End Game d-8

by Dale Brown

  Three behind them, four in their face. Dog continued on a beeline for the Indian site that had launched the SA-10s for another twenty seconds.

  "Give it everything you got, Jazz," he said. "Chaff, ECMs, the kitchen sink. Crew — stand by, this one's going to be close."

  * * *

  Though the Flighthawk was several times more ma-neuverable than the EB-52, Mack had trouble keeping Hawk One close to the Wisconsin as she jinked and jived toward the ground, rolling on her wing and then heading almost straight down. It wouldn't have been half bad if he hadn't actually been in the plane — the hard maneuvers while he was flying in a different direction threatened to tear his head from his body. His stomach felt like it was where his legs should be, and the g forces tried to jerk his arms out of their sockets.

  One of the Indian missiles was beelining for the Flighthawk. That wasn't a bad idea, he thought — intercept the missile before it hit the Megafortress. But the telephone-pole-sized weapon flew by him at the last second.

  * * *

  Dog powered the Megafortress into a dive. He glanced at the sitrep, then back at the windscreen.

  "SA-12s are following — no, he's off — he's going for the SA-10," shouted Jazz.

  "Hang with me, son."

  Confused by the jamming gear and the apparent disappearance of their target, the two sets of missiles quickly found alternatives — each other. None managed to complete an exact interception, but when the first missile detonated, the others quickly followed suit.

  The plane shuddered, and the computer warned that it was "exceeding normal flying parameters" — a polite way of asking if the pilot had lost his mind. Dog struggled through an uncontrolled invert; with the computer's help he leveled off at fifteen thousand feet.

  They were beyond the missile batteries.

  "You did it, Colonel. They cooked each other. We're past them."

  "We got a ways to go yet, Jazz," said Dog, hunting for the heading to the launch area.

  Northern Arabian Sea

  0614

  Danny landed on a body as bullets flew by. Hesaw someone rising behind him. Thinking it was Boston, he hesitated for a moment, then saw the silhouette of a pistol in the man's hand. He fired two rounds from his shotgun point-blank at the shadow's head.

  Someone grabbed him by the throat. Choking, he pointed the shotgun backward and fired once, twice, three times be fore the hand finally let go. He jumped up, firing two more times at the prone body.

  Boston loomed behind him, waving his hand. They'd subdued everyone aboard the submarine.

  Breathing heavily, they began trussing the men with plastic handcuffs and grabbing any guns they could find. Danny's leg screamed with pain. He stumbled over the bodies in the aisle, then found his way to the ladder, clambering topside. He crawled out onto the deck of the submarine and pulled down his mask and breathing gear, hyperventilating in the fresh air.

  "Sharkboat dead ahead!" said Boston, coming up behind him.

  The low-slung patrol craft was less than fifty yards away. Danny dug in his equipment belt for the flare they were supposed to use to tell them the submarine's crew had been subdued; by the time he found it, three sailors were already aboard.

  "Hey, Captain Whiplash!" yelled one of the Navy men, who'd worked with Danny before.

  "About time you got here," said Boston. "Put your damn gas masks on — place is a mess down there."

  * * *

  Sattari felt himself being lifted and carried upward. He was going to Paradise, his battle done.

  He sailed through a narrow tunnel, flooded with light.

  Was his wife waiting for him?

  His head slapped hard against the ground. Water splashed over him — he was wet — he was alive.

  The submarine had been attacked. There had been gas and explosions, men…

  Someone shouted nearby. The words were foreign— English.

  Americans!

  When he tried to move his hands, he found they were bound in front of him.

  They would not take him alive. Sattari pushed over the side, diving into the water.

  * * *

  "Hey, one's jumping in the water!"

  Danny turned in time to see a pair of legs crashing through the waves. Without thinking, he dove forward off the submarine, stroking for the man. His leg throbbed as he tried to kick; it went limp on him, stunned, as if anesthetized — except it still hurt like hell. He saw the man surfacing a few feet away and lunged for him. He grabbed the man's back, pulling him to the left; the man jerked away and fell back under the waves.

  * * *

  Sattari's lungs screamed for air but he ignored them, pushing himself downward. He would cheat his enemies of this.

  The man who'd followed him grabbed him by the left arm. Sattari shoved him aside. He opened his mouth, trying to swallow the sea.

  He saw the man's eyes in front of his face, wide and white. Sattari threw his hands forward and found the man's neck.

  "You're coming with me," Sattari told him.

  * * *

  Before Danny could react, the hands tightened around his neck. Dragged down, he tried to kick but couldn't. He began punching the other man, but the man didn't let go. Both of them continued to sink. I'm going to die here, he thought.

  Danny flailed desperately, poking and punching and kicking, forcing his injured leg to move, using every ounce of energy in his body to push off his attacker. His lungs were bursting, his nose and mouth starting to suck seawater.

  Suddenly, the hands slipped away. Danny threw himself up toward the surface. He burst above the waves, gulped a breath, half air, half water. Coughing violently, he slipped back down, fought his way back to the air, tried to float. He gasped and coughed at the same time.

  "Here, here!" someone shouted nearby.

  Danny turned over to paddle but his arms were too tired now. His body sagged and exhaustion felt very near. He pushed once, then slipped down below the waves, happy to rest finally.

  Then he felt himself moving upward. He took a breath and coughed. He coughed until the world around him was red. When he stopped, he found himself in a small rigid-hulled craft from the Sharkboat.

  "You OK, Captain?" said a sailor, standing over him.

  "That guy… "

  "Don't see him anywhere."

  Too tired to look himself, Danny collapsed against the gunwale.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over India

  0614

  Zen checked his watch. They were three minutes to Point Baker, where the Megafortress would begin its five-minute climb to the launch point.

  "Bandits ahead," warned Stewart. "ID'd as MiG-21 Fishbeds. Four planes. They don't see us yet."

  Zen saw them on the sitrep as the copilot read off their heading and altitude. They were at eight thousand feet, flying northwest on a course that would bring them to within two miles of the Megafortress, just at the point where Bre-anna would have to start to climb.

  "Jeff, you think we can sneak past these guys?" asked Breanna.

  "I was just about to ask you the same question," Zen told his wife. While it would be foolish to underestimate the fighters, their radars were limited and there was a decent possibility that the EB-52 could get past them without being noticed.

  "If we didn't have to climb, I'd say we take the chance," Breanna told him. "But if they see us, they'll be on our back at the worst possible time."

  "Roger that, Levitow. I have the lead element." "Look at our flight path — can you hold off until they've crossed it?"

  "That's not a problem," said Zen.

  "We'll use Scorpions on Bandits Three and Four" explained Breanna. "I'll pivot and fire two missiles. If I recover quickly, I'll be back on course in just over a minute and a half."

  "Roger that."

  * * *

  As Zen took the Flighthawk northwest and began to climb, he worked out the game plan in his head. The MiGs were flying close enough for him to take both planes out in a single pas
s. He'd loop in from the west, firing on the wingman first; it would take barely a nudge on his stick to get his sights on the lead plane. The MiGs were moving at 320 knots; he'd be able to close on them easily.

  It was a great plan, but the Indians didn't cooperate. When they were less than three miles from the Mega-fortress, the planes suddenly accelerated.

  "I think they see us," said Stewart, her voice shrill.

  "Yeah, I'm on it," Zen told her. "Relax there, Levitow."

  "Trying," said the copilot.

  Zen knew better than to bother chasing the lead element; he might catch one of the planes but couldn't hope to take two.

  "Bree, let's swap targets. I'll take Three and Four, you go for One and Two."

  "Roger that, Flighthawk. Kick butt." "You got it, baby."

  * * *

  Stewart's fingers grew cold as she worked through the screen, redesignating her targets. It was easy, it was simple, she'd done it gadzillion times in the drills — but she could feel her heart pounding harder and harder.

  "Ease up, Jan," said Breanna. "You're hitting the touchscreen like you're fighting Mike Tyson."

  "I guess I am," she said. She put her hands together, warming her fingers. She didn't relax, exactly, but she did pull back from hyper mode.

  "Bay," said Breanna. "Fire when ready."

  If we wait that long, we'll be dead, Stewart thought.

  * * *

  The second element of MiGs altered course, banking into a tight turn to put themselves behind the Megafortress.

  The MiG-21 had been designed in the 1950s, and while outdated long ago, the aircraft retained many of its original virtues. Small and maneuverable, it could touch Mach 2 if necessary, and was tough in a close-quarters knife fight. The two Indian jocks who were turning toward the Levi-tow's tail undoubtedly thought they had the Megafortress right where they wanted her — about five miles ahead and several thousand feet below them. All they had to do was close in; their heat-seekers would do the rest.

  The problem with that strategy came in the form of 20mm shells ripping through the nose and canopy of Bandit Four. Zen hit the MiG from above, riding his cannon through the humped midsection of the plane. Two or three dozen bullets hit the aircraft in a fraction of a second, shredding the plane's avionics, engine, and most of all its pilot.

  Zen pulled his nose up and found Bandit Three dead on in his gunsight. The weapons bar went red; he waited a full second then fired. The MiG rolled its wing left, trying to duck away. Zen had too much momentum to follow and still get a kill; instead he banked back in the direction of the Megafortress, losing sight of his opponent.

  "Fire Fox One! Fire Fox One!" warned Stewart. Though still excited, her voice wasn't nearly as shrill as it had been.

  Two missiles spurted from the bay of the EB-52, AARAAM-pluses heading for Bandits One and Two.

  Zen looked at the sitrep, trying to figure out what had happened to the other MiG. The plane wasn't on the display, but he knew it had to be around somewhere; the radar had difficulty seeing objects very close to the ground behind its wings.

  "Levitow, I lost Bandit Three," Zen warned.

  "Roger that, Flighthawk. Tail Stinger is activated. We're climbing," added Breanna.

  Zen decided that the other MiG had either gotten away south or was running parallel to him somewhere beyond the Megafortress's right wingtip, where it would be difficult for the radar to spot.

  He started crossing, then realized there was a possibility he hadn't considered — just below his own tail.

  Tracers exploded past his nose. Now the tables were turned, and Zen was the surprised target. He cut back to his left, hoping to throw the MiG out in front of him as he began to weave in the sky. But the Indian pilot didn't bite, and Zen had to duck a fresh stream of bullets.

  He wasn't completely successful. Three shells went into the Flighthawk's left wing. The computer tallied the score:

  DAMAGE TO CONTROL SURFACE. DEGRADATION FIVE PERCENT.

  Zen continued to zig up and down, back and forth, depriving the other pilot of an easy shot. If they hadn't been so close to the Megafortress, he would have started a turn; if the MiG followed, he could use the Flighthawk's superior turning radius and maneuverability to reverse their positions. But that wasn't an option here, since it would leave the way clear for the MiG to close on the Megafortress before he could get back.

  The launch warning sounded — the MiG had fired two heat-seeking missiles at him. Now he had to get out of the way. Zen tossed flares and tucked toward the ground, then immediately zigged right and hunted for the MiG. Sure enough, the Indian jock was accelerating straight ahead, trying to close on the EB-52's tail.

  Zen's quick roll had taken him below the MiG-21. He turned into the enemy plane and began firing despite the computer's warning that he didn't have a shot. The hail of bullets broke the MiG's attack; he pushed off to the right, jerking hard and pulling at least six g's. No conventional fighter could have stayed with him, but the Flighthawk wasn't a conventional fighter. The MiG's tailpipe grew fat in the middle of his screen. He leaned on the trigger, giving the Indian craft a 20mm enema. The canopy flew off in short order, the pilot hitting the silk.

  "Splash Bandit Three," said Zen, looking for the Megafortress.

  * * *

  Stewart stared at the message in her screen: target one destroyed.

  She'd got it! The bastard was dead.

  But where was the other plane?

  Still flying, six miles ahead. The other missile?

  She'd missed.

  "Bandit One is hit," she told Breanna. "Bandit Two is still there. The missile must have missed." "All right," said Breanna. "Should I fire another?" "Just stand by."

  Stewart felt a wave of resentment come over her. But then she realized they weren't in a good position to fire. The pilot wasn't criticizing her; she preferred to stay on course and keep her missiles if she could. It made more sense to at least check first with the Flighthawk pilot to see if he could take the plane.

  "Standing by," said Stewart.

  * * *

  "I can just get there if Bandit Two stays on his present course and speed," Zen told Breanna. "But only just." "Try. We're two minutes to launch point."

  "Got it."

  Zen accelerated ahead, climbing to meet the MiG. The other aircraft was three thousand feet above him. "Fuel warning," said the computer.

  Zen called up the fuel panel. Sure enough, the Flighthawk was into its reserves, well ahead of schedule. The tanks must have been damaged, though the status board claimed that they were OK.

  There was nothing he could do about it now — the Indian fighter loomed at the top of his screen. Zen pulled his nose up and took a shot as the plane passed, getting the MiG to break south. Knowing that he hadn't put enough bullets into him to shoot him down, Zen started to follow. Breanna, meanwhile, had pulled the Megafortress farther south and begun to level off, preparing to fire the EEMWBs.

  "Fuel emergency," declared C3.

  Zen glanced at the fuel screen. The tanks were nearly drained — he had under five minutes' worth of juice.

  "How did I use fifteen minutes' worth of jet fuel in thirty seconds?" he asked the computer.

  "Unknown command," it replied.

  Was the problem simply with the gauge? Zen hoped so.

  He pressed his nose down as the targeting bar began to blink yellow. The MiG was starting a turn to his left, banking to get behind the Megafortress.

  "Fuel emergency," repeated the computer.

  "Yup." Zen leaned the Flighthawk onto its left wing, pushing his enemy into the sweet spot of his target zone. He pressed the trigger; bullets began flying from the nose.

  Then the Flighthawk veered down.

  "Engine has lost power. Fuel emergency. No fuel. No fuel," sang the computer.

  Zen slapped the computer's audible warning system off.

  "Hawk Three to Levitow—Bree, I'm out of fuel. Something must have hit the Flighthawk and caused a br
each in the tanks. Didn't show on the damage panel. That MiG is still out there."

  "Acknowledged," said Breanna. "Ninety seconds to launch point."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0619

  Starship took the Werewolf over the Sharkboat, circling as the last of the submarine's survivors were taken aboard. The Sharkboat was preparing to tow the vessel back to the Abner Read, some sixty miles to the west.

  Sixty perilous miles between the Chinese and the Indian forces.

  Starship headed west, scouting the area. The closest vessel was a Chinese destroyer, fifteen miles away. It had been hit by two Indian missiles, and had a gaping hole at the bow; it was unlikely to come for them. More problematic was the guided missile cruiser rushing to its aid.

  "Werewolf to Tac. I have an update on the two Chinese vessels closest to the Sharkboat," said Starship. "Destroyer looks pretty badly damaged. Cruiser's going to help it. I'd say go now while the going is good."

  "Acknowledged. We have a contact for you to check out five miles north of us — we think it's a downed pilot in the water. Can you get there?"

  "On my way."

  * * *

  The Megafortress that dropped the manpod had turned on its surface radar, giving the Abner Read and Storm a good picture of the battle. The Indian carrier appeared to be sixty miles southeast of them — in range of his Harpoon missiles.

  And the Standards. He'd use a mix; it was the only way to guarantee he could take out the Chinese carrier as well. And he was going to get them.

  The two fleets were repositioning themselves after the first wave of attacks. Two Chinese escorts had been severely damaged, and it appeared that one Indian vessel was sunk. The Deng Xiaoping's radar helicopters and two of its fighters had been shot down, but only one of the Indian mis siles managed to reach the ship, and it had not done enough damage to impede air operations. The Indian ship Shiva had not been hit and was beginning to recover the aircraft involved in the attack.

  "Weapons, target the Indian carrier Shiva" Storm said. "I want a mix of Harpoons and Standards. Use the plan we established earlier."