End Game

by Dale Brown

  “What about the Flighthawks?” asked Zen.

  “Two per plane. They’re not shielded, so Zen, you’ll have to work out a strategy to maximize protection if we have to move ahead. We’ll exchange Ensign English for a Flighthawk pilot on Levitow. The Piranha unit is nearing the end of its patrol time anyway; its fuel cell is almost used up. The second pilot will control it for as long as possible, then put it into autonomous mode.”

  “What about the planes on the Chinese carrier?” asked Breanna.

  “The Levitow will target them, with the Abner Read backing her up.”

  “I think Dreamland Fisher ought to be dedicated to the targeting mission,” said Tommy Chu, the aircraft’s pilot. “If the Levitow can’t get back in time, it will be in position.”

  “We can use it for the Whiplash mission as well,” said Danny.

  “All right. Let’s do it. Wisconsin will return to base as soon as the Levitow is on station. Bennett is en route home right now; they’ll try and grab some rest and then form the backup crew on Wisconsin. We want a hot pit—basically just long enough for our backup pilots and crew to jump aboard. The diplomats are working overtime,” added the colonel, trying a little too hard to sound positive. “If we can get past the next forty-eight hours or so, tensions should calm.”

  A big if, thought Zen, though he didn’t say it.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, OUT ON THE APRON NEAR THE RUNWAY, Danny wondered what he’d gotten himself into. The manpod—actually a large, flat, pressurized container designed to fit under a B-2 or a B-52’s wing—did not want to align properly with the detents that would allow auxiliary power to be pumped into the unit from the Fisher. The power was necessary for several reasons, not least of which was the fact that without it the pod would not pressurize.

  It wasn’t as if Danny could do an awful lot about the problem—he and Boston were packed inside their respective pods, talking through the “smart helmet” com links to Sergeant Liu, who was supervising the “snap in”—or trying to.

  The lift truck lowered him again.

  “Hey, guys, I’m supposed to be part of the plane, right?” said Danny.

  No one answered for a second, then Danny overheard a muffled grumble through Liu’s microphone. He couldn’t make out the words, but the grumble had a familiar snarl to it.

  “Good morning, Captain,” said Greasy Hands—aka Chief Master Sergeant Al Parsons—a moment later. “We seem to be having a little difficulty here.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Well, you just hold on for a second, Captain, while I straighten these boys out.”

  A moment later Danny felt the manpod being lifted off its carrier. Over the com system he heard someone—it had to be Greasy Hands—counting off in the background. Then the manpod was thrust upward against the wing, slapping into the brace with a resounding clunk.

  “There you go,” snarled Greasy Hands. “We’ll have Boston on in a minute. Less time if someone here would get me my coffee!”

  “Pretty Boy, get the chief a pot of coffee, on the double,” said Danny to Sergeant Jack Floyd, his ears ringing.

  Northern Arabian Sea

  15 January 1998

  0115

  “GOD IS GREAT,” THE MITRA’S CAPTAIN TOLD SATTARI. “THE destroyer has changed course and is heading west.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Look for yourself. His stacks are billowing—he must be off to meet one of the Chinese ships. I’ve sent to the radio room to see if they have intercepted any messages.”

  Sattari took the night glasses. He saw the cloud of warm exhaust rising in the distance, but not the Pakistani ship.

  “We will leave immediately,” Sattari said. “With the protection of God, we will do our duty. Protect yourself,” he added, handing the glasses back.

  “We will do our best,” said the captain. “May God be with you.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0330

  CANTOR STARED AT THE PIRANHA’S SCREEN, TRYING TO BLINK away some of the burn he felt in the corner of his eyes. The milky representation of the ocean was supposedly a huge advance over the displays used by conventional passive sonar systems, but the only thing he had to compare it to was the Flighthawk’s synthesized radar images, and that was like comparing shadows reflected from a campfire to an iMax movie.

  Piranha had followed the Chinese submarine into Pakistani waters south of Karachi, close to the border with India. This happened to suit them well, taking them within six minutes’ flying time to the spot where they would cross the border if they had to fire their EEMWBs. For the past two hours, the Kilo-class sub had sat a hundred feet below the surface of the water, silently waiting. But now that the Chinese submarine began to move westward, Colonel Bastian would have to decide whether they would drop another control buoy and follow or pull the Piranha back.

  Besides the submarine, there were two surface ships in the vicinity. One—too far away to be identified by the Piranha, but ID’d by the surface radar as a Pakistani patrol craft—was sailing south. The other was a civilian ship. Cantor could see both vessels on the large surface radar plot in his lower left-hand screen.

  The computer gave an audible warning that the Piranha was approaching the limit of the buoy’s communication system. Cantor throttled the robot back, then asked Colonel Bastian what he wanted to do.

  “Tell you what, Cantor—Levitow is about two hours’ flying time away. Let’s put down one more control buoy and move south. They can pick it up when they come on station.”

  “Copy that, Colonel. We could swing south about six miles and drop it there.”

  “I have to watch out for traffic,” said Dog. “Stand by.”

  While he was waiting, Cantor swung the Piranha around, doing the robot submarine’s version of “checking six” to see what was behind it. The merchant ship showed up on the screen—a long blurry shadow, with a set of numbers giving data on the direction the contact was moving and categorizing the sound it made. Cantor moved his cursor to select the contact, directing the computer to check the sound against its library of contacts. The computer classified the vessel as an “unknown oil tanker type,” as had the system tied into the Megafortress’s surface radar.

  As the Piranha continued to swing through the circle, its passive sonar picked up another contact, this one underwater. The contact was so faint the robot’s gear couldn’t tell how far away it was.

  Was it really there? The irregular coastal floor nearby played tricks with sound currents, and it was possible that Piranha was “seeing” a reflection of the submarine or one of the surface ships. The only way to tell was to get closer.

  Cantor halted the Piranha’s turn, sliding the stick forward and moving gingerly in the direction of the contact. The scale showed the contact was at least twenty miles away, just about in territorial waters.

  “Colonel, I think I have something, another sub maybe,” Cantor told Bastian. “It’s a good twenty miles east of us. I wonder if we should check it out.”

  “You’re sure it’s a sub?”

  “I’m not sure at all,” Cantor admitted. “But if I follow the Chinese Kilo, I’ll definitely lose it. Very faint signal—extremely quiet.”

  “Give me the coordinates,” said Dog.

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0340

  MEMON WATCHED AS THE LAST SU-35 EXPLODED OFF THE deck of the carrier, its rapid ascent into the night sky belying the heavy load beneath its wings. Six new jets had arrived last evening, bringing the carrier’s flyable complement to eighteen. All but two were now in the air; if the order was given to attack, it would take no more than ten minutes for the first missile to strike its target.

  He hoped it would not come to that.

  Did this mean he was a coward? Or was Skandar right—was it just a matter of experience, of getting past the first shock?

  “A beautiful sight, isn’t i
t?”

  The voice sounded so much like Admiral Kala’s that Memon turned around with a jerk. But it wasn’t the dead admiral or his ghost, just one of the NCOs, an older man who supervised the radar specialists.

  “Yes, it is beautiful,” managed Memon. “Incredibly beautiful.”

  NSC Situation Room 1740,

  14 January 1998

  (0340, 15 January, Karachi)

  JED BARCLAY WHEELED HIS CHAIR BACK FROM THE COMMUNICATIONS console and surveyed the screens arrayed before him. Twenty-three different computers were tied into various intelligence networks, allowing him almost instantaneous information on what was happening in India and Pakistan. Updated feeds from satellites designed to detect missile launches took up four screens at the left; the coverage overlapped and had been arranged so the entire subcontinent was always in view. A pair of screens collated feeds from a pair of U-2s covering the Arabian Sea. The planes’ sensor arrays, dubbed “Multi-Spectral Electro-Optical Reconnaissance Sensor SYERS upgrades,” provided around-the-clock coverage of the region, using optics during the day and in clear weather, and infrared and radar at other times.

  The next screen provided a feed from an electronic eavesdropping program run by the National Security Agency; the screen filled with updates on intelligence gathered by clandestine electronic listening posts near India and in Pakistan. Interpretations on captures of intelligence on Pakistani systems filled the next screen. Then came a series of displays devoted to bulletins from the desks at the different intelligence agencies monitoring the situation. Finally there was the tie-in to the Dreamland Command network, which allowed Jed to talk to all of the Dreamland aircraft and share the imagery.

  Six people were needed to work all of the gear. Jed was the only one authorized to communicate directly with the Dreamland force. He would be relieved in the morning by his boss, who had just gone to dinner and who expected to be paged immediately if things perked up.

  “I say we send out for pizza,” said the photo interpreter monitoring the U-2 and satellite images.

  “How about Sicilian?” suggested Peg Jordan, monitoring the NSA feed.

  “Sounds good,” said Jed.

  “Let’s call Sicily and have it delivered,” deadpanned Jordan.

  Everyone laughed. As lame as it was, Jed hoped the joke wouldn’t be the only one he heard tonight.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  above the northern Arabian Sea

  0345

  DOG DOUBLE-CHECKED HIS POSITION, MAKING SURE HE WAS still outside Pakistani territory. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying thirty miles due east of him, very close to the country’s border with India. The planes had queried him twice, making sure he wasn’t an Indian jet. Even though that should have been obvious, Dog had Jazz reassure the pilots, telling them they were Americans hoping to “help keep the peace.” There was no sense having to duck the planes’ missiles prematurely.

  Besides the Pakistani flight, the Megafortress was being shadowed by a pair of Indian MiG-21s. Much older than the F-16s, they were farther away and less of a threat. But they were clearly watching him. Probably guided by a ground controller, they changed course every time he did. He knew this couldn’t go on much longer—the small fighters simply didn’t carry that much fuel—but it was an ominous portent of the gamut they’d have to run if things went sour.

  Jed had warned that they couldn’t expect the Pakistanis to be friendly. Annoyed at the neutral stance of the U.S., the government of Pakistan had specifically warned that the Dreamland aircraft were “unwelcome” in Pakistani airspace for the length of the crisis.

  If ballistic missiles were launched, Dog would know within fifteen seconds. Ideally, he would then rush over the Thar Desert, flying at least twelve and a half minutes before firing the first salvo of three missiles, which would detonate roughly seven minutes later. Seconds before they did, he would fire his last missile. Soon afterward, he would lose most if not all of his instruments and fly back blind. And while the radars and missile batteries along the route he was flying would be wiped out, the closer he got to the coast, the higher the odds that he’d be in the crosshairs. The Wisconsin might never know what hit her.

  The worst thing was, if the new calculations were correct, the mission might be in vain. And the same went for the Levitow. It was going to be ten or twelve hours before they could have both aircraft on station.

  “J-13s from the carrier are headed our way,” said Jazz.

  Dog grunted. The Chinese seemed to be working on an hourly schedule—every sixty minutes they sent a pair of planes to do a fly-by and head back to the carrier.

  “Wisconsin, this is Hawk One—you sure you don’t want me to get in their faces?”

  “Negative, Mack. Conserve your fuel. And your tactics.”

  “Roger that.”

  Dog thought Mack must be getting tired—he didn’t put up an argument.

  “Colonel, Piranha is within ten miles of that underwater contact,” said Cantor. “Computer is matching this to the other craft. The one that scuttled itself the other day.”

  “You’re positive, Cantor?”

  “Computer is, Colonel. Personally, I haven’t a clue.”

  “All right. I’ll contact Captain Chu and Danny in Dreamland Fisher. Good work.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0348

  STORM WATCHED THE PLOT ON THE RADARMAN’S SCOPE, tracking the Indian jets as they circled to the east.

  “Keeping an eye on us,” said the sailor. “Every fifteen minutes or so they split up. One comes straight overhead.”

  Storm scratched the stubble on his chin, considering the situation. The planes were well within range of the Standard antiair missiles in the forward vertical launch tubes.

  The problem was, his orders of engagement declared that he had to wait for “life-threatening action” before he could fire. That meant he couldn’t launch his missiles unless the Sukhois got aggressive—which at this close range might be too late. Storm decided that when he got back to the bridge he would radio Bastian and see if he couldn’t get one of his little robot fighters over to run the Indians off.

  Continuing with his tour of the Tactical Center, Storm moved over to the Werewolf station. Starship had gone off to bed, and one of Storm’s crewmen—Petty Officer Second Class Paul Varitok—was at the helm of the robot. The petty officer was one of the ship’s electronics experts and had volunteered to fly the aircraft when it came aboard. He was still learning; even discounting the fact that Storm’s presence made him nervous, it was obvious to the captain that he had a long way to go.

  Storm completed his rounds and headed over to the communications shack. After checking the routine traffic, he made a call to Bastian. The Air Force lieutenant colonel snapped onto the line with his customary, “Bastian,” the accompanying growl practically saying, Why are you bothering me now?

  “I have two Indian warplanes circling south at five miles,” Storm told him. “What are the odds of you chasing them away?”

  “No can do,” said Dog. “Stand by,” he added suddenly, and the screen went blank.

  It took the Air Force commander several minutes to get back to him, and he didn’t offer an apology or an explanation when he did. If he wasn’t such an insolent, arrogant, know-it-all blowhard—he’d still be a jerk.

  “Storm—we have a contact we think may be another midget submarine. It’s similar to the one that blew itself up. We’re going to track it. My Whiplash people will be en route shortly.”

  “Where is it?”

  “A few miles off the Pakistani coast, just crossing toward Indian territory.”

  Dog gave him the coordinates, about sixty miles to the east of the Sharkboat, which was another forty to the east of the Abner Read.

  “It will take about two hours for the Sharkboat to get there,” Storm told him. “But those are Indian waters. If we’re caught there, it will be viewed as provocative. The Indians will have
every right to attack us.”

  “You’re telling me you won’t go there?”

  “This has nothing to do with the aircraft carrier, Bastian. You can’t give me an order regarding it.”

  “I’m not. But if we want to get the submarine, we have to do it now. I would suggest—suggest—that you position your Sharkboat several miles offshore so it can come to the aid of the craft when it begins to founder.”

  “You know all the angles, don’t you?” snapped Storm.

  Dog didn’t respond.

  “Yes, we’ll do it,” said Storm. “Get with Eyes for the details.” He jabbed his finger on the switch to kill the transmission.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0430

  ZEN WATCHED AS LIEUTENANT DENNIS “DORK” THRALL FINISHED the refuel of Hawk Three. Dork backed out of Levitow, rolling right as he cleared away from the Megafortress. Hawk Four remained on the wing; Zen would have to take the Piranha when they arrived on station, and didn’t want to leave Dork to handle two planes.

  Dork steered the Flighthawk out in front of the Megafortress, climbing gradually to 42,000 feet, about five thousand higher than the EB-52. They were still forty-five minutes from the Wisconsin’s position, but already they’d encountered three different Indian patrols. They had also passed a Russian guided missile cruiser steaming northward with two smaller ships. If tempers were cooling, Zen saw no evidence of it.

  He heard something behind him, and turned to find Breanna climbing down the metal ladder at the rear of the deck.