End Game d-8 Page 14

  Hongwu knew of Captain Gale's ship, the Abner Read. Like his own, it belonged more to the twenty-first century than the twentieth. Though it was the size of a coastal corvette, he would not like to have to take it on.

  The aircraft had been something new all together. It looked like a miniaturized version of the Russian Hokum; undoubtedly it would be several times as powerful, coming from Dreamland.

  All China knew of Dreamland. Barely a year before, the brave crew of a Dreamland Megafortress had saved Beijing from certain annihilation by intercepting a rogue nuclear missile a few miles from the city, dodging Chinese war-planes and missiles to do so. The man who had commanded the flight, Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh "Dog" Bastian, was a hero to Hongwu personally — his actions had saved Hongwu's mother and father, his younger sister, and countless aunts, uncles, and cousins.

  Perhaps in the future he would have a chance to thank the colonel personally.

  Allegro, Nevada

  1800

  The time differences could drive you nuts. When it was six p.m., or 1800 in Nevada, it was seven a.m. in Karachi— tomorrow. Today was already yesterday there.

  Six p.m. was also time for Zen to talk to Breanna, the best part of his day.

  And the worst. He missed her incredibly. Separation was a fact of life in the military, but the truth was, they'd never been separated on a deployment since their marriage. If one was in danger, the other was. He'd never even thought about it before.

  "Dreamland Command," answered Danny Freah when Zen dialed the special 800 number that connected with the Dreamland Command trailer. The line allowed family members to stay in contact during missions.

  "Hey, Danny. Bree around?"

  "No, uh, tied up."

  The line was not secure, and both men had to be careful what they said.

  "Running late?" asked Zen. "Late and hairy."

  Zen felt as if he'd been punched in the gut.

  "Hairy?"

  "She's OK," said Danny quickly. "What's going on?"

  "Jeff, I can't get into details here. I'm sorry. I'll have her call you, OK?"

  No, it wasn't OK. Not at all.

  He should be there. Rather than getting himself stuck in the back with needles that weren't doing anything and wouldn't do anything.

  "Yeah, sure. Have her call me when she gets a chance."

  "I wouldn't wait by the phone, if you get my drift. Could be hours," asked Danny.

  "I'm easy," lied Zen.

  Drigh Road

  1200

  "You were under orders to get out of that area, Bre-anna. Why didn't you follow them?"

  Breanna looked at her father. She'd worked with him now for more than a year and a half, and yet she still felt awkward.

  "Innocent people were being attacked," said Breanna. "I couldn't turn away."

  Some commanders might have told her that her first duty was to her own crew and country; others might have reminded her that lawful orders were to obeyed. But the colonel only frowned and said nothing.

  "My mistake was not acting right away," Breanna told him. "If I'd acted right away, then maybe I could have prevented the attack. I second-guessed myself, and I don't know why."

  "You honestly think that's the problem?"

  She nodded.

  "Breanna, the situation here is extremely volatile. The Indians are pressing for a formal investigation. If that happens, you're not going to be on very firm ground. You were given an order, started to comply, then changed your mind for no good reason that I can see."

  "I'll deal with that if I have to," she said.

  "If I had more Megafortress pilots, I'd put you on furlough. I really would."

  "Why?"

  "Why do you think?"

  "Daddy, you would have done the same thing."

  His face blanched as soon as she said Daddy.

  "I did what I thought was right. I'm willing to deal with the consequences if I have to."

  "I wonder if you really are," said the colonel. "Dismissed."

  The words wounded her more deeply than any criticism of the mission. Walking back to her room, Breanna felt hot tears slipping from her eyes.

  * * *

  Dog had finally managed to make his way to his temporary quarters and was just taking off his clothes to catch a nap when a sharp rap at the door interrupted him.

  "Go away, Danny," he said, recognizing the knock instantly.

  "Colonel, I will if you want me to, but Storm is looking for you on the Dreamland channel and claims it's urgent."

  "I'll be right there," grumbled Bastian.

  He tucked his shirt back in, rubbed his eyes and opened the door. Captain Danny Freah stood in the hallway, shifting his weight from one foot to another, looking a little sheepish.

  "I'm sorry," said Danny.

  "Not your fault," said Dog.

  "Haven't had much sleep, huh?" asked Danny, following as Dog walked toward the door. "No rest for the wicked."

  "You ought to get another pilot to sit in for you," suggested Danny.

  "I look that tired?"

  "You do."

  Dog laughed. "I respect your honesty, Captain." "Just telling it like it is." "How's security?"

  "Pakistanis have been cooperative. They have close to three companies on our perimeter, along with two armored vehicles. Politicians are protesting, but the people here are OK. Hasn't been stirring in town about us, and of course everybody's been keeping a low profile. I thought I ought to mention — the Levitow's encounter with the Indian carrier aircraft has gotten back to the base commander. He wants to host the crew for lunch."

  "Just what we need," said Dog.

  The bright noonday sun hit him in the face as they went outside the building and crossed to the Dreamland trailer. Sergeant Kurt "Jonesy" Jones snapped to attention outside the trailer; inside, Sergeant Ben "Boston" Rockland got up from the console as the colonel and Freah came in.

  "At ease, Boston," Dog told the sergeant. "How are things?"

  "All quiet, Colonel."

  Dog slipped in behind the communications console. He put on the headset, then authorized the encrypted communication. Storm's face immediately appeared in the screen.

  "I hope you're happy, Bastian," said the Navy captain. "Now we're peacekeepers." "I'm not sure I follow."

  "The President wants Xray Pop to sail east into the Arabian Sea. We're supposed to help encourage the Indians and the Pakistanis to make peace."

  "All right."

  "You talked to the NSC about that loony theory that a plane dropped the torpedo that attacked the Indian destroyer?"

  "It's not a loony theory, Storm. It's the only explanation for what happened."

  "So where'd the plane go?"

  "I don't know for sure. My guess, though, is somewhere in Iran."

  "We'll need to set up new patrol grids. Eyes will contact you with the information when we have the plan worked out."

  "What exactly are we supposed to do?"

  "Damned if I know. Maybe Washington thinks the Indians and Pakistanis will run away if we show our faces," said Storm. "We're to patrol in the Arabian Sea. I need around-the-clock air cover as well as radar surveillance, airborne and on the surface. Not only are the Indians there, but the Chinese aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping is on a course due east. It'll be in the Arabian Sea no later than twenty-four hours from now. The Chinese don't like the Indians."

  "What about whoever it is who's attacking the Indians?"

  "We watch for them. But — and let me make this as absolutely crystal clear as I possibly can — under no circumstance, absolutely no circumstance, are you to engage anyone without a specific order from me personally. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Crystal."

  "Make sure all your people get the word. And knock some sense through your daughter's thick skull before she ends up being court-martialed — if it isn't already too late for that."

  The screen blanked.

  * * *

  Breanna wanted to talk
to Zen, but she didn't want to go back to the Dreamland Command trailer. So she hiked over to the Pakistani side of the base, found a pay phone, and used her international phone card to make the call.

  It was a bit past eleven p.m. back in Nevada, and she wasn't sure that Zen would still be up, but her husband grabbed the phone before the first ring ended.

  "Yeah," he snapped.

  "Jeff?"

  "Bree, God, are you OK?" "Sure. Why?" "I was worried."

  "I'm fine." Breanna ran her finger down the metal wire connecting the handpiece to the phone. "How did everything go today?"

  "Same old, same old. Boring."

  "Are you doing well?"

  "Doc says so. I don't feel bupkus. And still no beer." He laughed, but she could tell his heart wasn't in it. "Are you OK?"

  "I'm fine. You shouldn't worry." "Hey, I'm not worried."

  Among the many things she loved about her husband was the fact that he was a terrible liar. But she let this one go, and matched it with her own.

  "We're doing fine out here. I'm doing great. Piece of cake," she told him. "I want you to get better. OK?"

  "Getting better every day. You're OK?"

  "Yes." Breanna glanced to the side and saw two other people waiting to use the phone. "I do have to go, though. Take care, OK?"

  "Roger that."

  "I love you."

  "Me too, babe."

  * * *

  Mack walked sullenly to the Dreamland Command trailer, where Dog had just convened a meeting with all of the flight crews and officers. He'd spent the last hour reviewing the tapes of his encounters. He'd severely damaged at least one of the planes, and managed to get lead into everything he tangoed with. But he hadn't shot anybody down, and as far as he was concerned, that was as bad as missing completely.

  "Hey, Major, heard you had some fun," shouted Cantor, trotting up behind him.

  "Yeah," muttered Mack.

  "Got pieces of three of them?"

  "Don't rub it in," snapped Mack, pushing through the small crowd at the door of the trailer.

  A five-handed poker game made the command trailer seem crowded. With nearly two dozen people crammed inside, it felt like the mosh pit of a rock concert. The air conditioner couldn't keep up with the load, and the place smelled sweaty. Mack managed to squeeze to the far side of table at the center of the room, standing behind Stewart, who'd gotten there early enough to snag a seat.

  "All right, I think we're all here," said Colonel Bast-ian, standing near a large map of the Arabian Sea. "Thanks for coming over. I know some of you were sleeping. If it's any consolation, so was I. Or I should say, I was about to."

  Mack listened as Dog laid out the change in orders and their mission.

  "More peacekeeping crap," Mack groused.

  "That'll do, Major," said Dog.

  "Aw, come on, Colonel. You know this is garbage. They're sending the Abner Read to stand between two aircraft carriers? That's like sending a canoe to tow the Titanic into port."

  Everyone laughed, or at least snickered — except for Bastian.

  "Then start thinking of yourself as an iceberg, Mack," said the colonel. "And shut up."

  Mack clamped his teeth together as Dog laid out the change in patrol areas and schedules. They would continue to have two Megafortresses in the air at all times. One would orbit in the eastern Arabian Sea. The other would patrol to the west — first near the coast of Iran, then eastward, following the Abner Read as it made its way to the northern Arabian Sea.

  "I want to still look for that airplane," said Dog. "The one we believe fired the torpedo."

  "Waste of time," said Mack under his breath — or so he thought.

  "Excuse me, Major?"

  "Nothing."

  "Out with it, Mack."

  "I looked at those images and the intercepts. I have to tell you, Colonel, no disrespect to the eggheads and Dr. Ray, but there's just no way, no way, that little plane carried a torpedo, let alone fired it."

  "Then who did?"

  "Either the oil tanker or a submarine. My money's on a Chinese sub, probably doing some advance scouting for the Deng Xiaoping. He saw his shot, knew he could get away with it. The Indians couldn't find a lit Christmas tree in a bathtub at night. And the Abner Read—well, no offense to our Navy friends, but they're in the Navy for a reason, if you know what I mean."

  "Fortunately for you Mack, I don't. Dismissed. Everybody go get some sleep. A few of us are so sleep deprived we're starting to become delusional."

  Dreamland

  0100 (1400, Karachi)

  The guard snapped to attention, recognizing Zen as soon as he got off the elevator.

  Then again, how many people on the base were in wheelchairs?

  "Major Catsman inside?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  Zen locked his wheelchair and raised himself up to look into the retina scan. The doors to the Dreamland Command Center flew open, and Zen wheeled himself into the arena-style situation room that helped coordinate Whiplash missions.

  "Zen, what are you doing here?" Catsman's eyes were even more droopy than normal.

  "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd find out what's going on over there."

  "Officially, you should be back home in bed."

  "I am. Off the record, tell me what you can."

  Catsman gave him an abbreviated version of the day's events.

  "It's only going to get worse," she added, with uncharacteristic pessimism. "Now we're just monkeys in the middle out there."

  Zen knew he should be there. He could feel it, a magnetic force pulling him. The hell with the experiments — the hell with everything but Breanna.

  Maybe the dreams were omens. He couldn't lose her, not for anything.

  "I wouldn't worry about her."

  "Huh? About Bree? I'm not worried," said Zen.

  "She's a hell of a pilot."

  "Damn straight. Only pilot I trust." Zen forced himself to smile. "I just wanted to know, you know, what was up. Thanks for telling me."

  He was a bit too nervous for her, wasn't he? It wasn't that he didn't think she knew what she was doing, or that she couldn't take care of herself.

  Maybe it was time to go back home, get some rest. Clear his head.

  "How are the treatments going?" Catsman asked. "They're going," Zen said, wheeling himself back up the ramp.

  Iran

  12 January 1998

  1900

  Captain Sattari eyed the big aircraft on the nearby ramp, waiting for the last gear to be loaded aboard. Already, two of his submarines had been loaded into its belly through a bay originally intended to hold search and rescue boats. Their crewmen and ten of Sattari's guerrillas waited inside.

  At nearly 150 feet long, the A-40 Albatross was one of the biggest flying boats ever made, and the only jet-powered one to enter regular service. This particular aircraft had been sold by the Russians as surplus, and according to all the official records had been scrapped a year ago.

  "We're ready, Captain," said Sergeant Ibn. "The pilot would like to take off as soon as possible."

  Their destination was a point exactly thirteen miles south of Omara, a small city on the western Pakistani coast. The submarines would disembark and proceed to another point thirty miles away, rendezvousing with the other two subs, which had been deposited the day before. Together, they would proceed to their next target — an oil terminal in the port of Karachi.

  "Yes, we should go," said Sattari, but he didn't move. He wasn't afraid of the Indians, let alone the Pakistanis. But the Americans — the Americans were waiting for him. He'd cheated them the other night, hadn't he? Now they would want revenge.

  They had undone his father, stripping him of the weapon that would have made him the most powerful man in Iran. Now he was a mere toady of the black robes.

  That was unfair. He hadn't been their messenger the other day — more like a father shielding his son. And in truth, the imams had not done wrong by Sattari personally — their s
landerous lies behind his back excepted.

  "Let us go," said Sattari, shouldering his rifle. "Fate awaits us."

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  13 January 1998

  0130

  Memon woke to a series of loud raps at the cabin door. Disoriented, he could not interpret the sound or even remember where he was. Then a voice from behind the door called his name.

  "Deputy Minister Memon? Sir, are you awake?"

  "Yes," said Memon.

  "The admiral had me call for you."

  Memon pushed himself upright. "I'm awake," he said.

  "Aircraft from the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping have been spotted," said the man. "The admiral wanted you to know. He's on the bridge."

  "I'm coming," said Memon.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0130

  The sitrep screen made the situation below look almost placid. That was the strength and weakness of sensors, Colonel Bastian thought as he surveyed the scene; they couldn't quite account for the spitting and hissing.

  The Deng Xiaoping had sailed day and night at top speed; it was now within fifty miles of the Indian carrier Shiva. Dish, working the surface radar, added that the ships were both turned into the wind, making it easier for them to launch and recover aircraft.

  "Thanks, Dish," said Dog. "T-Bone, we have all their aircraft?"

  "Roger that, Colonel. Four J-13s from the Deng, split into two orbits, one roughly five miles and the other fifteen from the carrier in the direction of the Shiva. There's another two-ship of J-13s over the carrier as an air patrol, and a helicopter with airborne radar. Indians have two Su-33s riding out to meet them. They have two other aircraft over their carrier. The two Pakistani F-16s I told you about earlier are well to the east now; they should be running home soon to refuel. Haven't spotted their replacements yet."

  "Cantor, you see those Indian Flankers?" Dog asked.

  "Just coming into range now, Colonel."

  "Keep your distance, but don't let them get between you and the Wisconsin"

  "Copy that, Wisconsin"

  Dog checked the sitrep. They were to the west of both carriers and their aircraft. He tapped the Dreamland Command channel and updated Eyes. The Abner Read's executive officer once more reminded him that he was not to interfere with the other ships "no matter what."