End Game

by Dale Brown

  “Something wrong, Colonel?” asked Morris.

  “I’ve never seen aircraft more ready to fly,” Dog told him. “Job well done.”

  The kid’s smile could have lit half the island. Dog ducked back under the wing, heading toward the ladder.

  “Colonel!” shouted the airman.

  Dog turned back.

  “Um, Greasy Hands said I, um, I wasn’t supposed to let you go without telling you.”

  “Telling me what?”

  “Don’t break my plane. Sir.”

  Dog laughed. “I’ll try not to. Go get yourself some sleep.”

  CANTOR WATCHED FROM HIS STATION AS MACK COMPLETED the launch procedure with Hawk One and took control of the aircraft. He rolled right, swinging the UM/F out ahead of the Megafortress as they flew over the eastern Mediterranean. They would fly over Israel, Jordan, and then Saudi Arabia en route to their station over the Arabian Sea. Hawk Two remained on the wing. Colonel Bastian had modified his one pilot-one Flighthawk rule slightly, allowing two planes to be used “in an emergency,” but it was highly unlikely the plane would be launched on their way to the patrol area. Cantor thus had nothing to do until they got to the Arabian Sea, where he would take over control of the Piranha from Ensign English aboard Levitow. Piranha had gone south and was searching for the Chinese Kilo submarine escorting the Deng Xiaoping.

  Cantor found himself wishing for an alert—scrambling Syrian MiGs as they approached the coast, an overanxious Yemen patrol—to break the monotony.

  “So what do you think, kid?” said Mack as the flight dragged on. “Would you rather face two Su-35s? Or one F-15?”

  “One F-15.”

  “An F-15? Why?”

  “’Cause I know what he’ll do. The Indians I’m still studying.”

  “Fair enough. We won’t be fighting against them anymore this time around, though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because now that the Indians and China have gotten their taste of what real action is like, they’ll back off. I’ve seen this before. They don’t want to lose any of their toys.”

  DOG CLEARED THE TRANSMISSION. DANNY FREAH’S FACE APPEARED in the Dreamland communications panel.

  “Hey, Colonel, I’ve finished analyzing the attack on the Karachi terminal,” he told Dog. “Definitely done by explosives. I’d say they used a dozen people, maybe more.”

  “Twelve is a few too many for that submarine,” Dog said. “Rubeo says they’re figuring maximum capacity at about eight, maybe ten.”

  “Yeah. But working out the way the explosives were set and the time of that first contact, there had to be at least twelve guys, like I say. I think it’s likely there’s at least one more submarine.”

  “All right. Thanks, Danny.”

  “Hey, Colonel?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to draw up a mission to take the sub.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Capture it. I’ve studied the data Ray Rubeo gave us, and talked to some submarine people on how to do it. There’s a kind of a safety valve we can use to blow the tanks to get it to surface. When it does, we drop tear gas inside, get in and disarm whoever’s aboard. Can’t be more than eight people, maybe less.”

  “First of all, Danny, I’m not sure you’d be able to disable everyone aboard before they blew it up.”

  “There’s also an external air fitting for emergency air—we could pump in nitrous oxide. There’s a dentist over here who—”

  “Second of all—and more to the point—you’re four hours flying time from the general area in a Megafortress traveling at top speed. The Osprey would take twice as long, to have enough fuel to make it.”

  “Be worth the trip. You have to find out where these guys are coming from, right? This is the best way to do it.”

  “You’re assuming we’re going to see these guys again.”

  “If I had a weapon like that, I’d use it until it broke,” said Danny. “We should be ready, right?”

  “I’ll discuss it with Storm,” Dog told him. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  1230

  IT FELT AS IF IT HAD BEEN MONTHS SINCE HE’D FLOWN. ZEN had trouble lining up for the refuel, coming on tentatively and then rushing into the furling turbulence behind the big plane. Hawk Three’s nose shot downward and he aborted, riding off to the right, more bemused than angry. He came around again, easing his hand forward on the stick.

  His muscles began to spasm—a side effect of the treatments?

  Forget the treatments, he told himself.

  He pushed his body down in the seat, trying to ease the cramps without actually affecting his control of the airplane. He drove the Flighthawk into the hookup, then let the computer take over. By now his arm felt as if it had been mangled in a wheat thresher.

  “Levitow to Flighthawk leader,” said Breanna. “We have two J-13s coming at us hot out of the east. Distance is sixty miles.”

  “Yeah, OK, I got ’em on the sitrep,” said Zen. “I’ll say hello.”

  Zen took Hawk Four over from the computer and began cutting north. The Chinese aircraft were not part of the normal patrol over the carrier; these were sent here to get a look at the Megafortress. With the help of C3 he started back south at the very edge of his control link with the Levitow, putting himself in position to pull up behind the J-13s as they closed in.

  “Hawk Three refueled,” said the computer.

  Zen popped back into Hawk Three and slid her out from under the mother ship’s refueling line. Then he ducked under the Megafortress’s flight path, aiming at the oncoming J-13s. He had the robot planes positioned to sandwich the Chinese craft; he’d also be able to follow if they split up or did something unexpected.

  “Looks like they’re going to draw up alongside you and take pictures,” Zen told Breanna.

  “Levitow.”

  She was angry at something. Zen wondered if she was having more trouble with Stewart; the copilot had had trouble adjusting to the program.

  When they were about seven miles from the Megafortress, the J-13s turned so they could come up alongside either wing. As they did, Zen slid Hawk Three between them, twisting into a roll and making it obvious that he was there. Their attention consumed by the approaching plane, he pushed Hawk Four within spitting distance of Bogey Two’s tail. The Megafortress turned as it approached the end of its patrol track; Zen pulled Hawk Three around so he had a Flighthawk on each J-13. If they did anything hostile, he could take them down in an instant.

  “The jerk on my side has a camera,” said Stewart as the Chinese planes pulled up alongside the Levitow.

  “Well, make sure you wave,” Zen told her.

  STEWART TURNED HER HEAD BACK TO THE GLASS “DASHBOARD” in front of her, scanning the sitrep map to make sure nothing new had appeared. There were two dozen aircraft in the Megafortress’s scanning range, including a flight of Pakistani F-16s and an Indian long-range radar plane about a hundred miles inland. She worked through it quickly, top to bottom, then turned her attention to the systems screens, checking the engines to make sure everything was at spec. The computer made this easy for her by color coding the readings—numbers in green meant things were fine, yellows were cautions, red was trouble. The computer was also set to provide verbal alerts.

  As she scanned the settings, Stewart realized that she had a tendency not to take the computer’s word for things—to read each instrument’s data and query for exact details, which would be provided on many of the sensors by tapping the screen. That was the right way to do it, certainly—but in a combat situation it added greatly to the information overload that had been messing her up. Glance and move on—rely on the technology.

  If the J-13s tried anything, what would she do?

  The Flighthawks would take them out.

  If they didn’t?

  The Chinese planes would drop back, angling to get behind the
Megafortress and use their weapons. Go to weapons screen, activate Stinger air mines.

  They’d turn off or roll out, looking to get a little distance to make a missile attack. Evasive action, ECMs, flares, chaff, then AMRAAM-pluses.

  SAM missile alert?

  ID threat first. Then countermeasures.

  Staying calm was the important thing.

  “How you doing over there, Jan?” asked Breanna.

  “All indicators in the green. Tweedledee and Tweedledum are right at our sides.”

  Stewart felt a wave of anxiety rush over her. What had she missed? Was Breanna grilling her about something she’d screwed up?

  No. She really wasn’t like that. She was human.

  “Nothing else in the air for fifty miles,” Stewart added, looking at the sitrep. “CAPs are still over their carriers.”

  “Good. Feeling tense?”

  Another trick question? The Iron Bitch probing weaknesses?

  Or just an honest one?

  “A little. And tired,” she admitted.

  “I know the feeling. Boy, do I know the feeling,” said Breanna.

  Somehow, the reply felt like a compliment.

  Diego Garcia

  1640 (1540, Karachi)

  DANNY FREAH CAREFULLY ALIGNED HIS FINGERS ON THE stitches of the football, gently rolling the pigskin against his wide palm.

  “Down, ready, set,” he yelled, his voice sharp and loud. He glanced to the right at his teammate—Boston, whose right hand was still bandaged, lined up at split end—then at their opponents—Liu, who was playing defensive back, and Pretty Boy, who was rushing.

  There had to be some way to get up to the target area quickly.

  Deploy the Osprey from the Abner Read?

  They’d done that before. That would lower the response time considerably; it’d be an hour at most.

  “Hut, hut, hut.” Danny took the ball and dropped back. Boston shot down the field. Danny waited for him to stop and fake right. He pumped, then lofted a bomb over the middle just as Pretty Boy finished his Mississippis and leapt into his face. Ducking away, he saw Boston get a hand on the ball but miss it, batting it into the air—where it was promptly snatched by Liu.

  “Son of a bitch,” he growled, dodging Pretty Boy and heading toward Liu. Knowing from experience that the short and skinny Liu was a master of feints, Danny ran at three-quarter speed, waiting for the dance to begin. Sure enough, Liu did a stutter step as he approached, faking left then right then left. Then just as Danny grabbed for him, Liu tossed the ball backward—to Pretty Boy, who’d circled back and now had an open field to the goal. Danny turned on the jets in pursuit, but Pretty Boy lumbered across the goal before he could get two hands on him. Both men collapsed in the end zone, next to the nearby sidewalk that marked the end of their playing field.

  “I had it,” griped Boston, coming over. “Damn bandages got in the way. I don’t even need the stinking things.”

  Liu grinned as Boston pulled the gauze wrappings off. He’d applied the fresh dressing just before the game, no doubt figuring out some way to make them extra slippery.

  The problem with the Osprey was that the submarine might see it coming. Ditto with the Sharkboat that accompanied the Abner Read. If they had any sort of warning at all, they might blow the submarine up.

  He had to strike quickly, make it seem as if it were a malfunction, immobilize them before they could react.

  “Spot pass on the kickoff,” whispered Boston. “You receive, call pass while I run down the sideline. Just throw. We’ll catch them off guard.”

  “Spot pass?”

  “Boston city rules,” said the sergeant. “Allowed on a kickoff if you call it. Grab the ball, don’t move, yell spot pass when they’re close and bomb it. Let’s do it and let them argue about it later.”

  “Yeah,” said Freah. “A long bomb.”

  He started trotting toward the Command trailer.

  “Cap?”

  “You guys play without me for a while. I gotta go talk to the colonel.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  1555

  DOG SIPPED A COFFEE AT THE PILOT’S STATION AS JED BARCLAY continued to update him on the situation. He’d turned the plane over to Jazz and was enjoying the closest thing to a break he was going to have for the next eight hours or so. The Levitow had just left for Diego Garcia, where she’d get a fresh crew and a full load of fuel before returning to duty.

  “Pakistan’s missile batteries are on their highest alert. Same with India’s,” said Jed Barclay. “Nobody’s backed off or stood down.”

  “I thought the UN was sending a mission.”

  “They have. The President’s been talking to the different governments as well. The Indians say they’re willing to negotiate, but both Pakistan and the Chinese blame them for the last round of attacks, both at Karachi and on the carrier. The Russians are egging the Indians on.”

  “What about the Iranians?”

  “Um, not following you there, Colonel.”

  “I think they’re the ones behind this. The aircraft—”

  “We need proof. Like, something tangible. The airplanes weren’t even flying toward Iran, and the CIA hasn’t found any connection with the government yet.”

  “The submarine?”

  “No information’s been developed that I’ve seen. Um, problem is, Colonel, a lot of people won’t believe Iran’s involved without real hard evidence and, um, the Secretary of State would never go out on a limb to charge them without something tangible, real tangible.”

  “Yeah, all right. Thanks, Jed.”

  Dog was just getting up to stow his coffee cup when the Dreamland channel buzzed with another incoming message, this one from Danny back on Diego Garcia. Dog sat back down and cleared it through.

  “I have a plan to take the second submarine,” Danny said as soon as he came on the screen. “We stage the Osprey off the Abner Read. In the meantime, two of us are orbiting in manpods aboard the Megafortress watching for the Tai-shan aircraft. When the submarine is sighted, we do a drop into the water, pump my laughing gas in, and do an emergency pop to the surface.”

  “Manpods? Those one-man coffins that barely fit on the EB-52’s wings?”

  “No. Manpods, the one-man clandestine insertion devices that will give us a stealthy strike capability and allow us to grab the key actors in this international crisis.”

  “Pretty risky, Danny. Assuming there is another submarine.”

  “I think it’s worth a shot. We ought to at least be in position.”

  It was a no-brainer, wasn’t it? If the Pakistanis, Chinese, and Indians were given evidence that they were being provoked into war, surely they’d stand down. And if the President was willing to risk the crew of a Megafortress to stop that war, then he’d be willing to risk the Whiplash team and an Osprey as well.

  “Danny, tell you what,” said Dog. “Let me get Storm on the line and have you run the plan down for him. Stand by.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  northern Arabian Sea

  1600

  THE SEA AIR PEPPED HIM UP AS SOON AS STORM STEPPED out on the fantail of the Abner Read. Squinting at the late afternoon sun, he walked over to the two seamen who were prepping the Werewolf for another sortie. He watched as the men went silently about their business, working together as if they’d done this for years, though they had never even laid eyes on a Werewolf until two months ago.

  Starship appeared from the hangar entrance, walking toward the aircraft on unsteady legs. Storm watched approvingly as the Dreamland pilot checked with each of the men, then ducked under the rotors of the craft, kneeling over some part of the control unit, giving it his own personal check.

  Storm stepped forward to talk to the men, but before he reached the flight area the com unit on his belt buzzed. He pushed the headset forward, then hit the switch to connect.

  “Storm.”

  “Captain, incoming co
mmunication from the Dreamland aircraft Wisconsin. It’s Colonel Bastian.”

  “All right. Tell him to wait for a minute until I’m on the bridge.”

  STARSHIP PULLED BACK THE PANEL ON THE SELF-DIAGNOSTICS unit of the Werewolf, punched in his code, and then keyed PrG-1, the main diagnostics program, to start. The LEDs began to blink furiously. He backed out from under the rotors; the checks took thirteen and a half minutes, and there was no sense waiting on his knees.

  “You really flew this thing into the Chinese aircraft carrier?” asked one of the maintainers.

  “Yup,” said Starship, trying to remember the sailor’s name. He thought it was Tony, but he didn’t want to say it in case he was wrong.

  “Could’ve shot them up pretty bad, I’ll bet,” said the other sailor.

  “You’re probably right. Sure scared the hell out of them,” said Starship.

  “Probably peed in their pants, I bet,” said the man he thought was Tony.

  Tony or Tommy. Starship had always been lousy with names.

  The other was Jared. Definitely Jared.

  “So you like being aboard the ship?” asked Jared.

  “It takes some getting used to,” Starship admitted. “I mean, I’m used to, well, moving around more.”

  “It’s not too bad once you get used to it,” said the sailor he thought was Tony. “On the bigger ships, you have more facilities and stuff, but the thing with a small boat like ours? Everybody pulls together. It’s like a family.”

  “Yeah, the people are pretty good,” said Starship.

  “Captain can be a bit of a pill,” said Jared.