End Game

by Dale Brown

  And now they seemed to be losing contact.

  “Has to be some sort of bizarre glitch in the computer because of the shallow depth and the geometry of the sea bottom nearby,” insisted Eyes. “Maybe it’s an echo.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Storm.

  “I know.”

  Eyes recognized the tone. It meant—not everything works in the real world the way it’s drawn up on the engineering charts, Captain.

  Still, he was convinced his people were right.

  So what did that mean?

  That either he was looking at four submarines—four very quiet submarines—that no one else in the world had heard before, or that he was being suckered by some sort of camouflaging device.

  Like an underwater robot trailing behind the submarine, throwing up a smoke screen.

  The problem with that was that decoys normally made a lot more noise. These contacts were almost silent.

  “We have mechanical noises in the water,” said Eyes. “We’re having some trouble picking up the sounds, though, because of that tanker.”

  “Explosion?”

  “Negative.”

  “Torpedoes?”

  “Negative. He may have some sort of problem. He may be using the tanker to turn around and check behind him, just as we theorized, Storm. He’s done everything we thought he would, just slower.”

  “We didn’t think he’d split himself into four equal parts.”

  “You really think we’re chasing four submarines?”

  Storm folded his arms in front of his chest. The truth was, they’d had all sorts of glitches with their equipment from the moment they’d left port. It was to be expected—the gear was brand new and the bugs had to be worked out.

  “Airforce find anything on that tanker?” asked Storm.

  “Negative. Tanker checks out. They do a run down to South Africa from Iran. Goes back and forth every couple of weeks.”

  “Let’s give the submariner a few more minutes to make a mistake,” said Storm. “Then we’ll turn on the active sonar. At least we’ll find out how many of him we’re chasing.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  Off the coast of Somalia

  0208

  CAPTAIN SATTARI WAS THE NEXT TO LAST MAN OUT OF THE small submarine. The small interior smelled so horribly he nearly retched as he grabbed hold of the rope guideline and jumped onto the narrow metal gangway at the side of the hull.

  “Captain Sattari! Ship’s commander needs to see you right away,” said the sailor leaning toward him at the end of the decking. “He’s on the bridge, sir. He asks you to hurry.”

  Sattari glanced back as he entered the doorway at the side. Two other submarines had arrived; one was starting to unload and the other was just being secured.

  The sailor ran ahead. Sattari did his best to keep up. Not familiar with the ship, he knocked his shin as he went through one of the compartments to the ladder that led to the bridge.

  “We have an American warship behind us,” said the ship’s captain when he reached the deck. “He’s sent a helicopter to circle us. He may be tracking the submarines with passive sonar.”

  “Do we have all the subs?”

  “The fourth still has not come inside. I believe he is within a half kilometer at this point, or perhaps closer. I thought it best not to use the sonar.”

  “You’re sure these are Americans?”

  “Quite sure. The ship identified itself as the Abner Read. Devil’s Tail.”

  The American littoral destroyer had made quite a name for itself in the Gulf of Aden in the few months it had been there. But it rarely ventured to the eastern end of the gulf, and Sattari had not seen it during his earlier scouting missions.

  Beside the point now. It was here.

  Discovery by the Americans would be catastrophic. Even if the Americans left them alone for the moment—and really, why would they help the Indians?—they would be on the lookout for his midget submarines in the future. It was one thing to evade the Indians and even the Chinese; quite another to have to deal with an American dragnet.

  Not that he did not relish the day he would face them in combat. He welcomed the chance to avenge the defeat they had dealt his father.

  “Can you launch the decoy once Boat Four is aboard?” Sattari asked.

  “With them this close, I would think it highly likely they would realize where it came from.”

  “Turn on the sonar as the submarine comes into the ship,” said Sattari.

  “The sonar?”

  “For a brief moment. Then drop the decoy. Continue on as if nothing has happened.”

  “As you wish, Captain.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  off the coast of Somalia

  0215

  “SHARK GILL SONAR! DEAD AHEAD—HE MUST BE RIGHT UNDER that oil tanker!” Eyes’s voice was so loud Storm thought he would’ve heard him without the com set.

  “Excellent,” said Storm, though in truth he felt disappointed. Shark Gill was the NATO code word for the sonar used in Russian Kilo-class submarines. Most likely he had been trailing a Russian boat that had managed to evade the fleet—not the commandos, since Russia and India were allies.

  “See if the captain of the tanker would honor a request to move off to the west,” said Storm. “Tell him that our helicopter has been tracking some mines in the area—get him scared and get him out of there.”

  “The sub may follow.”

  “I doubt he’ll make it that easy for us, now that he knows we’re here,” said Storm. “Turn on our active sonar as well—let’s make sure he knows precisely how close to him we are.”

  Off the coast of Somalia

  0216

  SERGEANT IBN CAME UP TO THE BRIDGE TO REPORT TO SATTARI while the tanker captain was talking to the Americans.

  “All our men are back. No losses. Mission accomplished,” said the sergeant, his face as grim as ever.

  “The success of the mission is entirely yours,” Sattari told him. “You trained everyone superbly—I for one benefited greatly from your drills.”

  The sergeant turned beet red, then bent his head.

  Had Sattari mistaken shyness for skepticism? No, he thought; Ibn—and most likely the others—were wary of an unproven commander whose experience was entirely in the cockpit. They must have felt, and with some justification, that he had only gotten his position because of his father, who still had some influence with the government. Or else they thought the entire scheme of equipping a special operations group with gear and machines any civilian—any rich civilian—could buy was preposterous.

  They would not think so now.

  Ibn remained at attention.

  “Relax, Sergeant,” Sattari told him. “See to the men.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Was there more respect in his voice? Less doubt?

  Perhaps. But more important, Sattari felt sure of himself. He had done it; he had succeeded. Tonight was only the start.

  “The Americans want us to go west,” the tanker captain told him. “They say they have spotted some mines.”

  Had he not been so tired, Sattari would have burst out laughing.

  “Comply. Make as much noise as you can.”

  “The decoy will begin chattering any moment now.”

  “That’s fine,” said Sattari. “They will think the submarine launched it. Combined with the sonar they heard—they won’t be able to piece the different parts together.”

  The ship’s commander was a short, sinewy man who had somehow managed to keep his face clear of wrinkles despite having spent his life at sea. He looked at Sattari as if he didn’t understand, and the commando leader felt compelled to explain further.

  “You see,” Sattari said, “these Americans are clever people. They love puzzles, and they love to piece them together. In this case, the fact that the pieces don’t fit will confuse them. Their instincts will be to press ahead and attack. They will realize it’s a decoy soon en
ough, then they will look for the submarine in earnest.”

  “You speak of the Americans as if you know them very well,” said the ship’s captain.

  “I speak from unfortunate experience.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  off the coast of Somalia

  0218

  “SHIP IS TURNING TO PORT. I WOULDN’T SAY THEY’RE BURNING up the ocean,” reported Starship.

  “Take a run over them. Make sure they see you.”

  “Have to be blind not to,” said Starship. But he did as he was told, moving the Werewolf down toward the tanker. Again he passed so close that he could see a man on the ladder of the superstructure. Again he felt a chill and a moment of premonition, sure he was going to be shot down.

  I’m not even on the stinkin’ helicopter, he reminded himself as he circled away, unfired on. Relax.

  “WE HAVE A DECOY IN THE WATER,” EYES TOLD STORM. “Loud. Imposter.”

  Imposter was a nickname for a Russian MG-74 decoy, a versatile torpedo-tube-launched noisemaker that could employ a variety of techniques to confuse a tracking ship, including jamming sonar and simulating the sound of a large submarine.

  “You have a contact with the sub that launched it?”

  “Negative. We didn’t hear the tube flood or launch, either. Tubes could have been open for a while. Not adding up, Captain. Now we don’t have any contacts at all.”

  “Nothing!”

  “I know, I know,” said Eyes quickly. “We’re looking, Storm. I don’t know why we can’t find it.”

  This was the point in the chase where a hunter had to be patient; sooner or later the prey would make a mistake and give himself away. No matter how clever—and the captain of the submarine had proven himself quite clever—he would eventually slip.

  The problem was, Storm was not a patient man. He stared at the holographic display, trying to puzzle out where his adversary had gone.

  “You’re sure he’s not trailing that tanker?”

  “Negative.”

  Oh my God, thought Storm, what if he managed to get underneath us?

  Impossible.

  But a logical explanation.

  “Change course—hard to starboard,” he shouted to the helmsman behind him on the bridge. “Eyes—make sure the SOB isn’t hiding right beneath us or in our wake somehow.”

  STARSHIP SKIPPED OVER THE WAVES, STARING AT THE INFRARED feed and trying not to let it burn through his eyes. There was nothing on the surface of the water—no periscope, no radio mast, no nothing.

  Navy guys stared at the sea all the time, and claimed to love it. How sick was that?

  THE SUBMARINE WASN’T UNDER THEM. BUT NEITHER WAS IT anywhere in the five mile grid they marked out in the ocean as its most likely location, nor in the wider circle that Storm had the ship patrol after the grid proved empty.

  They’d been beaten. And the worst thing was, Storm didn’t even know who had done it.

  A hard-ass Russian submarine captain in a Kilo, who’d wandered close to Port Somalia by accident and then thought it best to get away before he got blamed?

  Or the captain of a submarine who had in fact picked up the saboteurs and scooted clean away?

  “All right,” he growled into his microphone. “Eyes—we’re going to have to call off the search. We can’t stay here forever.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  Storm’s anger flashed as the command was passed and the crew began to move, tacitly accepting defeat. His right hand formed into a fist but he restrained himself from pounding the bulkhead.

  He thought of that later, in his cabin, when he stared at the ceiling instead of sleeping. It was a measure of how much he had changed in the months since the fight with the Somalian pirates.

  Whether it was a change for the better, he couldn’t tell.

  Las Vegas University of Medicine,

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  5 January 1998

  1723

  THE DAY’S WORTH OF TESTS WERE MOSTLY VARIATIONS ON ones Zen had already gone through before Christmas. He was injected with a series of dyes and then X-rayed and scanned, prodded and listened to. The technical staff took a stack of X-rays, MRIs, and ultrasounds. Then they hooked him up to a machine that measured nerve impulses. This involved inserting needles into various parts of his body. The doctors had done this several days before. Now they inserted more, and left them in for nearly two hours.

  He didn’t feel the ones in his legs, but he did get a prickly sensation in his neck when they were inserted along his upper back. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but lying there was more difficult than he had imagined.

  “Done,” said Dr. Vasin finally. Two aides came over and helped Zen sit up.

  “So I can walk now?”

  “Jeff.”

  “Hey, Doc, loosen up. Just a joke.” Zen pushed his arms back. His muscles had stiffened. “Tomorrow I go under the knife, right?”

  “Laser, and then the injections. Bright and early, but listen—”

  “I know. No guarantees.”

  “This is a really long process, Jeff. And I have to be honest, brutally honest—”

  “Ten percent chance. I know.”

  “Ten percent is very optimistic,” said Vasin.

  “It’s OK. I understand.”

  “Operation one is tomorrow. The procedure itself is relatively simple, but of course it is a procedure. No food after seven P.M., just in case we have to put you out.”

  “Beer’s not food, right?”

  “Not after seven. And for the duration of the test period, alcohol and coffee are forbidden.”

  “Well, there goes the bender I was planning. Don’t worry, Doc,” added Zen, “I’m just joking.”

  Needles and sensors removed, Zen got dressed and wheeled himself out into the hallway. He headed toward the lounge area, where he could call for a taxi before taking the elevator down. He was surprised to see Breanna waiting for him.

  “Bree?”

  “You called for a taxi?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Like I said—need a taxi?”

  “I thought you were snowed in.”

  “I shoveled the runway myself.”

  She leaned over and kissed him. Zen grabbed her around the neck and hugged her, surprising himself at how much he missed her.

  “Everything all right?”

  “I feel like a pincushion. Other than that, I’m fine.” He thought of telling her about the dream but decided not to. It would fade, eventually.

  “Operation still on for tomorrow?”

  “Not much of an operation,” he told her. “They just inject me with crap. Don’t even knock me out.”

  “Crap,” she said sarcastically.

  “Let’s go grab something to eat, OK? I’m fasting from seven P.M. After that, no food until tomorrow night. I want to have a beer. I can’t have any during the two weeks of injections. No coffee, either.”

  “No beer or coffee? You sure this is worth it?” Breanna laughed.

  “Hope so.”

  II

  Impossible!

  Navy Ministry Building,

  New Delhi, India

  6 January 1998

  0900

  DEPUTY DEFENSE MINISTER ANIL MEMON STARED AT THE table, trying to master his rage as India’s Prime Minister continued to speak about the need for a “measured response” to the latest provocation. The minister claimed that there was no obvious link between the attack at Port Somalia and the Pakistanis—an absurd claim in Memon’s opinion. Memon knew that he should hold his tongue, but finally he could not.

  “Who else would have launched the attack?” he said. “Who else has connections to these pirates?”

  “We have no proof of connections,” said the Prime Minister.

  “They are Muslims. What other proof do you wish?” Memon ignored the disapproving stare from his boss, Defense Minister Pita Skandar. “They will attack again and again. They will strike our ships. They do no
t wish to see us prosper. Anyone who does not realize that is a fool.”

  “You haven’t proven your case,” said the Prime Minister.

  “How many of my sailors must die before you consider it proven?” said Memon.

  “They are my sailors too, Deputy Minister,” said the Prime Minister, his anger finally rising. “More mine than yours.”

  “Then let us act. Mobilize. Send the new carrier to blockade the Pakistani ports.”

  “My deputy speaks with passion,” said Minister Skandar softly. “Take into account that he is young.”

  “I assumed he spoke for you,” said the Prime Minister.

  “He goes further than I. I would not block the Pakistani ports quite yet. But the Shiva should set out immediately. Its trials are complete. We must show that we are resolved.”

  The Prime Minister nodded, then turned to the Chief of the Naval Staff for his opinion. The discussion continued for a few minutes more, but Skandar’s recommendations had clearly set the course, and within a half hour the meeting concluded.

  Memon, feeling defeated and frustrated, sat in his seat as the others began filing out. When he finally rose, Skandar touched his sleeve, signaling that he should stay. Cheeks flushing, Memon sat back down.

  “You win no points by being too fiery in the cabinet room,” said Skandar.

  “The Muslims must be behind this,” said Memon. “They are the only ones who benefit. The intelligence services simply are inept in gathering evidence.”

  “We must examine everything in context.”

  A large man, with a shaved head and an emotionless smile, Skandar appeared almost godlike. But of late Memon had begun to wonder if the man generally referred to as the “Admiral” was simply old. Not quite thirty years before, he had distinguished himself as a young officer in charge of a raiding party in the 1971 war with Pakistan. Promotions quickly followed. In time, Skandar became the head of the Naval Staff, the highest uniform post in the navy.

  In 1994, Skandar retired to run for congress. Winning election easily, he had been asked to join the Prime Minister’s government as the Defense minister. The old admiral at first demurred, but soon was persuaded that he could do much to help the services.

  Memon had been among those who helped persuade him. The admiral’s “price” for agreeing was that Memon would join him as deputy minister. He’d done so, despite the fact that he had hoped for his own minister’s portfolio. Like many other young Indians, he saw Skandar as the one man in the government with enough stature to bring India’s military into the twenty-first century.