End Game

by Dale Brown

  Sattari picked up his oar and began helping the others, each stroke pushing them farther out to sea.

  There was an aircraft nearby; he heard the loud drone, something like a helicopter, or two perhaps, very close.

  “The sub is there, she’s there,” said one of the men, spotting a blinking light in the distance.

  “Strong strokes!” said Sattari. “We are almost home, men.”

  It was a wildly optimistic lie—they had another thirty-six hours of submerged sailing to do before reaching their next rendezvous—but the men responded with a flurry of strokes.

  Aboard the Shiva,

  northern Arabian Sea

  0314

  “A HUGE FIREBALL—I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE. SOMEONE must have set the entire oil terminal on fire.”

  Memon watched the admiral as the pilot’s report continued over the loudspeaker.

  “The Pakistanis have set their oil tanks on fire as an excuse to attack us,” Memon told the admiral when the report ended. “We should strike before the Chinese can.”

  “Our orders say to do nothing to provoke the Chinese,” said Captain Bhaskar. “Admiral Skandar himself directed us to withdraw.”

  “The hell with Skandar—he’s not here.”

  “You’re supposed to be representing him, aren’t you?” said Adri.

  Memon pressed his lips together. Captain Adri was nothing but a coward. “The circumstances have changed. If Admiral Skandar were here, he would order the attack himself.”

  “Aircraft from the Deng Xiaoping have changed course and are heading in our direction,” reported the radar officer.

  “Will we wait until their missiles hit us to fire back?” Memon asked.

  “Prepare for missile launch,” said the admiral. “Air commander—shoot those fighters down.”

  Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

  near the Karachi oil terminal

  0315

  DANNY GRABBED HOLD OF ONE OF THE RESTRAINING STRAPS at the side of the Osprey as the aircraft wheeled around to head toward the terminal. The pilots had flipped on the Osprey’s searchlights, but the towering flames from the explosion were more than enough to illuminate the facility and surrounding water. The force of the explosion probably meant that at least one of the two liquefied natural gas tanks at the terminal had been detonated. Geysers of flame shot up, as if competing with each other for brilliance.

  Danny reached to the back of his smart helmet and hit the circuit to tie into the Dreamland Command channel.

  “Danny Freah for Colonel Bastian. Colonel?”

  The software smart agent that controlled the communications channels buzzed the colonel, whose voice soon boomed in Danny’s ear.

  “What’s going on?”

  “An attack on the Karachi port oil terminal. Big attack—has to be sabotage. My bet is that submarine we were looking for wasn’t Pakistani at all.”

  “Stand by, Danny.”

  The Osprey drew parallel to the conflagration, then veered away, the fire and secondary explosions so intense that the pilot feared for his aircraft.

  “Danny, we’re going to swing Levitow over that way to use its radar to search for periscopes,” said Dog. “In the meantime, search the immediate area for small boats, anything that might be used by a spec-op team to get away. You know the drill. And if you see any survivors who need help—”

  “Yeah, we’re on that, Colonel,” Danny told him, moving forward to confer with the pilots.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0317

  “COMING TO NEW COURSE,” BREANNA TOLD STEWART. “WE should be within visual range of the terminal in less than five minutes.”

  “Roger that,” said Stewart.

  Breanna heard a tremble in her copilot’s voice. There wasn’t much she could do about it now, so she ignored it, quickly checking the panels on the configurable “dashboard” in front of her.

  “Piranha to Levitow,” said Ensign English over the interphone. “Captain, I’ve put the Piranha into a circle pattern around our last buoy. The Chinese submarine is twenty miles from the buoy. At most, we have an hour before we’ll lose contact.”

  “Roger that, Piranha. Thanks, Gloria. That vessel did not launch or have any contact with the one we’ve been trailing?”

  “Affirmative. We would have heard it. These are two unrelated boats.”

  The radar warning receiver began buzzing. Without waiting for her copilot, Breanna hit a preset to display the threat panel at her station. One of the Chinese escort vessels had activated the targeting radar for its antiaircraft batteries. They were outside its effective range, though of course that might not keep them from firing.

  “Jan—ECMS,” said Breanna, deciding not to take any chances.

  “ECMS, yes. Communication on the guard frequency,” added the copilot. “All aircraft are being warned to stay away from the Chinese fleet or be shot down.”

  “How far away?”

  “Not specific. Pakistanis are declaring an emergency—they’re saying the same thing.”

  “To us?”

  “Um, not specifically.”

  “J-13s heading our way,” broke in the airborne radar operator.

  “All right, everyone, let’s take this step by step,” Breanna told her crew. “We’re proceeding on course to look for a possible submarine. Be prepared for evasive maneuvers. We will defend ourselves if necessary.”

  “Indian aircraft are approaching Chinese task force at a high rate of speed!” said the radar operator, shouting now. “Two J-13s going to meet them. They’re gunning for each other, Bree.”

  The radar warning receiver lit up with a new threat—a Pakistani antiaircraft battery northeast of Karachi was trying to get a fix on them. The missiles associated with the radar were American Hawks, early generation antiaircraft weapons still potent against low and medium altitude aircraft out to about twenty-five miles. The weapons’ aim could be disrupted with a specific ECM program stored in the Megafortress’s computer; they represented a low threat. Even so, the sky was starting to get a bit crowded.

  “Jan, see if you can get word to the PAF that we’re a friendly. Broadcast an alert—see if you can make contact with one of their patrols.”

  “F-16s scrambling in our direction,” answered Stewart.

  Crowded indeed. “Surface radar—Smitty, you have any periscopes yet?”

  “Looking, Captain.”

  “J-13s are goosing their jets,” said Stewart. “They’ll be within range to fire their missiles in zero-one minutes.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the western Arabian Sea

  0317

  “INDIAN AND CHINESE PLANES ARE MIXING IT UP, COLONEL,” said T-Bone. “This is going to get ugly fast.”

  Dog hit the preset to connect with the Abner Read. “Eyes, this is Bastian. The Indian and Chinese aircraft are firing at each other. There may be an attack under way against that Chinese carrier.”

  Storm came on the line. “Get your aircraft out of there,” he told Dog. “Stay just close enough to get radar pictures of what’s going on if you can. But if there’s any doubt—”

  “The contact we had earlier must have been some sort of special operations craft that dropped off commandos,” Dog continued. “If you want us to look for it—”

  “Pull back, Bastian. For your own good. I don’t want any casualties. They’re not worth it.”

  “Roger that,” Dog told him.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the western Arabian Sea

  0318

  MACK CONTINUED TO CLIMB, PULLING THE FLIGHTHAWK FIVE thousand feet over the Megafortress’s tail. The Flighthawk’s threat panel showed that the two J-13s were armed with Chinese versions of the radar-guided AMRAAMski. He’d make his attack as the first plane closed to nineteen miles; if he played it right, he would be able to jerk back and take a quick shot at the other, which was riding about a quarter mile behind and to the east. And i
f he played it wrong, Breanna would still have some space to take evasive action.

  Played it wrong?

  He had to admit it was a possibility.

  “Hawk Three, we’re under orders to break contact with the Chinese and Indian forces,” said Breanna. “We’re breaking off the search.”

  “Repeat?”

  “I’m changing course and going north, Mack. Stay with me.”

  “Don’t worry about these guys,” Mack told her. “I’ll dust them.”

  “Negative, Mack,” said Breanna. “Stay with me!”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0318

  “CAN WE SEND ONE OF THOSE FLIGHTHAWKS CLOSE ENOUGH to the Chinese fleet to get infrared images?” asked Eyes. “This an intelligence bonanza. If these idiots are stupid enough to fight each other, we might as well benefit.”

  Storm thought that was an excellent idea—except that as Bastian was fond of pointing out, the Flighthawks had to stay close to the Megafortresses, and they had to stay a good distance away from the Chinese or risk getting shot down.

  But he had an asset that could get as close as he wanted it to. Best of all, he didn’t have to deal with Bastian’s people to get it done.

  Or maybe more accurately, the person who he had to talk to no longer belonged to Bastian.

  “Eyes, get the second Werewolf airborne. I’m going to talk to Airforce personally,” Storm added, flipping into the communications channel. “Starship? You hear me?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Listen carefully, Airforce. Take Werewolf One and head toward the Indian task force. I want pictures of that carrier and everything it does. Get Two airborne and hustle it over toward the Chinese. Same thing there.”

  “That’s going to leave us naked.”

  “Do I have to explain every single detail of what I’m thinking to you, son?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean no. Werewolf One en route.”

  Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

  near the Karachi oil terminal

  0320

  “HEY, CAP, IS THAT A WAKE DOWN THERE? SOME SORT OF wave?” said Boston, pointing out the window.

  Danny went to the left side of the aircraft and peered out at the water about twelve feet below.

  “I’m not sure what you’re looking at, Boston.”

  “Let’s get lower. Can we get lower?”

  Before Danny could hit the interphone line on the communications system to talk to the pilots, the Osprey veered sharply to his right.

  “Chinese aircraft is challenging us, and trying to lock with weapons radar,” said the pilot. “I have to get out of here.”

  “Go ahead, go!” Danny told him. And before the word was out of his mouth, the Osprey had settled her tilt-rotors and jerked back toward shore.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0321

  BREANNA ACKNOWLEDGED THE KARACHI TOWER’S INSTRUCTIONS, telling the Pakistani flight controller that they were clearing out of its airspace. The transmission was overrun by a radio call from another group of aircraft.

  “Dreamland Levitow, this is Whiplash leader,” said Danny on the Dreamland channel.

  “Levitow.”

  “Bree, we’re being targeted by some Chinese aircraft.”

  Breanna glanced at the sitrep. The Levitow was thirty miles due west of Karachi, over Pakistan. Whiplash Osprey was three miles south of the city, close to the oil terminal. Apparently the J-13s that had been following them had broken off once the Megafortress changed course. They were now approaching the Osprey.

  “Hang on, Danny,” she said, jerking the control stick to turn the big aircraft around. “Cavalry’s on its way.”

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0321

  THE FIRST MISSILE LEFT THE SHIVA WITH A THUNK AND HISS, steam furrowing from the rear. Two more quickly followed. The missiles seemed to stutter in the sky, as if unsure of where they were going, but their noses straightened as they reached the black edge of the night beyond the darkened ship. All three were P-700 Granits—known to NATO as SS-N-19 Shipwrecks. The Russian-designed weapons were potent, long-range cruise missiles with thousand-kilogram explosive warheads.

  Memon watched as their shadows disappeared, oblivious to the chaos behind him. The carrier was simultaneously maneuvering to launch another set of fighters and to fire a round of missiles. These were P-120 Malakhits, better known as SS-N-9 Sirens. The weapons required mid-course guidance to strike their target; this would be provided by a data link with a specially designated Su-33.

  “The Chinese aircraft are attempting to lock their weapons radars on us!” warned one of the officers on the bridge.

  Memon felt himself strangely at peace. India’s new age was beginning; the future held great promise.

  Northern Arabian Sea,

  offshore of the Karachi oil terminal

  0323

  CAPTAIN SATTARI GRIPPED THE SEAT RESTRAINT AS THE SUBMARINE sank. At every second, he expected an attack. The Parvaneh was not armored at all; a few bullets through the hull would cause serious damage.

  “There are many aircraft above,” the submarine captain told him. “It may be difficult to take the course as planned.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We move farther offshore, and remain submerged for a few hours before proceeding. The nearby ships will launch a search, you see. The more we move, the easier we will be to find.”

  The other submarines were already moving toward the rendezvous point. If they waited, they might miss them and the A-40 that was to pick them up in two days.

  “No,” said Sattari. “The chaos will help us escape. The Indians and Chinese will be concerned with each other. Allah is with us. Let us place ourselves in His hands.”

  Aboard the Levitow,

  above the northern Arabian Sea

  0325

  MACK HAD TO SCRAMBLE TO STAY WITH THE MEGAFORTRESS as it twisted back toward Karachi. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying out of the east on a collision course, but the J-13s targeting the Whiplash aircraft were his priority. He pushed his nose down, accelerating as he aimed to get between the Chinese fighters and the Osprey.

  “Fighters are still not acknowledging,” said Stewart over the interphone.

  “Tell them I’m going to shoot them down if they fire on my people,” snapped Mack, jamming the throttle for more speed.

  Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

  near Karachi

  0326

  DANNY FREAH FLEW AGAINST THE BULKHEAD TO THE COCKPIT as the Osprey veered downward, trying to duck the Chinese fighters. The gyrations spun the Whiplash captain around like a pinball, slapping him against one of the benches and bouncing him back toward the cockpit. Danny grabbed for one of the strap handles near the opening, checking his momentum like a cowboy busting a bronc.

  “Tell them we’re Americans, damn it,” Danny said to the pilot.

  “I keep trying, Captain. They’re not listening.”

  Flames leapt up in front of them.

  “I’m going to stay near the fire,” said the pilot. “They won’t be able to use their heat-seekers.”

  “Don’t burn us up in the meantime,” said Danny, nearly losing his balance as the Osprey veered hard to the left.

  Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0327

  CAPTAIN HONGWU COUNTED THE ENEMY’S MISSILE LAUNCHES as they were announced, listening with a Buddhalike patience that would have impressed his ancestors, though Hongwu himself did not put much stock in the religion’s basic beliefs. He was surprised by the Indians’ attack, but not caught off guard; tensions between the two countries had been increasing for years, and ships from the two nations had engaged in a bloody battle in the Pacific months before. The Chinese had not done particularly well in that battle, but Hongwu had carefully studied it, and planned now to apply its le
ssons.

  He had another advantage besides knowledge: a considerably improved anti-cruise-missile system. The Pili, or Thunderbolt, had been developed from the LY-60 Falcon, with insights gained from the Italian Aspide. The weapon flew at Mach 4 and could strike a cruise missile at twenty kilometers.

  Or so it had on the testing range. It was about to be put through a much more grueling trial.

  Listening to the reports, Hongwu grasped the Indian commander’s mistake; rather than concentrating his attack, he was launching small salvos against the entire fleet.

  “Prepare to defend the ship,” said Captain Hongwu. “And then answer the attack. Have Squadron One attack the Shiva. Direct the others to attack any target they see south of us.”

  “Any ship, Captain?”

  “Any ship. There are only Indian warships south of our fleet.”

  Northern Arabian Sea

  0327

  STARSHIP MISTOOK THE VESSEL THAT LOOMED AHEAD IN HIS screen for the Deng Xiaoping, even though he knew from the sitrep that he should be at least five miles from the Chinese aircraft carrier. A flood of tracers erupted from mid-ships, a fountain of green sparks in the screen. He started to veer away before realizing the gunfire wasn’t aimed at him; it leapt far off to his left, extending toward a dark shadow that rose from the sea like a shark. Lightning flashed; the ship, fully illuminated for a moment, seemed to be pushed back in his screen. Another flood of tracers began firing, and a missile launched from the forward deck near the superstructure of the ship, which he now knew must be one of the Chinese destroyers.

  Two seconds later there was another white flash, this one partially blocked by the ship. A geyser of light erupted near the destroyer’s funnel. Two, three, fireballs rocketed above the ship.

  “I see two missile strikes,” Starship told Eyes, “on the Chinese destroyer—it’s UNK-C-1 on my screen,” he added, using the computer’s designation for the contact.

  “We see it. Good work. Get over to the carrier,” said Eyes.

  “Working on it,” said Starship.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  above the northern Arabian Sea

  0328

  “HAWK THREE IS THIRTY SECONDS FROM THE INTERCEPT,” Stewart told Breanna. “What do you want him to do?”