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  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  1213

  STORM LISTENED INCREDULOUSLY AS THE PRESIDENT CONTINUED. He had no problem with attacking the Chinese aircraft—he told the President that he would sink the carrier if he wanted—but putting Bastian in charge? A lieutenant colonel over a Navy captain?

  An Air Force zippersuit over a sea captain?

  “Sir, with respect, with due respect—I outrank Bastian.”

  “Will it make you happy if I demote you to commander?” answered the President.

  “No, sir.”

  “Stand by for a briefing from Jed Barclay of the NSC.”

  “I can sink that damn carrier now,” insisted Storm when Jed came on the line. “Bam. It’s down. Six missiles. All I need.”

  “Um, uh, sir, um, you can’t do that.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” snapped Storm, slamming the handset into its receiver.

  The petty officer manning communications looked over warily from his station at the other side of the small room. “Get me Fleet—no, get me Admiral Balboa.”

  “The head of the Joint of Chiefs of Staff?”

  “You got it. Get him.”

  “Yes, sir. Incoming communication on the Dreamland channel. Colonel Bastian.”

  Gloating already?

  I’m a new man, Storm told himself. I don’t get angry.

  “I don’t like this any more than you do, Storm,” said Dog, coming on the line. “But we have to make the best of it. Let’s come up with a plan—”

  “Here’s the plan, Bastian. Spot the planes on their deck, and I’ll launch the missiles.”

  “Listen, Storm. We don’t have to be friends, but—”

  “We’re not.”

  “But we have the same goal.”

  “As long as you remember that, we’ll be fine.”

  Aboard the Shiva,

  Arabian Sea

  1213

  MEMON STARED AT THE CEILING OF THE SHIP’S MEDICAL CENTER. His head pounded and he wanted to sleep, but he dared not; every time he closed his eyes he saw the severed limb on the deck before him.

  Thirty-three Indian men had been killed in the brief engagement, most of them aboard the corvette that was sunk by two C-601 missiles, air-launched Chinese weapons similar to the Russian Styx. Another hundred or so had been wounded; twenty were missing and almost certainly dead. The toll aboard the Shiva was relatively small—seven dead, eighteen wounded. Kevlar armor at the belt line of the ship where the first missile struck had prevented serious damage. But the missile that struck the bridge area had wiped out part of the bridge and, more important, deprived the ship of many of its most important officers, including the admiral.

  The list of the dead did not stun Memon anywhere near as much as the news that they had sunk only one of the Chinese ships, a frigate. The aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping continued operations, and even had the audacity to send a high-speed reconnaissance flight in their direction. The Shiva’s fighters responded, supposedly shooting down the craft.

  Memon did not trust the report. He no longer trusted anything, not even his own judgment.

  He saw the blood of the victims everywhere he looked. Every spot on the wall, every shadow on the ceiling, appeared to him to be blood. His hands were free of it, but how long would that last?

  “Deputy Minister?”

  Memon looked to his right and found a sailor standing there.

  “A message from the Defense minister, sir.”

  Memon sat up. He slit the tape holding the folded piece of paper together, then read slowly.

  MOVE SOUTH OUT OF IMMEDIATE CONTACT WITH DENG XIAOPING. AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS.

  —ADM. SKANDAR

  Memon got to his feet, then sat back down, realizing belatedly that he had taken his shoes off. The blood rushed from his head, and he had to wait for the wave to subside.

  “Take me to Captain Adri,” he told the messenger.

  “He’s on the backup bridge.”

  “Take me there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adri was reviewing the course with the helmsman when Memon arrived.

  “A note,” said Memon, holding it out. His head no longer hurt, but he still felt somewhat dazed. His eyes burned, and he saw a pattern before them when he stared at the floor.

  The pattern of the explosion flash? Or of the blood surrounding the dead man’s arm?

  “We can’t retreat,” said Captain Adri, giving him the note back. “You have to tell him. We have to show our resolve, or they’ll attack again.”

  “The admiral is right. We should withdraw farther.”

  “You’re a coward,” said Adri. “As soon as you see blood, you want to cut and run. You urged Admiral Kala to attack, and now you can’t face the consequences.”

  Dismiss him, Memon thought. That is the only option. A subordinate cannot be allowed to question orders so publicly, let alone use insults to do so.

  But Memon knew he was not a sailor. He couldn’t run the ship without Adri. And if he ordered someone to take Adri’s place, the sailors might mutiny.

  Insurrection was better than indecision. And yet he stood frozen in place, unable to say anything.

  So he was a coward, then, wasn’t he? A disgrace to the country.

  Adri pushed his face next to Memon’s. “This is no way to win a war. We have to attack. Attack.”

  Memon shuddered. Adri’s voice sounded like his own just a day before.

  “You must obey the minister’s orders,” managed Memon.

  “I answer to the chief of the naval staff, not the defense minister. I will follow my instincts, not yours.”

  Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,

  northern Arabian Sea

  1213

  TWENTY-THREE CREWMEN ABOARD THE DENG XIAOPING HAD been killed in the attack. It was Captain Hongwu’s duty to write to each man’s family. And so, after the damage was assessed and repairs begun, after the wounded were cared for, after the battle’s success and failures were toted, he retreated to his wardroom suite. For his bottom desk drawer he removed a small wooden box and then unwrapped his calligrapher’s pen and nubs. He took some rice paper and ink, commemorating each man to his family with a few well-chosen but simple words.

  The Indian attack had been warded off quite successfully, due to the success of the Pili batteries. The weapons had struck all but two of the dozen missiles launched at the ship. It helped that the Indian attack had not been well-coordinated. Still, Captain Hongwu was now confident that the Thunderbolt could protect him from an even more intense attack; he would say so in his report to Beijing.

  The overflight by the American aircraft of his deck was another question entirely. The audaciousness of the flight astounded Hongwu almost as much as its success. His ship’s radar systems had tracked the aircraft intermittently when it was ten miles from the ship, but never any closer.

  Both his intelligence and radar officers blamed programming in the units that controlled the radar, believing that the helicopter’s slow speed had somehow confused it. Hongwu was inclined toward human error—though he had to admit that the operators had done extremely well in every other respect. Whatever the problem, it would have to be studied and fixed.

  Should he report it to Beijing? If he did, his victory today would be overshadowed.

  No, there was no reason to do so, at least not until the failure had been properly analyzed. He had already risked Beijing’s disapproval by noting that two of his aircraft had mistaken the Abner Read for an Indian ship, apparently believing the radar it was using belonged to an Indian frigate. The mistake was understandable given the chaos of battle, but his superiors disapproved nonetheless.

  Perhaps it would have been better if the planes had sunk the ship, he thought.

  Hongwu dipped his pen and began to write:

  Your son was a lion. I saw him pull another sailor from the fire, risking his life.

  He shuddered at the memory, the
n signed his name.

  Dreamland Command Center

  2344, 12 January 1998

  (1244, 13 January, Karachi)

  RAY RUBEO RUBBED HIS FACE WITH HIS HANDS, THEN LOOKED back at the screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.

  “We’re months away from testing the long-range version of the Scorpion missile, Colonel. I can’t even give you a mockup at this point,” said Rubeo. “And the airborne version of the Razor is even further off. Funding—”

  “I realize you can’t perform miracles, Ray. I’m just looking for anything that can give the Megafortresses an edge here. They’re not interceptors.”

  “I’m well aware of their capabilities, Colonel. Now, if you want to bomb the carrier, the weapons people have studied that matter as well,” added Rubeo. “The general consensus is that you would require nine well-placed strikes on the carrier to guarantee sinking it. Assume the Chinese weapon operates near its same efficiency, and its close-in weapon works as it has in the past: 17.3 missile launches, a minimum.”

  “Or eighteen,” said Colonel Bastian.

  “Yes. Eighteen would be the practical number.”

  “I’m not looking to sink the carrier.”

  “I have another suggestion,” said Rubeo. “Use the EEMWBs against the planes.”

  “The weapon needs further tests.”

  “They’ll work. You’ll disable the bombs completely, without even shooting down the planes. The only drawback,” added Rubeo, “is that the versions we currently have ready will wipe every piece of electronics within five hundred miles.”

  “How many would it take?”

  “One. However, I would launch two in case of the unforeseen. The weapons were due to be relocated at the end of the week in preparation for the tests anyway. We can ship them and technicians to Diego Garcia. The tests can be conducted from there following your mission.”

  “How soon can you get the weapons over here?”

  FOR ZEN, IT WAS A VIBRATING FEVER INSIDE HIS CHEST AND head, a dread and a desire—an imperative to be with his wife, to help her, save her, simply to be there. It was more important than food, more important than his legs, certainly; everything would be meaningless without her. He had to go. He had to be there. Only then would the dreams stop; only if he was with her would the fever break.

  He wanted to walk—he would walk—but first he had to go and be with her.

  He’d left a phone message for Vasin. The doctor would understand. And if he didn’t—well, that was the way it had to be.

  Zen rolled down the ramp of the Megafortress hangar, heading toward the door that led to the bunkers below. The doors whisked open before he reached them.

  “Dr. Rubeo, just who I’m looking for.”

  “Major. Can I help you?”

  “I hear you’re putting together a flight to Crete.”

  “I am sending some items to support the Whiplash deployment,” said Rubeo discreetly.

  “I’m going.”

  “Going where?”

  “To Crete. And then Diego Garcia. I’m joining the deployment.”

  Rubeo gave him a typical Rubeo look—a kind of mock befuddlement that the world was not as intellectual as he was.

  “I was given to understand that you were involved in an experiment relating to your walking again,” said Rubeo.

  “Yeah, well, that’s on hold right now,” said Zen. “This is more important. I need to be there.”

  “I’m sure I’m not the one to say this to you, Major, but were I in your position—”

  “You’re not.”

  “I’ll tell the MC-17 pilots you’re on the way. The aircraft is nearly ready to leave, so you’d best hurry.”

  Aboard the Abner Read

  1403

  “WHAT DO THESE EGGHEADS KNOW ABOUT NAVAL WARFARE?” thundered Storm. “Eighteen missile launches? Absurd. The Pentagon people tell us we can do it with three. Well, all right, that’s ridiculous, too. We figure six hits, which at most calls for eight launches. Eighteen? That’s ridiculous.”

  Storm glanced at Eyes and his weapons officers as he waited for Colonel Bastian to respond via the communications system, which was being piped over the small conference speaker on his desk. His quarters was the most convenient place for the secure conference, but if there had been one more person in the cabin, they wouldn’t have been able to move.

  “I’m just telling you what their simulations showed,” said Dog. His face jerked in the video feed, not quite in sync with the sound. “I thought you’d appreciate knowing.”

  “Well, let’s get on with it,” said Storm. “Where are we to position ourselves for this intercept?”

  “I need you to sail west.”

  “West?”

  “Two hundred miles west.”

  “Two hundred miles west?”

  “We’re going to use a weapon that will fry their electronics. It’ll affect yours as well. The radius is roughly five hundred miles, but to be safe—”

  “No way, Bastian. No way.”

  “Listen, Storm—”

  “I can understand you wanting to grab all the glory for yourself. I really can. You’re ambitious, and you have the track record to prove it. But telling us to leave the area when we have a mission here? No way.”

  “I’m telling you for your own protection.”

  “Our vital systems are shielded against magnetic pulses,” said Eyes.

  “Not like this.”

  “I’m not moving, Bastian. You can take that to the bank.” Storm folded his arms and scowled at the screen. As soon as this call was over, he was calling Balboa personally, before Bastian got his version of the story in.

  “I can’t guarantee that we can detonate the weapons far enough away from you not to harm you,” the colonel told him.

  “I’m not looking for guarantees. I’m telling you: I’m not moving.”

  Northern Arabian Sea

  2010

  CAPTAIN SATTARI CLIMBED ONTO THE DECK OF THE PARVANEH submarine, legs wobbly from the long day and night below the water. A breeze struck the side of his face, tingling it; his scalp bristled, and his lungs—his lungs luxuriated as they sucked in real air. The rest of his men crowded up behind him, anxious to breathe and move freely after hours of drowsy confinement. A few dropped to their knees, praying in thanksgiving. Sattari did not remind them that they were very far from being safe.

  “Boat Four, dead ahead,” said the Parvaneh’s mate. He held up the signal lamp.

  Captain Sattari pulled up his night glasses to scan the ocean around them. Between the darkness and the fog, he could see only a short distance; the shoreline, barely four miles to the north, was invisible, as were the towering mountains beyond.

  The Parvaneh had sailed roughly 140 miles, but they were still in Pakistani waters; Iran lay another 150 miles to the west, and their home port was three hundred miles beyond that. The Parvanehs carried enough fuel to reach Iranian territory, but only if they traveled mostly on the surface, where they would be easy to detect. Rather than taking that risk, Sattari had arranged a rendezvous with the Mitra, the tanker that had been altered to take them into its womb. It was to meet them twenty miles southwest of here in exactly three hours; they had barely enough time to put a small charge back in the batteries before setting out again.

  Sattari continued to hunt for Boat Two and Three. They had started before his; surely they must be lurking nearby.

  And yet, neither had been found twenty minutes later. A light rain started to fall, making Sattari’s infrared glasses nearly useless. He paced along the narrow deck, weaving around his men. To make their rendezvous with the oil tanker, they would have to leave within a half hour.

  Ten more minutes passed. Sattari spent them thinking of the soldiers in the midget submarines. He saw each of their faces; remembered what they had done by his side.

  The submarine commander came up from below.

  “Twenty minutes more, Captain. Then we must leave.”

>   “Have you heard anything on the radio?”

  The commander shook his head. They were far from the world here.

  Five minutes passed, then ten.

  “Signal Boat Two to start,” Sattari told one of his men. “We will follow shortly.”

  The signal given, Sattari scanned the waters once again. He saw nothing.

  “Sound the horn,” he told one of his men.

  “A risk.”

  “It is.” The captain folded his arms in front of his chest, listening as the handheld horn bellowed.

  A light flickered to the west. One of his soldiers spotted it and shouted, “There!”

  The mate signaled frantically with his light. The light in the distance blinked back and began to grow. It was Boat Four. Signals were passed; the submarine turned and began to descend, heading toward the rendezvous.

  Three was still missing; Sergeant Ibn’s boat.

  Sattari ordered the horn sounded again. Two more times they tried, without response.

  “Time to go below,” the captain told his men. They got up reluctantly, walking unsteadily to the mock wheelhouse that held the hatchway and airlock. The last man began folding the wire rail downward. Sattari helped him.

  “The horn once more.”

  A forlorn ba-hrnnn broke the stillness. Sattari listened until he heard only the rhythmic lapping of water against the Parvaneh’s hull.

  “With God’s help, they will meet us at the Mitra,” he told the submarine captain below. “But we can wait no longer.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  2222

  “STILL NO SIGN OF THE PIRANHA, COLONEL,” CANTOR TOLD Dog as they reached the end of the first search grid. “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault, son. All right, crew; get ready to drop the second buoy. Mack, stay with me this time.”

  “I was with you the whole way, Colonel.”

  Cantor’s attempt to stifle a laugh was unsuccessful.

  “Concentrate on your tinfish, kid,” snapped Mack.

  “Trying.”

  Cantor had been pressed into service as an operator for the robot undersea probe so the Megafortresses could extend their patrol times. Gloria English and Levitow were en route to Crete to pick up EEMWBs before starting their patrol. The Wisconsin would go to Crete at the end of this patrol as well so that it, too, could pick up the weapons.