Текст книги "End Game"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Thinking he could help the rescue operations, Starship moved Werewolf Two out of its orbit about a mile to the east. He lit his searchlights as he came near the stricken ship, dropping into a hover and illuminating the water. Almost immediately his RWR buzzed with a warning that he was being targeted by the radar for an SA-N-4 antiaircraft system. Starship doused his lights and throttled away as two missiles launched.

The SA-N-4s had about a ten kilometer range, and Werewolf Two had a two kilometer head start. Starship zigged right and left, bobbing up and then jamming back toward the waves, trying to confuse the missile’s guidance system.

He thought he’d made it when the Werewolf suddenly flew upward, uncontrolled; before he could regain control the screen blanked.

Near Karachi oil terminal

0355

DANNY PUSHED HIS LEGS TOGETHER AND COVERED HIS FACE

as he fell from the Osprey, plunging toward a black hole in the red flickering ocean. The flames swelled up around him, then disappeared as he sank into the water. Once below the surface, he leaned forward and began stroking.

He’d gone out in the direction of the pier, and figured that so long as he pushed himself forward he would eventually come to it.

The water was so dark that he couldn’t see anything in front of him. After what he thought must be five minutes, he raised his hand to clear some of the oil from the surface above and went up to get his bearings. But all he could see was heavy smoke and thin red curls of flame.

Danny pushed back under the water, determined to find the pier and get Boston out of there. He still had his boots on; their weight and that of the gear he was carrying for Boston tired him as he swam. When he surfaced, flames END GAME

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shot over him and he quickly ducked back, swimming blindly ahead. His arms began to ache.

Finally, his hand struck something hard. Thinking it was the pier, Danny surfaced and began hauling himself upward. When he got up he realized he’d climbed on a submerged concrete pillar, part of an older pier that had been removed some years before. The pier Boston was on sat ten yards behind him, barely visible in the smoke.

Flames ran out of a long pipe about thirty yards to the north; the pipe led back to the tank farm, a roaring inferno that showed no sign of subsiding.

“Boston! Yo Boston!” he yelled as shadows danced around him. “Boston, you hear me?”

The wind howled. Danny took a breath, ready to dive in, then remembered his boots. He doffed them and dove back into the water, the stink of oil and kerosene stinging his nose.

In three strokes he reached his hand to the metal rail at the base of the pier—then jerked it off and dove back down below the water.

By the time the pain came, a wall of flames had passed overhead. Smarting from the burn, Danny worked his way to his right, in the direction he thought Boston would be.

About five yards down he had to push around another underwater pillar before reaching the wooden surface of the pier. Tired, he didn’t have enough energy or leverage to make it up and fell back into the water.

“Boston!” he yelled, trying to jerk the LAR-V rebreather gear he was carrying onto the pier. “Boston!”

A hand grabbed him from behind.

“Here, Cap,” said Boston, in the water behind him.

Danny pulled the breathing gear back down between them.

“Damn hot up there,” said Boston. “Whole place is on fire.”

“We have to swim out beyond the fire,” Danny told him.

“So the Osprey can pick us up.”

“They told me,” shouted Boston in his ear.

“This way,” said Danny, pointing before plunging down.

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Aboard the Wisconsin,

above the northern Arabian Sea

0407

“LOOKS LIKE BOTH NAVIES ARE WITHDRAWING,” T-BONE TOLD

Dog. “The aircraft are staying over the ships. The Chinese have three J-13s and one helicopter over the Deng. Three helos west, doing search and rescue on the frigate that sunk.

The Indians have two planes over their carrier. Nothing else in the air.”

Less than an hour had passed since the first shot had been fired. Two ships had been sunk, one by each navy. Each side had lost four jets; the Chinese had also lost a helicopter.

Considerable damage had been done to the remaining ships and aircraft.

And then there was the oil terminal, still burning, sure to be completely destroyed before the fires were out.

“Thanks, T-Bone. Dish, you have anything to add?”

“Just that I could use some breakfast.”

“I’ll take your order,” volunteered Jazz. “As long as it’s coffee and microwaved muffins.”

Dog, not quite in the mood to laugh, nudged his stick to take the Megafortress a little higher.

Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0415

TOASTED BY THE INDIAN SHIP, STARSHIP TURNED HIS ATTENtion to the other Werewolf. The aircraft was circling alone over the survivors of the Chinese ship. The water seemed absurdly peaceful.

“Werewolf One heading back to the ship,” he told Eyes.

“Two is gone.”

“You lost the aircraft?”

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What the hell did you expect? thought Starship. But he kept his mouth shut, not even bothering to acknowledge.

“A THOUSAND PARDONS?” SCREAMED STORM INTO HIS

mouthpiece. “A thousand pardons?”

“That’s what he said, Captain.” The radioman’s voice was nearly as incredulous as Storm’s. “That was their message from their captain.”

“He sends his airplanes to sink my ship, and he says a thousand pardons?”

“They say he didn’t send them. They must have mistaken us for an Indian vessel.”

“Oh, that’s believable.” Storm shook his head. “Did you tell him the two airplanes that made the attack were shot down?”

“I said they required assistance. He asked if we could render it.”

“Gladly,” said Storm. “As soon as hell freezes over.”

Near Karachi oil terminal

0415

WHEN DANNY BROKE WATER AFTER TEN MINUTES OF SOLID

swimming, he had cleared the worst of the smoke. Large pieces of wood bobbed in the water nearby. The first one was too small to support him; the second, a plastic milk crate or something similar, sank beneath his weight. As he was searching for something else, Boston popped up nearby.

“There, over there,” shouted Boston, pointing to the west.

“Those lights are the Osprey’s.”

Danny turned and saw two beams extending down to the water. Reaching into a pocket sewn under the Draeger vest, he took out a small waterproof pouch. Inside the pouch was a pencil flare, a small signaling device intended for emergency pickups like this. The flare was designed to work even in the water, but getting it ready was not the easiest 218

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

thing in the world. He took in a mouthful of foul seawater before managing to set it off.

Boston flipped onto his back and paddled nearby.

“You look like you’re in a goddamn pool,” said Danny, his teeth starting to chatter.

The Osprey’s rotors kicked up a strong downdraft, and a swell pushed Danny under. He had to fight to the surface.

“Grab on, grab on!” yelled Boston, who’d already gotten hold of the cable. “Come on, Cap.”

Danny threw himself at his sergeant, thrashing around until he managed to hook his arm around the other man’s.

He got another mouthful of water before the cable began winching upward.

“They told me you were out of your mind,” Boston repeated. “Damn good thing!”

“Damn good thing,” Danny said to himself, twisting as the cable hauled them to safety.

VI

Catastrophic Events

Allegro, Nevada

1710, 12 January 1998

(0610, 13 January, Karachi)

ZEN FLIPPED THROUGH THE TELEVISION STATIONS AS HE RESTED

between dumbbell sets. He wished it were baseball season; baseball was the perfect sport to watch when you were only half paying attention.

He stopped on CNN, put down the remote control and reached back for the weights. He took a long breath and then brought the dumbbells forward, doing a straight pullover.

“A CNN special report—breaking news,” blared the television.

Zen ignored it, pulling the weight over his head. He’d let his workout routines slip because of the procedures. He hadn’t swum since last Saturday, and the weights felt heavy and awkward.

“We have a live report from Stephen Densmore in Delhi, India,” said the television announcer.

Zen, concentrating on the exercise, lowered the dumbbells toward his waist, then pulled them back overhead. As he brought the bars back behind him to the floor, the news-man began talking.

“Over a hundred people were reported killed and at least that number are missing following the early morning clash between Indian and Chinese naval vessels off the Pakistani coastline. An oil terminal in Karachi was said to have been destroyed in the fighting.”

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“Karachi?” said Zen. He let the weights drop and rolled over to his stomach. The screen showed a still photo of an Indian naval vessel said to have been sunk.

“Where was this?” Zen asked the TV. “Where?”

But the network cut to a commercial. Zen waited patiently through a spot for Folger’s coffee, but instead of adding more details when they returned, the anchor cued the weath-erman. Zen crawled toward the end table and reached for his phone.

Aboard the Abner Read , northern Arabian Sea

13 January 1998

0610

“AIRFORCE, WHY DID YOU PUT THE WEREWOLF DOWN INTO

that ship?”

Starship shifted uneasily. He’d actually forgotten all about that, sure that Storm was going to ball him out for losing the Werewolf to the Indian missile.

“I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, sir.”

Lame, completely lame, but what else could he say?

Storm shook his head. “Do you realize the Chinese could have grabbed the Werewolf at any moment?”

“That might be a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, they weren’t expecting anything and I was only there for a minute. Not even. I was always right under the opening for the elevator. I could just escape straight up.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You took a big risk, mister. A huge risk.”

Starship nodded.

“Officially, you’re on report,” said Storm. “That was a foolish thing to do.”

The furrows in the captain’s brow deepened; he looked like a gargoyle about to spit stone.

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“Unofficially,” added Storm, “that was the ballsiest thing I’ve ever seen anyone ever do.”

Starship was confused, but he was even more confounded as Storm formed his hand into a fist and hit his shoulder with a roundhouse so powerful he was nearly knocked off his feet. The captain wore a grin that covered half his face.

“Way to go, Airforce,” Storm told him. “The intelligence geeks back at the Pentagon are going apeshit over this. It’s the coup of the year. You keep this up and you’ll be a permanent member of the team.”

“Thanks, sir,” said Starship, rubbing his shoulder.

National Security Council offices,

Washington, D.C.

2021, 12 January 1998

(0621, 13 January, Karachi)

JED BARCLAY KNEW ONE OF HIS PHONES WAS RINGING, BUT

couldn’t figure out which one it was until the third trill.

Then he pulled his personal cell phone out of his pocket.

“Uh, Jed,” he said, unsure who would be calling on the seldom used line.

“Jed, it’s your cousin Jeff.”

“Hey, Zen. How’s it goin’?”

“What’s going on in India?”

“Oh—jeez. All hell’s breaking loose.”

“Karachi was attacked. Breanna’s there,” Zen added. “I figured you could give me some background.”

“Listen, cuz, I really can’t talk about that on this line, you know?”

“Is Bree going to be OK?”

“Well, none of our people have been, uh, hurt that I know of.”

“I know that. I just talked to the base. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Yeah. Um. I still can’t talk on this line.”

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“What if I call you back from Dreamland?”

Jed knew that the Dreamland contingent was being pulled out of Karachi because of the volatile situation there. But not only couldn’t he say so on a phone line that could be tapped, it wasn’t his place to be handing out that information.

“Maybe. You don’t sound like yourself,” Jed told his cousin. “You, like, worried about Breanna?”

“Damn straight.”

“She can take care of herself, though. I mean, Bree’s been—”

“I’ll call you in an hour.”

Zen hung up before Jed could warn him that he might be hard to reach; the National Security Council was setting up a meeting, and he expected to be called upstairs to help his boss prepare a presidential briefing any second.

Jed went back to his computer, looking at the images that had been forwarded from the Abner Read following the battle. The conflict had provided a wealth of tactical and strate-gic intelligence, but right now he just wanted something he could show the President to illustrate both the damage and the firepower of the ships involved.

The Abner Read had obtained particularly interesting video of the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping, thanks to the exploits of its Werewolf. Among the images Jed paged through were clear shots of the hangar deck, showing a number of planes in storage and even what looked like a weapons area. Wondering if the information might change the Pentagon’s assessment of the relative power of the two fleets—the analysts had been calling the Deng Xiaoping and Shiva about even—Jed picked up the phone and called the Pentagon.

The Navy intelligence officer he wanted to talk to was away from his desk. So were two other people he called. He was about to try someone at the CIA who specialized in weapons assessments when his friend at the Navy called him back.

END GAME

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“You’re wondering about the Deng?” said the lieutenant commander.

“I’m wondering if these images are going to change your assessment that the two task groups are evenly matched, or if the battle did,” Jed told him.

“Too early to say for sure, but it looks like the Chinese have a new anticruise missile weapon. There’s something else even more interesting about the Deng, though.”

“More interesting?”

“You got W-AB73-20 there?” asked the officer, referring to one of the image’s index numbers.

“Hang tight,” said Jed, swinging around in his chair to the keyboard. He cradled the phone against his neck as he found the photo.

One of the series taken of the Deng Xiaoping’s hangar deck, it showed a pair of J-13 fighters, wings folded, roped off a short distance from the camera. There were two men near it; both had automatic rifles.

“OK, so I’m looking at it.”

“See those jets? They’re guarded.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Kind of strange, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Jed zeroed in and hit the zoom. “Are these guards? Or are these guys running up to the fight?”

“Jed, they’re in the hangar of an aircraft carrier. They’re guarding the plane.”

Oh, wow.

“Tai-shan?”

“That’s the guess. We’re studying the planes now. But, I’d say that’s a real good guess. Plane types are right. We’re digging into the equipment right now.”

“I’M NOT FAMILIAR WITH TAI-SHAN,” THE NATIONAL SECURITY

Advisor admitted to Jed when he took the news to his office a few minutes later.

“Two years ago, the Chinese navy conducted a series of tests in the Gulf of Tonkin, using what was then a prototype 226

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of the J-13,” said Jed. “They operated from a base that had been mocked up so it was similar to an aircraft carrier—the dimensions were later shown to fit one of the Deng Xiaoping’s arms. The aircraft dropped practice bombs over the water. One of the mock missions was tracked, and from the bombing pattern, it seemed pretty clear that it was dropping a nuclear weapon. If you recall, this was right around the time the Xia, their only ballistic missile submarine, was taken out of service. But—”

“Wait, Jed,” said Freeman, nearly jumping from his seat.

“You’re telling me there’s a nuke on that ship?”

“Maybe two. There are two planes.”

“Let’s go talk to the President right now,” said Freeman, already in full stride.

The President was entertaining a delegation of church youth leaders from Minnesota on a postdinner tour of the White House when Jed and Freeman were ushered into the Oval Office. Entertaining was the right word—he was demonstrating a sleight of hand trick he’d learned on a recent trip to Florida. The President was particularly fond of the trick, and was taking obvious glee in making a silver dollar appear in various ears of his visitors.

“But I see, ladies and gentlemen, that duty is calling, and I’m late for my next meeting,” said the President. “We’re always burning the midnight oil here.”

He glad-handed the visitors as they left, mixing in variations of his silver dollar trick.

“Everybody loves magic,” said Martindale after they left.

“Now if I could only find a way to pull silver dollars from congressmen’s ears, I’d have no problem getting my budget passed.”

“There’s a new twist in the north Arabian Sea,” the National Security Advisor told the President. “It’s going to complicate things tremendously.”

Martindale’s smile faded quickly as Jed told him about the images from the carrier and their implications.

“You’re sure this is correct?” asked Martindale.

END GAME

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“The intelligence agencies are preparing a formal estimate,” said Jed. “But I checked the original intelligence on the program. It’s a real match. A Chinese agent provided photos and a procedural manual.”

“The Chinese showed restraint by not using the planes when they were attacked,” said Freeman. “But can we count on that in the future? Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that the carrier is off the coast of India. China could be planning a first strike against the Indian leadership.”

“Are you suggesting we alert the Indians?” asked the President. “That could backfire—they might use that as an excuse to fire nukes at the carrier. They’ve already tried to sink it.”

Martindale got up from his desk. He still had the dollar coin in his hand. He played with it absentmindedly, twirling it between his fingers.

“India is not our ally,” said Freeman. “But then neither is China.”

“We can’t allow a nuclear war in Asia. The consequences would be devastating,” said the President. “Even a conventional war. We need to get some distance between the two sides, work up something diplomatically, either in the UN

or on our own.”

“Neither side trusts us,” said Freeman bitterly.

“See, they have something in common,” said the President sardonically. “How long will it take to get the Nimitz and its battle group into the area?”

“Two weeks,” said Jed.

“What if we sent a private message to the Chinese, telling them we know they have the weapon, and that if they try to use it, we’ll sink their ship?” Martindale asked Freeman.

“For one thing, we’ll be taking sides. For another, we’ll be giving away intelligence that may help us down the road.”

“If they don’t use the weapon.”

“True.”

“I’d rather sink it here than off Taiwan. We could blame the Indians somehow.”

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“Maybe the Indians will sink it for us,” said Freeman.

“It may not be that easy to sink,” said Jed. “It came through the battle with the Indians.”

“We can sink it,” said Freeman.

“What if we positioned ourselves to attack the carrier once the planes appear on deck, and attack then? Could Dreamland and the Abner Read handle that sort of attack on their own?”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” said Freeman. “We’re going to risk our own people for India?”

“India and China, and the rest of southern Asia,” said the President. “Is it feasible?”

Freeman turned to Jed.

“Um, they might. Another thing, um, they might be able to shoot down the planes.”

“All right. That might work,” said Martindale. “We’ll discuss it with the cabinet.”

He picked up the phone and told the operator to contact the other cabinet members, along with Joint Chiefs of Staff, for an emergency meeting.

“I want Bastian in charge of this,” he said when he got off the phone.

“He’s attached to Xray Pop, and Captain Gale on the Abner Read outranks him,” said Freeman.

“Captain Gale has lived up to his nickname ‘Storm’ once too often for my taste. Bastian is the one I trust out there.

I’ll talk to them personally.”

Diego Garcia

1200, 13 January 1998

(1100, Karachi)

DOG CLAMBERED DOWN THE EB-52’S LADDER, HIS THROAT

parched and his legs aching from the long flight. Diego Garcia was a small atoll in the Indian Ocean, south of India.

Among the most secure American bases in the world—

END GAME

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surrounded by miles and miles of open ocean—it was also a four hour flight from their patrol area. Dog did not relish the idea of operating from here for very long.

“Hey, good to see you, Colonel,” yelled Mack Smith, hopping off a small “gator” vehicle as it pulled to a stop. A pair of maintainers got off the golf-cart-sized vehicle, which they used to ferry tools and supplies around while working on the big aircraft. “How was the flight?”

“Long,” Dog told him, getting his bearings.

“So was mine. I’ll tell you, nothing’s changed, Colonel—place looks just like we left it last week.”

Actually it had been almost two months now, back before Thanksgiving. But Diego Garcia did have something of a timeless quality to it, at least to the occasional visitor. The sand and trees and old ruins belonged to the British; everything else here was operated by the U.S. Navy. A small ad-ministrative building had already been set aside for the Dreamland force, as had six dugout revetments for the aircraft. More carport than hangar, the parking areas were more important for the shade they provided than the protection against terror attack; the closest thing to a terrorist on the island was the constable who handed tickets out to bicyclists exceeding the speed limit.

“Since I was ranking officer, I took it upon myself to contact the natives,” Mack told Dog as he walked toward a Navy jeep that had been sent to meet him. “Base commander is Mr. Cooperation.”

“That’s nice, Mack,” said Dog, who’d already spoken to the commander twice while en route.

“Got our old digs, everything’s shipshape.”

“Great.”

“I hear my pupil Cantor shot down two J-13s when they wouldn’t turn back,” added Mack. “Chip off the old block.”

“Your pupil?”

“He’s coming along, isn’t he?” said Mack, without a trace of irony.

Dog started to climb into the jeep when a bicycle ridden 230

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by a man dressed in camo fatigues appeared on the roadway in front of them. The colonel told the driver to wait a moment, realizing that the bicyclist was one of his Whiplash troopers; during their earlier stay they’d found that mountain bikes were the most effective way of getting around the base. The rider was Danny Freah, who sported a wide bandage on his left hand but otherwise showed no signs of wear from his recent ordeal.

“I thought you were going to get some rest,” Dog said.

“So’d I. You have a high-level call at the trailer.”

“Hop in,” Dog told him.

“Nah,” said the Whiplash captain, grinning as he whipped his bicycle around. “I’ll race ya.”

BREANNA PAUSED IN FRONT OF THE DOOR, REHEARSING WHAT

she had to say one last time. Then she sighed and raised her hand to knock. At the first rap, the door flew open.

“Captain,” said Jan Stewart, startled. “I was just going to get something to eat.”

“Oh, good,” said Breanna. “I’ll go with you.”

Stewart shrugged, pulling the door closed behind her.

Breanna realized the suggestion had been a mistake, but she was stuck with it now. She led Stewart out of the dormitory building they’d been assigned, and didn’t speak until they were outside. The mess—or galley, in Navy talk—was several hundred yards away.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Breanna said. “I’ve been noticing some problems you’re having.”

“What problems?” snapped Stewart.

“Little things,” said Breanna. “But a lot of them. You’re having trouble processing all the systems in combat.”

Stewart stopped and turned toward her. “Are you un-happy with my performance, Captain?”

“Yes,” said Breanna. The word blurted out; Breanna had meant to approach the topic with much more tact.

Stewart’s face reddened. “Well, thank you for your honesty,” she said, turning and continuing toward the cafeteria.

END GAME

231

Well, that went well, Breanna thought. And now I can’t even go and eat without getting the evil eye.

“DOG, IT’S GOOD TO TALK TO YOU UNDER ANY CIRCUMstance,” President Martindale told Colonel Bastian after the call was put through. “I hope you’re well.”

“I am, sir. Thank you.”

“I’m going to let Jed Barclay fill in the details, as he has so often in the past,” said the President. “But I want to em-phasize two things. Number one: You are taking your orders directly from me. No one and nothing are to interfere with this mission. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Number Two: You are in command. As such, you are representing me. Your judgment is my judgment. The stakes are extremely high, but I trust you. Follow your instincts.”

Before Dog could say anything else, Jed Barclay came on the line. “Are you there, Colonel?”

“I’m here, Jed,” said Dog.

“I, um, I’m going to start with some background. I don’t think you know about Tai-shan, right?”

Dog listened as Jed described the Chinese naval nuclear program and explained what the Werewolf had found.

“We’re not sure whether the fact that there are two aircraft means that there are two bombs, or whether one is intended as a backup,” Jed told him. “Navy Intelligence is preparing a dossier that will help you identify the aircraft.”

The recent showdown notwithstanding, the Megafortress was not the weapon of choice for shooting down J-13s, or any frontline fighter for that matter.

“The Abner Read is subordinate to you for this mission,”

added Jed.

“Does Captain Gale know that?”

“The President will be telling him shortly.”

Dog could only imagine the fallout from that conversation.

“You have to be in a position to stop the strike if it appears imminent,” reiterated Jed, making his instructions ab-

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solutely clear. “Whatever you have to do to accomplish that, you’re authorized to do. I, um, we’ll have a twenty-four-hour link set up to provide you with intelligence on the situation. I’m working on it now.”

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 END GAME

233

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.

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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 be-latedly 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, END GAME