End Game d-8 Page 23

  "You're losing me, Doc."

  "It forces the tanks to blow, raising the submarine to the surface. It's apparently intended to be used in the case of an emergency where the crew is completely incapacitated. If you were looking to recover the submarine, you might build a strategy around that device. Theoretically."

  "Oh, very theoretically," said Danny. "How soon can you get one of those Navy guys to talk to me?"

  Aboard the Shiva,

  off the coast of India in the northern Arabian Sea

  0640

  The helicopter was ancient, a Coast Guard Chetak that had first flown in the 1960s. Its engine sounded like a rasping buzz saw as it headed for a landing on the Shiva's deck. But its white skin glistened in the sunlight, and the aircraft steadied herself with what seemed to Memon fitting dignity before settling to a landing on the deck. No sooner had the pogo-stick wheels touched down than the cabin flew open and Admiral Skandar emerged, stooping low to clear the blades, then straightening into full stride. He ignored the honor guard standing at full attention and walked to Memon and Captain Adri, who along with the deputy air commander and weapons officer had come out to meet him. Skandar walked directly to Captain Adri, ignoring Memon completely; Memon felt his heart sink.

  "Captain," said Skandar. "You are prepared to launch an attack?"

  "Our forces are ready and well-prepared," said Adri. "We are positioned to strike."

  "You did not receive my order to pull back?"

  "Sir, I complied with your order not to attack when it was confirmed by the Chief of the Navy, but upon reflection concerning my positioning, I believed that you had erred. So I adjusted accordingly."

  "Captain, you will board my helicopter and return to Mumbai. I am in command of this vessel now."

  "But—"

  "If necessary, you will be arrested." Skandar turned and addressed the other two officers. "If you are not prepared to carry out my orders without question, you may join him."

  The men stiffened, but said nothing.

  "Admiral," said Adri. "I wish to apologize."

  "Why are you not aboard the helicopter? Leave now— your personal belongings will follow. Take me to the bridge," Skandar told the others. "Then I wish to inspect the damage and the wounded. After that, we will gather our commanders and prepare for the next stage of battle."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  0710

  Storm grunted when the seaman knocked at the entrance to his cabin.

  "Encrypted message from the Pentagon, Captain," said the sailor.

  "I'll take it here," said Storm. He glanced at his watch. A light sleeper by nature, he rarely got more than four hours of sack time in a row during a cruise; he'd already had nearly three.

  "Brought you coffee, sir," added the seaman.

  "Johnson, you are a tribute to the service."

  The sailor chuckled. Storm, who slept in his uniform, padded to the nearby door. He opened it, took the carafe, and then went to the small communications set on his desk opposite the foot of his bed. The set consisted of a small flat-screen monitor, video cam, speakers, microphone, and keyboard; it was essentially a computer with dedicated circuitry. Storm took the unit out of stand by, typed in a generic system code, then his own password. As the unit came to life, he opened the carafe and refilled the mug that sat in the indentation on the desk, not bothering to dispose of the coffee that filled its bottom.

  The screen turned blue. Storm pecked in a second code word to clear the transmission. He found himself looking at an empty communications station in the Pentagon Situation Room. As he took his first sip of coffee, the top of a head appeared. Then a face came into camera range.

  Storm had expected an intelligence officer. Instead, the face belonged to Admiral Balboa.

  "Storm, I've just come back from the White House," said Balboa. "I've been in meetings all day and night over there."

  "Yes, Admiral?"

  "Your mission's being altered. Has Bastian gotten a hold of you yet?"

  Please tell me he's no longer in charge, prayed Storm. "No, sir."

  "Typical. The President wants to stop World War Three. Bastian and his Dreamland people are going to use their weapons to do it. That means you're going to be on the front line against that carrier."

  "I already am, sir. I'm ready to sink it at a moment's notice."

  "I want you to shoot down the planes, Storm. You don't have to sink the carrier." "I can do both."

  "Don't go overboard. Take the planes."

  "Aye aye," said Storm, speaking into his mug.

  "However—"

  Storm's ears perked up.

  "If circumstances warranted — if you were to come under attack again," said Balboa, "then the carrier would be a legitimate target."

  "Damn straight it would, Admiral," said Storm.

  "Since they've already been warned once, no one could accuse you of being trigger happy. Sinking the Chinese su per carrier — so-called super carrier — would be quite an achievement. If the circumstances were right."

  "I understand completely, Admiral. I appreciate your guidance."

  "Merely stating facts," said Balboa. "That Indian ship— is it as potent as they claim?"

  "It didn't do very well against the Chinese," said Storm.

  "Best thing would be for them both to go down," said Balboa. "Not that they're competent enough to sink each other. Now, what's this theory about an Iranian submarine? We have all their Kilos under observation in the Persian Gulf. You're telling me the Navy missed one?"

  "No. The theory is — Bastian's theory — is that the Iranians are trying to instigate a conflict using civilian-style aircraft converted to military use. He thinks a civilian-style aircraft may have launched the torpedo that struck the Indian ship en route to Port Somalia."

  "Preposterous. Bastian sees Iran behind everything."

  Storm found himself in the unusual position of actually thinking the Air Force lieutenant colonel was correct. But now wasn't the time to push the issue with Balboa.

  "The attack on Karachi may have been carried out— definitely was carried out — by a commando team, some sort of SpecWar unit," said Storm, treading carefully. "We did find a submarine in Pakistani waters following the attack. The curious thing—"

  "I've seen the report. So your theory is that Iran is behind this, trying to instigate a war?"

  "That's Bastian's theory. I don't have an opinion."

  "Well, get one."

  "Yes, sir."

  Balboa frowned, then raised one of his bushy eyebrows. "Stand by for Captain Connors and the intelligence updates."

  Souda Bay U.S. Navy Support Base,

  Crete

  0915 (1215, Karachi)

  Dog leaned in under the Megafortress's outer wing and examined the EEMWBs that had just been installed on the Wisconsin's wing. The weapon's elongated and rounded nose added several feet to the overall length of the AGM-86C it had been attached to, making it impossible to carry inside the bomb bay. Two apiece were loaded on the Megafortress's outer wing, beyond the Flighthawks. While they had a negligible effect on the Megafortress's general performance, they increased her radar profile, making the planes easier to detect.

  Unlike the Levitow, the Wisconsin had not been shielded against the weapons; if she exploded them nearby she would lose her electric systems. But the Levitow couldn't stay on station indefinitely, and the only other aircraft in the world that was shielded against T-Rays was Dreamland Raptor, currently in several thousand pieces on the floor of one of the Dreamland hangars, being examined and overhauled. A crew of techies was heading toward Diego Garcia, where they would retrofit the Bennett with protective gear and shielding in the wings and fuselage; when they were done, that plane would be equipped with the missiles and alternate with the Levitow on patrol. For now, Wisconsin would play relief.

  The weapons people at Dreamland had studied the possible paths the ballistic missiles would take, and they de
cided that only two explosions would be needed to disrupt the missiles. But to guarantee success, they wanted four launches in an overlapping pattern; that way, if one or even two failed to work or the yield was unexpectedly low, the plan would still succeed. That complicated matters for Dog, since to take out the carrier plane, he had to keep a second Megafortress in the area. He'd also told Storm to stay close to the carrier as well, a directive that was met with a grunt, which in Dog's experience represented almost euphoric enthusiasm on the naval commander's part.

  Dog continued his walk-around, escorted by Chris Morris, the airman first class who was acting crew chief for the plane while it was "pitted" at Crete. The young man had come from Dreamland with the missiles; this was not only his first deployment with the unit, but the most responsibility he'd ever been given in his life. He'd had a great deal of help prepping the plane from the Navy and from an experienced Air Force crew of maintainers that had flown in from Germany to help out. Still, as a Dreamlander he was the one ultimately responsible for the plane. He wouldn't have been sent if he wasn't up to it, but Dog could sense the butterflies in Airman Morris's stomach every time he stopped to look at something. Finally, when they'd done a complete circuit around the aircraft, Dog folded his arms in front of his chest.

  "Something wrong, Colonel?" asked Morris.

  "I've never seen aircraft more ready to fly," Dog told him. "Job well done."

  The kid's smile could have lit half the island. Dog ducked back under the wing, heading toward the ladder.

  "Colonel!" shouted the airman.

  Dog turned back.

  "Um, Greasy Hands said I, um, I wasn't supposed to let you go without telling you." "Telling me what?" "Don't break my plane. Sir."

  Dog laughed. "I'll try not to. Go get yourself some sleep."

  * * *

  Cantor watched from his station as Mack completed the launch procedure with Hawk One and took control of the aircraft. He rolled right, swinging the UM/F out ahead of the Megafortress as they flew over the eastern Mediterranean. They would fly over Israel, Jordan, and then Saudi Arabia en route to their station over the Arabian Sea. Hawk Two remained on the wing. Colonel Bastian had modified his one pilot-one Flighthawk rule slightly, allowing two planes to be used "in an emergency," but it was highly unlikely the plane would be launched on their way to the patrol area. Cantor thus had nothing to do until they got to the Arabian Sea, where he would take over control of the Piranha from Ensign English aboard Levitow. Piranha had gone south and was searching for the Chinese Kilo submarine escorting the Deng Xiaoping.

  Cantor found himself wishing for an alert — scrambling Syrian MiGs as they approached the coast, an overanxious Yemen patrol — to break the monotony.

  "So what do you think, kid?" said Mack as the flight dragged on. "Would you rather face two Su-35s? Or one F-15?"

  "One F-15."

  "An F-15? Why?"

  " 'Cause I know what he'll do. The Indians I'm still studying."

  "Fair enough. We won't be fighting against them anymore this time around, though." "Why do you say that?"

  "Because now that the Indians and China have gotten their taste of what real action is like, they'll back off. I've seen this before. They don't want to lose any of their toys."

  * * *

  Dog cleared the transmission. Danny Freah's face appeared in the Dreamland communications panel.

  "Hey, Colonel, I've finished analyzing the attack on the Karachi terminal," he told Dog. "Definitely done by explosives. I'd say they used a dozen people, maybe more."

  "Twelve is a few too many for that submarine," Dog said. "Rubeo says they're figuring maximum capacity at about eight, maybe ten."

  "Yeah. But working out the way the explosives were set and the time of that first contact, there had to be at least twelve guys, like I say. I think it's likely there's at least one more submarine."

  "All right. Thanks, Danny." "Hey, Colonel?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'd like to draw up a mission to take the sub." "What do you mean?"

  "Capture it. I've studied the data Ray Rubeo gave us, and talked to some submarine people on how to do it. There's a kind of a safety valve we can use to blow the tanks to get it to surface. When it does, we drop tear gas inside, get in and disarm whoever's aboard. Can't be more than eight people, maybe less."

  "First of all, Danny, I'm not sure you'd be able to disable everyone aboard before they blew it up."

  "There's also an external air fitting for emergency air— we could pump in nitrous oxide. There's a dentist over here who—"

  "Second of all — and more to the point — you're four hours flying time from the general area in a Megafortress traveling at top speed. The Osprey would take twice as long, to have enough fuel to make it."

  "Be worth the trip. You have to find out where these guys are coming from, right? This is the best way to do it."

  "You're assuming we're going to see these guys again."

  "If I had a weapon like that, I'd use it until it broke," said Danny. "We should be ready, right?"

  "I'll discuss it with Storm," Dog told him. "Don't hold your breath."

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  1230

  It felt as if it had been months since he'd flown. Zen had trouble lining up for the refuel, coming on tentatively and then rushing into the furling turbulence behind the big plane. Hawk Three's nose shot downward and he aborted, riding off to the right, more bemused than angry. He came around again, easing his hand forward on the stick.

  His muscles began to spasm — a side effect of the treatments?

  Forget the treatments, he told himself.

  He pushed his body down in the seat, trying to ease the cramps without actually affecting his control of the airplane. He drove the Flighthawk into the hookup, then let the computer take over. By now his arm felt as if it had been mangled in a wheat thresher.

  "Levitow to Flighthawk leader," said Breanna. "We have two J-13s coming at us hot out of the east. Distance is sixty miles."

  "Yeah, OK, I got 'em on the sitrep," said Zen. "I'll say hello."

  Zen took Hawk Four over from the computer and began cutting north. The Chinese aircraft were not part of the normal patrol over the carrier; these were sent here to get a look at the Megafortress. With the help of C3 he started back south at the very edge of his control link with the Levitow, putting himself in position to pull up behind the J-13s as they closed in.

  "Hawk Three refueled," said the computer.

  Zen popped back into Hawk Three and slid her out from under the mother ship's refueling line. Then he ducked under the Megafortress's flight path, aiming at the oncoming J-13s. He had the robot planes positioned to sandwich the Chinese craft; he'd also be able to follow if they split up or did something unexpected.

  "Looks like they're going to draw up alongside you and take pictures," Zen told Breanna.

  "Levitow."

  She was angry at something. Zen wondered if she was having more trouble with Stewart; the copilot had had trouble adjusting to the program.

  When they were about seven miles from the Mega-fortress, the J-13s turned so they could come up alongside either wing. As they did, Zen slid Hawk Three between them, twisting into a roll and making it obvious that he was there. Their attention consumed by the approaching plane, he pushed Hawk Four within spitting distance of Bogey Two's tail. The Megafortress turned as it approached the end of its patrol track; Zen pulled Hawk Three around so he had a Flighthawk on each J-13. If they did anything hostile, he could take them down in an instant.

  "The jerk on my side has a camera," said Stewart as the Chinese planes pulled up alongside the Levitow.

  "Well, make sure you wave," Zen told her.

  * * *

  Stewart turned her head back to the glass "dashboard" in front of her, scanning the sitrep map to make sure nothing new had appeared. There were two dozen aircraft in the Megafortress's scanning range, including a fligh
t of Pakistani F-16s and an Indian long-range radar plane about a hundred miles inland. She worked through it quickly, top to bottom, then turned her attention to the systems screens, checking the engines to make sure everything was at spec. The computer made this easy for her by color coding the readings — numbers in green meant things were fine, yellows were cautions, red was trouble. The computer was also set to provide verbal alerts.

  As she scanned the settings, Stewart realized that she had a tendency not to take the computer's word for things — to read each instrument's data and query for exact details, which would be provided on many of the sensors by tapping the screen. That was the right way to do it, certainly— but in a combat situation it added greatly to the information overload that had been messing her up. Glance and move on — rely on the technology.

  If the J-13s tried anything, what would she do?

  The Flighthawks would take them out.

  If they didn't?

  The Chinese planes would drop back, angling to get behind the Megafortress and use their weapons. Go to weapons screen, activate Stinger air mines.

  They'd turn off or roll out, looking to get a little distance to make a missile attack. Evasive action, ECMs, flares, chaff, then AMRAAM-pluses.

  SAM missile alert?

  ID threat first. Then countermeasures.

  Staying calm was the important thing.

  "How you doing over there, Jan?" asked Breanna.

  "All indicators in the green. Tweedledee and Tweedledum are right at our sides."

  Stewart felt a wave of anxiety rush over her. What had she missed? Was Breanna grilling her about something she'd screwed up?

  No. She really wasn't like that. She was human.

  "Nothing else in the air for fifty miles," Stewart added, looking at the sitrep. "CAPs are still over their carriers."

  "Good. Feeling tense?"

  Another trick question? The Iron Bitch probing weaknesses?

  Or just an honest one?

  "A little. And tired," she admitted.