by Dale Brown
Aboard Whiplash Osprey,
near Karachi
0345
THE WIND WHIPPED THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR AS THE OSPREY lowered itself toward the three men on the pier. Light petroleum or fuel from one of the nearby tanks had spread onto the water and caught fire; blue flames curled across the dark surface, looking like tumbleweeds in a fantasy Wild West show. But the flames were very real—when they reached the small bobbing boats nearby, they erupted in red volcanoes, consuming the vessels and everything aboard. Danny tried not to think of the possibility that there were people on some of the boats.
“One of us has to go down there,” said Boston, pulling gloves from his tactical vest. “These guys ain’t doing it themselves. Look—they’re burnt to shit and scared besides. In shock.”
“Let them grab the basket,” said Pretty Boy. “Faster.”
“Yeah, but they’re not gonna.” Boston had already climbed half inside it. He had his radio unit but no wet suit, just the standard combat fatigues they’d turned out in earlier. “You drop me, Pretty Boy, and I’m getting you back.”
Pretty Boy cursed at him but began working the controls to the winch, lowering the line as the Osprey continued to descend. Danny pulled out some blankets and the medical chest, getting burn packets ready.
The tanks were still burning nearby, and it took considerable work to keep the aircraft in a stable hover. Every so often it would twitch right or left, but they always got it back.
“Number one coming up!” shouted Boston, his voice blaring in Danny’s smart helmet. He went to the door and waited as the cable cranked upward. When the basket finally appeared, the man inside forgot about the belts Boston had secured and tried to leap into the cabin. As he did, the Osprey tilted with a sudden updraft. The stretcher lurched out of Danny’s reach, then swung back so hard it nearly knocked him over. Danny grappled the stretcher to a stop as Pretty Boy grabbed hold; they pulled the panic-stricken man inside and rolled him to the floor.
First degree burns covered the man’s right arm. His face was putty white, and his pulse raced; he was in shock and pain, but in a relative sense not that badly off. Danny cut away his shirt and part of his pants leg, making sure there were no further injuries. Then he put a pair of ice packs on the burns and covered the man with a blanket. Color had already started to return to his face.
“Need help here, Cap,” said Pretty Boy.
Danny reached the door as the basket returned. The man inside was unconscious. Danny pulled at the stretcher but it didn’t budge. Pretty Boy jumped up to help as the Osprey lurched once more. He tumbled against Danny, his head pounding him in the ribs, but he managed at the same time to pull the stretcher inside.
Danny took the man in his arms and carried him to the rear, stumbling as the Osprey continued to buck.
“Getting wicked down there,” said the pilot. “We can’t hold this much longer!”
“Just one more,” said Danny. “Boston? Come up with this load.”
Boston’s response was garbled. Danny concentrated on the new patient, whose charred clothes disintegrated as he examined them. Motley patches of crinkled black skin alternated with white blotches on the Pakistani’s chest and left hand; third degree burns. Danny pulled a bottle of distilled water from the burn kit and irrigated as much of the wounds as he could. He wrapped a burn dressing over them, wincing as he worked, though his patient didn’t react. He was definitely breathing, though; Danny left him to help Pretty Boy with their final rescuee.
Pretty Boy was two-thirds of the way out of the cabin, trying to secure the stretcher. The Osprey had started to revolve slowly, as if it were twisting at the end of a string, and the momentum of the aircraft seemed to be pitching the stretcher away from the cabin. One of Pretty Boy’s legs disappeared. Danny leapt at the other, trying to keep his trooper inside the craft. The shoestring tackle would have made his old high school football coach proud; Pretty Boy sailed back into the cabin, along with the stretcher.
The occupant, who had to weigh close to three hundred pounds, filled the entire stretcher. Fortunately, he was conscious and seemingly not badly hurt, with a small patch of red on his cheek and a large stretch on both arms. Coughing violently, he got up slowly and made his way to the rear of the cabin.
The Osprey lifted straight up with a jerk, then began moving forward.
“Boston? Where the hell is Boston?” yelled Danny, scrambling toward the door.
The pier was now surrounded by red flames. Boston stood near the end, waving his arms.
“Get us back down there!” Danny told the pilot.
“Can’t do it, Captain.”
“You got to.”
“The wind and flames are too intense. And we’re getting torched.”
Exasperated, Danny went to the equipment locker and pulled out two LAR-V rebreather setups—underwater scuba gear intended for clandestine insertions. He pulled on the vest and fasted the small tank under his belt, still wearing his smart helmet.
“Drop me as close to the pier as you can. Meet us out beyond the fire.”
“Captain!”
Danny hooked his arm through the second bundle of gear. They were about thirty yards from the pier, up at least thirty feet. Flames covered the surface of the water.
“Take care of number two—he’s got third degree burns,” Danny yelled to Pretty Boy as he threw off his helmet and jumped into the water.
Aboard the Levitow,
over Pakistan
0348
BREANNA STUDIED THE MAP ENSIGN ENGLISH HAD JUST SENT to her station, showing where she proposed that Piranha control buoys be dropped. Worried about losing touch with the probe, she’d ordered it back east when the port was attacked. Now they were trying to locate the earlier contact, but hadn’t had any luck. English wanted to look farther south in the direction of the Indian fleet, but that wasn’t going to happen while the two sides were throwing stones at each other.
“Good map, Ensign,” she told her, “but it’s going to be a while. Put Piranha in autonomous mode if you have to.”
“I have to.”
“Two more PAF F-16s querying us,” interrupted Stewart, her voice shrill. “They’re challenging us.”
“Tell them who we are,” said Breanna. She turned inland toward Karachi at about twenty thousand feet. Even from that altitude she could see the fire at the terminal.
The Dreamland communications channel buzzed with an incoming message from the Wisconsin. Breanna snapped it on and her father’s helmeted face appeared on her screen.
“Breanna, what are you doing that far east?”
“We’re trying to get back control of the Piranha and look for that submarine,” she said. “And I want to stay close to Danny and the Osprey.”
“As soon as the Osprey is out of there, return to base,” he told her. “Refuel, and then get back on station. Be prepared to relocate to Diego Garcia.”
“We’re bugging out?”
“The Pentagon thinks Karachi is being targeted. They want us out of there. I checked with Jed; the President agrees we should relocate. Jed’s helping work out the details.”
“Just like that?” said Breanna. Using either Crete or Diego Garcia as a base would add several hours to the patrol time.
“The Pakistani defenses around Karachi won’t do much against a concentrated attack,” said the colonel. “We’re sitting ducks there.”
“Dreamland Levitow acknowledges.”
“Our two other crews are in the process of bugging out as well,” Dog told her. “I’ll keep you advised.”
“Roger that.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0355
STARSHIP HAD NEVER SEEN A SHIP SINK BEFORE. NOW HE SAW it twice, on both halves of his screen, almost in stereo—the Chinese frigate, and one of the Indian corvettes, both hit by multiple missiles, gave themselves up to the water.
The frigate went first. A good hunk of her bow had been
blown away. She bent to the waves, settling like an old woman easing into a bath. The radar above the antenna mast continued to turn as the ship sank, adamantly remaining at its post. A boat pushed off from the deck near the funnel. Then the ship’s downward progression stopped, as if it changed its mind about sinking; the forward section rose slightly.
Starship glanced at the Indian vessel, which was listing heavily toward its wounded starboard side. When he glanced back at the Chinese frigate, its bow had gone back down and its stern had risen from the water. The helicopter flight deck looked like a fly swatter. Men jumped from the sides, swimming toward rafts and small boats as the ship’s rear continued to rise. When the angle reached about sixty degrees, the stricken vessel plunged downward, a knife stabbing the vast ocean. Steam curdled up, and then there was nothing.
Two helicopters approached from the distance. Starship fired off flares to show them where the shipwrecked survivors were, then wheeled the Werewolf around and instructed the computer to take it back to the Abner Read.
The Indian corvette had an angular forward deck and a blocky midship, so that as her list increased she looked more and more like a large cardboard box that had fallen into the water. A sister ship stood nearby, pulling men from the water with the help of small boats. At least twenty men clung to the stricken vessel, waiting to be saved.
Thinking he could help the rescue operations, Starship moved Werewolf Two out of its orbit about a mile to the east. He lit his searchlights as he came near the stricken ship, dropping into a hover and illuminating the water. Almost immediately his RWR buzzed with a warning that he was being targeted by the radar for an SA-N-4 antiaircraft system. Starship doused his lights and throttled away as two missiles launched.
The SA-N-4s had about a ten kilometer range, and Werewolf Two had a two kilometer head start. Starship zigged right and left, bobbing up and then jamming back toward the waves, trying to confuse the missile’s guidance system. He thought he’d made it when the Werewolf suddenly flew upward, uncontrolled; before he could regain control the screen blanked.
Near Karachi oil terminal
0355
DANNY PUSHED HIS LEGS TOGETHER AND COVERED HIS FACE as he fell from the Osprey, plunging toward a black hole in the red flickering ocean. The flames swelled up around him, then disappeared as he sank into the water. Once below the surface, he leaned forward and began stroking. He’d gone out in the direction of the pier, and figured that so long as he pushed himself forward he would eventually come to it.
The water was so dark that he couldn’t see anything in front of him. After what he thought must be five minutes, he raised his hand to clear some of the oil from the surface above and went up to get his bearings. But all he could see was heavy smoke and thin red curls of flame.
Danny pushed back under the water, determined to find the pier and get Boston out of there. He still had his boots on; their weight and that of the gear he was carrying for Boston tired him as he swam. When he surfaced, flames shot over him and he quickly ducked back, swimming blindly ahead. His arms began to ache.
Finally, his hand struck something hard. Thinking it was the pier, Danny surfaced and began hauling himself upward. When he got up he realized he’d climbed on a submerged concrete pillar, part of an older pier that had been removed some years before. The pier Boston was on sat ten yards behind him, barely visible in the smoke.
Flames ran out of a long pipe about thirty yards to the north; the pipe led back to the tank farm, a roaring inferno that showed no sign of subsiding.
“Boston! Yo Boston!” he yelled as shadows danced around him. “Boston, you hear me?”
The wind howled. Danny took a breath, ready to dive in, then remembered his boots. He doffed them and dove back into the water, the stink of oil and kerosene stinging his nose.
In three strokes he reached his hand to the metal rail at the base of the pier—then jerked it off and dove back down below the water.
By the time the pain came, a wall of flames had passed overhead. Smarting from the burn, Danny worked his way to his right, in the direction he thought Boston would be. About five yards down he had to push around another underwater pillar before reaching the wooden surface of the pier. Tired, he didn’t have enough energy or leverage to make it up and fell back into the water.
“Boston!” he yelled, trying to jerk the LAR-V rebreather gear he was carrying onto the pier. “Boston!”
A hand grabbed him from behind.
“Here, Cap,” said Boston, in the water behind him.
Danny pulled the breathing gear back down between them.
“Damn hot up there,” said Boston. “Whole place is on fire.”
“We have to swim out beyond the fire,” Danny told him. “So the Osprey can pick us up.”
“They told me,” shouted Boston in his ear.
“This way,” said Danny, pointing before plunging down.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
above the northern Arabian Sea
0407
“LOOKS LIKE BOTH NAVIES ARE WITHDRAWING,” T-BONE TOLD Dog. “The aircraft are staying over the ships. The Chinese have three J-13s and one helicopter over the Deng. Three helos west, doing search and rescue on the frigate that sunk. The Indians have two planes over their carrier. Nothing else in the air.”
Less than an hour had passed since the first shot had been fired. Two ships had been sunk, one by each navy. Each side had lost four jets; the Chinese had also lost a helicopter. Considerable damage had been done to the remaining ships and aircraft.
And then there was the oil terminal, still burning, sure to be completely destroyed before the fires were out.
“Thanks, T-Bone. Dish, you have anything to add?”
“Just that I could use some breakfast.”
“I’ll take your order,” volunteered Jazz. “As long as it’s coffee and microwaved muffins.”
Dog, not quite in the mood to laugh, nudged his stick to take the Megafortress a little higher.
Aboard the Abner Read,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0415
TOASTED BY THE INDIAN SHIP, STARSHIP TURNED HIS ATTENTION to the other Werewolf. The aircraft was circling alone over the survivors of the Chinese ship. The water seemed absurdly peaceful.
“Werewolf One heading back to the ship,” he told Eyes. “Two is gone.”
“You lost the aircraft?”
What the hell did you expect? thought Starship. But he kept his mouth shut, not even bothering to acknowledge.
“A THOUSAND PARDONS?” SCREAMED STORM INTO HIS mouthpiece. “A thousand pardons?”
“That’s what he said, Captain.” The radioman’s voice was nearly as incredulous as Storm’s. “That was their message from their captain.”
“He sends his airplanes to sink my ship, and he says a thousand pardons?”
“They say he didn’t send them. They must have mistaken us for an Indian vessel.”
“Oh, that’s believable.” Storm shook his head. “Did you tell him the two airplanes that made the attack were shot down?”
“I said they required assistance. He asked if we could render it.”
“Gladly,” said Storm. “As soon as hell freezes over.”
Near Karachi oil terminal
0415
WHEN DANNY BROKE WATER AFTER TEN MINUTES OF SOLID swimming, he had cleared the worst of the smoke. Large pieces of wood bobbed in the water nearby. The first one was too small to support him; the second, a plastic milk crate or something similar, sank beneath his weight. As he was searching for something else, Boston popped up nearby.
“There, over there,” shouted Boston, pointing to the west. “Those lights are the Osprey’s.”
Danny turned and saw two beams extending down to the water. Reaching into a pocket sewn under the Draeger vest, he took out a small waterproof pouch. Inside the pouch was a pencil flare, a small signaling device intended for emergency pickups like this. The flare was designed to work even in the water,
but getting it ready was not the easiest thing in the world. He took in a mouthful of foul seawater before managing to set it off.
Boston flipped onto his back and paddled nearby.
“You look like you’re in a goddamn pool,” said Danny, his teeth starting to chatter.
The Osprey’s rotors kicked up a strong downdraft, and a swell pushed Danny under. He had to fight to the surface.
“Grab on, grab on!” yelled Boston, who’d already gotten hold of the cable. “Come on, Cap.”
Danny threw himself at his sergeant, thrashing around until he managed to hook his arm around the other man’s. He got another mouthful of water before the cable began winching upward.
“They told me you were out of your mind,” Boston repeated. “Damn good thing!”
“Damn good thing,” Danny said to himself, twisting as the cable hauled them to safety.
VI
Catastrophic Events
Allegro, Nevada
1710, 12 January 1998
(0610, 13 January, Karachi)
ZEN FLIPPED THROUGH THE TELEVISION STATIONS AS HE RESTED between dumbbell sets. He wished it were baseball season; baseball was the perfect sport to watch when you were only half paying attention.
He stopped on CNN, put down the remote control and reached back for the weights. He took a long breath and then brought the dumbbells forward, doing a straight pullover.
“A CNN special report—breaking news,” blared the television.
Zen ignored it, pulling the weight over his head. He’d let his workout routines slip because of the procedures. He hadn’t swum since last Saturday, and the weights felt heavy and awkward.
“We have a live report from Stephen Densmore in Delhi, India,” said the television announcer.
Zen, concentrating on the exercise, lowered the dumbbells toward his waist, then pulled them back overhead. As he brought the bars back behind him to the floor, the newsman began talking.
“Over a hundred people were reported killed and at least that number are missing following the early morning clash between Indian and Chinese naval vessels off the Pakistani coastline. An oil terminal in Karachi was said to have been destroyed in the fighting.”
