End Game (30 page)

The next screen provided a feed from an electronic eavesdropping program run by the National Security Agency; the screen filled with updates on intelligence gathered by clandestine electronic listening posts near India and in Pakistan. Interpretations on captures of intelligence on Pakistani systems filled the next screen. Then came a series of displays devoted to bulletins from the desks at the different intelligence agencies monitoring the situation. Finally there was the tie-in to the Dreamland Command network, which allowed Jed to talk to all of the Dreamland aircraft and share the imagery.

Six people were needed to work all of the gear. Jed was the only one authorized to communicate directly with the Dreamland force. He would be relieved in the morning by his boss, who had just gone to dinner and who expected to be paged immediately if things perked up.

“I say we send out for pizza,” said the photo interpreter monitoring the U-2 and satellite images.

“How about Sicilian?” suggested Peg Jordan, monitoring the NSA feed.

“Sounds good,” said Jed.

“Let's call Sicily and have it delivered,” deadpanned Jordan.

Everyone laughed. As lame as it was, Jed hoped the joke wouldn't be the only one he heard tonight.

Aboard the
Wisconsin,
above the northern Arabian Sea
0345

D
OG DOUBLE
-
CHECKED HIS POSITION
,
MAKING SURE HE WAS
still outside Pakistani territory. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying thirty miles due east of him, very close to the country's border with India. The planes had queried him twice, making sure he wasn't an Indian jet. Even though that should have been obvious, Dog had Jazz reassure the pilots, telling them they were Americans hoping to “help keep the peace.” There was no sense having to duck the planes' missiles prematurely.

Besides the Pakistani flight, the Megafortress was being shadowed by a pair of Indian MiG-21s. Much older than the F-16s, they were farther away and less of a threat. But they were clearly watching him. Probably guided by a ground controller, they changed course every time he did. He knew this couldn't go on much longer—the small fighters simply didn't carry that much fuel—but it was an ominous portent of the gamut they'd have to run if things went sour.

Jed had warned that they couldn't expect the Pakistanis to be friendly. Annoyed at the neutral stance of the U.S., the government of Pakistan had specifically warned that the Dreamland aircraft were “unwelcome” in Pakistani airspace for the length of the crisis.

If ballistic missiles were launched, Dog would know within fifteen seconds. Ideally, he would then rush over the Thar Desert, flying at least twelve and a half minutes before firing the first salvo of three missiles, which would detonate roughly seven minutes later. Seconds before they did, he would fire his last missile. Soon afterward, he would lose most if not all of his instruments and fly back blind. And while the radars and missile batteries along the route he was flying would be wiped out, the closer he got to the coast, the higher the odds that he'd be in the crosshairs. The
Wisconsin
might never know what hit her.

The worst thing was, if the new calculations were correct, the mission might be in vain. And the same went for the
Levitow
. It was going to be ten or twelve hours before they could have both aircraft on station.

“J-13s from the carrier are headed our way,” said Jazz.

Dog grunted. The Chinese seemed to be working on an hourly schedule—every sixty minutes they sent a pair of planes to do a fly-by and head back to the carrier.

“
Wisconsin
, this is
Hawk One
—you sure you don't want me to get in their faces?”

“Negative, Mack. Conserve your fuel. And your tactics.”

“Roger that.”

Dog thought Mack must be getting tired—he didn't put up an argument.

“Colonel, Piranha is within ten miles of that underwater contact,” said Cantor. “Computer is matching this to the other craft. The one that scuttled itself the other day.”

“You're positive, Cantor?”

“Computer is, Colonel. Personally, I haven't a clue.”

“All right. I'll contact Captain Chu and Danny in
Dreamland Fisher.
Good work.”

Aboard the
Abner Read
,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0348

S
TORM WATCHED THE PLOT ON THE RADARMAN
'
S SCOPE
, tracking the Indian jets as they circled to the east.

“Keeping an eye on us,” said the sailor. “Every fifteen minutes or so they split up. One comes straight overhead.”

Storm scratched the stubble on his chin, considering the situation. The planes were well within range of the Standard antiair missiles in the forward vertical launch tubes.

The problem was, his orders of engagement declared that he had to wait for “life-threatening action” before he could fire. That meant he couldn't launch his missiles unless the
Sukhois got aggressive—which at this close range might be too late. Storm decided that when he got back to the bridge he would radio Bastian and see if he couldn't get one of his little robot fighters over to run the Indians off.

Continuing with his tour of the Tactical Center, Storm moved over to the Werewolf station. Starship had gone off to bed, and one of Storm's crewmen—Petty Officer Second Class Paul Varitok—was at the helm of the robot. The petty officer was one of the ship's electronics experts and had volunteered to fly the aircraft when it came aboard. He was still learning; even discounting the fact that Storm's presence made him nervous, it was obvious to the captain that he had a long way to go.

Storm completed his rounds and headed over to the communications shack. After checking the routine traffic, he made a call to Bastian. The Air Force lieutenant colonel snapped onto the line with his customary, “Bastian,” the accompanying growl practically saying,
Why are you bothering me now?

“I have two Indian warplanes circling south at five miles,” Storm told him. “What are the odds of you chasing them away?”

“No can do,” said Dog. “Stand by,” he added suddenly, and the screen went blank.

It took the Air Force commander several minutes to get back to him, and he didn't offer an apology or an explanation when he did. If he wasn't such an insolent, arrogant, know-it-all blowhard—he'd still be a jerk.

“Storm—we have a contact we think may be another midget submarine. It's similar to the one that blew itself up. We're going to track it. My Whiplash people will be en route shortly.”

“Where is it?”

“A few miles off the Pakistani coast, just crossing toward Indian territory.”

Dog gave him the coordinates, about sixty miles to the
east of the Sharkboat, which was another forty to the east of the
Abner Read
.

“It will take about two hours for the Sharkboat to get there,” Storm told him. “But those are Indian waters. If we're caught there, it will be viewed as provocative. The Indians will have every right to attack us.”

“You're telling me you won't go there?”

“This has nothing to do with the aircraft carrier, Bastian. You can't give me an order regarding it.”

“I'm not. But if we want to get the submarine, we have to do it now. I would suggest—
suggest
—that you position your Sharkboat several miles offshore so it can come to the aid of the craft when it begins to founder.”

“You know all the angles, don't you?” snapped Storm.

Dog didn't respond.

“Yes, we'll do it,” said Storm. “Get with Eyes for the details.” He jabbed his finger on the switch to kill the transmission.

Aboard the
Levitow
,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0430

Z
EN WATCHED AS
L
IEUTENANT
D
ENNIS
“D
ORK
” T
HRALL FINISHED
the refuel of
Hawk Three
. Dork backed out of
Levitow
, rolling right as he cleared away from the Megafortress.
Hawk Four
remained on the wing; Zen would have to take the Piranha when they arrived on station, and didn't want to leave Dork to handle two planes.

Dork steered the Flighthawk out in front of the Megafortress, climbing gradually to 42,000 feet, about five thousand higher than the EB-52. They were still forty-five minutes from the
Wisconsin
's position, but already they'd encountered three different Indian patrols. They had also passed a Russian guided missile cruiser steaming north
ward with two smaller ships. If tempers were cooling, Zen saw no evidence of it.

He heard something behind him, and turned to find Breanna climbing down the metal ladder at the rear of the deck.

“I thought you were sleeping,” he told her.

“I fell asleep for, oh, twenty minutes,” she said. “Hard to sleep with Stewart snoring in my ear. She's louder than the engines.”

“Dork's flying
Hawk Three
,” said Zen.

“So I gathered. You're just surplus?”

“Nothing but a spare part. You too?”

“Actually, I'm going to switch with Louis and take the stick. He's feeling the aftereffects of the Navy food.”

“You sure you shouldn't get more rest?”

“Nah,” said Breanna. Then she added cryptically, “Hardly worth giving up your treatments for.”

“Huh?” Zen looked up at her, shocked—almost stunned—by what she'd said.

“You want anything? Coffee?”

“I'll take a cup.”

He watched her disappear upstairs and felt a pang of regret at not being able to get up and go with her—at not being able to
walk
up with her.

She thought he'd made a mistake. That's what she'd meant. She wanted a whole man for a husband: one who walked.

Zen forced himself to go back to watching Dork. The Flighthawk pilot checked his sitrep, keeping a wary eye on a pair of Indian MiG-29s that the
Levitow
's radar painted about 150 miles to the east. He had a good handle on what he was doing; while there were no guarantees, Zen thought he'd do well in combat once he got a little experience under his belt.

Maybe no one really needed him here at all.

“Coffee,” said Breanna, returning with a cup.

“Where's yours?”

“I have to get back. Lou's whiter than a ghost.”

“All right. See you around.”

“Something wrong, Jeff?”

“Nah. I'll be talking to you.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but couldn't quite manage it.

Aboard the
Wisconsin
,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0450

“P
IRANHA TO
W
ISCONSIN
.
”

“Go ahead, Cantor,” said Colonel Bastian, checking his position to make sure he was still in international airspace, about fifteen miles to the west of shore.

“The submarine is surfacing, Colonel. I think they're going to that radar platform. And I think there's another one nearby, closer to the coast but behind us. I'll have to circle around to find out.”

The platform held one of a series of large radar antennas used to detect aircraft by the Indians. It would be a perfect target for a covert operation.

There was also a small building and shed at the base—a good place to resupply a small vessel.

“
Wisconsin
to Flighthawk leader—Mack, I want you to take a pass at the radar platform and give us some visuals. I want to see if that platform is expecting them.”

“On it, Colonel.”

Aboard the
Deng Xiaoping
,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0450

C
APTAIN
H
ONGWU
,
THE MASTER OF THE
D
ENG
X
IAOPING
,
REVIEWED
the movements of the Indian ships over the past several hours. The
Shiva
and her escorts had spread out, and at the same time come closer to him. Clearly they were positioning themselves for an attack.

While he had expended most of his anticruise missiles in his earlier engagement, Hongwu felt confident he could handle the Indians by overmatching their aircraft with his larger squadron, allowing him to reserve the missiles for use against ship-launched weapons. He would devote his planes to defense initially, counterattacking only after he had broken the enemy's thrust.

But he worried about what role the Americans would play. Besides the warship his pilots had misidentified, they were flying Megafortresses above the Arabian Sea. One seemed to be tracking his fleet. He thought it unlikely that they would help the Indians, but he knew he had to be prepared.

“The American aircraft should be kept at least fifty miles from us at all times,” he told his air commander. “We must keep their air-to-air missiles out of easy range of the radar helicopters. And if fighting starts again, they should be moved back beyond the range of the standard Harpoon missiles they carry—eighty miles.”

Hongwu immediately noted the concern on the air commander's face.

“If necessary, assign four aircraft to escort them,” added Hongwu. “Escort them at very close range, where their air-to-air missiles will not be a factor.”

“It will be done, Captain.”

Northern Arabian Sea
0455

C
APTAIN
S
ATTARI ROLLED HIS NECK SIDEWAYS AND THEN DOWN
toward his chest, trying to stretch away the kink that had developed there in the past hour. They were almost at their destination; he wanted to be out, and so did everyone else aboard the submarine.