End Game d-8

by Dale Brown

  "The Pakistani defenses around Karachi won't do much against a concentrated attack," said the colonel. "We're sitting ducks there."

  "Dreamland Levitow acknowledges."

  "Our two other crews are in the process of bugging out as well," Dog told her. "I'll keep you advised."

  "Roger that."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0355

  Starship had never seen a ship sink before. Now he saw it twice, on both halves of his screen, almost in stereo — the Chinese frigate, and one of the Indian corvettes, both hit by multiple missiles, gave themselves up to the water.

  The frigate went first. A good hunk of her bow had been blown away. She bent to the waves, settling like an old woman easing into a bath. The radar above the antenna mast continued to turn as the ship sank, adamantly remaining at its post. A boat pushed off from the deck near the funnel. Then the ship's downward progression stopped, as if it changed its mind about sinking; the forward section rose slightly.

  Starship glanced at the Indian vessel, which was listing heavily toward its wounded starboard side. When he glanced back at the Chinese frigate, its bow had gone back down and its stern had risen from the water. The helicopter flight deck looked like a fly swatter. Men jumped from the sides, swimming toward rafts and small boats as the ship's rear continued to rise. When the angle reached about sixty degrees, the stricken vessel plunged downward, a knife stabbing the vast ocean. Steam curdled up, and then there was nothing.

  Two helicopters approached from the distance. Starship fired off flares to show them where the shipwrecked survivors were, then wheeled the Werewolf around and instructed the computer to take it back to the Abner Read.

  The Indian corvette had an angular forward deck and a blocky midship, so that as her list increased she looked more and more like a large cardboard box that had fallen into the water. A sister ship stood nearby, pulling men from the water with the help of small boats. At least twenty men clung to the stricken vessel, waiting to be saved.

  Thinking he could help the rescue operations, Starship moved Werewolf Two out of its orbit about a mile to the east. He lit his searchlights as he came near the stricken ship, dropping into a hover and illuminating the water. Almost immediately his RWR buzzed with a warning that he was being targeted by the radar for an SA-N-4 antiaircraft system. Starship doused his lights and throttled away as two missiles launched.

  The SA-N-4s had about a ten kilometer range, and Werewolf Two had a two kilometer head start. Starship zigged right and left, bobbing up and then jamming back toward the waves, trying to confuse the missile's guidance system. He thought he'd made it when the Werewolf suddenly flew upward, uncontrolled; before he could regain control the screen blanked.

  Near Karachi oil terminal

  0355

  Danny pushed his legs together and covered his face as he fell from the Osprey, plunging toward a black hole in the red flickering ocean. The flames swelled up around him, then disappeared as he sank into the water. Once below the surface, he leaned forward and began stroking. He'd gone out in the direction of the pier, and figured that so long as he pushed himself forward he would eventually come to it.

  The water was so dark that he couldn't see anything in front of him. After what he thought must be five minutes, he raised his hand to clear some of the oil from the surface above and went up to get his bearings. But all he could see was heavy smoke and thin red curls of flame.

  Danny pushed back under the water, determined to find the pier and get Boston out of there. He still had his boots on; their weight and that of the gear he was carrying for Boston tired him as he swam. When he surfaced, flames shot over him and he quickly ducked back, swimming blindly ahead. His arms began to ache.

  Finally, his hand struck something hard. Thinking it was the pier, Danny surfaced and began hauling himself upward. When he got up he realized he'd climbed on a submerged concrete pillar, part of an older pier that had been removed some years before. The pier Boston was on sat ten yards behind him, barely visible in the smoke.

  Flames ran out of a long pipe about thirty yards to the north; the pipe led back to the tank farm, a roaring inferno that showed no sign of subsiding.

  "Boston! Yo Boston!" he yelled as shadows danced around him. "Boston, you hear me?"

  The wind howled. Danny took a breath, ready to dive in, then remembered his boots. He doffed them and dove back into the water, the stink of oil and kerosene stinging his nose.

  In three strokes he reached his hand to the metal rail at the base of the pier — then jerked it off and dove back down below the water.

  By the time the pain came, a wall of flames had passed overhead. Smarting from the burn, Danny worked his way to his right, in the direction he thought Boston would be. About five yards down he had to push around another underwater pillar before reaching the wooden surface of the pier. Tired, he didn't have enough energy or leverage to make it up and fell back into the water.

  "Boston!" he yelled, trying to jerk the LAR-V rebreather gear he was carrying onto the pier. "Boston!"

  A hand grabbed him from behind.

  "Here, Cap," said Boston, in the water behind him.

  Danny pulled the breathing gear back down between them.

  "Damn hot up there," said Boston. "Whole place is on fire."

  "We have to swim out beyond the fire," Danny told him. "So the Osprey can pick us up."

  "They told me," shouted Boston in his ear.

  "This way," said Danny, pointing before plunging down.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  above the northern Arabian Sea

  0407

  "Looks like both navies are withdrawing," T-Bone told Dog. "The aircraft are staying over the ships. The Chinese have three J-13s and one helicopter over the Deng. Three helos west, doing search and rescue on the frigate that sunk. The Indians have two planes over their carrier. Nothing else in the air."

  Less than an hour had passed since the first shot had been fired. Two ships had been sunk, one by each navy. Each side had lost four jets; the Chinese had also lost a helicopter. Considerable damage had been done to the remaining ships and aircraft.

  And then there was the oil terminal, still burning, sure to be completely destroyed before the fires were out.

  "Thanks, T-Bone. Dish, you have anything to add?"

  "Just that I could use some breakfast."

  "I'll take your order," volunteered Jazz. "As long as it's coffee and microwaved muffins."

  Dog, not quite in the mood to laugh, nudged his stick to take the Megafortress a little higher.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0415

  Toasted by the Indian ship, Starship turned his attention to the other Werewolf. The aircraft was circling alone over the survivors of the Chinese ship. The water seemed absurdly peaceful.

  "Werewolf One heading back to the ship," he told Eyes. "Two is gone."

  "You lost the aircraft?"

  What the hell did you expect? thought Starship. But he kept his mouth shut, not even bothering to acknowledge.

  * * *

  "A thousand pardons?" screamed Storm into his mouthpiece. "A thousand pardons?"

  "That's what he said, Captain." The radioman's voice was nearly as incredulous as Storm's. "That was their message from their captain."

  "He sends his airplanes to sink my ship, and he says a thousand pardons?"

  "They say he didn't send them. They must have mistaken us for an Indian vessel."

  "Oh, that's believable." Storm shook his head. "Did you tell him the two airplanes that made the attack were shot down?"

  "I said they required assistance. He asked if we could render it."

  "Gladly," said Storm. "As soon as hell freezes over."

  Near Karachi oil terminal

  0415

  When Danny broke water after ten minutes of solid swimming, he had cleared the worst of the smoke. Large p
ieces of wood bobbed in the water nearby. The first one was too small to support him; the second, a plastic milk crate or something similar, sank beneath his weight. As he was searching for something else, Boston popped up nearby.

  "There, over there," shouted Boston, pointing to the west. "Those lights are the Osprey's."

  Danny turned and saw two beams extending down to the water. Reaching into a pocket sewn under the Draeger vest, he took out a small waterproof pouch. Inside the pouch was a pencil flare, a small signaling device intended for emergency pickups like this. The flare was designed to work even in the water, but getting it ready was not the easiest thing in the world. He took in a mouthful of foul seawater before managing to set it off.

  Boston flipped onto his back and paddled nearby.

  "You look like you're in a goddamn pool," said Danny, his teeth starting to chatter.

  The Osprey's rotors kicked up a strong downdraft, and a swell pushed Danny under. He had to fight to the surface.

  "Grab on, grab on!" yelled Boston, who'd already gotten hold of the cable. "Come on, Cap."

  Danny threw himself at his sergeant, thrashing around until he managed to hook his arm around the other man's. He got another mouthful of water before the cable began winching upward.

  "They told me you were out of your mind," Boston repeated. "Damn good thing!"

  "Damn good thing," Danny said to himself, twisting as the cable hauled them to safety.

  VI

  Catastrophic Events

  Allegro, Nevada

  1710, 12 January 1998

  (0610, 13 January, Karachi)

  Zen flipped through the television stations as he rested between dumbbell sets. He wished it were baseball season; baseball was the perfect sport to watch when you were only half paying attention.

  He stopped on CNN, put down the remote control and reached back for the weights. He took a long breath and then brought the dumbbells forward, doing a straight pullover.

  "A CNN special report — breaking news," blared the television.

  Zen ignored it, pulling the weight over his head. He'd let his workout routines slip because of the procedures. He hadn't swum since last Saturday, and the weights felt heavy and awkward.

  "We have a live report from Stephen Densmore in Delhi, India," said the television announcer.

  Zen, concentrating on the exercise, lowered the dumbbells toward his waist, then pulled them back overhead. As he brought the bars back behind him to the floor, the newsman began talking.

  "Over a hundred people were reported killed and at least that number are missing following the early morning clash between Indian and Chinese naval vessels off the Pakistani coastline. An oil terminal in Karachi was said to have been destroyed in the fighting."

  "Karachi?" said Zen. He let the weights drop and rolled over to his stomach. The screen showed a still photo of an Indian naval vessel said to have been sunk.

  "Where was this?" Zen asked the TV. "Where?"

  But the network cut to a commercial. Zen waited patiently through a spot for Folger's coffee, but instead of adding more details when they returned, the anchor cued the weatherman. Zen crawled toward the end table and reached for his phone.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  13 January 1998

  0610

  "Airforce, why did you put the Werewolf down into that ship?"

  Starship shifted uneasily. He'd actually forgotten all about that, sure that Storm was going to ball him out for losing the Werewolf to the Indian missile.

  "I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, sir."

  Lame, completely lame, but what else could he say?

  Storm shook his head. "Do you realize the Chinese could have grabbed the Werewolf at any moment?"

  "That might be a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, they weren't expecting anything and I was only there for a minute. Not even. I was always right under the opening for the elevator. I could just escape straight up."

  "That's not the point."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You took a big risk, mister. A huge risk." Starship nodded.

  "Officially, you're on report," said Storm. "That was a foolish thing to do."

  The furrows in the captain's brow deepened; he looked like a gargoyle about to spit stone.

  "Unofficially," added Storm, "that was the ballsiest thing I've ever seen anyone ever do."

  Starship was confused, but he was even more confounded as Storm formed his hand into a fist and hit his shoulder with a roundhouse so powerful he was nearly knocked off his feet. The captain wore a grin that covered half his face.

  "Way to go, Airforce," Storm told him. "The intelligence geeks back at the Pentagon are going apeshit over this. It's the coup of the year. You keep this up and you'll be a permanent member of the team."

  "Thanks, sir," said Starship, rubbing his shoulder.

  National Security Council offices,

  Washington, D.C.

  2021, 12 January 1998

  (0621, 13 January, Karachi)

  Jed Barclay knew one of his phones was ringing, but couldn't figure out which one it was until the third trill. Then he pulled his personal cell phone out of his pocket.

  "Uh, Jed," he said, unsure who would be calling on the seldom used line.

  "Jed, it's your cousin Jeff."

  "Hey, Zen. How's it goin'?"

  "What's going on in India?"

  "Oh — jeez. All hell's breaking loose."

  "Karachi was attacked. Breanna's there," Zen added. "I figured you could give me some background."

  "Listen, cuz, I really can't talk about that on this line, you know?"

  "Is Bree going to be OK?"

  "Well, none of our people have been, uh, hurt that I know of."

  "I know that. I just talked to the base. That's not what I'm asking."

  "Yeah. Um. I still can't talk on this line."

  "What if I call you back from Dreamland?"

  Jed knew that the Dreamland contingent was being pulled out of Karachi because of the volatile situation there. But not only couldn't he say so on a phone line that could be tapped, it wasn't his place to be handing out that information.

  "Maybe. You don't sound like yourself," Jed told his cousin. "You, like, worried about Breanna?" "Damn straight."

  "She can take care of herself, though. I mean, Bree's been—"

  "I'll call you in an hour."

  Zen hung up before Jed could warn him that he might be hard to reach; the National Security Council was setting up a meeting, and he expected to be called upstairs to help his boss prepare a presidential briefing any second.

  Jed went back to his computer, looking at the images that had been forwarded from the Abner Read following the battle. The conflict had provided a wealth of tactical and strategic intelligence, but right now he just wanted something he could show the President to illustrate both the damage and the firepower of the ships involved.

  The Abner Read had obtained particularly interesting video of the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping, thanks to the exploits of its Werewolf. Among the images Jed paged through were clear shots of the hangar deck, showing a number of planes in storage and even what looked like a weapons area. Wondering if the information might change the Pentagon's assessment of the relative power of the two fleets — the analysts had been calling the Deng Xiaoping and Shiva about even — Jed picked up the phone and called the Pentagon.

  The Navy intelligence officer he wanted to talk to was away from his desk. So were two other people he called. He was about to try someone at the CIA who specialized in weapons assessments when his friend at the Navy called him back.

  "You're wondering about the Deng?" said the lieutenant commander.

  "I'm wondering if these images are going to change your assessment that the two task groups are evenly matched, or if the battle did," Jed told him.

  "Too early to say for sure, but it looks like the Chinese have a new anticruise missile weapon. There
's something else even more interesting about the Deng, though."

  "More interesting?"

  "You got W-AB73-20 there?" asked the officer, referring to one of the image's index numbers.

  "Hang tight," said Jed, swinging around in his chair to the keyboard. He cradled the phone against his neck as he found the photo.

  One of the series taken of the Deng Xiaoping's hangar deck, it showed a pair of J-13 fighters, wings folded, roped off a short distance from the camera. There were two men near it; both had automatic rifles.

  "OK, so I'm looking at it."

  "See those jets? They're guarded."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Kind of strange, don't you think?"

  "Yeah, definitely." Jed zeroed in and hit the zoom. "Are these guards? Or are these guys running up to the fight?"

  "Jed, they're in the hangar of an aircraft carrier. They're guarding the plane."

  Oh, wow.

  "Tai-shan?"

  "That's the guess. We're studying the planes now. But, I'd say that's a real good guess. Plane types are right. We're digging into the equipment right now."

  * * *

  "I'm not familiar with Tai-shan," the National Security Advisor admitted to Jed when he took the news to his office a few minutes later.

  "Two years ago, the Chinese navy conducted a series of tests in the Gulf of Tonkin, using what was then a prototype of the J-13," said Jed. "They operated from a base that had been mocked up so it was similar to an aircraft carrier — the dimensions were later shown to fit one of the Deng Xiao-ping's arms. The aircraft dropped practice bombs over the water. One of the mock missions was tracked, and from the bombing pattern, it seemed pretty clear that it was dropping a nuclear weapon. If you recall, this was right around the time the Xia, their only ballistic missile submarine, was taken out of service. But—"

  "Wait, Jed," said Freeman, nearly jumping from his seat. "You're telling me there's a nuke on that ship?"

  "Maybe two. There are two planes."

  "Let's go talk to the President right now," said Freeman, already in full stride.