“I want a pilot in the plane,” said Colonel Bastian. Jennifer recognized the words—they were the Colonel’s mantra in his debates with Rubeo over the future of air warfare.

“He’s not in the plane,” said Rubeo.

“Close enough,” said Dog.

somewhere in the South China Sea

Time and date unknown

The blur coalesced into lumps of reality, like the precipitate in a test-tube solution. The lumps had shiny edges, crystalline pieces—her head pounding in her helmet, a body pulling off the side of the raft, the waves turning from black to an opaque green.

Breanna’s flight suit felt both sodden and stiff. She pushed her hands down, felt the ocean giving way beneath her—she was on a raft, a survival raft.

They were in the ocean. The storm was passing beyond them.

Were they alive?

Slowly, she reached to take off her helmet. Her fingers groped for several seconds before she realized she’d pulled it off earlier.

Breanna managed to sit up. The air felt like salt in her lungs, but she breathed deeply anyway.

Chris Ferris lay curled against the sides of the raft. She leaned toward him, felt something heavy fall against her back—Stoner was sprawled against her, legs trailing into the water.

She pulled at Stoner’s thigh, trying to haul them up over the side. She got one, but not the other, finally decided that would have to do.

A PRC-90 emergency radio lay beneath Stoner’s calf. As Breanna reached for it, she felt something spring in her back, a muscle tearing. Pain shot from her spine to her fingers, but she managed to pick up the radio. She stared at it, her eyes barely focusing. It took a moment to remember how to use voice—even though it was only a matter of turning a small, well-marked switch—then held it to her head.

“Captain Breanna Stockard of Dreamland Quicksilver looking for any aircraft,” she said. “Looking for any aircraft—any ship. We’re on the ocean.”

She let go of the talk button, listening for an answer. There wasn’t even static.

The earphone?

Long gone. Was there even one?

A Walkman she’d had as a child.

Breanna held the PRC-90 down in her hand, staring at the controls, trying to make the radio into a familiar thing. On the right side there was a small dial switch, with the setting marked by a very obvious white arrow. There were only four settings; the top, a voice channel, was clearly selected. The volume slider, at the opposite side of the face, was at the top.

Madonna was singing. She was twelve.

Snoop Doggy Dog. Her very first boyfriend liked that.

Breanna broadcast again. Nothing.

Switching to the bottom voice channel, she tried again. This time too she heard nothing.

Shouldn’t she hear static at least?

The spins—they’d listen for her at a specific time

The hour on the hour or five past or ten past or twelve and a half past?

She couldn’t remember when she was supposed to broadcast. She couldn’t think. The salt had gotten into her brain and screwed it up.

Just use the damn thing.

Breanna pushed the dial to beacon mode, then propped the radio against Stoner so that the antenna was pointing nearly straight up.

Was the radio dead? She shook it, still not completely comprehending. She picked it back up. Flipped to talk mode, transmitted, listened.

Nothing.

“Chris, Chris,” she said, turning back to her copilot. “Hey—you all right?”

“Mama,” he said.

She laughed. Her ribs hurt and her eyes stung and all the muscles in her back went spastic, but she laughed.

“Mama,” he repeated.

“I don’t think so,” Bree told him softly. She patted him gently. Chris moaned in reply.

“Sleep,” she said. “There’s no school today.”

Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea

1102 local

The storm and his enemy’s ineptness, as much as his skill and the crew’s dedication, had saved them. sitting below the cold layer of water just below test depth, waiting forever, listening to the enemy vessels pass—Admiral Balin had known they would survive. They sat there silently, packing their breaths, so quiet the sea gods themselves would surely think they had disappeared. The admiral waited until they very last moment to surface, remaining in the deep until the batteries were almost completely gone. In the foul air he had begun to hallucinate, hearing voices; if they had not been congratulating him for his glory, he might have thought they were real.