Текст книги "End Game"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“MiG One is breaking off,” reported the copilot. “Heading east. MiG Two– Whoa! Watch out! MiG Two is firing.”

“He’s mine,” said Mack, checking the sitrep. The Indian plane was three miles behind his left wing, closing fast.

Mack brought up his weapons screen, readying his cannon.

BESIDES THE MIDGET SUBMARINE THEY’D FOUND ON THE SURface, there were two others, still submerged, but rising.

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They were about three miles northeast of the radar platform, within fifty yards of each other. Cantor put the Piranha into the underwater robot’s version of a hover, its motor pushing just hard enough to keep the current at bay and stay in position.

He got a connection warning that the Megafortress was going outside the range of the control buoy.

“Piranha to Wisconsin—Colonel, we have a total of three submarines, one on the surface and two more coming up.

Should be on the surface in less than a minute. But we’re coming up to the edge of communications range with the buoy.”

“Roger that, Piranha, but I have other priorities—we have a missile on our tail and two apparently hostile aircraft pursuing us. Can you hand off to Wisconsin?”

“Negative. They’re not close enough.”

“Park it,” Dog told him. “Prepare to launch Hawk Two as soon as you can.”

UNTIL NOW, ALL OF THE AIRCRAFT MACK HAD ENCOUNTERED

while flying the Flighthawks had acted as if he wasn’t there.

The small planes were invisible to their radar except at very close range, and in the dark they were almost impossible to see. Mack planned his move against the Indian MiG as if that were the case now, expecting the aircraft to clear right after firing a second missile, at which point he could tuck into a tighter turn and get Hawk Two on its back. Alternatively, he might continue behind the Megafortress, positioning himself to fire heat-seekers if the radar-guided missiles failed to hit.

But the MiG didn’t fire another missile, nor did it turn off or even speed past him. Instead Mack found himself roughly a half mile in front of the MiG, well within range of its 30mm cannon. Seconds later tracers flew past Hawk Two’s nose.

Mack pickled flares as decoys and swung the Flighthawk into a shallow dive to his right. When he realized the MiG

hadn’t followed, he tried to pull back up and come up behind it. As he started to accelerate, the Indian pilot fired another AMRAAMski at the Wisconsin, then pulled hard to 316

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

the right. Mack finally had his shot, but it was fleeting and at a terrible angle; he spit a few shells at the MiG’s fat tailfin, but lost the target in a turn. He tucked a little too hard to the right trying to stay with him and within seconds lost the plane completely and had to swing back in the direction of the Megafortress to keep from losing his connection.

Not exactly auspicious. But as he glanced at the sitrep, he saw that MiG One was flying almost directly at him.

If you’ve been handed a lemon, make lemonade, he thought, setting up for an intercept.

Aboard the Shiva

0516

MEMON’S LEGS TREMBLED AS HE STEPPED ONTO THE DECK OF

the Shiva’s backup bridge, a space at the seaward side of the carrier’s island that had not been damaged by the earlier attack. Even though it bore only a passing resemblance to the main bridge, Memon felt as if it were inhabited by ghosts.

The fear that had hovered around him earlier pressed close to his ribs.

“A message, Admiral!” one of the men on watch shouted to Admiral Skandar. “From the radar platform!”

A commando team had been spotted trying to make an attack. A small American patrol craft was sailing in the general vicinity, and a flight of Indian landborne fighters were engaging the Megafortress nearby. It was assumed that the Americans had launched the attack.

“You see, I was quite correct about where the true danger lay,” Skandar told Memon. “They are honoring their commitments to Pakistan. This is the prelude to an attack by their aircraft on our bases.”

He picked up the phone connecting him to the ship’s combat center. “Launch the attack. Do not neglect the American ship.”

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317

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0517

THE INDIAN’S FIRST MISSILE HAD BEEN FIRED FROM EXTREMELY

long range, so far in fact that Dog knew from experience that he could simply outrun it. But the second missile was a different matter. He jerked the Megafortress’s stick sharply, turning the bomber to the east. The radar tracking the Megafortress lost its slippery profile, and the missile flew on blind for several miles, vainly hoping that the ghost it was chasing would materialize in front of it when it used its own radar for terminal guidance.

The sharp maneuver took Dog into Indian territory, where a host of ground radars that had been tracking them at long range suddenly sharpened their eyes and ears.

“That SA-10 battery inland is trying to get a lock,” said Jazz.

“Tell these idiots we were in international airspace and are not hostile.”

“I’ve broadcasted that six ways to Sunday. I’ll try again.”

“Cantor, you ready to launch?”

“Booting the command sequences now, Colonel. Screens are just finishing their diagnostics.”

“Emergency launch of Hawk Two in sixty seconds.”

“MiG One is turning toward us from the east, roughly forty miles away,” warned Jazz.

“I’ve been expecting him,” said Dog. “Get ready to launch.”

CANTOR TOOK CONTROL OF HAWK TWO AND IMMEDIATELY

pushed east, figuring he could cut off the Indian fighter MiG

One. But a glance at the sitrep showed that Mack and Hawk Two had gone in that direction, leaving the other plane free—and much closer to the Wisconsin.

“I have Hawk Two,” Cantor told Mack. “I’ll get MiG One.

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You concentrate on MiG Two. He’s off your left wing, two miles.”

“No, I have MiG One, ” said Mack.

There was no point in arguing. Cantor immediately changed course, dipping his wing and plotting an intercept.

DOG SWUNG THE WISCONSIN OUT TO SEA, STILL PURSUED BY

the AMRAAMski. The missile had a finite load of fuel; by rights it should have crashed into the sea by now.

Or maybe time just seemed to be moving at light speed.

Dog pitched his big aircraft on its wing in another sharp cut, trying to take advantage of one set of physical principles—those governing radio or radar waves—while defying another—those governing motion, mass, and momentum.

In this case radio won out—the missile shot wide right and immolated itself.

“MiG Two is swinging south,” said Jazz. “Looks like he and his partner are going to try and sandwich us.”

“They can try if they want,” said Dog.

“At what point do we go to the Scorpions, Colonel?”

“I’d rather hold on to them as long as we can,” he told the copilot. “We may need them.”

And pretty soon too. This looked suspiciously like the start of all-out war.

Dog turned back to the communications screen, activating the link with Jed Barclay in the NSC’s Situation Room.

“Jed, we’ve been fired on here by Indian MiGs,” he told the NSC deputy as soon as his face appeared in the screen.

“We’ve detected three submarines that we believe are trying to launch a commando attack on an Indian early warning radar platform near the border with Pakistan.”

“Are they Pakistani submarines? Or Chinese?”

“We haven’t identified them, but they match the sound profile Piranha recorded for the submarine that scuttled itself, which we believe was involved in the attack on Karachi.”

“Understood, Colonel. We’re starting to get some alerts here now.”

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319

Jazz broke in to tell Dog that there were four F-16 Pakistanis coming from the east.

“Jed, things are getting a little crowded at the moment.

I’ll check back with you in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be here, Colonel.”

“MiG One is launching missiles,” warned Jazz. “AMRAAMskis! Long range—sixteen, seventeen miles. Guess these guys believe the advertising.”

“ECMs. Stand by for evasive maneuvers. Mack, I thought you said you had this guy.”

MACK HAD JUST MADE A TURN AND STARTED TO CLOSE ON THE

MiG’s tail when he saw the flare under its wings. Two large missiles ignited, steaming off in the direction of the Wisconsin. Mack’s weapons screen indicated that he was not in range to fire; all he could do was wait for the tail of the Indian warplane to grow larger at the center of his screen. The targeting bar went yellow, then flickered red before turning back to yellow; the MiG pilot had punched his afterburner for more speed.

Mack cursed as the aircraft steadily pulled away.

“Hawk One, I’m turning back south,” said Dog.

“Yeah, OK,” said Mack. He started to follow, then realized that if he kept his present heading he could catch the MiG when it made its own turn to follow the Megafortress.

Sure enough, a few seconds later the Indian aircraft appeared at the top corner of his screen. He closed in, then just as the targeting bar turned red—indicating he had a shot—the computer warned that he was going to lose his connection. Mack fired anyway, putting two long bursts into the underside of the MiG’s fuselage. There was no doubt that he got a hit this time—flames poured out of the aircraft.

Mack jerked his stick back just in time to keep the link with the Wisconsin.

“Splash one MiG. Finally,” he said. “And about time, if I do say so myself.”

*

*

*

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“ONE OF THOSE MISSILES IS STILL COMING FOR US, COLONEL.”

Dog pulled the Megafortress into a tight turn, trying to beam the guidance radar by flying parallel to the radar waves.

The tactic didn’t work this time; the missile continued to close. They threw chaff and sent a wave of electronic countermeasures into the air to scramble the missile’s brains.

Dog, sensing he was still being pursued, rolled the big plane onto its wing, dropping and twisting behind the fog created by the countermeasures. This finally did the trick; the missile sailed overhead, exploding a mile away.

“Action near the Chinese carrier,” said T-Bone. “Air groups from the Shiva—they’re coming north at a high rate of speed. Missiles being fired! Jesus—they’re throwing everything at them!”

Dog went on the Dreamland Command line to warn Storm.

Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0523

“MULTIPLE MISSILE LAUNCHES FROM THE SHIVA AND OTHER

Indian ships,” Eyes told Storm. “Dreamland aircraft Wisconsin reports Indian aircraft moving toward the Deng Xiaoping in apparent attack formation.”

“Where are our shadows?”

“Still circling overhead.”

“If they turn their weapons radars on, shoot them down.”

“We’re ready, Captain.”

Storm took his night vision binoculars and stepped out onto the flying bridge, scanning the air above, and then the horizon in the direction of the Chinese carrier sixty miles away.

Too far to see the results of the Indian attack. A pity, he thought. A real pity.

STARSHIP RUBBED HIS EYES FURIOUSLY AS HE WAITED FOR

Petty Officer Varitok to put the Werewolf into a hover so he END GAME

321

could take over. The Tac Center, never a picture of calm, looked like a commodities exchange on steroids behind them. The Indians were launching dozens of missiles, and the Chinese were starting to respond.

“All yours, Airforce,” said Varitok, leaping out of the seat. “You’re right over the Sharkboat.”

Starship pulled on his headset and dropped into the chair.

There was a flash of red on the main screen. “Is that coming from the radar platform?”

Varitok looked at the screen. “Can’t tell. It’s ten miles east, two miles from shore.”

Starship pushed the Werewolf forward, accelerating from zero to 200 knots in a matter of seconds. He saw a second flash, and realized the explosions were too high to be from the radar platform.

There were fighters nearby—a pair of Su-35s far overhead, and a MiG-29 at about ten thousand feet, fortunately heading north. A missile launched from a boat to the south, crossing within a half mile.

“Tac, it’s getting ugly out here,” Starship told Eyes. “You want Werewolf to continue this mission, or come back to the Abner Read?”

“Continue your mission until told not to.”

“You got it.”

STORM LISTENED AS RADAR UPDATED HIM ON THE SU-35S.

They’d begun to descend rapidly in the direction of the ship, but still had not activated the radars normally associated with air-to-ship missiles.

What were they doing? Sightseeing?

The hell they were.

“Eyes—take down those planes!” shouted Storm.

“They’re going to either switch their targeting radars on at the last minute or hit us with iron bombs.”

“Aye aye, Captain, firing missiles.”

Two Standard SM-2 AERs spit out of the vertical launch tubes. Storm tracked their flares as they arced upward.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Thirty seconds later the sky flashed white. A loud boom rent the air. Another flash. Boom! Bar-oom!

“Both planes hit,” Eyes reported.

“Good work.”

As Storm turned to go inside, the Phalanx close-in air defense gun on the starboard side of the ship began firing.

Storm gripped the rail, and in the next moment the ocean erupted beneath him.

Dw ¯arka Early Warning Radar Platform One 0523

CAPTAIN SATTARI FELT HIS HEART POUND AS HE RAN UP THE

stairs, a few steps behind the team’s point man. Bullets flew down from above, but they were unaimed, falling into the nearby water. Sattari’s chest heaved as he reached the landing. The other soldier had stopped to wait for him and the others.

“One more set of steps and we are at the main level,” said the point man, repeating the brief Sattari himself had delivered before the mission. “There will be four men there, no more.”

Sattari grunted, too winded to reply. He pulled up the grenade launcher while he caught his breath, making sure it was ready to fire.

Had the water ruined it? The only way to find out would be to use it.

Two more men reached the landing.

“Let us take them now,” said Sattari, his wind back. He pushed to the nearby steps. By the time he got halfway up the flight, the others had run ahead of him, his age finally starting to tell.

Gunshots peppered the air as they reached the turn. Two of the men threw themselves down, answering with their own gunfire. The third—the point man who had just been leading Sattari upward—tumbled down, shot several times.

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Sattari slid close to the railing and went up, stopping below the crouching men. Once again he checked the grenade launcher.

“All right,” he said, crawling next to them. “Wait until I fire.”

If only he could have one of the black robes who’d questioned his courage with him now—he would use him as a shield.

When the rattle of the automatic guns above started to die, Sattari leapt to his feet, raised the launcher and fired.

Aboard the Levitow ,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0525

BREANNA CHECKED THEIR POSITION AGAIN. THEY WERE NOT

quite ten minutes from their patrol area. The Indian aircraft carrier Shiva was forty miles to the northeast.

“All hell’s breaking loose up there,” said Stewart. “Multiple missile firings from the Shiva and their task group.”

“Plot a course to the EEMWB launch point,” said Breanna. “I’m going to turn east. There’s no sense going through the middle of this.”

“But we haven’t gotten the order yet.”

“I want to be in a position to respond if we do. Long-range radars off,” added Breanna, adopting the mission plan. “Prepare to penetrate hostile territory.”

“Roger that.”

“Dreamland Levitow to Hawk Three and Four—we’re changing course and descending. Stay with me.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0525

STORM FLEW AGAINST THE SIDE OF THE LITTORAL DESTROYER’S

superstructure, slamming back and recoiling onto the deck.

He slid on the gridwork, grappling for a handhold to keep from falling into the sea.

The Abner Read lurched away from the explosion—and then back toward it. Storm’s legs shot over the edge of the flying bridge as his fingers dug into the grating. He got enough of a hold to get to his knees before he lost his grip and slid as the ship bobbed violently, rolling him toward the portal that led back inside to the bridge. He caught the side of the opening with his wrist, slid his hand there for a grip and, finally, with the boat still rocking violently, managed to push his right knee up under him and throw himself inside the ship.

He only got two-thirds of the way in, but it was far enough to grab hold of one of the legs of the instrument console. He clutched it as tightly as he could, squeezing with all of his might. Then he pulled himself upward, smacking his head on the shelf as he did.

“Captain!” yelled one of the men on the bridge. He too was on his knees.

Dazed, Storm struggled to his feet.

“Damage Control, report,” he said. “Damage—”

Storm put his hand to his face; his headset was gone.

One of his men grabbed him, steadying him on his feet. It was Petty Officer Varitok, the Werewolf pilot he’d ordered replaced.

“You all right, Captain?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Get me the backup headset. In my cabin—go.”

Storm went to the holographic display, activating the damage control view. One of the compartments on the starboard side had been breached.

It was too soon to tell how bad the damage was, but al-

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ready the automatic damage control system had cordoned off the area. Even if the compartment was a total loss, the ship would not sink.

His heart pounding in his chest, Storm turned his attention to the helmsman, who was still at his post. “Keep us steady, Helm,” he said. Then he clapped the man on the back. “Damn good job, son. Damn good job.”

“Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m sure I look worse than I feel,” said Storm. He wiped his face again, and discovered that what he’d assumed was seawater was actually blood.

“Captain!” yelled Varitok, returning with the headset.

“Your face. You’re bleeding.”

“It never looked that good to begin with,” said Storm, pulling on the headset. “Eyes—if any other aircraft get within ten miles of us, shoot them down.”

Dw ¯arka Early Warning Radar Platform One 0525

THE GRENADE SEEMED TO FLY IN SLOW MOTION FROM CAPtain Sattari’s launcher, spinning in the direction of a low wall of sandbags. Sattari saw everything that was happening, not merely on the platform, but in the ocean and the world around him: the ships and airplanes charging into war, the missiles that the Indians would fire against the Pakistanis, the Chinese weapons that would retaliate. He saw himself standing at the center of it all.

He turned his attention to the area in front of him. Two men with rifles leaned over the sandbags above. Bullets spewed from their weapons—he could see each one as it flew from the barrel, a dark cylinder coming for him. The Russian-made RPG-7 grenade he’d fired flew toward them, nudging against the top of the uppermost sandbag protecting the enemy’s position. Deflected slightly, it continued over the bag toward an upright grating behind the position.

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The bullets stopped coming toward him. The grenade halted in midair. It was the greatest moment of his life, an instant that filled him with a sensation that went beyond pleasure: an infinite grandeur, a knowledge that he had ful-filled the wish God had for him when he was created.

Then light cracked open the sky, and the world returned to its chaotic tumble. The grenade exploded directly behind the Indian soldiers guarding the station, and the platform jolted with the explosion. Sattari found himself facedown on the metal steps, his breath taken away by the shock. By the time he managed to fill his lungs, the others had run up to the landing and finished the wounded Indians off. Dazed, Sattari followed without completely comprehending what was going on. His men ran past him to set their charges.

“Helicopter!” yelled someone.

The word cleared Sattari’s head.

“Quickly! Set the explosives and back to the Parvanehs,”

he shouted. “Go!”

Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0525

THE ABNER READ ROCKED SO VIOLENTLY THAT STARSHIP WAS

yanked half off his seat. He grabbed the handhold at the side of the station, gripping it as the vessel shuddered from the effects of an explosion somewhere nearby. If he’d been a little sleepy before, he was wide awake now.

Bracing himself against the seat with his legs, Starship let go of the handhold and put his hands back on the Werewolf controls. The aircraft was programmed to drop its speed and glide into a hover when pressure was suddenly removed from the controls; Starship reasserted control gingerly, picking up speed and increasing his altitude as he hunted for the radar rig.

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327

He saw it three miles away, five degrees south. The platform looked like a squat oil drilling rig with thin derricks jutting from the top. He spotted pinpricks of light as he approached—tracers. A white flash swallowed the gunfire, then blackness returned.

“Action on the radar platform,” he told Eyes. “I have three vessels on the surface, at the north end.”

People were yelling behind him. If Eyes answered, Starship couldn’t hear. He dipped the Werewolf in the direction of the vessels. From two miles off they looked like speedboats or pleasure cruisers very low in the water.

“I think I have the midget submarines,” he told Eyes.

“Werewolf to Tac—I have the submarines in view, north of the tower, on the surface.”

He steadied the aircraft and switched his main view from infrared to light-enhanced mode, which gave a sharper dig-ital photo. He was still too far to get a good shot, and began moving forward slowly, filling the frame with one of the vessels at maximum zoom. He took the photo, creating and storing an image in standard, low resolution .jpg format; then he moved in to get a close-up of what looked to be the sub’s conning tower.

When he backed the zoom off, Starship saw small boats in the water. Before he could figure out if they were leaving or returning, the screen went white at the right side. Starship jammed the Werewolf controls to race away from the explosion, though he knew he was already too late.

NSC Situation Room

1934, 14 January 1998

(0534, 15 January, Karachi)

THINGS RATCHETED UP SO QUICKLY IT SEEMED TO JED THAT A hidden fast forward switch had been thrown. One moment the screens with information from the U.S. intelligence 328

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

agencies were mostly blank or filled with log entries indicating “nothing new.” Then bulletins and updates began scrolling onto the screens in rapid succession.

Jed grabbed the direct line to the NSC Advisor before it finished its first ring; he had paged Freeman via his Black-berry a few minutes before.

“It looks like the Indians are launching an all-out attack on the Chinese and Pakistani ships in the northern Arabian Sea,” Jed told his boss. “One of their radar platforms has been attacked. Pakistani aircraft are being vectored to meet Indian flights near the border. One of our Megafortresses has been shot at.”

“Are they OK?”

“Yes. I think the attack on the platform may have started things off, but it’s hard to sort it out,” Jed added.

“That’s immaterial right now, Jed. What’s the status of the Indian nuclear units?”

“They’re one step below launch.”

“Is the Dreamland mission still viable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m on my way back. I’ll alert the President. He may arrive before I do. Hang in there, Jed.”

Barclay put down the phone.

“Indian missile site at Bhatinda has just gone to launch warning,” said Jordan, reading from the NSA screen.

“Warning? Do we have that area on satellite?”

“There,” said the image interpreter, pointing to the display. “They’re getting ready to launch.”

Jed reached for the button to key into the Dreamland communications network.

“Launch in Pakistan!” yelled Jordan. “My God, they’re really going to try and end the world!”

IX

End Game

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

15 January 1998

0538

CLEAR OF THE INDIAN FIGHTERS AND THEIR MISSILES, DOG

began climbing over the water, trying to sort out exactly what was going on. More than a dozen missiles had been launched at the Chinese aircraft carrier, which was beginning to respond with anticruise missiles.

The Dreamland circuit buzzed.

“Colonel, we have a missile launch,” said Jed Barclay, his words running together. “Go to End Game. I will stay on the line and update you.”

“Bastian acknowledges, End Game is authorized,” said the colonel calmly. “I need the status of Chinese aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping.”

“Tai-shan order has not been given. Repeat, Tai-shan has not been given.”

That meant that the electronic “ferret” satellite had not yet picked up the order authorizing the launch of the nuclear-equipped aircraft. But that wasn’t enough.

“Jed, I need to know specifically that those aircraft are not on the hangar deck,” said Dog.

“I am looking at the U-2 image now. Neither plane is on deck.”

“Then I’m proceeding with End Game,” said Dog.

“Acknowledged,” said Jed.

Dog hit the preset under the screen; Tommy Chu, the pi-

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

lot of Dreamland Fisher, appeared on the screen.

“Tommy, End Game has been authorized. Wisconsin and Levitow will proceed overland. I want you to take up station and be prepared to deal with the Deng Xiaoping’s planes if the Chinese order Tai-shan to proceed.”

“Fisher acknowledges. Colonel, I’m roughly ten minutes from the radar platform on my present course. Should I go ahead with the drop or not?”

“I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks. Tai-shan is higher priority.”

“Understood, Colonel. But my best course at this point to avoid both aircraft carrier groups will take me right past the platform. And frankly, I think I’d do better without the manpods on my wings.”

“Have Danny check with Captain Gale on the Abner Read and find out the status of the Sharkboat he sent.

Danny’s not to proceed without coordination from the Sharkboat, and approval from Gale. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If it looks too risky, call it off. Drop the pods near the Abner Read. If Danny gives you grief, refer him to me.”

“You got it, Colonel.”

“Bastian out.” Dog hit the preset to connect with Levitow.

Breanna’s face appeared on the screen.

“End Game has been authorized,” he told her. “What’s your position?”

“We’re approaching the Indian coast, thirty miles north of Mumbai. We’ll go from here.”

Dog realized she was much farther south than they’d planned. Distancewise, that wouldn’t be much of a problem. But it would take them much closer to the Indians’

most fearsome antiaircraft defenses.

“We’ve turned off our radar,” she added. “We’ll make it, Daddy.”

For once he didn’t mind that she called him that.

“I know you will. Check back in five.”

“Roger that.”

END GAME

333

*

*

*

MIG TWO’S NOSE HAD JUST COME INTO CANTOR’S VIEW

screen when Colonel Bastian announced that they were going back over India. He stayed on course, closing to a mile before he got the signal from the computer that he had a shot. He pressed the trigger, releasing a hail of bullets for the MiG to fly into. Rather than turning to finish off his prey as he’d planned, he pulled back east, racing parallel to the Wisconsin.

“Didja get him, kid?” asked Mack.

“No.”

“You got him away from us. That’s the main thing.”

“Thanks,” said Cantor, surprised that Mack was trying to sound encouraging.

The Megafortress’s flight plan would take them toward the Thar desert, a vast wasteland between Pakistan and India. They would be crossing Pakistani territory as well, which meant that they would be exposed to two American I-Hawk antiaircraft batteries as well as a number of Russian-made ones on the Indian side.

A more immediate threat, especially as far as Cantor was concerned, were the fighters both sides were hurling into the air. The second flight of Indian MiGs that had scrambled earlier were coming north, and the four Pakistani F-16s they’d detected were approaching the border directly in their path.

“I’ll worry about the Indians,” Cantor told Mack.

“You’ve got the F-16s.”

“Yeah, I was about to say the same thing, kid.”

“You remember the Fort Cherry exercise? Same thing.

You can let the computer program the attack route, because it’ll look that encounter up. It’s based on Pakistani tactics in a four-ship group that Zen taught during—”

“I don’t need Professor Zen’s pointers, kid,” said Mack.

Typical Mack, thought Cantor. Just when you thought he’d stopped being a jerk, he rubbed your nose in it.

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Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0538

THE EXPLOSION BUFFETED THE WEREWOLF, BUT WAS TOO FAR

away to do any damage. By the time Starship recovered and circled back to see what had happened, two of the legs holding the radar platform had collapsed. The structure tilted forward, as if about to dive head first into the water.

One of the large antenna towers had fallen; the other two were twisted sideways.

The submarines sat on the surface between a mile and two miles from the platform. Starship dropped his speed and began a slow arc around them to the northeast. There were several aircraft nearby, Pakistani and Chinese, but as yet no one seemed to have reacted to either him or the boats.

“Eyes—they’ve hit the tower. The radar platform has been destroyed. You want me to stop these guys? They’re boarding the submarines. I see two more small boats. One of the subs is moving.”

Starship could choose between six Hellfire missiles, two 30mm chain guns, and a pair of 7.62 machine guns to use against the submarines. He opted for the Hellfires, whose shaped warheads would slice easily through their hulls. But he still needed permission to fire.

“Werewolf to Tac Commander, am I authorized to fire on these submarines? Am I supposed to stop them from getting away or what?”

“Go ahead,” said Eyes finally.

Starship reached his right hand to the rollerball controlling the cursor for the laser designator, zeroed in on the near-est sub, and clicked to lock the target. Then he fired two missiles. The missiles rode a laser beam from the Werewolf down to the sub, zeroing in on the cue like a Walker fox-hound chasing its prey in an overgrown field. The first Hellfire hit with a wallop of steam; the second Hellfire rolled into the fog.

END GAME

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