End Game (6 page)

“See if the captain of the tanker would honor a request to move off to the west,” said Storm. “Tell him that our helicopter has been tracking some mines in the area—get him scared and get him out of there.”

“The sub may follow.”

“I doubt he'll make it that easy for us, now that he knows we're here,” said Storm. “Turn on our active sonar as well—let's make sure he knows precisely how close to him we are.”

Off the coast of Somalia
0216

S
ERGEANT
I
BN CAME UP TO THE BRIDGE TO REPORT TO
S
ATTARI
while the tanker captain was talking to the Americans.

“All our men are back. No losses. Mission accomplished,” said the sergeant, his face as grim as ever.

“The success of the mission is entirely yours,” Sattari told him. “You trained everyone superbly—I for one benefited greatly from your drills.”

The sergeant turned beet red, then bent his head.

Had Sattari mistaken shyness for skepticism? No, he thought; Ibn—and most likely the others—were wary of an unproven commander whose experience was entirely in the
cockpit. They must have felt, and with some justification, that he had only gotten his position because of his father, who still had some influence with the government. Or else they thought the entire scheme of equipping a special operations group with gear and machines any civilian—any
rich
civilian—could buy was preposterous.

They would not think so now.

Ibn remained at attention.

“Relax, Sergeant,” Sattari told him. “See to the men.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Was there more respect in his voice? Less doubt?

Perhaps. But more important, Sattari felt sure of himself. He had done it; he had succeeded. Tonight was only the start.

“The Americans want us to go west,” the tanker captain told him. “They say they have spotted some mines.”

Had he not been so tired, Sattari would have burst out laughing.

“Comply. Make as much noise as you can.”

“The decoy will begin chattering any moment now.”

“That's fine,” said Sattari. “They will think the submarine launched it. Combined with the sonar they heard—they won't be able to piece the different parts together.”

The ship's commander was a short, sinewy man who had somehow managed to keep his face clear of wrinkles despite having spent his life at sea. He looked at Sattari as if he didn't understand, and the commando leader felt compelled to explain further.

“You see,” Sattari said, “these Americans are clever people. They love puzzles, and they love to piece them together. In this case, the fact that the pieces don't fit will confuse them. Their instincts will be to press ahead and attack. They will realize it's a decoy soon enough, then they will look for the submarine in earnest.”

“You speak of the Americans as if you know them very well,” said the ship's captain.

“I speak from unfortunate experience.”

Aboard the
Abner Read
,
off the coast of Somalia
0218

“S
HIP IS TURNING TO PORT
. I
WOULDN
'
T SAY THEY
'
RE BURNING
up the ocean,” reported Starship.

“Take a run over them. Make sure they see you.”

“Have to be blind not to,” said Starship. But he did as he was told, moving the Werewolf down toward the tanker. Again he passed so close that he could see a man on the ladder of the superstructure. Again he felt a chill and a moment of premonition, sure he was going to be shot down.

I'm not even on the stinkin' helicopter, he reminded himself as he circled away, unfired on. Relax.

 

“W
E HAVE A DECOY IN THE WATER
,” E
YES TOLD
S
TORM
. “Loud. Imposter.”

Imposter was a nickname for a Russian MG-74 decoy, a versatile torpedo-tube-launched noisemaker that could employ a variety of techniques to confuse a tracking ship, including jamming sonar and simulating the sound of a large submarine.

“You have a contact with the sub that launched it?”

“Negative. We didn't hear the tube flood or launch, either. Tubes could have been open for a while. Not adding up, Captain. Now we don't have any contacts at all.”

“Nothing!”

“I know, I know,” said Eyes quickly. “We're looking, Storm. I don't know why we can't find it.”

This was the point in the chase where a hunter had to be patient; sooner or later the prey would make a mistake and give himself away. No matter how clever—and the captain of the submarine had proven himself
quite
clever—he would eventually slip.

The problem was, Storm was not a patient man. He stared
at the holographic display, trying to puzzle out where his adversary had gone.

“You're
sure
he's not trailing that tanker?”

“Negative.”

Oh my God, thought Storm, what if he managed to get underneath us?

Impossible.

But a logical explanation.

“Change course—hard to starboard,” he shouted to the helmsman behind him on the bridge. “Eyes—make sure the SOB isn't hiding right beneath us or in our wake somehow.”

 

S
TARSHIP SKIPPED OVER THE WAVES
,
STARING AT THE INFRARED
feed and trying not to let it burn through his eyes. There was nothing on the surface of the water—no periscope, no radio mast, no nothing.

Navy guys stared at the sea all the time, and claimed to love it. How sick was that?

 

T
HE SUBMARINE WASN
'
T UNDER THEM
. B
UT NEITHER WAS IT
anywhere in the five mile grid they marked out in the ocean as its most likely location, nor in the wider circle that Storm had the ship patrol after the grid proved empty.

They'd been beaten. And the worst thing was, Storm didn't even know who had done it.

A hard-ass Russian submarine captain in a Kilo, who'd wandered close to Port Somalia by accident and then thought it best to get away before he got blamed?

Or the captain of a submarine who had in fact picked up the saboteurs and scooted clean away?

“All right,” he growled into his microphone. “Eyes—we're going to have to call off the search. We can't stay here forever.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Storm's anger flashed as the command was passed and the crew began to move, tacitly accepting defeat. His right
hand formed into a fist but he restrained himself from pounding the bulkhead.

He thought of that later, in his cabin, when he stared at the ceiling instead of sleeping. It was a measure of how much he had changed in the months since the fight with the Somalian pirates.

Whether it was a change for the better, he couldn't tell.

Las Vegas University of Medicine,
Las Vegas, Nevada
5 January 1998
1723

T
HE DAY
'
S WORTH OF TESTS WERE MOSTLY VARIATIONS ON
ones Zen had already gone through before Christmas. He was injected with a series of dyes and then X-rayed and scanned, prodded and listened to. The technical staff took a stack of X-rays, MRIs, and ultrasounds. Then they hooked him up to a machine that measured nerve impulses. This involved inserting needles into various parts of his body. The doctors had done this several days before. Now they inserted more, and left them in for nearly two hours.

He didn't feel the ones in his legs, but he did get a prickly sensation in his neck when they were inserted along his upper back. It didn't hurt, exactly, but lying there was more difficult than he had imagined.

“Done,” said Dr. Vasin finally. Two aides came over and helped Zen sit up.

“So I can walk now?”

“Jeff.”

“Hey, Doc, loosen up. Just a joke.” Zen pushed his arms back. His muscles had stiffened. “Tomorrow I go under the knife, right?”

“Laser, and then the injections. Bright and early, but listen—”

“I know. No guarantees.”

“This is a really long process, Jeff. And I have to be honest, brutally honest—”

“Ten percent chance. I know.”

“Ten percent is very optimistic,” said Vasin.

“It's OK. I understand.”

“Operation one is tomorrow. The procedure itself is relatively simple, but of course it
is
a procedure. No food after seven
P
.
M
., just in case we have to put you out.”

“Beer's not food, right?”

“Not after seven. And for the duration of the test period, alcohol and coffee are forbidden.”

“Well, there goes the bender I was planning. Don't worry, Doc,” added Zen, “I'm just joking.”

Needles and sensors removed, Zen got dressed and wheeled himself out into the hallway. He headed toward the lounge area, where he could call for a taxi before taking the elevator down. He was surprised to see Breanna waiting for him.

“Bree?”

“You called for a taxi?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Like I said—need a taxi?”

“I thought you were snowed in.”

“I shoveled the runway myself.”

She leaned over and kissed him. Zen grabbed her around the neck and hugged her, surprising himself at how much he missed her.

“Everything all right?”

“I feel like a pincushion. Other than that, I'm fine.” He thought of telling her about the dream but decided not to. It would fade, eventually.

“Operation still on for tomorrow?”

“Not much of an operation,” he told her. “They just inject me with crap. Don't even knock me out.”

“Crap,” she said sarcastically.

“Let's go grab something to eat, OK? I'm fasting from
seven
P
.
M
. After that, no food until tomorrow night. I want to have a beer. I can't have any during the two weeks of injections. No coffee, either.”

“No beer or coffee? You sure this is worth it?” Breanna laughed.

“Hope so.”

Navy Ministry Building,
New Delhi, India
6 January 1998
0900

D
EPUTY
D
EFENSE
M
INISTER
A
NIL
M
EMON STARED AT THE
table, trying to master his rage as India's Prime Minister continued to speak about the need for a “measured response” to the latest provocation. The minister claimed that there was no obvious link between the attack at Port Somalia and the Pakistanis—an absurd claim in Memon's opinion. Memon knew that he should hold his tongue, but finally he could not.

“Who else would have launched the attack?” he said. “Who else has connections to these pirates?”

“We have no proof of connections,” said the Prime Minister.

“They are Muslims. What other proof do you wish?” Memon ignored the disapproving stare from his boss, Defense Minister Pita Skandar. “They will attack again and again. They will strike our ships. They do not wish to see us prosper. Anyone who does not realize that is a fool.”

“You haven't proven your case,” said the Prime Minister.

“How many of my sailors must die before you consider it proven?” said Memon.

“They are my sailors too,
Deputy
Minister,” said the Prime Minister, his anger finally rising. “More mine than yours.”

“Then let us act. Mobilize. Send the new carrier to blockade the Pakistani ports.”

“My deputy speaks with passion,” said Minister Skandar softly. “Take into account that he is young.”

“I assumed he spoke for you,” said the Prime Minister.

“He goes further than I. I would not block the Pakistani ports quite yet. But the
Shiva
should set out immediately. Its trials are complete. We must show that we are resolved.”

The Prime Minister nodded, then turned to the Chief of the Naval Staff for his opinion. The discussion continued for a few minutes more, but Skandar's recommendations had clearly set the course, and within a half hour the meeting concluded.

Memon, feeling defeated and frustrated, sat in his seat as the others began filing out. When he finally rose, Skandar touched his sleeve, signaling that he should stay. Cheeks flushing, Memon sat back down.

“You win no points by being too fiery in the cabinet room,” said Skandar.

“The Muslims must be behind this,” said Memon. “They are the only ones who benefit. The intelligence services simply are inept in gathering evidence.”

“We must examine everything in context.”

A large man, with a shaved head and an emotionless smile, Skandar appeared almost godlike. But of late Memon had begun to wonder if the man generally referred to as the “Admiral” was simply old. Not quite thirty years before, he had distinguished himself as a young officer in charge of a raiding party in the 1971 war with Pakistan. Promotions quickly followed. In time, Skandar became the head of the Naval Staff, the highest uniform post in the navy.

In 1994, Skandar retired to run for congress. Winning election easily, he had been asked to join the Prime Minister's government as the Defense minister. The old admiral at first demurred, but soon was persuaded that he could do much to help the services.

Memon had been among those who helped persuade
him. The admiral's “price” for agreeing was that Memon would join him as deputy minister. He'd done so, despite the fact that he had hoped for his own minister's portfolio. Like many other young Indians, he saw Skandar as the one man in the government with enough stature to bring India's military into the twenty-first century.

The admiral had done better than any one of them, Memon included, might have hoped, adding aircraft to the air force, tanks to the army, and above all ships to the navy. It thrilled Memon, who wished India to take her rightful place in the world. But of late Skandar had seemed only an old man, talking of abstractions rather than actions.

“Admiral, the context is before our eyes,” Memon told him. “We are being attacked.”

“In the next century, who will be the superpowers of Asia? Russia is a shadow of herself. We pick over her bones to build our own forces. The United States? They are preoccupied with Europe, Taiwan, and Japan, spread so thin that they cannot afford to send more than a token force to the Gulf of Aden.”

“China is our ultimate enemy. I realize that,” said Memon. “But you're worrying about fifty years from now. I'm worrying about today.”

“Our actions today will determine what happens in fifty years.” Skandar smiled. “You're still young. Full of fire. That is admirable.”

At thirty-eight, Memon did not consider himself particularly young. But since he was half Skandar's age, the comment was not meant unkindly.

“What do you think of joining the
Shiva
?” added Skandar.

Memon had been instrumental in the conversion of the ship from the Russian, Tiazholyi Avianesushchiy Kreyser, or Heavy Aircraft-Carrying Cruiser,
Kiev
. To Memon, the
Shiva
epitomized India's new aggressiveness, and he would love to be aboard her. Its captain, Admiral Asad Kala, was an old acquaintance.

But why was Skandar suggesting it? To get him out of New Delhi?

“I would like nothing better than to join the
Shiva,
” said Memon warily. “If you can spare me.”

“Good, then.” Skandar rose. “You should make your plans immediately.”

Dreamland
6 January 1998
1140

“T
HIS ISN
'
T A
B-1, C
APTAIN
. Y
OU
'
RE NOT GOING TO GET UP
over that mountain unless you start pulling the stick back now.”

Jan Stewart clenched her teeth together but did as she was told, jerking the control yoke toward her. The EB-52 Megafortress lifted her nose upward, shrugging off a wave of turbulence as she rose over Glass Mountain at the northern edge of Dreamland's Test Range 4. As soon as she cleared the jagged peak, Stewart pressed the stick forward, aiming to stay as close to the mountain as possible. But it was no good—though a vast improvement over the B-52H she had been converted from, the Megafortress was still considerably more comfortable cruising in the stratosphere than hugging the earth. Her four P&W power plants strained as Stewart tried to force gravity, momentum, and lift into an equation that would get the plane across the ridge without being seen by the nearby radar sentry, a blimp hovering two miles to the west.

The computer buzzed a warning:

DETECTED
.
BEING TARGETED
.

Stewart sensed her copilot's smirk. If only it had been Jazz, or
anyone
other than Breanna Stockard.

“Defense—evade—ah, shit,” Stewart said, temporarily flustered.

ENEMY LASER LOCKED
.

“ECMs,” said Stewart, back in control. “Evasive maneuvers. Hold on.”

“ECMs,” acknowledged Breanna.

Stewart banked hard and nailed the throttle to the last stop, trying to pirouette away from the laser targeting them. Her efforts were not in vain—the airborne antiaircraft laser fired and missed by about fifty yards. But the respite was brief. The EB-52 couldn't rebuild momentum quickly enough, and the laser recycled and sent a full blast at the cockpit. Several thousand joules of energy—simulated—struck the ship just aft of the pilots' station. The blast fused the satellite antenna and blew out the assorted electrical circuits, as well as punching a six-inch-wide hole across the top of the fuselage. The emergency panel in front of the pilots lit up like a Christmas tree, and alarms sounded throughout the aircraft. Ten seconds later a second salvo burned a hole through the metal covering the fuel bag immediately behind the wings. The temperature in the fuel delivery piping increased tenfold in an instant, and an explosion ripped across the plane's backbone.

“We're dead,” said Breanna.

Stewart leveled off silently, easing back on the thrust as Breanna called the test range coordinator to acknowledge that they'd been wiped out.

“Roger that,” said the coordinator. “Got you on that second blast. Good work.”

“You want another run?”

“Negative. We've got plenty of data. Thank you very much.”

“Pleasure is ours,” said Breanna.

Stewart ground her back molars together, stifling a scream. She took the Megafortress up through eight thousand feet, circling at the eastern end of the range before contacting the control tower for permission to land.

“Tower to EB-52 Test Run, you're cleared to land. What's wrong? Didn't you have your Wheaties today?”

“Test Run,” snapped Stewart, acknowledging the clear
ance but not the sarcasm. The controller chortled as he gave her information about the wind, rubbing in the fact that she'd just had her clock cleaned by a pair of robots in a blimp and an ancient C-130.

 

“Y
OU
'
RE GETTING BETTER
,”
SAID
B
REANNA AS
S
TEWART
rolled toward the hangar bunker.

“Don't give me that, Stockard. I really don't need a pep talk from you. I got toasted.”

“The purpose of the exercise was to get toasted. We're just guinea pigs.”

“I could have made it past the ridge if you hadn't made me pull up,” said Stewart angrily. “I had plenty of clearance.”

“The computer would have taken over for you if you hadn't pulled back on the stick.”

“The safety protocols are too conservative.”

“Why are you so touchy? It's only a test. Nobody's keeping score. If we'd gotten through on that pass we would have had to take another run anyway.”

“I could have made it,” insisted Stewart, powering down at the signal from the crewman outside.

Breanna sighed, and pretended to busy herself with the postflight checklist. She'd had Stewart fly as pilot to give her more experience behind the stick, not to show her up. Stewart had the qualifications to be a lead pilot, but so far she just wasn't hacking it. Hopefully it would come in time.

If her personality let it.

“Hey, Bree, Dog's looking for you,” said Danny Freah, sticking his head up at the rear of the cockpit area.

“What's up?”

“We're moving out. You'll never guess where.”

“Mars.”

“I wish. Going back to the Gulf of Aden. We're going to work with Xray Pop and the infamous Captain Storm. Hey, Stewart, you're invited too. Looks like your first Whiplash deployment is about to begin.”

“Great,” said Stewart, her tone suggesting the opposite.

“Newbies buy.”

“Screw yourself, Captain.”

“What's buggin' her?” said Danny after the pilot left the plane.

“Doesn't like to buy,” said Breanna.

 

B
Y THE TIME
B
REANNA AND
D
ANNY GOT TO
C
ONFERENCE
Room 2 in the Taj Mahal, Colonel Bastian had started the briefing. A large map at the front of the room showed northeastern Africa, the Gulf of Aden, and part of the nearby Indian Ocean. Somalia sat like a large, misshapen 7 wrapped around the northern and eastern shores of the continent. During its last deployment, the Dreamland Whiplash team and the Megafortresses supporting it had seen action on land and above the sea at the north, where the Gulf of Aden separated Africa from the Saudi peninsula. Today, the eastern shore of the war-torn country was highlighted, with a large X near the town of Hando on the Indian Ocean.

“I'm going to start by giving you all some background on political situation here,” said the colonel. “As many of you already know, pirates have been roaming the Gulf of Aden for nearly a year. They've been taking advantage of trouble elsewhere—specifically in the Balkans, in the Philippines, Japan, and Taiwan—to prey on oil tankers and other merchant ships traveling through the gulf.”

“While the cat's away, the mice do play,” said Major Mack Smith down in front. He turned around, smiling for everyone behind him, as if he were in junior high and had just made the most clever statement in the world.

“The Navy sent a small warship called the
Abner Read
into the gulf a few months ago,” continued Dog, ignoring Smith. “Some of us supported them. We won a major victory against the strongest group of pirates two months ago. Things have been relatively calm since, with some sporadic attacks but nothing on the order of what we'd seen before.
Yesterday, however, there was a major attack on Port Somalia, an oil terminal that has just been opened by the Indians. The Indians are blaming Pakistan and are threatening to retaliate. That's not sitting too well with the Pakistanis, who say they had nothing to do with this attack. Both countries have nuclear weapons. Our satellites have detected preparations at the major Indian ballistic missile launching area and at its Pakistani counterpart.”

“Saber rattling,” said Mack.

“Our immediate mission is to beef up Xray Pop, the task force that the
Abner Read
heads. We're going to help it figure out who's behind the attack. We're also going there to show both sides just how serious a matter this is.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers—” said Mack.

“Thank you, Major, but I can do without the running commentary,” said Dog. “We will be under the operational command of Xray Pop's commander, Captain ‘Storm' Gale. A lovely fellow.”

Everyone who had been on the last deployment snickered.

Dog turned to the projection behind him, using a laser pointer to highlight an X on the eastern coast of Somalia at the north.

“This is Port Somalia. It's an oil terminal, the end point for a pipeline the Indians have paid to be built to deliver oil from northern Somalia and the Gulf of Aden. It's part of an ambitious network that they are constructing that will give them access to oil from the entire Horn of Africa, all the way back to the Sudan. A second port is planned to open farther south later this year.”