Текст книги "End Game"
Автор книги: Dale Brown
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Cantor halted the Piranha’s turn, sliding the stick forward and moving gingerly in the direction of the contact. The scale showed the contact was at least twenty miles away, just about in territorial waters.
“Colonel, I think I have something, another sub maybe,”
Cantor told Bastian. “It’s a good twenty miles east of us. I wonder if we should check it out.”
“You’re sure it’s a sub?”
“I’m not sure at all,” Cantor admitted. “But if I follow the Chinese Kilo, I’ll definitely lose it. Very faint signal—extremely quiet.”
“Give me the coordinates,” said Dog.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0340
MEMON WATCHED AS THE LAST SU-35 EXPLODED OFF THE
deck of the carrier, its rapid ascent into the night sky belying the heavy load beneath its wings. Six new jets had arrived last evening, bringing the carrier’s flyable complement to eighteen. All but two were now in the air; if the order was given to attack, it would take no more than ten minutes for the first missile to strike its target.
He hoped it would not come to that.
Did this mean he was a coward? Or was Skandar right—was it just a matter of experience, of getting past the first shock?
“A beautiful sight, isn’t it?”
The voice sounded so much like Admiral Kala’s that Memon turned around with a jerk. But it wasn’t the dead admiral or his ghost, just one of the NCOs, an older man who supervised the radar specialists.
“Yes, it is beautiful,” managed Memon. “Incredibly beautiful.”
NSC Situation Room
1740, 14 January 1998
(0340, 15 January, Karachi)
JED BARCLAY WHEELED HIS CHAIR BACK FROM THE COMMUnications console and surveyed the screens arrayed before him. Twenty-three different computers were tied into various intelligence networks, allowing him almost instanta-neous information on what was happening in India and Pakistan. Updated feeds from satellites designed to detect missile launches took up four screens at the left; the coverage overlapped and had been arranged so the entire subcontinent was always in view. A pair of screens collated feeds END GAME
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from a pair of U-2s covering the Arabian Sea. The planes’
sensor arrays, dubbed “Multi-Spectral Electro-Optical Reconnaissance Sensor SYERS upgrades,” provided around-the-clock coverage of the region, using optics during the day and in clear weather, and infrared and radar at other times.
The next screen provided a feed from an electronic eavesdropping program run by the National Security Agency; the screen filled with updates on intelligence gathered by clandestine electronic listening posts near India and in Pakistan. Interpretations on captures of intelligence on Pakistani systems filled the next screen. Then came a series of displays devoted to bulletins from the desks at the different intelligence agencies monitoring the situation. Finally there was the tie-in to the Dreamland Command network, which allowed Jed to talk to all of the Dreamland aircraft and share the imagery.
Six people were needed to work all of the gear. Jed was the only one authorized to communicate directly with the Dreamland force. He would be relieved in the morning by his boss, who had just gone to dinner and who expected to be paged immediately if things perked up.
“I say we send out for pizza,” said the photo interpreter monitoring the U-2 and satellite images.
“How about Sicilian?” suggested Peg Jordan, monitoring the NSA feed.
“Sounds good,” said Jed.
“Let’s call Sicily and have it delivered,” deadpanned Jordan.
Everyone laughed. As lame as it was, Jed hoped the joke wouldn’t be the only one he heard tonight.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Wisconsin,
above the northern Arabian Sea
0345
DOG DOUBLE-CHECKED HIS POSITION, MAKING SURE HE WAS
still outside Pakistani territory. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying thirty miles due east of him, very close to the country’s border with India. The planes had queried him twice, making sure he wasn’t an Indian jet. Even though that should have been obvious, Dog had Jazz reassure the pilots, telling them they were Americans hoping to “help keep the peace.” There was no sense having to duck the planes’ missiles prematurely.
Besides the Pakistani flight, the Megafortress was being shadowed by a pair of Indian MiG-21s. Much older than the F-16s, they were farther away and less of a threat. But they were clearly watching him. Probably guided by a ground controller, they changed course every time he did. He knew this couldn’t go on much longer—the small fighters simply didn’t carry that much fuel—but it was an ominous portent of the gamut they’d have to run if things went sour.
Jed had warned that they couldn’t expect the Pakistanis to be friendly. Annoyed at the neutral stance of the U.S., the government of Pakistan had specifically warned that the Dreamland aircraft were “unwelcome” in Pakistani airspace for the length of the crisis.
If ballistic missiles were launched, Dog would know within fifteen seconds. Ideally, he would then rush over the Thar Desert, flying at least twelve and a half minutes before firing the first salvo of three missiles, which would detonate roughly seven minutes later. Seconds before they did, he would fire his last missile. Soon afterward, he would lose most if not all of his instruments and fly back blind. And while the radars and missile batteries along the route he was flying would be wiped out, the closer he got to the coast, the higher the odds that he’d be in the crosshairs. The Wisconsin might never know what hit her.
END GAME
299
The worst thing was, if the new calculations were correct, the mission might be in vain. And the same went for the Levitow. It was going to be ten or twelve hours before they could have both aircraft on station.
“J-13s from the carrier are headed our way,” said Jazz.
Dog grunted. The Chinese seemed to be working on an hourly schedule—every sixty minutes they sent a pair of planes to do a fly-by and head back to the carrier.
“Wisconsin, this is Hawk One—you sure you don’t want me to get in their faces?”
“Negative, Mack. Conserve your fuel. And your tactics.”
“Roger that.”
Dog thought Mack must be getting tired—he didn’t put up an argument.
“Colonel, Piranha is within ten miles of that underwater contact,” said Cantor. “Computer is matching this to the other craft. The one that scuttled itself the other day.”
“You’re positive, Cantor?”
“Computer is, Colonel. Personally, I haven’t a clue.”
“All right. I’ll contact Captain Chu and Danny in Dreamland Fisher. Good work.”
Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea
0348
STORM WATCHED THE PLOT ON THE RADARMAN’S SCOPE, tracking the Indian jets as they circled to the east.
“Keeping an eye on us,” said the sailor. “Every fifteen minutes or so they split up. One comes straight overhead.”
Storm scratched the stubble on his chin, considering the situation. The planes were well within range of the Standard antiair missiles in the forward vertical launch tubes.
The problem was, his orders of engagement declared that he had to wait for “life-threatening action” before he could fire. That meant he couldn’t launch his missiles unless the 300
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Sukhois got aggressive—which at this close range might be too late. Storm decided that when he got back to the bridge he would radio Bastian and see if he couldn’t get one of his little robot fighters over to run the Indians off.
Continuing with his tour of the Tactical Center, Storm moved over to the Werewolf station. Starship had gone off to bed, and one of Storm’s crewmen—Petty Officer Second Class Paul Varitok—was at the helm of the robot. The petty officer was one of the ship’s electronics experts and had volunteered to fly the aircraft when it came aboard. He was still learning; even discounting the fact that Storm’s presence made him nervous, it was obvious to the captain that he had a long way to go.
Storm completed his rounds and headed over to the communications shack. After checking the routine traffic, he made a call to Bastian. The Air Force lieutenant colonel snapped onto the line with his customary, “Bastian,” the accompanying growl practically saying, Why are you bothering me now?
“I have two Indian warplanes circling south at five miles,” Storm told him. “What are the odds of you chasing them away?”
“No can do,” said Dog. “Stand by,” he added suddenly, and the screen went blank.
It took the Air Force commander several minutes to get back to him, and he didn’t offer an apology or an explanation when he did. If he wasn’t such an insolent, arrogant, know-it-all blowhard—he’d still be a jerk.
“Storm—we have a contact we think may be another midget submarine. It’s similar to the one that blew itself up.
We’re going to track it. My Whiplash people will be en route shortly.”
“Where is it?”
“A few miles off the Pakistani coast, just crossing toward Indian territory.”
Dog gave him the coordinates, about sixty miles to the END GAME
301
east of the Sharkboat, which was another forty to the east of the Abner Read.
“It will take about two hours for the Sharkboat to get there,” Storm told him. “But those are Indian waters. If we’re caught there, it will be viewed as provocative. The Indians will have every right to attack us.”
“You’re telling me you won’t go there?”
“This has nothing to do with the aircraft carrier, Bastian.
You can’t give me an order regarding it.”
“I’m not. But if we want to get the submarine, we have to do it now. I would suggest– suggest—that you position your Sharkboat several miles offshore so it can come to the aid of the craft when it begins to founder.”
“You know all the angles, don’t you?” snapped Storm.
Dog didn’t respond.
“Yes, we’ll do it,” said Storm. “Get with Eyes for the details.” He jabbed his finger on the switch to kill the transmission.
Aboard the Levitow ,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0430
ZEN WATCHED AS LIEUTENANT DENNIS “DORK” THRALL FINished the refuel of Hawk Three. Dork backed out of Levitow, rolling right as he cleared away from the Megafortress.
Hawk Four remained on the wing; Zen would have to take the Piranha when they arrived on station, and didn’t want to leave Dork to handle two planes.
Dork steered the Flighthawk out in front of the Megafortress, climbing gradually to 42,000 feet, about five thousand higher than the EB-52. They were still forty-five minutes from the Wisconsin’s position, but already they’d encountered three different Indian patrols. They had also passed a Russian guided missile cruiser steaming north-
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ward with two smaller ships. If tempers were cooling, Zen saw no evidence of it.
He heard something behind him, and turned to find Breanna climbing down the metal ladder at the rear of the deck.
“I thought you were sleeping,” he told her.
“I fell asleep for, oh, twenty minutes,” she said. “Hard to sleep with Stewart snoring in my ear. She’s louder than the engines.”
“Dork’s flying Hawk Three,” said Zen.
“So I gathered. You’re just surplus?”
“Nothing but a spare part. You too?”
“Actually, I’m going to switch with Louis and take the stick. He’s feeling the aftereffects of the Navy food.”
“You sure you shouldn’t get more rest?”
“Nah,” said Breanna. Then she added cryptically,
“Hardly worth giving up your treatments for.”
“Huh?” Zen looked up at her, shocked—almost stunned—by what she’d said.
“You want anything? Coffee?”
“I’ll take a cup.”
He watched her disappear upstairs and felt a pang of regret at not being able to get up and go with her—at not being able to walk up with her.
She thought he’d made a mistake. That’s what she’d meant.
She wanted a whole man for a husband: one who walked.
Zen forced himself to go back to watching Dork. The Flighthawk pilot checked his sitrep, keeping a wary eye on a pair of Indian MiG-29s that the Levitow’s radar painted about 150 miles to the east. He had a good handle on what he was doing; while there were no guarantees, Zen thought he’d do well in combat once he got a little experience under his belt.
Maybe no one really needed him here at all.
“Coffee,” said Breanna, returning with a cup.
“Where’s yours?”
“I have to get back. Lou’s whiter than a ghost.”
“All right. See you around.”
END GAME
303
“Something wrong, Jeff?”
“Nah. I’ll be talking to you.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but couldn’t quite manage it.
Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea
0450
“PIRANHA TO WISCONSIN.”
“Go ahead, Cantor,” said Colonel Bastian, checking his position to make sure he was still in international airspace, about fifteen miles to the west of shore.
“The submarine is surfacing, Colonel. I think they’re going to that radar platform. And I think there’s another one nearby, closer to the coast but behind us. I’ll have to circle around to find out.”
The platform held one of a series of large radar antennas used to detect aircraft by the Indians. It would be a perfect target for a covert operation.
There was also a small building and shed at the base—a good place to resupply a small vessel.
“Wisconsin to Flighthawk leader—Mack, I want you to take a pass at the radar platform and give us some visuals. I want to see if that platform is expecting them.”
“On it, Colonel.”
Aboard the Deng Xiaoping , in the northern Arabian Sea
0450
CAPTAIN HONGWU, THE MASTER OF THE DENG XIAOPING, REviewed the movements of the Indian ships over the past several hours. The Shiva and her escorts had spread out, and at the same time come closer to him. Clearly they were positioning themselves for an attack.
304
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
While he had expended most of his anticruise missiles in his earlier engagement, Hongwu felt confident he could handle the Indians by overmatching their aircraft with his larger squadron, allowing him to reserve the missiles for use against ship-launched weapons. He would devote his planes to defense initially, counterattacking only after he had broken the enemy’s thrust.
But he worried about what role the Americans would play.
Besides the warship his pilots had misidentified, they were flying Megafortresses above the Arabian Sea. One seemed to be tracking his fleet. He thought it unlikely that they would help the Indians, but he knew he had to be prepared.
“The American aircraft should be kept at least fifty miles from us at all times,” he told his air commander. “We must keep their air-to-air missiles out of easy range of the radar helicopters. And if fighting starts again, they should be moved back beyond the range of the standard Harpoon missiles they carry—eighty miles.”
Hongwu immediately noted the concern on the air commander’s face.
“If necessary, assign four aircraft to escort them,” added Hongwu. “Escort them at very close range, where their air-to-air missiles will not be a factor.”
“It will be done, Captain.”
Northern Arabian Sea
0455
CAPTAIN SATTARI ROLLED HIS NECK SIDEWAYS AND THEN DOWN
toward his chest, trying to stretch away the kink that had developed there in the past hour. They were almost at their destination; he wanted to be out, and so did everyone else aboard the submarine.
“We are a little ahead of schedule, Captain,” said the Parvaneh’s captain. “The others may be well behind us.”
“Good. We will lead the charge.” Sattari got up and END GAME
305
turned to the rest of the commandos. “Be prepared to fire your weapons the moment we are out of the submarine.”
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0500
“THE RADAR PLATFORM AT DW ¯ARKA REPORTS THAT AN
American Megafortress is orbiting it to the west,” the radar officer told Admiral Skandar. “A flight of air force interceptors is being scrambled to meet it.”
Skandar nodded, and turned to Memon. “Do you still think the Americans are neutral?”
“No, Minister,” said Memon, though the question was clearly rhetorical.
“They are targeting the radar platform. You will see—it will be attacked at any moment.” Skandar turned to his executive officer. “Warn the platform to be on its guard. Have the men move to their battle stations. The showdown is about to begin.”
Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea
0501
MACK SMITH ACCELERATED AS HE APPROACHED THE PLATform, taking the Flighthawk down through fifty feet. He was too low and close to be seen by this radar system, but human eyes and ears were another matter. He had the throttle at max as he rocketed by the platform at close to 500 knots, banking around to the north and making another pass.
“If there’s a sub pen or docking area under that platform somewhere, I can’t see it,” he told Dog. “Cantor, where’s that submarine? Let me do a flyover as he comes up.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“He’s just coming to the surface, about a mile north of the platform, in very shallow water.”
Mack slid the Flighthawk around, slowing down now to get better images. Nothing showed on the screen, though, as he passed.
“Two MiG-29s coming off Bhuj,” warned T-Bone, naming an airfield along the coast. “And we have another flight coming in from the south—they’re going to their afterburners.”
“Want me to go cool their jets, Colonel?” asked Mack.
“No. Take another pass where that submarine is coming up. I want pictures.”
“Just call me Candid Camera.”
“THE MIGS OUT OF BHUJ ARE LOOKING FOR US,” SAID JAZZ.
“Carrying AMRAAMskis. They’re about a hundred miles away, speed accelerating over five hundred knots. Think the radar station picked up the Flighthawk?”
“I doubt it,” Dog told him. “They probably just got tired of us orbiting so close to them.”
Dog checked his watch. Danny and Boston in the Fisher were still twenty minutes away.
“Let’s do this,” he told Jazz. “Try and raise the Indian controller on his frequency. Tell him that there’s a submarine surfacing near his platform in Indian territory.”
“How do I explain that we know that?”
“Don’t,” said Dog.
“Southern flight of MiGs has also gone to afterburners,”
said T-Bone at the radar station. “Now approximately seven minutes away.”
“Mack, do you have any visuals for me?”
“Negative, Colonel. Submarine hasn’t broken the water yet.”
“All right. Come north with me. We’re going to run up toward the end of our patrol track and turn around. On the way back south we’ll launch Hawk Two.”
“You want me to take it?” interrupted Cantor.
END GAME
307
“No. Stay with Piranha. Mack will have to handle both planes for a while.”
“No sweat,” said Mack.
“If the Indians don’t back off, set up an intercept on the group coming out of the east, from Bhuj,” Dog told him.
“Got it, Colonel.”
“And Mack—don’t fire at them unless I tell you to.”
“Your wish is my command, Colonel. But say the word, and they’re going down.”
Aboard the Levitow ,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0503
STEWART OPENED HER EYES AND SAW THAT BREANNA HAD
left the bay. She rolled out of the bunk and pulled on her boots, then went out into the Megafortress’s galley area.
The restroom—imagine that in a B-1B!—was occupied.
“I’d like to brush my teeth,” she joked.
“I’ll be a while,” moaned the occupant.
It wasn’t Breanna. Stewart looked toward the front and realized that she had taken over as pilot four hours ahead of schedule.
Just like her.
Stewart grabbed her helmet and walked up past the radar stations to the first officer’s seat.
“Sorry I overslept. Mom forgot to set the alarm clock,”
she told the copilot, Dick “Bullet” Timmons. “Thanks for covering, Bullet.”
“I’m still on, Stewie. Lou’s stomach just went ballistic on him.”
“Bree and me are partners,” she told him. She glanced at Breanna. “Don’t want to break up the act.”
“Yeah, the teams ought to stay together,” Bree said.
Stewart felt her face flush. Finally, she thought, she’d been accepted.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Your call, Captain,” said Bullet. “Time I stretch my legs anyway.”
“Just don’t try the bathroom for the next hour,” added Stewart.
THE LEVITOW’S LONG-RANGE RADAR PLOT SHOWED THE TWO
MiGs on afterburners, heading north to intercept Wisconsin.
Breanna clicked into the Dreamland communications channel. “Dreamland Levitow to Wisconsin. I assume you see those MiGs coming at you from the south.”
“Roger that, Levitow,” said Dog. “We’re moving north.
What’s your estimated time to station?”
“Still a good fifteen minutes away from the designated patrol area.”
“Be advised, Piranha’s contact has stopped about a mile from the radar platform. We think they may be planning a raid. We’re trying to alert the Indian authorities. Piranha is about a mile and a half from the stopped sub and is approaching another contact, apparently a similar submarine.”
“Do you still want us to take over Piranha when we get closer?”
“Let’s play that by ear. It may depend on what these MiGs do. I’m going to launch Hawk Two right now.”
“Roger that.”
“TURN HAWK THREE OVER TO THE COMPUTER AND THEN
swap stations with me,” Zen told Dork.
“You sure, Major?”
“Yeah, I’ll take Three. You launch Hawk Four from this station. Then if we’re in range and have to take over Piranha, you can do it while I fly both U/MFs. You can’t control Piranha from the left station.”
“I’ve only flown—I mean, sailed—Piranha in simulations.”
“It’ll be easy,” said Zen.
Far easier than flying two Flighthawks in combat, he thought, though he didn’t say that.
Dork put Hawk Three into one of its preset flight patterns, END GAME
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turned its controls over to the computer, then undid his restraints and got out of his seat. Zen levered himself close enough to the other station so he could swing into the unoccupied chair. He landed sideways, then dropped awkwardly into position.
Blood rushed from his head. Whether it was an aftermath of the treatments or sleep deprivation, he felt zapped.
“Here’s your flight helmet,” said Dork.
“All right, thanks,” said Zen. “Let’s do the handoff, then get ready to launch. I’ll talk to Bree.”
Aboard the Fisher,
over the Arabian Sea
0505
LYING IN THE MANPOD WAS LIKE BEING IN AN ISOLATION CHAMber. A very cold isolation chamber. There were supposedly heating circuits in the damn things, but Danny had never used one yet without freezing his extremities off.
Not that he had all that much experience with the manpod. In fact, he’d only used it in training missions, and only once on a water jump.
The manpod could be ejected from either high or low altitude. In this case, the plan was to go out very low, so the EB-52 wasn’t detected. The pod would be more projectile than package, its descent barely retarded by a special drogue parachute.
“Danny?”
Colonel Bastian’s voice reverberated in his helmet.
“What do you need, Colonel?”
“I just want you to know that we have fighters approaching the area where the submarine is. I’ve told Lieutenant Chu that he’s to stay out of the area unless I instruct him otherwise.”
“Aw, Colonel, it’s cold in here. You have to let me jump or I’ll freeze to death.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“We’ll play it by ear, Danny. Sorry,” added Dog, the word echoing in Danny’s helmet.
LIEUTENANT CHU CHECKED HIS ALTITUDE ON THE HEADS-UP
display, keeping the Megafortress at precisely thirty-eight feet above the waves. The aircraft’s powerful surveillance radars were off, allowing it to slip undetected like a ghost in the night.
His adrenaline had his heart on double-fast forward. It had been like this the whole deployment, almost a high.
Chu had been thinking of trading in his pilot’s wings and going to law school before he got the Dreamland gig. He still hoped to be a lawyer someday, but this deployment had convinced him to push someday far into the future. Driving a Megafortress was the most fun you could have with your clothes on.
“Whiplash to Dreamland Fisher—yo, Tommy, what’d you tell the Colonel?” asked Captain Freah, who could communicate through a special channel in the Dreamland com system.
“Told him we were ready to kick butt and not to worry about the fighters.”
“Keep singing that song.”
“I will, Danny. Hang loose in there.”
“I am, but next flight, I want stewardesses and a better movie.”
Northern Arabian Sea
0508
THE SEA AIR PULLED CAPTAIN SATTARI OUT OF THE PARVANEH
submarine, up to the deck behind the lead commando and the mate. He moved toward the rubber boat, AK-47 in one hand, grenade launcher in the other. His lungs filled with the sweet, wet breeze.
They were farther from the platform than he thought.
END GAME
311
There were planes nearby, jets flying somewhere in the dark sky. He twisted his head back and forth but couldn’t see anything.
“Bring the SA-7s!” he yelled, telling the others to take the antiaircraft missiles. “Quickly! Into the boat. We have to paddle at least three hundred meters to reach the rocks!
Hurry, before we are seen!”
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0508
“MIDGET SUB IS ON THE SURFACE,” DISH TOLD DOG. “VERY
small. Similar to the vessel that sank itself.”
“Jazz, have the Indians responded to our warning?”
“Negative,” said the copilot.
Dog toggled into the Dreamland Command line. “Wisconsin to Abner Read. Eyes, I need to talk to Storm.”
“I’m here, Bastian. Go ahead.”
“The submarine we were tracking has surfaced about a mile north of the platform. Looks like an attack. I’ve tried contacting the Indians but gotten no response. I have two MiGs coming at me from the east. They may think we’re attacking the radar.”
“We’ll try notifying the Indians,” said Storm. “Don’t put yourself in danger for them.”
Jeez, thought Dog, he sounds almost concerned.
“Colonel, the lead MiG’s radar is trying to get a lock on us,” warned Jazz. “Threat analyzer says he has a pair of AA-12 Adder AMRAAMskis.”
“Storm, the Indian fighters are using their weapons radars to lock on us,” Dog said. “I’m not in their territory. I can’t tell if it’s a bluff or not, but if I have to defend myself, I will.”
“Understood.”
Dog killed the circuit.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Jazz, try telling the Indian fighters their radar station is being attacked by commandos. Maybe they can talk to the station.”
“I’ll give it a try, Colonel.”
“Wisconsin to Hawk One—be advised the MiGs are trying to lock their radar weapons on us,” Dog told Mack.
“On it, Colonel.”
Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea
0510
STORM GLANCED AT THE HOLOGRAPHIC DISPLAY. SHARKBOAT
One was still a good twenty miles to the east of the Indian radar station’s atoll; it would take the small patrol boat another forty-five minutes to reach the platform, assuming he authorized it to enter Indian waters.
“Eyes, what’s the status on Werewolf?” he asked.
“Should be just finishing refuel.”
“Good—get it up and over to the radar station. The submarines have surfaced. And Airforce—where the hell is he?”
“Sleeping, Captain.”
“Get him out of bed. I want him at the wheel of that helicopter.”
“But—”
“Pour a pot of coffee down his throat and get him up. I want him flying that bird. Got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Belatedly, Storm realized that Eyes was concerned not about getting Starship up but about breaking the news to Petty Officer Varitok, the man who was flying Werewolf now.
“I’ll explain it to Varitok,” he added. “It’s nothing personal. Have him come up to the bridge as soon as Airforce has taken over.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
END GAME
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Dw ¯arka Early Warning Radar Platform One, off the coast of India
0510
CAPTAIN SATTARI’S OAR STRUCK THE ROCKS ABOUT MID-stroke. The jolt threw him forward so abruptly he nearly fell out of the raft. He pulled himself back, aware that his mistake had thrown off everyone else in the boat.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pushing the oar more gingerly this time. It hit the rocks about a third of the way down this time, and he was able to push forward, half paddling, half poling.
Two more strokes and the bottom of the raft ran up on something sharp—a wire fence just under the waterline. Before Sattari could react, the water lapped over his legs. He could feel the rocks under his knees.
“Wire,” said the man at the bow in a hushed whisper. “I need the cutters.”
“Push the boat forward and use it to get over the wire onto the rocks,” said Sattari. “We can just go from here.”
The man at the bow stood upright in the raft. Holding his AK-47 above his head, he stepped over onto the nearby rocks, then reached back to help Sattari. The captain fished the grenade launcher that had been next to him from the water and then got up, stumbling but managing to keep his balance.
The others splashed toward him, carrying their waterproof rucks with explosives. The legs of the platform loomed in the darkness just ahead. At any moment Sattari expected to hear gunfire and shouts; it seemed a miracle that the Indians had not detected them so far.
“The ladder is here,” said someone, not bothering to whisper.
Sattari moved toward the voice, slipping on the rocks but keeping his balance. He reached a set of metal bars that had been planted in the rocks to hold part of the gridwork of a ladder. The captain grabbed the rail with his right hand and 314
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
pulled himself up. He still clutched the grenade launcher with his left hand.
Eight feet above the rocks, the ladder reached a platform.
A set of metal stairs sat at one end; the other opened to a catwalk that extended around the legs.
“Place a signal for the other boats,” Sattari told the men who clambered up behind him. He did not single the men out as he spoke, trusting that they would divvy up the duties on their own. “Place your charges on the leg posts, then follow me.”
As he pushed toward the metal stairway, he heard a shout from above, then a round of gunfire.
Finally, he thought. It hadn’t seemed real until he heard the gunfire.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0515
MACK SMITH THROTTLED HAWK ONE BACK TOWARD THE
Megafortress, banking in the direction of the MiGs. If they were looking to play chicken, he was ready for them; he’d have them breaking for cover in a few minutes.
Ten miles from the Megafortress he began another turn, aiming to put himself between the two bogies and the mother ship at roughly the distance they could fire their radar-guided missiles. As he got into position, Jazz gave an update.
