End Game

by Dale Brown

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  “And Sergeant Ibn. How are you?”

  “Fine, General. Happy to see you.”

  “And I you. Are you watching over my son?”

  “The captain needs no one to oversee him.”

  The general beamed. A servant came with sparkling water, setting down a large glass for the visitors.

  “A great success,” Pevars said. “You have proven the concept. Now it is time to push the Indians further.”

  “We are prepared.”

  “Are you?” said the oil minister. “There have been questions.”

  “Questions?” said Sattari. He glanced at his father. Was that why he was here? Did the general doubt his own son?

  “Some of the black robes are demanding a return on the investment,” said Pevars. “The price of oil has sunk so quickly lately that they are becoming concerned. The timetable—”

  “We’re completely ready.”

  “The sooner you can press the attacks and instigate the conflict, the better,” added Pevars. “The commodities market shrugged off the attack.”

  “They will not be able to ignore the next one.”

  “My son is wondering why I am here,” the general told Pevars. “And I should explain to him. Some of the imams in the council want to make sure the Indians are punished. And they want the war between the Indians and Pakistan to show that the Chinese cannot be trusted.”

  “I can’t guarantee a war,” said Sattari. “The idea was to affect oil prices, not start a war. I have only a small force, four small aircraft and one large one, all primarily transports. I have one old ship, a hulk that just today we have covered with new paint. My four midget submarines are useful as transports but carry no weapons besides what a man can hold. I have thirty-six commandos. All brave men, all ready to die for Allah and Iran. That is the sum of my force.”

  “You were chased by the Americans,” said his father.

  “Yes. They complicated our escape.”

  The Americans were a great enemy of Sattari’s father. A year before, a small force of commandos and aircraft had attacked one of the general’s installations in the North, destroying a secret antiaircraft laser he had developed. The strike had lessened his influence in the government; naturally, he wanted revenge.

  “There was a rumor that you ran from them,” said Pevars.

  “Who said that?”

  “One of the black robes,” said his father.

  So that was what this was about. Sattari guessed that the imam had a spy aboard the Mitra who had radioed back a report of the action before they reached port.

  To be called a coward after the success of his mission! That was typical of those fellows. It was a favorite tactic, to tear down everyone else.

  But did his father think he was a coward? That was an entirely different matter.

  “I did not run,” Sattari said. “Exposing our force would have been idiocy. Worse than cowardice.”

  “I’m sure,” said the general. “Do not let lies depress you.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Some sweets,” said the oil minister. He clapped his hands for the servant.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  off the coast of Somalia

  1538

  “WHAT DO YOU HAVE FOR ME, AIRFORCE?” ASKED STORM AS Starship stepped onto the bridge.

  “I was hoping I might have a word in private.”

  “This is private enough,” said Storm, glancing around the bridge. There were only two other men on the bridge, one manning the wheel and the other the bridge navigation system. But as far as Storm was concerned, the entire ship’s company could be here. He expected everyone aboard to show discretion where it was appropriate, but otherwise there was no place for secrets. The Abner Read was a small vessel. Everyone eventually ended up knowing everyone’s business anyway.

  “Captain, I was going to ask, considering that we now have two other men trained to handle the Werewolf, and that the Dreamland people are going to be based at Karachi—”

  “You angling to leave us, mister?”

  “I was thinking I might be more useful working with the Whiplash ground team, providing security. They can’t deploy the Werewolves there without another pilot because of commitments at the base.”

  “Request denied. We need you out here, Airforce. You’re the only pilot worth a shit on this ship.”

  The young man’s face shaded red.

  “Don’t thank me,” added Storm. “Just do your job.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Starship snapped off a quick, confused salute and left. Storm went back to studying the holographic display. They were two miles north of ’Abd Al-Kūrī, an island off the tip of Somalia. The submarine they had chased the other night had not reappeared. Nor, for that matter, had the guerrillas.

  The intelligence people back in Washington had no idea who had launched the attack. The Indians were blaming the Pakistanis, but as far as anyone could tell, they had no evidence except for decades’ worth of animosities. Storm—who also had no evidence beyond the faint submarine contact—thought the Chinese were behind it. They were rivals for dominance of Asia, and it was possible they wanted to tweak the Indians’ noses while the world was preoccupied elsewhere.

  “Eyes, what’s the status of the Dreamland patrols?”

  “Due to start at 1800 hours. Looks like your old friend Colonel Bastian is taking the first patrol himself.”

  Storm gritted his teeth. Bastian had proven himself a decent pilot and a good commander, but he was also a jerk.

  Better that than the other way around, though.

  “Have them report to me as soon as possible,” Storm said.

  “Aye, Skipper. The Indian destroyer Calcutta is about a hundred miles east of Port Somalia. They should reach it in three or four hours. I thought we might send the Werewolf down to greet them. Let them know we’re here.”

  “If the circumstances allow, be my guest.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  taking off from Drigh Road,

  Pakistani naval air base

  1600

  COLONEL BASTIAN PUT HIS HAND ON THE THROTTLE GLIDE and brought the engines up to full takeoff power. The Megafortress rolled forward, quickly gaining momentum. As the plane touched 200 knots, the flight computer gave Dog a cue to rotate or pull the nose of the aircraft upward. He did so, pushing the plane up sharply to minimize the noise for the surrounding area, much the same way a 747 or similar jet would when taking off from an urban area.

  Passing through three thousand feet, the colonel trimmed the aircraft and began flying her like a warplane rather than an airliner trying to be a good neighbor. His copilot, Lieutenant Sergio “Jazz” Jackson, had already checked the systems; everything was in the green.

  The ocean spread itself out before the aircraft as Dog banked the Megafortress westward. A cluster of small boats floated near the port; a pair of freighters chugged slowly away. A Pakistani gunboat sailed to the south, its course marked by a white curve cut into the blue paper of the sea.

  Starting with his copilot, Dog checked with the crew members to make sure the computer’s impressions of the aircraft jibed with their experience. Immediately behind the two pilots on the flight deck, two radar operators manned a series of panels against each side of the fuselage. The specialist on the right, Sergeant Peter “Dish” Mallack, handled surface contacts; the operator on the left, Technical Sergeant Thomas “T-Bone” Boone, watched aircraft.

  The Megafortress’s array of radars allowed it to “see” aircraft hundreds of miles away. The actual distance depended on several factors, most of all the radar cross section of the targeted aircraft. Under the right conditions, an airliner might be seen four hundred nautical miles away; a stealthy F-22, shaped specifically to avoid radar, could generally get well inside one hundred before being spotted. MiG-29s and Su-27s, the Russian-made fighters common in the area, could reliably be detected at two hundred nautical miles. />
  The surface search was handled by a radar set developed from the Nordon APY-3 used in the JSTARS battlefield surveillance and control aircraft. Again, its range depended on conditions. An older destroyer could be spotted at roughly two hundred miles; very small boats and stealthy ships like the Abner Read were nearly invisible even at fifty miles under most circumstances. A radar designed for finding periscopes in rough seas had been added to the mission set; an extended periscope from a Kilo-class submarine could be seen at about twenty miles under the best conditions.

  Downstairs from the flight deck, in the compartment where the navigator and bombardier would have sat in a traditional B-52, Cantor was preparing to launch the aircraft’s two Flighthawk U/MF-3 robot aircraft. The unmanned aerial vehicles could stray roughly twenty miles from their mother ship, providing air cover as well as the ability to closely inspect and attack surface targets if necessary.

  The Flighthawks were flown with the help of a sophisticated computer system known as C3. The aircraft contained their own onboard units, which could execute a number of maneuvers on their own. In theory, a Flighthawk pilot could handle two aircraft at a time, though newer pilots generally had to prove themselves in combat with one first.

  The Megafortress carried four Harpoon antiship missiles and four antiaircraft AMRAAM-plus Scorpion missiles on a rotating dispenser in the bomb bay. A four-pack of sonar buoys was installed on special racks at each wingtip.

  “How are you doing, Cantor?” Dog asked.

  “Just fine, Colonel.”

  “How’s your pupil?”

  “Um, Major Smith is, um, learning, sir.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Dog.

  “I’m good to go here, Colonel,” said Smith. “Everything is rock solid.”

  “That’s good to hear, Mack. Don’t give Cantor any problems.”

  “Problems? Why would I do that?”

  Dog was too busy laughing to answer.

  Indian Ocean

  2000

  THE TORPEDO WAS NOT A GOOD FIT. AT 4.7 METERS LONG—ROUGHLY fourteen feet—it just barely fit beneath the smooth round belly of the Sparrow. More importantly, at roughly seven hundred kilograms—a touch over fifteen hundred pounds—it represented nearly twice the aircraft’s rated payload, making the plane too heavy to take off with full fuel tanks.

  But the limitations of the small, Russian-made seaplane were almost assets. For the Sparrow could “fly” across the waves at a hundred knots on a calm night like this, approaching its target at two or three times the speed of a conventional torpedo boat or small patrol boat, while being quite a bit harder to detect than a conventional aircraft. When in range, about ten kilometers, it could fire the weapon, and then, considerably lighter, take to the sky and get away.

  Which was the plan.

  “Target is now fifty kilometers away,” said the copilot. Their target, an oil tanker bound for India, was being tracked by the largest aircraft under Sattari’s command, an ancient but serviceable A-40 Beriev seaplane sold as surplus by the Russians some years before. The aircraft had just passed overhead at eighteen thousand feet, flying a course generally taken by a transport to India from Greece.

  “Begin turn to target in ten seconds.”

  Captain Sattari grunted. He was still angry over the meeting with the oil minister and his father earlier—so mad, in fact, that he had bumped the pilot from the mission and taken it himself. Not because he felt he needed to prove his courage or ability, but to help him master his rage.

  Flying had always helped him in this way. It had nothing to do with the romance of the wind lifting you into the sky. No, what settled Sattari was the need for concentration, the utter surrender of your mind and senses to the job at hand. Planning the mission, checking the plan, then flying it as precisely as possible—the process freed him, chasing the demons of anger and envy and frustration from his back, where they hovered.

  “The A-40 reports that there is a warship south of the tanker,” reported the copilot. “Heading northward—three miles south of him. An Indian destroyer.”

  A destroyer?

  “Are they sure it’s Indian?”

  “They’ve overheard transmissions.”

  The tanker was a more important target, but if the black robes wanted to provoke a war, striking a destroyer would certainly make them angrier.

  And no one could call him a coward then.

  “Compute a new course,” said Sattari. “See if it’s possible to strike the destroyer if we use the tanker as a screen. We can always drop back to our original prey.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  2010

  “MIGS ARE SCRAMBLING OFF THE NEW FIELD AT AL GHAYDA,” T-Bone warned Colonel Bastian. “Two aircraft, MiG-29s. Just about one hundred miles from us, Colonel.”

  “Mack, Cantor, you hear that?”

  “Roger that, Colonel. We’ll meet them.”

  Dog keyed in the Dreamland communications channel to alert the Abner Read.

  “Abner Read, this is Wisconsin. We have two MiG-29s coming off an airfield in Yemen. We expect them to be heading in our direction.”

  “Bastian, this is Storm. What are you doing?”

  “Minding our p’s and q’s, Captain. As normal.”

  The Navy commander snorted. “Are you where you’re supposed to be?”

  Dog fought the urge to say something sarcastic, and instead answered that they were on the patrol route agreed to earlier. “I would expect that you can see that on the radar plot we’re providing,” he added. “Is it working?”

  “It’s working,” snapped the Navy captain. “What’s with those airplanes?”

  “I assume they’re coming to check us out. The Yemenis gave us quite a bit of trouble when we were out here a few months back.”

  “If they get in your way, shoot them down.”

  “I may just do that,” said Dog. “Wisconsin out.”

  “Sounded kind of cranky,” said Jazz.

  “Most pleasant conversation I’ve ever had with him,” Dog told his copilot.

  CANTOR GLANCED AT THE SITREP PANEL IN THE LOWER LEFT-HAND corner of his screen, making sure the Flighthawks were positioned properly for the intercept.

  “Fifty miles and closing,” Cantor told Mack. “Weapons radar is off.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” said Mack. “You’re lagging behind me, cowboy.”

  “We’re going to do this like we rehearsed,” said Cantor. “I’m going to swing out. You get in their face.”

  “Flying wing isn’t the most efficient strategy.”

  “We’re not flying F-15s, Major. This is the way Zen teaches it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’ll work against these bozos,” said Mack. “I’m just pointing out, it’s not the best strategy to shoot them down.”

  “We’re not supposed to fire at them.”

  “Hey, don’t bitch to me. Complain to Colonel Bastian.”

  I will, thought Cantor. I definitely will.

  MACK STEADIED HIS FOREARM ON THE NARROW SHELF IN front of the control stick, listening as the Wisconsin’s copilot attempted to hail the MiGs. The bogeys were doing about 500 knots; with his Flighthawk clocking about 480, they were now about ninety seconds from an intercept.

  If he’d been in an F-15 or even an F-16, the MiGs would be toast by now. An F-22—fuggetaboutit. They’d be figments of Allah’s imagination already.

  Mack jangled his right leg up and down. Unlike a normal aircraft, the Flighthawk control system did not use pedals; all the inputs came from a single control stick and voice commands. This might be all right for someone like Zen, stuck in a wheelchair, or even Cantor, who’d probably been playing video games since he was born, but not for him. He loved to fly. He had it in his belly and his bones. Pushing buttons and wiggling your wrist just didn’t do it.

  “They’re breaking,” said Cantor.

  “Hawk One.”

  The MiGs, which had been in a close trail, were getti
ng into position to confront the Megafortress. Mack started to follow as Bogey One cut to the east, then realized the plane was closer to Hawk Two.

  “I got him, Major,” said Cantor.

  “Yeah, yeah, no sweat,” said Mack, swinging back to get his nose on the other airplane.

  “If they go for their afterburners, they’ll blow right by you,” warned Cantor.

  “Hey, no shit, kid.”

  The computer’s tactics’ screen suggested that he start his turn now, recommending that he swing the Flighthawk in front of the MiG to confront it.

  “Wrong,” Mack told it. Doing that would take him across the MiG’s path too soon, and he might even lose the chance to circle behind him. Instead, he waited until his MiG began to edge downward. Then it was too late—the Yemen pilot opened up the afterburners and spurted forward, past the Flighthawk, even as Mack started his turn.

  “He’s going to use all his fuel, the idiot,” muttered Mack, putting his finger to the throttle slide at the back of the Flighthawk stick. Even so, there was no way he could catch up with the MiG; it was already flying well over 600 knots.

  “They know where we’ll be, Major,” said Cantor. “They can’t see us yet but they learned from the encounters back in November.”

  “Big deal,” said Mack under his breath.

  CANTOR PULLED HIS FLIGHTHAWK BACK TOWARD THE MEGAFORTRESS, aiming to stay roughly parallel to the other fighter’s path. The MiG-29 Fulcrum was an excellent single-seat fighter, highly maneuverable and very dangerous when equipped with modern avionics and weapons. But it did have some shortcomings. As a small aircraft, it could not carry that much fuel, and teasing the afterburners for speed now would limit what it could do later. And their limited avionics meant the Flighthawk was invisible to them except at very close range. Guessing where it was wasn’t the same as knowing.

  As soon as the Yemen jet turned to try and get behind the Megafortress at close range, Cantor made his move, trading his superior altitude for speed and surprise. He reminded himself not to get too cocky as it came on, staying precisely on course and resisting the temptation to increase his speed by pushing his nose down faster.