End Game (29 page)

Same thing would happen if he sank the Chinese carrier, only faster. But that chance might not come, especially if Bastian found some way to muck things up.

Bastian was trying to be nice, deferring to him on this. It didn't fit him particularly well.

“What are the logistics?” snapped Storm. “We haven't resupplied our jet fuel for the Werewolf, and we're pretty deep into our supply. How much fuel are you going to need?”

“I have to get a tanker to refuel the Osprey while it's en route,” said Dog. “It may take me a few hours. If we can set that up, we may be able to arrange for a tanker to orbit outside the combat area to the west. If the Osprey is needed, it can tank before returning to the ship.”

“How long before you can get the Osprey up here?” asked Storm.

“We still need some gear and the manpods,” said Danny. “But I would say we can launch within twelve hours, just
before dawn our time here. We stay on station for the whole EB-52 shift, then the next group comes in. Two of our guys will be with the Osprey, and you can supplement them with your SITT team. Worst case with this whole deal, you have my whole team aboard your ship and we stage from there.”

“Let's do it. Captain Freah, I look forward to welcoming you aboard.”

Dreamland
1055 (2355, Karachi)

J
ENNIFER
G
LEASON LOOKED AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN AND
shook her head. “The problem is that last set of missiles, Ray. If they don't launch simultaneously, they'll be too far from the initial explosion to guarantee they'll be affected.”

Rubeo sighed. “With all due respect, Dr. Gleason,” he said, in the tone he always used when he disagreed, “your expertise is with computers.”

“Listen, Ray, I'm telling you—if you want to reach that set of missiles, you have to launch another missile. And change the launch coordinates.”

Jennifer knew why Rubeo was hesitating—her recommendations meant two planes, not one, would have to undertake the mission, and both aircraft would have to fly deeper into Indian territory. Besides Russian-made SA-6s and improved SA-2s, the Indian antiair batteries in the flight paths had recently been equipped with Russian SA-10s and SA-12s. The latter was considered especially advanced, roughly on a par with the American Patriot.

“I suppose I had best tell Colonel Bastian of your findings,” said Rubeo finally.

“I'll do it, Ray,” Jennifer told him.

“As head scientist, the job is mine. Besides, delivering bad news enhances my image as a killjoy.” He got up from the console. “You might accompany me to the Command Center, in case technical data is needed.”

 

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
D
OG
'
S TIRED FACE APPEARED ON THE
large screen at the front of the Command Center in the Tac subbasement. Jennifer felt her chest clutch.

“Ray, what's up?”

“Colonel, I asked Dr. Gleason to refine our computer simulations on the effects of the EEMWB. As you recall, we based our original assessments on the programs we used to design the tests, rather than the tests themselves.”

“Uh-huh.”

“After using the data from the tests to update the simulations, it would appear that a change in strategy would be desirable. I'm going to transmit a map for you. You'll notice it requires seven missiles launched at two separate intervals. This is to achieve the proper overlap to account for any malfunctions.”

“Seven missiles? That's two aircraft.”

“Yes.”

Jennifer watched Dog as he studied the screen. She longed to be there with him, though truthfully she was probably of much more use here.

“This is going to change things for us quite a bit,” said the colonel finally.

“I realize that. I'm sorry we didn't develop this information sooner. I take full responsibility.”

The corner of Dog's mouth curled up just a bit. But instead of the sardonic comment Jennifer expected, he told Rubeo not to worry about it. Then, before she could say hello, he killed the connection.

Northern Arabian Sea
2355

S
ATTARI TOOK THE NIGHT GLASSES AND SCANNED THE OCEAN
to the south. He could just make out the mast of the Pakistani warship the
Mitra
's captain had pointed out.

“It is the
Babur,
” said the captain. “A destroyer.”

The
Babur
was more than twenty years old; it had begun life as the British Royal Navy frigate
Amazon,
before being sold to Pakistan a few years before. Cramped, not a particularly good seakeeper, and far past its prime, the vessel had an accurate and deadly 55mm gun at its bow that could tear through the tanker's skin like a staple gun chewing through paper. It also had potent antisubmarine torpedoes that could send a Parvaneh to the bottom with even a near miss.

Sattari's plan called for the three Parvanehs to leave the oil tanker in thirty minutes. Sailing at top battery speed, they would reach the Indians' offshore early warning radar platform off Dwārka in five hours. That would allow them to launch the attack just before dawn. If successful, the strike would convince the Indians that the Pakistanis or the Chinese were clearing the way for a bombing attack on India itself.

The platform had been constructed on a rock outcropping in water so shallow that not even the Parvaneh submarines could get closer than three-quarter miles; to succeed, the commandos would have to approach in darkness. Delaying for too long now would scrub the mission for tonight.

Sattari did not want to delay. The transmissions they'd been monitoring all day showed that the antagonists were primed and ready for battle. But there were news reports that diplomats had begun shuttling around the subcontinent, trying to get the sides to stand down. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that the conditions he needed for success would slip away.

Could he take the chance that the Pakistanis' antiquated sonar systems would miss the Parvanehs? Perhaps this very frigate had been responsible for the disappearance of his other boat.

“We will wait,” Sattari told the
Mitra
's captain. “Continue on the course you have set. We will review the situation every twenty minutes.”

Aboard the
Shiva
,
northern Arabian Sea
2355

“T
HE
C
HINESE AIRCRAFT PRESENTED THE MOST DIFFICULT
challenge,” said Admiral Skandar, pointing to the chart. “Their missiles were the ones that struck the
Shiva
. By coordinating their attack with the salvos from the destroyers, they were able to swarm our defenses. That must not happen again. The screening vessels must be placed here and here, to deal with the Chinese.” Skandar jabbed his thumb at the map. “And a more aggressive air patrol sent to combat the attackers. They were too late to prevent the missile launches—that was their first duty.”

Memon listened as the Defense minister continued to lay out the battle plan. Two more destroyers had joined the
Shiva
in the past two hours, and their captains—along with officers from the other escorts and the warfare commanders of the
Shiva
—had assembled in the warfare briefing room aboard the carrier. The admiral had eschewed the array of multimedia equipment available, preferring a large sea chart with the positions of the ships penciled in by hand. He spoke without notes, his knowledge of the ships, weapons, and strategies available to both sides evident as he prioritized the targets—the radar helicopters first at long range, then the carrier.

This was a different man than the one Memon had seen in the political halls of New Delhi; this was the man who matched the reputation that had brought him to congress and the ministry. His voice remained gentle, and yet he was neither reticent nor compromising. He had begun the meeting by saying that he hoped dearly for peace—and then plunged straight to war making.

A week ago such talk would have filled Memon with confidence and excitement. Now he felt dread. He was afraid that the missile attack had revealed his true nature as
a coward. The memory of the dead man vibrated in the air before him, a storm just outside his flesh.

Skandar had quieted the panic he felt, but this was not to say that the Defense minister had restored him to the man he had been before the attack. On the contrary. Memon's great fear now was that the admiral knew he was a coward, and was merely biding his time before denouncing him. Then his despair would be complete.

Adri had been banished for being too aggressive, if only by a hair; how much more extreme would the punishment be for a man who was a coward and a disgrace? If Admiral Skandar saw his true nature, would he not react with disgust?

Memon's eyes followed as Skandar pointed to the map west of the
Shiva
's position.

“And where is the American ship?” he asked.

The intelligence officer who had plotted the positions for him said the
Abner Read
had moved to the west overnight, and its location had not yet been ascertained.

“It must be known at all times,” said the admiral, his tone still mild. “In the event of action, it must be targeted immediately.”

“The Americans?” said one of the destroyer captains.

“Yes. They must be attacked at close range. The design of their vessel is well-suited to warding off radar-guided weapons, but an old-fashioned attack, launched with bombers at close range—that is how to defeat them. The aircraft must be close to them before the fighting begins. Their radar planes, too, must be attacked. This task we will assign to the shore batteries.”

Attack the Americans? Memon glanced around the room, waiting for someone to object. But no one did.

Skandar looked up at Memon. “And now, a late snack for all before you return to your ships.”

The others began filing out. As Memon turned to join them, Skandar settled his hand on his shoulder.

“Deputy Minister, a word.”

They waited until the others were gone.

“You are anxious about attacking the American ship,” said Skandar.

“I am not questioning your orders.”

“There are situations when questions are appropriate, and situations when they are not. Express your thoughts.”

Was this a trap? Memon wondered. A test to see if he was a coward?

But if he spoke falsely, would Skandar detect that?

He resigned himself to telling the truth. “If we attack the Americans, won't they retaliate?”

“If we strike fiercely enough, they will not be in a position to attack us.”

“I meant, after this battle—”

“We must survive the battle first before worrying about the future. Do you not think the Americans are a threat?”

“The Americans have been neutral.”

“Do you think it is a coincidence that they have been nearby when the other attacks occurred? If they have not launched the attacks themselves, is it not possible that they provided intelligence to those who have?”

Memon had made this point, or one similar, to Admiral Kala. But now the idea filled him with fear.

“During the 1967 war between Israel and Egypt, the Israelis had a similar situation with an American vessel in the war zone,” continued the admiral. “The ship was attacked as a necessary expedient. There was no retaliation.”

“Yes,” managed Memon, not knowing what else to say.

“American policy in Asia is best served if neither China nor India are superpowers,” continued Skandar. “They want us to destroy each other. Their diplomats pretend otherwise, but it is a logical conclusion on their part. Their vessel may supply information, directly or indirectly, to our enemies. It cannot be ignored.”

The harsh fluorescent light made Skandar's face appear somewhat paler than normal. But the effect, harsh on so
many others, made the minister seem years younger. Only his eyes, with their crinkled corners, stayed old.

“You are afraid of attacking the Americans?” Skandar asked again.

“I worry about the consequences.”

Skandar nodded. “In a battle, many things happen. The diplomats will excuse it. They will say that the government did not order the attacks. I have consulted with our friends in congress on this; we have weighed the consequences. The loss of the ship will be overshadowed by other events. If the Pakistanis or their Chinese allies attack, the response will be devastating. And they
will
attack. This is a moment of history, Anil. It is the opening of a struggle for dominance in Asia, a new era. But you recognized this moment would come. You've spoken of it often.”

“Are we ready?” Memon asked weakly.

“We are prepared. You've helped see to that,” said Skandar. “The war will come. It is an inevitability.”

“Inevitable,” repeated Memon.

“You tasted blood.” Skandar's voice rose slightly. “The encounter was more than you had thought it would be.”

Memon nodded.

“I could not hold food in my stomach for two weeks after my first battle, and the only dead men I saw were the enemy,” Skandar said. “You will be fine. Come.”

Memon followed along, as unsure as ever.

Diego Garcia
0055, 15 January 1998
(2355, 14 January, Karachi)

B
REANNA PUSHED THE LOCK OF HAIR AWAY FROM HER EYE
, arranging it behind her ear with her fingers. The mirror in the tiny bathroom wasn't big enough to show more than a quarter of her face, let alone the rest of her. Her nightshirt—actually an oversized T-shirt she'd appropriated from Zen months ago—was hardly sexy, but it was marginally more alluring than the heavy sweats she usually slept in.

Not that she wanted to be alluring, or felt a need to be. What she wanted to be was honest and easy and uncomplicated, not wracked with guilt and fear, if that was the right word. She wanted to talk with her husband without worrying about landmines, to be able to say she loved him and wanted the best for him, and ask why he was giving up.

Why
was
he giving up?

“Hey,” Zen grunted from inside the room. “You comin' to bed?”

Breanna snapped off the light. “I'm thinking about it,” she said, forcing her voice to be cheerful.

She opened the door and stepped into the darkened room, nearly tripping over the cots they'd pushed together to form a double bed. She slipped in beside him, wrapping her arm around his chest and then gently resting her head on his shoulder.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“Missed you too. More than ever.”

“You think you'll be able to sleep? My body clock's all messed up.”

“I have some Ambien if you need it.”

“Thanks.”

I'm being a coward, she told herself. Just blurt it out.

“Jeff?”

“You feeling frisky?” he asked, leaning his body to the side and starting to fondle her breast.

“I—”

Before she could continue, there was a knock on the door.

“Major Stockard? Captain?” said Boston from the hallway. “Uh, sir, ma'am? You awake in there?”

“We're busy, Boston,” growled Zen. “Come back next year.”

“I really wish I could, sir. I really wish I could. But the colonel needs to talk to you ASAP over at the Dreamland Command trailer.”

“He's back already?” said Breanna. She glanced at her watch. The original plan called for the
Wisconsin
to stay on station until the
Levitow
returned to the area. It wasn't supposed to be ready to take off for another hour yet, at least.

“Uh, no, ma'am. He's on the secure line.”

“All right. We'll be right there,” said Zen, pushing himself upright.

 

T
EN MINUTES LATER
Z
EN AND
B
REANNA JOINED THE OTHER
Dreamland officers crowding into the Dreamland Command trailer. Zen had to squeeze past the door and pivot to his right, never easy in these cramped quarters as he came up the ramp, and harder today, not so much because of the crowd as the fact that he was tired.

Danny had folded back the divider between the secure communications area and the main room, making it possible to swing the video conferencing unit out where everyone could see—or at least pretend to see. He'd also jacked
up the volume, though even at its highest level it was just barely audible at the far end of the trailer.

“We've had some more simulations done at Dreamland,” Dog told them after briefly recounting their mission and the general situation. “The computer models show that we need more detonations to be successful than we thought earlier. That means, for practical purposes, seven missiles, fired in a preplanned sequence. And from somewhat farther over Indian territory than we had originally planned.”

Zen guessed the rest: The
Levitow
and
Wisconsin
would have to stay on station until the crisis passed, or until more EEMWBs were manufactured. The
Levitow
, due to take off within the hour, would have two sets of pilots and an extra radar operator; the crews would rotate, with those off-duty trying to catch some z's in the compartment behind the flight deck. Used by the defensive team in a “stock” B-52, the compartment was designed for another set of Flighthawk operators, but in Dreamland EB-52s it was usually empty or else crammed with test gear. Cots had been installed during some deployments and long sorties. There was no confusing the accommodations with a deluxe hotel, or even a sturdy Army cot, but they were serviceable.

“What about the Flighthawks?” asked Zen.

“Two per plane. They're not shielded, so Zen, you'll have to work out a strategy to maximize protection if we have to move ahead. We'll exchange Ensign English for a Flighthawk pilot on
Levitow
. The Piranha unit is nearing the end of its patrol time anyway; its fuel cell is almost used up. The second pilot will control it for as long as possible, then put it into autonomous mode.”

“What about the planes on the Chinese carrier?” asked Breanna.

“The
Levitow
will target them, with the
Abner Read
backing her up.”

“I think
Dreamland Fisher
ought to be dedicated to the
targeting mission,” said Tommy Chu, the aircraft's pilot. “If the
Levitow
can't get back in time, it will be in position.”

“We can use it for the Whiplash mission as well,” said Danny.

“All right. Let's do it.
Wisconsin
will return to base as soon as the
Levitow
is on station.
Bennett
is en route home right now; they'll try and grab some rest and then form the backup crew on
Wisconsin.
We want a hot pit—basically just long enough for our backup pilots and crew to jump aboard. The diplomats are working overtime,” added the colonel, trying a little too hard to sound positive. “If we can get past the next forty-eight hours or so, tensions should calm.”

A big if, thought Zen, though he didn't say it.

 

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER
,
OUT ON THE APRON NEAR THE RUNWAY
, Danny wondered what he'd gotten himself into. The manpod—actually a large, flat, pressurized container designed to fit under a B-2 or a B-52's wing—did not want to align properly with the detents that would allow auxiliary power to be pumped into the unit from the
Fisher.
The power was necessary for several reasons, not least of which was the fact that without it the pod would not pressurize.

It wasn't as if Danny could do an awful lot about the problem—he and Boston were packed inside their respective pods, talking through the “smart helmet” com links to Sergeant Liu, who was supervising the “snap in”—or trying to.

The lift truck lowered him again.

“Hey, guys, I'm supposed to be part of the plane, right?” said Danny.

No one answered for a second, then Danny overheard a muffled grumble through Liu's microphone. He couldn't make out the words, but the grumble had a familiar snarl to it.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Greasy Hands—aka Chief Master Sergeant Al Parsons—a moment later. “We seem to be having a little difficulty here.”

“You're telling me.”

“Well, you just hold on for a second, Captain, while I straighten these boys out.”

A moment later Danny felt the manpod being lifted off its carrier. Over the com system he heard someone—it had to be Greasy Hands—counting off in the background. Then the manpod was thrust upward against the wing, slapping into the brace with a resounding
clunk.

“There you go,” snarled Greasy Hands. “We'll have Boston on in a minute.
Less time
if someone here would get me my
coffee!
”

“Pretty Boy, get the chief a pot of coffee, on the double,” said Danny to Sergeant Jack Floyd, his ears ringing.

Northern Arabian Sea
15 January 1998
0115

“G
OD IS GREAT
,”
THE
M
ITRA
'
S CAPTAIN TOLD
S
ATTARI
. “T
HE
destroyer has changed course and is heading west.”

“You're sure?”

“Look for yourself. His stacks are billowing—he must be off to meet one of the Chinese ships. I've sent to the radio room to see if they have intercepted any messages.”

Sattari took the night glasses. He saw the cloud of warm exhaust rising in the distance, but not the Pakistani ship.

“We will leave immediately,” Sattari said. “With the protection of God, we will do our duty. Protect yourself,” he added, handing the glasses back.

“We will do our best,” said the captain. “May God be with you.”

Aboard the
Wisconsin
,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0330

C
ANTOR STARED AT THE
P
IRANHA
'
S SCREEN
,
TRYING TO BLINK
away some of the burn he felt in the corner of his eyes. The milky representation of the ocean was supposedly a huge advance over the displays used by conventional passive sonar systems, but the only thing he had to compare it to was the Flighthawk's synthesized radar images, and that was like comparing shadows reflected from a campfire to an iMax movie.

Piranha had followed the Chinese submarine into Pakistani waters south of Karachi, close to the border with India. This happened to suit them well, taking them within six minutes' flying time to the spot where they would cross the border if they had to fire their EEMWBs. For the past two hours, the Kilo-class sub had sat a hundred feet below the surface of the water, silently waiting. But now that the Chinese submarine began to move westward, Colonel Bastian would have to decide whether they would drop another control buoy and follow or pull the Piranha back.

Besides the submarine, there were two surface ships in the vicinity. One—too far away to be identified by the Piranha, but ID'd by the surface radar as a Pakistani patrol craft—was sailing south. The other was a civilian ship. Cantor could see both vessels on the large surface radar plot in his lower left-hand screen.

The computer gave an audible warning that the Piranha was approaching the limit of the buoy's communication system. Cantor throttled the robot back, then asked Colonel Bastian what he wanted to do.

“Tell you what, Cantor—
Levitow
is about two hours' flying time away. Let's put down one more control buoy and move south. They can pick it up when they come on station.”

“Copy that, Colonel. We could swing south about six miles and drop it there.”

“I have to watch out for traffic,” said Dog. “Stand by.”

While he was waiting, Cantor swung the Piranha around, doing the robot submarine's version of “checking six” to see what was behind it. The merchant ship showed up on the screen—a long blurry shadow, with a set of numbers giving data on the direction the contact was moving and categorizing the sound it made. Cantor moved his cursor to select the contact, directing the computer to check the sound against its library of contacts. The computer classified the vessel as an “unknown oil tanker type,” as had the system tied into the Megafortress's surface radar.

As the Piranha continued to swing through the circle, its passive sonar picked up another contact, this one underwater. The contact was so faint the robot's gear couldn't tell how far away it was.

Was it really there? The irregular coastal floor nearby played tricks with sound currents, and it was possible that Piranha was “seeing” a reflection of the submarine or one of the surface ships. The only way to tell was to get closer.

Cantor halted the Piranha's turn, sliding the stick forward and moving gingerly in the direction of the contact. The scale showed the contact was at least twenty miles away, just about in territorial waters.

“Colonel, I think I have something, another sub maybe,” Cantor told Bastian. “It's a good twenty miles east of us. I wonder if we should check it out.”

“You're sure it's a sub?”

“I'm not sure at all,” Cantor admitted. “But if I follow the Chinese Kilo, I'll definitely lose it. Very faint signal—extremely quiet.”

“Give me the coordinates,” said Dog.

Aboard the
Shiva
,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0340

M
EMON WATCHED AS THE LAST
S
U
-35
EXPLODED OFF THE
deck of the carrier, its rapid ascent into the night sky belying the heavy load beneath its wings. Six new jets had arrived last evening, bringing the carrier's flyable complement to eighteen. All but two were now in the air; if the order was given to attack, it would take no more than ten minutes for the first missile to strike its target.

He hoped it would not come to that.

Did this mean he was a coward? Or was Skandar right—was it just a matter of experience, of getting past the first shock?

“A beautiful sight, isn't it?”

The voice sounded so much like Admiral Kala's that Memon turned around with a jerk. But it wasn't the dead admiral or his ghost, just one of the NCOs, an older man who supervised the radar specialists.

“Yes, it is beautiful,” managed Memon. “Incredibly beautiful.”

NSC Situation Room 1740,
14 January 1998
(0340, 15 January, Karachi)

J
ED
B
ARCLAY WHEELED HIS CHAIR BACK FROM THE COMMUNICATIONS
console and surveyed the screens arrayed before him. Twenty-three different computers were tied into various intelligence networks, allowing him almost instantaneous information on what was happening in India and Pakistan. Updated feeds from satellites designed to detect missile launches took up four screens at the left; the coverage overlapped and had been arranged so the entire subcontinent was always in view. A pair of screens collated feeds
from a pair of U-2s covering the Arabian Sea. The planes' sensor arrays, dubbed “Multi-Spectral Electro-Optical Reconnaissance Sensor SYERS upgrades,” provided around-the-clock coverage of the region, using optics during the day and in clear weather, and infrared and radar at other times.