End Game d-8

by Dale Brown

  "Confirmed. She has west."

  "Ready!" yelled Zen as the screen went solid red.

  "Ready!" yelled Dork.

  "Go!" Zen began firing.

  * * *

  Breanna pushed the Megafortress to her left as hard as she dared, throwing the rear Stinger battery in the face of the Indian fighter. At the same time, the Stinger began firing even though it couldn't possibly have locked on its target yet.

  The Levitow began to shake. Tracers were popping to its right.

  "Going for the coast!" Breanna shouted, her words intended for Zen. "Stewart — what's our status?"

  "Bandit One breaking off. Two is still behind us."

  Breanna started to push the nose of the Megafortress forward, wanting to increase her speed and give Zen some room to work with as he went for the other fighter. As she did, the Megafortress started to flail to the side, and within seconds she was fighting a yaw.

  * * *

  Zen got two long bursts into Bandit One, enough to draw smoke from her tailpipe. He let the fighter go, turning to try and get some shots on the other one. Bandit Two rolled away, just as a hail of air mines exploded behind the Megafortress.

  As Zen followed the Indian plane downward, he caught a glimpse of the damaged EB-52. It was much worse than he had thought — the right wing had several large cracks running through it, with gaps big enough to see the foam protection for the fuel tanks. The starboard tailplane had been chewed up; less than a quarter of it remained.

  Bandit Two, still concentrating on the Megafortress, swung into position to fire his heat-seekers. Tucking his nose down, Zen got the Sukhoi in the middle of his crosshairs and sent a stream of bullets across its wings, across its fuselage, across the burning hulk he turned the plane into.

  "Scratch Bandit Two" he told Dork, pulling off. "I'm going to bird-dog over the coast."

  It was then that he finally noticed that the Megafortress was moving back and forth in the air, each swing a little stronger.

  * * *

  Desperate to control the ship, Breanna had Stewart dial back power to engine one as she tried to rebalance her aircraft. It helped, but it also cost more airspeed. The water, at least, was just ahead, beyond a thick line of factories and boats.

  "Radar — Top Plate — there's a patrol boat off shore," said Stewart. "Correct that — a frigate. They'll have Geckos."

  "Gecko" was the NATO code word for SA-N-4s. The missiles would be potent under any circumstance, but the Megafortress would be an easy target now.

  "Where are they?"

  "Ten miles ahead."

  "ECMs." Breanna had the plane back almost completely under control, the yaw reduced to a wobble. Her altitude was now below fifteen thousand feet. Forget the missiles, she thought, they'd be low enough for the antiaircraft guns by the time they got close to the frigate. "I'm going to go north," she said. "We need to get some distance between us and that ship."

  As she prepared to bank, the Megafortress abruptly dropped thirty feet.

  * * *

  Zen turned the Flighthawk back toward the Mega-fortress. As he came close, he saw a chunk of the right wing's skin fly off, pried loose by the plane's violent shakes and the wind's ravenous appetite. He couldn't tell for certain, but he thought the cracks he'd noticed before were longer. They weren't going to make it.

  "Tell Breanna to select the view from Hawk Three" he told Dork.

  * * *

  Breanna alternately wrestled and coaxed the airplane, knowing it was a losing battle. The only question was where they were going to crash.

  She preferred ditching at sea, where the shot-up plane wouldn't kill any civilians when it crashed. It would also be arguably better to bail there, since they might have a chance of being picked up by a U.S. ship or even the Osprey, rather than the Indian authorities.

  "All right, crew, here's what we're going to do — we're not going to make it much farther. We have six ejection seats and eight people. I'm going to go out with a parachute from the Flighthawk deck. We'll draw straws for the other place."

  "I volunteer," said Stewart.

  "I'm sure everyone will volunteer," she said. "That's why we're drawing straws."

  * * *

  Zen had already decided what he was going to do when Dork passed the word. He turned the Flighthawk over to the computer, then pulled off his helmet.

  "Doesn't make any sense for me to use the ejection seat. I have nothing left to protect," he said. "I'll take my chances dropping."

  "But Captain Stockard said—"

  "I outrank everyone aboard this aircraft, including my wife," said Zen, pushing himself up out of the seat. "Besides, I'm a much better swimmer than anyone else here. I can make it to the coast if I have to. You guys won't. Yo, Bullet, this chair's for you. Grab a brain bucket and saddle up."

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0706

  Memon saw Admiral Skandar mouthing the words before he heard them, as if he were watching an out-of-sync motion picture.

  "You are ordered to abandon ship," said the admiral calmly. "I repeat. Abandon ship."

  The ship's fantail was now well out of the water, and the list to starboard so pronounced that Memon could see only the water outside the ship. He'd managed to get to his feet but gone no farther since the first explosion. He had no idea how much time had passed; it seemed both an eternity and a wink.

  Down below, one of the armament stores had caught fire, and weapons cooked off with furious bangs. The explosions seemed fiercer than those caused by the American missiles, more violent and treacherous, as if the ship were being torn up by demons.

  The ship's crew began moving in slow motion, following routines established during drills they'd hoped never to perform in real life. One by one the Defense minister bid them farewell.

  I am so much a coward, thought Memon, that I cannot even move. I deserve to die a coward's death.

  "You must abandon ship too," Skandar told Memon. "Go. Save yourself."

  "I will stay," said Memon. His throat was dry; the words seemed to trip in it.

  Was it the coward's way to save himself? He wanted to live, and yet he could not move.

  "It is your duty to carry on the battle," said Skandar. "I am an old man. It is my turn to die."

  There was no question that Skandar was brave, and Memon knew himself to be a coward. Yet their fates were the same. Here they were, together on the bridge, stripped bare of everything but nerve and fear.

  "Admiral. You must live to help us rebuild and fight again."

  Skandar did not answer.

  "Admiral?"

  The sound of metal twisting and breaking under the pressure of water filled the compartment.

  Memon wanted to live. Yet he could not move.

  Skandar turned away and looked out through the broken glass at the sea. "In the next life, I will be a warrior again," he said.

  Before Memon could answer, the deck collapsed below them, and he and Admiral Skandar plunged into the howling bowels of the burning ship.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0706

  Storm struggled to ward off the pain as the Chinese aircraft began their attack from thirty miles off — too far for their radars to lock on the slippery ship. They were relying on the guidance systems in their missiles to lock as they approached the target.

  There were four J-13s, each armed with four cruise missiles. The Abner Read was an awesome warship — but she wasn't invincible. In simulated trials the ship had managed to shoot down seven out of eight missiles in a massed attack. More than eight missiles, and the systems and men running them were overwhelmed. His strategy would be to push the odds as close to his favor as possible.

  They got one break — rather than firing all of their weapons en masse, the Chinese launched a first wave of only four missiles.

  "Helm, hard right rudder," he said. They turned the ship to lower its radar profi
le, making it more difficult for the missiles to acquire them on final approach. This also limited the number of Phalanx guns he could put on the missiles, but it was an acceptable trade-off if the Chinese were only firing four weapons at a time.

  Two of the Chinese missiles quickly lost their target and exploded in frustration. The final two kept coming in their direction.

  "Status!" barked Storm.

  "Neither missile has locked, Captain."

  Storm studied the holographic display. The missiles looked like they were going too far east. They looked like they were going to miss, though not by much.

  One did. The other veered toward the ship. Before Storm could even say "Defensive weapons," the Phalanx operator had shot down the missile.

  Four down. Twelve to go.

  * * *

  Starship stayed south of the Abner Read as the close-in weapons system fired; the automated system had mistaken Werewolves for missiles in the past, nearly shooting them down.

  Besides his Hellfires and the chain gun, he had two

  Sidewinder missiles for air defense on the Werewolf's wingtips. The Werewolf couldn't take on the J-13s in anything like standard air combat; it might be fast for a helicopter at 450 knots top speed, but that was far slower than the Chinese jets.

  On the other hand, if he could set up the right circumstances, he knew he might be able to take one of the planes. As a fighter jock, he was aware that helicopter pilots were taught to turn and fly toward their attacker, staying as low to the ground, zigging, and making a straight-on shot hard to line up. As the pursuing fighter passed, the chopper should then turn and fire.

  Assuming, of course, it was still in one piece.

  The J-13s had split into two groups. Two tacked to the east and launched a fresh pair of missiles. A second group of two planes was swinging around to the west, obviously aiming for their own try from that direction.

  "Tac, I'm going to the west and take on one of those fighters," said Starship. "Probably Bandit Four"

  "Werewolf?"

  "I'm going to take on one of these fighters. No, belay that," he said, using a Navy term for the first time in his life. "I'm going to nail one of those fighters."

  * * *

  "Colonel Bastian for you, Storm."

  Storm clicked into the circuit. "Gale," he said.

  "The Tai-shan aircraft are almost ready to launch," said Dog. "Are you in position to shoot them down?"

  "I regret to say… " The words stuck in Storm's throat. The close-in guns were firing again. "I regret to say it's unlikely we will be in position to shoot down the planes. We may be sunk ourselves."

  * * *

  The J-13s dropped their speed and altitude as they approached the Abner Read. Starship singled out his target. The enemy plane, flying at only a hundred feet, ignored him at first, too focused on his target to notice the tiny bug com ing straight at him. For a second Starship thought he might be able to fly into the jet, but the J-13 began to climb, either because he'd spotted him or to launch his missiles.

  Time to improvise.

  Starship leaned on his stick, pushing the Werewolf's nose nearly upright. He fired two Hellfires in the general direction of the Chinese fighter, hoping to distract him rather than shoot him down. Then he slammed the helicopter around and leaned on the throttle, trying to pick up some momentum as the plane passed overhead. He cued the Sidewinder, got a growl — or thought he got a growl— indicating a lock, and fired.

  The missile immediately went off to the right, a miss from the get-go. But Starship was still on the fighter's tail. Spooked, the Chinese pilot abandoned his target run and started a turn north to evade him. The Sidewinder growled again; Starship fired.

  This time he watched the missile run right up the rear end of the Chinese plane and tear it to pieces.

  * * *

  The Chinese cruise missile hit the Abner Read so hard that the ship's bow rose several feet under the water. Storm tried to grab onto something but could not; he was thrown against the helmsman and rebounded against the jumpseat near the holographic display.

  "More missiles! Four more missiles!" warned the defensive radar.

  "Jam them," said Storm, even though he knew his crew didn't need his order to do so. "Jam them — get them. Destroy them."

  He tried to get up to see the holographic display tracking the missiles. But his head was light and his legs were shaky. He found himself back on the deck.

  I'll be damned if I'm going to die on my back on the deck of my ship, he thought, struggling to get up.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0708

  Dog turned around in his seat. "Crew, prepare for emergency bailout!" he shouted. "Dish, tell them downstairs. You're going out in sixty seconds."

  "Sixty seconds?" said Jazz. "Why are we bailing?"

  "Because it's time to get out. That's my order."

  Dog turned his attention back to the plane. They were thirty miles north of the carrier. He could see one of the aircraft on combat patrol in the distance.

  "Colonel, why are we bailing?" demanded Mack Smith, appearing behind him.

  "I have to stop those planes from taking off," Dog told him. "Go prepare to eject."

  "You're going to crash into the carrier?"

  "I'll bail out at the last minute."

  "Then I'm going with you," said Mack.

  "No."

  "I'm going too," said Cantor, appearing behind him. "I appreciate the sentiment — but get the hell back to your stations."

  "Colonel, Jed Barclay on the Dreamland channel says the U-2 picture shows one of the Tai-shan planes being wheeled into position."

  Dog turned the Megafortress south. "Tell him we have it under control. And then everyone bail out. Bail out!"

  NSC Situation Room,

  Washington, D.C.

  2110, 14 January 1998

  (0710, 15 January, Karachi)

  "The point is very simple, Mr. Premier." President Martindale paused to let the interpreter translate his words for the Chinese leader. "I've just stripped India and Pakistan of their nuclear weapons. I can do the same to China." He looked over at Jed. "Not just those in the Arabian Sea, but all of your weapons. Under those circumstances, some of my people might strongly advise me to end our China problem once and for all."

  Jed glanced at the display from the U-2 near the Deng Xiaoping. The planes were getting ready to take off. Would an order even reach them in time?

  They could physically link the phone conversation through the Dreamland communications network through the Situation Room's communications setup, but they could not get it to the ship. The Wisconsin could not broadcast on regular radio frequencies.

  The Abner Read could. Maybe they could retransmit it over the radio frequencies.

  "Yes, the hawks are extremely strong in my country," President Martindale told the Chinese premier. "A shame. I'm really very powerless against them. Very regrettable."

  Freeman rolled his eyes, and even Martindale winked.

  "Can you broadcast that command immediately? I'll stand by." Martindale cupped his end of the receiver. "He's agreed to rescind the order."

  "I think we can broadcast it from the Abner Read to the carrier," said Jed. "If you can get him to say it over the phone."

  "They may think it's a trick," said Freeman.

  "The Premier is using his own network," said the President. "When he comes back on, I'll suggest it."

  "Let's have the Abner Read broadcast the information in the meantime," suggested Freeman.

  "They've just attacked them," said the President. "They won't trust them at all."

  "What if Colonel Bastian tried talking to them?" said Jed. "He's well-known in China because he saved Beijing from the Taiwan renegades and their nuclear weapon. We might be able to have him communicate through the Abner Read."

  "See if you can do it," said the President.

  Freeman walked to the NSA screens, looking to se
e if the Premier issued the order. "What do we do if he calls your bluff, Mr. President?"

  "Let's hope he doesn't," said Martindale.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0711

  Faced with a mini-mutiny, Dog concentrated on his course. The fact that his radar wasn't working was an advantage in a way — it meant there were no aggressive signs from the aircraft. Sooner or later, however, the Chinese would decide he had to be dealt with.

  They'd undoubtedly used many of their weapons in the earlier battles. The question was what they had left. If he was just facing cannons, Dog thought he'd make it to the deck — as long as he was there to steer it all the way down.

  Dreamland Command told him he was now thirty miles from the carrier — roughly three minutes flying time.

  "All right, crew. This is it. One by one we go out. Mack, you're first."

  "Colonel—"

  "I can't jump if you guys don't jump. We're two minutes from impact. Time to get out. Now!"

  Mack cursed, then Dog heard the pop and whish as he pulled the yellow handles next to his seat.

  One by one the others jumped. Jazz was the last. "Colonel, I'll stay until you're ready."

  "Out, Jazz. We're two minutes from target."

  "I know what you're doing. We don't have the computer, so you need to stay with the plane to guarantee it'll go where you want."

  "Go."

  Dog's voice shook the cockpit. The copilot ejected.

  A J-13 appeared at his side, making hand signals. Dog waved to him.

  "Colonel Bastian?" said Jed Barclay on the Dreamland Command line. "Bastian."

  "Colonel, the Chinese Premier has ordered the carrier to stand down. We want you to relay the order." "How?"

  "We're rigging something through the Abner Read. Just start talking."

  Dog pushed the stick down, starting into a plunge toward the carrier. He was too far from the ship to see the planes, but Jed could via the U-2—he wouldn't be asking him to do this if the planes weren't ready to take off.

  "Colonel?"

  Tracers flew in front of him.