End Game d-8 Page 27

  * * *

  "Turn Hawk Three over to the computer and then swap stations with me," Zen told Dork. "You sure, Major?"

  "Yeah, I'll take Three. You launch Hawk Four from this station. Then if we're in range and have to take over Piranha, you can do it while I fly both U/MFs. You can't control Piranha from the left station."

  "I've only flown — I mean, sailed — Piranha in simulations."

  "It'll be easy," said Zen.

  Far easier than flying two Flighthawks in combat, he thought, though he didn't say that.

  Dork put Hawk Three into one of its preset flight patterns, turned its controls over to the computer, then undid his restraints and got out of his seat. Zen levered himself close enough to the other station so he could swing into the unoccupied chair. He landed sideways, then dropped awkwardly into position.

  Blood rushed from his head. Whether it was an aftermath of the treatments or sleep deprivation, he felt zapped.

  "Here's your flight helmet," said Dork.

  "All right, thanks," said Zen. "Let's do the handoff, then get ready to launch. I'll talk to Bree."

  Aboard the Fisher,

  over the Arabian Sea

  0505

  Lying in the manpod was like being in an isolation chamber. A very cold isolation chamber. There were supposedly heating circuits in the damn things, but Danny had never used one yet without freezing his extremities off.

  Not that he had all that much experience with the man-pod. In fact, he'd only used it in training missions, and only once on a water jump.

  The manpod could be ejected from either high or low altitude. In this case, the plan was to go out very low, so the EB-52 wasn't detected. The pod would be more projectile than package, its descent barely retarded by a special drogue parachute.

  "Danny?"

  Colonel Bastian's voice reverberated in his helmet. "What do you need, Colonel?"

  "I just want you to know that we have fighters approaching the area where the submarine is. I've told Lieutenant Chu that he's to stay out of the area unless I instruct him otherwise."

  "Aw, Colonel, it's cold in here. You have to let me jump or I'll freeze to death."

  "We'll play it by ear, Danny. Sorry," added Dog, the word echoing in Danny's helmet.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Chu checked his altitude on the heads-up display, keeping the Megafortress at precisely thirty-eight feet above the waves. The aircraft's powerful surveillance radars were off, allowing it to slip undetected like a ghost in the night.

  His adrenaline had his heart on double-fast forward. It had been like this the whole deployment, almost a high.

  Chu had been thinking of trading in his pilot's wings and going to law school before he got the Dreamland gig. He still hoped to be a lawyer someday, but this deployment had convinced him to push someday far into the future. Driving a Megafortress was the most fun you could have with your clothes on.

  "Whiplash to Dreamland Fisher—yo, Tommy, what'd you tell the Colonel?" asked Captain Freah, who could communicate through a special channel in the Dreamland com system.

  "Told him we were ready to kick butt and not to worry about the fighters."

  "Keep singing that song."

  "I will, Danny. Hang loose in there."

  "I am, but next flight, I want stewardesses and a better movie."

  Northern Arabian Sea

  0508

  The sea air pulled Captain Sattari out of the Parvaneh submarine, up to the deck behind the lead commando and the mate. He moved toward the rubber boat, AK-47 in one hand, grenade launcher in the other. His lungs filled with the sweet, wet breeze.

  They were farther from the platform than he thought.

  There were planes nearby, jets flying somewhere in the dark sky. He twisted his head back and forth but couldn't see anything.

  "Bring the SA-7s!" he yelled, telling the others to take the antiaircraft missiles. "Quickly! Into the boat. We have to paddle at least three hundred meters to reach the rocks! Hurry, before we are seen!"

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0508

  "Midget sub is on the surface," Dish told Dog. "Very small. Similar to the vessel that sank itself."

  "Jazz, have the Indians responded to our warning?"

  "Negative," said the copilot.

  Dog toggled into the Dreamland Command line. "Wisconsin to Abner Read. Eyes, I need to talk to Storm." "I'm here, Bastian. Go ahead."

  "The submarine we were tracking has surfaced about a mile north of the platform. Looks like an attack. I've tried contacting the Indians but gotten no response. I have two MiGs coming at me from the east. They may think we're attacking the radar."

  "We'll try notifying the Indians," said Storm. "Don't put yourself in danger for them."

  Jeez, thought Dog, he sounds almost concerned.

  "Colonel, the lead MiG's radar is trying to get a lock on us," warned Jazz. "Threat analyzer says he has a pair of AA-12 Adder AMRAAMskis."

  "Storm, the Indian fighters are using their weapons radars to lock on us," Dog said. "I'm not in their territory. I can't tell if it's a bluff or not, but if I have to defend myself, I will."

  "Understood."

  Dog killed the circuit.

  "Jazz, try telling the Indian fighters their radar station is being attacked by commandos. Maybe they can talk to the station."

  "I'll give it a try, Colonel."

  "Wisconsin to Hawk One—be advised the MiGs are trying to lock their radar weapons on us," Dog told Mack. "On it, Colonel."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0510

  Storm glanced at the holographic display. Sharkboat One was still a good twenty miles to the east of the Indian radar station's atoll; it would take the small patrol boat another forty-five minutes to reach the platform, assuming he authorized it to enter Indian waters.

  "Eyes, what's the status on Werewolf?" he asked.

  "Should be just finishing refuel."

  "Good — get it up and over to the radar station. The submarines have surfaced. And Airforce — where the hell is he?" "Sleeping, Captain."

  "Get him out of bed. I want him at the wheel of that helicopter."

  "But—"

  "Pour a pot of coffee down his throat and get him up. I want him flying that bird. Got me?" "Yes, sir."

  Belatedly, Storm realized that Eyes was concerned not about getting Starship up but about breaking the news to Petty Officer Varitok, the man who was flying Werewolf now.

  "I'll explain it to Varitok," he added. "It's nothing personal. Have him come up to the bridge as soon as Airforce has taken over."

  "Aye aye, Captain."

  Dwarka Early Warning Radar Platform One,

  off the coast of India

  0510

  Captain Sattari's oar struck the rocks about mid-stroke. The jolt threw him forward so abruptly he nearly fell out of the raft. He pulled himself back, aware that his mistake had thrown off everyone else in the boat.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered, pushing the oar more gingerly this time. It hit the rocks about a third of the way down this time, and he was able to push forward, half paddling, half poling.

  Two more strokes and the bottom of the raft ran up on something sharp — a wire fence just under the waterline. Before Sattari could react, the water lapped over his legs. He could feel the rocks under his knees.

  "Wire," said the man at the bow in a hushed whisper. "I need the cutters."

  "Push the boat forward and use it to get over the wire onto the rocks," said Sattari. "We can just go from here."

  The man at the bow stood upright in the raft. Holding his AK-47 above his head, he stepped over onto the nearby rocks, then reached back to help Sattari. The captain fished the grenade launcher that had been next to him from the water and then got up, stumbling but managing to keep his balance.

  The others splashed toward him, carrying their waterproof rucks w
ith explosives. The legs of the platform loomed in the darkness just ahead. At any moment Sattari expected to hear gunfire and shouts; it seemed a miracle that the Indians had not detected them so far.

  "The ladder is here," said someone, not bothering to whisper.

  Sattari moved toward the voice, slipping on the rocks but keeping his balance. He reached a set of metal bars that had been planted in the rocks to hold part of the gridwork of a ladder. The captain grabbed the rail with his right hand and pulled himself up. He still clutched the grenade launcher with his left hand.

  Eight feet above the rocks, the ladder reached a platform. A set of metal stairs sat at one end; the other opened to a catwalk that extended around the legs.

  "Place a signal for the other boats," Sattari told the men who clambered up behind him. He did not single the men out as he spoke, trusting that they would divvy up the duties on their own. "Place your charges on the leg posts, then follow me."

  As he pushed toward the metal stairway, he heard a shout from above, then a round of gunfire.

  Finally, he thought. It hadn't seemed real until he heard the gunfire.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0515

  Mack Smith throttled Hawk One back toward the Megafortress, banking in the direction of the MiGs. If they were looking to play chicken, he was ready for them; he'd have them breaking for cover in a few minutes.

  Ten miles from the Megafortress he began another turn, aiming to put himself between the two bogies and the mother ship at roughly the distance they could fire their radar-guided missiles. As he got into position, Jazz gave an update.

  "MiG One is breaking off," reported the copilot. "Heading east. MiG Two— Whoa! Watch out! MiG Two is firing."

  "He's mine," said Mack, checking the sitrep. The Indian plane was three miles behind his left wing, closing fast. Mack brought up his weapons screen, readying his cannon.

  * * *

  Besides the midget submarine they'd found on the surface, there were two others, still submerged, but rising.

  They were about three miles northeast of the radar platform, within fifty yards of each other. Cantor put the Piranha into the underwater robot's version of a hover, its motor pushing just hard enough to keep the current at bay and stay in position.

  He got a connection warning that the Megafortress was going outside the range of the control buoy.

  "Piranha to Wisconsin—Colonel, we have a total of three submarines, one on the surface and two more coming up. Should be on the surface in less than a minute. But we're coming up to the edge of communications range with the buoy."

  "Roger that, Piranha, but I have other priorities — we have a missile on our tail and two apparently hostile aircraft pursuing us. Can you hand off to Wisconsin?"

  "Negative. They're not close enough."

  "Park it," Dog told him. "Prepare to launch Hawk Two as soon as you can."

  * * *

  Until now, all of the aircraft Mack had encountered while flying the Flighthawks had acted as if he wasn't there. The small planes were invisible to their radar except at very close range, and in the dark they were almost impossible to see. Mack planned his move against the Indian MiG as if that were the case now, expecting the aircraft to clear right after firing a second missile, at which point he could tuck into a tighter turn and get Hawk Two on its back. Alternatively, he might continue behind the Megafortress, positioning himself to fire heat-seekers if the radar-guided missiles failed to hit.

  But the MiG didn't fire another missile, nor did it turn off or even speed past him. Instead Mack found himself roughly a half mile in front of the MiG, well within range of its 30mm cannon. Seconds later tracers flew past Hawk Two's nose.

  Mack pickled flares as decoys and swung the Flighthawk into a shallow dive to his right. When he realized the MiG hadn't followed, he tried to pull back up and come up behind it. As he started to accelerate, the Indian pilot fired another AMRAAMski at the Wisconsin, then pulled hard to the right. Mack finally had his shot, but it was fleeting and at a terrible angle; he spit a few shells at the MiG's fat tail-fin, but lost the target in a turn. He tucked a little too hard to the right trying to stay with him and within seconds lost the plane completely and had to swing back in the direction of the Megafortress to keep from losing his connection.

  Not exactly auspicious. But as he glanced at the sitrep, he saw that MiG One was flying almost directly at him.

  If you've been handed a lemon, make lemonade, he thought, setting up for an intercept.

  Aboard the Shiva

  0516

  Memon's legs trembled as he stepped onto the deck of the Shiva's backup bridge, a space at the seaward side of the carrier's island that had not been damaged by the earlier attack. Even though it bore only a passing resemblance to the main bridge, Memon felt as if it were inhabited by ghosts. The fear that had hovered around him earlier pressed close to his ribs.

  "A message, Admiral!" one of the men on watch shouted to Admiral Skandar. "From the radar platform!"

  A commando team had been spotted trying to make an attack. A small American patrol craft was sailing in the general vicinity, and a flight of Indian landborne fighters were engaging the Megafortress nearby. It was assumed that the Americans had launched the attack.

  "You see, I was quite correct about where the true danger lay," Skandar told Memon. "They are honoring their commitments to Pakistan. This is the prelude to an attack by their aircraft on our bases."

  He picked up the phone connecting him to the ship's combat center. "Launch the attack. Do not neglect the American ship."

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0517

  The Indian's first missile had been fired from extremely long range, so far in fact that Dog knew from experience that he could simply outrun it. But the second missile was a different matter. He jerked the Megafortress's stick sharply, turning the bomber to the east. The radar tracking the Megafortress lost its slippery profile, and the missile flew on blind for several miles, vainly hoping that the ghost it was chasing would materialize in front of it when it used its own radar for terminal guidance.

  The sharp maneuver took Dog into Indian territory, where a host of ground radars that had been tracking them at long range suddenly sharpened their eyes and ears.

  "That SA-10 battery inland is trying to get a lock," said Jazz.

  "Tell these idiots we were in international airspace and are not hostile."

  "I've broadcasted that six ways to Sunday. I'll try again." "Cantor, you ready to launch?"

  "Booting the command sequences now, Colonel. Screens are just finishing their diagnostics."

  "Emergency launch of Hawk Two in sixty seconds."

  "MiG One is turning toward us from the east, roughly forty miles away," warned Jazz.

  "I've been expecting him," said Dog. "Get ready to launch."

  * * *

  Cantor took control of Hawk Two and immediately pushed east, figuring he could cut off the Indian fighter MiG One. But a glance at the sitrep showed that Mack and Hawk Two had gone in that direction, leaving the other plane free — and much closer to the Wisconsin.

  "I have Hawk Two," Cantor told Mack. "I'll get MiG One.

  You concentrate on MiG Two. He's off your left wing, two miles."

  "No, I have MiG One," said Mack. There was no point in arguing. Cantor immediately changed course, dipping his wing and plotting an intercept.

  * * *

  Dog swung the Wisconsin out to sea, still pursued by the AMRAAMski. The missile had a finite load of fuel; by rights it should have crashed into the sea by now.

  Or maybe time just seemed to be moving at light speed. Dog pitched his big aircraft on its wing in another sharp cut, trying to take advantage of one set of physical principles— those governing radio or radar waves — while defying another — those governing motion, mass, and momentum. In this case radio won out — the missil
e shot wide right and immolated itself.

  "MiG Two is swinging south," said Jazz. "Looks like he and his partner are going to try and sandwich us."

  "They can try if they want," said Dog.

  "At what point do we go to the Scorpions, Colonel?"

  "I'd rather hold on to them as long as we can," he told the copilot. "We may need them."

  And pretty soon too. This looked suspiciously like the start of all-out war.

  Dog turned back to the communications screen, activating the link with Jed Barclay in the NSC's Situation Room.

  "Jed, we've been fired on here by Indian MiGs," he told the NSC deputy as soon as his face appeared in the screen. "We've detected three submarines that we believe are trying to launch a commando attack on an Indian early warning radar platform near the border with Pakistan."

  "Are they Pakistani submarines? Or Chinese?"

  "We haven't identified them, but they match the sound profile Piranha recorded for the submarine that scuttled itself, which we believe was involved in the attack on Karachi."

  "Understood, Colonel. We're starting to get some alerts here now."

  Jazz broke in to tell Dog that there were four F-16 Pakistanis coming from the east.

  "Jed, things are getting a little crowded at the moment. I'll check back with you in a few minutes."

  "I'll be here, Colonel."

  "MiG One is launching missiles," warned Jazz. "AM-RAAMskis! Long range — sixteen, seventeen miles. Guess these guys believe the advertising."

  "ECMs. Stand by for evasive maneuvers. Mack, I thought you said you had this guy."

  * * *

  Mack had just made a turn and started to close on the MiG's tail when he saw the flare under its wings. Two large missiles ignited, steaming off in the direction of the Wisconsin. Mack's weapons screen indicated that he was not in range to fire; all he could do was wait for the tail of the Indian warplane to grow larger at the center of his screen. The targeting bar went yellow, then flickered red before turning back to yellow; the MiG pilot had punched his afterburner for more speed.