the most significant; they nearly doubled her speed or submerged range, depending on how they were used. The passive sonar in her nose and the other sensors in the improved tower were surely important, with almost half again as effective a detection range as those the Russian supplied—and the Chinese copied. For Balin, the advanced automation and controls the Indian shipyard had added were most important; they allowed him to operate with half the standard crew size.
They too were the fruits of Hindu labor and inspiration, true testaments to the ability of his people and their future.
“We are on the surface, Admiral,” reported Captain Varja.
“Very good.”
Balin’s bones complained slightly as he climbed the ladder to the conning tower, and his cheeks immediately felt the cold, wet wind. He struggled to the side fumbling for his glasses.
As he looked out over the ocean, he felt warm again; peaceful. Dull and gray, stretching forever, the universe lay before his eyes, waiting for him to make the future coalesce.
The Chinese aircraft carrier should now be less than one hundred miles away.
He put the glasses down, reminding himself to guard against overconfidence. His role was to fulfill destiny, not to seek glory.
“We will stay on the surface at present course for forty-five minutes,” the admiral told the captain. “The batteries will be back at eight percent by then.”
“I would prefer one hundred percent,” said Varja.
“Yes,” he answered mildly before going to the hatchway and returning below.
Aboard Iowa, approaching the Philippines
August 25, 1997, 0852 local
Dog ran through the indicators with his copilot, Captain Tommy Rosen, making sure the plane was in good shape as they headed onto their last leg of the flight. In truth, the meticulous review of the different instrument readings wasn’t necessary—the computer would automatically advise the pilots of any problem, and a quick glance at the special graphic displays showed green across the board, demonstrating everything was fine, but the routine itself had value. Checking and rechecking the dials—or in this case, digital readouts—focused the crew’s attention. It was a ritual practiced by pilots since shortly after the Wrights had pointed their Flyer into the wind at Kitty Hawk; it had saved many a man and woman’s life, quite a number without their even realizing it.
Checks complete, Dog spoke to each crew member in turn, making sure they were okay. Again, the ritual itself was important; its meaning was far deeper than the exchange of a few words. It was ceremony, a kind of communion, strengthening the link that would be critical in a difficult mission or emergency situation.
All his career, Dog had been a fast-plane jock, piloting mostly single-seat interceptors. You were never truly alone, of course; you had a wingman, other members of your flight and mission package, gobs of support personnel both in the air and on the ground. There was, however, more of a feeling of being on your own; certainly you were more independent than in a big aircraft like the Megafortress. Flying the EB-52 was entirely different thing. As pilot, you were responsible for an entire crew. Your family, in a way; they were always in the back of your mind.
“All right folks. We’re about twenty minutes out. After we land and have the plane checked, I’d like to try and get back up in the air as quickly as we can. I know we’ve all taken naps, and we’re going to pretend we’re refreshed, but—seriously, now—if anyone feels tired, talk to me when we’re down. I know how hard it is to adjust.”
He didn’t expect anyone to admit they were beat, but still, he had to offer them the possibility. Most of the target area was covered by a slow-moving storm that made it difficult to patrol, and would certainly hinder the launch of the Piranha device. Being ready to go might be academic.
The portion of the panel at the left side of the dash that Dog had designated for the com link flashed gray and the words “DREAMLAND COMMAND LINK PENDING” appeared at the bottom. Dog authorized the link, and Major “Gat” Ascenzio’s face beamed into the LCDs.
“Quicksilver thinks it has a location on the Indian submarine,” said Gat. “On the surface, about seventy miles from the Chinese carrier. They’re having a difficult time with the weather; hard to get a definitive read.”
“Can you patch us together?” Dog asked.
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Gat. He turned away from the screen and the image popped gray. An instant later, the space was filled by a slightly scratched flight helmet.
“Hey, Daddy.”
“Captain Stockard, good morning. We understand you have a possible location on the submarine.”
“That’s affirmative. A long-distance contact. The Flighthawks haven’t seen anything and our radar looks clean, though the storm’s pretty fierce. We’ll transfer the data. Be advised the Chinese have aircraft aloft north of the target area.”
“Copy.”