End Game d-8

by Dale Brown

  "Mack, see if you can get some close-ups and maybe distract them."

  "I'll land on them if you want."

  "Just annoy them," said Dog. "You ought to be good at that."

  * * *

  Mack brought the Flighthawk down through the clouds, clearing a knot of rain as he headed for the midget submarine. The vessel was about a half mile away, gliding across the surface at two or three knots. He swung to his left, arcing around so he could approach it head-on. He took the Flighthawk down to five hundred feet and saw figures near the wedge-shaped conning tower.

  "Smile down there, kiddies," said Mack, passing overhead.

  He looped back, pushing Hawk One down through three hundred feet, passing two hundred and still descending. He leveled off fifty feet above the waves as he began his second run. Two men were still on the deck of the sub as he approached. The submarine seemed to have stopped descending.

  "Stand still and I'll give you a haircut," he told them.

  One of the figures on the submarine jerked something out of the tower structure. Instantly, Mack hit the throttle and reached for his decoy flares.

  "Missile launch!" warned the Flighthawk's computer.

  Souda Bay U.S. Naval Support Base,

  Crete

  2000 (2300, Karachi)

  Jan Stewart climbed up onto the darkened flight deck of the Levitow, her way lit only by the glow of the standby power lights and a few instruments. She was just approaching her seat when something moved beside it. She leapt back before realizing it was Breanna Stockard, sitting alone in the airplane.

  "Just me," said Breanna.

  "Jesus, you scared me," said Stewart. Annoyed, she pulled herself into her seat. "I thought you were with your husband."

  Breanna didn't answer. Stewart glanced at her, then took a longer, more careful look. Even in the dim light, she could tell Breanna's eyes were red.

  The Iron Bitch crying?

  Stewart put her mission card — a flash memory unit with recorded data about their mission — into its slot and powered up her station. She couldn't imagine Breanna Stockard crying about anything, and surely with her husband here— but those weren't tears of happiness.

  The copilot busied herself with checking the computer data on the flight computer. Breanna made no pretense of working, continuing to sit silently and stare out the windscreen.

  "We could go to the checklist on the engine start, even though it's a little early," said Stewart when she ran out of things to do.

  "I can't believe he gave up."

  "Who?" asked Stewart.

  "Zen."

  "What did he give up?"

  A tear slipped from Breanna's eye as she turned toward her. Stewart felt not only shocked but afraid. Breanna's pain somehow made her feel vulnerable.

  "Zen left — he was in a program to rebuild his spinal cord. He left it because he thought we were in trouble."

  Stewart, still not understanding, said nothing.

  "He's always wanted to walk again," explained Breanna. "He's fought for it. Now he's giving up. For me. He shouldn't give that up. He shouldn't be afraid for me."

  "Maybe he just wants to do his job," said Stewart, not knowing what else to say.

  Another tear slipped from Breanna's eye. How difficult — how impossible—it must have been for her to see her husband crippled, thought Stewart. How impossible it must be every day to live through it.

  "The tests they're doing or whatever," said Stewart. "They're going to make him walk?"

  "They're a long shot at best. Really a long shot. But walking or not walking — it's not as important as who he is. He can't surrender. That's not who he is. I don't want him to give himself up for me. It's not a trade I'd take."

  To her surprise, Stewart realized her own cheek was wet. "I'm sorry," she told Breanna.

  Not because of Zen, but because of everything — bad mouthing her, grousing, resisting her attempts to help.

  And not being able to handle the job in the stress of combat. That especially.

  "We should get moving. You're right," said Breanna suddenly, as if Stewart had suggested it.

  "Hey." Stewart reached over and touched Breanna's shoulder. "If you need anything."

  Breanna turned back to her. Her eyes glistened in the reflected light and she gave a forced smile. "Just the checklist for now. Thanks. Thanks."

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  2302

  Mack let out a long string of curses — a very long string of curses — as he fought to outrun and outfox the shoulder-launched SAM. Caught at low altitude and low speed, there wasn't that much he could do, and his response would have been the same no matter what he was flying: toss decoy flares, jink back and forth, hit the throttle for all it was worth.

  And pray, though Mack Smith had never found that particularly effective.

  The missile sniffed one of the flares and rode off to the right, exploding more than half a mile away when it realized its mistake. Not entirely sure he was safe, Mack continued to the south until he saw the Sharkboat ahead.

  "Hawk One to Wisconsin—that scumbag just tried to shoot me down."

  "Copy that, we saw it Mack."

  "Permission to give him his just reward," said Mack, pulling up the weapons screen. "I'll send him to the bottom."

  "Hold on, Mack. We want him disabled, not sunk. Stand by so we can coordinate with the Sharkboat. We want those people alive if at all possible. They're very valuable."

  "Sharkboat has them in sight," said Jazz. "Radioing to them to surrender."

  "Mack, take a pass," Dog added. "Fire into the water near the bow. Don't hit them."

  "Jeez, Colonel. I don't know if I can miss."

  "Not very funny, Mack."

  Actually, he wasn't making a joke. Mack had never tried not to hit something when flying a Flighthawk.

  "Warning fire," Cantor said. "Designate the target, then give a verbal command. Computer will make sure you miss."

  "Thanks, kid."

  Still a little dubious, Mack accelerated back toward the submarine. Sure enough, after giving the verbal command, the bullets sailed near the vessel's path.

  "Got their attention," said Mack.

  The submarine had stopped moving; it was still half submerged, with water lapping over the deck.

  "Colonel, something's going on with the sub," said Cantor. "Strange noises — bubbling like they're taking on water."

  "Mack, did you hit them?"

  "Negative."

  "It's going down, almost straight down," said Cantor.

  Mack banked back. Sure enough, the submarine had sunk below the waves.

  "I think they're trying to make a run for it," said Mack.

  "Big explosion!" reported Cantor. "Wow — they're going down straight to the bottom!"

  VII

  Coming to Their Senses

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  13 January 1998

  2310

  Storm kicked at the deck as he listened to the chatter from the Sharkboat. The technology that made it possible to coordinate actions over a wide-ranging area also made it possible to be incredibly frustrated. They'd missed their chance to catch the commandos. The submarine had seen the Dreamland aircraft and the Sharkboat. Realizing the jig was up, they'd hari-karied themselves.

  "Sharkboat One is asking for further instructions, Storm," said Eyes. "Water's too deep for any sort of recovery operation. They've picked up what they can from the surface. Bits of plastic. Nothing significant."

  "Let's have them stay until morning light," Storm told him. "Pick up whatever they can find."

  "Yes, sir."

  "That Piranha unit — tell Bastian to send it south. Might as well get an eye on the Chinese Kilo." "We have that ourselves with the array." "Do you have anything better for the Piranha to do?" "Can't think of anything."

  "All right, then. Let's get it down where it might do some g
ood."

  Now everyone was questioning his orders. Storm looked at his holographic display. The Chinese aircraft carrier was a little over seventy-five miles away. A U-2 was nearby, keeping watch for the Tai-shan aircraft; it would alert Bast-ian if the planes came on deck, and he'd get his people into position to intercept.

  The Indian carrier had moved north again. Maybe they were looking for a rematch.

  "What do you think the submarine was?" Eyes asked him.

  Bastian's theory that it was some sort of civilian craft put to military use by the Iranians made a hell of lot of sense, but there was no way Storm was going to admit that.

  "Wouldn't even want to guess," he told Eyes. "Have intel prepare details on what the Sharkboat finds for Fleet and Pentagon intelligence."

  "Aye aye, skipper."

  National Security Council Conference Room 2A,

  Washington, D.C.

  1800

  "The Pakistanis have put Missile Site Two on its highest alert," CIA director Robert Plank told the President as they briefed in the high-tech conference room beneath the West Wing. "That's the site with their nukes, you see it here on the map. Four missiles, four warheads, each aimed at an Indian city."

  "What about the Indians?" asked Secretary of State Hartman.

  "They're also on alert. We have satellite photos."

  Jed glanced at the satellite photos on the flat screen in front of him, even though he'd seen them earlier. The Indians and Pakistanis had engaged in serious shooting wars several times over the past decade, but those actions were mostly confined to the disputed regions in the North, near Kashmir and Jamu. They also had not involved nuclear weapons, or other countries. The Chinese were taking an aggressive tack to help the Pakistanis. Not to be outdone, the Russians were voicing support for the Indians and had ordered three ships to set sail for the Indian Ocean. An NSA intercept two hours ago indicated that a pair of Russian attack submarines were also en route.

  "I have no confidence that the cease-fire will hold," said Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman. "Quite the contrary."

  "I agree," said Jed's boss, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman. "We're very close to war. If the two sides use their missiles, the weapons aboard the Deng Xiaoping will be almost beside the point."

  "Yes, I want to talk specifically about that plan," said Admiral Balboa.

  "Jed, tell us about the weapons Dreamland wants to use," said President Martindale. "The EEMWBs."

  Jed tried to speak but couldn't. His tongue seemed to have shriveled and gone into hiding.

  It wasn't that he hadn't been expecting the question. In fact, he'd rehearsed the answer for nearly a half hour. It was just that speaking in front of this many people — this many important people — was always a struggle.

  He pushed a few words out of his mouth, stuttering as he went.

  "Um, we, um, the EEMWB is an electronic bomb, like an E bomb. It uses T-Rays to disrupt electronic devices. The weapons would be much more efficient against the aircraft carrier than the Harpoons."

  "Another pie-in-the-sky Dreamland program," said Balboa.

  "Um, they've been used in tests and were supposed to be tested in two weeks in the Pacific."

  "Yes, I know about the weapons," said Balboa. "This isn't the place to be taking chances. We should have the Abner Read take the lead on this — position it between the Chinese and the Indians, as I argued yesterday. And who told Bast-ian he could use these weapons?"

  "I told him he could use whatever he needed to get the job done," said the President. "Jed, could these EEMWBs stop the Indian and Pakistani missiles?"

  Jed nodded. "It would depend on the flight paths and everything. In theory, yes."

  "Talk to Bastian. Make it work," said Martindale. He turned and looked at Balboa. "The Abner Read will continue to be subordinate to Colonel Bastian on this aspect of the mission. If Storm wants to move, he's to clear it with the colonel."

  * * *

  Jed played nervously with his pencil as he waited for the call to Colonel Bastian to go through on the Dreamland communications channel. The ultra-high-tech Situation Room in the basement under the White House had just undergone new renovations, increasing the available information stations and adding several security features. The situation room seemed to be a constant work-in-progress; this was at least the fourth major renovation it had undergone since Jed joined the NSC.

  "Bastian," said Dog, appearing in the screen.

  "Colonel, your mission has been altered," said Jed. As he relayed the President's new commands, he hit a switch that popped a map onto the screen so he could show Bastian where the missile sites were located.

  "Pretty far inland," said Dog.

  "Can you strike those spots?"

  "In theory, yes. Looks like you'd need three missiles, more or less in a straight line almost directly over the border. The weapons scientists will have to run some simulations to be sure. When is this taking effect?"

  "Immediately."

  "We'll work something out. What about the carrier?"

  "Not as important, but still—"

  "I get the picture."

  "If this isn't doable, Colonel…"

  "It's a stretch, Jed. I have to be honest. But we'll do our best. Technically, it's nothing we're not capable of."

  "The diplomats are working around the clock to calm things down."

  "I hope to hell they succeed."

  Northern Arabian Sea

  14 January 1998

  0400

  When the sailor aboard the Mitra woke him, Captain Sattari did not know where he was. For a moment he believed — or perhaps wanted to believe — he was at his family's old house on the shore of the Black Sea, huddled with his wife Zenda. But she had died only three years after their marriage and lay enshrined in his memory as the perfect beauty, the flawless young bride he returned to whenever reality's storms were severe.

  "Captain, an important message for you," said the sailor.

  Sattari took one last breath of Zenda's perfume, then opened his eyes. The man was holding a folded piece of paper in his hands. Pulling himself out of the narrow bunk, Sat-tari steadied his sockless feet on the floor and took the paper.

  "Bring me coffee," he told the sailor.

  "Yes, sir."

  The message had been relayed by radio and contained only two words: "Excellent. Accelerate." It could only have come from Pevars, the oil minister, as he was the only one in the world who knew how to contact him.

  Sattari rubbed his chin, eyes focused on the thin carpet of the floor. He reached to the side of the bed, where he had left his shirt and a fresh pair of socks. He knew that Boat Three had not shown up during the night, for otherwise he would have been woken sooner.

  Another argument for stepping up their schedule, if he had needed one.

  In truth, he had hoped after Karachi it would not be necessary. The Mitra's master said the Indians had attacked the

  Chinese aircraft carrier meant to reinforce the Pakistanis; surely that alone would mean war.

  Sattari buttoned his shirt, then pulled on his socks. As he reached for his shoes, the sailor returned with his coffee.

  "Is the ship's captain awake?" Sattari asked.

  "Usually not for two more hours."

  "Go and wake him," said Sattari. "There has been a change in plans."

  Diego Garcia

  0740 (0640, Karachi)

  Danny Freah shuffled the cards and began laying out a solitaire hand on the table in the middle of the Command trailer's main room. He knew he ought to be enjoying the easygoing pace of the deployment, where Whiplash's only task was to provide security inside an installation that probably rated among the most secure in the world. Diego Garcia was literally an island paradise, and aside from the fact that he didn't have his wife with him, it would be the perfect place to while away a few days or even weeks. He didn't often get a lull, and after his adventures in Karachi he deserved one.

  But one man's vacation was
another's purgatory. Danny Freah couldn't kick back while other people were putting their lives on the line. Besides, his night swim in the fiery waters was already receding in his memory, like the light burns on his hands.

  A buzzer sounded from the Dreamland communications section, indicating there was an incoming message. Danny grabbed his coffee and went to the small station in the next room. Ray Rubeo's pale face appeared in the screen when he authorized the link.

  "Captain Freah, we have information regarding the submarine that sank itself. Colonel Bastian requested a copy. I'd like to upload it to you now."

  "Go for it," Danny told the scientist. "So what is it? Russian Special Forces?"

  "Hardly," said Rubeo. "It's civilian craft made by a Polish company. Some of the members of our Piranha team have done a little digging."

  "Whose sub is it?"

  "Good question. We've asked the CIA, which means we will never know."

  Danny laughed. When the download was finished, he opened the file to make sure it had transferred properly. He found himself looking at a brochure of a craft that looked more like a pleasure boat with portholes in the bottom.

  "It has windows?" asked Danny.

  "No. Those would have been filled in. Flip to the end of the file and you will see a schematic diagram one of the Piranha people did based on this and the findings from the probe. The basic systems from the commercial design appear intact, much as the chassis of a General Motors car would be similar across divisions."

  "Gotcha," said Danny, toggling through to the diagrams. "Say, Ray — if I was going to disable the submarine, what would I do?"

  "What would be the purpose?"

  "Just say I wanted to disable it. To capture it, and the people inside. What would we do?"

  Rubeo gave Danny one of his what-fools-these-mortals-be sighs. "I am not an expert on submarine warfare, Captain. I can get one of the Piranha people to talk to you if this is of more than theoretical interest."

  "Oh, it's very theoretical. But I'd like to talk to him anyway."

  "Very well. One area to question him on — this being a civilian submarine, it has many safety features incorporated into the design. The most interesting is an external emergency blow device."