End Game

by Dale Brown

  “Karachi?” said Zen. He let the weights drop and rolled over to his stomach. The screen showed a still photo of an Indian naval vessel said to have been sunk.

  “Where was this?” Zen asked the TV. “Where?”

  But the network cut to a commercial. Zen waited patiently through a spot for Folger’s coffee, but instead of adding more details when they returned, the anchor cued the weatherman. Zen crawled toward the end table and reached for his phone.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  13 January 1998

  0610

  “AIRFORCE, WHY DID YOU PUT THE WEREWOLF DOWN INTO that ship?”

  Starship shifted uneasily. He’d actually forgotten all about that, sure that Storm was going to ball him out for losing the Werewolf to the Indian missile.

  “I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, sir.”

  Lame, completely lame, but what else could he say?

  Storm shook his head. “Do you realize the Chinese could have grabbed the Werewolf at any moment?”

  “That might be a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, they weren’t expecting anything and I was only there for a minute. Not even. I was always right under the opening for the elevator. I could just escape straight up.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You took a big risk, mister. A huge risk.”

  Starship nodded.

  “Officially, you’re on report,” said Storm. “That was a foolish thing to do.”

  The furrows in the captain’s brow deepened; he looked like a gargoyle about to spit stone.

  “Unofficially,” added Storm, “that was the ballsiest thing I’ve ever seen anyone ever do.”

  Starship was confused, but he was even more confounded as Storm formed his hand into a fist and hit his shoulder with a roundhouse so powerful he was nearly knocked off his feet. The captain wore a grin that covered half his face.

  “Way to go, Airforce,” Storm told him. “The intelligence geeks back at the Pentagon are going apeshit over this. It’s the coup of the year. You keep this up and you’ll be a permanent member of the team.”

  “Thanks, sir,” said Starship, rubbing his shoulder.

  National Security Council offices,

  Washington, D.C.

  2021, 12 January 1998

  (0621, 13 January, Karachi)

  JED BARCLAY KNEW ONE OF HIS PHONES WAS RINGING, BUT couldn’t figure out which one it was until the third trill. Then he pulled his personal cell phone out of his pocket.

  “Uh, Jed,” he said, unsure who would be calling on the seldom used line.

  “Jed, it’s your cousin Jeff.”

  “Hey, Zen. How’s it goin’?”

  “What’s going on in India?”

  “Oh—jeez. All hell’s breaking loose.”

  “Karachi was attacked. Breanna’s there,” Zen added. “I figured you could give me some background.”

  “Listen, cuz, I really can’t talk about that on this line, you know?”

  “Is Bree going to be OK?”

  “Well, none of our people have been, uh, hurt that I know of.”

  “I know that. I just talked to the base. That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “Yeah. Um. I still can’t talk on this line.”

  “What if I call you back from Dreamland?”

  Jed knew that the Dreamland contingent was being pulled out of Karachi because of the volatile situation there. But not only couldn’t he say so on a phone line that could be tapped, it wasn’t his place to be handing out that information.

  “Maybe. You don’t sound like yourself,” Jed told his cousin. “You, like, worried about Breanna?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “She can take care of herself, though. I mean, Bree’s been—”

  “I’ll call you in an hour.”

  Zen hung up before Jed could warn him that he might be hard to reach; the National Security Council was setting up a meeting, and he expected to be called upstairs to help his boss prepare a presidential briefing any second.

  Jed went back to his computer, looking at the images that had been forwarded from the Abner Read following the battle. The conflict had provided a wealth of tactical and strategic intelligence, but right now he just wanted something he could show the President to illustrate both the damage and the firepower of the ships involved.

  The Abner Read had obtained particularly interesting video of the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping, thanks to the exploits of its Werewolf. Among the images Jed paged through were clear shots of the hangar deck, showing a number of planes in storage and even what looked like a weapons area. Wondering if the information might change the Pentagon’s assessment of the relative power of the two fleets—the analysts had been calling the Deng Xiaoping and Shiva about even—Jed picked up the phone and called the Pentagon.

  The Navy intelligence officer he wanted to talk to was away from his desk. So were two other people he called. He was about to try someone at the CIA who specialized in weapons assessments when his friend at the Navy called him back.

  “You’re wondering about the Deng?” said the lieutenant commander.

  “I’m wondering if these images are going to change your assessment that the two task groups are evenly matched, or if the battle did,” Jed told him.

  “Too early to say for sure, but it looks like the Chinese have a new anticruise missile weapon. There’s something else even more interesting about the Deng, though.”

  “More interesting?”

  “You got W-AB73-20 there?” asked the officer, referring to one of the image’s index numbers.

  “Hang tight,” said Jed, swinging around in his chair to the keyboard. He cradled the phone against his neck as he found the photo.

  One of the series taken of the Deng Xiaoping’s hangar deck, it showed a pair of J-13 fighters, wings folded, roped off a short distance from the camera. There were two men near it; both had automatic rifles.

  “OK, so I’m looking at it.”

  “See those jets? They’re guarded.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Kind of strange, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, definitely.” Jed zeroed in and hit the zoom. “Are these guards? Or are these guys running up to the fight?”

  “Jed, they’re in the hangar of an aircraft carrier. They’re guarding the plane.”

  Oh, wow.

  “Tai-shan?”

  “That’s the guess. We’re studying the planes now. But, I’d say that’s a real good guess. Plane types are right. We’re digging into the equipment right now.”

  “I’M NOT FAMILIAR WITH TAI-SHAN,” THE NATIONAL SECURITY Advisor admitted to Jed when he took the news to his office a few minutes later.

  “Two years ago, the Chinese navy conducted a series of tests in the Gulf of Tonkin, using what was then a prototype of the J-13,” said Jed. “They operated from a base that had been mocked up so it was similar to an aircraft carrier—the dimensions were later shown to fit one of the Deng Xiaoping’s arms. The aircraft dropped practice bombs over the water. One of the mock missions was tracked, and from the bombing pattern, it seemed pretty clear that it was dropping a nuclear weapon. If you recall, this was right around the time the Xia, their only ballistic missile submarine, was taken out of service. But—”

  “Wait, Jed,” said Freeman, nearly jumping from his seat. “You’re telling me there’s a nuke on that ship?”

  “Maybe two. There are two planes.”

  “Let’s go talk to the President right now,” said Freeman, already in full stride.

  The President was entertaining a delegation of church youth leaders from Minnesota on a postdinner tour of the White House when Jed and Freeman were ushered into the Oval Office. Entertaining was the right word—he was demonstrating a sleight of hand trick he’d learned on a recent trip to Florida. The President was particularly fond of the trick, and was taking obvious glee in making a silver do
llar appear in various ears of his visitors.

  “But I see, ladies and gentlemen, that duty is calling, and I’m late for my next meeting,” said the President. “We’re always burning the midnight oil here.”

  He glad-handed the visitors as they left, mixing in variations of his silver dollar trick.

  “Everybody loves magic,” said Martindale after they left. “Now if I could only find a way to pull silver dollars from congressmen’s ears, I’d have no problem getting my budget passed.”

  “There’s a new twist in the north Arabian Sea,” the National Security Advisor told the President. “It’s going to complicate things tremendously.”

  Martindale’s smile faded quickly as Jed told him about the images from the carrier and their implications.

  “You’re sure this is correct?” asked Martindale.

  “The intelligence agencies are preparing a formal estimate,” said Jed. “But I checked the original intelligence on the program. It’s a real match. A Chinese agent provided photos and a procedural manual.”

  “The Chinese showed restraint by not using the planes when they were attacked,” said Freeman. “But can we count on that in the future? Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that the carrier is off the coast of India. China could be planning a first strike against the Indian leadership.”

  “Are you suggesting we alert the Indians?” asked the President. “That could backfire—they might use that as an excuse to fire nukes at the carrier. They’ve already tried to sink it.”

  Martindale got up from his desk. He still had the dollar coin in his hand. He played with it absentmindedly, twirling it between his fingers.

  “India is not our ally,” said Freeman. “But then neither is China.”

  “We can’t allow a nuclear war in Asia. The consequences would be devastating,” said the President. “Even a conventional war. We need to get some distance between the two sides, work up something diplomatically, either in the UN or on our own.”

  “Neither side trusts us,” said Freeman bitterly.

  “See, they have something in common,” said the President sardonically. “How long will it take to get the Nimitz and its battle group into the area?”

  “Two weeks,” said Jed.

  “What if we sent a private message to the Chinese, telling them we know they have the weapon, and that if they try to use it, we’ll sink their ship?” Martindale asked Freeman.

  “For one thing, we’ll be taking sides. For another, we’ll be giving away intelligence that may help us down the road.”

  “If they don’t use the weapon.”

  “True.”

  “I’d rather sink it here than off Taiwan. We could blame the Indians somehow.”

  “Maybe the Indians will sink it for us,” said Freeman.

  “It may not be that easy to sink,” said Jed. “It came through the battle with the Indians.”

  “We can sink it,” said Freeman.

  “What if we positioned ourselves to attack the carrier once the planes appear on deck, and attack then? Could Dreamland and the Abner Read handle that sort of attack on their own?”

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” said Freeman. “We’re going to risk our own people for India?”

  “India and China, and the rest of southern Asia,” said the President. “Is it feasible?”

  Freeman turned to Jed.

  “Um, they might. Another thing, um, they might be able to shoot down the planes.”

  “All right. That might work,” said Martindale. “We’ll discuss it with the cabinet.”

  He picked up the phone and told the operator to contact the other cabinet members, along with Joint Chiefs of Staff, for an emergency meeting.

  “I want Bastian in charge of this,” he said when he got off the phone.

  “He’s attached to Xray Pop, and Captain Gale on the Abner Read outranks him,” said Freeman.

  “Captain Gale has lived up to his nickname ‘Storm’ once too often for my taste. Bastian is the one I trust out there. I’ll talk to them personally.”

  Diego Garcia

  1200, 13 January 1998

  (1100, Karachi)

  DOG CLAMBERED DOWN THE EB-52’S LADDER, HIS THROAT parched and his legs aching from the long flight. Diego Garcia was a small atoll in the Indian Ocean, south of India. Among the most secure American bases in the world—surrounded by miles and miles of open ocean—it was also a four hour flight from their patrol area. Dog did not relish the idea of operating from here for very long.

  “Hey, good to see you, Colonel,” yelled Mack Smith, hopping off a small “gator” vehicle as it pulled to a stop. A pair of maintainers got off the golf-cart-sized vehicle, which they used to ferry tools and supplies around while working on the big aircraft. “How was the flight?”

  “Long,” Dog told him, getting his bearings.

  “So was mine. I’ll tell you, nothing’s changed, Colonel—place looks just like we left it last week.”

  Actually it had been almost two months now, back before Thanksgiving. But Diego Garcia did have something of a timeless quality to it, at least to the occasional visitor. The sand and trees and old ruins belonged to the British; everything else here was operated by the U.S. Navy. A small administrative building had already been set aside for the Dreamland force, as had six dugout revetments for the aircraft. More carport than hangar, the parking areas were more important for the shade they provided than the protection against terror attack; the closest thing to a terrorist on the island was the constable who handed tickets out to bicyclists exceeding the speed limit.

  “Since I was ranking officer, I took it upon myself to contact the natives,” Mack told Dog as he walked toward a Navy jeep that had been sent to meet him. “Base commander is Mr. Cooperation.”

  “That’s nice, Mack,” said Dog, who’d already spoken to the commander twice while en route.

  “Got our old digs, everything’s shipshape.”

  “Great.”

  “I hear my pupil Cantor shot down two J-13s when they wouldn’t turn back,” added Mack. “Chip off the old block.”

  “Your pupil?”

  “He’s coming along, isn’t he?” said Mack, without a trace of irony.

  Dog started to climb into the jeep when a bicycle ridden by a man dressed in camo fatigues appeared on the roadway in front of them. The colonel told the driver to wait a moment, realizing that the bicyclist was one of his Whiplash troopers; during their earlier stay they’d found that mountain bikes were the most effective way of getting around the base. The rider was Danny Freah, who sported a wide bandage on his left hand but otherwise showed no signs of wear from his recent ordeal.

  “I thought you were going to get some rest,” Dog said.

  “So’d I. You have a high-level call at the trailer.”

  “Hop in,” Dog told him.

  “Nah,” said the Whiplash captain, grinning as he whipped his bicycle around. “I’ll race ya.”

  BREANNA PAUSED IN FRONT OF THE DOOR, REHEARSING WHAT she had to say one last time. Then she sighed and raised her hand to knock. At the first rap, the door flew open.

  “Captain,” said Jan Stewart, startled. “I was just going to get something to eat.”

  “Oh, good,” said Breanna. “I’ll go with you.”

  Stewart shrugged, pulling the door closed behind her. Breanna realized the suggestion had been a mistake, but she was stuck with it now. She led Stewart out of the dormitory building they’d been assigned, and didn’t speak until they were outside. The mess—or galley, in Navy talk—was several hundred yards away.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Breanna said. “I’ve been noticing some problems you’re having.”

  “What problems?” snapped Stewart.

  “Little things,” said Breanna. “But a lot of them. You’re having trouble processing all the systems in combat.”

  Stewart stopped and turned toward her. “Are you unhappy with my performance, Captain?”

  “Yes,” s
aid Breanna. The word blurted out; Breanna had meant to approach the topic with much more tact.

  Stewart’s face reddened. “Well, thank you for your honesty,” she said, turning and continuing toward the cafeteria.

  Well, that went well, Breanna thought. And now I can’t even go and eat without getting the evil eye.

  “DOG, IT’S GOOD TO TALK TO YOU UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE,” President Martindale told Colonel Bastian after the call was put through. “I hope you’re well.”

  “I am, sir. Thank you.”

  “I’m going to let Jed Barclay fill in the details, as he has so often in the past,” said the President. “But I want to emphasize two things. Number one: You are taking your orders directly from me. No one and nothing are to interfere with this mission. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Number Two: You are in command. As such, you are representing me. Your judgment is my judgment. The stakes are extremely high, but I trust you. Follow your instincts.”

  Before Dog could say anything else, Jed Barclay came on the line. “Are you there, Colonel?”

  “I’m here, Jed,” said Dog.

  “I, um, I’m going to start with some background. I don’t think you know about Tai-shan, right?”

  Dog listened as Jed described the Chinese naval nuclear program and explained what the Werewolf had found.

  “We’re not sure whether the fact that there are two aircraft means that there are two bombs, or whether one is intended as a backup,” Jed told him. “Navy Intelligence is preparing a dossier that will help you identify the aircraft.”

  The recent showdown notwithstanding, the Megafortress was not the weapon of choice for shooting down J-13s, or any frontline fighter for that matter.

  “The Abner Read is subordinate to you for this mission,” added Jed.

  “Does Captain Gale know that?”

  “The President will be telling him shortly.”

  Dog could only imagine the fallout from that conversation.

  “You have to be in a position to stop the strike if it appears imminent,” reiterated Jed, making his instructions absolutely clear. “Whatever you have to do to accomplish that, you’re authorized to do. I, um, we’ll have a twenty-four-hour link set up to provide you with intelligence on the situation. I’m working on it now.”