End Game

by Dale Brown

  Two more strokes and the bottom of the raft ran up on something sharp—a wire fence just under the waterline. Before Sattari could react, the water lapped over his legs. He could feel the rocks under his knees.

  “Wire,” said the man at the bow in a hushed whisper. “I need the cutters.”

  “Push the boat forward and use it to get over the wire onto the rocks,” said Sattari. “We can just go from here.”

  The man at the bow stood upright in the raft. Holding his AK-47 above his head, he stepped over onto the nearby rocks, then reached back to help Sattari. The captain fished the grenade launcher that had been next to him from the water and then got up, stumbling but managing to keep his balance.

  The others splashed toward him, carrying their waterproof rucks with explosives. The legs of the platform loomed in the darkness just ahead. At any moment Sattari expected to hear gunfire and shouts; it seemed a miracle that the Indians had not detected them so far.

  “The ladder is here,” said someone, not bothering to whisper.

  Sattari moved toward the voice, slipping on the rocks but keeping his balance. He reached a set of metal bars that had been planted in the rocks to hold part of the gridwork of a ladder. The captain grabbed the rail with his right hand and pulled himself up. He still clutched the grenade launcher with his left hand.

  Eight feet above the rocks, the ladder reached a platform. A set of metal stairs sat at one end; the other opened to a catwalk that extended around the legs.

  “Place a signal for the other boats,” Sattari told the men who clambered up behind him. He did not single the men out as he spoke, trusting that they would divvy up the duties on their own. “Place your charges on the leg posts, then follow me.”

  As he pushed toward the metal stairway, he heard a shout from above, then a round of gunfire.

  Finally, he thought. It hadn’t seemed real until he heard the gunfire.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0515

  MACK SMITH THROTTLED HAWK ONE BACK TOWARD THE Megafortress, banking in the direction of the MiGs. If they were looking to play chicken, he was ready for them; he’d have them breaking for cover in a few minutes.

  Ten miles from the Megafortress he began another turn, aiming to put himself between the two bogies and the mother ship at roughly the distance they could fire their radar-guided missiles. As he got into position, Jazz gave an update.

  “MiG One is breaking off,” reported the copilot. “Heading east. MiG Two—Whoa! Watch out! MiG Two is firing.”

  “He’s mine,” said Mack, checking the sitrep. The Indian plane was three miles behind his left wing, closing fast. Mack brought up his weapons screen, readying his cannon.

  BESIDES THE MIDGET SUBMARINE THEY’D FOUND ON THE SURFACE, there were two others, still submerged, but rising. They were about three miles northeast of the radar platform, within fifty yards of each other. Cantor put the Piranha into the underwater robot’s version of a hover, its motor pushing just hard enough to keep the current at bay and stay in position.

  He got a connection warning that the Megafortress was going outside the range of the control buoy.

  “Piranha to Wisconsin—Colonel, we have a total of three submarines, one on the surface and two more coming up. Should be on the surface in less than a minute. But we’re coming up to the edge of communications range with the buoy.”

  “Roger that, Piranha, but I have other priorities—we have a missile on our tail and two apparently hostile aircraft pursuing us. Can you hand off to Wisconsin?”

  “Negative. They’re not close enough.”

  “Park it,” Dog told him. “Prepare to launch Hawk Two as soon as you can.”

  UNTIL NOW, ALL OF THE AIRCRAFT MACK HAD ENCOUNTERED while flying the Flighthawks had acted as if he wasn’t there. The small planes were invisible to their radar except at very close range, and in the dark they were almost impossible to see. Mack planned his move against the Indian MiG as if that were the case now, expecting the aircraft to clear right after firing a second missile, at which point he could tuck into a tighter turn and get Hawk Two on its back. Alternatively, he might continue behind the Megafortress, positioning himself to fire heat-seekers if the radar-guided missiles failed to hit.

  But the MiG didn’t fire another missile, nor did it turn off or even speed past him. Instead Mack found himself roughly a half mile in front of the MiG, well within range of its 30mm cannon. Seconds later tracers flew past Hawk Two’s nose.

  Mack pickled flares as decoys and swung the Flighthawk into a shallow dive to his right. When he realized the MiG hadn’t followed, he tried to pull back up and come up behind it. As he started to accelerate, the Indian pilot fired another AMRAAMski at the Wisconsin, then pulled hard to the right. Mack finally had his shot, but it was fleeting and at a terrible angle; he spit a few shells at the MiG’s fat tailfin, but lost the target in a turn. He tucked a little too hard to the right trying to stay with him and within seconds lost the plane completely and had to swing back in the direction of the Megafortress to keep from losing his connection.

  Not exactly auspicious. But as he glanced at the sitrep, he saw that MiG One was flying almost directly at him.

  If you’ve been handed a lemon, make lemonade, he thought, setting up for an intercept.

  Aboard the Shiva

  0516

  MEMON’S LEGS TREMBLED AS HE STEPPED ONTO THE DECK OF the Shiva’s backup bridge, a space at the seaward side of the carrier’s island that had not been damaged by the earlier attack. Even though it bore only a passing resemblance to the main bridge, Memon felt as if it were inhabited by ghosts. The fear that had hovered around him earlier pressed close to his ribs.

  “A message, Admiral!” one of the men on watch shouted to Admiral Skandar. “From the radar platform!”

  A commando team had been spotted trying to make an attack. A small American patrol craft was sailing in the general vicinity, and a flight of Indian landborne fighters were engaging the Megafortress nearby. It was assumed that the Americans had launched the attack.

  “You see, I was quite correct about where the true danger lay,” Skandar told Memon. “They are honoring their commitments to Pakistan. This is the prelude to an attack by their aircraft on our bases.”

  He picked up the phone connecting him to the ship’s combat center. “Launch the attack. Do not neglect the American ship.”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0517

  THE INDIAN’S FIRST MISSILE HAD BEEN FIRED FROM EXTREMELY long range, so far in fact that Dog knew from experience that he could simply outrun it. But the second missile was a different matter. He jerked the Megafortress’s stick sharply, turning the bomber to the east. The radar tracking the Megafortress lost its slippery profile, and the missile flew on blind for several miles, vainly hoping that the ghost it was chasing would materialize in front of it when it used its own radar for terminal guidance.

  The sharp maneuver took Dog into Indian territory, where a host of ground radars that had been tracking them at long range suddenly sharpened their eyes and ears.

  “That SA-10 battery inland is trying to get a lock,” said Jazz.

  “Tell these idiots we were in international airspace and are not hostile.”

  “I’ve broadcasted that six ways to Sunday. I’ll try again.”

  “Cantor, you ready to launch?”

  “Booting the command sequences now, Colonel. Screens are just finishing their diagnostics.”

  “Emergency launch of Hawk Two in sixty seconds.”

  “MiG One is turning toward us from the east, roughly forty miles away,” warned Jazz.

  “I’ve been expecting him,” said Dog. “Get ready to launch.”

  CANTOR TOOK CONTROL OF HAWK TWO AND IMMEDIATELY pushed east, figuring he could cut off the Indian fighter MiG One. But a glance at the sitrep showed that Mack and Hawk Two had gone in that direction, leavi
ng the other plane free—and much closer to the Wisconsin.

  “I have Hawk Two,” Cantor told Mack. “I’ll get MiG One. You concentrate on MiG Two. He’s off your left wing, two miles.”

  “No, I have MiG One,” said Mack.

  There was no point in arguing. Cantor immediately changed course, dipping his wing and plotting an intercept.

  DOG SWUNG THE WISCONSIN OUT TO SEA, STILL PURSUED BY the AMRAAMski. The missile had a finite load of fuel; by rights it should have crashed into the sea by now.

  Or maybe time just seemed to be moving at light speed. Dog pitched his big aircraft on its wing in another sharp cut, trying to take advantage of one set of physical principles—those governing radio or radar waves—while defying another—those governing motion, mass, and momentum. In this case radio won out—the missile shot wide right and immolated itself.

  “MiG Two is swinging south,” said Jazz. “Looks like he and his partner are going to try and sandwich us.”

  “They can try if they want,” said Dog.

  “At what point do we go to the Scorpions, Colonel?”

  “I’d rather hold on to them as long as we can,” he told the copilot. “We may need them.”

  And pretty soon too. This looked suspiciously like the start of all-out war.

  Dog turned back to the communications screen, activating the link with Jed Barclay in the NSC’s Situation Room.

  “Jed, we’ve been fired on here by Indian MiGs,” he told the NSC deputy as soon as his face appeared in the screen. “We’ve detected three submarines that we believe are trying to launch a commando attack on an Indian early warning radar platform near the border with Pakistan.”

  “Are they Pakistani submarines? Or Chinese?”

  “We haven’t identified them, but they match the sound profile Piranha recorded for the submarine that scuttled itself, which we believe was involved in the attack on Karachi.”

  “Understood, Colonel. We’re starting to get some alerts here now.”

  Jazz broke in to tell Dog that there were four F-16 Pakistanis coming from the east.

  “Jed, things are getting a little crowded at the moment. I’ll check back with you in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be here, Colonel.”

  “MiG One is launching missiles,” warned Jazz. “AMRAAMskis! Long range—sixteen, seventeen miles. Guess these guys believe the advertising.”

  “ECMs. Stand by for evasive maneuvers. Mack, I thought you said you had this guy.”

  MACK HAD JUST MADE A TURN AND STARTED TO CLOSE ON THE MiG’s tail when he saw the flare under its wings. Two large missiles ignited, steaming off in the direction of the Wisconsin. Mack’s weapons screen indicated that he was not in range to fire; all he could do was wait for the tail of the Indian warplane to grow larger at the center of his screen. The targeting bar went yellow, then flickered red before turning back to yellow; the MiG pilot had punched his afterburner for more speed.

  Mack cursed as the aircraft steadily pulled away.

  “Hawk One, I’m turning back south,” said Dog.

  “Yeah, OK,” said Mack. He started to follow, then realized that if he kept his present heading he could catch the MiG when it made its own turn to follow the Megafortress. Sure enough, a few seconds later the Indian aircraft appeared at the top corner of his screen. He closed in, then just as the targeting bar turned red—indicating he had a shot—the computer warned that he was going to lose his connection. Mack fired anyway, putting two long bursts into the underside of the MiG’s fuselage. There was no doubt that he got a hit this time—flames poured out of the aircraft. Mack jerked his stick back just in time to keep the link with the Wisconsin.

  “Splash one MiG. Finally,” he said. “And about time, if I do say so myself.”

  “ONE OF THOSE MISSILES IS STILL COMING FOR US, COLONEL.”

  Dog pulled the Megafortress into a tight turn, trying to beam the guidance radar by flying parallel to the radar waves. The tactic didn’t work this time; the missile continued to close. They threw chaff and sent a wave of electronic countermeasures into the air to scramble the missile’s brains. Dog, sensing he was still being pursued, rolled the big plane onto its wing, dropping and twisting behind the fog created by the countermeasures. This finally did the trick; the missile sailed overhead, exploding a mile away.

  “Action near the Chinese carrier,” said T-Bone. “Air groups from the Shiva—they’re coming north at a high rate of speed. Missiles being fired! Jesus—they’re throwing everything at them!”

  Dog went on the Dreamland Command line to warn Storm.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0523

  “MULTIPLE MISSILE LAUNCHES FROM THE SHIVA AND OTHER Indian ships,” Eyes told Storm. “Dreamland aircraft Wisconsin reports Indian aircraft moving toward the Deng Xiaoping in apparent attack formation.”

  “Where are our shadows?”

  “Still circling overhead.”

  “If they turn their weapons radars on, shoot them down.”

  “We’re ready, Captain.”

  Storm took his night vision binoculars and stepped out onto the flying bridge, scanning the air above, and then the horizon in the direction of the Chinese carrier sixty miles away.

  Too far to see the results of the Indian attack. A pity, he thought. A real pity.

  STARSHIP RUBBED HIS EYES FURIOUSLY AS HE WAITED FOR Petty Officer Varitok to put the Werewolf into a hover so he could take over. The Tac Center, never a picture of calm, looked like a commodities exchange on steroids behind them. The Indians were launching dozens of missiles, and the Chinese were starting to respond.

  “All yours, Airforce,” said Varitok, leaping out of the seat. “You’re right over the Sharkboat.”

  Starship pulled on his headset and dropped into the chair. There was a flash of red on the main screen. “Is that coming from the radar platform?”

  Varitok looked at the screen. “Can’t tell. It’s ten miles east, two miles from shore.”

  Starship pushed the Werewolf forward, accelerating from zero to 200 knots in a matter of seconds. He saw a second flash, and realized the explosions were too high to be from the radar platform.

  There were fighters nearby—a pair of Su-35s far overhead, and a MiG-29 at about ten thousand feet, fortunately heading north. A missile launched from a boat to the south, crossing within a half mile.

  “Tac, it’s getting ugly out here,” Starship told Eyes. “You want Werewolf to continue this mission, or come back to the Abner Read?”

  “Continue your mission until told not to.”

  “You got it.”

  STORM LISTENED AS RADAR UPDATED HIM ON THE SU-35S. They’d begun to descend rapidly in the direction of the ship, but still had not activated the radars normally associated with air-to-ship missiles.

  What were they doing? Sightseeing?

  The hell they were.

  “Eyes—take down those planes!” shouted Storm. “They’re going to either switch their targeting radars on at the last minute or hit us with iron bombs.”

  “Aye aye, Captain, firing missiles.”

  Two Standard SM-2 AERs spit out of the vertical launch tubes. Storm tracked their flares as they arced upward. Thirty seconds later the sky flashed white. A loud boom rent the air. Another flash. Boom! Bar-oom!

  “Both planes hit,” Eyes reported.

  “Good work.”

  As Storm turned to go inside, the Phalanx close-in air defense gun on the starboard side of the ship began firing. Storm gripped the rail, and in the next moment the ocean erupted beneath him.

  Dwārka Early Warning Radar Platform One

  0523

  CAPTAIN SATTARI FELT HIS HEART POUND AS HE RAN UP THE stairs, a few steps behind the team’s point man. Bullets flew down from above, but they were unaimed, falling into the nearby water. Sattari’s chest heaved as he reached the landing. The other soldier had stopped to wait for him and the others.

  “On
e more set of steps and we are at the main level,” said the point man, repeating the brief Sattari himself had delivered before the mission. “There will be four men there, no more.”

  Sattari grunted, too winded to reply. He pulled up the grenade launcher while he caught his breath, making sure it was ready to fire.

  Had the water ruined it? The only way to find out would be to use it.

  Two more men reached the landing.

  “Let us take them now,” said Sattari, his wind back. He pushed to the nearby steps. By the time he got halfway up the flight, the others had run ahead of him, his age finally starting to tell.

  Gunshots peppered the air as they reached the turn. Two of the men threw themselves down, answering with their own gunfire. The third—the point man who had just been leading Sattari upward—tumbled down, shot several times.

  Sattari slid close to the railing and went up, stopping below the crouching men. Once again he checked the grenade launcher.

  “All right,” he said, crawling next to them. “Wait until I fire.”

  If only he could have one of the black robes who’d questioned his courage with him now—he would use him as a shield.

  When the rattle of the automatic guns above started to die, Sattari leapt to his feet, raised the launcher and fired.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over the northern Arabian Sea

  0525

  BREANNA CHECKED THEIR POSITION AGAIN. THEY WERE NOT quite ten minutes from their patrol area. The Indian aircraft carrier Shiva was forty miles to the northeast.

  “All hell’s breaking loose up there,” said Stewart. “Multiple missile firings from the Shiva and their task group.”

  “Plot a course to the EEMWB launch point,” said Breanna. “I’m going to turn east. There’s no sense going through the middle of this.”

  “But we haven’t gotten the order yet.”

  “I want to be in a position to respond if we do. Long-range radars off,” added Breanna, adopting the mission plan. “Prepare to penetrate hostile territory.”