Текст книги "End Game"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Bastards are going to go ahead and nuke India anyway,”

Freeman said, looking at the image.

“Maybe they don’t know we’ve destroyed the missiles,”

said Jed.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“They should by now. They see an advantage and they want to take it.”

“More likely, the Chinese aren’t entirely sure what’s going on,” said President Martindale. He put his coffee mug down—a Secret Service agent had retrieved some from the cafeteria upstairs. “Time to talk to them.”

“And say what?” demanded Freeman.

Rather than answering him, the President turned to Jed Barley. “You ever play poker, young Jed?”

“Um, sure.”

“One of the advantages of stud is that your opponent knows part of your hand. The better the hand looks, the more he has to guess.”

“They’ll never trust us,” said Freeman.

“I’m counting on that. Give me the phone.”

Aboard the Levitow ,

over India

0704

THEY HADN’T SPOTTED THE FLIGHTHAWK YET, BUT INDIA’S

western coastline lay fifty miles ahead. The Levitow had made better time than Breanna had hoped.

But their free ride was about to come to an end.

“Two Su-27s coming from the west,” Stewart told her.

“Their radars are working.”

“Do we have the Flighthawk?”

“Not on radar. It may be too low for us to see until we get closer.”

They should have found it by now. But it was just one more problem she didn’t have time to worry about.

“Lou, do you think you could operate the Stinger air mines from the auxiliary station? I’ll need Jan to help me fly the aircraft if we have to do any sort of maneuvering.”

“Not a problem.”

END GAME

397

“Ground radar active,” said Stewart. “Rajendra—phased array. Fire control for Akash.”

“The missiles have a thirty kilometer range,” said Bullet.

“About nineteen miles. We should be able to steer away from them.”

“That’s what we’re going to do,” Breanna said. “Give me a heading.”

ZEN SAT AT HIS STATION, WAITING FOR THE FLIGHTHAWK TO

pop onto the tracking scope. While they were not precisely on the flight route the plane was supposed to take, they were close enough. Even if for some reason they couldn’t find it on radar, the Flighthawk would periodically send out a signal, in a sense “calling home.” Its power was limited for tactical reasons, but he knew they should have no problem finding each other at fifty miles.

“I guess this is what girls go through waiting for a guy to call back after a first date, huh, Dork?” Zen asked.

“Must be.”

“You got a girlfriend?” Zen asked the other pilot.

“Kinda.”

“Kinda?”

Before Dork could answer, the Flighthawk’s locator bea-con lit on the screen.

“All right,” Zen said. The Flighthawk was about fifty-three miles behind them, off the east. He was about to tell Breanna that via the interphone, then remembered that the system was out.

“Run up and tell Captain Stockard our escort is behind us. Present speed and course, it ought to catch up in about ten minutes.”

THE COURSE AROUND THE AKASH MISSILES ALSO TOOK THEM

out of the path of the Su-27s, which for the moment at least did not appear to have seen them. Her airspeed tacked below 250 knots; no matter what Breanna did, she couldn’t 398

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

get it any faster. She was at 23,000 feet, and had to keep edging lower as her speed crept downward.

“Big base at Puna,” warned Bullet, who was working to psych what might lie ahead. “MiG-29s. They’ll be patrolling near Mumbai.”

Breanna planned to turn back west and make the coast well north of Mumbai, but there was a good possibility that the radars in the area would see them. Nor could she risk getting under the radar coverage—on two engines, she’d never be able to climb out of danger.

“Su-27s are turning in our direction,” said Stewart.

“The Flighthawk is behind us,” shouted Dork, coming onto the flightdeck. “Pick us up in about ten minutes.”

“Something to shoot for,” said Breanna, starting her turn toward the coast.

Aboard the Wisconsin , passing over the coast of India

0705

THE MORNING SUN HAD PAINTED THE NORTHERN ARABIAN

Sea a brilliant azure blue. But black clouds dotted the horizon as Colonel Bastian flew his aircraft over the coastline at treetop level; the naval conflict had continued, unaffected by the electromagnetic pulses originating from the east.

Dog pushed the aircraft down closer to the waves. They’d seen four contrails as they approached the coast, but so far no other aircraft. If they’d been targeted by anyone, they had no way of knowing.

“Colonel Bastian?”

Dog recognized Major Catsman’s voice on the Dreamland communications channel.

“Bastian.”

“The Fisher has been shot down. They were attacked by at least six Chinese fighters when the Abner Read launched its attack on the Deng Xiaoping.”

END GAME

399

“They attacked the Deng?”

“Two fighters were headed in their direction. They may have been under attack and saw that as their only chance to strike,” said Catsman. “The Deng Xiaoping has been hit but is still afloat. They’re preparing the Tai-shan planes for launch.”

“Do you have a location on where the Fisher went down?”

“We have an approximate location, Colonel. The Abner Read is too far south to conduct rescue operations at this time.”

“How far am I from them?”

“I can only give you an approximate location. You’re northeast about sixty miles.”

He had four Harpoon missiles in the bomb bay, but no way to fire them.

“I need to talk to Storm,” he told Catsman. “Stand by.”

Aboard the Levitow ,

nearing the coast of India

0706

A LAYER OF TURBULENT AIR RATTLED THE PLANE. BREANNA was forced to edge the Levitow still lower, her airspeed dipping precariously.

“The Su-27s are challenging us,” said Stewart. “What should I tell them?”

Breanna considered saying they were a civilian airliner, but that was unlikely to stop them from coming and having a look; civilian flights had been banned.

“Tell them who we are. Say we were on a reconnaissance flight and are returning home.”

“You think that’s going to make a difference?”

“I think they might have to ask their ground controller what to do. Maybe we’ll gain a few minutes.”

“We still have the Scorpions,” said Stewart.

“We’d have to turn and get in their faces to fire,” said Breanna. “We’ll hold off for now.”

400

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

There were three other reasons not to fire. First of all, opening the bay doors would deprive them of even more momentum, making it more difficult to fly the plane. Second, the fighters would detect the missiles and undoubtedly launch their own. And last—and most important for Breanna—using the missiles would lessen the possibility that she could intercept the Tai-shan planes.

Sixty seconds later one of the Indian pilots told them they were in Indian territory and would have to divert to the air base at Puna “or face the consequences.”

“What consequences would those be?” asked Breanna.

“Dire,” responded the pilot.

Breanna told Bullet to find out how long it would be before the Flighthawk caught up. Then she went back on the line with the Indian pilot.

“I don’t think I can make it to Puna,” she said. “My intention is to ditch in the sea. One of my engines tore loose from its mount and damaged the wing. We’re very low on fuel. I do not want to cause a national catastrophe.”

The pilot told her to stand by.

“Three minutes,” said Bullet, running upstairs.

“Five more to get to the coast from here,” said Stewart.

“Maybe if you make a feint for Puna, you can gain some more time.”

“I’m worried about their missile batteries,” Breanna told her. “SA-12s. Our best bet is to stay on course.”

ZEN SPENT THE TIME WAITING TRYING TO WORK OUT EXACTLY

how he would take down the two fighters. They were now east of them, not quite aligned with the Megafortress’s tail but headed in that direction. The Flighthawk was approaching from the east as well, though to the south of the Sukhois. Given the Megafortress’s condition, he wanted to engage them as far from the mother ship as possible, certainly before they were close enough to fire their infrared missiles. But he had no control over that—even when the Flighthawk got close enough to reestablish its connection, END GAME

401

he’d still be more than ten miles behind the enemy fighters. Worse, the loss of the interphone system made it almost impossible to coordinate strategy with Breanna.

Sending people back and forth between the decks took too much time.

“Dork, tell Breanna if these guys stay in their present formation, I’ll take Bandit One to the east.”

“OK,” said Dork. “Major, you ever play telephone?”

“Huh?”

“You know, where you whisper a message in someone’s ear and they pass it on? We could do that here.”

“Isn’t the purpose of that to show how mangled a message can be?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s better than nothing.”

“All right, it’s a good idea, Dork. Set it up. Hey—you just got yourself a new nickname: Telephone.”

“I think I like Dork better.”

“YOU WILL PROCEED AS DIRECTED. EMERGENCY VEHICLES ARE

standing by,” the Indian pilot told Breanna.

Ain’t that sweet, thought Breanna. Prison cells too, no doubt.

“Can you give me a course heading and a—um, a—uh …”

Breanna continued to stall. “Distance. I need a distance.”

The Indian pilot, clearly losing patience, told her to change her heading forty degrees– now.

“Zen has control of the Flighthawk!” said Bullet, the last link in the communications chain. “Needs another two minutes to get behind them.”

“Tell him I’m going to descend a bit,” said Breanna.

“The Indian fighters are right on our back now, Bree,”

said Stewart.

“Visual range?”

“Not yet, but very close. Just about within range for an A-10 heat-seeker.”

“Lou, be ready to turn the Stinger radar on as soon as I say.” Breanna pushed the nose of the Megafortress forward, 402

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

descending. Five minutes on this course—five minutes to the sea.

But so what? The Sukhois could easily follow them there.

“American aircraft—you are ordered to change course or face the consequences.”

“He’s activated his gun radar,” said Stewart. “I think he’ll close and try throwing some warning shots across the bow.”

Come on, Zen, Breanna thought. Hurry up with that Flighthawk.

ZEN COULD SEE THE TWO INDIAN FIGHTERS AHEAD, FLYING

parallel and very close to the Megafortress’s tail.

“Megafortress descending!” said Dork.

“Sixty seconds.” Zen flexed his hand around the joystick.

The Indian pilots, so focused on what they were doing, had not bothered to check six—or maybe they had looked behind their aircraft and missed the diminutive Flighthawk.

“Can you get both planes?” Dork asked.

Maybe. But he couldn’t guarantee it.

“No,” said Zen. “Tell Breanna to take the one to the west with the Stinger air mines. She has west. Confirm.”

The Flighthawk pushed on steadily. He was two miles away—the screen began blinking red.

“Confirmed. She has west.”

“Ready!” yelled Zen as the screen went solid red.

“Ready!” yelled Dork.

“Go!” Zen began firing.

BREANNA PUSHED THE MEGAFORTRESS TO HER LEFT AS HARD

as she dared, throwing the rear Stinger battery in the face of the Indian fighter. At the same time, the Stinger began firing even though it couldn’t possibly have locked on its target yet.

The Levitow began to shake. Tracers were popping to its right.

“Going for the coast!” Breanna shouted, her words intended for Zen. “Stewart—what’s our status?”

END GAME

403

“Bandit One breaking off. Two is still behind us.”

Breanna started to push the nose of the Megafortress forward, wanting to increase her speed and give Zen some room to work with as he went for the other fighter. As she did, the Megafortress started to flail to the side, and within seconds she was fighting a yaw.

ZEN GOT TWO LONG BURSTS INTO BANDIT ONE, ENOUGH TO

draw smoke from her tailpipe. He let the fighter go, turning to try and get some shots on the other one. Bandit Two rolled away, just as a hail of air mines exploded behind the Megafortress.

As Zen followed the Indian plane downward, he caught a glimpse of the damaged EB–52. It was much worse than he had thought—the right wing had several large cracks running through it, with gaps big enough to see the foam protection for the fuel tanks. The starboard tailplane had been chewed up; less than a quarter of it remained.

Bandit Two, still concentrating on the Megafortress, swung into position to fire his heat-seekers. Tucking his nose down, Zen got the Sukhoi in the middle of his crosshairs and sent a stream of bullets across its wings, across its fuselage, across the burning hulk he turned the plane into.

“Scratch Bandit Two,” he told Dork, pulling off. “I’m going to bird-dog over the coast.”

It was then that he finally noticed that the Megafortress was moving back and forth in the air, each swing a little stronger.

DESPERATE TO CONTROL THE SHIP, BREANNA HAD STEWART

dial back power to engine one as she tried to rebalance her aircraft. It helped, but it also cost more airspeed. The water, at least, was just ahead, beyond a thick line of factories and boats.

“Radar—Top Plate—there’s a patrol boat off shore,” said Stewart. “Correct that—a frigate. They’ll have Geckos.”

404

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Gecko” was the NATO code word for SA-N-4s. The missiles would be potent under any circumstance, but the Megafortress would be an easy target now.

“Where are they?”

“Ten miles ahead.”

“ECMs.” Breanna had the plane back almost completely under control, the yaw reduced to a wobble. Her altitude was now below fifteen thousand feet. Forget the missiles, she thought, they’d be low enough for the antiaircraft guns by the time they got close to the frigate. “I’m going to go north,” she said. “We need to get some distance between us and that ship.”

As she prepared to bank, the Megafortress abruptly dropped thirty feet.

ZEN TURNED THE FLIGHTHAWK BACK TOWARD THE MEGA-fortress. As he came close, he saw a chunk of the right wing’s skin fly off, pried loose by the plane’s violent shakes and the wind’s ravenous appetite. He couldn’t tell for certain, but he thought the cracks he’d noticed before were longer.

They weren’t going to make it.

“Tell Breanna to select the view from Hawk Three,” he told Dork.

BREANNA ALTERNATELY WRESTLED AND COAXED THE AIRPLANE, knowing it was a losing battle. The only question was where they were going to crash.

She preferred ditching at sea, where the shot-up plane wouldn’t kill any civilians when it crashed. It would also be arguably better to bail there, since they might have a chance of being picked up by a U.S. ship or even the Osprey, rather than the Indian authorities.

“All right, crew, here’s what we’re going to do—we’re not going to make it much farther. We have six ejection seats and eight people. I’m going to go out with a parachute from the Flighthawk deck. We’ll draw straws for the other place.”

“I volunteer,” said Stewart.

END GAME

405

“I’m sure everyone will volunteer,” she said. “That’s why we’re drawing straws.”

ZEN HAD ALREADY DECIDED WHAT HE WAS GOING TO DO WHEN

Dork passed the word. He turned the Flighthawk over to the computer, then pulled off his helmet.

“Doesn’t make any sense for me to use the ejection seat.

I have nothing left to protect,” he said. “I’ll take my chances dropping.”

“But Captain Stockard said—”

“I outrank everyone aboard this aircraft, including my wife,” said Zen, pushing himself up out of the seat. “Besides, I’m a much better swimmer than anyone else here. I can make it to the coast if I have to. You guys won’t. Yo, Bullet, this chair’s for you. Grab a brain bucket and saddle up.”

Aboard the Shiva ,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0706

MEMON SAW ADMIRAL SKANDAR MOUTHING THE WORDS BEfore he heard them, as if he were watching an out-of-sync motion picture.

“You are ordered to abandon ship,” said the admiral calmly. “I repeat. Abandon ship.”

The ship’s fantail was now well out of the water, and the list to starboard so pronounced that Memon could see only the water outside the ship. He’d managed to get to his feet but gone no farther since the first explosion. He had no idea how much time had passed; it seemed both an eternity and a wink.

Down below, one of the armament stores had caught fire, and weapons cooked off with furious bangs. The explosions seemed fiercer than those caused by the American missiles, more violent and treacherous, as if the ship were being torn up by demons.

The ship’s crew began moving in slow motion, following 406

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

routines established during drills they’d hoped never to perform in real life. One by one the Defense minister bid them farewell.

I am so much a coward, thought Memon, that I cannot even move. I deserve to die a coward’s death.

“You must abandon ship too,” Skandar told Memon.

“Go. Save yourself.”

“I will stay,” said Memon. His throat was dry; the words seemed to trip in it.

Was it the coward’s way to save himself? He wanted to live, and yet he could not move.

“It is your duty to carry on the battle,” said Skandar. “I am an old man. It is my turn to die.”

There was no question that Skandar was brave, and Memon knew himself to be a coward. Yet their fates were the same. Here they were, together on the bridge, stripped bare of everything but nerve and fear.

“Admiral. You must live to help us rebuild and fight again.”

Skandar did not answer.

“Admiral?”

The sound of metal twisting and breaking under the pressure of water filled the compartment.

Memon wanted to live. Yet he could not move.

Skandar turned away and looked out through the broken glass at the sea. “In the next life, I will be a warrior again,”

he said.

Before Memon could answer, the deck collapsed below them, and he and Admiral Skandar plunged into the howling bowels of the burning ship.

Aboard the Abner Read,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0706

STORM STRUGGLED TO WARD OFF THE PAIN AS THE CHINESE

aircraft began their attack from thirty miles off—too far for END GAME

407

their radars to lock on the slippery ship. They were relying on the guidance systems in their missiles to lock as they approached the target.

There were four J-13s, each armed with four cruise missiles. The Abner Read was an awesome warship—but she wasn’t invincible. In simulated trials the ship had managed to shoot down seven out of eight missiles in a massed attack. More than eight missiles, and the systems and men running them were overwhelmed. His strategy would be to push the odds as close to his favor as possible.

They got one break—rather than firing all of their weapons en masse, the Chinese launched a first wave of only four missiles.

“Helm, hard right rudder,” he said. They turned the ship to lower its radar profile, making it more difficult for the missiles to acquire them on final approach. This also limited the number of Phalanx guns he could put on the missiles, but it was an acceptable trade-off if the Chinese were only firing four weapons at a time.

Two of the Chinese missiles quickly lost their target and exploded in frustration. The final two kept coming in their direction.

“Status!” barked Storm.

“Neither missile has locked, Captain.”

Storm studied the holographic display. The missiles looked like they were going too far east. They looked like they were going to miss, though not by much.

One did. The other veered toward the ship. Before Storm could even say “Defensive weapons,” the Phalanx operator had shot down the missile.

Four down. Twelve to go.

STARSHIP STAYED SOUTH OF THE ABNER READ AS THE CLOSE-in weapons system fired; the automated system had mistaken Werewolves for missiles in the past, nearly shooting them down.

Besides his Hellfires and the chain gun, he had two 408

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Sidewinder missiles for air defense on the Werewolf’s wingtips. The Werewolf couldn’t take on the J-13s in anything like standard air combat; it might be fast for a helicopter at 450 knots top speed, but that was far slower than the Chinese jets.

On the other hand, if he could set up the right circumstances, he knew he might be able to take one of the planes.

As a fighter jock, he was aware that helicopter pilots were taught to turn and fly toward their attacker, staying as low to the ground, zigging, and making a straight-on shot hard to line up. As the pursuing fighter passed, the chopper should then turn and fire.

Assuming, of course, it was still in one piece.

The J-13s had split into two groups. Two tacked to the east and launched a fresh pair of missiles. A second group of two planes was swinging around to the west, obviously aiming for their own try from that direction.

“Tac, I’m going to the west and take on one of those fighters,” said Starship. “Probably Bandit Four.”

“Werewolf?”

“I’m going to take on one of these fighters. No, belay that,” he said, using a Navy term for the first time in his life.

“I’m going to nail one of those fighters.”

“COLONEL BASTIAN FOR YOU, STORM.”

Storm clicked into the circuit. “Gale,” he said.

“The Tai-shan aircraft are almost ready to launch,” said Dog. “Are you in position to shoot them down?”

“I regret to say …” The words stuck in Storm’s throat.

The close-in guns were firing again. “I regret to say it’s unlikely we will be in position to shoot down the planes. We may be sunk ourselves.”

THE J-13S DROPPED THEIR SPEED AND ALTITUDE AS THEY APproached the Abner Read. Starship singled out his target.

The enemy plane, flying at only a hundred feet, ignored him at first, too focused on his target to notice the tiny bug com-

END GAME

409

ing straight at him. For a second Starship thought he might be able to fly into the jet, but the J-13 began to climb, either because he’d spotted him or to launch his missiles.

Time to improvise.

Starship leaned on his stick, pushing the Werewolf’s nose nearly upright. He fired two Hellfires in the general direction of the Chinese fighter, hoping to distract him rather than shoot him down. Then he slammed the helicopter around and leaned on the throttle, trying to pick up some momentum as the plane passed overhead. He cued the Sidewinder, got a growl—or thought he got a growl—indicating a lock, and fired.

The missile immediately went off to the right, a miss from the get-go. But Starship was still on the fighter’s tail.

Spooked, the Chinese pilot abandoned his target run and started a turn north to evade him. The Sidewinder growled again; Starship fired.

This time he watched the missile run right up the rear end of the Chinese plane and tear it to pieces.

THE CHINESE CRUISE MISSILE HIT THE ABNER READ SO HARD

that the ship’s bow rose several feet under the water. Storm tried to grab onto something but could not; he was thrown against the helmsman and rebounded against the jumpseat near the holographic display.

“More missiles! Four more missiles!” warned the defensive radar.

“Jam them,” said Storm, even though he knew his crew didn’t need his order to do so. “Jam them—get them. Destroy them.”

He tried to get up to see the holographic display tracking the missiles. But his head was light and his legs were shaky.

He found himself back on the deck.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to die on my back on the deck of my ship, he thought, struggling to get up.

410

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea

0708

DOG TURNED AROUND IN HIS SEAT. “CREW, PREPARE FOR

emergency bailout!” he shouted. “Dish, tell them downstairs. You’re going out in sixty seconds.”

“Sixty seconds?” said Jazz. “Why are we bailing?”

“Because it’s time to get out. That’s my order.”

Dog turned his attention back to the plane. They were thirty miles north of the carrier. He could see one of the aircraft on combat patrol in the distance.

“Colonel, why are we bailing?” demanded Mack Smith, appearing behind him.

“I have to stop those planes from taking off,” Dog told him. “Go prepare to eject.”

“You’re going to crash into the carrier?”

“I’ll bail out at the last minute.”

“Then I’m going with you,” said Mack.

“No.”

“I’m going too,” said Cantor, appearing behind him.

“I appreciate the sentiment—but get the hell back to your stations.”

“Colonel, Jed Barclay on the Dreamland channel says the U-2 picture shows one of the Tai-shan planes being wheeled into position.”

Dog turned the Megafortress south. “Tell him we have it under control. And then everyone bail out. Bail out!”

NSC Situation Room,

Washington, D.C.

2110, 14 January 1998

(0710, 15 January, Karachi)

“THE POINT IS VERY SIMPLE, MR. PREMIER.” PRESIDENT

Martindale paused to let the interpreter translate his words END GAME

411

for the Chinese leader. “I’ve just stripped India and Pakistan of their nuclear weapons. I can do the same to China.” He looked over at Jed. “Not just those in the Arabian Sea, but all of your weapons. Under those circumstances, some of my people might strongly advise me to end our China problem once and for all.”

Jed glanced at the display from the U-2 near the Deng Xiaoping. The planes were getting ready to take off. Would an order even reach them in time?

They could physically link the phone conversation through the Dreamland communications network through the Situation Room’s communications setup, but they could not get it to the ship. The Wisconsin could not broadcast on regular radio frequencies.

The Abner Read could. Maybe they could retransmit it over the radio frequencies.

“Yes, the hawks are extremely strong in my country,”

President Martindale told the Chinese premier. “A shame.

I’m really very powerless against them. Very regrettable.”

Freeman rolled his eyes, and even Martindale winked.

“Can you broadcast that command immediately? I’ll stand by.” Martindale cupped his end of the receiver. “He’s agreed to rescind the order.”

“I think we can broadcast it from the Abner Read to the carrier,” said Jed. “If you can get him to say it over the phone.”

“They may think it’s a trick,” said Freeman.

“The Premier is using his own network,” said the President. “When he comes back on, I’ll suggest it.”

“Let’s have the Abner Read broadcast the information in the meantime,” suggested Freeman.

“They’ve just attacked them,” said the President. “They won’t trust them at all.”

“What if Colonel Bastian tried talking to them?” said Jed. “He’s well-known in China because he saved Beijing from the Taiwan renegades and their nuclear weapon. We might be able to have him communicate through the Abner Read.”

412

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“See if you can do it,” said the President.

Freeman walked to the NSA screens, looking to see if the Premier issued the order. “What do we do if he calls your bluff, Mr. President?”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t,” said Martindale.

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0711

FACED WITH A MINI-MUTINY, DOG CONCENTRATED ON HIS

course. The fact that his radar wasn’t working was an advantage in a way—it meant there were no aggressive signs from the aircraft. Sooner or later, however, the Chinese would decide he had to be dealt with.

They’d undoubtedly used many of their weapons in the earlier battles. The question was what they had left. If he was just facing cannons, Dog thought he’d make it to the deck—as long as he was there to steer it all the way down.

Dreamland Command told him he was now thirty miles from the carrier—roughly three minutes flying time.

“All right, crew. This is it. One by one we go out. Mack, you’re first.”

“Colonel—”

“I can’t jump if you guys don’t jump. We’re two minutes from impact. Time to get out. Now! ”

Mack cursed, then Dog heard the pop and whish as he pulled the yellow handles next to his seat.

One by one the others jumped. Jazz was the last. “Colonel, I’ll stay until you’re ready.”

“Out, Jazz. We’re two minutes from target.”

“I know what you’re doing. We don’t have the computer, so you need to stay with the plane to guarantee it’ll go where you want.”

“Go.”

Dog’s voice shook the cockpit. The copilot ejected.

END GAME

413

A J-13 appeared at his side, making hand signals. Dog waved to him.

“Colonel Bastian?” said Jed Barclay on the Dreamland Command line.

“Bastian.”

“Colonel, the Chinese Premier has ordered the carrier to stand down. We want you to relay the order.”

“How?”

“We’re rigging something through the Abner Read. Just start talking.”

Dog pushed the stick down, starting into a plunge toward the carrier. He was too far from the ship to see the planes, but Jed could via the U-2—he wouldn’t be asking him to do this if the planes weren’t ready to take off.

“Colonel?”

Tracers flew in front of him.

“I’ll talk, Jed. But I doubt they’re going to listen.”

Aboard the Deng Xiaoping , in the northern Arabian Sea

0712

CAPTAIN HONGWU WAS SURPRISED BY THE VOICE. IT WAS

deep and calm, sure of itself without being haughty, exactly like the voice he had heard on television after Beijing was saved.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian of the United States Air Force. I’m going to destroy your vessel unless you stand down the Tai-shan aircraft. The nuclear weapons launched by India have been neutralized. Your government has rescinded your order to attack.”

“I am honored to speak to the man who saved Beijing from disaster,” said Hongwu. “But I must follow my orders.”

“Your government is in the process of issuing the order.

You will receive it shortly.”

414

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Hongwu turned to his executive officer. “Have we received an order on the encrypted fleet frequency?”

He shook his head.

“A nice trick, Colonel. I am afraid my duty requires me to shoot you down. It is with regret. You saved many of my relatives and friends with your bravery over my country.”

“Then you know I am not a liar or someone who uses tricks. And you also know that you will not be able to shoot me down.”

“The American plane is five miles from us!” warned the executive officer. “He’s coming up the stern.”

“Fire the guns when he is range.”

“Only two are left.”

“Two should be enough.”

“A communication!” shouted the radio officer. “An encrypted communication from Beijing directly!”

Aboard the Wisconsin,

approaching the Deng Xiaoping

0713

DOG COULD FEEL THE MEGAFORTRESS TUCKING HER WINGS

back. He was still too far to see the airplanes on the deck, but he knew about where they would be.

A pair of black clouds rose from the rear of the ship—flak. The bullets rose in an arc and fell away. He thought he could get in between them, though perhaps that was merely an optical illusion.