End Game Page 10

  “No hit in the library, see?” said T-Bone, pointing to the screen. “Light aircraft, civilian type, two engines far back on the fuselage. Looks like a small seaplane, with the engines up there to stay out of the spray. Hull is boat-shaped.”

  “Definitely makes sense,” said Dog. “Why wouldn’t we have seen him earlier?”

  “Two possibilities. One, he was outside our range, flying in from the east. Two, he was on the surface of the water, probably at that oil tanker. If he’s a smuggler—”

  “Far south for that.”

  “Maybe they’re changing tactics because the Abner Read has done such a good job farther north.”

  “Maybe.”

  It wasn’t that he didn’t think Storm was doing a good job; clearly they were missing something.

  “Get Dreamland Control. Send this information back. I want Dr. Rubeo to get some of his people on this. I want to know what type of aircraft this is, what’s it’s capable of. Dish…”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, turning around.

  “Get as much data as you can on the torpedo that damaged the Indian ship. Size, that sort of thing. Give that to Dreamland Command as well. I think this little aircraft is more of a problem than we know.”

  III

  Be Boarded, or Be Sunk

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the Indian Ocean

  10 January 1998

  0800

  ANIL MEMON ZIPPED HIS WINDBREAKER AS HE STEPPED OUT onto the observation deck of the Shiva. India’s deputy defense minister immediately grabbed for the railing, thrown off balance not by the rolling of the ship but the roar of one of her Su-33s charging off the ramped runway below. The warplane lurched into the sky, her left wing bucking down for a brief moment before the thrust from her two massive engines muscled her upward.

  “An impressive site, Mr. Memon, is it not?” said the commander of the Shiva, Admiral Kala. A short, slight man, he did not weigh much more than 120 pounds, but he was one of the most respected commanders in the navy. “When we have five more ships like this, no one will challenge India’s greatness, not even the Americans.”

  Memon smiled. To get five more ships such as the Shiva would not be easy.

  He turned his attention back to the sea, scanning the surface for the wounded destroyer Calcutta. One of the lookouts had said it was just visible on the horizon, but even with his powerful binoculars he couldn’t see it.

  “It’s to port, ten degrees,” said the admiral, guessing what he was looking for.

  Memon adjusted his view and saw the mast.

  “I was aboard the Calcutta last year,” Memon said. “I can’t imagine she was struck by a torpedo from a submarine. She would have heard the vessel before the attack.”

  “We will know the answer soon.”

  A sailor appeared behind them, his uniform so crisp that a scent of starch filled the air.

  “Admiral Kala, communication with the American ship has been established.”

  “Very good. Deputy Minister Memon, will you join me?”

  Memon followed the admiral back into the superstructure of the ship. Allowing for the metal walls and the pipes, the interior of the Shiva seemed more like the inside of a large office complex than that of a ship. The halls still smelled of fresh paint, and even the decking had a glow to it.

  The ship had three different secure communications suites. The one the sailor led Admiral Kala and Memon to looked like a television studio, and had a special copper-enclosed booth at the side where top-secret conferences could be held without fear of anyone aboard eavesdropping.

  Admiral Kala pointed to a phonelike handset below one of the screens at the left side of the space, then picked up the one next to it.

  “This is Admiral Kala, the commander of the Indian aircraft carrier Shiva. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Captain Gale, of the USS Abner Read. What can I do for you, Admiral?”

  “We thank you and your crew for rendering assistance to the Calcutta,” said Kala. “Her captain told me personally of your aid.”

  “Right.”

  “I have been given to understand that you tracked and stopped a Pakistani vessel that had been in the vicinity.”

  “Damn straight. My people searched it stem to stern. We found nothing. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “This is the deputy defense minister,” Memon said into his headset. “It has not escaped my notice that the United States not only had a warship in the area, but an aircraft as well.”

  “The Abner Read was nearly two hundred miles away. What’s your point?”

  “You had a helicopter close enough to launch the torpedo,” said Admiral Kala.

  “You know what, Admiral? I’m a little busy right now. Maybe you should take your inquiries through diplomatic channels.”

  “Captain—”

  “Frankly, sir, I don’t know you from Adam. And I’m not going to listen to slander.”

  The line went dead.

  Memon felt his cheeks burning. But the insult did not appear to have registered on the admiral’s face.

  “We should inspect the tanker ourselves,” suggested Memon. “It would not be impossible to mount a torpedo tube on its deck, camouflaging it in some way. Or perhaps arranging so it could be fired from below the waterline. I don’t trust the Americans.”

  The admiral walked silently to the carrier’s combat control center, a level below the bridge at the center of the island superstructure. Memon followed, still seething—the American should have been put in his place. It was true that the Calcutta did not believe the Americans had been involved in the attack, but his question had been a natural one.

  The Shiva’s position as well as that of its aircraft and the different vessels around them were tracked on a large plexiglass display at one side of the combat center. The admiral consulted the display and then the charts on the nearby map table as Captain Adri, the ship’s navigation officer, and Captain Bhaskar, the executive officer, looked on.

  “The tanker is sailing toward Karachi,” said Admiral Kala, tracing its course. “We can intercept it fifty miles from Pakistani coastal waters, if we change course within the hour.”

  “That will mean leaving the Calcutta to wait for the oceangoing tug,” said Adri, glancing at his charts. “It will be another twenty-four hours at least.”

  “We should search them ourselves,” said Memon, folding his arms.

  “Captain, in my opinion we should not,” said the executive officer. “The Americans have already done so.”

  “Change course, Mr. Adri,” said Admiral Kala. “I will inform the Calcutta.”

  Drigh Road

  10 January 1998

  2000

  CANTOR STEADIED THE POOL CUE AGAINST HIS FINGERS, pulling it back and forth as he lined up the shot at the far end of the table. He had to hit the cue ball straight and hard.

  Not a problem. He’d just think of it as Major Mack Smith’s head.

  “Eight ball in the corner,” he told Jan Stewart, watching from the nearby couch.

  “Never.”

  Thwack! The ball flew down the table. The eight ball jammed hard against the cushion at the side of the hole and dropped straight down. The cue ball rebounded off the nearby rail and sailed back to him.

  “You’ve been practicing,” said Stewart, getting up.

  “Just found the proper motivation.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been thinking the cue ball is Captain Stockard, but it doesn’t seem to help. Another game?”

  Cantor glanced at the clock on the wall of the large room.

  “Yeah, OK. Rack ’em up. Then I’m going to have to check with the maintainers and make sure the Flighthawks are all ready to rock. I have to preflight in an hour or so.”

  “Chief Parsons will make sure the planes are ready.”

  “Yeah, but if I don’t let him growl at me, he’ll be in a bad mood the rest of the day,” said Cantor, applying some chalk to the tip of his cue.

&nb
sp; “Isn’t that Mack’s job?”

  “The chief said that if Mack bothers him one more time, he’ll hold me personally responsible.”

  “’Nuff said.”

  The Dreamland contingent had been given a pair of buildings once used by a Pakistani fighter wing at the far end of the sprawling complex. The aircraft they flew might have been old—the wall opposite the clock had a logo for the Shenyang F-6, which had all but been phased out of active service years before—but their facilities were top-rate, including the rec room that the Dreamland team had adapted as an informal squadron ready room, office, and general hangout. Besides the pool table, there were two foosball tables and a Ping-Pong setup. Beyond the briefing area sat a full kitchen with electric appliances, including two large refrigerators.

  “Who’s bothering who, Cantor?” said Mack, striding into the ready room. His timing was perfect: He distracted Stewart so badly that she sent the white ball curling off to the side; she barely missed scratching and hardly dented the triangle of pool balls.

  “Nobody, Major.” Cantor eyed the table. The break was so poor it hadn’t left him any shots. “Fourteen, I guess, corner pocket.”

  “You’re up in two hours,” said Mack.

  Cantor narrowed his eyes until he saw only the cue ball. He rapped the ball so hard it flew at the fourteen, which fell into the pocket with a resounding thud. As an extra bonus, his cue ball bounced the twelve into the opposite corner.

  “Nice shot, junior,” said Mack.

  “You got something you need me to do, Major?”

  “No, I’m just making sure you’re ready to go.”

  “I read the schedule.” Cantor called the eleven in the side. This time he hit it so hard it rebounded off the pocket—and sank into the opposite pocket.

  “Which side did you call?” Stewart asked.

  “No, your shot.”

  “Guts is sick, so I’m going in Levitow,” added Mack. “I’m going to tell Breanna to load two Flighthawks on the plane.”

  Cantor knew he should keep his mouth shut. After all, not having Major Mack Smith sitting next to him for eight or ten hours was more than he could wish for. But he couldn’t help himself.

  “I don’t think you can take two planes, Major. In all honesty, one—I mean, no disrespect but—”

  “What are trying to say, junior?” Mack slammed the refrigerator door.

  “I just think you could use a little more practice.”

  “Listen, kid, I’ve been flying since you were in grammar school.”

  “But not the Flighthawk.”

  Mack threw one of the desk chairs out his way and stormed across the room. Cantor was sure for a moment that the other pilot was going to hit him. It wouldn’t be a fair fight—Mack had nearly a foot on him and possibly fifty pounds—but he was so angry at the other pilot that he actually started to relish hitting him.

  “You telling me I don’t know how to handle them?” demanded Mack.

  “You can’t do two. No.”

  “You better go check on your aircraft, kid. I got stuff I have to do.”

  Cantor bit down on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to punch him—he really did.

  It wasn’t the size advantage that held him back. Mack was a major, and he was a lieutenant. Throwing the first punch would pretty much guarantee he was gone from Dreamland.

  Throwing the second punch would be a different story.

  They stared at each other. Then Mack snorted in contempt and walked out of the room.

  “Whoa,” said Stewart on the other side of the table.

  “Yeah,” said Cantor. “I wish he’d taken a swing.”

  COLONEL BASTIAN SHIFTED IN HIS SEAT IN FRONT OF THE SECURE video screen, listening as Ray Rubeo described what the Dreamland scientists had done with the radar intercepts of the aircraft.

  “The design appears similar to a number of studies conducted by the Beriev company in Russia,” continued Rubeo, Dreamland’s head scientist. “Approximately thirty-five feet long with a wingspan of forty-two feet. Notice the wing shape—here in this slide we superimpose the print from the Beriev design documents onto the image generated from the intercept. And, of course, the engines are in the same location.”

  “But this was just a study,” said Dog. “No planes were built.”

  “No planes were sold or registered anywhere that we could find through simple checks. But that doesn’t mean no planes were built.”

  “How can we find out if there were any? Can we call the CIA?”

  Deep dimples appeared in Rubeo’s cheeks.

  “Yes,” he said. “I asked Major Catsman to try that. They say they’re researching it. In the meantime, I took the liberty of having one of our technicians who speaks Russian contact the company.”

  “And?”

  “I can give you a very good deal on one, Colonel. Less than half a million dollars.”

  “Could it carry a torpedo?”

  “The problem is not so much whether it could carry one, for certainly it could.” Rubeo sighed, as if he were a college professor working a particularly dull class through a complicated calculus solution at the end of a long day. “Assume a Russian surface torpedo at 7.2 meters—a bit over twenty-one feet. It will sit awkwardly below the fuselage but nonetheless may be carriaged there. A smaller torpedo—the French-built L5, for example, at roughly fourteen feet—still awkward but doable. In terms of balance, the longer Russian design is actually easier to accommodate—”

  “But the problem is weight,” said Dog. “With those engines, that small a plane won’t be able to fly with the extra weight? Or at least not take off.”

  “Precisely.”

  “How far could the plane go on the surface?”

  Something foreign creaked into the corner of Rubeo’s mouth—a smile.

  “Very far, Colonel. Several hundred miles.”

  “So he’s the culprit.”

  “No, I didn’t say that, Colonel. Scientifically—”

  “That’s all right, Ray, we’re not trying to prove the Theory of Relativity here. We need to get a list of where these planes have been sold.”

  “I put the question to Jed Barclay at the NSC. He said that he would have to work with the State Department, but would provide us with information before the end of the day.”

  “You know, Ray, you’re almost becoming human.”

  “I take it that was a joke, Colonel?”

  “Along those lines,” said Dog. “Keep me updated.”

  He was alone in the Dreamland Security trailer, which was parked between the two buildings they were using at the base and the parking area for the Megafortresses and Flighthawks. His legs felt a little stiff—he hadn’t had a chance to take his customary morning run, and in fact hadn’t in several days now. He glanced at his watch, considering whether he had enough time to do a circuit around the buildings before preflighting his next sortie. He decided he did, but before he could head into the small room at the back of the trailer and grab his sweats, there was a sharp rap at the door.

  “Come!” he yelled.

  Lieutenant Cantor burst through the door as if he were running from a mob.

  “What’s up, Cantor?” Dog asked him.

  “Colonel, I gotta talk to you. I really gotta talk to you.”

  “Seat.” Dog pointed. “Sit.”

  Cantor pulled out a chair. “Colonel—it’s Major Smith.”

  “I know he’s pain in the ass,” said Dog. “But his post is only temporary. When we get back—”

  “That’s not it, Colonel. I just don’t think he’s ready to fly the Flighthawks on his own. Not two.”

  “Listen, Cantor, Mack has worked with the program before. He’s just rusty.”

  “He hasn’t flown in combat. He can’t handle two planes. He’ll get his ass kicked. Not that I wouldn’t,” added Cantor.

  “Lieutenant, I don’t particularly like Mack Smith. But he was shooting down MiGs before you joined the Air Force.”

&nb
sp; “In planes. That’s the problem, Colonel. He’s flying the Flighthawk as if he were flying an F-15 Eagle, or maybe an F-16.”

  “Mack’s a cowboy, I’ll give you that,” Dog told the lieutenant. “Most days I wonder how he manages to fit his head into a helmet. But…”

  Dog paused. He realized that he was reacting defensively, partly in reaction to a decision he had made—putting Mack in temporary charge of the Flighthawk program—and partly to a much lower ranking officer questioning the competence of a superior officer. But Cantor was not being disrespectful or insubordinate. His only offense was the fact that he wore a lieutenant’s single bar.

  And that Cantor took his policy of inviting “open discussion on any topic whatsoever” seriously.

  “I understand your concerns,” said Dog. “I think they’re serious, and I think you’ve presented them in the proper manner. They’re now my concerns. OK?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fair enough. We ready to fly?”

  “We will be, Colonel.”

  “Good.”

  Cantor nodded, then got up and left. Watching him, Dog worried that he’d come off as too patronizing. He’d meant everything he said, but now that it was out of his mouth, it seemed a little phony-baloney.

  For the first time since they deployed, he wished Zen were there.

  Las Vegas University of Medicine,

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  1700

  THE DREAM WAS EXACTLY THE SAME. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE was that Zen started shouting as soon as he smelled the smoke.

  When he finally managed to escape from semiconsciousness, Zen found himself surrounded by doctors and nurses on the table used to measure the nerve impulses. He looked up at a sea of anxious faces.

  “Hello,” he said bashfully. “I guess I was dreaming.”

  “Jeffrey, are you all right?” asked Dr. Vasin.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  Vasin looked skeptical, but merely nodded, then left the room. The others began poking and prodding. When they were done, a male aide came and helped Zen dress.

  “Dr. Vasin wants to talk to you in his office,” said the aide as he helped Zen slide into his wheelchair.