End Game

by Dale Brown

  “Roger that.”

  “Dreamland Levitow to Hawk Three and Four—we’re changing course and descending. Stay with me.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0525

  STORM FLEW AGAINST THE SIDE OF THE LITTORAL DESTROYER’S superstructure, slamming back and recoiling onto the deck. He slid on the gridwork, grappling for a handhold to keep from falling into the sea.

  The Abner Read lurched away from the explosion—and then back toward it. Storm’s legs shot over the edge of the flying bridge as his fingers dug into the grating. He got enough of a hold to get to his knees before he lost his grip and slid as the ship bobbed violently, rolling him toward the portal that led back inside to the bridge. He caught the side of the opening with his wrist, slid his hand there for a grip and, finally, with the boat still rocking violently, managed to push his right knee up under him and throw himself inside the ship.

  He only got two-thirds of the way in, but it was far enough to grab hold of one of the legs of the instrument console. He clutched it as tightly as he could, squeezing with all of his might. Then he pulled himself upward, smacking his head on the shelf as he did.

  “Captain!” yelled one of the men on the bridge. He too was on his knees.

  Dazed, Storm struggled to his feet.

  “Damage Control, report,” he said. “Damage—”

  Storm put his hand to his face; his headset was gone.

  One of his men grabbed him, steadying him on his feet. It was Petty Officer Varitok, the Werewolf pilot he’d ordered replaced.

  “You all right, Captain?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Get me the backup headset. In my cabin—go.”

  Storm went to the holographic display, activating the damage control view. One of the compartments on the starboard side had been breached.

  It was too soon to tell how bad the damage was, but already the automatic damage control system had cordoned off the area. Even if the compartment was a total loss, the ship would not sink.

  His heart pounding in his chest, Storm turned his attention to the helmsman, who was still at his post. “Keep us steady, Helm,” he said. Then he clapped the man on the back. “Damn good job, son. Damn good job.”

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’m sure I look worse than I feel,” said Storm. He wiped his face again, and discovered that what he’d assumed was seawater was actually blood.

  “Captain!” yelled Varitok, returning with the headset. “Your face. You’re bleeding.”

  “It never looked that good to begin with,” said Storm, pulling on the headset. “Eyes—if any other aircraft get within ten miles of us, shoot them down.”

  Dwārka Early Warning Radar Platform One

  0525

  THE GRENADE SEEMED TO FLY IN SLOW MOTION FROM CAPTAIN Sattari’s launcher, spinning in the direction of a low wall of sandbags. Sattari saw everything that was happening, not merely on the platform, but in the ocean and the world around him: the ships and airplanes charging into war, the missiles that the Indians would fire against the Pakistanis, the Chinese weapons that would retaliate. He saw himself standing at the center of it all.

  He turned his attention to the area in front of him. Two men with rifles leaned over the sandbags above. Bullets spewed from their weapons—he could see each one as it flew from the barrel, a dark cylinder coming for him. The Russian-made RPG-7 grenade he’d fired flew toward them, nudging against the top of the uppermost sandbag protecting the enemy’s position. Deflected slightly, it continued over the bag toward an upright grating behind the position.

  The bullets stopped coming toward him. The grenade halted in midair. It was the greatest moment of his life, an instant that filled him with a sensation that went beyond pleasure: an infinite grandeur, a knowledge that he had fulfilled the wish God had for him when he was created.

  Then light cracked open the sky, and the world returned to its chaotic tumble. The grenade exploded directly behind the Indian soldiers guarding the station, and the platform jolted with the explosion. Sattari found himself facedown on the metal steps, his breath taken away by the shock. By the time he managed to fill his lungs, the others had run up to the landing and finished the wounded Indians off. Dazed, Sattari followed without completely comprehending what was going on. His men ran past him to set their charges.

  “Helicopter!” yelled someone.

  The word cleared Sattari’s head.

  “Quickly! Set the explosives and back to the Parvanehs,” he shouted. “Go!”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0525

  THE ABNER READ ROCKED SO VIOLENTLY THAT STARSHIP WAS yanked half off his seat. He grabbed the handhold at the side of the station, gripping it as the vessel shuddered from the effects of an explosion somewhere nearby. If he’d been a little sleepy before, he was wide awake now.

  Bracing himself against the seat with his legs, Starship let go of the handhold and put his hands back on the Werewolf controls. The aircraft was programmed to drop its speed and glide into a hover when pressure was suddenly removed from the controls; Starship reasserted control gingerly, picking up speed and increasing his altitude as he hunted for the radar rig.

  He saw it three miles away, five degrees south. The platform looked like a squat oil drilling rig with thin derricks jutting from the top. He spotted pinpricks of light as he approached—tracers. A white flash swallowed the gunfire, then blackness returned.

  “Action on the radar platform,” he told Eyes. “I have three vessels on the surface, at the north end.”

  People were yelling behind him. If Eyes answered, Starship couldn’t hear. He dipped the Werewolf in the direction of the vessels. From two miles off they looked like speedboats or pleasure cruisers very low in the water.

  “I think I have the midget submarines,” he told Eyes. “Werewolf to Tac—I have the submarines in view, north of the tower, on the surface.”

  He steadied the aircraft and switched his main view from infrared to light-enhanced mode, which gave a sharper digital photo. He was still too far to get a good shot, and began moving forward slowly, filling the frame with one of the vessels at maximum zoom. He took the photo, creating and storing an image in standard, low resolution .jpg format; then he moved in to get a close-up of what looked to be the sub’s conning tower.

  When he backed the zoom off, Starship saw small boats in the water. Before he could figure out if they were leaving or returning, the screen went white at the right side. Starship jammed the Werewolf controls to race away from the explosion, though he knew he was already too late.

  NSC Situation Room

  1934, 14 January 1998

  (0534, 15 January, Karachi)

  THINGS RATCHETED UP SO QUICKLY IT SEEMED TO JED THAT A hidden fast forward switch had been thrown. One moment the screens with information from the U.S. intelligence agencies were mostly blank or filled with log entries indicating “nothing new.” Then bulletins and updates began scrolling onto the screens in rapid succession.

  Jed grabbed the direct line to the NSC Advisor before it finished its first ring; he had paged Freeman via his Blackberry a few minutes before.

  “It looks like the Indians are launching an all-out attack on the Chinese and Pakistani ships in the northern Arabian Sea,” Jed told his boss. “One of their radar platforms has been attacked. Pakistani aircraft are being vectored to meet Indian flights near the border. One of our Megafortresses has been shot at.”

  “Are they OK?”

  “Yes. I think the attack on the platform may have started things off, but it’s hard to sort it out,” Jed added.

  “That’s immaterial right now, Jed. What’s the status of the Indian nuclear units?”

  “They’re one step below launch.”

  “Is the Dreamland mission still viable?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m on my way back. I’ll alert the President. He m
ay arrive before I do. Hang in there, Jed.”

  Barclay put down the phone.

  “Indian missile site at Bhatinda has just gone to launch warning,” said Jordan, reading from the NSA screen.

  “Warning? Do we have that area on satellite?”

  “There,” said the image interpreter, pointing to the display. “They’re getting ready to launch.”

  Jed reached for the button to key into the Dreamland communications network.

  “Launch in Pakistan!” yelled Jordan. “My God, they’re really going to try and end the world!”

  IX

  End Game

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  15 January 1998

  0538

  CLEAR OF THE INDIAN FIGHTERS AND THEIR MISSILES, DOG began climbing over the water, trying to sort out exactly what was going on. More than a dozen missiles had been launched at the Chinese aircraft carrier, which was beginning to respond with anticruise missiles.

  The Dreamland circuit buzzed.

  “Colonel, we have a missile launch,” said Jed Barclay, his words running together. “Go to End Game. I will stay on the line and update you.”

  “Bastian acknowledges, End Game is authorized,” said the colonel calmly. “I need the status of Chinese aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping.”

  “Tai-shan order has not been given. Repeat, Tai-shan has not been given.”

  That meant that the electronic “ferret” satellite had not yet picked up the order authorizing the launch of the nuclear-equipped aircraft. But that wasn’t enough.

  “Jed, I need to know specifically that those aircraft are not on the hangar deck,” said Dog.

  “I am looking at the U-2 image now. Neither plane is on deck.”

  “Then I’m proceeding with End Game,” said Dog.

  “Acknowledged,” said Jed.

  Dog hit the preset under the screen; Tommy Chu, the pilot of Dreamland Fisher, appeared on the screen.

  “Tommy, End Game has been authorized. Wisconsin and Levitow will proceed overland. I want you to take up station and be prepared to deal with the Deng Xiaoping’s planes if the Chinese order Tai-shan to proceed.”

  “Fisher acknowledges. Colonel, I’m roughly ten minutes from the radar platform on my present course. Should I go ahead with the drop or not?”

  “I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks. Tai-shan is higher priority.”

  “Understood, Colonel. But my best course at this point to avoid both aircraft carrier groups will take me right past the platform. And frankly, I think I’d do better without the manpods on my wings.”

  “Have Danny check with Captain Gale on the Abner Read and find out the status of the Sharkboat he sent. Danny’s not to proceed without coordination from the Sharkboat, and approval from Gale. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If it looks too risky, call it off. Drop the pods near the Abner Read. If Danny gives you grief, refer him to me.”

  “You got it, Colonel.”

  “Bastian out.” Dog hit the preset to connect with Levitow. Breanna’s face appeared on the screen.

  “End Game has been authorized,” he told her. “What’s your position?”

  “We’re approaching the Indian coast, thirty miles north of Mumbai. We’ll go from here.”

  Dog realized she was much farther south than they’d planned. Distancewise, that wouldn’t be much of a problem. But it would take them much closer to the Indians’ most fearsome antiaircraft defenses.

  “We’ve turned off our radar,” she added. “We’ll make it, Daddy.”

  For once he didn’t mind that she called him that.

  “I know you will. Check back in five.”

  “Roger that.”

  MIG TWO’S NOSE HAD JUST COME INTO CANTOR’S VIEW screen when Colonel Bastian announced that they were going back over India. He stayed on course, closing to a mile before he got the signal from the computer that he had a shot. He pressed the trigger, releasing a hail of bullets for the MiG to fly into. Rather than turning to finish off his prey as he’d planned, he pulled back east, racing parallel to the Wisconsin.

  “Didja get him, kid?” asked Mack.

  “No.”

  “You got him away from us. That’s the main thing.”

  “Thanks,” said Cantor, surprised that Mack was trying to sound encouraging.

  The Megafortress’s flight plan would take them toward the Thar desert, a vast wasteland between Pakistan and India. They would be crossing Pakistani territory as well, which meant that they would be exposed to two American I-Hawk antiaircraft batteries as well as a number of Russian-made ones on the Indian side.

  A more immediate threat, especially as far as Cantor was concerned, were the fighters both sides were hurling into the air. The second flight of Indian MiGs that had scrambled earlier were coming north, and the four Pakistani F-16s they’d detected were approaching the border directly in their path.

  “I’ll worry about the Indians,” Cantor told Mack. “You’ve got the F-16s.”

  “Yeah, I was about to say the same thing, kid.”

  “You remember the Fort Cherry exercise? Same thing. You can let the computer program the attack route, because it’ll look that encounter up. It’s based on Pakistani tactics in a four-ship group that Zen taught during—”

  “I don’t need Professor Zen’s pointers, kid,” said Mack.

  Typical Mack, thought Cantor. Just when you thought he’d stopped being a jerk, he rubbed your nose in it.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0538

  THE EXPLOSION BUFFETED THE WEREWOLF, BUT WAS TOO FAR away to do any damage. By the time Starship recovered and circled back to see what had happened, two of the legs holding the radar platform had collapsed. The structure tilted forward, as if about to dive head first into the water. One of the large antenna towers had fallen; the other two were twisted sideways.

  The submarines sat on the surface between a mile and two miles from the platform. Starship dropped his speed and began a slow arc around them to the northeast. There were several aircraft nearby, Pakistani and Chinese, but as yet no one seemed to have reacted to either him or the boats.

  “Eyes—they’ve hit the tower. The radar platform has been destroyed. You want me to stop these guys? They’re boarding the submarines. I see two more small boats. One of the subs is moving.”

  Starship could choose between six Hellfire missiles, two 30mm chain guns, and a pair of 7.62 machine guns to use against the submarines. He opted for the Hellfires, whose shaped warheads would slice easily through their hulls. But he still needed permission to fire.

  “Werewolf to Tac Commander, am I authorized to fire on these submarines? Am I supposed to stop them from getting away or what?”

  “Go ahead,” said Eyes finally.

  Starship reached his right hand to the rollerball controlling the cursor for the laser designator, zeroed in on the nearest sub, and clicked to lock the target. Then he fired two missiles. The missiles rode a laser beam from the Werewolf down to the sub, zeroing in on the cue like a Walker foxhound chasing its prey in an overgrown field. The first Hellfire hit with a wallop of steam; the second Hellfire rolled into the fog.

  “Starship, what the hell are you doing?” yelled Eyes.

  “Taking out the submarines.”

  “Belay that—stop! I haven’t given you the order. Hold your fire.”

  “You just said go ahead.”

  “I wasn’t telling you to attack. I thought you wanted to talk to me. We need authorization from the captain.”

  “I don’t have it?”

  “Negative, negative. Hold your fire.”

  “Roger that. Holding fire.”

  Starship circled the Werewolf farther from the submarines. The first craft had disappeared. The other two were moving to the north.

  He knew he’d asked, and he knew what he’d heard. The stinking Navy could
never make up its mind.

  No, it was just Eyes.

  “What’s your situation, Airforce?” asked Storm, coming on the line.

  “Captain, the radar platform has been destroyed by a commando attack. There are three submarines to the north. I fired on one thinking I had been ordered to do so.”

  “What are the others doing?”

  “Moving to the north.”

  “Our intention is to seize the submarines. See if you can keep them on the surface.”

  “I’ll try, sir. But it’s possible my gunfire will sink them.”

  “Do your best, Airforce.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  STORM’S UNIFORM WAS SOAKED FROM THE BLAST AND HE’D cut his face and hands. Two other men had been hurt; one had a severe head wound and was in serious condition in sickbay.

  The blast started a very small leak above the belt line of the ship. The damage had already been repaired, and only a small amount of water had gotten in.

  Storm wanted to launch an immediate counterattack on the Indian carrier—he wanted to show the bastards what happened when you attacked a U.S. Navy ship. But they were out of range for the Harpoons.

  That could be fixed.

  “Eyes, we’re going south,” he said over the intraship com system. “Where is that Indian aircraft carrier?”

  “Storm, we have to stay in range of the Chinese carrier’s aircraft, to back up the Dreamland people.”

  “I know what my damn orders are, Commander.” Storm’s head began to pound. His anger was flaring. This is what happens when you’re a nice guy, he thought. Your subordinates take you for granted.

  He would get his way, no matter what. But he had to be careful about it, had to be clever—yes, the way Bastian was clever, always covering his butt and making it seem as if he was in the right.

  He’d already been fired on, and feared for the safety of his people.

  His head pounded.

  And he had a mission—he was supposed to get that submarine.

  “We have an operation under way,” Storm told Eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain. “I want to protect my Sharkboat.”

  “Should I order them to come back?”