End Game d-8 Read online

  Six people were needed to work all of the gear. Jed was the only one authorized to communicate directly with the Dreamland force. He would be relieved in the morning by his boss, who had just gone to dinner and who expected to be paged immediately if things perked up.

  "I say we send out for pizza," said the photo interpreter monitoring the U-2 and satellite images.

  "How about Sicilian?" suggested Peg Jordan, monitoring the NSA feed.

  "Sounds good," said Jed.

  "Let's call Sicily and have it delivered," deadpanned Jordan.

  Everyone laughed. As lame as it was, Jed hoped the joke wouldn't be the only one he heard tonight.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  above the northern Arabian Sea

  0345

  Dog double-checked his position, making sure he was still outside Pakistani territory. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying thirty miles due east of him, very close to the country's border with India. The planes had queried him twice, making sure he wasn't an Indian jet. Even though that should have been obvious, Dog had Jazz reassure the pilots, telling them they were Americans hoping to "help keep the peace." There was no sense having to duck the planes' missiles prematurely.

  Besides the Pakistani flight, the Megafortress was being shadowed by a pair of Indian MiG-21s. Much older than the F-16s, they were farther away and less of a threat. But they were clearly watching him. Probably guided by a ground controller, they changed course every time he did. He knew this couldn't go on much longer — the small fighters simply didn't carry that much fuel — but it was an ominous portent of the gamut they'd have to run if things went sour.

  Jed had warned that they couldn't expect the Pakistanis to be friendly. Annoyed at the neutral stance of the U.S., the government of Pakistan had specifically warned that the Dreamland aircraft were "unwelcome" in Pakistani airspace for the length of the crisis.

  If ballistic missiles were launched, Dog would know within fifteen seconds. Ideally, he would then rush over the Thar Desert, flying at least twelve and a half minutes before firing the first salvo of three missiles, which would detonate roughly seven minutes later. Seconds before they did, he would fire his last missile. Soon afterward, he would lose most if not all of his instruments and fly back blind. And while the radars and missile batteries along the route he was flying would be wiped out, the closer he got to the coast, the higher the odds that he'd be in the crosshairs. The Wisconsin might never know what hit her.

  The worst thing was, if the new calculations were correct, the mission might be in vain. And the same went for the Levitow. It was going to be ten or twelve hours before they could have both aircraft on station.

  "J-13s from the carrier are headed our way," said Jazz.

  Dog grunted. The Chinese seemed to be working on an hourly schedule — every sixty minutes they sent a pair of planes to do a fly-by and head back to the carrier.

  "Wisconsin, this is Hawk One—you sure you don't want me to get in their faces?"

  "Negative, Mack. Conserve your fuel. And your tactics."

  "Roger that."

  Dog thought Mack must be getting tired — he didn't put up an argument.

  "Colonel, Piranha is within ten miles of that underwater contact," said Cantor. "Computer is matching this to the other craft. The one that scuttled itself the other day."

  "You're positive, Cantor?"

  "Computer is, Colonel. Personally, I haven't a clue." "All right. I'll contact Captain Chu and Danny in Dreamland Fisher. Good work."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0348

  Storm watched the plot on the radarman's scope, tracking the Indian jets as they circled to the east.

  "Keeping an eye on us," said the sailor. "Every fifteen minutes or so they split up. One comes straight overhead."

  Storm scratched the stubble on his chin, considering the situation. The planes were well within range of the Standard antiair missiles in the forward vertical launch tubes.

  The problem was, his orders of engagement declared that he had to wait for "life-threatening action" before he could fire. That meant he couldn't launch his missiles unless the

  Sukhois got aggressive — which at this close range might be too late. Storm decided that when he got back to the bridge he would radio Bastian and see if he couldn't get one of his little robot fighters over to run the Indians off.

  Continuing with his tour of the Tactical Center, Storm moved over to the Werewolf station. Starship had gone off to bed, and one of Storm's crewmen — Petty Officer Second Class Paul Varitok — was at the helm of the robot. The petty officer was one of the ship's electronics experts and had volunteered to fly the aircraft when it came aboard. He was still learning; even discounting the fact that Storm's presence made him nervous, it was obvious to the captain that he had a long way to go.

  Storm completed his rounds and headed over to the communications shack. After checking the routine traffic, he made a call to Bastian. The Air Force lieutenant colonel snapped onto the line with his customary, "Bastian," the accompanying growl practically saying, Why are you bothering me now?

  "I have two Indian warplanes circling south at five miles," Storm told him. "What are the odds of you chasing them away?"

  "No can do," said Dog. "Stand by," he added suddenly, and the screen went blank.

  It took the Air Force commander several minutes to get back to him, and he didn't offer an apology or an explanation when he did. If he wasn't such an insolent, arrogant, know-it-all blowhard — he'd still be a jerk.

  "Storm — we have a contact we think may be another midget submarine. It's similar to the one that blew itself up. We're going to track it. My Whiplash people will be en route shortly."

  "Where is it?"

  "A few miles off the Pakistani coast, just crossing toward Indian territory."

  Dog gave him the coordinates, about sixty miles to the east of the Sharkboat, which was another forty to the east of the Abner Read.

  "It will take about two hours for the Sharkboat to get there," Storm told him. "But those are Indian waters. If we're caught there, it will be viewed as provocative. The Indians will have every right to attack us."

  "You're telling me you won't go there?"

  "This has nothing to do with the aircraft carrier, Bastian. You can't give me an order regarding it."

  "I'm not. But if we want to get the submarine, we have to do it now. I would suggest—suggest—that you position your Sharkboat several miles offshore so it can come to the aid of the craft when it begins to founder."

  "You know all the angles, don't you?" snapped Storm.

  Dog didn't respond.

  "Yes, we'll do it," said Storm. "Get with Eyes for the details." He jabbed his finger on the switch to kill the transmission.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0430

  Zen watched as Lieutenant Dennis "Dork" Thrall finished the refuel of Hawk Three. Dork backed out of Levi-tow, rolling right as he cleared away from the Megafortress. Hawk Four remained on the wing; Zen would have to take the Piranha when they arrived on station, and didn't want to leave Dork to handle two planes.

  Dork steered the Flighthawk out in front of the Megafortress, climbing gradually to 42,000 feet, about five thousand higher than the EB-52. They were still forty-five minutes from the Wisconsin's position, but already they'd encountered three different Indian patrols. They had also passed a Russian guided missile cruiser steaming north ward with two smaller ships. If tempers were cooling, Zen saw no evidence of it.

  He heard something behind him, and turned to find Bre-anna climbing down the metal ladder at the rear of the deck.

  "I thought you were sleeping," he told her.

  "I fell asleep for, oh, twenty minutes," she said. "Hard to sleep with Stewart snoring in my ear. She's louder than the engines."

  "Dork's flying Hawk Three" said Zen.

  "So I gathered. You're just
surplus?"

  "Nothing but a spare part. You too?"

  "Actually, I'm going to switch with Louis and take the stick. He's feeling the aftereffects of the Navy food."

  "You sure you shouldn't get more rest?"

  "Nah," said Breanna. Then she added cryptically, "Hardly worth giving up your treatments for."

  "Huh?" Zen looked up at her, shocked — almost stunned — by what she'd said.

  "You want anything? Coffee?"

  "I'll take a cup."

  He watched her disappear upstairs and felt a pang of regret at not being able to get up and go with her — at not being able to walk up with her.

  She thought he'd made a mistake. That's what she'd meant. She wanted a whole man for a husband: one who walked.

  Zen forced himself to go back to watching Dork. The Flighthawk pilot checked his sitrep, keeping a wary eye on a pair of Indian MiG-29s that the Levitow''s radar painted about 150 miles to the east. He had a good handle on what he was doing; while there were no guarantees, Zen thought he'd do well in combat once he got a little experience under his belt.

  Maybe no one really needed him here at all. "Coffee," said Breanna, returning with a cup. "Where's yours?"

  "I have to get back. Lou's whiter than a ghost." "All right. See you around."

  "Something wrong, Jeff?"

  "Nah. I'll be talking to you." He tried to make it sound like a joke, but couldn't quite manage it.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0450

  "Piranha to Wisconsin."

  "Go ahead, Cantor," said Colonel Bastian, checking his position to make sure he was still in international airspace, about fifteen miles to the west of shore.

  "The submarine is surfacing, Colonel. I think they're going to that radar platform. And I think there's another one nearby, closer to the coast but behind us. I'll have to circle around to find out."

  The platform held one of a series of large radar antennas used to detect aircraft by the Indians. It would be a perfect target for a covert operation.

  There was also a small building and shed at the base — a good place to resupply a small vessel.

  "Wisconsin to Flighthawk leader — Mack, I want you to take a pass at the radar platform and give us some visuals. I want to see if that platform is expecting them."

  "On it, Colonel."

  Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0450

  Captain Hongwu, the master of the Deng Xiaoping, reviewed the movements of the Indian ships over the past several hours. The Shiva and her escorts had spread out, and at the same time come closer to him. Clearly they were positioning themselves for an attack.

  While he had expended most of his anticruise missiles in his earlier engagement, Hongwu felt confident he could handle the Indians by overmatching their aircraft with his larger squadron, allowing him to reserve the missiles for use against ship-launched weapons. He would devote his planes to defense initially, counterattacking only after he had broken the enemy's thrust.

  But he worried about what role the Americans would play. Besides the warship his pilots had misidentified, they were flying Megafortresses above the Arabian Sea. One seemed to be tracking his fleet. He thought it unlikely that they would help the Indians, but he knew he had to be prepared.

  "The American aircraft should be kept at least fifty miles from us at all times," he told his air commander. "We must keep their air-to-air missiles out of easy range of the radar helicopters. And if fighting starts again, they should be moved back beyond the range of the standard Harpoon missiles they carry — eighty miles."

  Hongwu immediately noted the concern on the air commander's face.

  "If necessary, assign four aircraft to escort them," added Hongwu. "Escort them at very close range, where their air-to-air missiles will not be a factor."

  "It will be done, Captain."

  Northern Arabian Sea

  0455

  Captain Sattari rolled his neck sideways and then down toward his chest, trying to stretch away the kink that had developed there in the past hour. They were almost at their destination; he wanted to be out, and so did everyone else aboard the submarine.

  "We are a little ahead of schedule, Captain," said the Par-vaneh's captain. "The others may be well behind us."

  "Good. We will lead the charge." Sattari got up and turned to the rest of the commandos. "Be prepared to fire your weapons the moment we are out of the submarine."

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0500

  "The radar platform at DwArka reports that an American Megafortress is orbiting it to the west," the radar officer told Admiral Skandar. "A flight of air force interceptors is being scrambled to meet it."

  Skandar nodded, and turned to Memon. "Do you still think the Americans are neutral?"

  "No, Minister," said Memon, though the question was clearly rhetorical.

  "They are targeting the radar platform. You will see — it will be attacked at any moment." Skandar turned to his executive officer. "Warn the platform to be on its guard. Have the men move to their battle stations. The showdown is about to begin."

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0501

  Mack Smith accelerated as he approached the platform, taking the Flighthawk down through fifty feet. He was too low and close to be seen by this radar system, but human eyes and ears were another matter. He had the throttle at max as he rocketed by the platform at close to 500 knots, banking around to the north and making another pass.

  "If there's a sub pen or docking area under that platform somewhere, I can't see it," he told Dog. "Cantor, where's that submarine? Let me do a flyover as he comes up."

  "He's just coming to the surface, about a mile north of the platform, in very shallow water."

  Mack slid the Flighthawk around, slowing down now to get better images. Nothing showed on the screen, though, as he passed.

  "Two MiG-29s coming off Bhuj," warned T-Bone, naming an airfield along the coast. "And we have another flight coming in from the south — they're going to their afterburners."

  "Want me to go cool their jets, Colonel?" asked Mack. "No. Take another pass where that submarine is coming up. I want pictures."

  "Just call me Candid Camera."

  * * *

  "The MiGs out of Bhuj are looking for us," said Jazz. "Carrying AMRAAMskis. They're about a hundred miles away, speed accelerating over five hundred knots. Think the radar station picked up the Flighthawk?"

  "I doubt it," Dog told him. "They probably just got tired of us orbiting so close to them."

  Dog checked his watch. Danny and Boston in the Fisher were still twenty minutes away.

  "Let's do this," he told Jazz. "Try and raise the Indian controller on his frequency. Tell him that there's a submarine surfacing near his platform in Indian territory."

  "How do I explain that we know that?"

  "Don't," said Dog.

  "Southern flight of MiGs has also gone to afterburners," said T-Bone at the radar station. "Now approximately seven minutes away."

  "Mack, do you have any visuals for me?"

  "Negative, Colonel. Submarine hasn't broken the water yet."

  "All right. Come north with me. We're going to run up toward the end of our patrol track and turn around. On the way back south we'll launch Hawk Two."

  "You want me to take it?" interrupted Cantor.

  "No. Stay with Piranha. Mack will have to handle both planes for a while."

  "No sweat," said Mack.

  "If the Indians don't back off, set up an intercept on the group coming out of the east, from Bhuj," Dog told him.

  "Got it, Colonel."

  "And Mack — don't fire at them unless I tell you to." "Your wish is my command, Colonel. But say the word, and they're going down."

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern
Arabian Sea

  0503

  Stewart opened her eyes and saw that Breanna had left the bay. She rolled out of the bunk and pulled on her boots, then went out into the Megafortress's galley area. The restroom — imagine that in a B-1B! — was occupied.

  "I'd like to brush my teeth," she joked.

  "I'll be a while," moaned the occupant.

  It wasn't Breanna. Stewart looked toward the front and realized that she had taken over as pilot four hours ahead of schedule.

  Just like her.

  Stewart grabbed her helmet and walked up past the radar stations to the first officer's seat.

  "Sorry I overslept. Mom forgot to set the alarm clock," she told the copilot, Dick "Bullet" Timmons. "Thanks for covering, Bullet."

  "I'm still on, Stewie. Lou's stomach just went ballistic on him."

  "Bree and me are partners," she told him. She glanced at Breanna. "Don't want to break up the act."

  "Yeah, the teams ought to stay together," Bree said.

  Stewart felt her face flush. Finally, she thought, she'd been accepted.

  "Your call, Captain," said Bullet. "Time I stretch my legs anyway."

  "Just don't try the bathroom for the next hour," added Stewart.

  * * *

  The Levitow's long-range radar plot showed the two MiGs on afterburners, heading north to intercept Wisconsin.

  Breanna clicked into the Dreamland communications channel. "Dreamland Levitow to Wisconsin. I assume you see those MiGs coming at you from the south."

  "Roger that, Levitow," said Dog. "We're moving north. What's your estimated time to station?"

  "Still a good fifteen minutes away from the designated patrol area."

  "Be advised, Piranha's contact has stopped about a mile from the radar platform. We think they may be planning a raid. We're trying to alert the Indian authorities. Piranha is about a mile and a half from the stopped sub and is approaching another contact, apparently a similar submarine."

  "Do you still want us to take over Piranha when we get closer?"

  "Let's play that by ear. It may depend on what these MiGs do. I'm going to launch Hawk Two right now." "Roger that."