End Game

by Dale Brown

  “I thought you were sleeping,” he told her.

  “I fell asleep for, oh, twenty minutes,” she said. “Hard to sleep with Stewart snoring in my ear. She’s louder than the engines.”

  “Dork’s flying Hawk Three,” said Zen.

  “So I gathered. You’re just surplus?”

  “Nothing but a spare part. You too?”

  “Actually, I’m going to switch with Louis and take the stick. He’s feeling the aftereffects of the Navy food.”

  “You sure you shouldn’t get more rest?”

  “Nah,” said Breanna. Then she added cryptically, “Hardly worth giving up your treatments for.”

  “Huh?” Zen looked up at her, shocked—almost stunned—by what she’d said.

  “You want anything? Coffee?”

  “I’ll take a cup.”

  He watched her disappear upstairs and felt a pang of regret at not being able to get up and go with her—at not being able to walk up with her.

  She thought he’d made a mistake. That’s what she’d meant. She wanted a whole man for a husband: one who walked.

  Zen forced himself to go back to watching Dork. The Flighthawk pilot checked his sitrep, keeping a wary eye on a pair of Indian MiG-29s that the Levitow’s radar painted about 150 miles to the east. He had a good handle on what he was doing; while there were no guarantees, Zen thought he’d do well in combat once he got a little experience under his belt.

  Maybe no one really needed him here at all.

  “Coffee,” said Breanna, returning with a cup.

  “Where’s yours?”

  “I have to get back. Lou’s whiter than a ghost.”

  “All right. See you around.”

  “Something wrong, Jeff?”

  “Nah. I’ll be talking to you.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0450

  “PIRANHA TO WISCONSIN.”

  “Go ahead, Cantor,” said Colonel Bastian, checking his position to make sure he was still in international airspace, about fifteen miles to the west of shore.

  “The submarine is surfacing, Colonel. I think they’re going to that radar platform. And I think there’s another one nearby, closer to the coast but behind us. I’ll have to circle around to find out.”

  The platform held one of a series of large radar antennas used to detect aircraft by the Indians. It would be a perfect target for a covert operation.

  There was also a small building and shed at the base—a good place to resupply a small vessel.

  “Wisconsin to Flighthawk leader—Mack, I want you to take a pass at the radar platform and give us some visuals. I want to see if that platform is expecting them.”

  “On it, Colonel.”

  Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0450

  CAPTAIN HONGWU, THE MASTER OF THE DENG XIAOPING, REVIEWED the movements of the Indian ships over the past several hours. The Shiva and her escorts had spread out, and at the same time come closer to him. Clearly they were positioning themselves for an attack.

  While he had expended most of his anticruise missiles in his earlier engagement, Hongwu felt confident he could handle the Indians by overmatching their aircraft with his larger squadron, allowing him to reserve the missiles for use against ship-launched weapons. He would devote his planes to defense initially, counterattacking only after he had broken the enemy’s thrust.

  But he worried about what role the Americans would play. Besides the warship his pilots had misidentified, they were flying Megafortresses above the Arabian Sea. One seemed to be tracking his fleet. He thought it unlikely that they would help the Indians, but he knew he had to be prepared.

  “The American aircraft should be kept at least fifty miles from us at all times,” he told his air commander. “We must keep their air-to-air missiles out of easy range of the radar helicopters. And if fighting starts again, they should be moved back beyond the range of the standard Harpoon missiles they carry—eighty miles.”

  Hongwu immediately noted the concern on the air commander’s face.

  “If necessary, assign four aircraft to escort them,” added Hongwu. “Escort them at very close range, where their air-to-air missiles will not be a factor.”

  “It will be done, Captain.”

  Northern Arabian Sea

  0455

  CAPTAIN SATTARI ROLLED HIS NECK SIDEWAYS AND THEN DOWN toward his chest, trying to stretch away the kink that had developed there in the past hour. They were almost at their destination; he wanted to be out, and so did everyone else aboard the submarine.

  “We are a little ahead of schedule, Captain,” said the Parvaneh’s captain. “The others may be well behind us.”

  “Good. We will lead the charge.” Sattari got up and turned to the rest of the commandos. “Be prepared to fire your weapons the moment we are out of the submarine.”

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0500

  “THE RADAR PLATFORM AT DWĀRKA REPORTS THAT AN American Megafortress is orbiting it to the west,” the radar officer told Admiral Skandar. “A flight of air force interceptors is being scrambled to meet it.”

  Skandar nodded, and turned to Memon. “Do you still think the Americans are neutral?”

  “No, Minister,” said Memon, though the question was clearly rhetorical.

  “They are targeting the radar platform. You will see—it will be attacked at any moment.” Skandar turned to his executive officer. “Warn the platform to be on its guard. Have the men move to their battle stations. The showdown is about to begin.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0501

  MACK SMITH ACCELERATED AS HE APPROACHED THE PLATFORM, taking the Flighthawk down through fifty feet. He was too low and close to be seen by this radar system, but human eyes and ears were another matter. He had the throttle at max as he rocketed by the platform at close to 500 knots, banking around to the north and making another pass.

  “If there’s a sub pen or docking area under that platform somewhere, I can’t see it,” he told Dog. “Cantor, where’s that submarine? Let me do a flyover as he comes up.”

  “He’s just coming to the surface, about a mile north of the platform, in very shallow water.”

  Mack slid the Flighthawk around, slowing down now to get better images. Nothing showed on the screen, though, as he passed.

  “Two MiG-29s coming off Bhuj,” warned T-Bone, naming an airfield along the coast. “And we have another flight coming in from the south—they’re going to their afterburners.”

  “Want me to go cool their jets, Colonel?” asked Mack.

  “No. Take another pass where that submarine is coming up. I want pictures.”

  “Just call me Candid Camera.”

  “THE MIGS OUT OF BHUJ ARE LOOKING FOR US,” SAID JAZZ. “Carrying AMRAAMskis. They’re about a hundred miles away, speed accelerating over five hundred knots. Think the radar station picked up the Flighthawk?”

  “I doubt it,” Dog told him. “They probably just got tired of us orbiting so close to them.”

  Dog checked his watch. Danny and Boston in the Fisher were still twenty minutes away.

  “Let’s do this,” he told Jazz. “Try and raise the Indian controller on his frequency. Tell him that there’s a submarine surfacing near his platform in Indian territory.”

  “How do I explain that we know that?”

  “Don’t,” said Dog.

  “Southern flight of MiGs has also gone to afterburners,” said T-Bone at the radar station. “Now approximately seven minutes away.”

  “Mack, do you have any visuals for me?”

  “Negative, Colonel. Submarine hasn’t broken the water yet.”

  “All right. Come north with me. We’re going to run up toward the end of our patrol track and turn
around. On the way back south we’ll launch Hawk Two.”

  “You want me to take it?” interrupted Cantor.

  “No. Stay with Piranha. Mack will have to handle both planes for a while.”

  “No sweat,” said Mack.

  “If the Indians don’t back off, set up an intercept on the group coming out of the east, from Bhuj,” Dog told him.

  “Got it, Colonel.”

  “And Mack—don’t fire at them unless I tell you to.”

  “Your wish is my command, Colonel. But say the word, and they’re going down.”

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0503

  STEWART OPENED HER EYES AND SAW THAT BREANNA HAD left the bay. She rolled out of the bunk and pulled on her boots, then went out into the Megafortress’s galley area. The restroom—imagine that in a B-1B!—was occupied.

  “I’d like to brush my teeth,” she joked.

  “I’ll be a while,” moaned the occupant.

  It wasn’t Breanna. Stewart looked toward the front and realized that she had taken over as pilot four hours ahead of schedule.

  Just like her.

  Stewart grabbed her helmet and walked up past the radar stations to the first officer’s seat.

  “Sorry I overslept. Mom forgot to set the alarm clock,” she told the copilot, Dick “Bullet” Timmons. “Thanks for covering, Bullet.”

  “I’m still on, Stewie. Lou’s stomach just went ballistic on him.”

  “Bree and me are partners,” she told him. She glanced at Breanna. “Don’t want to break up the act.”

  “Yeah, the teams ought to stay together,” Bree said.

  Stewart felt her face flush. Finally, she thought, she’d been accepted.

  “Your call, Captain,” said Bullet. “Time I stretch my legs anyway.”

  “Just don’t try the bathroom for the next hour,” added Stewart.

  THE LEVITOW’S LONG-RANGE RADAR PLOT SHOWED THE TWO MiGs on afterburners, heading north to intercept Wisconsin.

  Breanna clicked into the Dreamland communications channel. “Dreamland Levitow to Wisconsin. I assume you see those MiGs coming at you from the south.”

  “Roger that, Levitow,” said Dog. “We’re moving north. What’s your estimated time to station?”

  “Still a good fifteen minutes away from the designated patrol area.”

  “Be advised, Piranha’s contact has stopped about a mile from the radar platform. We think they may be planning a raid. We’re trying to alert the Indian authorities. Piranha is about a mile and a half from the stopped sub and is approaching another contact, apparently a similar submarine.”

  “Do you still want us to take over Piranha when we get closer?”

  “Let’s play that by ear. It may depend on what these MiGs do. I’m going to launch Hawk Two right now.”

  “Roger that.”

  “TURN HAWK THREE OVER TO THE COMPUTER AND THEN swap stations with me,” Zen told Dork.

  “You sure, Major?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take Three. You launch Hawk Four from this station. Then if we’re in range and have to take over Piranha, you can do it while I fly both U/MFs. You can’t control Piranha from the left station.”

  “I’ve only flown—I mean, sailed—Piranha in simulations.”

  “It’ll be easy,” said Zen.

  Far easier than flying two Flighthawks in combat, he thought, though he didn’t say that.

  Dork put Hawk Three into one of its preset flight patterns, turned its controls over to the computer, then undid his restraints and got out of his seat. Zen levered himself close enough to the other station so he could swing into the unoccupied chair. He landed sideways, then dropped awkwardly into position.

  Blood rushed from his head. Whether it was an aftermath of the treatments or sleep deprivation, he felt zapped.

  “Here’s your flight helmet,” said Dork.

  “All right, thanks,” said Zen. “Let’s do the handoff, then get ready to launch. I’ll talk to Bree.”

  Aboard the Fisher,

  over the Arabian Sea

  0505

  LYING IN THE MANPOD WAS LIKE BEING IN AN ISOLATION CHAMBER. A very cold isolation chamber. There were supposedly heating circuits in the damn things, but Danny had never used one yet without freezing his extremities off.

  Not that he had all that much experience with the manpod. In fact, he’d only used it in training missions, and only once on a water jump.

  The manpod could be ejected from either high or low altitude. In this case, the plan was to go out very low, so the EB-52 wasn’t detected. The pod would be more projectile than package, its descent barely retarded by a special drogue parachute.

  “Danny?”

  Colonel Bastian’s voice reverberated in his helmet.

  “What do you need, Colonel?”

  “I just want you to know that we have fighters approaching the area where the submarine is. I’ve told Lieutenant Chu that he’s to stay out of the area unless I instruct him otherwise.”

  “Aw, Colonel, it’s cold in here. You have to let me jump or I’ll freeze to death.”

  “We’ll play it by ear, Danny. Sorry,” added Dog, the word echoing in Danny’s helmet.

  LIEUTENANT CHU CHECKED HIS ALTITUDE ON THE HEADS-UP display, keeping the Megafortress at precisely thirty-eight feet above the waves. The aircraft’s powerful surveillance radars were off, allowing it to slip undetected like a ghost in the night.

  His adrenaline had his heart on double-fast forward. It had been like this the whole deployment, almost a high.

  Chu had been thinking of trading in his pilot’s wings and going to law school before he got the Dreamland gig. He still hoped to be a lawyer someday, but this deployment had convinced him to push someday far into the future. Driving a Megafortress was the most fun you could have with your clothes on.

  “Whiplash to Dreamland Fisher—yo, Tommy, what’d you tell the Colonel?” asked Captain Freah, who could communicate through a special channel in the Dreamland com system.

  “Told him we were ready to kick butt and not to worry about the fighters.”

  “Keep singing that song.”

  “I will, Danny. Hang loose in there.”

  “I am, but next flight, I want stewardesses and a better movie.”

  Northern Arabian Sea

  0508

  THE SEA AIR PULLED CAPTAIN SATTARI OUT OF THE PARVANEH submarine, up to the deck behind the lead commando and the mate. He moved toward the rubber boat, AK-47 in one hand, grenade launcher in the other. His lungs filled with the sweet, wet breeze.

  They were farther from the platform than he thought.

  There were planes nearby, jets flying somewhere in the dark sky. He twisted his head back and forth but couldn’t see anything.

  “Bring the SA-7s!” he yelled, telling the others to take the antiaircraft missiles. “Quickly! Into the boat. We have to paddle at least three hundred meters to reach the rocks! Hurry, before we are seen!”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0508

  “MIDGET SUB IS ON THE SURFACE,” DISH TOLD DOG. “VERY small. Similar to the vessel that sank itself.”

  “Jazz, have the Indians responded to our warning?”

  “Negative,” said the copilot.

  Dog toggled into the Dreamland Command line. “Wisconsin to Abner Read. Eyes, I need to talk to Storm.”

  “I’m here, Bastian. Go ahead.”

  “The submarine we were tracking has surfaced about a mile north of the platform. Looks like an attack. I’ve tried contacting the Indians but gotten no response. I have two MiGs coming at me from the east. They may think we’re attacking the radar.”

  “We’ll try notifying the Indians,” said Storm. “Don’t put yourself in danger for them.”

  Jeez, thought Dog, he sounds almost concerned.

  “Colonel, the lead MiG’s radar is trying to get a lock on us,” warned
Jazz. “Threat analyzer says he has a pair of AA-12 Adder AMRAAMskis.”

  “Storm, the Indian fighters are using their weapons radars to lock on us,” Dog said. “I’m not in their territory. I can’t tell if it’s a bluff or not, but if I have to defend myself, I will.”

  “Understood.”

  Dog killed the circuit.

  “Jazz, try telling the Indian fighters their radar station is being attacked by commandos. Maybe they can talk to the station.”

  “I’ll give it a try, Colonel.”

  “Wisconsin to Hawk One—be advised the MiGs are trying to lock their radar weapons on us,” Dog told Mack.

  “On it, Colonel.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0510

  STORM GLANCED AT THE HOLOGRAPHIC DISPLAY. SHARKBOAT One was still a good twenty miles to the east of the Indian radar station’s atoll; it would take the small patrol boat another forty-five minutes to reach the platform, assuming he authorized it to enter Indian waters.

  “Eyes, what’s the status on Werewolf?” he asked.

  “Should be just finishing refuel.”

  “Good—get it up and over to the radar station. The submarines have surfaced. And Airforce—where the hell is he?”

  “Sleeping, Captain.”

  “Get him out of bed. I want him at the wheel of that helicopter.”

  “But—”

  “Pour a pot of coffee down his throat and get him up. I want him flying that bird. Got me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Belatedly, Storm realized that Eyes was concerned not about getting Starship up but about breaking the news to Petty Officer Varitok, the man who was flying Werewolf now.

  “I’ll explain it to Varitok,” he added. “It’s nothing personal. Have him come up to the bridge as soon as Airforce has taken over.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  Dwārka Early Warning Radar Platform One,

  off the coast of India

  0510

  CAPTAIN SATTARI’S OAR STRUCK THE ROCKS ABOUT MID-STROKE. The jolt threw him forward so abruptly he nearly fell out of the raft. He pulled himself back, aware that his mistake had thrown off everyone else in the boat.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, pushing the oar more gingerly this time. It hit the rocks about a third of the way down this time, and he was able to push forward, half paddling, half poling.