End Game d-8

by Dale Brown

  The President was entertaining a delegation of church youth leaders from Minnesota on a postdinner tour of the White House when Jed and Freeman were ushered into the Oval Office. Entertaining was the right word — he was demonstrating a sleight of hand trick he'd learned on a recent trip to Florida. The President was particularly fond of the trick, and was taking obvious glee in making a silver dollar appear in various ears of his visitors.

  "But I see, ladies and gentlemen, that duty is calling, and I'm late for my next meeting," said the President. "We're always burning the midnight oil here."

  He glad-handed the visitors as they left, mixing in variations of his silver dollar trick.

  "Everybody loves magic," said Martindale after they left. "Now if I could only find a way to pull silver dollars from congressmen's ears, I'd have no problem getting my budget passed."

  "There's a new twist in the north Arabian Sea," the National Security Advisor told the President. "It's going to complicate things tremendously."

  Martindale's smile faded quickly as Jed told him about the images from the carrier and their implications.

  "You're sure this is correct?" asked Martindale.

  "The intelligence agencies are preparing a formal estimate," said Jed. "But I checked the original intelligence on the program. It's a real match. A Chinese agent provided photos and a procedural manual."

  "The Chinese showed restraint by not using the planes when they were attacked," said Freeman. "But can we count on that in the future? Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that the carrier is off the coast of India. China could be planning a first strike against the Indian leadership."

  "Are you suggesting we alert the Indians?" asked the President. "That could backfire — they might use that as an excuse to fire nukes at the carrier. They've already tried to sink it."

  Martindale got up from his desk. He still had the dollar coin in his hand. He played with it absentmindedly, twirling it between his fingers.

  "India is not our ally," said Freeman. "But then neither is China."

  "We can't allow a nuclear war in Asia. The consequences would be devastating," said the President. "Even a conventional war. We need to get some distance between the two sides, work up something diplomatically, either in the UN or on our own."

  "Neither side trusts us," said Freeman bitterly.

  "See, they have something in common," said the President sardonically. "How long will it take to get the Nimitz and its battle group into the area?"

  "Two weeks," said Jed.

  "What if we sent a private message to the Chinese, telling them we know they have the weapon, and that if they try to use it, we'll sink their ship?" Martindale asked Freeman.

  "For one thing, we'll be taking sides. For another, we'll be giving away intelligence that may help us down the road."

  "If they don't use the weapon." "True."

  "I'd rather sink it here than off Taiwan. We could blame the Indians somehow."

  "Maybe the Indians will sink it for us," said Freeman. "It may not be that easy to sink," said Jed. "It came through the battle with the Indians." "We can sink it," said Freeman.

  "What if we positioned ourselves to attack the carrier once the planes appear on deck, and attack then? Could Dreamland and the Abner Read handle that sort of attack on their own?"

  "I don't think that's wise," said Freeman. "We're going to risk our own people for India?"

  "India and China, and the rest of southern Asia," said the President. "Is it feasible?"

  Freeman turned to Jed.

  "Um, they might. Another thing, um, they might be able to shoot down the planes."

  "All right. That might work," said Martindale. "We'll discuss it with the cabinet."

  He picked up the phone and told the operator to contact the other cabinet members, along with Joint Chiefs of Staff, for an emergency meeting.

  "I want Bastian in charge of this," he said when he got off the phone.

  "He's attached to Xray Pop, and Captain Gale on the Ab-ner Read outranks him," said Freeman.

  "Captain Gale has lived up to his nickname 'Storm' once too often for my taste. Bastian is the one I trust out there. I'll talk to them personally."

  Diego Garcia

  1200, 13 January 1998

  (1100, Karachi)

  Dog clambered down the EB-52's ladder, his throat parched and his legs aching from the long flight. Diego Garcia was a small atoll in the Indian Ocean, south of India. Among the most secure American bases in the world—

  surrounded by miles and miles of open ocean — it was also a four hour flight from their patrol area. Dog did not relish the idea of operating from here for very long.

  "Hey, good to see you, Colonel," yelled Mack Smith, hopping off a small "gator" vehicle as it pulled to a stop. A pair of maintainers got off the golf-cart-sized vehicle, which they used to ferry tools and supplies around while working on the big aircraft. "How was the flight?"

  "Long," Dog told him, getting his bearings.

  "So was mine. I'll tell you, nothing's changed, Colonel— place looks just like we left it last week."

  Actually it had been almost two months now, back before Thanksgiving. But Diego Garcia did have something of a timeless quality to it, at least to the occasional visitor. The sand and trees and old ruins belonged to the British; everything else here was operated by the U.S. Navy. A small administrative building had already been set aside for the Dreamland force, as had six dugout revetments for the aircraft. More carport than hangar, the parking areas were more important for the shade they provided than the protection against terror attack; the closest thing to a terrorist on the island was the constable who handed tickets out to bicyclists exceeding the speed limit.

  "Since I was ranking officer, I took it upon myself to contact the natives," Mack told Dog as he walked toward a Navy jeep that had been sent to meet him. "Base commander is Mr. Cooperation."

  "That's nice, Mack," said Dog, who'd already spoken to the commander twice while en route.

  "Got our old digs, everything's shipshape."

  "Great."

  "I hear my pupil Cantor shot down two J-13s when they wouldn't turn back," added Mack. "Chip off the old block." "Your pupil?"

  "He's coming along, isn't he?" said Mack, without a trace of irony.

  Dog started to climb into the jeep when a bicycle ridden by a man dressed in camo fatigues appeared on the roadway in front of them. The colonel told the driver to wait a moment, realizing that the bicyclist was one of his Whiplash troopers; during their earlier stay they'd found that mountain bikes were the most effective way of getting around the base. The rider was Danny Freah, who sported a wide bandage on his left hand but otherwise showed no signs of wear from his recent ordeal.

  "I thought you were going to get some rest," Dog said.

  "So'd I. You have a high-level call at the trailer."

  "Hop in," Dog told him.

  "Nah," said the Whiplash captain, grinning as he whipped his bicycle around. "I'll race ya."

  * * *

  Breanna paused in front of the door, rehearsing what she had to say one last time. Then she sighed and raised her hand to knock. At the first rap, the door flew open.

  "Captain," said Jan Stewart, startled. "I was just going to get something to eat."

  "Oh, good," said Breanna. "I'll go with you."

  Stewart shrugged, pulling the door closed behind her. Breanna realized the suggestion had been a mistake, but she was stuck with it now. She led Stewart out of the dormitory building they'd been assigned, and didn't speak until they were outside. The mess — or galley, in Navy talk — was several hundred yards away.

  "I wanted to talk to you," Breanna said. "I've been noticing some problems you're having."

  "What problems?" snapped Stewart.

  "Little things," said Breanna. "But a lot of them. You're having trouble processing all the systems in combat."

  Stewart stopped and turned toward her. "Are you unhappy with my performance, Captain
?"

  "Yes," said Breanna. The word blurted out; Breanna had meant to approach the topic with much more tact.

  Stewart's face reddened. "Well, thank you for your honesty," she said, turning and continuing toward the cafeteria.

  Well, that went well, Breanna thought. And now I can't even go and eat without getting the evil eye.

  * * *

  "Dog, it's good to talk to you under any circumstance," President Martindale told Colonel Bastian after the call was put through. "I hope you're well." "I am, sir. Thank you."

  "I'm going to let Jed Barclay fill in the details, as he has so often in the past," said the President. "But I want to emphasize two things. Number one: You are taking your orders directly from me. No one and nothing are to interfere with this mission. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Number Two: You are in command. As such, you are representing me. Your judgment is my judgment. The stakes are extremely high, but I trust you. Follow your instincts."

  Before Dog could say anything else, Jed Barclay came on the line. "Are you there, Colonel?"

  "I'm here, Jed," said Dog.

  "I, um, I'm going to start with some background. I don't think you know about Tai-shan, right?"

  Dog listened as Jed described the Chinese naval nuclear program and explained what the Werewolf had found.

  "We're not sure whether the fact that there are two aircraft means that there are two bombs, or whether one is intended as a backup," Jed told him. "Navy Intelligence is preparing a dossier that will help you identify the aircraft."

  The recent showdown notwithstanding, the Megafortress was not the weapon of choice for shooting down J-13s, or any frontline fighter for that matter.

  "The Abner Read is subordinate to you for this mission," added Jed.

  "Does Captain Gale know that?"

  "The President will be telling him shortly."

  Dog could only imagine the fallout from that conversation.

  "You have to be in a position to stop the strike if it appears imminent," reiterated Jed, making his instructions ab solutely clear. "Whatever you have to do to accomplish that, you're authorized to do. I, um, we'll have a twenty-four-hour link set up to provide you with intelligence on the situation. I'm working on it now."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  1213

  Storm listened incredulously as the President continued. He had no problem with attacking the Chinese aircraft — he told the President that he would sink the carrier if he wanted — but putting Bastian in charge? A lieutenant colonel over a Navy captain?

  An Air Force zippersuit over a sea captain?

  "Sir, with respect, with due respect — I outrank Bastian."

  "Will it make you happy if I demote you to commander?" answered the President.

  "No, sir."

  "Stand by for a briefing from Jed Barclay of the NSC."

  "I can sink that damn carrier now," insisted Storm when Jed came on the line. "Bam. It's down. Six missiles. All I need."

  "Um, uh, sir, um, you can't do that."

  "Don't tell me what I can't do," snapped Storm, slamming the handset into its receiver.

  The petty officer manning communications looked over warily from his station at the other side of the small room. "Get me Fleet — no, get me Admiral Balboa."

  "The head of the Joint of Chiefs of Staff?"

  "You got it. Get him."

  "Yes, sir. Incoming communication on the Dreamland channel. Colonel Bastian."

  Gloating already?

  I'm a new man, Storm told himself. I don't get angry. "I don't like this any more than you do, Storm," said

  Dog, coming on the line. "But we have to make the best of it. Let's come up with a plan—"

  "Here's the plan, Bastian. Spot the planes on their deck, and I'll launch the missiles."

  "Listen, Storm. We don't have to be friends, but—"

  "We're not."

  "But we have the same goal."

  "As long as you remember that, we'll be fine."

  Aboard the Shiva,

  Arabian Sea

  1213

  Memon stared at the ceiling of the ship's medical center. His head pounded and he wanted to sleep, but he dared not; every time he closed his eyes he saw the severed limb on the deck before him.

  Thirty-three Indian men had been killed in the brief engagement, most of them aboard the corvette that was sunk by two C-601 missiles, air-launched Chinese weapons similar to the Russian Styx. Another hundred or so had been wounded; twenty were missing and almost certainly dead. The toll aboard the Shiva was relatively small — seven dead, eighteen wounded. Kevlar armor at the belt line of the ship where the first missile struck had prevented serious damage. But the missile that struck the bridge area had wiped out part of the bridge and, more important, deprived the ship of many of its most important officers, including the admiral.

  The list of the dead did not stun Memon anywhere near as much as the news that they had sunk only one of the Chinese ships, a frigate. The aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping continued operations, and even had the audacity to send a high-speed reconnaissance flight in their direction. The Shiva's fighters responded, supposedly shooting down the craft.

  Memon did not trust the report. He no longer trusted anything, not even his own judgment.

  He saw the blood of the victims everywhere he looked. Every spot on the wall, every shadow on the ceiling, appeared to him to be blood. His hands were free of it, but how long would that last?

  "Deputy Minister?"

  Memon looked to his right and found a sailor standing there.

  "A message from the Defense minister, sir." Memon sat up. He slit the tape holding the folded piece of paper together, then read slowly.

  MOVE SOUTH OUT OF IMMEDIATE CONTACT WITH DENG XIAOPING. AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS.

  — ADM. SKANDAR

  Memon got to his feet, then sat back down, realizing belatedly that he had taken his shoes off. The blood rushed from his head, and he had to wait for the wave to subside.

  "Take me to Captain Adri," he told the messenger.

  "He's on the backup bridge."

  "Take me there."

  "Yes, sir."

  Adri was reviewing the course with the helmsman when Memon arrived.

  "A note," said Memon, holding it out. His head no longer hurt, but he still felt somewhat dazed. His eyes burned, and he saw a pattern before them when he stared at the floor.

  The pattern of the explosion flash? Or of the blood surrounding the dead man's arm?

  "We can't retreat," said Captain Adri, giving him the note back. "You have to tell him. We have to show our resolve, or they'll attack again."

  "The admiral is right. We should withdraw farther."

  "You're a coward," said Adri. "As soon as you see blood, you want to cut and run. You urged Admiral Kala to attack, and now you can't face the consequences."

  Dismiss him, Memon thought. That is the only option. A subordinate cannot be allowed to question orders so publicly, let alone use insults to do so.

  But Memon knew he was not a sailor. He couldn't run the ship without Adri. And if he ordered someone to take Adri's place, the sailors might mutiny.

  Insurrection was better than indecision. And yet he stood frozen in place, unable to say anything.

  So he was a coward, then, wasn't he? A disgrace to the country.

  Adri pushed his face next to Memon's. "This is no way to win a war. We have to attack. Attack."

  Memon shuddered. Adri's voice sounded like his own just a day before.

  "You must obey the minister's orders," managed Memon.

  "I answer to the chief of the naval staff, not the defense minister. I will follow my instincts, not yours."

  Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,

  northern Arabian Sea

  1213

  Twenty-three crewmen aboard the Deng Xiaoping had been killed in the attack. It was Captain Hongwu's duty to write to each ma
n's family. And so, after the damage was assessed and repairs begun, after the wounded were cared for, after the battle's success and failures were toted, he retreated to his wardroom suite. For his bottom desk drawer he removed a small wooden box and then unwrapped his calligrapher's pen and nubs. He took some rice paper and ink, commemorating each man to his family with a few well-chosen but simple words.

  The Indian attack had been warded off quite success fully, due to the success of the Pili batteries. The weapons had struck all but two of the dozen missiles launched at the ship. It helped that the Indian attack had not been well-coordinated. Still, Captain Hongwu was now confident that the Thunderbolt could protect him from an even more intense attack; he would say so in his report to Beijing.

  The overflight by the American aircraft of his deck was another question entirely. The audaciousness of the flight astounded Hongwu almost as much as its success. His ship's radar systems had tracked the aircraft intermittently when it was ten miles from the ship, but never any closer.

  Both his intelligence and radar officers blamed programming in the units that controlled the radar, believing that the helicopter's slow speed had somehow confused it. Hongwu was inclined toward human error — though he had to admit that the operators had done extremely well in every other respect. Whatever the problem, it would have to be studied and fixed.

  Should he report it to Beijing? If he did, his victory today would be overshadowed.

  No, there was no reason to do so, at least not until the failure had been properly analyzed. He had already risked Beijing's disapproval by noting that two of his aircraft had mistaken the Abner Read for an Indian ship, apparently believing the radar it was using belonged to an Indian frigate. The mistake was understandable given the chaos of battle, but his superiors disapproved nonetheless.

  Perhaps it would have been better if the planes had sunk the ship, he thought.

  Hongwu dipped his pen and began to write:

  Your son was a lion. I saw him pull another sailor from the fire, risking his life.

  He shuddered at the memory, then signed his name.

  Dreamland Command Center