Aboard Quicksilver

1840

A giant snake wrapped itself around Stoner’s body and squeezed, pushing his blood toward his mouth. He felt the warm liquid on his tongue, knowing he was forcing himself to breathe the long, quiet breath of purity. The universe collapsed on top of him, but Stoner sat as still as a pillar, remembering the advice of the bent old man who had taught him: you are the light of the candle, the flame that cannot be extinguished.

But no religion or philosophy, Eastern or Western, could overcome the simple, overwhelming urge of gravity. The plane jerked back and forth, trying desperately to avoid being hit while Fentress worked to sink both Piranha com buoys. He’d already managed to put the probe on the automated escape route—or at least that was how Stoner interpreted the groans and grunts he’d heard among the cacophony of voices in his earphones.

The sitrep was still on his screen. One of the carriers had been hit badly, though at least two planes had managed to get off in the chaos. Planes were swarming off the other. An Indian flight was coming north to meet them. There were missiles in the air, and flak all over the place. The destroyers on the eastern flank were attacking the submarine that had launched the torpedoes.

The lights in the cabin flashed off and on; there was a warning buzzer, another flash. The snake curled tighter.

Stoner pushed his hand to his face mask, making sure his oxygen was working. Two or three voices shouted at him from far away, urging him into the darkness. He forced his lungs to empty their oxygen slowly into the red flame of the candle in the center of his body.

Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea

1843

A fresh found of depth charges exploded over the conning tower; the submarine bobbed downward as if her namesake had smashed his powerful leg against its bow. Admiral Balin fell forward against the map table, then slid to the floor.

One of the electrical circuit had blown. It was impossible at the moment to assess the damage, but he would welcome death now. At least one of the torpedoes had exploded directly beneath the aircraft carrier; the damage would be overwhelming. The failure of the Kali weapons had been requited.

Calmly, Balin rose. Accepting fate did not mean wishing for death—he turned his attention to his escape.

Someone screamed nearby, seized by panic.

“There will be none of that,” he said in a loud, calm tone before making his way toward the helmsman. “We will carry on as we were born to do. We will survive this.”

Aboard Quicksilver

1845

“We lost engine three,” Chris told her.

Breanna didn’t acknowledge. The Indian MiGs had sent a volley of missiles at long range at the Sukhois; there was so much metal in the sky now, it was impossible to avoid getting hit.

“It’s sunk, it’s sunk,” said Fentress. “Both buoys are down!”

“Fighter on our tail,” said Chris. “Out of air mines.

She could feel the bullets slicing into her, ripping across her neck. Breanna pushed the stick and stomped the pedals, trying to flip the big jet away from the fighter. But the Sukhois was more maneuverable than the Megafortress, and the Chinese pilot was smart enough not to get too close or overreact. He wasn’t that good a shot—maybe one out of four of is slugs found its target, a half dozen at a time—but he was content with that.

“Four’s gone,” said Chris.

“Restart.”

“Trying.”

Her warning panel was a solid bank of red. Part of the rear stabilizers had been shot away; they were leaking fuel from one of the main tanks. The leading-edge flap on the left wing wouldn’t extend properly, complicating her attempts to compensate for the dead engines.

They were going in.

Breanna fought off the flicker of despair. She pushed herself toward the windscreen, as if she might somehow add her weight to the plane’s forward momentum. The Sukhois that had been dogging them pass off to the right; he’d undoubtedly run out of bullets, or fuel, or both.

About time they got a break.

Ahead, a jagged bolt of lightening flashed down from the clouds. It seemed to splatter into a million pieces as it hit the ocean, its electricity running off in every direction.

Zen, why aren’t you here with me? I need you.

Jeffrey!

the altimeter ladder began to move—somehow the big Megafortress was managing to climb.

“Come on, baby,” she told it. “Hang with me.”

“I can’t get four,” said Chris, who’d been trying to restart the engine. “Fuel’s bad. Fire in the bay. Fire—”

“Auto extinguish.”

“I’ve tried twice,” he said.

“Dump the AMRAAMS,” she told him.