Текст книги "End Game"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Can’t do that, Storm. We’re on a very tight rotation as it is. If you want coverage—”

“Damn it, Bastian. Find a way to make it happen.” He killed the connection with an angry slap at the control unit.

Karachi oil terminal

0305

CAPTAIN SATTARI LOOPED THE WIRE FROM THE EXPLOSIVE

pack around the terminals, then strung it across the metal girder to the base of the stanchion below the massive tank.

The explosives were rigged to ignite the collector unit at the Karachi oil terminal complex. Designed to capture fumes from the storage tanks and prevent them from leaking into the environment, the system was the terminal’s weak link—blow it up, and the resulting backforce would rip through the pipes and cause fires and explosions in the storage tanks themselves.

Or at least the engineer who had analyzed the terminal believed that to be the case.

Sattari climbed over the long concrete barrier, letting the wire roll out of its spool as he went. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back and the sides of his body. He welcomed it—the poison was running from his body, the poison of fear.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The terminal consisted of several different tank farms, connected by a vast network of piping. Three different docks were used by ships loading and unloading. The gas collection system was at the extreme eastern end, located on a man-made pennisula with a rock jetty that extended to the sea.

The team’s demolition expert waited near the rocks. Sattari was glad to find he was not the last man to bring back the wire; two more men had yet to report back. He held up the wire for the man’s cutters.

“Thank you, Captain,” said the man, quickly stripping the strands and attaching them to his unit.

There were backup timers on each of the explosives, all set for the same time, but to do maximum damage to the tanks the explosives all had to go off at once, and the best way to guarantee that was by igniting them together. The signal would be received here by short-range radio, then instantly transmitted to the units.

Sergeant Ibn climbed up over the nearby rocks. “The next to last boat is leaving,” he told the captain. “You should go.”

“No,” said Sattari. “Two more men.”

“Captain.” The rocks were covered in shadow, but even in the dim light Sattari knew that his captain was looking at him reproachfully. “You should be back aboard the submarine, sir. I will wait for them.”

“Thank you, but I will not leave my men,” said Sattari.

“We will come when we have ignited the tanks.”

“Very good, Captain. Very good.”

Ibn put his hand to his head and snapped off a salute.

How much had changed in just a few short days; the aches and bruises, the sweat, even the fear, they were all worth it.

Sattari returned the salute, then turned back to look for the others.

END GAME

179

Aboard the Shiva ,

northern Arabian Sea

0310

MEMON FELT HIS CHEST CATCH AS HE READ THE MESSAGE: WITHDRAW TO 24° 00’ 00”. DO NOT PROVOKE THE CHINESE.

–ADM. SKANDAR

He handed the message to Captain Adri, who smirked but said nothing before giving the paper back to Admiral Kala.

“We will recover the aircraft,” the admiral said in a tone that suggested he was talking to himself rather than giving orders. “Then we will sail south, and farther out to sea.”

“We’ve been cheated,” said Memon as the others went silently to their tasks.

Drigh Road

0312

“HEY, COLONEL, WHAT CAN WE DO FOR YOU?” SAID DANNY

Freah, rubbing his eyes as he sat down in front of the communications console in the Dreamland Command trailer.

Sergeant Rockland, known as Boston, was on duty as the communications specialist. He walked to the other end of the trailer and began making some fresh coffee.

“Sorry to wake you up, Danny,” said Dog, talking from the Wisconsin. “But Piranha has an odd submarine contact near the Karachi port. Storm thinks it may be his mysterious submarine and he wants to see where it surfaces. If it surfaces.”

“You want me to take Whiplash Osprey up and reconnoi-ter?”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“Question—do I tell the Pakistanis what I’m up to?”

“No. He thinks this is their submarine, the same one that 180

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

attacked the Calcutta. Run it as a training mission.”

“Will do.” Danny got up from the console. “Yo, Boston—go wake up Pretty Boy.”

“Action, Cap?”

“Not really. Just a midnight joy ride. But it’ll have to do for now. Roust the Osprey crew on your way.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, DANNY, BOSTON, AND SERGEANT

Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd peered from the side windows of Dreamland’s MV-22 Osprey, using their Mk1 eyeballs to augment the craft’s search and air rescue radar and infrared sensors. They were less than fifty feet above the churning gray waves, heading south toward the spot where the Piranha had lost contact with the vessel.

“Gotta be an underwater cave, Cap,” said Boston. “I say we dive in and find the sucker.”

“Go for it,” said Pretty Boy. “That water’s a stinking sewer.”

“You comin’ with me, dude,” joshed Boston. “You my swimmin’ buddy.”

Danny peered out the window, using the night-vision gear embedded in his smart helmet to look at the shoreline.

There was a small marina just ahead; pleasure boats bobbed at their moorings. Beyond them a channel led to a set of docks used by container ships. A little farther south sat a large oil terminal, where tankers unloaded their cargo.

It seemed to him this would be a particularly bad place to hide a submarine base. While an enemy might not look for it here, there were so many small boats and commercial vessels that someone was bound to stumble across you sooner or later.

“Whiplash leader to Levitow. Bree, can you spare me some attention?”

“What do you need?”

“Punch me through to Ensign English, would you? I want to pick her brain for a second.”

“Stand by.”

END GAME

181

“English here.”

“Ensign, this is Danny Freah. Help me out here—why do we think this submarine is Pakistani?”

“We’re not really sure. The only thing we know is that it’s not similar to known submarines operating in any fleet nearby, nor a Russian or American, for that matter. It could be anyone’s.”

“How about a special operations craft?”

“Possible, Captain. I wouldn’t rule anything out. It may even be a noisemaker.”

Before Danny could thank her, the aircraft was buffeted by a shock wave.

“Holy shit!” yelled Boston. “Something just blew up half of Karachi!”

V

Fires of Hell

Northern Arabian Sea,

offshore of the Karachi oil terminal 13 January 1998

0312

THE EXPLOSION WAS SO IMMENSE THAT IT BLEW ONE OF THE

men into Captain Sattari, and they tumbled backward into the water. Sattari found himself on his back under the waves, surrounded by darkness. He tried to push himself upright but was paralyzed.

I’m going to die, he thought.

Rather than panic, the idea filled him with a kind of peace.

He felt his arms and legs relax; he thought of his triumph now, another mission executed with complete precision.

Then he felt himself being pulled upward. One of his men had grabbed him and was hauling him out of the water.

The man who had fallen on top of him struggled to his knees as Sattari coughed the water from his lungs.

“The boat, Captain,” said his man. “Into the boat.”

Sattari pushed himself in the direction of the raft. He found one of the gunwales with his hand and flopped forward, landing in the bottom like a seal flipping itself out of the water. He got upright as the others entered the craft. In a moment they were heading out to sea.

A mountain of fire had erupted from the collection system, setting off a tank of light fuel about fifty yards away.

The heat was so warm he could feel it here, more than a quarter mile away. There were rumbles, more explosions—the entire terminal would burn, and burn for hours.

186

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The Pakistanis would have no choice now but to attack.

The Indians would retaliate. The Chinese would come to Pakistan’s aid. The Indians would be destroyed, and with luck, the Chinese would be severely bloodied as well. Iran would be free of her two rivals—and the price of oil would soar.

Sattari picked up his oar and began helping the others, each stroke pushing them farther out to sea.

There was an aircraft nearby; he heard the loud drone, something like a helicopter, or two perhaps, very close.

“The sub is there, she’s there,” said one of the men, spotting a blinking light in the distance.

“Strong strokes!” said Sattari. “We are almost home, men.”

It was a wildly optimistic lie—they had another thirty-six hours of submerged sailing to do before reaching their next rendezvous—but the men responded with a flurry of strokes.

Aboard the Shiva ,

northern Arabian Sea

0314

“A HUGE FIREBALL—I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE. SOMEONE

must have set the entire oil terminal on fire.”

Memon watched the admiral as the pilot’s report continued over the loudspeaker.

“The Pakistanis have set their oil tanks on fire as an excuse to attack us,” Memon told the admiral when the report ended. “We should strike before the Chinese can.”

“Our orders say to do nothing to provoke the Chinese,”

said Captain Bhaskar. “Admiral Skandar himself directed us to withdraw.”

“The hell with Skandar—he’s not here.”

“You’re supposed to be representing him, aren’t you?”

said Adri.

Memon pressed his lips together. Captain Adri was nothing but a coward. “The circumstances have changed. If Ad-

END GAME

187

miral Skandar were here, he would order the attack himself.”

“Aircraft from the Deng Xiaoping have changed course and are heading in our direction,” reported the radar officer.

“Will we wait until their missiles hit us to fire back?”

Memon asked.

“Prepare for missile launch,” said the admiral. “Air commander—shoot those fighters down.”

Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

near the Karachi oil terminal

0315

DANNY GRABBED HOLD OF ONE OF THE RESTRAINING STRAPS

at the side of the Osprey as the aircraft wheeled around to head toward the terminal. The pilots had flipped on the Osprey’s searchlights, but the towering flames from the explosion were more than enough to illuminate the facility and surrounding water. The force of the explosion probably meant that at least one of the two liquefied natural gas tanks at the terminal had been detonated. Geysers of flame shot up, as if competing with each other for brilliance.

Danny reached to the back of his smart helmet and hit the circuit to tie into the Dreamland Command channel.

“Danny Freah for Colonel Bastian. Colonel?”

The software smart agent that controlled the communications channels buzzed the colonel, whose voice soon boomed in Danny’s ear.

“What’s going on?”

“An attack on the Karachi port oil terminal. Big attack—has to be sabotage. My bet is that submarine we were looking for wasn’t Pakistani at all.”

“Stand by, Danny.”

The Osprey drew parallel to the conflagration, then veered away, the fire and secondary explosions so intense that the pilot feared for his aircraft.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Danny, we’re going to swing Levitow over that way to use its radar to search for periscopes,” said Dog. “In the meantime, search the immediate area for small boats, anything that might be used by a spec-op team to get away. You know the drill. And if you see any survivors who need help—”

“Yeah, we’re on that, Colonel,” Danny told him, moving forward to confer with the pilots.

Aboard the Levitow ,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0317

“COMING TO NEW COURSE,” BREANNA TOLD STEWART. “WE

should be within visual range of the terminal in less than five minutes.”

“Roger that,” said Stewart.

Breanna heard a tremble in her copilot’s voice. There wasn’t much she could do about it now, so she ignored it, quickly checking the panels on the configurable “dashboard” in front of her.

“Piranha to Levitow,” said Ensign English over the interphone. “Captain, I’ve put the Piranha into a circle pattern around our last buoy. The Chinese submarine is twenty miles from the buoy. At most, we have an hour before we’ll lose contact.”

“Roger that, Piranha. Thanks, Gloria. That vessel did not launch or have any contact with the one we’ve been trailing?”

“Affirmative. We would have heard it. These are two un-related boats.”

The radar warning receiver began buzzing. Without waiting for her copilot, Breanna hit a preset to display the threat panel at her station. One of the Chinese escort vessels had activated the targeting radar for its antiaircraft batteries.

END GAME

189

They were outside its effective range, though of course that might not keep them from firing.

“Jan—ECMS,” said Breanna, deciding not to take any chances.

“ECMS, yes. Communication on the guard frequency,”

added the copilot. “All aircraft are being warned to stay away from the Chinese fleet or be shot down.”

“How far away?”

“Not specific. Pakistanis are declaring an emergency—they’re saying the same thing.”

“To us?”

“Um, not specifically.”

“J-13s heading our way,” broke in the airborne radar operator.

“All right, everyone, let’s take this step by step,” Breanna told her crew. “We’re proceeding on course to look for a possible submarine. Be prepared for evasive maneuvers. We will defend ourselves if necessary.”

“Indian aircraft are approaching Chinese task force at a high rate of speed!” said the radar operator, shouting now.

“Two J-13s going to meet them. They’re gunning for each other, Bree.”

The radar warning receiver lit up with a new threat—a Pakistani antiaircraft battery northeast of Karachi was trying to get a fix on them. The missiles associated with the radar were American Hawks, early generation antiaircraft weapons still potent against low and medium altitude aircraft out to about twenty-five miles. The weapons’

aim could be disrupted with a specific ECM program stored in the Megafortress’s computer; they represented a low threat. Even so, the sky was starting to get a bit crowded.

“Jan, see if you can get word to the PAF that we’re a friendly. Broadcast an alert—see if you can make contact with one of their patrols.”

“F-16s scrambling in our direction,” answered Stewart.

190

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Crowded indeed. “Surface radar—Smitty, you have any periscopes yet?”

“Looking, Captain.”

“J-13s are goosing their jets,” said Stewart. “They’ll be within range to fire their missiles in zero-one minutes.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the western Arabian Sea

0317

“INDIAN AND CHINESE PLANES ARE MIXING IT UP, COLONEL,”

said T-Bone. “This is going to get ugly fast.”

Dog hit the preset to connect with the Abner Read. “Eyes, this is Bastian. The Indian and Chinese aircraft are firing at each other. There may be an attack under way against that Chinese carrier.”

Storm came on the line. “Get your aircraft out of there,”

he told Dog. “Stay just close enough to get radar pictures of what’s going on if you can. But if there’s any doubt—”

“The contact we had earlier must have been some sort of special operations craft that dropped off commandos,” Dog continued. “If you want us to look for it—”

“Pull back, Bastian. For your own good. I don’t want any casualties. They’re not worth it.”

“Roger that,” Dog told him.

Aboard the Levitow,

over the western Arabian Sea

0318

MACK CONTINUED TO CLIMB, PULLING THE FLIGHTHAWK FIVE

thousand feet over the Megafortress’s tail. The Flighthawk’s threat panel showed that the two J-13s were armed with Chinese versions of the radar-guided AMRAAMski. He’d make his attack as the first plane closed to nineteen miles; if he END GAME

191

played it right, he would be able to jerk back and take a quick shot at the other, which was riding about a quarter mile behind and to the east. And if he played it wrong, Breanna would still have some space to take evasive action.

Played it wrong?

He had to admit it was a possibility.

“Hawk Three, we’re under orders to break contact with the Chinese and Indian forces,” said Breanna. “We’re breaking off the search.”

“Repeat?”

“I’m changing course and going north, Mack. Stay with me.”

“Don’t worry about these guys,” Mack told her. “I’ll dust them.”

“Negative, Mack,” said Breanna. “Stay with me!”

Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0318

“CAN WE SEND ONE OF THOSE FLIGHTHAWKS CLOSE ENOUGH

to the Chinese fleet to get infrared images?” asked Eyes.

“This an intelligence bonanza. If these idiots are stupid enough to fight each other, we might as well benefit.”

Storm thought that was an excellent idea—except that as Bastian was fond of pointing out, the Flighthawks had to stay close to the Megafortresses, and they had to stay a good distance away from the Chinese or risk getting shot down.

But he had an asset that could get as close as he wanted it to. Best of all, he didn’t have to deal with Bastian’s people to get it done.

Or maybe more accurately, the person who he had to talk to no longer belonged to Bastian.

“Eyes, get the second Werewolf airborne. I’m going to talk to Airforce personally,” Storm added, flipping into the communications channel. “Starship? You hear me?”

192

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Yes, Captain.”

“Listen carefully, Airforce. Take Werewolf One and head toward the Indian task force. I want pictures of that carrier and everything it does. Get Two airborne and hustle it over toward the Chinese. Same thing there.”

“That’s going to leave us naked.”

“Do I have to explain every single detail of what I’m thinking to you, son?”

“Yes, sir. I mean no. Werewolf One en route.”

Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

near the Karachi oil terminal

0320

“HEY, CAP, IS THAT A WAKE DOWN THERE? SOME SORT OF

wave?” said Boston, pointing out the window.

Danny went to the left side of the aircraft and peered out at the water about twelve feet below.

“I’m not sure what you’re looking at, Boston.”

“Let’s get lower. Can we get lower?”

Before Danny could hit the interphone line on the communications system to talk to the pilots, the Osprey veered sharply to his right.

“Chinese aircraft is challenging us, and trying to lock with weapons radar,” said the pilot. “I have to get out of here.”

“Go ahead, go!” Danny told him. And before the word was out of his mouth, the Osprey had settled her tilt-rotors and jerked back toward shore.

Aboard the Levitow ,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0321

BREANNA ACKNOWLEDGED THE KARACHI TOWER’S INSTRUCtions, telling the Pakistani flight controller that they were END GAME

193

clearing out of its airspace. The transmission was overrun by a radio call from another group of aircraft.

“Dreamland Levitow, this is Whiplash leader,” said Danny on the Dreamland channel.

“Levitow.”

“Bree, we’re being targeted by some Chinese aircraft.”

Breanna glanced at the sitrep. The Levitow was thirty miles due west of Karachi, over Pakistan. Whiplash Osprey was three miles south of the city, close to the oil terminal.

Apparently the J-13s that had been following them had broken off once the Megafortress changed course. They were now approaching the Osprey.

“Hang on, Danny,” she said, jerking the control stick to turn the big aircraft around. “Cavalry’s on its way.”

Aboard the Shiva ,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0321

THE FIRST MISSILE LEFT THE SHIVA WITH A THUNK AND HISS, steam furrowing from the rear. Two more quickly followed.

The missiles seemed to stutter in the sky, as if unsure of where they were going, but their noses straightened as they reached the black edge of the night beyond the darkened ship. All three were P-700 Granits—known to NATO as SSN-19 Shipwrecks. The Russian-designed weapons were potent, long-range cruise missiles with thousand-kilogram explosive warheads.

Memon watched as their shadows disappeared, oblivious to the chaos behind him. The carrier was simultaneously maneuvering to launch another set of fighters and to fire a round of missiles. These were P-120 Malakhits, better known as SS-N-9 Sirens. The weapons required mid-course guidance to strike their target; this would be provided by a data link with a specially designated Su-33.

“The Chinese aircraft are attempting to lock their 194

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

weapons radars on us!” warned one of the officers on the bridge.

Memon felt himself strangely at peace. India’s new age was beginning; the future held great promise.

Northern Arabian Sea,

offshore of the Karachi oil terminal 0323

CAPTAIN SATTARI GRIPPED THE SEAT RESTRAINT AS THE SUBmarine sank. At every second, he expected an attack. The Parvaneh was not armored at all; a few bullets through the hull would cause serious damage.

“There are many aircraft above,” the submarine captain told him. “It may be difficult to take the course as planned.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We move farther offshore, and remain submerged for a few hours before proceeding. The nearby ships will launch a search, you see. The more we move, the easier we will be to find.”

The other submarines were already moving toward the rendezvous point. If they waited, they might miss them and the A-40 that was to pick them up in two days.

“No,” said Sattari. “The chaos will help us escape. The Indians and Chinese will be concerned with each other. Allah is with us. Let us place ourselves in His hands.”

Aboard the Levitow ,

above the northern Arabian Sea

0325

MACK HAD TO SCRAMBLE TO STAY WITH THE MEGAFORTRESS

as it twisted back toward Karachi. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying out of the east on a collision course, but the J-13s targeting the Whiplash aircraft were his priority. He END GAME

195

pushed his nose down, accelerating as he aimed to get between the Chinese fighters and the Osprey.

“Fighters are still not acknowledging,” said Stewart over the interphone.

“Tell them I’m going to shoot them down if they fire on my people,” snapped Mack, jamming the throttle for more speed.

Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

near Karachi

0326

DANNY FREAH FLEW AGAINST THE BULKHEAD TO THE COCKPIT

as the Osprey veered downward, trying to duck the Chinese fighters. The gyrations spun the Whiplash captain around like a pinball, slapping him against one of the benches and bouncing him back toward the cockpit. Danny grabbed for one of the strap handles near the opening, checking his momentum like a cowboy busting a bronc.

“Tell them we’re Americans, damn it,” Danny said to the pilot.

“I keep trying, Captain. They’re not listening.”

Flames leapt up in front of them.

“I’m going to stay near the fire,” said the pilot. “They won’t be able to use their heat-seekers.”

“Don’t burn us up in the meantime,” said Danny, nearly losing his balance as the Osprey veered hard to the left.

Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0327

CAPTAIN HONGWU COUNTED THE ENEMY’S MISSILE LAUNCHES

as they were announced, listening with a Buddhalike patience that would have impressed his ancestors, though 196

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Hongwu himself did not put much stock in the religion’s basic beliefs. He was surprised by the Indians’ attack, but not caught off guard; tensions between the two countries had been increasing for years, and ships from the two nations had engaged in a bloody battle in the Pacific months before. The Chinese had not done particularly well in that battle, but Hongwu had carefully studied it, and planned now to apply its lessons.

He had another advantage besides knowledge: a considerably improved anti-cruise-missile system. The Pili, or Thunderbolt, had been developed from the LY-60 Falcon, with insights gained from the Italian Aspide. The weapon flew at Mach 4 and could strike a cruise missile at twenty kilometers.

Or so it had on the testing range. It was about to be put through a much more grueling trial.

Listening to the reports, Hongwu grasped the Indian commander’s mistake; rather than concentrating his attack, he was launching small salvos against the entire fleet.

“Prepare to defend the ship,” said Captain Hongwu. “And then answer the attack. Have Squadron One attack the Shiva. Direct the others to attack any target they see south of us.”

“Any ship, Captain?”

“Any ship. There are only Indian warships south of our fleet.”

Northern Arabian Sea

0327

STARSHIP MISTOOK THE VESSEL THAT LOOMED AHEAD IN HIS

screen for the Deng Xiaoping, even though he knew from the sitrep that he should be at least five miles from the Chinese aircraft carrier. A flood of tracers erupted from midships, a fountain of green sparks in the screen. He started to veer away before realizing the gunfire wasn’t aimed at him; END GAME

197

it leapt far off to his left, extending toward a dark shadow that rose from the sea like a shark. Lightning flashed; the ship, fully illuminated for a moment, seemed to be pushed back in his screen. Another flood of tracers began firing, and a missile launched from the forward deck near the superstructure of the ship, which he now knew must be one of the Chinese destroyers.

Two seconds later there was another white flash, this one partially blocked by the ship. A geyser of light erupted near the destroyer’s funnel. Two, three, fireballs rocketed above the ship.

“I see two missile strikes,” Starship told Eyes, “on the Chinese destroyer—it’s UNK-C-1 on my screen,” he added, using the computer’s designation for the contact.

“We see it. Good work. Get over to the carrier,” said Eyes.

“Working on it,” said Starship.

Aboard the Levitow ,

above the northern Arabian Sea

0328

“HAWK THREE IS THIRTY SECONDS FROM THE INTERCEPT,”

Stewart told Breanna. “What do you want him to do?”

“He’s going to shoot the Chinese planes down if they don’t break off,” said Breanna.

Stewart nodded to herself. How could Breanna be so calm? All hell was breaking loose—besides the two J-13s, another pair of jets had just taken off from the Chinese carrier and were turning in their direction. There were all sorts of missiles in the air, radars, aircraft—Stewart couldn’t keep track of any of it.

She had dealt with just this sort of chaos dozens of times in simulations. But this was exponentially different.

“Try the Chinese one more time,” said Breanna.

As Stewart went to push the communication button to broadcast simultaneously on all-known frequencies, she re-

198

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

alized she already had set the unit to do so. “Dreamland Levitow to Chinese J-13s following the Osprey aircraft—that’s one of ours. He’s on a rescue mission. Don’t fire on him, damn you. Acknowledge. Or else we’re shooting you down!”

She pressed the button on the next panel down, rebroadcasting the radio transmission in Chinese. Then, trying to anticipate what Bree would want to do, she went to the weapons screen and got ready to launch an AMRAAM-plus.

MACK SAW THE OSPREY IN THE LONG-RANGE SCAN, DANCING

over the burning tank farm. The pilot seemed to be using the fire as a way to deke any missiles launched at him. It seemed like a good idea, though it sure looked dangerous—the aircraft dipped and disappeared in the flames, bobbing upward only to zip down again.

The J-13 appeared on his screen, coming in from the right about three miles ahead of him. Mack began angling toward its tail, his heart starting to race as the targeting bar blinked yellow. He was going to nail this sucker, and it was going to feel good.

Just as the targeting bar began blinking red, the J-13

stretched in his screen. It was an optical illusion—the plane was veering hard to the right. Mack hung with it; the bar went solid red.

“He’s turning off, Mack,” said Breanna. “The Chinese aircraft is turning off.”

Too late, thought Mack. He’s dead.

But he lifted his finger off the trigger.

Aboard the Shiva ,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0335

THE GUNS IMMEDIATELY BELOW THE BRIDGE BEGAN TO FIRE, their steady staccato the sound of a jackhammer tearing END GAME

199

through thin concrete. Memon stared in the direction of the steam of bullets but couldn’t see their target. Then yellow light rose from below. Memon saw the shadow of a man loom before him, then heaved over, the deck suddenly cut away. He felt hot and wet, surrounded by screams, and a curtain of pain stunned his vision black.

Aboard the Wisconsin,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0336

“TWO J-13S HEADING IN THE DIRECTION OF THE ABNER

Read,” T-Bone told Dog, reading the screens at his airborne radar station. “Twenty-five feet above sea level. Not clear that they have the ship ID’d as a target. Approximately twenty-five miles from the Abner Read. Computer says they have very large missiles aboard, Colonel—Chinese variation of Styx, designation C-106.”

“Bay,” Dog told Jazz, changing course to intercept them.

The copilot acknowledged and the bomb bay door swung open.

“Dreamland Wisconsin to Abner Read. Two aircraft are heading in your direction. They appear equipped with versions of the Russian Styx.”

“Bastian, what do you have?” said Eyes.

“J-13s coming at you hot. Each has a Styx cruise missile.

I can take them out, but you have to decide right now.”

“Stand by.”

The com line went silent. Almost a full minute passed before Storm came back on the line.

“They’re homing in on our radar,” said Storm. “They may think we’re one of the Indian screening ships. We’ve broadcast a warning and they haven’t responded. If they don’t turn back in sixty seconds, shoot them down.”

“Copy that.”

200

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard Dreamland Osprey,

near Karachi

0336

A WALL OF FLAMES APPEARED DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THE OS-prey. Before Danny could blink, they’d flown into them.

The aircraft shot sideways, shimmying and shaking and jerking like a train that had suddenly come off its tracks. Finally, the nose moved upward in a gentle tilt and they climbed away from the raging fires.

Danny saw figures running along a pier near the northern side of the terminal. The water around them seemed to be on fire.

“Let’s see if we can rescue them,” he told the pilot.

“We’ll break out the rescue basket and winch it down.”

“The whole place is on fire,” said the pilot.

“Which means we better hurry.”

Danny ran to the rear of the aircraft and told Boston and Pretty Boy that they were going to try and pull the people off the pier. As they pulled the stretcher basket out from its compartment below the web seats, Danny clicked back into the Dreamland command line.

“Whiplash leader to Dreamland Levitow—Bree, you there?”