End Game d-8 Read online

  0336

  Starship split his main screen into two views, one with the image of the Chinese carrier and the other focused on the Indian. The antiaircraft systems of both ships picked him up, but in neither case was he targeted, possibly because the human operators aboard the ships thought any helicopter this close had to be on their side. Starship knew this wouldn't last — sooner or later, he thought, he'd be shot down — but he figured that until then he'd get as good a view of what was going on as possible. He bobbed and wove, hovering for a bit and then flitting off, trying to pay equal attention to each aircraft. Two missiles had hit the Indian carrier, one just below the forward deck where its main missile batteries were located, the other, more devastatingly, at the forward part of the carrier's island, about where the bridge should be. The ship's guns had shot down several other missiles.

  The Chinese carrier had been hit once, almost straight on the starboard arm of its V-shaped flight deck. Two of its helicopters were hovering above the damage, preparing to conduct a rescue mission or otherwise render assistance.

  "Werewolf, see if you can get closer to the Chinese ship," said Eyes.

  "They're tracking me. If I get much closer they may fire." "Just do it."

  Starship put Werewolf Two into an orbit around the Indian ship and gave it to the computer to control. That done, he pushed Werewolf One forward, zigging in the direction of the Chinese carrier's stern. The carrier had a pair of twin 37mm close-in weapons and a larger caliber 57mm weapon mounted on deck bulges just below the flight deck on either side of the stern, but they were positioned in a way that made it difficult for them to strike anything approaching directly at the flight deck. Like most aircraft carriers, protection was meant to come from the escorts and the ships' planes; anything that actually made it through the screen faced relatively light defenses.

  But not impotent ones — the 57mm gun on the port side began firing its large shells as the Werewolf skipped around. The stream of lead passed over the aircraft; Star-ship knew he was lucky. Now lined up perfectly with the stern, he took the aircraft up to fifty feet above the waves, then had a sudden inspiration: Why not fly directly over the flight deck?

  "Hope this is close enough for you, Navy," he said, pushing the robot aircraft forward.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  above the northern Arabian Sea

  0338

  The J-13s were flying from the northeast toward the Abner Read. To get them with the AMRAAM-plus Scorpions, Dog had to change course and close down the angle the missiles would have to take. Doing so, he'd make the Megafortress itself an easier target.

  The real problem was that he had only two Scorpions. They'd filled the other slots on the rotating bomb dispenser with additional sonar and Piranha buoys.

  "Start the turn now," said Jazz, cuing him with the help of the flight computers.

  "Wisconsin, I can take these guys," said Cantor.

  "There's two of them."

  "Yeah, but I can get them."

  "Do it," said Dog.

  * * *

  Cantor swung Flighthawk One away from the Mega-fortress's wing, pirouetting around the bigger aircraft as it maneuvered to put itself into a firing position to attack the J-13s. The nose of the robot aircraft was now on a parallel plane to the approaching enemy fighters. The J-13s were moving very quickly; as soon as he made his first turn, the computer told him he had to turn again. He did, and found himself slightly ahead of the lead bogey. The J-13 was going so fast that it slipped right up under him in the blink of an eye; Cantor barely had time to press the trigger.

  The 20mm slugs that poured from the belly of the U/MF were not the largest bullets in the world, but scattered artfully around the Chinese jet, they tore it to shreds. The outer third of the J-13's right wing seemed to fold away; the aircraft turned into an unguided missile, its nose pushing toward the sea.

  So far the intercept had played out perfectly; in fact, it followed to the millimeter a training simulation based on several of Zen's real-life encounters. But the similarity to the exercise had a downside: As he recovered, Cantor expected the other aircraft to come up on his right, just as it did in the computer program. But as he edged in that direction, the display showed that the plane had already cut left. Belatedly changing course, he failed to anticipate another cut by the J-13 and sailed past the plane without a chance for a shot.

  Cantor corrected, twisting back toward the weaving aircraft. The Chinese plane turned in his direction, and even though he knew he didn't have a good shot — the targeting bar was yellow — Cantor pressed his trigger.

  The bullets trailed off to the left but got the J-13 pilot's attention; worried about whoever it was behind him, the Chinese pilot pulled hard left. The turn was a mistake, taking away the bigger plane's speed advantage. Cantor, with his much smaller turning radius, cut inside the other plane, narrowing the distance enough to get on his tail as he cut back. The bogey flew into the sweet spot in his targeting screen. Cantor pressed the trigger.

  His bullets shot like a thick sword into his target's heart. Parts flew from the aircraft; Cantor pulled off as it exploded.

  "Missile away," said T-Bone, the airborne radar operator on the deck above. The Chinese pilot had managed to target and fire his missile, probably at the cost of his own life.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0340

  Storm saw the warning on the holographic map table before he heard the alarm. A second later the ship's defensive weapons operator reported they were tracking a Styx missile headed in their direction.

  "Distance to ship, twelve miles. Tracking. Missile does not appear to have locked onto target."

  The Chinese-made missile guided itself to the general vicinity of the target via an internal navigational system; once it got close, on-board radar would take over. The missile would descend to about twenty-five feet above the water, aiming not only to strike as low as possible but avoiding shipboard defenses. The Abner Read's stealthy radar profile made it a difficult target for the missile, though anytime five hundred kilos of explosives were flying at you, it could not be taken lightly.

  The missile covered roughly a third of a mile in a second. Before thirty seconds had passed, the Phalanx close-in 25mm cannon battery had zeroed in on the approaching missile and was ready to take it down. The missile had not yet found the Abner Read; it was tracking off to the west and still relatively high. This wasn't a problem, however: The Chinese missile flew into a cloud of nickel, cobalt, and tungsten, immolating itself about a mile from the ship.

  By inclination and instinct, Storm wanted to retaliate against the Chinese. In his mind, he'd be completely justified sinking the aircraft carrier that had launched the plane. But his orders were very clear; he was to avoid conflict at all cost.

  Still.

  Still.

  "Communications — get that Chinese carrier. I want to find out why the hell we were attacked. If they don't apologize… "

  He let his voice trail off. If they didn't apologize, he'd sink the damn ship, consequences be damned.

  "Excellent work, Weapons," said Storm, switching into their circuit. "Dreamland owes us one."

  * * *

  Starship spun the Werewolf directly over the split in the Deng Xiaopings flight deck, the aircraft's cameras recording the scramble of the crew as it prepared to recover two of its aircraft. He felt as if he were a voyeur who'd snuck into a foreign palace. A J-13 slammed to a stop at the far side of the deck; men swarmed over it, wrestling it off the arrestor cables and wheeling it forward to an elevator.

  A second J-13 appeared in the distance, making its approach.

  "Werewolf, check out the escort ships in the Chinese group," said Eyes. "Look for the frigate. We have enough on the carrier now. Stand by for coordinates."

  The J-13 landed, and once more the crew swarmed over her. A notion seized Starship as they began pushing the plane forward: Why not get a look at the hangar deck of
the carrier? Just hover right over the other aircraft as it went down, spin around, then shoot the hell out of there.

  Before he fully considered the idea, Starship had pushed the Werewolf forward, skittering across the flat surface of the Chinese vessel about eight feet from the deck. The ship's lights threw a crosshatch of white and black in his face. The J-13 had just been secured on the elevator; as he approached, he saw the startled face of one of the deck crew diving for cover.

  Starship thought he'd made his move too soon — the J-13 sat below him, not moving. Two figures were crouched near the folded-up wings. He spun the Werewolf around, picking up his tail slightly to give the forward camera a better view. Disappointed, he was just about to hit the gas and get out of there when the elevator began cranking downward.

  Starship descended as well. He moved a little too fast— the skids smacked against the J-13. He jerked upward, then settled back down, hitting his floodlights. When the elevator stopped at hangar level, he was just above the airplane, with maybe four or five feet worth of clearance between him and the roof. He spun around once as slowly as he dared, glimpsing aircraft, people, machinery, all in a blur. Then he jerked the Werewolf straight up, praying that he was still in the same position as when he'd descended.

  "What the hell are you doing?" yelled Eyes.

  "Taking a look inside the sardine box," Starship told him. "What were those coordinates?"

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0345

  The doctor held his small penlight up and told Memon he had received a mild concussion.

  "You should rest," he said.

  "The ship," said Memon. "I'm responsible."

  "Captain Adri is in charge."

  "Adri, yes. Where is he?"

  "You just came from him."

  "Someone take me to him."

  Memon pushed himself off the cot. The doctor grabbed his arm to help steady him, then passed him gently to a sailor, who led him back through the corridor, up a flight of stairs, then through another passage to the combat center. Adri and several other officers were stooped over a set of charts, discussing something.

  "We have to strike them again," said Adri, his voice rising above the din in the low-ceiling room. "We must drive home our gains."

  Adri? Adri was talking of attack?

  Memon was amazed. Adri had opposed him earlier. He and Bhaskar had done everything they could to avoid a fight.

  And they'd been right.

  They'd been right!

  "We should not attack," said Memon, approaching them. Adri looked up. "What?" "We should withdraw." "You? You're saying that?"

  "Yes. You were right earlier. We should withdraw." "It's too late for that."

  The flash had done something to his vision, Memon thought — the world had shaded deep red. Even the lights appeared to be crimson rather than yellowish white.

  "Thank you for your advice," sneered Adri. "Someone please take Mr. Memon back to sickbay."

  Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

  near Karachi

  0345

  The wind whipped through the open door as the Osprey lowered itself toward the three men on the pier. Light petroleum or fuel from one of the nearby tanks had spread onto the water and caught fire; blue flames curled across the dark surface, looking like tumbleweeds in a fantasy Wild West show. But the flames were very real — when they reached the small bobbing boats nearby, they erupted in red volcanoes, consuming the vessels and everything aboard. Danny tried not to think of the possibility that there were people on some of the boats.

  "One of us has to go down there," said Boston, pulling gloves from his tactical vest. "These guys ain't doing it themselves. Look — they're burnt to shit and scared besides. In shock."

  "Let them grab the basket," said Pretty Boy. "Faster." "Yeah, but they're not gonna." Boston had already climbed half inside it. He had his radio unit but no wet suit, just the standard combat fatigues they'd turned out in earlier. "You drop me, Pretty Boy, and I'm getting you back."

  Pretty Boy cursed at him but began working the controls to the winch, lowering the line as the Osprey continued to descend. Danny pulled out some blankets and the medical chest, getting burn packets ready.

  The tanks were still burning nearby, and it took considerable work to keep the aircraft in a stable hover. Every so often it would twitch right or left, but they always got it back.

  "Number one coming up!" shouted Boston, his voice blaring in Danny's smart helmet. He went to the door and waited as the cable cranked upward. When the basket finally appeared, the man inside forgot about the belts Boston had secured and tried to leap into the cabin. As he did, the Osprey tilted with a sudden updraft. The stretcher lurched out of Danny's reach, then swung back so hard it nearly knocked him over. Danny grappled the stretcher to a stop as Pretty Boy grabbed hold; they pulled the panic-stricken man inside and rolled him to the floor.

  First degree burns covered the man's right arm. His face was putty white, and his pulse raced; he was in shock and pain, but in a relative sense not that badly off. Danny cut away his shirt and part of his pants leg, making sure there were no further injuries. Then he put a pair of ice packs on the burns and covered the man with a blanket. Color had already started to return to his face.

  "Need help here, Cap," said Pretty Boy.

  Danny reached the door as the basket returned. The man inside was unconscious. Danny pulled at the stretcher but it didn't budge. Pretty Boy jumped up to help as the Osprey lurched once more. He tumbled against Danny, his head pounding him in the ribs, but he managed at the same time to pull the stretcher inside.

  Danny took the man in his arms and carried him to the rear, stumbling as the Osprey continued to buck.

  "Getting wicked down there," said the pilot. "We can't hold this much longer!"

  "Just one more," said Danny. "Boston? Come up with this load."

  Boston's response was garbled. Danny concentrated on the new patient, whose charred clothes disintegrated as he examined them. Motley patches of crinkled black skin alternated with white blotches on the Pakistani's chest and left hand; third degree burns. Danny pulled a bottle of distilled water from the burn kit and irrigated as much of the wounds as he could. He wrapped a burn dressing over them, wincing as he worked, though his patient didn't react. He was definitely breathing, though; Danny left him to help Pretty Boy with their final rescuee.

  Pretty Boy was two-thirds of the way out of the cabin, trying to secure the stretcher. The Osprey had started to revolve slowly, as if it were twisting at the end of a string, and the momentum of the aircraft seemed to be pitching the stretcher away from the cabin. One of Pretty Boy's legs disappeared. Danny leapt at the other, trying to keep his trooper inside the craft. The shoestring tackle would have made his old high school football coach proud; Pretty Boy sailed back into the cabin, along with the stretcher.

  The occupant, who had to weigh close to three hundred pounds, filled the entire stretcher. Fortunately, he was conscious and seemingly not badly hurt, with a small patch of red on his cheek and a large stretch on both arms. Coughing violently, he got up slowly and made his way to the rear of the cabin.

  The Osprey lifted straight up with a jerk, then began moving forward.

  "Boston? Where the hell is Boston?" yelled Danny, scrambling toward the door.

  The pier was now surrounded by red flames. Boston stood near the end, waving his arms.

  "Get us back down there!" Danny told the pilot. "Can't do it, Captain." "You got to."

  "The wind and flames are too intense. And we're getting torched."

  Exasperated, Danny went to the equipment locker and pulled out two LAR-V rebreather setups — underwater scuba gear intended for clandestine insertions. He pulled on the vest and fasted the small tank under his belt, still wearing his smart helmet.

  "Drop me as close to the pier as you can. Meet us out beyond the fire."

  "Captain!"

  Danny hooked his arm
through the second bundle of gear. They were about thirty yards from the pier, up at least thirty feet. Flames covered the surface of the water.

  "Take care of number two — he's got third degree burns," Danny yelled to Pretty Boy as he threw off his helmet and jumped into the water.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over Pakistan

  0348

  Breanna studied the map Ensign English had just sent to her station, showing where she proposed that Piranha control buoys be dropped. Worried about losing touch with the probe, she'd ordered it back east when the port was attacked. Now they were trying to locate the earlier contact, but hadn't had any luck. English wanted to look farther south in the direction of the Indian fleet, but that wasn't going to happen while the two sides were throwing stones at each other.

  "Good map, Ensign," she told her, "but it's going to be a while. Put Piranha in autonomous mode if you have to."

  "I have to."

  "Two more PAF F-16s querying us," interrupted Stewart, her voice shrill. "They're challenging us."

  "Tell them who we are," said Breanna. She turned inland toward Karachi at about twenty thousand feet. Even from that altitude she could see the fire at the terminal.

  The Dreamland communications channel buzzed with an incoming message from the Wisconsin. Breanna snapped it on and her father's helmeted face appeared on her screen.

  "Breanna, what are you doing that far east?"

  "We're trying to get back control of the Piranha and look for that submarine," she said. "And I want to stay close to Danny and the Osprey."

  "As soon as the Osprey is out of there, return to base," he told her. "Refuel, and then get back on station. Be prepared to relocate to Diego Garcia."

  "We're bugging out?"

  "The Pentagon thinks Karachi is being targeted. They want us out of there. I checked with Jed; the President agrees we should relocate. Jed's helping work out the details."

  "Just like that?" said Breanna. Using either Crete or Diego Garcia as a base would add several hours to the patrol time.