End Game (7 page)

The colonel clicked the remote control he had in his left hand and a new map appeared on the screen behind him. India sat at the right, Somalia on the left. The Arabian Sea, an arm of the Indian Ocean, sat between them. Above Somalia was the Saudi peninsula, with Yemen at the coast. Iran and Pakistan were at the northern shores of the sea, separating India from the Middle East.

“To give you some idea of the distances involved here,” said Dog, “it's roughly fifteen hundred miles from Port Somalia to Mumbai, also known as Bombay, on the coast of India, not quite halfway down the Indian subcontinent. Three hours flying time, give or take, for a Megafortress, a little less if Lightning Chu is at the controls.”

The pilots at the back laughed. Captain Tommy Chu had earned his new nickname during recent power-plant tests by averaging Mach 1.1 around the test course, defying the engineers' predictions that the EB-52 could not be flown faster than the speed of sound for a sustained period in level flight.

“Timewise, we are eleven hours behind. When it is noon here, it is 2300 hours in Port Somalia, same time as Mogadishu. Problem, Cantor?”

Lieutenant Evan Cantor, one of the new Flighthawk jocks recently cleared for active combat missions, jerked upright in the second row. “Uh, no sir. Just figuring out days. They're a half day ahead. Just about.”

“Just about, Lieutenant. But don't do the math yet. We'll be based at Drigh Road, the Pakistani naval air base near Karachi. We'll use Karachi time for reference. That's thirteen hours ahead. A section of the base has already been cordoned off for us. Problem, Lieutenant Chu?”

“Just trying to figure out how many watches to wear,” said Chu.

“Why Karachi?” said Breanna.

“Mostly because they won't object, and they're relatively close,” said Dog. “But we'll have to be very, very aware that we're in an Islamic country, and that our presence may be controversial to some.”

Controversial was putting it mildly. Stirred up by local radicals, civilians near the air base the Dreamland team had used in Saudi Arabia during their last deployment had come close to rioting before the Megafortresses relocated to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean.

“We'll have four Megafortresses: the
Wisconsin
, our old veteran; and three newcomers, the
Levitow
, the
Fisher
, and the
Bennett.
”

The choice of the planes was not haphazard; all were radar surveillance planes, with both air and sea capabilities. Information from the Megafortresses's radars would be supplied to the
Abner Read
via a link developed by Dreamland's computer scientists, giving the small littoral warrior a far-reaching picture of the air and oceans around it. Additionally, an underwater robot probe called Piranha could be controlled from one Flighthawk station on each plane, and special racks and other gear allowed the Megafortresses to drop and use sonar buoys.

“We'll rotate through twelve-hour shifts, with overlapping patrols, so there are always at least two aircraft on station at any one time,” continued Colonel Bastian. “Lieutenant Chu has worked up some of the patrol details, and I'll let him go into the specifics. We're to be in the air as soon as possible; no later than 1600.”

The trip would have been long enough if they'd been able to fly in a straight line—somewhere over nine thousand miles. But political considerations forced them to skirt Iran and Russia, adding to the journey.

“I believe everyone knows everyone else on the deployment. The one exception may be Major Mack Smith, who's back with us after a working vacation in the Pacific. Mack has been pinch-hitting for Major Stockard while he's on medical leave for a few weeks, and he'll continue to head the Flighthawk squadron during the deployment.”

Mack, ever the showoff, turned and gave a wave to the pilots behind him.

Though he'd helped develop the Flighthawks, he had extremely little time flying them. That wasn't a serious deficiency handling the odd piece of paperwork at Dreamland, where Zen was only a phone call away; it remained to be seen what would happen in the field.

“One question, Colonel,” said Danny Freah, whose
Whiplash team would provide security at the base. “How long are we going to be there?”

Dog's mouth tightened at the corners—a sign, Breanna knew, that he was about to say something unpopular. “As long as it takes.”

Las Vegas University of Medicine,
Las Vegas, Nevada
1200

“I'
LL JUST SAY
I
CAN
'
T GO
.”

“No way. You can't do that.”

“Sure I can do that. You're my husband.”

“Yeah, I do seem to remember a ceremony somewhere.” Zen laughed. The two nurses at the other end of the room looked over and gave him embarrassed smiles.

“Jeff—”

“No, listen Bree, it's fine. Things are going great here. I still can't eat anything, but other than that, I'm in great shape. I may even go for a walk later.”

“Don't joke.”

“I'm not joking. It was a figure of speech.” Zen pulled his gown primly closer to his legs. When the phone call was finished, he'd go back facedown on the bed butt naked, but somehow it felt important to preserve what modesty he could.

“The operation was OK?”

“Bing-bing-bing. Didn't feel anything. Laser looked pretty cool. The nurse are great,” he added. “I won't describe them or you'll get jealous.”

The women—neither of whom was under fifty—blushed.

“I love you, Jeff.”

“I love you too, Bree. Take care of yourself, all right?”

“You're
sure
?”

“Shit yeah.”

“I'll call.”

“Call when you can.”

“Jeff?”

“Yup?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Southeastern Iran,
near the coast
8 January 1998
1312

C
APTAIN
S
ATTARI
'
S KNEE
,
BRUISED IN THE RECENT ACTION AT
Port Somalia, started to give way as he climbed from the back of the Mercedes. He grabbed hold of the door to steady himself, pretending to admire the splendor of the private villa three miles east of Chah Bahar on Iran's southern coast. Being thirty-nine meant the little tweaks and twists took longer to get over.

The villa
was
something to admire; its white marble pillars harked back to the greatness of the Persian past, and its proud, colorful red tower stood in marked contrast to the dullness that had descended over much of the land in the wake of the mullahs' extreme puritanism. Jaamsheed Pevars had bought the house before he became the country's oil minister. He was one of new upper class, a man who had earned his money under the black robes and thus owed them some allegiance. A decade before the small company he owned had won a contract to inspect oil tankers for safety violations before they entered Iranian waters. Inspection was mandatory, as was the thousand dollar fee, only half of which went to the government.

“Captain?” asked Sergeant Ibn, getting out from the other side.

“Impressive view.”

Sattari shrugged off his knee's complaints, and the men walked up the stone-chipped path that led to the front door.
A servant met them, bowing with the proper respect before leading them through the portico out into a garden where his host was waiting.

“Captain Sattari,” said Jaamsheed Pevars, rising as they entered. “I greet you on your great success.”

As Sattari started to take his hand, he saw Pevars was not alone. The captain immediately stiffened; visitors generally meant trouble, usually from the imams who were constantly demanding more progress. But the man with his back to him was not one of the black robes. As he turned, Sattari was startled to see it was his father. Smiling broadly, General Mansour Sattari clasped the younger man to his chest.

“Congratulations on your success,” said the general.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

“And Sergeant Ibn. How are you?”

“Fine, General. Happy to see you.”

“And I you. Are you watching over my son?”

“The captain needs no one to oversee him.”

The general beamed. A servant came with sparkling water, setting down a large glass for the visitors.

“A great success,” Pevars said. “You have proven the concept. Now it is time to push the Indians further.”

“We are prepared.”

“Are you?” said the oil minister. “There have been questions.”

“Questions?” said Sattari. He glanced at his father. Was that why he was here? Did the general doubt his own son?

“Some of the black robes are demanding a return on the investment,” said Pevars. “The price of oil has sunk so quickly lately that they are becoming concerned. The timetable—”

“We're completely ready.”

“The sooner you can press the attacks and instigate the conflict, the better,” added Pevars. “The commodities market shrugged off the attack.”

“They will not be able to ignore the next one.”

“My son is wondering why I am here,” the general told
Pevars. “And I should explain to him. Some of the imams in the council want to make sure the Indians are punished. And they want the war between the Indians and Pakistan to show that the Chinese cannot be trusted.”

“I can't guarantee a war,” said Sattari. “The idea was to affect oil prices, not start a war. I have only a small force, four small aircraft and one large one, all primarily transports. I have one old ship, a hulk that just today we have covered with new paint. My four midget submarines are useful as transports but carry no weapons besides what a man can hold. I have thirty-six commandos. All brave men, all ready to die for Allah and Iran. That is the sum of my force.”

“You were chased by the Americans,” said his father.

“Yes. They complicated our escape.”

The Americans were a great enemy of Sattari's father. A year before, a small force of commandos and aircraft had attacked one of the general's installations in the North, destroying a secret antiaircraft laser he had developed. The strike had lessened his influence in the government; naturally, he wanted revenge.

“There was a rumor that you ran from them,” said Pevars.

“Who said that?”

“One of the black robes,” said his father.

So that was what this was about. Sattari guessed that the imam had a spy aboard the
Mitra
who had radioed back a report of the action before they reached port.

To be called a coward after the success of his mission! That was typical of those fellows. It was a favorite tactic, to tear down everyone else.

But did his father think he was a coward? That was an entirely different matter.

“I did not run,” Sattari said. “Exposing our force would have been idiocy. Worse than cowardice.”

“I'm sure,” said the general. “Do not let lies depress you.”

“I won't.”

“Some sweets,” said the oil minister. He clapped his hands for the servant.

Aboard the
Abner Read
,
off the coast of Somalia
1538

“W
HAT DO YOU HAVE FOR ME
, A
IRFORCE
?”
ASKED
S
TORM AS
Starship stepped onto the bridge.

“I was hoping I might have a word in private.”

“This is private enough,” said Storm, glancing around the bridge. There were only two other men on the bridge, one manning the wheel and the other the bridge navigation system. But as far as Storm was concerned, the entire ship's company could be here. He expected everyone aboard to show discretion where it was appropriate, but otherwise there was no place for secrets. The
Abner Read
was a small vessel. Everyone eventually ended up knowing everyone's business anyway.

“Captain, I was going to ask, considering that we now have two other men trained to handle the Werewolf, and that the Dreamland people are going to be based at Karachi—”

“You angling to leave us, mister?”

“I was thinking I might be more useful working with the Whiplash ground team, providing security. They can't deploy the Werewolves there without another pilot because of commitments at the base.”

“Request denied. We need you out here, Airforce. You're the only pilot worth a shit on this ship.”

The young man's face shaded red.

“Don't thank me,” added Storm. “Just do your job.”

“Yes, sir.”

Starship snapped off a quick, confused salute and left. Storm went back to studying the holographic display. They
were two miles north of 'Abd Al-Kūrī, an island off the tip of Somalia. The submarine they had chased the other night had not reappeared. Nor, for that matter, had the guerrillas.

The intelligence people back in Washington had no idea who had launched the attack. The Indians were blaming the Pakistanis, but as far as anyone could tell, they had no evidence except for decades' worth of animosities. Storm—who also had no evidence beyond the faint submarine contact—thought the Chinese were behind it. They were rivals for dominance of Asia, and it was possible they wanted to tweak the Indians' noses while the world was preoccupied elsewhere.

“Eyes, what's the status of the Dreamland patrols?”

“Due to start at 1800 hours. Looks like your old friend Colonel Bastian is taking the first patrol himself.”

Storm gritted his teeth. Bastian had proven himself a decent pilot and a good commander, but he was also a jerk.

Better that than the other way around, though.

“Have them report to me as soon as possible,” Storm said.

“Aye, Skipper. The Indian destroyer
Calcutta
is about a hundred miles east of Port Somalia. They should reach it in three or four hours. I thought we might send the Werewolf down to greet them. Let them know we're here.”