by Dale Brown
Dog realized she was much farther south than they'd planned. Distancewise, that wouldn't be much of a problem. But it would take them much closer to the Indians' most fearsome antiaircraft defenses.
"We've turned off our radar," she added. "We'll make it, Daddy."
For once he didn't mind that she called him that. "I know you will. Check back in five." "Roger that."
* * *
MiG Two's nose had just come into Cantor's view screen when Colonel Bastian announced that they were going back over India. He stayed on course, closing to a mile before he got the signal from the computer that he had a shot. He pressed the trigger, releasing a hail of bullets for the MiG to fly into. Rather than turning to finish off his prey as he'd planned, he pulled back east, racing parallel to the Wisconsin.
"Didja get him, kid?" asked Mack.
"No."
"You got him away from us. That's the main thing."
"Thanks," said Cantor, surprised that Mack was trying to sound encouraging.
The Megafortress's flight plan would take them toward the Thar desert, a vast wasteland between Pakistan and India. They would be crossing Pakistani territory as well, which meant that they would be exposed to two American I-Hawk antiaircraft batteries as well as a number of Russian-made ones on the Indian side.
A more immediate threat, especially as far as Cantor was concerned, were the fighters both sides were hurling into the air. The second flight of Indian MiGs that had scrambled earlier were coming north, and the four Pakistani F-16s they'd detected were approaching the border directly in their path.
"I'll worry about the Indians," Cantor told Mack. "You've got the F-16s."
"Yeah, I was about to say the same thing, kid."
"You remember the Fort Cherry exercise? Same thing. You can let the computer program the attack route, because it'll look that encounter up. It's based on Pakistani tactics in a four-ship group that Zen taught during—"
"I don't need Professor Zen's pointers, kid," said Mack.
Typical Mack, thought Cantor. Just when you thought he'd stopped being a jerk, he rubbed your nose in it.
Aboard the Abner Read,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0538
The explosion buffeted the Werewolf, but was too far away to do any damage. By the time Starship recovered and circled back to see what had happened, two of the legs holding the radar platform had collapsed. The structure tilted forward, as if about to dive head first into the water. One of the large antenna towers had fallen; the other two were twisted sideways.
The submarines sat on the surface between a mile and two miles from the platform. Starship dropped his speed and began a slow arc around them to the northeast. There were several aircraft nearby, Pakistani and Chinese, but as yet no one seemed to have reacted to either him or the boats.
"Eyes — they've hit the tower. The radar platform has been destroyed. You want me to stop these guys? They're boarding the submarines. I see two more small boats. One of the subs is moving."
Starship could choose between six Hellfire missiles, two 30mm chain guns, and a pair of 7.62 machine guns to use against the submarines. He opted for the Hellfires, whose shaped warheads would slice easily through their hulls. But he still needed permission to fire.
"Werewolf to Tac Commander, am I authorized to fire on these submarines? Am I supposed to stop them from getting away or what?"
"Go ahead," said Eyes finally.
Starship reached his right hand to the rollerball controlling the cursor for the laser designator, zeroed in on the nearest sub, and clicked to lock the target. Then he fired two missiles. The missiles rode a laser beam from the Werewolf down to the sub, zeroing in on the cue like a Walker foxhound chasing its prey in an overgrown field. The first Hell-fire hit with a wallop of steam; the second Hellfire rolled into the fog.
"Starship, what the hell are you doing?" yelled Eyes. "Taking out the submarines."
"Belay that—stop! I haven't given you the order. Hold your fire."
"You just said go ahead."
"I wasn't telling you to attack. I thought you wanted to talk to me. We need authorization from the captain." "I don't have it?"
"Negative, negative. Hold your fire." "Roger that. Holding fire."
Starship circled the Werewolf farther from the submarines. The first craft had disappeared. The other two were moving to the north.
He knew he'd asked, and he knew what he'd heard. The stinking Navy could never make up its mind.
No, it was just Eyes.
"What's your situation, Airforce?" asked Storm, coming on the line.
"Captain, the radar platform has been destroyed by a commando attack. There are three submarines to the north. I fired on one thinking I had been ordered to do so."
"What are the others doing?"
"Moving to the north."
"Our intention is to seize the submarines. See if you can keep them on the surface."
"I'll try, sir. But it's possible my gunfire will sink them." "Do your best, Airforce." "Aye aye, Captain."
* * *
Storm's uniform was soaked from the blast and he'd cut his face and hands. Two other men had been hurt; one had a severe head wound and was in serious condition in sickbay.
The blast started a very small leak above the belt line of the ship. The damage had already been repaired, and only a small amount of water had gotten in.
Storm wanted to launch an immediate counterattack on the Indian carrier — he wanted to show the bastards what happened when you attacked a U.S. Navy ship. But they were out of range for the Harpoons. That could be fixed.
"Eyes, we're going south," he said over the intraship com system. "Where is that Indian aircraft carrier?"
"Storm, we have to stay in range of the Chinese carrier's aircraft, to back up the Dreamland people."
"I know what my damn orders are, Commander." Storm's head began to pound. His anger was flaring. This is what happens when you're a nice guy, he thought. Your subordinates take you for granted.
He would get his way, no matter what. But he had to be careful about it, had to be clever — yes, the way Bastian was clever, always covering his butt and making it seem as if he was in the right.
He'd already been fired on, and feared for the safety of his people.
His head pounded.
And he had a mission — he was supposed to get that submarine.
"We have an operation under way," Storm told Eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain. "I want to protect my Sharkboat."
"Should I order them to come back?"
"No — I want that submarine. They're to get it."
"Captain, I'd advise calling the mission off."
"Thank you for your advice, Eyes." Storm turned to the helmsman. "Take us east. Stay close enough to launch on the Deng's aircraft if we have to."
"Heading, Captain?"
"South." Storm looked down at the holographic display. The Megafortress had gone inland; there was no more long-range view of the ships and aircraft in the area. He thumbed the display back, found the Shiva's last known position and gave the heading to Helm.
His headset buzzed.
"Dreamland Whiplash team trying to contact you, Colonel," said the communications officer. "Looking for a go/no go on the platform."
"It's go." Storm punched into the line. "Is this Freah?"
"Freah."
"This is Captain Gale aboard the Abner Read. What's your status?"
"We're roughly ten minutes from the radar platform," said Danny. "I need your approval to proceed."
Storm checked his impulse, but just barely. He knew he had to think, to consider, not react — but it was damn hard with his head pounding.
"You're aboard a Megafortress or the Osprey?" he asked.
"Megafortress. The Osprey is three hours behind," said Danny. "Do you want us to proceed?"
"Damn straight I do."
"Good. We're on a low-altitude approach, flying without our long-
range radar," continued the Air Force Whiplash leader. "We don't believe we've been detected. What's the status of your Sharkboat?"
"I'm going to order them in," said Storm.
Had he already done that? He couldn't remember.
Think. Make your decisions in a calm, reasonable manner.
Ten minutes might be too long. The submarines would be under the surface by then, and the Sharkboat lacked the sensors needed to pick it up.
"If the submarines dive, the Sharkboat won't be able to find them," Storm said. "We need Piranha to locate them. Wisconsin was operating them but had to leave the area."
"Ensign English will take control of the probe," said Danny. "She'll find it."
He couldn't control every variable. If Freah was willing to take the chance, so was he.
He was more than willing. He wanted that sub.
And he wanted the Indian carrier as well. Which he was going to get.
"Very good, Captain," said Storm. "Proceed. I'll let the Sharkboat know you're on your way. Eyes will liaison in Tac."
Aboard the Shiva,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0538
Memon stared at the shadowy sea, his eyes losing their focus. Reports from the first wave of attacks on the Chinese carrier were just coming in. Remembering how overly optimistic the news had been during the last attack, Memon resolved not to believe them. He made his face into a stone mask, impassive.
"First missile has missed. Second missile — we've lost contact."
"Aircraft are attacking the Chinese helicopter — one shot down."
One of the Chinese escort ships fired back. Two flights of Chinese aircraft had made it past the Indian screening aircraft and were attacking. A flight of Pakistani F-16s was being engaged to the north by shore-based planes.
Admiral Skandar listened impassively to the chatter from the radio and the ship's intercom systems. "Battle is a struggle against chaos," he told Memon.
"Enemy missiles launched! On their way!"
Something squeezed Memon's stomach, and he felt tears stream from his eyes.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
above the northern Arabian Sea
0540
At first the Pakistani F-16s showed no interest in the
Wisconsin. Mack stayed close to the Megafortress; he was starting to get low on fuel and was more than willing to let the planes go if they didn't want to tango. But as the F-16s got to within twenty miles, a pair veered in the direction of the EB-52, starting what Mack interpreted as a maneuver to get behind the Megafortress. He swung out to meet them.
The PAF aircraft stayed together, closing quickly. The two groups of planes were rushing toward each other so fast that within thirty seconds they were separated by less than ten miles. Mack, descending from thirty thousand feet, had barely enough time to get his gun ready before the closest aircraft raced into his targeting pipper. He slammed his finger onto the trigger, ripping through the left wing root and into the fuel tanks and engine of the aircraft. He pumped his cannon twice more, catching a bit of the wing as the aircraft rolled downward. Then he tucked left, trying to line up to take the stricken Viper's wingman. But the other F-16 had veered back northward, and by the time Mack found him, he was too far off to engage.
He banked Hawk One to the east, pushing back closer to Wisconsin. He glanced at the sitrep to find out what had happened to the other F-16s. He found out a lot sooner than he would have hoped — a launch warning sounded; he'd turned almost directly in the path of the second element of PAF fighters.
* * *
The Indian MiGs were twenty miles behind the Mega-fortress, and roughly ten behind Cantor. But rather than closing, the Indians were losing ground. Cantor waited for a minute or so; when the MiGs still didn't make a move to catch up, he decided to ignore them for the time being. He hiked his speed up, then checked the sitrep to see how Mack was doing.
In the exercise Cantor had mentioned, the four-ship formation broke into two pairs. One group flew parallel but in the opposite direction to the course of its target, while the other continued at a right angle to it. The elements would then launch separate attacks from either the sides or, more often, the rear quarter.
While there was no perfect solution, the best strategy for the Flighthawks was to avoid going too far from the Megafortress to take the first attack, even if you had a good opportunity to make a kill. Any defensive move by the fighters would leave the robot too far away to take the second element on.
Mack seemed to have avoided the first pitfall, and had gotten himself tangled up with one of the F-16s in the second group. Meanwhile, his wingman was angling to the north, trying for an end run.
Cantor pushed the throttle guide to max power, leaning forward as he tried to get into position to cut it off.
* * *
Mack pickled flares and flicked the Flighthawk to the left, rolling out of the way of the American-built Sidewinder AIM-9s fired by the Pakistani fighter. As good as the Sidewinders were, they couldn't resist the flare, which burned hotter than the Flighthawk's masked engine heat. By the time the missiles exploded, Mack had leveled off and was looking for a way to get at his antagonist.
The Pak jock was still behind him, trying for another shot. Mack started a turn to the right, hoping to use his superior turning ability to throw the F-16 out in front of him. Belatedly, he realized that the Viper's real purpose was to keep him busy while his wingman went for the Wisconsin. He was committed now; even if he turned back, he'd never catch the other airplane, which was flashing across the top corner of his screen.
"Hawk One to Wisconsin—I let one of those suckers get by."
"I have him, Mack," said Cantor, breaking in.
Mack was too busy dealing with the Viper behind him to ask how Cantor had managed to get into position to fight the PAF plane. Refusing to get into a turning battle with the Flighthawk, the F-16 fired another Sidewinder and swung back in the Wisconsin's direction. Mack went for his flares again, rolling out and changing course in time to get a shot on the F-16's tailpipe. But the Viper pilot managed to jerk out of the way, and Mack found himself too high and fast to fire again.
* * *
Cantor saw the missile flare under the F-16's wing just as he got the cue to fire from the computer. He laid into the Viper, signing his name in the left wing and tailplane. The canopy flew off, and the pilot quickly followed, projected upward by the ACES II ejection seat — but not before another missile flew out toward the Megafortress three miles ahead.
"Missiles!" yelled Cantor. "Sidewinders! Watch it!"
"We're on it," replied Dog calmly.
Cantor felt the Megafortress jerk hard to the right. He saw the aircraft in his screen, a shower of flares erupting from her belly. The Wisconsin pushed hard to the left; Cantor saw the Sidewinder that had been fired at it explode about three-quarters of a mile beyond the plane, too far away to do any damage.
"Hawk One is clear," said Mack.
"Two clear," said Cantor. "Wisconsin, your tail is clean." "Thank you, Hawks One and Two." "Thanks for the assist, Cantor," said Mack. "You're welcome."
"That second element cut back quicker than I thought they would," Mack said. "Better get Zen to change the programming on that simulation."
Cantor smirked — but only to himself. "I will, Major. Consider it done."
Aboard the Abner Read,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0540
Starship skipped the Werewolf toward the two submarines, which were moving at three or four knots north ward. Stopping them without sinking them was going to be tricky, if not impossible. Obviously, the Hellfire was not the weapon to use — he switched to the light machine guns, which were locked to fire in line with the Werewolf's nose. The aiming cue showed he was high; he angled down accordingly and sent two rows of shells across the bow of the sub.
The vessel, continuing on, gave no sign that it was impressed. Starship let off on his trigger and flew toward the craft, b
uzzing within ten feet of its topside. He could see two men diving into the craft's conning tower as he passed; they went in the side, as if it were a speedboat rather than a submarine. By the time he spun around it had started to dive under the water. It moved forward, gliding down a long, gentle escalator. Starship aimed for the tail of the sub this time, firing his bullets into the water directly behind the disappearing body. When that didn't stop the boat, he fired a long burst at the rapidly disappearing conning tower.
Then he got another idea.
He switched over to the Hellfires and zeroed in on the water about fifty yards ahead of the submarine. Then he fired, hoping the missile would act something like a depth charge, damaging the submarine just enough to bring her back to the surface.
If the missile had any effect — if it even exploded — he couldn't tell.
Starship turned his attention to the other submarine, which was just disappearing underwater. He laced it with bullets, pouring them into the shadow as it slid down below the waves.
"Both submarines are under the water," he told Eyes. "I can't see them anymore."
"Stand by. We hope to have Piranha on line any minute now. Be alert for the approaching Megafortress."
NSC Situation Room,
Washington, D.C.
1940, 14 January
(0540, 15 January, Karachi)
Everyone but Jed jumped to attention as the President walked into the room.
"No, no," said Kevin Martindale. "As you were. Keep working. Jed, what's the situation?"
"We have alerts all across the board. India and Pakistan have fired on each other." Jed pointed to a screen from a Pentagon launch alert system set up to summarize what the analysts blandly called "launch events." As predicted, the Indians had reserved their longest range missiles, undoubtedly for use against China if she came to Pakistan's defense.
"What's the status of the E-bombs?"
"The Dreamland aircraft with the EEMWBs are on course," said Jed, gently correcting the President as he pointed to the screen where End Game's status was updated. "The plot here" — he toggled into a new window—"is from Dreamland Command and gives an approximate location of the bombers. It's accurate to within a mile."
