Текст книги "End Game"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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you want to cut and run. You urged Admiral Kala to attack, and now you can’t face the consequences.”

Dismiss him, Memon thought. That is the only option. A subordinate cannot be allowed to question orders so pub-licly, let alone use insults to do so.

But Memon knew he was not a sailor. He couldn’t run the ship without Adri. And if he ordered someone to take Adri’s place, the sailors might mutiny.

Insurrection was better than indecision. And yet he stood frozen in place, unable to say anything.

So he was a coward, then, wasn’t he? A disgrace to the country.

Adri pushed his face next to Memon’s. “This is no way to win a war. We have to attack. Attack. ”

Memon shuddered. Adri’s voice sounded like his own just a day before.

“You must obey the minister’s orders,” managed Memon.

“I answer to the chief of the naval staff, not the defense minister. I will follow my instincts, not yours.”

Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,

northern Arabian Sea

1213

TWENTY-THREE CREWMEN ABOARD THE DENG XIAOPING HAD

been killed in the attack. It was Captain Hongwu’s duty to write to each man’s family. And so, after the damage was assessed and repairs begun, after the wounded were cared for, after the battle’s success and failures were toted, he retreated to his wardroom suite. For his bottom desk drawer he removed a small wooden box and then unwrapped his calligrapher’s pen and nubs. He took some rice paper and ink, commemorating each man to his family with a few well-chosen but simple words.

The Indian attack had been warded off quite success-

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fully, due to the success of the Pili batteries. The weapons had struck all but two of the dozen missiles launched at the ship. It helped that the Indian attack had not been well-coordinated. Still, Captain Hongwu was now confident that the Thunderbolt could protect him from an even more intense attack; he would say so in his report to Beijing.

The overflight by the American aircraft of his deck was another question entirely. The audaciousness of the flight astounded Hongwu almost as much as its success. His ship’s radar systems had tracked the aircraft intermittently when it was ten miles from the ship, but never any closer.

Both his intelligence and radar officers blamed programming in the units that controlled the radar, believing that the helicopter’s slow speed had somehow confused it. Hongwu was inclined toward human error—though he had to admit that the operators had done extremely well in every other respect. Whatever the problem, it would have to be studied and fixed.

Should he report it to Beijing? If he did, his victory today would be overshadowed.

No, there was no reason to do so, at least not until the failure had been properly analyzed. He had already risked Beijing’s disapproval by noting that two of his aircraft had mistaken the Abner Read for an Indian ship, apparently believing the radar it was using belonged to an Indian frigate.

The mistake was understandable given the chaos of battle, but his superiors disapproved nonetheless.

Perhaps it would have been better if the planes had sunk the ship, he thought.

Hongwu dipped his pen and began to write: Your son was a lion. I saw him pull another sailor from the fire, risking his life.

He shuddered at the memory, then signed his name.

END GAME

237

Dreamland Command Center

2344, 12 January 1998

(1244, 13 January, Karachi)

RAY RUBEO RUBBED HIS FACE WITH HIS HANDS, THEN LOOKED

back at the screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.

“We’re months away from testing the long-range version of the Scorpion missile, Colonel. I can’t even give you a mockup at this point,” said Rubeo. “And the airborne version of the Razor is even further off. Funding—”

“I realize you can’t perform miracles, Ray. I’m just looking for anything that can give the Megafortresses an edge here. They’re not interceptors.”

“I’m well aware of their capabilities, Colonel. Now, if you want to bomb the carrier, the weapons people have studied that matter as well,” added Rubeo. “The general consensus is that you would require nine well-placed strikes on the carrier to guarantee sinking it. Assume the Chinese weapon operates near its same efficiency, and its close-in weapon works as it has in the past: 17.3 missile launches, a minimum.”

“Or eighteen,” said Colonel Bastian.

“Yes. Eighteen would be the practical number.”

“I’m not looking to sink the carrier.”

“I have another suggestion,” said Rubeo. “Use the EEMWBs against the planes.”

“The weapon needs further tests.”

“They’ll work. You’ll disable the bombs completely, without even shooting down the planes. The only drawback,” added Rubeo, “is that the versions we currently have ready will wipe every piece of electronics within five hundred miles.”

“How many would it take?”

“One. However, I would launch two in case of the unforeseen. The weapons were due to be relocated at the end of the week in preparation for the tests anyway. We can ship 238

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

them and technicians to Diego Garcia. The tests can be conducted from there following your mission.”

“How soon can you get the weapons over here?”

FOR ZEN, IT WAS A VIBRATING FEVER INSIDE HIS CHEST AND

head, a dread and a desire—an imperative to be with his wife, to help her, save her, simply to be there. It was more important than food, more important than his legs, certainly; everything would be meaningless without her. He had to go. He had to be there. Only then would the dreams stop; only if he was with her would the fever break.

He wanted to walk—he would walk—but first he had to go and be with her.

He’d left a phone message for Vasin. The doctor would understand. And if he didn’t—well, that was the way it had to be.

Zen rolled down the ramp of the Megafortress hangar, heading toward the door that led to the bunkers below. The doors whisked open before he reached them.

“Dr. Rubeo, just who I’m looking for.”

“Major. Can I help you?”

“I hear you’re putting together a flight to Crete.”

“I am sending some items to support the Whiplash deployment,” said Rubeo discreetly.

“I’m going.”

“Going where?”

“To Crete. And then Diego Garcia. I’m joining the deployment.”

Rubeo gave him a typical Rubeo look—a kind of mock be-fuddlement that the world was not as intellectual as he was.

“I was given to understand that you were involved in an experiment relating to your walking again,” said Rubeo.

“Yeah, well, that’s on hold right now,” said Zen. “This is more important. I need to be there.”

“I’m sure I’m not the one to say this to you, Major, but were I in your position—”

“You’re not.”

END GAME

239

“I’ll tell the MC-17 pilots you’re on the way. The aircraft is nearly ready to leave, so you’d best hurry.”

Aboard the Abner Read

1403

“WHAT DO THESE EGGHEADS KNOW ABOUT NAVAL WARFARE?”

thundered Storm. “Eighteen missile launches? Absurd. The Pentagon people tell us we can do it with three. Well, all right, that’s ridiculous, too. We figure six hits, which at most calls for eight launches. Eighteen? That’s ridiculous.”

Storm glanced at Eyes and his weapons officers as he waited for Colonel Bastian to respond via the communications system, which was being piped over the small conference speaker on his desk. His quarters was the most convenient place for the secure conference, but if there had been one more person in the cabin, they wouldn’t have been able to move.

“I’m just telling you what their simulations showed,” said Dog. His face jerked in the video feed, not quite in sync with the sound. “I thought you’d appreciate knowing.”

“Well, let’s get on with it,” said Storm. “Where are we to position ourselves for this intercept?”

“I need you to sail west.”

“West?”

“Two hundred miles west.”

“Two hundred miles west?”

“We’re going to use a weapon that will fry their electronics. It’ll affect yours as well. The radius is roughly five hundred miles, but to be safe—”

“No way, Bastian. No way.”

“Listen, Storm—”

“I can understand you wanting to grab all the glory for yourself. I really can. You’re ambitious, and you have the track record to prove it. But telling us to leave the area when we have a mission here? No way.”

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“I’m telling you for your own protection.”

“Our vital systems are shielded against magnetic pulses,”

said Eyes.

“Not like this.”

“I’m not moving, Bastian. You can take that to the bank.”

Storm folded his arms and scowled at the screen. As soon as this call was over, he was calling Balboa personally, before Bastian got his version of the story in.

“I can’t guarantee that we can detonate the weapons far enough away from you not to harm you,” the colonel told him.

“I’m not looking for guarantees. I’m telling you: I’m not moving. ”

Northern Arabian Sea

2010

CAPTAIN SATTARI CLIMBED ONTO THE DECK OF THE PARVANEH

submarine, legs wobbly from the long day and night below the water. A breeze struck the side of his face, tingling it; his scalp bristled, and his lungs—his lungs luxuriated as they sucked in real air. The rest of his men crowded up behind him, anxious to breathe and move freely after hours of drowsy confinement. A few dropped to their knees, praying in thanksgiving. Sattari did not remind them that they were very far from being safe.

“Boat Four, dead ahead,” said the Parvaneh’s mate. He held up the signal lamp.

Captain Sattari pulled up his night glasses to scan the ocean around them. Between the darkness and the fog, he could see only a short distance; the shoreline, barely four miles to the north, was invisible, as were the towering mountains beyond.

The Parvaneh had sailed roughly 140 miles, but they were still in Pakistani waters; Iran lay another 150 miles to the west, and their home port was three hundred miles beyond that. The Parvanehs carried enough fuel to reach Iran-

END GAME

241

ian territory, but only if they traveled mostly on the surface, where they would be easy to detect. Rather than taking that risk, Sattari had arranged a rendezvous with the Mitra, the tanker that had been altered to take them into its womb. It was to meet them twenty miles southwest of here in exactly three hours; they had barely enough time to put a small charge back in the batteries before setting out again.

Sattari continued to hunt for Boat Two and Three. They had started before his; surely they must be lurking nearby.

And yet, neither had been found twenty minutes later. A light rain started to fall, making Sattari’s infrared glasses nearly useless. He paced along the narrow deck, weaving around his men. To make their rendezvous with the oil tanker, they would have to leave within a half hour.

Ten more minutes passed. Sattari spent them thinking of the soldiers in the midget submarines. He saw each of their faces; remembered what they had done by his side.

The submarine commander came up from below.

“Twenty minutes more, Captain. Then we must leave.”

“Have you heard anything on the radio?”

The commander shook his head. They were far from the world here.

Five minutes passed, then ten.

“Signal Boat Two to start,” Sattari told one of his men.

“We will follow shortly.”

The signal given, Sattari scanned the waters once again.

He saw nothing.

“Sound the horn,” he told one of his men.

“A risk.”

“It is.” The captain folded his arms in front of his chest, listening as the handheld horn bellowed.

A light flickered to the west. One of his soldiers spotted it and shouted, “There!”

The mate signaled frantically with his light. The light in the distance blinked back and began to grow. It was Boat Four. Signals were passed; the submarine turned and began to descend, heading toward the rendezvous.

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Three was still missing; Sergeant Ibn’s boat.

Sattari ordered the horn sounded again. Two more times they tried, without response.

“Time to go below,” the captain told his men. They got up reluctantly, walking unsteadily to the mock wheelhouse that held the hatchway and airlock. The last man began folding the wire rail downward. Sattari helped him.

“The horn once more.”

A forlorn ba-hrnnn broke the stillness. Sattari listened until he heard only the rhythmic lapping of water against the Parvaneh’s hull.

“With God’s help, they will meet us at the Mitra, ” he told the submarine captain below. “But we can wait no longer.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea

2222

“STILL NO SIGN OF THE PIRANHA, COLONEL,” CANTOR TOLD

Dog as they reached the end of the first search grid. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault, son. All right, crew; get ready to drop the second buoy. Mack, stay with me this time.”

“I was with you the whole way, Colonel.”

Cantor’s attempt to stifle a laugh was unsuccessful.

“Concentrate on your tinfish, kid,” snapped Mack.

“Trying.”

Cantor had been pressed into service as an operator for the robot undersea probe so the Megafortresses could extend their patrol times. Gloria English and Levitow were en route to Crete to pick up EEMWBs before starting their patrol. The Wisconsin would go to Crete at the end of this patrol as well so that it, too, could pick up the weapons.

Cantor didn’t mind “driving” the Piranha, though until now he had done so only in simulations. The hardest part of controlling the robot probe was reminding yourself not to END GAME

243

expect too much. It moved very slowly compared to the Flighthawk; top speed was just under forty knots.

The question was whether they would find it. The probe hadn’t been heard from since English put it into autonomous mode. The last patrol had taken advantage of a lull in the fighting between the Indians and Chinese to drop buoys south of Karachi, without any luck. The Wisconsin had flown back through that area, up the Indian and then Pakistani coasts and around to the west before dropping its own buoys. Batteries aboard the buoys allowed them to be used for twenty-four hours; after that they were programmed to sink themselves into the ocean. Their limited contact range with the Piranha was their one drawback, a by-product of the almost undetectable underwater communications system the devices used to communicate.

Gravity gave Cantor a tug as the Megafortress began an abrupt climb after dropping the fresh buoy.

“See, I’m just about right on top of him,” said Mack.

“Sure,” mumbled Cantor.

“I know what you were trying to tell me the other day,”

Mack added. “And you know what—I appreciate it.”

Cantor was so taken by surprise by Mack’s comment that he thought he was being set up for some sort of joke.

“I was thinking about these suckers all wrong. I have the hang of it now,” said Mack. “I’m on top of the game.”

“Good,” said Cantor, not sure what to say.

“You were right. I was wrong.”

An apology? From Major Mack “the Knife” Smith? Cantor wondered if he should record the date for posterity.

“If we have to tango and you’re watching Piranha, don’t sweat it,” added Mack. “I can take two.”

Flighthawk Two was on Wisconsin’s wing, ready to be launched in an emergency.

“It’s a lot easier one at a time,” said Cantor.

“Ah, I can handle it. Piece of cake,” said Mack.

Before Cantor could consider what, if anything, to say, he 244

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

got an alert from his console. He turned his head back to the screen and saw a message: PIRANHA CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.

“I’ve got Piranha!” he shouted. He flipped from the master control screen to the sensor view, which synthesized the sensor data and presented it to the screen as an image, much the way the sensors on the Flighthawk were used to give the pilot an image. The Piranha carried two different sensors in its nose. One was an extremely sensi-tive passive sonar; the other made use of temperature differences to paint a picture of what was around it. An operator could choose one or the other; passive was generally easier to steer by, and that was where Cantor started, flipping the switch at the side of the console. A sharp black object appeared dead ahead, marked on the range scale at five hundred yards.

“Piranha has got a target, dead in the water. I’m transferring the coordinates to you now.”

DOG DOUBLE-CHECKED HIS POSITION, THEN HAILED THE AB-ner Read on the Dreamland Command circuit. Storm came on the line almost immediately.

“We’ve reestablished a connection with Piranha,” Dog told him. “We think we found that special operations submarine. It’s fifteen miles off the Pakistani coast, about a hundred miles from Karachi. It’s about eighty miles north of you.”

“Excellent. I’ll send the Sharkboat to trail it.”

“How long will that take?”

“About three hours.”

“Good. Listen, Storm, about your position—”

“I’ve spoken to Admiral Balboa. He agrees that there’s no reason for me to move that far west. In fact, he wants me to keep the carrier within range of my Harpoon missiles, just in case it becomes necessary for us to sink it. Backing you up,” added Storm.

“Do not attack the carrier.”

END GAME

245

“I didn’t say I was going to, did I?”

Dog bit his cheek to keep from responding.

CANTOR EASED PIRANHA CLOSER TO ITS TARGET, MOVING AS

slowly as he could. The probe literally swam through the water, using a series of expandable joints to wag its body back and forth as a fish would. The sound and wave patterns that the movement created would seem to all but the most discerning observer to belong a medium-size shark—assuming they were detected at all. But Cantor was loath to take chances. At a dead stop, a submarine could generally hear quite well, and it was preferable that it did not know it was being observed.

When he had eased to two hundred meters, Cantor eased Piranha into a hover and changed his sensor selection. A blur of colors appeared before him; the computer then adjusted the colors, shaping them into an image of a small, odd-looking vessel. The computer analyzed the object, giving its approximate dimensions: twenty meters long, and only 2.65 wide, or at beam, according to the nautical term.

Its height was 2.2 meters. It looked more like a sunken pleasure cruiser than a sub.

The smallest non-American military submarine listed in the computer reference for Piranha was the Russian Project 865, a special operations craft. The 865 had a crew of nine and carried only two torpedoes. It was 28.2 meters long, 4.2

at beam, and looked very much like a down-sized conventional sub.

Cantor wasn’t sure how well the image corresponded to the actual vessel. He started to move again, circling the sub to get a fuller view. When Piranha had gone about two-thirds of the way around the submarine, the computer made a light clicking noise—the sub was starting to move.

Upward.

“Piranha to Wisconsin,” said Cantor. “Looks like he’s headed toward the surface.”

“Roger that. Thank you, Piranha. Mack, stand by.”

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Souda Bay U.S. Navy Support Base,

Crete

1922 (2222, Karachi)

AIDED BY A STRONG JET STREAM AND POWERFUL DREAMLAND-modified supercruise engines, the MC-17D “Fastmover”

carrying Zen took just under eight hours to get from Dreamland to Crete, but every minute seemed an hour to him. He was so happy to finally get there that he didn’t mind being carried ignobly down the ramp to the runway. Two sailors—the base was a Navy supply facility—carried him between their arms. After the humiliation of the past week involving the tests, it was a minor annoyance. They even set him down gently in his wheelchair.

“Jeff?”

“Hey, babe, how’s it going?” he said as Breanna came toward him.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Believe it.”

“You’re supposed to be at the medical center.”

“This is more important.” She got a funny look on her face, so he added, “It wasn’t working. They need more research. And you guys need me right now.”

“But …”

Zen rolled his wheelchair forward. “Can we get some chow? I’m starving. And if there’s any coffee on this base, I want to start an IV.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea

2242

DREAMLAND WAS A DEVELOPMENTAL LABORATORY, NOT AN INtelligence center. Still, they had access to some of the most brilliant minds in the country, as well as experts in just END GAME

247

about every weapon or potential weapon imaginable—and it still took more than an hour for them to tell Dog what they had found.

“Civilian submarine. Nautilus Adventure 2000. Heavily modified,” said Ray Rubeo. “But hardly cutting edge.”

“I’ve never heard of civilian submarines,” said Dog.

“Yes.” Rubeo’s tone implied that everyone else in the world had. “It’s a small market. Primarily for tour boats, though for the well-heeled it’s a status symbol. I suppose you can park it next to the yacht. This would seem to be from a German firm. We’ll have to rely on the CIA for additional data, but we have a spec sheet of the base model for you. It’s powered by batteries and diesel.”

“Have you tried to trace it?”

“Colonel—”

“I realize you have a lot to do, Ray. Pass the information along to the NSC. I’ll tell Jed to expect it.”

“Very good.”

“Sub is moving again, Colonel,” said Cantor. “On the surface.”

“Thanks, Cantor.”

“Jazz, get hold of that Sharkboat and find out how long it’s going to be before they get up here. And tell them the sub’s moving.”

“Just did, Colonel. He’s five miles due south. Roughly ten minutes away.”

“Making sounds like it might be starting to submerge,”

said Cantor. “Taking on water.”

“Mack, see if you can get some close-ups and maybe distract them.”

“I’ll land on them if you want.”

“Just annoy them,” said Dog. “You ought to be good at that.”

MACK BROUGHT THE FLIGHTHAWK DOWN THROUGH THE

clouds, clearing a knot of rain as he headed for the midget 248

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

submarine. The vessel was about a half mile away, gliding across the surface at two or three knots. He swung to his left, arcing around so he could approach it head-on. He took the Flighthawk down to five hundred feet and saw figures near the wedge-shaped conning tower.

“Smile down there, kiddies,” said Mack, passing overhead.

He looped back, pushing Hawk One down through three hundred feet, passing two hundred and still descending. He leveled off fifty feet above the waves as he began his second run. Two men were still on the deck of the sub as he approached. The submarine seemed to have stopped descending.

“Stand still and I’ll give you a haircut,” he told them.

One of the figures on the submarine jerked something out of the tower structure. Instantly, Mack hit the throttle and reached for his decoy flares.

“Missile launch!” warned the Flighthawk’s computer.

Souda Bay U.S. Naval Support Base,

Crete

2000 (2300, Karachi)

JAN STEWART CLIMBED UP ONTO THE DARKENED FLIGHT DECK

of the Levitow, her way lit only by the glow of the standby power lights and a few instruments. She was just approaching her seat when something moved beside it. She leapt back before realizing it was Breanna Stockard, sitting alone in the airplane.

“Just me,” said Breanna.

“Jesus, you scared me,” said Stewart. Annoyed, she pulled herself into her seat. “I thought you were with your husband.”

Breanna didn’t answer. Stewart glanced at her, then took a longer, more careful look. Even in the dim light, she could tell Breanna’s eyes were red.

The Iron Bitch crying?

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249

Stewart put her mission card—a flash memory unit with recorded data about their mission—into its slot and powered up her station. She couldn’t imagine Breanna Stockard crying about anything, and surely with her husband here—but those weren’t tears of happiness.

The copilot busied herself with checking the computer data on the flight computer. Breanna made no pretense of working, continuing to sit silently and stare out the windscreen.

“We could go to the checklist on the engine start, even though it’s a little early,” said Stewart when she ran out of things to do.

“I can’t believe he gave up.”

“Who?” asked Stewart.

“Zen.”

“What did he give up?”

A tear slipped from Breanna’s eye as she turned toward her. Stewart felt not only shocked but afraid. Breanna’s pain somehow made her feel vulnerable.

“Zen left—he was in a program to rebuild his spinal cord. He left it because he thought we were in trouble.”

Stewart, still not understanding, said nothing.

“He’s always wanted to walk again,” explained Breanna.

“He’s fought for it. Now he’s giving up. For me. He shouldn’t give that up. He shouldn’t be afraid for me.”

“Maybe he just wants to do his job,” said Stewart, not knowing what else to say.

Another tear slipped from Breanna’s eye. How difficult—how impossible—it must have been for her to see her husband crippled, thought Stewart. How impossible it must be every day to live through it.

“The tests they’re doing or whatever,” said Stewart.

“They’re going to make him walk?”

“They’re a long shot at best. Really a long shot. But walking or not walking—it’s not as important as who he is.

He can’t surrender. That’s not who he is. I don’t want him to give himself up for me. It’s not a trade I’d take.”

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To her surprise, Stewart realized her own cheek was wet.

“I’m sorry,” she told Breanna.

Not because of Zen, but because of everything—bad mouthing her, grousing, resisting her attempts to help.

And not being able to handle the job in the stress of combat. That especially.

“We should get moving. You’re right,” said Breanna suddenly, as if Stewart had suggested it.

“Hey.” Stewart reached over and touched Breanna’s shoulder. “If you need anything.”

Breanna turned back to her. Her eyes glistened in the reflected light and she gave a forced smile. “Just the checklist for now. Thanks. Thanks.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea

2302

MACK LET OUT A LONG STRING OF CURSES—A VERY LONG

string of curses—as he fought to outrun and outfox the shoulder-launched SAM. Caught at low altitude and low speed, there wasn’t that much he could do, and his response would have been the same no matter what he was flying: toss decoy flares, jink back and forth, hit the throttle for all it was worth.

And pray, though Mack Smith had never found that particularly effective.

The missile sniffed one of the flares and rode off to the right, exploding more than half a mile away when it realized its mistake. Not entirely sure he was safe, Mack continued to the south until he saw the Sharkboat ahead.

“Hawk One to Wisconsin—that scumbag just tried to shoot me down.”

“Copy that, we saw it Mack.”

“Permission to give him his just reward,” said Mack, pulling up the weapons screen. “I’ll send him to the bottom.”

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“Hold on, Mack. We want him disabled, not sunk. Stand by so we can coordinate with the Sharkboat. We want those people alive if at all possible. They’re very valuable.”

“Sharkboat has them in sight,” said Jazz. “Radioing to them to surrender.”

“Mack, take a pass,” Dog added. “Fire into the water near the bow. Don’t hit them.”

“Jeez, Colonel. I don’t know if I can miss.”

“Not very funny, Mack.”

Actually, he wasn’t making a joke. Mack had never tried not to hit something when flying a Flighthawk.

“Warning fire,” Cantor said. “Designate the target, then give a verbal command. Computer will make sure you miss.”

“Thanks, kid.”

Still a little dubious, Mack accelerated back toward the submarine. Sure enough, after giving the verbal command, the bullets sailed near the vessel’s path.

“Got their attention,” said Mack.

The submarine had stopped moving; it was still half submerged, with water lapping over the deck.

“Colonel, something’s going on with the sub,” said Cantor. “Strange noises—bubbling like they’re taking on water.”

“Mack, did you hit them?”

“Negative.”

“It’s going down, almost straight down,” said Cantor.

Mack banked back. Sure enough, the submarine had sunk below the waves.

“I think they’re trying to make a run for it,” said Mack.

“Big explosion!” reported Cantor. “Wow—they’re going down straight to the bottom!”

VII

Coming to Their Senses

Aboard the Abner Read,

northern Arabian Sea

13 January 1998

2310

STORM KICKED AT THE DECK AS HE LISTENED TO THE CHATTER

from the Sharkboat. The technology that made it possible to coordinate actions over a wide-ranging area also made it possible to be incredibly frustrated. They’d missed their chance to catch the commandos. The submarine had seen the Dreamland aircraft and the Sharkboat. Realizing the jig was up, they’d hari-karied themselves.

“Sharkboat One is asking for further instructions, Storm,” said Eyes. “Water’s too deep for any sort of recovery operation. They’ve picked up what they can from the surface. Bits of plastic. Nothing significant.”

“Let’s have them stay until morning light,” Storm told him. “Pick up whatever they can find.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That Piranha unit—tell Bastian to send it south. Might as well get an eye on the Chinese Kilo.”

“We have that ourselves with the array.”

“Do you have anything better for the Piranha to do?”

“Can’t think of anything.”

“All right, then. Let’s get it down where it might do some good.”

Now everyone was questioning his orders. Storm looked at his holographic display. The Chinese aircraft carrier was 256

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a little over seventy-five miles away. A U-2 was nearby, keeping watch for the Tai-shan aircraft; it would alert Bastian if the planes came on deck, and he’d get his people into position to intercept.

The Indian carrier had moved north again. Maybe they were looking for a rematch.

“What do you think the submarine was?” Eyes asked him.

Bastian’s theory that it was some sort of civilian craft put to military use by the Iranians made a hell of lot of sense, but there was no way Storm was going to admit that.

“Wouldn’t even want to guess,” he told Eyes. “Have intel prepare details on what the Sharkboat finds for Fleet and Pentagon intelligence.”

“Aye aye, skipper.”

National Security Council Conference Room 2A, Washington, D.C.

1800

“THE PAKISTANIS HAVE PUT MISSILE SITE TWO ON ITS HIGHest alert,” CIA director Robert Plank told the President as they briefed in the high-tech conference room beneath the West Wing. “That’s the site with their nukes, you see it here on the map. Four missiles, four warheads, each aimed at an Indian city.”

“What about the Indians?” asked Secretary of State Hartman.