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  The other aircraft lost some speed turning to intercept the Megafortress, but within a few seconds it was steaming over Mack's left wing. Mack slammed his throttle as it came close, then pointed his nose down to get a shot. The red band told him he was dead-on; he squeezed the trigger. His first three or four bullets caught the center fuselage behind the cockpit; the next dozen riddled through the engine.

  The enemy aircraft tucked off to the left, damaged. Mack struggled to stay with it; if he'd been wheeling an F-15 across the sky he'd have overshot by several miles. But the Flighthawk forgave him, shoving its stubby little airframe into a tighter turn than Mack could have hoped. The rear end of the Sukhoi sailed back and forth in front of him; Mack started to fire, then lost the shot.

  "Come west, Mack," said Breanna.

  "I have to finish this guy off first."

  "West."

  The targeting bar went red. Mack nailed the finger on the trigger. The Flanker dove straight down; Mack got a warning that he was almost out of range. This time he leveled off and headed for the mother ship.

  * * *

  Breanna blew a slow breath into her face mask, forcing her lungs to completely empty themselves before taking another breath. They were finally clear.

  "Bogey Four is down — hit by our Scorpion," said Stewart. "Bogey Three is circling back in its vicinity. Bogey Two, unknown damage."

  "Was there a parachute?" Breanna asked.

  The airborne radar operator answered that he hadn't detected one.

  "Helicopters launching from the carrier," he added.

  They would be search and air rescue aircraft. Even though he'd been trying to shoot her down, Breanna hoped they'd find the pilot.

  She glanced at the communications panel. She had to tell Storm what had happened. He wasn't going to like it.

  "All right. Everybody take a deep breath," she told her crew. "Flighthawk leader, we can refuel if you want."

  "Roger that. Three's getting thirsty. What was my score there? I get one or two?"

  "I hate to be the one to break this to you, Major, but all of your aircraft are still in the air."

  "You're kidding."

  "Check the long-range plot on the sitrep." "They didn't ditch on the way back to the carrier?" "Apparently not." Mack cursed.

  "I'm sure you did decent damage to them," Breanna said. "The important thing is, you kept them from getting us."

  "Yeah," said Mack, clearly deflated. "Roger that. Lining up for a tank."

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0500

  Memon felt tears brimming in his eyes as the executive officer and the flight operations commander reported to the admiral. One of their Sukhois had been shot down; its pilot was missing. The three other Flankers had been severely damaged. None would be available for the rest of the cruise.

  The decision to challenge the American aircraft had been a foolish one. But what was the alternative?

  The Americans had just proven where they stood. It was very possible that they were behind the strike on the Calcutta, despite all of their claims and supposedly peaceful gestures.

  So be it. They would pay for this.

  "I will make the report to the Chief of Naval Operations," said Memon. "Coming from me—"

  The admiral shook his head. "No. It's my job. The decision was mine. The consequences are mine. I will talk to the admiral myself."

  "The crew of the tanker will be taken aboard shortly. Their ship has been abandoned," said Captain Bhaskar, the executive officer. "The boarding party saw no sign of torpedo launching stations or targeting equipment. It has not been an auspicious day."

  "Tomorrow will be a better one," said Memon defiantly.

  IV

  Monkeys in the Middle

  Washington, D.C.

  1920, 10 January 1998

  (0520, 11 January, Karachi)

  Jed Barclay took the steps two at a time, running up to his boss's office in the West Wing of the White House. He made the landing and charged through the hall, barely managing to put on the brakes as he came to Philip Freeman's door.

  The National Security Advisor's secretary looked up from her desk in the outer office. "Jed, this isn't high school." "I have to talk to Mr. Freeman." "Catch your breath first."

  Jed nodded, but walked immediately to the door to Freeman's inner office. He knocked, then went inside.

  "An Indian airplane was shot down," he told Freeman, huffing. "By one of our Megafortresses. Others were damaged."

  "You ran all the way up here from the situation room downstairs?" said the National Security Advisor.

  "You said to bring you the details immediately and in person," said Jed, still catching his breath.

  Freeman motioned with his hand. "I didn't mean you had to run. Sit down, Jed. Fill me in."

  Jed began recounting what Colonel Bastian had told him about the encounter, then added the information he had gleaned from the Pentagon report and the intercepts the NSA had provided at his request.

  "It happened less than twenty minutes ago," said Jed. "There's some information on the DoD network."

  "Yes, I was just looking at the Defense Department report," said Freeman. He reached to the phone behind his desk.

  Five minutes later Jed and his boss were shown into the Oval Office. President Kevin Martindale stood in front of his desk, phone in hand. He motioned for Freeman and Jed to take seats at the side, then continued his conversation, walking back and forth as he spoke. He quickly wrapped up the conversation, telling his caller — clearly a congressman — that he would talk to him before the State of the Union address later that month.

  "Good evening, Philip, young Jed." Martindale replaced the phone on its cradle and sat on the edge of the desk. "So what's going on in the Arabian Sea?"

  "The Indians' new aircraft carrier just destroyed an unarmed Pakistani oil tanker," the National Security Advisor said. "One of our Dreamland aircraft was in the area and warned them not to fire. Four Indian aircraft attacked our plane. We shot one down. The others may have been damaged."

  "We're sure the oil tanker was unarmed?"

  Freeman turned to Jed. "It's the same tanker the Abner Read stopped the other day," he said. "They searched it pretty thoroughly."

  There was a knock at the door. Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman was ushered into the room by one of the President's aides. As he took his seat, he gave Jed the sort of glare one gave a new puppy who'd messed on a rug. Jed and the Secretary had had a serious run-in a few weeks back over information given to the UN; if it had been up to Hartman, Jed would be down in the Antarctic conducting penguin surveys. Fortunately, Jed's boss couldn't stand Hartman, and the incident had actually helped Jed rather than hurt him.

  "Dreamland, again," said Hartman after the President summarized what had happened. "And this clown Gale. Where's Chastain?"

  He was referring to Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain.

  "He left the Pentagon a short while ago and should be here shortly," said the President. "The question I have for you, Mr. Secretary, is what will Pakistan do about the tanker?"

  "Immediate mobilization," predicted Hartman. "And India will step up its mobilization as well. The Chinese will use that to justify their own saber rattling. Where's their new aircraft carrier?"

  "The Deng Xiaoping and its escorts are already in the Gulf of Aden," said Jed.

  Hartman scowled in his general direction, then turned to the President. "Did the Indians at least have a reason for the attack?"

  "I think they, um, they thought the tanker was connected to the attack on the Calcutta. They wanted to inspect it."

  "With what? Deep sea divers?" said the President, snorting in derision. Martindale didn't make many jokes, but when he did they tended to be acerbic.

  "Who was involved in the Calcutta attack?" said the Secretary of State.

  "Possibly a submarine," said Freeman. "The Abner Read has been chasing one."

  "Um, Col
onel Bastian has a theory that the Indian destroyer that was hit by a torpedo the other night was attacked by a small aircraft," said Jed. "We've been trying to track it down. We think it may have come from Iran."

  "Iran? Why would they attack India?" said Hartman.

  "Oil m-m-money, maybe," said Jed, his tongue tripping over itself. He struggled to get past the stutter, forcing himself to complete his thought. "Th-The Indians have been setting up new deals with African nations to have enough supply. That's what Port Somalia was all about."

  "Bastian has proof of this?" asked Hartman.

  "Just a theory," said Jed.

  "It would be just like the Ayatollah and his black robes to stir the pot," said President Martindale. "They'd love to see the Indians and Chinese go at it. They don't particularly like the Pakistanis either, since they didn't support their Greater Islam Alliance. But does the colonel have proof?" Jed shook his head.

  "Talk to the Indians. Find out why they fired on the tanker — and on us," Martindale told the Secretary of State.

  "What should I say about their plane?" asked Hartman.

  "I'm tempted to say we're launching a full investigation into why we only shot down one out of four," said the President.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  near Somalia

  11 January 1998

  0600

  "You have a helluva lot of explaining to do this time, Captain Stockard. A helluvalot."

  Storm looked at the pilot's image in the video screen. She had her helmet and crash shield on — typical Dreamland arrogance.

  "I did what I thought was best under the circumstances," Breanna told him. "Or would you have preferred that my aircraft be shot down?"

  "I would have preferred that you kept your nose clean. You went back toward that tanker deliberately, even though you were ordered away. That's insubordination, mister. At the very least."

  The pilot didn't answer. Belatedly, Storm remembered he was talking to a ma'am, not a mister. But he wasn't about to apologize or change the subject.

  "Resume your normal patrol," he told her.

  "I have."

  "Good." He killed the transmission. His headset buzzed, indicating that Lieutenant Commander "Eyes" Eisenberg wanted to talk with him.

  "Aircraft from the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping are approaching, Storm," the tactical commander told him when he switched into the circuit. "The carrier is fifty miles north of us, just exiting the Gulf of Aden."

  Storm had hoped to get a look at the new Chinese carrier, if only to find out what all the fuss was about. But he'd never get that far north fast enough.

  The Werewolf could, though. If the Chinese could fly over him, he could fly over them.

  Hell, he could do better than that.

  "Very well," said Storm. "Where's the Werewolf?"

  "Routine patrol overhead, Captain," said Eyes.

  "Get Airforce on the line. I want him to go tell our Chinese friends we think of the world of them."

  * * *

  The first ship Starship saw as he flew Werewolf Two toward the Chinese flotilla was a destroyer of the Jingwei class, whose forward deck was dominated by a twin 100mm gun. More important to Starship was the battery of HQ-7 surface-to-air missiles. The HQ-7 was a Chinese version of the French Crotale Modulaire, an excellent short-range an-tiair system with a range of roughly six miles. Starship had flown the Werewolf against Crotales in field exercises and done very poorly; in fact, it was the only system he'd consistently failed to get past. Though ostensibly in the same class as the Russian SA-8B Gecko, Starship had found the Crotale's guidance system harder to fool and the missile more maneuverable and persistent.

  "Ship in sight," he told Eyes. "Hull number 525—frigate."

  "Good. Copy. Be advised, aircraft are approaching you."

  Starship could see two black streaks in the dim sky to his right. The threat identifier gave them captions: J-13s.

  "Aircraft approaching — flying over," said Starship. The J-13 was a Chinese-made two-seat fighter based on the Russian Sukhoi Su-27, but at least two generations more advanced. Capable of carrying a wide array of missiles and equipped with the latest Russian avionics and radar, the plane was considered on a par with the F-18 Super Hornet — and might even be superior in some respects. These seagoing versions were still being studied by the West; they had not yet seen combat.

  Starship frowned at them as they rolled through inverts while rocketing past. Pointy-nose zippersuits were all alike — always showing off.

  Not that he wouldn't have done the same thing if he were flying an F-15.

  Another warship loomed to his right, three miles ahead. From the distance it looked as if it were the size of a battleship, and in many respects it was as powerful as a World War II battlewagon. But the ship was actually a destroyer— the Fu Zhou, which carried four-packs of cruise missiles on each side. The cruise missiles were 3M-80 Moskits — SS-N-22 "Sunburns" in NATO parlance, supersonic antiship missiles with a larger warhead and greater range than the American Harpoon. With a top speed of Mach 2.5, the missile was extremely difficult to defend against, even for a state-of-the-art warship like the Abner Read.

  Updated by the Chinese, the vessel had been laid down as a Russian Sovremennyy destroyer. As they often did, the Chinese had built on Russian technology, adding improvements and funding weapons purchases the cash-strapped Russians could only dream of. The result was a ship that was not quite state-of-the-art, but was nonetheless an awesome power.

  A half mile beyond the destroyer was a vessel that was state-of-the-art, as advanced as anything on the water, including the Abner Read: the People's Liberation Army Navy's pride and joy, the aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping.

  The nickname "flattop" fit Deng Xiaoping perfectly. Unlike nearly every other aircraft carrier in the world since the CV-1 Langley, the Deng Xiaoping did not have an island. Her surface and antiair radars were located at the sides of the craft, adjacent to but not on the flight-deck surface.

  The Deng Xiaopings flat deck was shaped like a fat V, with elevated ramps placed at each head. The arrangement allowed the carrier to launch two J-13s almost simultaneously, and still have space to land planes behind them. Besides thirty-six J-13 fighters, Deng carried four KA-27 Helix helicopters for antisubmarine warfare and six Z-8 helicopters, which were Chinese versions of the French Super Frelon, equipped with uprated engines and avionics systems. Four Z-8s had large radar units that hung off the side of the aircraft like a large water pail; when airborne, they provided radar coverage for the carrier. The other two were used for search and rescue operations.

  "American helicopter, this is the People's Liberation Army Navy Aircraft Carrier Deng Xiaoping. Identify yourself."

  "Dreamland Werewolf Two from the Littoral Warship Abner Read," said Starship. "Captain Gale extends his compliments to the captain of the vessel, and wishes to present a token of his admiration. Requesting permission to land."

  "Dreamland?" said the carrier radioman, his voice losing its businesslike snap.

  "Affirmative. This aircraft is currently assigned to the Abner Read."

  "You know Colonel Dog Bastian?"

  "He's my commander."

  "American helicopter, you will change course," said the controller. He directed the Werewolf to proceed west for a mile, then to fall into a landing pattern approaching from the ship's stern.

  "I believe they've given me permission to land," Starship told Eyes.

  "Good. What was that business about Dreamland?" "Got me."

  Starship followed the controller's directions, angling toward the carrier as if he were one of its aircraft. The approach gave him — and the Abner Read's crew — a good look at the side of the ship, which was faceted to lower its radar profile. It was somewhat lower to the water than an

  American carrier would have been, though it still towered over the Abner Read, whose deck was always awash with the sea.

  "There's a J-13 on deck, ready to launch," he told Eyes. "I'll ge
t good video of it." "Keep the cameras rolling."

  After operating off the Abner Read for the last several weeks, the Deng Xiaoping's deck looked like the entire state of Kansas spread out in front of him. As Starship skipped in over the stern, he saw a dozen sailors race from the port side, parallel to the landing area. Unsure what was going on, he slowed down, barely moving forward.

  "I got a dozen guys with guns running onto the deck," Starship told Eyes. "You think they don't understand I'm a robot and they're trying to kidnap the crew or something?"

  "Be ready to get out of there."

  Starship reached the third white circle on the deck, where he'd been directed to stop. As he settled onto the flattop he finally realized what the sailors were doing — they were an honor guard.

  "The People's Liberation Army Navy Aircraft Carrier Deng Xiaoping welcomes Dreamland," said the controller. "It is an honor and a pleasure to host you."

  "Same to you," said Starship. "There…um, when the rotors stop, remove the case from the area between the skids. Just cut the ropes."

  There was a bottle of scotch in the case. Starship watched as two sailors — not part of the honor guard — approached. Even though the rotors had stopped spinning, they crawled toward the aircraft on their hands and knees, cut away the case, and took Storm's present away.

  "Dreamland Werewolf, you are cleared to take off. Our compliments to your commander, Captain Gale. And please remember us to the colonel, Dog Bastian."

  "Roger that, Deng. Pleasure's all mine," said Starship, revving the Werewolf for takeoff.

  Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,

  the Arabian Sea

  0630

  The master of the Deng Xiaoping, Captain Yaun Hongwu, smiled when he saw the bottle. Americans were fond of such gestures. He would have to think of something appropriate in return.