End Game d-8

by Dale Brown

  "You want me to target the carrier, sir?"

  "Am I speaking English? Target the Shiva with enough weapons to sink her." Storm pounded the side of the holographic display. He looked down at the table. A pool of water disrupted the projection.

  Was it water? Or blood?

  His head felt as if it was going to lift off from his head. "Captain," said Eyes. "Storm — we can't sink the Indian ship."

  "Like hell I can't. Our orders said that we were allowed to defend ourselves. The Indian ship is regrouping for an attack."

  "The planes on the Chinese carrier — we're already out of position to act as backup against them, and—"

  "Don't second-guess me, Eyes. No one's going to attack us and not get a fistful of explosives back in their face. Weapons — use a mix of missiles. Keep enough to sink the Chinese carrier if we have to, but you lock on that damn Indian ship and sink the bastard!"

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over India

  0619

  Chu, the pilot of Dreamland Fisher, began speaking as soon as Dog cleared the communication.

  "I have two Chinese aircraft on my wingtips telling me to get out of the area or face the consequences, Colonel. They're not specifying what the consequences are."

  "I assume you've told them you're in international air space?"

  "I told them in English and in Chinese, Colonel. They weren't impressed."

  "All right, Chu, stand by." Dog hot-buttoned to the channel reserved for Jed Barclay at the NSC during the operation. "Jed, are you there?"

  "I'm here, Colonel."

  "What's the status on the Deng Xiaoping?"

  "Tai-shan aircraft have not appeared on the deck. NSA has not yet picked up the command to launch."

  Well, that was something at least, thought Dog. But it might be only a matter of time — the Chinese might not have picked up the Indian launch yet.

  "The Chinese are challenging Dreamland Fisher, which is supplying radar information to the Abner Read. I'm going to have the pilot back off a little bit to avoid provocation."

  "Your call, Colonel."

  "Both of the aircraft with EEMWBs are within ninety seconds of their launch points," he added. "Are we cleared to go?"

  "Stand by. I have Mr. Freeman right here."

  The National Security Advisor's face came into view on the screen. It was gray and deathly.

  "Colonel Bastian, I have just spoken with the President of the United States. You're ordered to proceed. God be with you all."

  Never had a blessing sounded so dire.

  "Thank you, sir," said Dog, pressing the button to flip back to Chu.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over India

  0620

  Breanna cleared the transmission. Her father's face came on the screen.

  "Proceed with End Game," he said.

  "Roger that — I'm sixty seconds from launch. What's the status on the Chinese aircraft carrier?"

  "Responding with conventional weapons so far. Launch your three EEMWBs and reserve the last for the carrier as planned. Chu is flying to the west and will back you up with conventional weapons. Give him enough warning to get south before you launch."

  "Will do."

  Breanna checked her position, then told Stewart to get ready to launch the first two missiles. "Ready," said Stewart. "Any fighters nearby?" "Negative."

  "Crew, we're thirty seconds from weapons launch. First explosion will follow in ten minutes."

  Breanna turned her attention back to the helm of her ship. She was climbing through twenty thousand feet. Somewhere far above her, Indian missiles were arcing on their course toward Pakistan.

  "Counting down from ten," said Stewart. "Nine, eight, seven… "

  Breanna stared at the blue sky ahead. At this altitude, the world appeared blissful."…three, two, one."

  "Fire EEMWB one," said Breanna. "Fire two."

  "Firing EEMWB one. Firing EEMWB two."

  Missile one rocketed off its launcher on the right wing, climbing ahead with a furious spurt of energy. Breanna turned to left, looking for the contrail from missile two. But it was nowhere to be seen.

  "Stewart, where's missile two?" "Launched — engine failed to ignite." "Retarget missile three and fire." "Retargeting. Firing missile three." The missile shot up ahead.

  "Missile one is on course," said Stewart. "Missile two has been lost. Missile three is on course. Time to launch missile four is zero-seven minutes. You have a turn coming up in thirty seconds."

  Breanna acknowledged, then keyed in the Dreamland communications line to tell Colonel Bastian that one of the missiles had malfunctioned.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over India

  0622

  "What's the status on that SA-2 missile site?" Dog asked Jazz. "Tracking us." "Our EEMWBs?"

  "Missile one is on course. Missile two is on course," Jazz told Dog. "Sixty seconds to launch point two."

  Dog began a ten degree turn to the north, positioning himself for the final launch. The first of their missiles would explode approximately two minutes after he fired; he'd be on manual controls after that.

  The Dreamland communications line buzzed.

  "Levitow to Wisconsin. One of our missiles failed to ignite. Motor failure. We fired a replacement."

  "Acknowledged."

  "Should I fire the last missile or reserve it for the Deng?"

  "Fire the missile as planned," Dog told her. "Then get back to use your Scorpions against the Tai-shan planes. I'll alert Dreamland Fisher."

  "Levitow" said Breanna, acknowledging.

  "Thirty seconds to launch point," broke in Jazz. "Very good," said Dog, making sure he was precisely on course.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0622

  Storm's head hurt so badly he had to sit on the small fold-down jumpseat at the side of the holographic display. He knew he was bleeding — every time he wiped his forehead, his fingers were drenched in fresh blood.

  "Weapons, what's our status?"

  "Ready to launch on command, Captain."

  "Stand by. Weapons will launch on my command."

  In the days of sailing ships, the order to attack another ship could take hours to carry out, with crew working feverishly just to position the ship, let alone fill and fire the cannons. Now it took only fractions of a second.

  "Weapons, fire all missiles."

  "Firing, Captain."

  A pair of missiles flared from the forward deck, followed by two more, then another pair, then another. The ship's bow bent down toward the waves with the fusillade.

  "Deal with that, you bastards," Storm muttered as the missiles leapt away.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over India

  0626

  EEMWB four clunked off the launcher, its rocket motor igniting with a burst of red flame. Breanna immediately changed course to the southwest.

  "Flight of Su-27s closing in on us from the south," said

  Stewart. "Thirty-five miles away. Four aircraft. They have AA-12s."

  "Target the lead element. Reserve four Scorpions. I want two missiles apiece for the Tai-shan aircraft." "Targeting."

  "Bay."

  "Bomb bay open."

  "Fire as soon as you're locked."

  "Bree, I have launch warnings."

  "Fire Scorpions. Crew — stand by for evasive maneuvers."

  * * *

  "Talk about impotent," muttered Zen as the Mega-

  fortress jerked away from the Indians' antiaircraft missiles. He switched his main view from the sitrep screen to the Levitow's forward video camera, then killed the display altogether and took off his helmet. Flying wasn't a spectator sport, especially when you were under attack.

  "They going to hit us?" asked Dork. He sounded scared.

  "Nah. Captain Stockard likes to cut things close, but not that close."

  The Megafortress jerked so sharply Zen's restraints cut i
nto his chest.

  "We ought to work on getting you a new nickname," he told the other Flighthawk pilot as the plane straightened out. "What were you called in high school?"

  "Dork, sir."

  * * *

  A flight of Pakistani aircraft appeared to the north; very possibly the Indians had been looking for them when they found the Megafortress instead. That was of small consolation to Breanna, who was desperately wheeling Levitow between the clouds, trying to duck their missiles.

  "SA-12 site tracking us," warned Stewart.

  "The more the merrier," said Breanna.

  "I have every ECM—"

  "Keep them there," said Breanna. "Chaff, flares, every thing you got. We have another sixty seconds until the EEMWBs go off. That's all we need."

  "Scorpion One has scored. Two — uh, near miss."

  "Good."

  "AMRAAMski going off track." About time, thought Breanna. "One more."

  Breanna put her hand on the throttle, even though she knew it was at max power. Then she jerked her stick hard right, trying to turn the Megafortress into a hummingbird and veer out of the way of the missiles.

  The computer complained that they were about to exceed eight g's. Breanna kept the pressure on her stick anyway.

  "Two more missiles missed," said the copilot. "I can't find the last one."

  Breanna sensed where it was and let off on the stick. The Megafortress stumbled, but began to recover.

  As it did, the enemy air-to-air missile exploded under her right wing.

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0632

  Somewhere below, a pair of close-in weapons began to fire. Fear surged through Memon so strongly that he could not move nor breathe, not even think. Cold air invaded his chest; his heart and lungs turned to ice. He waited, unable to do anything else.

  The first explosion seemed incredibly far away; he heard a light rumble but felt nothing. The second, a half second later, was like the peal of thunder when lightning strikes a tree at the edge of a yard.

  The third reverberated as if it were under his feet, twisting his chest and head in opposite directions. He flew against a console, thrown so abruptly that he felt as if he hadn't moved at all. He lay on the deck, watching the others scramble to get up.

  Only Admiral Skandar managed to stay on his feet. The Defense minister reached calmly for the phone, speaking as the ship rocked with fresh explosions. Memon wanted to get up and join him but could not; he wanted to move but found his body paralyzed. All he could do was stare from the depths of his cowardice and fear.

  Aboard the Levitow, over India

  0632

  The aircraft lurched in the sky, then felt as if it was going to fall out from under her. Breanna pushed against the stick, finally leveling off — the computer began compensating for the damaged control surfaces.

  "Engine four — gone," said Stewart. Her voice was surprisingly calm.

  "Compensating," Breanna told her. "Where are the other missiles?"

  "One more going north. We're clear."

  "Assess the damage."

  "Assessing. Ten seconds to first EEMWB pulse."

  Each individual system on the plane had its own shielding, but Levitow also had special deflectors — antennas that could attract the waves and disrupt their pattern — in the wings. As the techies explained it, the deflectors reduced the overall amount of T-Rays washing over the ship, making the components easier to shield.

  Or, as the metaphor they used had it, reducing a hurricane surge to high tide.

  "If you need help, we're here," said Bullet, the relief copilot behind her.

  "Thanks," said Breanna. "Stand by for EEMWB wave."

  "EEMWB One—"

  "EEMWB One what?" Breanna asked Stewart.

  The copilot didn't answer. The interphone system had been wiped out.

  And so had the GPS guidance, and half of the indicators on the systems panel.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over India

  0635

  Dog checked his watch. "Sixty seconds to first EEMWB," he told his crew. "Jazz?"

  "I'm ready, Colonel. Looks like that SA-2 is trying to lock on us to launch."

  "He's beside the point now," said Dog. "Let's go to manual control. Emergency manual procedure, authorized Bast-ian 888."

  The computer accepted the code, and Dog reached to the bottom of the center panel to engage the hydraulic controls. The stick felt almost dead in his hand.

  As soon as they calculated that the last EEMWB had exploded, Jazz would remove their backup radio from its shielded case and plug its antenna lead to the auxiliary antenna at the side of cockpit between the copilot's station and the radar operator. Dog and Jazz would be able to talk on the Dreamland communications network via a pair of headsets.

  The Dreamland communications panel buzzed. "Bastian."

  "Wisconsin, we've been hit by an air-to-air missile," said Breanna. "We've lost some systems because—"

  The transmission went blank, and the cockpit went dark. Their first EEMWB had exploded.

  X

  Tai-shan

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  15 January 1998

  0635

  "Multiple hits! Multiple hits!"

  Storm pulled off the headset. Whatever else happened today, the course of sea warfare had been changed as dramatically as it had at Hampton Roads in 1862, when the Monitor met the Merrimack, or in June 1942 at Midway, when the U.S. and Japanese fleets fought each other completely by air. A small, relatively inexpensive warship had just crippled, and maybe even sank, a large aircraft carrier, until now considered the mainstay of any great naval power. His name would be written in the history books.

  Storm sat on the jumpseat next to the holographic display, staring out the window of the bridge. He wasn't meditating on history; he was trying to will away some of the pain. Finally, after little success, he pulled the headset back on.

  "Eyes — where's our Sharkboat?"

  "They're under way, but still an hour off."

  "All right."

  "Dreamland Fisher reports the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping is launching a new wave of aircraft," said Eyes. "We have an Indian destroyer thirty-five miles south of us. We should not be on his radar, but he is moving in our direction."

  The Chinese — he'd take them out too. All he needed was an excuse.

  "Captain?"

  "Nothing," Storm said. "Keep me informed."

  * * *

  Starship circled the Werewolf back over the area where the Indian pilot supposedly had gone down. He couldn't see anything, not even debris.

  "Tac, how long do you want me to keep at this search?" he asked. "There's nothing here."

  "Head back to the Sharkboat and escort them toward us."

  "I'd like to refuel first, since I'm nearby and they're quiet for the moment. We may not get a chance later."

  "Roger that. Come on in."

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over India

  0635

  Breanna worked through the systems with Stewart, checking for units that had been affected by the electromagnetic pulse weapons or the missile blast. The main flight computer itself seemed fine. She had lost engine four; parts of its shredded housing could be seen from the copilot's station. Engine three's temperature was a few degrees higher than normal, but the oil pressure and power output were steady. Two of the compartmented fuel tanks in the right wing had been damaged; the fire retardant system had prevented a catastrophe, but the indicators showed that fuel was leaking. The last three feet of the wingtip on the right side were gone, and the control surfaces were damaged but intact.

  The satellite radio, the internal communications system, and the navigation gear were all offline. The self-diagnostic on the Megafortress's native radar — not the larger, more powerful unit installed above the wings — indicated a number of circuit problems, yet the r
adar seemed to be working, identifying the Pakistani flight they had seen earlier. The

  PAF planes were in serious trouble, flying erratically and dropping altitude. They were deep in enemy territory, and their prospects for survival seemed dim.

  "Recheck the weapons systems," Breanna told Stewart. They'd pulled off their helmets so they could hear each other. "Open the bay. Make sure everything is online."

  "Weapons?"

  "Yes."

  Stewart hesitated. "OK," she said finally. "Testing weapons."

  Breanna looked at the fuel panel. The damage to the tanks added one more level of complexity to the problem of keeping the Megafortress balanced — an important consideration under any circumstance, but especially when you were missing an engine and a good chunk of a wing. The computer was doing a good job directing the flow, however, and Breanna turned her attention to engine three, whose temperature was continuing to sneak higher.

  The aircraft shook as the bomb bay doors were opened. The increased drag cost them nearly thirty knots in forward airspeed, a huge hit. But Stewart was able to rotate the missile launcher and confirm that it was operable.

  "Weapons system is in the green," said the copilot.

  Breanna had asked Lou and Bullet — the relief pilot and copilot — to run the diagnostics on the environmental and some of the secondary systems from the auxiliary panel on the starboard radar station. Lou came over and told her that aside from some of the lights and the fan in the upper Flighthawk bay, the systems were functioning.

  "Coffeemaker's gone, though. Ditto the refrigerator and microwave."

  "Don't tell Zen about the coffeemaker," said Breanna. "We have to keep his morale up."

  "There's probably a pattern to the circuits that took the hit," said the other pilot. "But I can't quite figure it out."

  "We'll save it for when we get home," Breanna told him. "Give the scientists something to do. How's your stomach?"

  "Much better. I think some of your twists and turns jerked it back into place."