End Game

by Dale Brown

  “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 Bastian 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, Sattari 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 transf
erred 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.”

  “You’re losing me, Doc.”

  “It forces the tanks to blow, raising the submarine to the surface. It’s apparently intended to be used in the case of an emergency where the crew is completely incapacitated. If you were looking to recover the submarine, you might build a strategy around that device. Theoretically.”

  “Oh, very theoretically,” said Danny. “How soon can you get one of those Navy guys to talk to me?”

  Aboard the Shiva,

  off the coast of India in the northern Arabian Sea

  0640

  THE HELICOPTER WAS ANCIENT, A COAST GUARD CHETAK THAT had first flown in the 1960s. Its engine sounded like a rasping buzz saw as it headed for a landing on the Shiva’s deck. But its white skin glistened in the sunlight, and the aircraft steadied herself with what seemed to Memon fitting dignity before settling to a landing on the deck. No sooner had the pogo-stick wheels touched down than the cabin flew open and Admiral Skandar emerged, stooping low to clear the blades, then straightening into full stride. He ignored the honor guard standing at full attention and walked to Memon and Captain Adri, who along with the deputy air commander and weapons officer had come out to meet him. Skandar walked directly to Captain Adri, ignoring Memon completely; Memon felt his heart sink.

  “Captain,” said Skandar. “You are prepared to launch an attack?”

  “Our forces are ready and well-prepared,” said Adri. “We are positioned to strike.”

  “You did not receive my order to pull back?”

  “Sir, I complied with your order not to attack when it was confirmed by the Chief of the Navy, but upon reflection concerning my positioning, I believed that you had erred. So I adjusted accordingly.”

  “Captain, you will board my helicopter and return to Mumbai. I am in command of this vessel now.”

  “But—”

  “If necessary, you will be arrested.” Skandar turned and addressed the other two officers. “If you are not prepared to carry out my orders without question, you may join him.”

  The men stiffened, but said nothing.

  “Admiral,” said Adri. “I wish to apologize.”

  “Why are you not aboard the helicopter? Leave now—your personal belongings will follow. Take me to the bridge,” Skandar told the others. “Then I wish to inspect the damage and the wounded. After that, we will gather our commanders and prepare for the next stage of battle.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  0710

  STORM GRUNTED WHEN THE SEAMAN KNOCKED AT THE ENTRANCE to his cabin.

  “Encrypted message from the Pentagon, Captain,” said the sailor.

  “I’ll take it here,” said Storm. He glanced at his watch. A light sleeper by nature, he rarely got more than four hours of sack time in a row during a cruise; he’d already had nearly three.

  “Brought you coffee, sir,” added the seaman.

  “Johnson, you are a tribute to the service.”

  The sailor chuckled. Storm, who slept in his uniform, padded to the nearby door. He opened it, took the carafe, and then went to the small communications set on his desk opposite the foot of his bed. The set consisted of a small flat-screen monitor, video cam, speakers, microphone, and keyboard; it was essentially a computer with dedicated circuitry. Storm took the unit out of stand by, typed in a generic system code, then his own password. As the unit came to life, he opened the carafe and refilled the mug that sat in the indentation on the desk, not bothering to dispose of the coffee that filled its bottom.

  The screen turned blue. Storm pecked in a second code word to clear the transmission. He found himself looking at an empty communications station in the Pentagon Situation Room. As he took his first sip of coffee, the top of a head appeared. Then a face came into camera range.

  Storm had expected an intelligence officer. Instead, the face belonged to Admiral Balboa.

  “Storm, I’ve just come back from the White House,” said Balboa. “I’ve been in meetings all day and night over there.”

  “Yes, Admiral?”

  “Your mission’s being altered. Has Bastian gotten a hold of you yet?”

  Please tell me he’s no longer in charge, prayed Storm.

  “No, sir.”

  “Typical. The President wants to stop World War Three. Bastian and his Dreamland people are going to use their weapons to do it. That means you’re going to be on the front line against that carrier.”

  “I already am, sir. I’m ready to sink it at a moment’s notice.”

  “I want you to shoot down the planes, Storm. You don’t have to sink the carrier.”

  “I can do both.”

  “Don’t go overboard. Take the planes.”

  “Aye aye,” said Storm, speaking into his mug.

  “However—”

  Storm’s ears perked up.

  “If circumstances warranted—if you were to come under attack again,” said Balboa, “then the carrier would be a legitimate target.”

  “Damn straight it would, Admiral,” said Storm.

  “Since they’ve already been warned once, no one could accuse you of being trigger happy. Sinking the Chinese super carrier—so-called super carrier—would be quite an achievement. If the circumstances were right.”

  “I understand completely, Admiral. I appreciate your guidance.”

  “Merely stating facts,” said Balboa. “That Indian ship—is it as potent as they claim?”

  “It didn’t do very well against the Chinese,” said Storm.

  “Best thing would be for them both to go down,” said Balboa. “Not that they’re competent enough to sink each other. Now, what’s this theory about an Iranian submarine? We have all their Kilos under observation in the Persian Gulf. You’re telling me the Navy missed one?”

  “No. The theory is—Bastian’s theory—is that the Iranians are trying to instigate a conflict using civilian-style aircraft converted to military use. He thinks a civilian-style aircraft may have launched the torpedo that struck the Indian ship en route to Port Somalia.”

  “Preposterous. Bastian sees Iran behind everything.”

  Storm found himself in the unusual position of actually thinking the Air Force lieutenant colonel was correct. But now wasn’t the time to push the issue with Balboa.

  “The attack on Karachi may have been carried out—definitely was carried out—by a commando team, some sort of SpecWar unit,” said Storm, treading carefully. “We did find a submarine in Pakistani waters following the attack. The curious thing—”

  “I’ve seen the report. So your theory is that Iran is behind this, trying to instigate a war?”

  “That’s Bastian’s theory. I don’t have an opinion.”

  “Well, get one.”

&n
bsp; “Yes, sir.”

  Balboa frowned, then raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Stand by for Captain Connors and the intelligence updates.”

  Souda Bay U.S. Navy Support Base,

  Crete

  0915 (1215, Karachi)

  DOG LEANED IN UNDER THE MEGAFORTRESS’S OUTER WING and examined the EEMWBs that had just been installed on the Wisconsin’s wing. The weapon’s elongated and rounded nose added several feet to the overall length of the AGM-86C it had been attached to, making it impossible to carry inside the bomb bay. Two apiece were loaded on the Megafortress’s outer wing, beyond the Flighthawks. While they had a negligible effect on the Megafortress’s general performance, they increased her radar profile, making the planes easier to detect.

  Unlike the Levitow, the Wisconsin had not been shielded against the weapons; if she exploded them nearby she would lose her electric systems. But the Levitow couldn’t stay on station indefinitely, and the only other aircraft in the world that was shielded against T-Rays was Dreamland Raptor, currently in several thousand pieces on the floor of one of the Dreamland hangars, being examined and overhauled. A crew of techies was heading toward Diego Garcia, where they would retrofit the Bennett with protective gear and shielding in the wings and fuselage; when they were done, that plane would be equipped with the missiles and alternate with the Levitow on patrol. For now, Wisconsin would play relief.

  The weapons people at Dreamland had studied the possible paths the ballistic missiles would take, and they decided that only two explosions would be needed to disrupt the missiles. But to guarantee success, they wanted four launches in an overlapping pattern; that way, if one or even two failed to work or the yield was unexpectedly low, the plan would still succeed. That complicated matters for Dog, since to take out the carrier plane, he had to keep a second Megafortress in the area. He’d also told Storm to stay close to the carrier as well, a directive that was met with a grunt, which in Dog’s experience represented almost euphoric enthusiasm on the naval commander’s part.

  Dog continued his walk-around, escorted by Chris Morris, the airman first class who was acting crew chief for the plane while it was “pitted” at Crete. The young man had come from Dreamland with the missiles; this was not only his first deployment with the unit, but the most responsibility he’d ever been given in his life. He’d had a great deal of help prepping the plane from the Navy and from an experienced Air Force crew of maintainers that had flown in from Germany to help out. Still, as a Dreamlander he was the one ultimately responsible for the plane. He wouldn’t have been sent if he wasn’t up to it, but Dog could sense the butterflies in Airman Morris’s stomach every time he stopped to look at something. Finally, when they’d done a complete circuit around the aircraft, Dog folded his arms in front of his chest.