“Fentress, we have to get moving here, friend,” said Bree.

“I’m still having trouble with the link,” he said. “We’re too high. I need you as close as you can get. The jinking’s not helping.”

“Getting shot down won’t help either.” She regretted snapping back like that, but there was no time to apologize—one of the ships launched antiaircraft missiles.

“SA-N-4, basicallt an SA-8 tweaked for shipboard use,” reported Torbin. “We’re at the far end of their envelope. Jamming.”

“Chaff, flares, kitchen sink,” she said.

Breanna began to turn, then realized she was moving toward the Sukhois. She pulled back on the stick abruptly, then twisted her left wing downward. The big jet did a half-gainer toward the waves, gravity and momentum pulling at its wings badly, one of the sensors in the wing-root assembly freaked out. The alert board lit with possible structural damage and the computer squawked at her for exceeding the design limit of the plane—not an easy feat.

Breanna’s body was pounded by the rush of Gs; she felt as if her head had been pounded by an anvil. A gray fuzz pushed in from her temples and something cold and prickly filled her lungs; she started to cough, but something scraped deep down in her throat. There were all sorts of warning lights now, but she rode the wild maneuver steady, forcing the plane through an invert as the Sukhois she had spotted earlier fired its missiles from almost head-on. Fortunately, they were both heat-seekers, and despite their advertised all-aspect ability, were easily shunted by the flares Chris had managed to dish out into the air.

As the gray veil pulled back, Breanna saw a much darker one reaching up from the sea to smack her. Her maneuvers had taken her back toward the Chinese fleet. She was now dead-on for the flak; there was nothing to do but ride it out, struggling to keep the Megafortress level as they passed through percolating air.

“Damage to our right wing,” reported Chris. He was breathing hard. “Lost the Sukhois at least.”

“All right,” said Bree, suddenly conscious of her own breathing. “Kevin, we need that connection, and we need it now.”

“You have to get closer.”

“They’re launching more planes,” reported Collins.

“Indians too. This it total war,” said Chris. He was gasping for breath, hyperventilating.

“Dreamland Command to Quicksilver.” Major Alou “Gat” Ascenzio’s voice sounded a little tinny on her circuit; Breanna glanced at her com screen and saw that the message wasn’t coded.

“Quicksilver.”

“Get out of there.”

“We’re trying,” she said. then. Remembering the line was in the clear—and hopefully being intercepted by the Chinese—she added. “We’re taken no hostile act. We believe an Indian submarine fired torpedoes at a Chinese aircraft carrier.”

“We confirm one hit and one near miss,” said Gat. “Serious damage. Fires. Get out of there.”

“Quicksilver,” she said.

“I got it!” said Fentress.

“Sink the first buoy.”

“I need you to get lower. Get over it.”

“Bree,” said Chris. He didn’t have to say anything else; his meaning was clear—we have to leave now.

“I’m trying, Kevin,” she told Fentress.

“Missiles in the air!” said Torbin.

Philippines

1840

“Fuck!”

Once again the video feed in his Flighthawk control helmet dissolved into a test screen. Zen slammed his fist on the console and leaned back, cursing.

“I know, I know,” said Jennifer over the interphone. She was in the bomb bay, helping one of the technicians adjust the link server. “We’ll get it.”

“Yeah,” he said. He slid the headset back off his head, letting it fall around his neck. He was restless, frustrated.

It was more than difficulties getting the Flighthawk linked back into the circuit—he could feel his heart pounding.

He thought of Bree.

He was pissed at her for acting like a jerk before.

That wasn’t it.

She had been a jerk, but he wasn’t pissed at her, not exactly.

He was worried about her.

He picked up the headset, put it back on. His heart pounded so badly, he could feel the phones reverberating against his ears.

“Hey, Jen, I’m going to take a break,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Yeah. I’m going to go get something to eat. Ring-Dings or something.”

“Ring-Dings? I thought you couldn’t stand Ring-Dings.”

He couldn’t—they were Bree’s favorite pig-out food.

“I’m going to swing by the trailer and see what’s up on the way,” he told her.

“We’ll have it ready by the time you get back.”