Текст книги "End Game"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“They’re also on alert. We have satellite photos.”

Jed glanced at the satellite photos on the flat screen in front of him, even though he’d seen them earlier. The Indians and Pakistanis had engaged in serious shooting wars several times over the past decade, but those actions were mostly confined to the disputed regions in the North, near Kashmir and Jamu. They also had not involved nuclear weapons, or other countries. The Chinese were taking an END GAME

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aggressive tack to help the Pakistanis. Not to be outdone, the Russians were voicing support for the Indians and had ordered three ships to set sail for the Indian Ocean. An NSA intercept two hours ago indicated that a pair of Russian attack submarines were also en route.

“I have no confidence that the cease-fire will hold,” said Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman. “Quite the contrary.”

“I agree,” said Jed’s boss, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman. “We’re very close to war. If the two sides use their missiles, the weapons aboard the Deng Xiaoping will be almost beside the point.”

“Yes, I want to talk specifically about that plan,” said Admiral Balboa.

“Jed, tell us about the weapons Dreamland wants to use,”

said President Martindale. “The EEMWBs.”

Jed tried to speak but couldn’t. His tongue seemed to have shriveled and gone into hiding.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t been expecting the question. In fact, he’d rehearsed the answer for nearly a half hour. It was just that speaking in front of this many people—this many important people—was always a struggle.

He pushed a few words out of his mouth, stuttering as he went.

“Um, we, um, the EEMWB is an electronic bomb, like an E bomb. It uses T-Rays to disrupt electronic devices. The weapons would be much more efficient against the aircraft carrier than the Harpoons.”

“Another pie-in-the-sky Dreamland program,” said Balboa.

“Um, they’ve been used in tests and were supposed to be tested in two weeks in the Pacific.”

“Yes, I know about the weapons,” said Balboa. “This isn’t the place to be taking chances. We should have the Abner Read take the lead on this—position it between the Chinese and the Indians, as I argued yesterday. And who told Bastian he could use these weapons?”

“I told him he could use whatever he needed to get the 258

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job done,” said the President. “Jed, could these EEMWBs stop the Indian and Pakistani missiles?”

Jed nodded. “It would depend on the flight paths and everything. In theory, yes.”

“Talk to Bastian. Make it work,” said Martindale. He turned and looked at Balboa. “The Abner Read will continue to be subordinate to Colonel Bastian on this aspect of the mission. If Storm wants to move, he’s to clear it with the colonel.”

JED PLAYED NERVOUSLY WITH HIS PENCIL AS HE WAITED FOR

the call to Colonel Bastian to go through on the Dreamland communications channel. The ultra-high-tech Situation Room in the basement under the White House had just un-dergone new renovations, increasing the available information stations and adding several security features. The situation room seemed to be a constant work-in-progress; this was at least the fourth major renovation it had undergone since Jed joined the NSC.

“Bastian,” said Dog, appearing in the screen.

“Colonel, your mission has been altered,” said Jed. As he relayed the President’s new commands, he hit a switch that popped a map onto the screen so he could show Bastian where the missile sites were located.

“Pretty far inland,” said Dog.

“Can you strike those spots?”

“In theory, yes. Looks like you’d need three missiles, more or less in a straight line almost directly over the border. The weapons scientists will have to run some simulations to be sure. When is this taking effect?”

“Immediately.”

“We’ll work something out. What about the carrier?”

“Not as important, but still—”

“I get the picture.”

“If this isn’t doable, Colonel …”

“It’s a stretch, Jed. I have to be honest. But we’ll do our best. Technically, it’s nothing we’re not capable of.”

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“The diplomats are working around the clock to calm things down.”

“I hope to hell they succeed.”

Northern Arabian Sea

14 January 1998

0400

WHEN THE SAILOR ABOARD THE MITRA WOKE HIM, CAPTAIN

Sattari did not know where he was. For a moment he believed—or perhaps wanted to believe—he was at his family’s old house on the shore of the Black Sea, huddled with his wife Zenda. But she had died only three years after their marriage and lay enshrined in his memory as the perfect beauty, the flawless young bride he returned to when-ever reality’s storms were severe.

“Captain, an important message for you,” said the sailor.

Sattari took one last breath of Zenda’s perfume, then opened his eyes. The man was holding a folded piece of paper in his hands. Pulling himself out of the narrow bunk, Sattari steadied his sockless feet on the floor and took the paper.

“Bring me coffee,” he told the sailor.

“Yes, sir.”

The message had been relayed by radio and contained only two words: “Excellent. Accelerate.” It could only have come from Pevars, the oil minister, as he was the only one in the world who knew how to contact him.

Sattari rubbed his chin, eyes focused on the thin carpet of the floor. He reached to the side of the bed, where he had left his shirt and a fresh pair of socks. He knew that Boat Three had not shown up during the night, for otherwise he would have been woken sooner.

Another argument for stepping up their schedule, if he had needed one.

In truth, he had hoped after Karachi it would not be necessary. The Mitra’s master said the Indians had attacked the 260

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Chinese aircraft carrier meant to reinforce the Pakistanis; surely that alone would mean war.

Sattari buttoned his shirt, then pulled on his socks. As he reached for his shoes, the sailor returned with his coffee.

“Is the ship’s captain awake?” Sattari asked.

“Usually not for two more hours.”

“Go and wake him,” said Sattari. “There has been a change in plans.”

Diego Garcia

0740 (0640, Karachi)

DANNY FREAH SHUFFLED THE CARDS AND BEGAN LAYING OUT

a solitaire hand on the table in the middle of the Command trailer’s main room. He knew he ought to be enjoying the easygoing pace of the deployment, where Whiplash’s only task was to provide security inside an installation that probably rated among the most secure in the world. Diego Garcia was literally an island paradise, and aside from the fact that he didn’t have his wife with him, it would be the perfect place to while away a few days or even weeks. He didn’t often get a lull, and after his adventures in Karachi he deserved one.

But one man’s vacation was another’s purgatory. Danny Freah couldn’t kick back while other people were putting their lives on the line. Besides, his night swim in the fiery waters was already receding in his memory, like the light burns on his hands.

A buzzer sounded from the Dreamland communications section, indicating there was an incoming message. Danny grabbed his coffee and went to the small station in the next room. Ray Rubeo’s pale face appeared in the screen when he authorized the link.

“Captain Freah, we have information regarding the submarine that sank itself. Colonel Bastian requested a copy.

I’d like to upload it to you now.”

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“Go for it,” Danny told the scientist. “So what is it? Russian Special Forces?”

“Hardly,” said Rubeo. “It’s civilian craft made by a Pol-ish company. Some of the members of our Piranha team have done a little digging.”

“Whose sub is it?”

“Good question. We’ve asked the CIA, which means we will never know.”

Danny laughed. When the download was finished, he opened the file to make sure it had transferred properly. He found himself looking at a brochure of a craft that looked more like a pleasure boat with portholes in the bottom.

“It has windows?” asked Danny.

“No. Those would have been filled in. Flip to the end of the file and you will see a schematic diagram one of the Piranha people did based on this and the findings from the probe. The basic systems from the commercial design appear intact, much as the chassis of a General Motors car would be similar across divisions.”

“Gotcha,” said Danny, toggling through to the diagrams.

“Say, Ray—if I was going to disable the submarine, what would I do?”

“What would be the purpose?”

“Just say I wanted to disable it. To capture it, and the people inside. What would we do?”

Rubeo gave Danny one of his what-fools-these-mortals-be sighs. “I am not an expert on submarine warfare, Captain. I can get one of the Piranha people to talk to you if this is of more than theoretical interest.”

“Oh, it’s very theoretical. But I’d like to talk to him anyway.”

“Very well. One area to question him on—this being a civilian submarine, it has many safety features incorporated into the design. The most interesting is an external emergency blow device.”

“You’re losing me, Doc.”

“It forces the tanks to blow, raising the submarine to the 262

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surface. It’s apparently intended to be used in the case of an emergency where the crew is completely incapacitated. If you were looking to recover the submarine, you might build a strategy around that device. Theoretically.”

“Oh, very theoretically,” said Danny. “How soon can you get one of those Navy guys to talk to me?”

Aboard the Shiva ,

off the coast of India in the northern Arabian Sea 0640

THE HELICOPTER WAS ANCIENT, A COAST GUARD CHETAK THAT

had first flown in the 1960s. Its engine sounded like a rasping buzz saw as it headed for a landing on the Shiva’s deck.

But its white skin glistened in the sunlight, and the aircraft steadied herself with what seemed to Memon fitting dignity before settling to a landing on the deck. No sooner had the pogo-stick wheels touched down than the cabin flew open and Admiral Skandar emerged, stooping low to clear the blades, then straightening into full stride. He ignored the honor guard standing at full attention and walked to Memon and Captain Adri, who along with the deputy air commander and weapons officer had come out to meet him.

Skandar walked directly to Captain Adri, ignoring Memon completely; Memon felt his heart sink.

“Captain,” said Skandar. “You are prepared to launch an attack?”

“Our forces are ready and well-prepared,” said Adri. “We are positioned to strike.”

“You did not receive my order to pull back?”

“Sir, I complied with your order not to attack when it was confirmed by the Chief of the Navy, but upon reflection concerning my positioning, I believed that you had erred.

So I adjusted accordingly.”

“Captain, you will board my helicopter and return to Mumbai. I am in command of this vessel now.”

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“But—”

“If necessary, you will be arrested.” Skandar turned and addressed the other two officers. “If you are not prepared to carry out my orders without question, you may join him.”

The men stiffened, but said nothing.

“Admiral,” said Adri. “I wish to apologize.”

“Why are you not aboard the helicopter? Leave now—your personal belongings will follow. Take me to the bridge,” Skandar told the others. “Then I wish to inspect the damage and the wounded. After that, we will gather our commanders and prepare for the next stage of battle.”

Aboard the Abner Read , northern Arabian Sea

0710

STORM GRUNTED WHEN THE SEAMAN KNOCKED AT THE ENtrance to his cabin.

“Encrypted message from the Pentagon, Captain,” said the sailor.

“I’ll take it here,” said Storm. He glanced at his watch. A light sleeper by nature, he rarely got more than four hours of sack time in a row during a cruise; he’d already had nearly three.

“Brought you coffee, sir,” added the seaman.

“Johnson, you are a tribute to the service.”

The sailor chuckled. Storm, who slept in his uniform, padded to the nearby door. He opened it, took the carafe, and then went to the small communications set on his desk opposite the foot of his bed. The set consisted of a small flat-screen monitor, video cam, speakers, microphone, and keyboard; it was essentially a computer with dedicated circuitry. Storm took the unit out of stand by, typed in a generic system code, then his own password. As the unit came to life, he opened the carafe and refilled the mug that 264

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sat in the indentation on the desk, not bothering to dispose of the coffee that filled its bottom.

The screen turned blue. Storm pecked in a second code word to clear the transmission. He found himself looking at an empty communications station in the Pentagon Situation Room. As he took his first sip of coffee, the top of a head appeared. Then a face came into camera range.

Storm had expected an intelligence officer. Instead, the face belonged to Admiral Balboa.

“Storm, I’ve just come back from the White House,” said Balboa. “I’ve been in meetings all day and night over there.”

“Yes, Admiral?”

“Your mission’s being altered. Has Bastian gotten a hold of you yet?”

Please tell me he’s no longer in charge, prayed Storm.

“No, sir.”

“Typical. The President wants to stop World War Three.

Bastian and his Dreamland people are going to use their weapons to do it. That means you’re going to be on the front line against that carrier.”

“I already am, sir. I’m ready to sink it at a moment’s notice.”

“I want you to shoot down the planes, Storm. You don’t have to sink the carrier.”

“I can do both.”

“Don’t go overboard. Take the planes.”

“Aye aye,” said Storm, speaking into his mug.

“However—”

Storm’s ears perked up.

“If circumstances warranted—if you were to come under attack again,” said Balboa, “then the carrier would be a le-gitimate target.”

“Damn straight it would, Admiral,” said Storm.

“Since they’ve already been warned once, no one could accuse you of being trigger happy. Sinking the Chinese su-

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per carrier—so-called super carrier—would be quite an achievement. If the circumstances were right.”

“I understand completely, Admiral. I appreciate your guidance.”

“Merely stating facts,” said Balboa. “That Indian ship—is it as potent as they claim?”

“It didn’t do very well against the Chinese,” said Storm.

“Best thing would be for them both to go down,” said Balboa. “Not that they’re competent enough to sink each other. Now, what’s this theory about an Iranian submarine?

We have all their Kilos under observation in the Persian Gulf. You’re telling me the Navy missed one?”

“No. The theory is—Bastian’s theory—is that the Iranians are trying to instigate a conflict using civilian-style aircraft converted to military use. He thinks a civilian-style aircraft may have launched the torpedo that struck the Indian ship en route to Port Somalia.”

“Preposterous. Bastian sees Iran behind everything.”

Storm found himself in the unusual position of actually thinking the Air Force lieutenant colonel was correct. But now wasn’t the time to push the issue with Balboa.

“The attack on Karachi may have been carried out—definitely was carried out—by a commando team, some sort of SpecWar unit,” said Storm, treading carefully. “We did find a submarine in Pakistani waters following the attack. The curious thing—”

“I’ve seen the report. So your theory is that Iran is behind this, trying to instigate a war?”

“That’s Bastian’s theory. I don’t have an opinion.”

“Well, get one.”

“Yes, sir.”

Balboa frowned, then raised one of his bushy eyebrows.

“Stand by for Captain Connors and the intelligence updates.”

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Souda Bay U.S. Navy Support Base,

Crete

0915 (1215, Karachi)

DOG LEANED IN UNDER THE MEGAFORTRESS’S OUTER WING

and examined the EEMWBs that had just been installed on the Wisconsin’s wing. The weapon’s elongated and rounded nose added several feet to the overall length of the AGM-86C it had been attached to, making it impossible to carry inside the bomb bay. Two apiece were loaded on the Megafortress’s outer wing, beyond the Flighthawks. While they had a negligible effect on the Megafortress’s general performance, they increased her radar profile, making the planes easier to detect.

Unlike the Levitow, the Wisconsin had not been shielded against the weapons; if she exploded them nearby she would lose her electric systems. But the Levitow couldn’t stay on station indefinitely, and the only other aircraft in the world that was shielded against T-Rays was Dreamland Raptor, currently in several thousand pieces on the floor of one of the Dreamland hangars, being examined and overhauled. A crew of techies was heading toward Diego Garcia, where they would retrofit the Bennett with protective gear and shielding in the wings and fuselage; when they were done, that plane would be equipped with the missiles and alternate with the Levitow on patrol. For now, Wisconsin would play relief.

The weapons people at Dreamland had studied the possible paths the ballistic missiles would take, and they decided that only two explosions would be needed to disrupt the missiles. But to guarantee success, they wanted four launches in an overlapping pattern; that way, if one or even two failed to work or the yield was unexpectedly low, the plan would still succeed. That complicated matters for Dog, since to take out the carrier plane, he had to keep a second Megafortress in the area. He’d also told Storm to stay close to the carrier as well, a directive that was met with a grunt, END GAME

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which in Dog’s experience represented almost euphoric en-thusiasm on the naval commander’s part.

Dog continued his walk-around, escorted by Chris Morris, the airman first class who was acting crew chief for the plane while it was “pitted” at Crete. The young man had come from Dreamland with the missiles; this was not only his first deployment with the unit, but the most responsibility he’d ever been given in his life. He’d had a great deal of help prepping the plane from the Navy and from an experienced Air Force crew of maintainers that had flown in from Ger-many to help out. Still, as a Dreamlander he was the one ultimately responsible for the plane. He wouldn’t have been sent if he wasn’t up to it, but Dog could sense the butterflies in Airman Morris’s stomach every time he stopped to look at something. Finally, when they’d done a complete circuit around the aircraft, Dog folded his arms in front of his chest.

“Something wrong, Colonel?” asked Morris.

“I’ve never seen aircraft more ready to fly,” Dog told him. “Job well done.”

The kid’s smile could have lit half the island. Dog ducked back under the wing, heading toward the ladder.

“Colonel!” shouted the airman.

Dog turned back.

“Um, Greasy Hands said I, um, I wasn’t supposed to let you go without telling you.”

“Telling me what?”

“Don’t break my plane. Sir.”

Dog laughed. “I’ll try not to. Go get yourself some sleep.”

CANTOR WATCHED FROM HIS STATION AS MACK COMPLETED

the launch procedure with Hawk One and took control of the aircraft. He rolled right, swinging the UM/F out ahead of the Megafortress as they flew over the eastern Mediter-ranean. They would fly over Israel, Jordan, and then Saudi Arabia en route to their station over the Arabian Sea. Hawk Two remained on the wing. Colonel Bastian had modified his one pilot-one Flighthawk rule slightly, allowing two 268

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planes to be used “in an emergency,” but it was highly unlikely the plane would be launched on their way to the patrol area. Cantor thus had nothing to do until they got to the Arabian Sea, where he would take over control of the Piranha from Ensign English aboard Levitow. Piranha had gone south and was searching for the Chinese Kilo submarine escorting the Deng Xiaoping.

Cantor found himself wishing for an alert—scrambling Syrian MiGs as they approached the coast, an overanxious Yemen patrol—to break the monotony.

“So what do you think, kid?” said Mack as the flight dragged on. “Would you rather face two Su-35s? Or one F-15?”

“One F-15.”

“An F-15? Why?”

“ ’Cause I know what he’ll do. The Indians I’m still studying.”

“Fair enough. We won’t be fighting against them anymore this time around, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because now that the Indians and China have gotten their taste of what real action is like, they’ll back off. I’ve seen this before. They don’t want to lose any of their toys.”

DOG CLEARED THE TRANSMISSION. DANNY FREAH’S FACE APpeared in the Dreamland communications panel.

“Hey, Colonel, I’ve finished analyzing the attack on the Karachi terminal,” he told Dog. “Definitely done by explosives. I’d say they used a dozen people, maybe more.”

“Twelve is a few too many for that submarine,” Dog said.

“Rubeo says they’re figuring maximum capacity at about eight, maybe ten.”

“Yeah. But working out the way the explosives were set and the time of that first contact, there had to be at least twelve guys, like I say. I think it’s likely there’s at least one more submarine.”

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“All right. Thanks, Danny.”

“Hey, Colonel?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to draw up a mission to take the sub.”

“What do you mean?”

“Capture it. I’ve studied the data Ray Rubeo gave us, and talked to some submarine people on how to do it. There’s a kind of a safety valve we can use to blow the tanks to get it to surface. When it does, we drop tear gas inside, get in and disarm whoever’s aboard. Can’t be more than eight people, maybe less.”

“First of all, Danny, I’m not sure you’d be able to disable everyone aboard before they blew it up.”

“There’s also an external air fitting for emergency air—we could pump in nitrous oxide. There’s a dentist over here who—”

“Second of all—and more to the point—you’re four hours flying time from the general area in a Megafortress traveling at top speed. The Osprey would take twice as long, to have enough fuel to make it.”

“Be worth the trip. You have to find out where these guys are coming from, right? This is the best way to do it.”

“You’re assuming we’re going to see these guys again.”

“If I had a weapon like that, I’d use it until it broke,” said Danny. “We should be ready, right?”

“I’ll discuss it with Storm,” Dog told him. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Aboard the Levitow ,

over the northern Arabian Sea

1230

IT FELT AS IF IT HAD BEEN MONTHS SINCE HE’D FLOWN. ZEN

had trouble lining up for the refuel, coming on tentatively and then rushing into the furling turbulence behind the big 270

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plane. Hawk Three’s nose shot downward and he aborted, riding off to the right, more bemused than angry. He came around again, easing his hand forward on the stick.

His muscles began to spasm—a side effect of the treatments?

Forget the treatments, he told himself.

He pushed his body down in the seat, trying to ease the cramps without actually affecting his control of the airplane. He drove the Flighthawk into the hookup, then let the computer take over. By now his arm felt as if it had been mangled in a wheat thresher.

“Levitow to Flighthawk leader,” said Breanna. “We have two J-13s coming at us hot out of the east. Distance is sixty miles.”

“Yeah, OK, I got ’em on the sitrep,” said Zen. “I’ll say hello.”

Zen took Hawk Four over from the computer and began cutting north. The Chinese aircraft were not part of the normal patrol over the carrier; these were sent here to get a look at the Megafortress. With the help of C3 he started back south at the very edge of his control link with the Levitow, putting himself in position to pull up behind the J-13s as they closed in.

“Hawk Three refueled,” said the computer.

Zen popped back into Hawk Three and slid her out from under the mother ship’s refueling line. Then he ducked under the Megafortress’s flight path, aiming at the oncoming J-13s. He had the robot planes positioned to sandwich the Chinese craft; he’d also be able to follow if they split up or did something unexpected.

“Looks like they’re going to draw up alongside you and take pictures,” Zen told Breanna.

“Levitow.”

She was angry at something. Zen wondered if she was having more trouble with Stewart; the copilot had had trouble adjusting to the program.

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When they were about seven miles from the Megafortress, the J-13s turned so they could come up alongside either wing. As they did, Zen slid Hawk Three between them, twisting into a roll and making it obvious that he was there. Their attention consumed by the approaching plane, he pushed Hawk Four within spitting distance of Bogey Two’s tail. The Megafortress turned as it approached the end of its patrol track; Zen pulled Hawk Three around so he had a Flighthawk on each J-13. If they did anything hostile, he could take them down in an instant.

“The jerk on my side has a camera,” said Stewart as the Chinese planes pulled up alongside the Levitow.

“Well, make sure you wave,” Zen told her.

STEWART TURNED HER HEAD BACK TO THE GLASS “DASHboard” in front of her, scanning the sitrep map to make sure nothing new had appeared. There were two dozen aircraft in the Megafortress’s scanning range, including a flight of Pakistani F-16s and an Indian long-range radar plane about a hundred miles inland. She worked through it quickly, top to bottom, then turned her attention to the systems screens, checking the engines to make sure everything was at spec.

The computer made this easy for her by color coding the readings—numbers in green meant things were fine, yellows were cautions, red was trouble. The computer was also set to provide verbal alerts.

As she scanned the settings, Stewart realized that she had a tendency not to take the computer’s word for things—to read each instrument’s data and query for exact details, which would be provided on many of the sensors by tapping the screen. That was the right way to do it, certainly—but in a combat situation it added greatly to the information overload that had been messing her up. Glance and move on—rely on the technology.

If the J-13s tried anything, what would she do?

The Flighthawks would take them out.

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If they didn’t?

The Chinese planes would drop back, angling to get behind the Megafortress and use their weapons. Go to weapons screen, activate Stinger air mines.

They’d turn off or roll out, looking to get a little distance to make a missile attack. Evasive action, ECMs, flares, chaff, then AMRAAM-pluses.

SAM missile alert?

ID threat first. Then countermeasures.

Staying calm was the important thing.

“How you doing over there, Jan?” asked Breanna.

“All indicators in the green. Tweedledee and Tweedle -

dum are right at our sides.”

Stewart felt a wave of anxiety rush over her. What had she missed? Was Breanna grilling her about something she’d screwed up?

No. She really wasn’t like that. She was human.

“Nothing else in the air for fifty miles,” Stewart added, looking at the sitrep. “CAPs are still over their carriers.”

“Good. Feeling tense?”

Another trick question? The Iron Bitch probing weaknesses?

Or just an honest one?

“A little. And tired,” she admitted.

“I know the feeling. Boy, do I know the feeling,” said Breanna.

Somehow, the reply felt like a compliment.

Diego Garcia

1640 (1540, Karachi)

DANNY FREAH CAREFULLY ALIGNED HIS FINGERS ON THE

stitches of the football, gently rolling the pigskin against his wide palm.

“Down, ready, set,” he yelled, his voice sharp and loud.

He glanced to the right at his teammate—Boston, whose END GAME

273

right hand was still bandaged, lined up at split end—then at their opponents—Liu, who was playing defensive back, and Pretty Boy, who was rushing.

There had to be some way to get up to the target area quickly.

Deploy the Osprey from the Abner Read?

They’d done that before. That would lower the response time considerably; it’d be an hour at most.

“Hut, hut, hut.” Danny took the ball and dropped back.

Boston shot down the field. Danny waited for him to stop and fake right. He pumped, then lofted a bomb over the middle just as Pretty Boy finished his Mississippis and leapt into his face. Ducking away, he saw Boston get a hand on the ball but miss it, batting it into the air—where it was promptly snatched by Liu.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled, dodging Pretty Boy and heading toward Liu. Knowing from experience that the short and skinny Liu was a master of feints, Danny ran at three-quarter speed, waiting for the dance to begin. Sure enough, Liu did a stutter step as he approached, faking left then right then left. Then just as Danny grabbed for him, Liu tossed the ball backward—to Pretty Boy, who’d circled back and now had an open field to the goal. Danny turned on the jets in pursuit, but Pretty Boy lumbered across the goal before he could get two hands on him. Both men collapsed in the end zone, next to the nearby sidewalk that marked the end of their playing field.

“I had it,” griped Boston, coming over. “Damn bandages got in the way. I don’t even need the stinking things.”

Liu grinned as Boston pulled the gauze wrappings off.

He’d applied the fresh dressing just before the game, no doubt figuring out some way to make them extra slippery.

The problem with the Osprey was that the submarine might see it coming. Ditto with the Sharkboat that accompanied the Abner Read. If they had any sort of warning at all, they might blow the submarine up.

He had to strike quickly, make it seem as if it were a mal-

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function, immobilize them before they could react.

“Spot pass on the kickoff,” whispered Boston. “You receive, call pass while I run down the sideline. Just throw.

We’ll catch them off guard.”

“Spot pass?”

“Boston city rules,” said the sergeant. “Allowed on a kickoff if you call it. Grab the ball, don’t move, yell spot pass when they’re close and bomb it. Let’s do it and let them argue about it later.”

“Yeah,” said Freah. “A long bomb.”

He started trotting toward the Command trailer.

“Cap?”

“You guys play without me for a while. I gotta go talk to the colonel.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea

1555

DOG SIPPED A COFFEE AT THE PILOT’S STATION AS JED BAR-clay continued to update him on the situation. He’d turned the plane over to Jazz and was enjoying the closest thing to a break he was going to have for the next eight hours or so. The Levitow had just left for Diego Garcia, where she’d get a fresh crew and a full load of fuel before returning to duty.