End Game d-8

by Dale Brown

  "I know the feeling. Boy, do I know the feeling," said Breanna.

  Somehow, the reply felt like a compliment.

  Diego Garcia

  1640 (1540, Karachi)

  Danny Freah carefully aligned his fingers on the stitches of the football, gently rolling the pigskin against his wide palm.

  "Down, ready, set," he yelled, his voice sharp and loud. He glanced to the right at his teammate — Boston, whose right hand was still bandaged, lined up at split end — then at their opponents — Liu, who was playing defensive back, and Pretty Boy, who was rushing.

  There had to be some way to get up to the target area quickly.

  Deploy the Osprey from the Abner Read?

  They'd done that before. That would lower the response time considerably; it'd be an hour at most.

  "Hut, hut, hut." Danny took the ball and dropped back. Boston shot down the field. Danny waited for him to stop and fake right. He pumped, then lofted a bomb over the middle just as Pretty Boy finished his Mississippis and leapt into his face. Ducking away, he saw Boston get a hand on the ball but miss it, batting it into the air — where it was promptly snatched by Liu.

  "Son of a bitch," he growled, dodging Pretty Boy and heading toward Liu. Knowing from experience that the short and skinny Liu was a master of feints, Danny ran at three-quarter speed, waiting for the dance to begin. Sure enough, Liu did a stutter step as he approached, faking left then right then left. Then just as Danny grabbed for him, Liu tossed the ball backward — to Pretty Boy, who'd circled back and now had an open field to the goal. Danny turned on the jets in pursuit, but Pretty Boy lumbered across the goal before he could get two hands on him. Both men collapsed in the end zone, next to the nearby sidewalk that marked the end of their playing field.

  "I had it," griped Boston, coming over. "Damn bandages got in the way. I don't even need the stinking things."

  Liu grinned as Boston pulled the gauze wrappings off. He'd applied the fresh dressing just before the game, no doubt figuring out some way to make them extra slippery.

  The problem with the Osprey was that the submarine might see it coming. Ditto with the Sharkboat that accompanied the Abner Read. If they had any sort of warning at all, they might blow the submarine up.

  He had to strike quickly, make it seem as if it were a mal function, immobilize them before they could react.

  "Spot pass on the kickoff," whispered Boston. "You receive, call pass while I run down the sideline. Just throw. We'll catch them off guard."

  "Spot pass?"

  "Boston city rules," said the sergeant. "Allowed on a kickoff if you call it. Grab the ball, don't move, yell spot pass when they're close and bomb it. Let's do it and let them argue about it later."

  "Yeah," said Freah. "A long bomb."

  He started trotting toward the Command trailer.

  "Cap?"

  "You guys play without me for a while. I gotta go talk to the colonel."

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  1555

  Dog sipped a coffee at the pilot's station as Jed Barclay continued to update him on the situation. He'd turned the plane over to Jazz and was enjoying the closest thing to a break he was going to have for the next eight hours or so. The Levitow had just left for Diego Garcia, where she'd get a fresh crew and a full load of fuel before returning to duty.

  "Pakistan's missile batteries are on their highest alert. Same with India's," said Jed Barclay. "Nobody's backed off or stood down."

  "I thought the UN was sending a mission."

  "They have. The President's been talking to the different governments as well. The Indians say they're willing to negotiate, but both Pakistan and the Chinese blame them for the last round of attacks, both at Karachi and on the carrier. The Russians are egging the Indians on."

  "What about the Iranians?"

  "Um, not following you there, Colonel."

  "I think they're the ones behind this. The aircraft—"

  "We need proof. Like, something tangible. The airplanes weren't even flying toward Iran, and the CIA hasn't found any connection with the government yet."

  "The submarine?"

  "No information's been developed that I've seen. Um, problem is, Colonel, a lot of people won't believe Iran's involved without real hard evidence and, um, the Secretary of State would never go out on a limb to charge them without something tangible, real tangible."

  "Yeah, all right. Thanks, Jed."

  Dog was just getting up to stow his coffee cup when the Dreamland channel buzzed with another incoming message, this one from Danny back on Diego Garcia. Dog sat back down and cleared it through.

  "I have a plan to take the second submarine," Danny said as soon as he came on the screen. "We stage the Osprey off the Abner Read. In the meantime, two of us are orbiting in manpods aboard the Megafortress watching for the Tai-shan aircraft. When the submarine is sighted, we do a drop into the water, pump my laughing gas in, and do an emergency pop to the surface."

  "Manpods? Those one-man coffins that barely fit on the EB-52's wings?"

  "No. Manpods, the one-man clandestine insertion devices that will give us a stealthy strike capability and allow us to grab the key actors in this international crisis."

  "Pretty risky, Danny. Assuming there is another submarine."

  "I think it's worth a shot. We ought to at least be in position."

  It was a no-brainer, wasn't it? If the Pakistanis, Chinese, and Indians were given evidence that they were being provoked into war, surely they'd stand down. And if the Presi dent was willing to risk the crew of a Megafortress to stop that war, then he'd be willing to risk the Whiplash team and an Osprey as well.

  "Danny, tell you what," said Dog. "Let me get Storm on the line and have you run the plan down for him. Stand by."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  1600

  The sea air pepped him up as soon as Storm stepped out on the fantail of the Abner Read. Squinting at the late afternoon sun, he walked over to the two seamen who were prepping the Werewolf for another sortie. He watched as the men went silently about their business, working together as if they'd done this for years, though they had never even laid eyes on a Werewolf until two months ago.

  Starship appeared from the hangar entrance, walking toward the aircraft on unsteady legs. Storm watched approvingly as the Dreamland pilot checked with each of the men, then ducked under the rotors of the craft, kneeling over some part of the control unit, giving it his own personal check.

  Storm stepped forward to talk to the men, but before he reached the flight area the com unit on his belt buzzed. He pushed the headset forward, then hit the switch to connect.

  "Storm."

  "Captain, incoming communication from the Dreamland aircraft Wisconsin. It's Colonel Bastian."

  "All right. Tell him to wait for a minute until I'm on the bridge."

  * * *

  Starship pulled back the panel on the self-diagnostics unit of the Werewolf, punched in his code, and then keyed PrG-1, the main diagnostics program, to start. The LEDs began to blink furiously. He backed out from under the ro tors; the checks took thirteen and a half minutes, and there was no sense waiting on his knees.

  "You really flew this thing into the Chinese aircraft carrier?" asked one of the maintainers.

  "Yup," said Starship, trying to remember the sailor's name. He thought it was Tony, but he didn't want to say it in case he was wrong.

  "Could've shot them up pretty bad, I'll bet," said the other sailor.

  "You're probably right. Sure scared the hell out of them," said Starship.

  "Probably peed in their pants, I bet," said the man he thought was Tony.

  Tony or Tommy. Starship had always been lousy with names.

  The other was Jared. Definitely Jared.

  "So you like being aboard the ship?" asked Jared.

  "It takes some getting used to," Starship admitted. "I mean, I'm us
ed to, well, moving around more."

  "It's not too bad once you get used to it," said the sailor he thought was Tony. "On the bigger ships, you have more facilities and stuff, but the thing with a small boat like ours? Everybody pulls together. It's like a family."

  "Yeah, the people are pretty good," said Starship.

  "Captain can be a bit of a pill," said Jared.

  "Storm? Nah. His bark is worse than his bite," said Star-ship. "Tough guy, but fair."

  Jeez, listen to me, thought Starship. Guy says a few nice words to me and all of a sudden I'm running his campaign for President.

  * * *

  "I can use another aircraft, that's for sure," Storm told Dog and Danny after they finished presenting the plan to take the commando submarine. It involved basing an Os-prey on the Abner Read and having two Whiplash troopers dive into the water from a Megafortress using a special deployment device they called a manpod. Storm wasn't famil iar with it, but it sounded a bit like a hollowed out bomb. "But I'll be honest with you, Captain Freah. I'm not positive that there is another submarine out there, and I'm not sure you can pull this off, even if there is."

  "If we're supposed to be trying to stop a war," said Danny, "then it seems to me grabbing the people who are trying to start it ought to be a priority."

  "I'd rather sink the bastards and be done with them," said Storm.

  Then, as he often did after he'd shot from the hip, he considered the situation more carefully. First the negatives: The Osprey did not fit in the Abner Read's low-slung hangar, negating much of the ship's low radar profile. They had not been resupplied for three weeks and were already starting to get low on fuel for the Werewolf.

  Then the positives: Capture the submarine and its crew, and they'd have all the information they needed about who was trying to instigate the war. The commanding officer of the unit responsible would get considerable glory…and maybe an admiral's gold braid.

  Same thing would happen if he sank the Chinese carrier, only faster. But that chance might not come, especially if Bastian found some way to muck things up.

  Bastian was trying to be nice, deferring to him on this. It didn't fit him particularly well.

  "What are the logistics?" snapped Storm. "We haven't re-supplied our jet fuel for the Werewolf, and we're pretty deep into our supply. How much fuel are you going to need?"

  "I have to get a tanker to refuel the Osprey while it's en route," said Dog. "It may take me a few hours. If we can set that up, we may be able to arrange for a tanker to orbit outside the combat area to the west. If the Osprey is needed, it can tank before returning to the ship."

  "How long before you can get the Osprey up here?" asked Storm.

  "We still need some gear and the manpods," said Danny. "But I would say we can launch within twelve hours, just before dawn our time here. We stay on station for the whole EB-52 shift, then the next group comes in. Two of our guys will be with the Osprey, and you can supplement them with your SITT team. Worst case with this whole deal, you have my whole team aboard your ship and we stage from there."

  "Let's do it. Captain Freah, I look forward to welcoming you aboard."

  Dreamland

  1055 (2355, Karachi)

  Jennifer Gleason looked at the computer screen and shook her head. "The problem is that last set of missiles, Ray. If they don't launch simultaneously, they'll be too far from the initial explosion to guarantee they'll be affected."

  Rubeo sighed. "With all due respect, Dr. Gleason," he said, in the tone he always used when he disagreed, "your expertise is with computers."

  "Listen, Ray, I'm telling you — if you want to reach that set of missiles, you have to launch another missile. And change the launch coordinates."

  Jennifer knew why Rubeo was hesitating — her recommendations meant two planes, not one, would have to undertake the mission, and both aircraft would have to fly deeper into Indian territory. Besides Russian-made SA-6s and improved SA-2s, the Indian antiair batteries in the flight paths had recently been equipped with Russian SA-10s and SA-12s. The latter was considered especially advanced, roughly on a par with the American Patriot.

  "I suppose I had best tell Colonel Bastian of your findings," said Rubeo finally.

  "I'll do it, Ray," Jennifer told him.

  "As head scientist, the job is mine. Besides, delivering bad news enhances my image as a killjoy." He got up from the console. "You might accompany me to the Command Center, in case technical data is needed."

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Dog's tired face appeared on the large screen at the front of the Command Center in the Tac subbasement. Jennifer felt her chest clutch. "Ray, what's up?"

  "Colonel, I asked Dr. Gleason to refine our computer simulations on the effects of the EEMWB. As you recall, we based our original assessments on the programs we used to design the tests, rather than the tests themselves."

  "Uh-huh."

  "After using the data from the tests to update the simulations, it would appear that a change in strategy would be desirable. I'm going to transmit a map for you. You'll notice it requires seven missiles launched at two separate intervals. This is to achieve the proper overlap to account for any malfunctions."

  "Seven missiles? That's two aircraft."

  "Yes."

  Jennifer watched Dog as he studied the screen. She longed to be there with him, though truthfully she was probably of much more use here.

  "This is going to change things for us quite a bit," said the colonel finally.

  "I realize that. I'm sorry we didn't develop this information sooner. I take full responsibility."

  The corner of Dog's mouth curled up just a bit. But instead of the sardonic comment Jennifer expected, he told Rubeo not to worry about it. Then, before she could say hello, he killed the connection.

  Northern Arabian Sea

  2355

  Sattari took the night glasses and scanned the ocean to the south. He could just make out the mast of the Pakistani warship the Mitra's captain had pointed out.

  "It is the Babur" said the captain. "A destroyer."

  The Babur was more than twenty years old; it had begun life as the British Royal Navy frigate Amazon, before being sold to Pakistan a few years before. Cramped, not a particularly good seakeeper, and far past its prime, the vessel had an accurate and deadly 55mm gun at its bow that could tear through the tanker's skin like a staple gun chewing through paper. It also had potent antisubmarine torpedoes that could send a Parvaneh to the bottom with even a near miss.

  Sattari's plan called for the three Parvanehs to leave the oil tanker in thirty minutes. Sailing at top battery speed, they would reach the Indians' offshore early warning radar platform off Dwarka in five hours. That would allow them to launch the attack just before dawn. If successful, the strike would convince the Indians that the Pakistanis or the Chinese were clearing the way for a bombing attack on India itself.

  The platform had been constructed on a rock outcropping in water so shallow that not even the Parvaneh submarines could get closer than three-quarter miles; to succeed, the commandos would have to approach in darkness. Delaying for too long now would scrub the mission for tonight.

  Sattari did not want to delay. The transmissions they'd been monitoring all day showed that the antagonists were primed and ready for battle. But there were news reports that diplomats had begun shuttling around the subcontinent, trying to get the sides to stand down. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that the conditions he needed for success would slip away.

  Could he take the chance that the Pakistanis' antiquated sonar systems would miss the Parvanehs? Perhaps this very frigate had been responsible for the disappearance of his other boat.

  "We will wait," Sattari told the Mitra's captain. "Continue on the course you have set. We will review the situation every twenty minutes."

  Aboard the Shiva,

  northern Arabian Sea

  2355

  "The Chinese aircraft presented the most diffic
ult challenge," said Admiral Skandar, pointing to the chart. "Their missiles were the ones that struck the Shiva. By coordinating their attack with the salvos from the destroyers, they were able to swarm our defenses. That must not happen again. The screening vessels must be placed here and here, to deal with the Chinese." Skandar jabbed his thumb at the map. "And a more aggressive air patrol sent to combat the attackers. They were too late to prevent the missile launches — that was their first duty."

  Memon listened as the Defense minister continued to lay out the battle plan. Two more destroyers had joined the Shiva in the past two hours, and their captains — along with officers from the other escorts and the warfare commanders of the Shiva—had assembled in the warfare briefing room aboard the carrier. The admiral had eschewed the array of multimedia equipment available, preferring a large sea chart with the positions of the ships penciled in by hand. He spoke without notes, his knowledge of the ships, weapons, and strategies available to both sides evident as he prioritized the targets — the radar helicopters first at long range, then the carrier.

  This was a different man than the one Memon had seen in the political halls of New Delhi; this was the man who matched the reputation that had brought him to congress and the ministry. His voice remained gentle, and yet he was neither reticent nor compromising. He had begun the meeting by saying that he hoped dearly for peace — and then plunged straight to war making.

  A week ago such talk would have filled Memon with confidence and excitement. Now he felt dread. He was afraid that the missile attack had revealed his true nature as a coward. The memory of the dead man vibrated in the air before him, a storm just outside his flesh.

  Skandar had quieted the panic he felt, but this was not to say that the Defense minister had restored him to the man he had been before the attack. On the contrary. Memon's great fear now was that the admiral knew he was a coward, and was merely biding his time before denouncing him. Then his despair would be complete.

  Adri had been banished for being too aggressive, if only by a hair; how much more extreme would the punishment be for a man who was a coward and a disgrace? If Admiral Skandar saw his true nature, would he not react with disgust?