Текст книги "End Game"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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The close-quarters weapon—developed by Dreamland’s weapons lab, the letters stood for Close Quarters Whiplash Shotgun—looked like a Pancor jackhammer shotgun that had been sawed off just fore of the trigger. It held twelve rounds of plastic pellet-filled shells, designed to incapacitate but not kill a person. The shells were expelled with enough force to knock down a 250-pound man.

Danny grabbed the gun and leapt down into the submarine. He saw only smoke in front of him, but immediately fired two rounds. Something fell at his feet—a man. Danny sidestepped him, then raised his gun as something moved a few feet away. He fired point-blank and it went down.

Boston was right behind him. Danny pushed through the thick haze, still using his dive pack to breathe. The submarine had an aisle down the middle, with a seat to each side.

He saw a station with a wheel at the front, a shadow moving next to it. He put two shells into the shadow.

Someone grabbed at his side. A sharp elbow got rid of his 354

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

assailant, but as he brought his gun up, a bullet ricocheted nearby. Before Danny could react, he felt a burning sensation in his calf. He fired toward the front of the submarine, heard another bullet, and found himself falling.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over India

0613

DOG VEERED TO THE SOUTH AS SOON AS JAZZ GAVE HIM THE

warning about the SA-12s. The Megafortress groaned with the strain, pulling nearly eight g’s. Engines at max power, he pushed his nose down, increasing his speed.

“Colonel—you’re heading straight for the SA-10 site.”

“Turn off the ECMs.”

“Colonel?”

“Jazz.”

“ECMs off. Clam Shell acquisition ra– They have us!

They have us! They’re launching—two, four missiles.”

Three behind them, four in their face. Dog continued on a beeline for the Indian site that had launched the SA-10s for another twenty seconds.

“Give it everything you got, Jazz,” he said. “Chaff, ECMs, the kitchen sink. Crew—stand by, this one’s going to be close.”

THOUGH THE FLIGHTHAWK WAS SEVERAL TIMES MORE MAneuverable than the EB-52, Mack had trouble keeping Hawk One close to the Wisconsin as she jinked and jived toward the ground, rolling on her wing and then heading almost straight down. It wouldn’t have been half bad if he hadn’t actually been in the plane—the hard maneuvers while he was flying in a different direction threatened to tear his head from his body. His stomach felt like it was where his legs should be, and the g forces tried to jerk his arms out of their sockets.

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355

One of the Indian missiles was beelining for the Flighthawk. That wasn’t a bad idea, he thought—intercept the missile before it hit the Megafortress. But the telephone-pole-sized weapon flew by him at the last second.

DOG POWERED THE MEGAFORTRESS INTO A DIVE. HE GLANCED

at the sitrep, then back at the windscreen.

“SA-12s are following—no, he’s off—he’s going for the SA-10,” shouted Jazz.

“Hang with me, son.”

Confused by the jamming gear and the apparent disappearance of their target, the two sets of missiles quickly found alternatives—each other. None managed to complete an exact interception, but when the first missile detonated, the others quickly followed suit.

The plane shuddered, and the computer warned that it was “exceeding normal flying parameters”—a polite way of asking if the pilot had lost his mind. Dog struggled through an uncontrolled invert; with the computer’s help he leveled off at fifteen thousand feet.

They were beyond the missile batteries.

“You did it, Colonel. They cooked each other. We’re past them.”

“We got a ways to go yet, Jazz,” said Dog, hunting for the heading to the launch area.

Northern Arabian Sea

0614

DANNY LANDED ON A BODY AS BULLETS FLEW BY. HE SAW

someone rising behind him. Thinking it was Boston, he hesitated for a moment, then saw the silhouette of a pistol in the man’s hand. He fired two rounds from his shotgun point-blank at the shadow’s head.

Someone grabbed him by the throat. Choking, he pointed the shotgun backward and fired once, twice, three times be-

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fore the hand finally let go. He jumped up, firing two more times at the prone body.

Boston loomed behind him, waving his hand. They’d subdued everyone aboard the submarine.

Breathing heavily, they began trussing the men with plastic handcuffs and grabbing any guns they could find. Danny’s leg screamed with pain. He stumbled over the bodies in the aisle, then found his way to the ladder, clambering topside. He crawled out onto the deck of the submarine and pulled down his mask and breathing gear, hyperventilating in the fresh air.

“Sharkboat dead ahead!” said Boston, coming up behind him.

The low-slung patrol craft was less than fifty yards away.

Danny dug in his equipment belt for the flare they were supposed to use to tell them the submarine’s crew had been subdued; by the time he found it, three sailors were already aboard.

“Hey, Captain Whiplash!” yelled one of the Navy men, who’d worked with Danny before.

“About time you got here,” said Boston. “Put your damn gas masks on—place is a mess down there.”

SATTARI FELT HIMSELF BEING LIFTED AND CARRIED UPWARD.

He was going to Paradise, his battle done.

He sailed through a narrow tunnel, flooded with light.

Was his wife waiting for him?

His head slapped hard against the ground. Water splashed over him—he was wet—he was alive.

The submarine had been attacked. There had been gas and explosions, men …

Someone shouted nearby. The words were foreign—

English.

Americans!

When he tried to move his hands, he found they were bound in front of him.

They would not take him alive. Sattari pushed over the side, diving into the water.

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357

*

*

*

“HEY, ONE’S JUMPING IN THE WATER!”

Danny turned in time to see a pair of legs crashing through the waves. Without thinking, he dove forward off the submarine, stroking for the man. His leg throbbed as he tried to kick; it went limp on him, stunned, as if anesthetized—except it still hurt like hell. He saw the man surfacing a few feet away and lunged for him. He grabbed the man’s back, pulling him to the left; the man jerked away and fell back under the waves.

SATTARI’S LUNGS SCREAMED FOR AIR BUT HE IGNORED

them, pushing himself downward. He would cheat his enemies of this.

The man who’d followed him grabbed him by the left arm. Sattari shoved him aside. He opened his mouth, trying to swallow the sea.

He saw the man’s eyes in front of his face, wide and white.

Sattari threw his hands forward and found the man’s neck.

“You’re coming with me,” Sattari told him.

BEFORE DANNY COULD REACT, THE HANDS TIGHTENED AROUND

his neck. Dragged down, he tried to kick but couldn’t. He began punching the other man, but the man didn’t let go.

Both of them continued to sink.

I’m going to die here, he thought.

Danny flailed desperately, poking and punching and kicking, forcing his injured leg to move, using every ounce of energy in his body to push off his attacker. His lungs were bursting, his nose and mouth starting to suck seawater.

Suddenly, the hands slipped away. Danny threw himself up toward the surface. He burst above the waves, gulped a breath, half air, half water. Coughing violently, he slipped back down, fought his way back to the air, tried to float. He gasped and coughed at the same time.

“Here, here!” someone shouted nearby.

Danny turned over to paddle but his arms were too tired 358

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now. His body sagged and exhaustion felt very near. He pushed once, then slipped down below the waves, happy to rest finally.

Then he felt himself moving upward. He took a breath and coughed. He coughed until the world around him was red. When he stopped, he found himself in a small rigid-hulled craft from the Sharkboat.

“You OK, Captain?” said a sailor, standing over him.

“That guy …”

“Don’t see him anywhere.”

Too tired to look himself, Danny collapsed against the gunwale.

Aboard the Levitow ,

over India

0614

ZEN CHECKED HIS WATCH. THEY WERE THREE MINUTES TO

Point Baker, where the Megafortress would begin its five-minute climb to the launch point.

“Bandits ahead,” warned Stewart. “ID’d as MiG-21

Fishbeds. Four planes. They don’t see us yet.”

Zen saw them on the sitrep as the copilot read off their heading and altitude. They were at eight thousand feet, flying northwest on a course that would bring them to within two miles of the Megafortress, just at the point where Breanna would have to start to climb.

“Jeff, you think we can sneak past these guys?” asked Breanna.

“I was just about to ask you the same question,” Zen told his wife. While it would be foolish to underestimate the fighters, their radars were limited and there was a decent possibility that the EB-52 could get past them without being noticed.

“If we didn’t have to climb, I’d say we take the chance,”

Breanna told him. “But if they see us, they’ll be on our back at the worst possible time.”

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359

“Roger that, Levitow. I have the lead element.”

“Look at our flight path—can you hold off until they’ve crossed it?”

“That’s not a problem,” said Zen.

“We’ll use Scorpions on Bandits Three and Four,” explained Breanna. “I’ll pivot and fire two missiles. If I recover quickly, I’ll be back on course in just over a minute and a half.”

“Roger that.”

AS ZEN TOOK THE FLIGHTHAWK NORTHWEST AND BEGAN TO

climb, he worked out the game plan in his head. The MiGs were flying close enough for him to take both planes out in a single pass. He’d loop in from the west, firing on the wingman first; it would take barely a nudge on his stick to get his sights on the lead plane. The MiGs were moving at 320 knots; he’d be able to close on them easily.

It was a great plan, but the Indians didn’t cooperate.

When they were less than three miles from the Megafortress, the planes suddenly accelerated.

“I think they see us,” said Stewart, her voice shrill.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” Zen told her. “Relax there, Levitow.”

“Trying,” said the copilot.

Zen knew better than to bother chasing the lead element; he might catch one of the planes but couldn’t hope to take two.

“Bree, let’s swap targets. I’ll take Three and Four, you go for One and Two.”

“Roger that, Flighthawk. Kick butt.”

“You got it, baby.”

STEWART’S FINGERS GREW COLD AS SHE WORKED THROUGH

the screen, redesignating her targets. It was easy, it was simple, she’d done it gadzillion times in the drills—but she could feel her heart pounding harder and harder.

“Ease up, Jan,” said Breanna. “You’re hitting the touch-screen like you’re fighting Mike Tyson.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I guess I am,” she said. She put her hands together, warming her fingers. She didn’t relax, exactly, but she did pull back from hyper mode.

“Bay,” said Breanna. “Fire when ready.”

If we wait that long, we’ll be dead, Stewart thought.

THE SECOND ELEMENT OF MIGS ALTERED COURSE, BANKING

into a tight turn to put themselves behind the Megafortress.

The MiG-21 had been designed in the 1950s, and while outdated long ago, the aircraft retained many of its original virtues. Small and maneuverable, it could touch Mach 2 if necessary, and was tough in a close-quarters knife fight.

The two Indian jocks who were turning toward the Levitow’s tail undoubtedly thought they had the Megafortress right where they wanted her—about five miles ahead and several thousand feet below them. All they had to do was close in; their heat-seekers would do the rest.

The problem with that strategy came in the form of 20mm shells ripping through the nose and canopy of Bandit Four. Zen hit the MiG from above, riding his cannon through the humped midsection of the plane. Two or three dozen bullets hit the aircraft in a fraction of a second, shredding the plane’s avionics, engine, and most of all its pilot.

Zen pulled his nose up and found Bandit Three dead on in his gunsight. The weapons bar went red; he waited a full second then fired. The MiG rolled its wing left, trying to duck away. Zen had too much momentum to follow and still get a kill; instead he banked back in the direction of the Megafortress, losing sight of his opponent.

“Fire Fox One! Fire Fox One!” warned Stewart. Though still excited, her voice wasn’t nearly as shrill as it had been.

Two missiles spurted from the bay of the EB-52, AARAAM-pluses heading for Bandits One and Two.

Zen looked at the sitrep, trying to figure out what had happened to the other MiG. The plane wasn’t on the display, but he knew it had to be around somewhere; the radar END GAME

361

had difficulty seeing objects very close to the ground behind its wings.

“Levitow, I lost Bandit Three,” Zen warned.

“Roger that, Flighthawk. Tail Stinger is activated. We’re climbing,” added Breanna.

Zen decided that the other MiG had either gotten away south or was running parallel to him somewhere beyond the Megafortress’s right wingtip, where it would be difficult for the radar to spot.

He started crossing, then realized there was a possibility he hadn’t considered—just below his own tail.

Tracers exploded past his nose. Now the tables were turned, and Zen was the surprised target. He cut back to his left, hoping to throw the MiG out in front of him as he began to weave in the sky. But the Indian pilot didn’t bite, and Zen had to duck a fresh stream of bullets.

He wasn’t completely successful. Three shells went into the Flighthawk’s left wing. The computer tallied the score: DAMAGE TO CONTROL SURFACE. DEGRADATION FIVE PERCENT.

Zen continued to zig up and down, back and forth, depriving the other pilot of an easy shot. If they hadn’t been so close to the Megafortress, he would have started a turn; if the MiG followed, he could use the Flighthawk’s superior turning radius and maneuverability to reverse their positions. But that wasn’t an option here, since it would leave the way clear for the MiG to close on the Megafortress before he could get back.

The launch warning sounded—the MiG had fired two heat-seeking missiles at him. Now he had to get out of the way. Zen tossed flares and tucked toward the ground, then immediately zigged right and hunted for the MiG. Sure enough, the Indian jock was accelerating straight ahead, trying to close on the EB-52’s tail.

Zen’s quick roll had taken him below the MiG-21. He turned into the enemy plane and began firing despite the 362

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

computer’s warning that he didn’t have a shot. The hail of bullets broke the MiG’s attack; he pushed off to the right, jerking hard and pulling at least six g’s. No conventional fighter could have stayed with him, but the Flighthawk wasn’t a conventional fighter. The MiG’s tailpipe grew fat in the middle of his screen. He leaned on the trigger, giving the Indian craft a 20mm enema. The canopy flew off in short order, the pilot hitting the silk.

“Splash Bandit Three,” said Zen, looking for the Megafortress.

STEWART STARED AT THE MESSAGE IN HER SCREEN: TARGET

ONE DESTROYED.

She’d got it! The bastard was dead.

But where was the other plane?

Still flying, six miles ahead. The other missile?

She’d missed.

“Bandit One is hit,” she told Breanna. “Bandit Two is still there. The missile must have missed.”

“All right,” said Breanna.

“Should I fire another?”

“Just stand by.”

Stewart felt a wave of resentment come over her. But then she realized they weren’t in a good position to fire. The pilot wasn’t criticizing her; she preferred to stay on course and keep her missiles if she could. It made more sense to at least check first with the Flighthawk pilot to see if he could take the plane.

“Standing by,” said Stewart.

“I CAN JUST GET THERE IF BANDIT TWO STAYS ON HIS PRESent course and speed,” Zen told Breanna. “But only just.”

“Try. We’re two minutes to launch point.”

“Got it.”

Zen accelerated ahead, climbing to meet the MiG. The other aircraft was three thousand feet above him.

“Fuel warning,” said the computer.

END GAME

363

Zen called up the fuel panel. Sure enough, the Flighthawk was into its reserves, well ahead of schedule.

The tanks must have been damaged, though the status board claimed that they were OK.

There was nothing he could do about it now—the Indian fighter loomed at the top of his screen. Zen pulled his nose up and took a shot as the plane passed, getting the MiG to break south. Knowing that he hadn’t put enough bullets into him to shoot him down, Zen started to follow. Breanna, meanwhile, had pulled the Megafortress farther south and begun to level off, preparing to fire the EEMWBs.

“Fuel emergency,” declared C3.

Zen glanced at the fuel screen. The tanks were nearly drained—he had under five minutes’ worth of juice.

“How did I use fifteen minutes’ worth of jet fuel in thirty seconds?” he asked the computer.

“Unknown command,” it replied.

Was the problem simply with the gauge? Zen hoped so.

He pressed his nose down as the targeting bar began to blink yellow. The MiG was starting a turn to his left, banking to get behind the Megafortress.

“Fuel emergency,” repeated the computer.

“Yup.” Zen leaned the Flighthawk onto its left wing, pushing his enemy into the sweet spot of his target zone. He pressed the trigger; bullets began flying from the nose.

Then the Flighthawk veered down.

“Engine has lost power. Fuel emergency. No fuel. No fuel,” sang the computer.

Zen slapped the computer’s audible warning system off.

“Hawk Three to Levitow—Bree, I’m out of fuel. Something must have hit the Flighthawk and caused a breach in the tanks. Didn’t show on the damage panel. That MiG is still out there.”

“Acknowledged,” said Breanna. “Ninety seconds to launch point.”

364

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Abner Read,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0619

STARSHIP TOOK THE WEREWOLF OVER THE SHARKBOAT, CIRcling as the last of the submarine’s survivors were taken aboard. The Sharkboat was preparing to tow the vessel back to the Abner Read, some sixty miles to the west.

Sixty perilous miles between the Chinese and the Indian forces.

Starship headed west, scouting the area. The closest vessel was a Chinese destroyer, fifteen miles away. It had been hit by two Indian missiles, and had a gaping hole at the bow; it was unlikely to come for them. More problematic was the guided missile cruiser rushing to its aid.

“Werewolf to Tac. I have an update on the two Chinese vessels closest to the Sharkboat,” said Starship. “Destroyer looks pretty badly damaged. Cruiser’s going to help it. I’d say go now while the going is good.”

“Acknowledged. We have a contact for you to check out five miles north of us—we think it’s a downed pilot in the water. Can you get there?”

“On my way.”

THE MEGAFORTRESS THAT DROPPED THE MANPOD HAD TURNED

on its surface radar, giving the Abner Read and Storm a good picture of the battle. The Indian carrier appeared to be sixty miles southeast of them—in range of his Harpoon missiles.

And the Standards. He’d use a mix; it was the only way to guarantee he could take out the Chinese carrier as well.

And he was going to get them.

The two fleets were repositioning themselves after the first wave of attacks. Two Chinese escorts had been severely damaged, and it appeared that one Indian vessel was sunk. The Deng Xiaoping’s radar helicopters and two of its fighters had been shot down, but only one of the Indian mis-

END GAME

365

siles managed to reach the ship, and it had not done enough damage to impede air operations. The Indian ship Shiva had not been hit and was beginning to recover the aircraft involved in the attack.

“Weapons, target the Indian carrier Shiva,” Storm said. “I want a mix of Harpoons and Standards. Use the plan we established earlier.”

“You want me to target the carrier, sir?”

“Am I speaking English? Target the Shiva with enough weapons to sink her.” Storm pounded the side of the holographic display. He looked down at the table. A pool of water disrupted the projection.

Was it water? Or blood?

His head felt as if it was going to lift off from his head.

“Captain,” said Eyes. “Storm—we can’t sink the Indian ship.”

“Like hell I can’t. Our orders said that we were allowed to defend ourselves. The Indian ship is regrouping for an attack.”

“The planes on the Chinese carrier—we’re already out of position to act as backup against them, and—”

“Don’t second-guess me, Eyes. No one’s going to attack us and not get a fistful of explosives back in their face.

Weapons—use a mix of missiles. Keep enough to sink the Chinese carrier if we have to, but you lock on that damn Indian ship and sink the bastard!”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over India

0619

CHU, THE PILOT OF DREAMLAND FISHER, BEGAN SPEAKING AS

soon as Dog cleared the communication.

“I have two Chinese aircraft on my wingtips telling me to get out of the area or face the consequences, Colonel.

They’re not specifying what the consequences are.”

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“I assume you’ve told them you’re in international air space?”

“I told them in English and in Chinese, Colonel. They weren’t impressed.”

“All right, Chu, stand by.” Dog hot-buttoned to the channel reserved for Jed Barclay at the NSC during the operation. “Jed, are you there?”

“I’m here, Colonel.”

“What’s the status on the Deng Xiaoping?”

“Tai-shan aircraft have not appeared on the deck. NSA has not yet picked up the command to launch.”

Well, that was something at least, thought Dog. But it might be only a matter of time—the Chinese might not have picked up the Indian launch yet.

“The Chinese are challenging Dreamland Fisher, which is supplying radar information to the Abner Read. I’m going to have the pilot back off a little bit to avoid provocation.”

“Your call, Colonel.”

“Both of the aircraft with EEMWBs are within ninety seconds of their launch points,” he added. “Are we cleared to go?”

“Stand by. I have Mr. Freeman right here.”

The National Security Advisor’s face came into view on the screen. It was gray and deathly.

“Colonel Bastian, I have just spoken with the President of the United States. You’re ordered to proceed. God be with you all.”

Never had a blessing sounded so dire.

“Thank you, sir,” said Dog, pressing the button to flip back to Chu.

END GAME

367

Aboard the Levitow ,

over India

0620

BREANNA CLEARED THE TRANSMISSION. HER FATHER’S FACE

came on the screen.

“Proceed with End Game,” he said.

“Roger that—I’m sixty seconds from launch. What’s the status on the Chinese aircraft carrier?”

“Responding with conventional weapons so far. Launch your three EEMWBs and reserve the last for the carrier as planned. Chu is flying to the west and will back you up with conventional weapons. Give him enough warning to get south before you launch.”

“Will do.”

Breanna checked her position, then told Stewart to get ready to launch the first two missiles.

“Ready,” said Stewart.

“Any fighters nearby?”

“Negative.”

“Crew, we’re thirty seconds from weapons launch. First explosion will follow in ten minutes.”

Breanna turned her attention back to the helm of her ship. She was climbing through twenty thousand feet.

Somewhere far above her, Indian missiles were arcing on their course toward Pakistan.

“Counting down from ten,” said Stewart. “Nine, eight, seven …”

Breanna stared at the blue sky ahead. At this altitude, the world appeared blissful.

“… three, two, one.”

“Fire EEMWB one,” said Breanna. “Fire two.”

“Firing EEMWB one. Firing EEMWB two.”

Missile one rocketed off its launcher on the right wing, climbing ahead with a furious spurt of energy. Breanna turned to left, looking for the contrail from missile two. But it was nowhere to be seen.

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“Stewart, where’s missile two?”

“Launched—engine failed to ignite.”

“Retarget missile three and fire.”

“Retargeting. Firing missile three.”

The missile shot up ahead.

“Missile one is on course,” said Stewart. “Missile two has been lost. Missile three is on course. Time to launch missile four is zero-seven minutes. You have a turn coming up in thirty seconds.”

Breanna acknowledged, then keyed in the Dreamland communications line to tell Colonel Bastian that one of the missiles had malfunctioned.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over India

0622

“WHAT’S THE STATUS ON THAT SA-2 MISSILE SITE?” DOG

asked Jazz.

“Tracking us.”

“Our EEMWBs?”

“Missile one is on course. Missile two is on course,” Jazz told Dog. “Sixty seconds to launch point two.”

Dog began a ten degree turn to the north, positioning himself for the final launch. The first of their missiles would explode approximately two minutes after he fired; he’d be on manual controls after that.

The Dreamland communications line buzzed.

“Levitow to Wisconsin. One of our missiles failed to ignite. Motor failure. We fired a replacement.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Should I fire the last missile or reserve it for the Deng?”

“Fire the missile as planned,” Dog told her. “Then get back to use your Scorpions against the Tai-shan planes. I’ll alert Dreamland Fisher.”

“Levitow,” said Breanna, acknowledging.

END GAME

369

“Thirty seconds to launch point,” broke in Jazz.

“Very good,” said Dog, making sure he was precisely on course.

Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0622

STORM’S HEAD HURT SO BADLY HE HAD TO SIT ON THE SMALL

fold-down jumpseat at the side of the holographic display.

He knew he was bleeding—every time he wiped his forehead, his fingers were drenched in fresh blood.

“Weapons, what’s our status?”

“Ready to launch on command, Captain.”

“Stand by. Weapons will launch on my command.”

In the days of sailing ships, the order to attack another ship could take hours to carry out, with crew working feverishly just to position the ship, let alone fill and fire the cannons. Now it took only fractions of a second.

“Weapons, fire all missiles.”

“Firing, Captain.”

A pair of missiles flared from the forward deck, followed by two more, then another pair, then another. The ship’s bow bent down toward the waves with the fusillade.

“Deal with that, you bastards,” Storm muttered as the missiles leapt away.

Aboard the Levitow ,

over India

0626

EEMWB FOUR CLUNKED OFF THE LAUNCHER, ITS ROCKET

motor igniting with a burst of red flame. Breanna immediately changed course to the southwest.

“Flight of Su-27s closing in on us from the south,” said 370

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Stewart. “Thirty-five miles away. Four aircraft. They have AA-12s.”

“Target the lead element. Reserve four Scorpions. I want two missiles apiece for the Tai-shan aircraft.”

“Targeting.”

“Bay.”

“Bomb bay open.”

“Fire as soon as you’re locked.”

“Bree, I have launch warnings.”

“Fire Scorpions. Crew—stand by for evasive maneuvers.”

“TALK ABOUT IMPOTENT,” MUTTERED ZEN AS THE MEGA-fortress jerked away from the Indians’ antiaircraft missiles.

He switched his main view from the sitrep screen to the Levitow’s forward video camera, then killed the display al-together and took off his helmet. Flying wasn’t a spectator sport, especially when you were under attack.

“They going to hit us?” asked Dork. He sounded scared.

“Nah. Captain Stockard likes to cut things close, but not that close.”

The Megafortress jerked so sharply Zen’s restraints cut into his chest.

“We ought to work on getting you a new nickname,” he told the other Flighthawk pilot as the plane straightened out.

“What were you called in high school?”

“Dork, sir.”

A FLIGHT OF PAKISTANI AIRCRAFT APPEARED TO THE NORTH; very possibly the Indians had been looking for them when they found the Megafortress instead. That was of small consolation to Breanna, who was desperately wheeling Levitow between the clouds, trying to duck their missiles.

“SA-12 site tracking us,” warned Stewart.

“The more the merrier,” said Breanna.

“I have every ECM—”

“Keep them there,” said Breanna. “Chaff, flares, every-

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371

thing you got. We have another sixty seconds until the EEMWBs go off. That’s all we need.”

“Scorpion One has scored. Two—uh, near miss.”

“Good.”

“AMRAAMski going off track.”

About time, thought Breanna.

“One more.”

Breanna put her hand on the throttle, even though she knew it was at max power. Then she jerked her stick hard right, trying to turn the Megafortress into a hummingbird and veer out of the way of the missiles.

The computer complained that they were about to exceed eight g’s. Breanna kept the pressure on her stick anyway.

“Two more missiles missed,” said the copilot. “I can’t find the last one.”

Breanna sensed where it was and let off on the stick. The Megafortress stumbled, but began to recover.

As it did, the enemy air-to-air missile exploded under her right wing.

Aboard the Shiva ,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0632

SOMEWHERE BELOW, A PAIR OF CLOSE-IN WEAPONS BEGAN TO

fire. Fear surged through Memon so strongly that he could not move nor breathe, not even think. Cold air invaded his chest; his heart and lungs turned to ice. He waited, unable to do anything else.

The first explosion seemed incredibly far away; he heard a light rumble but felt nothing. The second, a half second later, was like the peal of thunder when lightning strikes a tree at the edge of a yard.

The third reverberated as if it were under his feet, twisting his chest and head in opposite directions. He flew 372

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

against a console, thrown so abruptly that he felt as if he hadn’t moved at all. He lay on the deck, watching the others scramble to get up.

Only Admiral Skandar managed to stay on his feet. The Defense minister reached calmly for the phone, speaking as the ship rocked with fresh explosions. Memon wanted to get up and join him but could not; he wanted to move but found his body paralyzed. All he could do was stare from the depths of his cowardice and fear.

Aboard the Levitow ,

over India

0632

THE AIRCRAFT LURCHED IN THE SKY, THEN FELT AS IF IT WAS

going to fall out from under her. Breanna pushed against the stick, finally leveling off—the computer began compensating for the damaged control surfaces.

“Engine four—gone,” said Stewart. Her voice was surprisingly calm.

“Compensating,” Breanna told her. “Where are the other missiles?”

“One more going north. We’re clear.”

“Assess the damage.”

“Assessing. Ten seconds to first EEMWB pulse.”

Each individual system on the plane had its own shielding, but Levitow also had special deflectors—antennas that could attract the waves and disrupt their pattern—in the wings. As the techies explained it, the deflectors reduced the overall amount of T-Rays washing over the ship, making the components easier to shield.