End Game (38 page)

“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
B
ANDIT
T
WO
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.

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 C
³
.

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.”

Aboard the
Abner Read,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0619

S
TARSHIP TOOK THE
W
EREWOLF OVER THE
S
HARKBOAT
,
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.”

 

T
HE
M
EGAFORTRESS 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
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

C
HU
,
THE PILOT OF
D
REAMLAND
F
ISHER
,
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.”

“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.

Aboard the
Levitow
,
over India
0620

B
REANNA CLEARED THE TRANSMISSION
. H
ER 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.

“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

“W
HAT
'
S THE STATUS ON THAT
SA-2
MISSILE SITE
?” D
OG
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.

“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

S
TORM
'
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
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.”

 

“T
ALK ABOUT IMPOTENT
,”
MUTTERED
Z
EN AS THE
M
EGAFORTRESS
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 altogether 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.