End Game

by Dale Brown

  Zen wheeled himself down the hall to the doctor’s office.

  “Come in, come in,” said Vasin, still wearing his concerned grimace. “How are you feeling?”

  “Bored, actually.”

  “Bored?”

  “Yeah. I’m not used to lying around all day. I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

  “It is good that you were so relaxed.” Vasin raised his head, but kept his eyes fixed on Zen, as if he were looking at him through the bottom half of a pair of bifocals. “Can you tell me about your nightmare?”

  “Ah, it was nothing.”

  “Please.”

  Reluctantly, Zen gave him a quick summary, adding that the dream recurred often.

  “Like this?” asked Vasin.

  “The part with my wife and the fire is different. A little. It started a few days ago.”

  “You’re worrying about your wife?”

  “Not really.”

  He realized it was a lie as the words left his mouth. Breanna wasn’t the sort of woman you worried about. And she’d certainly proven that she could take care of herself. So why was he worried?

  “Yeah, maybe I am. A little.”

  “Are you concerned about walking?” asked Vasin.

  “Sure.”

  The answer seemed to mollify the doctor—but only for a moment.

  “Have you spoken to Dr. Hamm?” asked Vasin.

  “The shrink? Just during the evaluations last week.”

  Vasin grimaced at the word “shrink.” Hamm was a psychologist with a wall of certificates. They’d talked about the obvious: whether Zen wanted to walk again or not.

  Duh.

  “If you feel the need to discuss things, sometimes a specialist will assist you in placing things into context,” said Vasin.

  “OK, thanks,” said Zen. He backed away half a turn of the wheels, then stopped. “Any reprieve on coffee and beer?”

  “No caffeine or alcohol. You feel the need?”

  “Just checking,” said Zen turning to go.

  Drigh Road

  2200

  “NO, MACK, MY POINT IS NOT THAT I DON’T WANT YOU TO FLY. Nor am I relieving you of your assignment.” Dog jabbed his finger in the air as he spoke, underlining each point. “My point is, only two people have been able to handle two Flighthawks at a time in combat—Zen and Starship. In both cases they flew the aircraft in combat for considerable time before handling two.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  Dog could practically see the steam coming off Mack’s head. “I don’t want you launching two planes.”

  “So what the hell are we supposed to do? Leave one home? That’s bullshit, Colonel. What if one goes down?”

  “You bring both. You keep one in reserve. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” His tone would have made a drill sergeant proud.

  “Good,” said Dog, matching it.

  Somehow it seemed easier to deal with people when they were being unreasonable, Dog decided as he walked over to his aircraft.

  AN HOUR LATER DOG CONTACTED STORM, TESTED HIS THEORY and found it wanting. Explaining to the captain what he thought had happened was more frustrating than talking to a wall.

  “It’s that airplane, and the others that you saw like it, that we have to look for,” said Dog. “They’re the key to this. Not a submarine. The submarine doesn’t exist.”

  “Just because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, Bastian.”

  “I didn’t see it, the Indian destroyer didn’t see it, and most importantly, you didn’t see it. You’re telling me the Abner Read would have lost a Kilo. I just can’t believe it.”

  The backhanded compliment mollified Storm slightly. His tone softened infinitesimally as he continued.

  “I could see those aircraft unloading guerrillas for the attack on Port Somalia,” Storm told Dog. “But not carrying a torpedo for hundreds of miles. We don’t even know where they flew from.”

  “Yemen. Iran. Iraq. Somalia. We reposition the Megafortress patrol areas to watch those coastlines. They’ll show up again.”

  “And in the meantime, I don’t have any air cover, and I can’t use Piranha. Because you can’t be in two places at the same time,” added Storm, sarcastically referring to the mission the other night.

  “You have the Werewolves. And my pilot.”

  “What about Piranha? We can’t run that from the ship.”

  Not only did they not have the control unit, but Piranha had to be within fifty miles of one of its control buoys to feed data, so that even if the Abner Read did have one, the robot would be of limited value.

  “We’ll put the probe into autonomous sleep mode until we need her again,” suggested Dog. “We’ll park her out there.”

  “We still need her now. We need to find that submarine.”

  “Storm, you’re obsessing about a submarine that’s not there.”

  “You don’t understand submarine warfare, Bastian. This is what happens when you deal with a good sub and crew. You’re never really sure they even exist.”

  “You have to agree the plane is suspicious.”

  “Find it, then—but keep Piranha in operation on the search grids my people direct.”

  Dog killed the link before he said something he would regret.

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  11 January 1998

  0400

  THE PAKISTANI TANKER WAS TWENTY MILES AWAY, TOO FAR TO be seen with even the best pair of binoculars. But in the Shiva’s combat control center, the tanker could be viewed from every conceivable angle, thanks to the two Sukhoi fighters and a helicopter flying near the tanker. The helicopter sent back live infrared video, which was displayed on a large television at the front of the combat control center.

  To Memon, the combat center looked overwhelmingly chaotic and sounded even worse, with officers and enlisted personnel nearly shouting in an undecipherable patois. But he realized the tumult was actually highly organized, and that the singing voices were a sign that things were going well. The sound one did not want to hear as action approached, the admiral said, was silence.

  “When will we attack?” Memon asked Captain Bhaskar, the ship’s executive officer.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time for your questions, Mr. Memon. I have work here.”

  He turned and walked toward the radar section, Memon’s eyes burning a hole in his back.

  “The marines will take off in twenty minutes,” said a lieutenant who was standing nearby. He was tasked to maintain communications with the ship boarding team; Memon could not remember his first name but resolved to find a way to help him in the future. “Two Sea King helicopters. We’ll see their positions on this screen here. They will be accompanied by a Mk42B with Sea Eagle missiles.”

  The Mk42B was a special version of the Sea King helicopter equipped with antiship missiles and special search radar. All of the Sea Kings were variants of the Sikorsky SH-3 built by Westland; in America, the originals were known as Sea Kings, with an Air Force version called the Jolly Green Giant.

  “When the aircraft are airborne,” continued the lieutenant, “the admiral will give the tanker the order to stop and be boarded. The marines will secure the ship and the search will begin. The divers will arrive in a second wave, once the tanker is secured. No inch of the tanker will be left unexamined.”

  “And if they launch a torpedo at us in the meantime?”

  “We will be at safe distance and detect it instantly. The decoys will be launched to detonate it a mile from the ship. The hull of this ship is considerably better protected than the Calcutta, and even if we were to be struck, we would survive. And the tanker will be dealt with mercilessly. The jaws of hell will receive it.”

  “Yes,” said Memon. “That would be most appropriate.”

  Aboard the Levitow,

  taking off from Drigh Road

  0412

  MACK FELT THE MEGAFORTRESS LIFT UP ABRUPTLY
BENEATH him as it came off the runway. Somehow being a passenger made him feel out of sorts. It wasn’t just that there was no way to anticipate the tugs and pulls of flight properly. It was the fact that you were just along for the ride, like you were a passenger in a bus. And who wanted to be in a bus?

  He was still sore at Bastian for demanding that he fly only one plane at a time. That seemed ridiculously cautious. The argument that only Starship and Zen had handled two in combat was ridiculous; the same could have been said about them before they did it. He’d done fine on his last sortie.

  However, he would follow his master’s orders. No sense going against the old graybeard, especially with his daughter at the helm of the plane. She’d be tattling in no time.

  Mack shared the Flighthawk control compartment with Ensign Gloria English, who would be taking over as Piranha pilot once they reached their station. The ensign was a Navy girl; he didn’t hold that against her, but unfortunately her face could sink a thousand ships. Even though she had literally nothing to do for the next two hours, English was busy at her station, examining previous mission tapes.

  “Levitow to Flighthawk leader. Mack, we’re climbing through ten thousand feet,” said Breanna a short time later. “You’re going to want to start getting ready.”

  “You don’t have to tell me my job, Captain,” snapped Mack. “I have it under control.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Flight plan calls for a launch in ten minutes. We’ll be over international waters—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the drill.”

  SAME OLD MACK, BREANNA THOUGHT AS SHE PREPARED THE Megafortress for the Flighthawk launch. He’d seemed a little more mature over the past few months, but bad cream always curdled in the end.

  “Captain, we have two Sukhoi Su-33s orbiting directly to the west, fifty miles,” reported Stewart. “Flying at twelve thousand feet. One helicopter as well. Additional aircraft from the south—three helicopters. All aircraft are Indian.”

  “Where are they coming from?”

  “Believe the Indian warship to the south,” said Stewart, tapping the configurable display in front of her. Data from the surface and airborne radars were forwarded to her station when they were operating, giving her a much longer-range view than normal.

  “Ship on the surface,” added Stewart. “Oil tanker.”

  “Flighthawk leader, be advised we have a pair of Indian Sukhois ahead,” Breanna told Mack.

  “Yeah, I see them on the sitrep.”

  “Let’s go ahead and launch,” said Breanna. “Get Hawk Three off the wing before we get too close.”

  “Yeah, roger. Let ’er rip.”

  Aboard the Shiva,

  northern Arabian Sea

  0430

  MEMON WATCHED THE OIL TANKER ON THE SCREEN IN THE combat center. The image was blurred and shadowy, but one thing was clear—the tanker was not stopping. The helicopter with the antiship missiles and its two companions with the marine boarding party were now less than two miles away.

  Memon had donned a headset that allowed him to switch into the different radio channels being used during the mission. He listened now as the admiral repeated his warning.

  “You are ordered to halt your ship. If you do not stop and allow yourself to be boarded, you will be sunk. Those are your alternatives.”

  There was a flurry of activity to Memon’s right. An airplane coming from the vicinity of Pakistan had been picked up on radar about fifty miles away. Two of their planes were going to meet it.

  The voices spiked with excitement—something had flared from below the plane.

  A missile launch!

  Memon’s stomach tightened. The treacherous Pakistanis had lured them into a trap.

  The voices calmed—the plane was identified as an American Megafortress, bound for the Indian Ocean near Africa. It had launched a small robot aircraft, not a missile.

  “You look disappointed,” said Captain Bhaskar.

  Memon pulled off his headset. “How’s that?”

  “You want a battle, don’t you?”

  “I don’t run from conflict. We must not be intimidated.”

  As Bhaskar frowned, one of the officers behind him announced that Admiral Kala had just given the order to stop the tanker.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0432

  “TANKER BEING TARGETED!” SAID STEWART, PRACTICALLY shouting. “The helicopter is going to fire—Sea Eagle antiship missile, active radar.”

  “Jam it,” Breanna told her copilot.

  “Captain—”

  “Jam the guidance radar, now. Full ECM suite,” said Breanna. She put her hand on the throttle glide, urging more speed from the Megafortress. “Hawk Three—be advised Indian helicopters are firing on the oil tanker.”

  “Roger that. I see it. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just stay close.”

  “I’m hugging you,” said Mack.

  Breanna reached to the communications panel. But before she could tell Colonel Bastian what was going on, Stewart reported that the ECMs were on.

  “They’re firing anyway,” added the copilot. “We’re not optimized for weapons like that.”

  Breanna hit the preset on the communications panel so she could broadcast on the UHF frequency universally used for emergencies.

  “This is Dreamland Levitow to Indian helicopters. Why are you firing on an unarmed civilian vessel?”

  “First missile missed,” said Stewart. “They’re going to try again.”

  “Where are the Sukhois?”

  “A mile and a half south. Aircraft carrier—bear with me,” said Stewart, struggling to sort out the alerts and icons that were flashing on her screen. “Ship-to-ship—they have a targeting system for SS-N-12 Sandbox antiship missile. Surface-to-air. Short-range—um, SA-N-4 Gecko. Guns.”

  The SA-N-4 was a Russian-built short-range antiaircraft missile. Guided by radar, it was not a threat to the Megafortress as long as she stayed above sixteen thousand feet. The guns—they would be 30mm antiaircraft cannon—were likewise not a threat.

  “SS-11—Grisons,” added Stewart. “That’s it.”

  “Also short-range. All right. Concentrate on the Su-33s,” Breanna told her copilot.

  Also known to NATO as CADS-1, Dagger and Chestnut Tree, the SS-11 Grisson was a close-in weapons system and was not a problem at present. The Sukhois were the real threat, though Breanna was confident she could handle them.

  “Wisconsin, this is Levitow,” said Breanna, clicking into the Dreamland Command communications channel.

  “More missiles!” warned Stewart.

  “Continue ECMs,” said Breanna. Even if the electronic countermeasures confused the targeting radar, eventually whoever was piloting the helicopter would simply get close enough to hit the tanker without guidance. It was a pretty big target and it would be hard to miss.

  “Breanna?” said Colonel Bastian, coming on the screen.

  “We have a situation here—Indian helicopter firing missiles at an oil tanker. There are Sukhois—other helicopters. I can’t let them kill civilians.”

  “Stand by.”

  “Sukhois are changing course,” warned Stewart.

  “Hawk Three—Mack, we have their attention.”

  “Good.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  off the coast of Somalia

  0435

  BASTIAN’S VOICE BOOMED IN STORM’S EAR AS HE SWITCHED into the channel.

  “Indian aircraft are attacking a Pakistani oil tanker,” said Dog. “One of our aircraft is in the vicinity.”

  Typical Dreamland, thought Storm. Always getting their bull necks into the middle of a firefight.

  “Explain it to me simply, Bastian.”

  “I just did. The aircraft is Dreamland Levitow, an EB-52 with Captain Stockard in command. You can speak to her directly on the Dreamland Command line.”

  Captain Stockard—aka Breanna Bastian Stockard. A
chip off the old renegade, trouble-seeking block.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. He had one of his radio operators make the hookup. In seconds he had the pilot on the line. “This is Captain Gale. What’s going on?”

  “A helicopter gunship launched two radar-guided missiles at a civilian oil tanker. We’ve blocked them with our ECMs but they’re maneuvering for another shot. Two Sukhoi jets changing course to intercept us.”

  “Indians?”

  “Roger that.”

  Storm knew the aircraft must be from the Shiva, India’s new, so-called superweapon.

  “Don’t interfere,” said Storm. He could just imagine what Admiral Johnson would do to him if he got into a pissing match with the Indians.

  Not that he wouldn’t mind taking the Shiva down a few notches.

  “Stand down, Captain,” he told Breanna. “We’re not at war with the Indians.”

  “This is a civilian ship—”

  “What part of ‘stand down’ do you not understand?”

  “Can I defend myself?”

  “Get your butt out of there.”

  “Yes, sir,” she snapped, and the connection died.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0435

  MACK CHANGED COURSE, BRINGING THE FLIGHTHAWK TEN miles ahead of the Megafortress, on a direct line with the mother ship’s nose. The two Sukhoi Flankers were forty-five miles ahead, flying abreast of each other, one on his left wing and one on his right. They were climbing at a good pace, but both Mack and the Megafortress were more than ten thousand feet above them.

  “Weapons ID’d on Sukhois,” said Stewart, passing along information that had been gleaned from the Megafortress sensors. “Air-to-surface missiles, long- and short-range. Only air defense weapons are Archer heat seekers; four apiece.”

  The Archers were short-range weapons, similar—some said superior—to the American Sidewinder.

  C3’s tactics section offered up a suggestion—fly north, tackle the bogey there, then hit number two.

  “Yeah, like number two is going to be stupid enough to suck his thumb while I’m zeroing out his buddy,” Mack told the computer mockingly.

  “Dreamland Levitow to Flighthawk leader—Mack, we’re going to cut north.”

  “Levitow, tell you what—I’m going to take Bogey One,” said Mack, using the ID on the screen. “Suggest you pound Two with a Scorpion missile.”