End Game

by Dale Brown

  “No—I want that submarine. They’re to get it.”

  “Captain, I’d advise calling the mission off.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Eyes.” Storm turned to the helmsman. “Take us east. Stay close enough to launch on the Deng’s aircraft if we have to.”

  “Heading, Captain?”

  “South.” Storm looked down at the holographic display. The Megafortress had gone inland; there was no more long-range view of the ships and aircraft in the area. He thumbed the display back, found the Shiva’s last known position and gave the heading to Helm.

  His headset buzzed.

  “Dreamland Whiplash team trying to contact you, Colonel,” said the communications officer. “Looking for a go/no go on the platform.”

  “It’s go.” Storm punched into the line. “Is this Freah?”

  “Freah.”

  “This is Captain Gale aboard the Abner Read. What’s your status?”

  “We’re roughly ten minutes from the radar platform,” said Danny. “I need your approval to proceed.”

  Storm checked his impulse, but just barely. He knew he had to think, to consider, not react—but it was damn hard with his head pounding.

  “You’re aboard a Megafortress or the Osprey?” he asked.

  “Megafortress. The Osprey is three hours behind,” said Danny. “Do you want us to proceed?”

  “Damn straight I do.”

  “Good. We’re on a low-altitude approach, flying without our long-range radar,” continued the Air Force Whiplash leader. “We don’t believe we’ve been detected. What’s the status of your Sharkboat?”

  “I’m going to order them in,” said Storm.

  Had he already done that? He couldn’t remember.

  Think. Make your decisions in a calm, reasonable manner.

  Ten minutes might be too long. The submarines would be under the surface by then, and the Sharkboat lacked the sensors needed to pick it up.

  “If the submarines dive, the Sharkboat won’t be able to find them,” Storm said. “We need Piranha to locate them. Wisconsin was operating them but had to leave the area.”

  “Ensign English will take control of the probe,” said Danny. “She’ll find it.”

  He couldn’t control every variable. If Freah was willing to take the chance, so was he.

  He was more than willing. He wanted that sub.

  And he wanted the Indian carrier as well. Which he was going to get.

  “Very good, Captain,” said Storm. “Proceed. I’ll let the Sharkboat know you’re on your way. Eyes will liaison in Tac.”

  Aboard the Shiva,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0538

  MEMON STARED AT THE SHADOWY SEA, HIS EYES LOSING THEIR focus. Reports from the first wave of attacks on the Chinese carrier were just coming in. Remembering how overly optimistic the news had been during the last attack, Memon resolved not to believe them. He made his face into a stone mask, impassive.

  “First missile has missed. Second missile—we’ve lost contact.”

  “Aircraft are attacking the Chinese helicopter—one shot down.”

  One of the Chinese escort ships fired back. Two flights of Chinese aircraft had made it past the Indian screening aircraft and were attacking. A flight of Pakistani F-16s was being engaged to the north by shore-based planes.

  Admiral Skandar listened impassively to the chatter from the radio and the ship’s intercom systems. “Battle is a struggle against chaos,” he told Memon.

  “Enemy missiles launched! On their way!”

  Something squeezed Memon’s stomach, and he felt tears stream from his eyes.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  above the northern Arabian Sea

  0540

  AT FIRST THE PAKISTANI F-16S SHOWED NO INTEREST IN THE Wisconsin. Mack stayed close to the Megafortress; he was starting to get low on fuel and was more than willing to let the planes go if they didn’t want to tango. But as the F-16s got to within twenty miles, a pair veered in the direction of the EB-52, starting what Mack interpreted as a maneuver to get behind the Megafortress. He swung out to meet them.

  The PAF aircraft stayed together, closing quickly. The two groups of planes were rushing toward each other so fast that within thirty seconds they were separated by less than ten miles. Mack, descending from thirty thousand feet, had barely enough time to get his gun ready before the closest aircraft raced into his targeting pipper. He slammed his finger onto the trigger, ripping through the left wing root and into the fuel tanks and engine of the aircraft. He pumped his cannon twice more, catching a bit of the wing as the aircraft rolled downward. Then he tucked left, trying to line up to take the stricken Viper’s wingman. But the other F-16 had veered back northward, and by the time Mack found him, he was too far off to engage.

  He banked Hawk One to the east, pushing back closer to Wisconsin. He glanced at the sitrep to find out what had happened to the other F-16s. He found out a lot sooner than he would have hoped—a launch warning sounded; he’d turned almost directly in the path of the second element of PAF fighters.

  THE INDIAN MIGS WERE TWENTY MILES BEHIND THE MEGAFORTRESS, and roughly ten behind Cantor. But rather than closing, the Indians were losing ground. Cantor waited for a minute or so; when the MiGs still didn’t make a move to catch up, he decided to ignore them for the time being. He hiked his speed up, then checked the sitrep to see how Mack was doing.

  In the exercise Cantor had mentioned, the four-ship formation broke into two pairs. One group flew parallel but in the opposite direction to the course of its target, while the other continued at a right angle to it. The elements would then launch separate attacks from either the sides or, more often, the rear quarter.

  While there was no perfect solution, the best strategy for the Flighthawks was to avoid going too far from the Megafortress to take the first attack, even if you had a good opportunity to make a kill. Any defensive move by the fighters would leave the robot too far away to take the second element on.

  Mack seemed to have avoided the first pitfall, and had gotten himself tangled up with one of the F-16s in the second group. Meanwhile, his wingman was angling to the north, trying for an end run.

  Cantor pushed the throttle guide to max power, leaning forward as he tried to get into position to cut it off.

  MACK PICKLED FLARES AND FLICKED THE FLIGHTHAWK TO THE left, rolling out of the way of the American-built Sidewinder AIM-9s fired by the Pakistani fighter. As good as the Sidewinders were, they couldn’t resist the flare, which burned hotter than the Flighthawk’s masked engine heat. By the time the missiles exploded, Mack had leveled off and was looking for a way to get at his antagonist.

  The Pak jock was still behind him, trying for another shot. Mack started a turn to the right, hoping to use his superior turning ability to throw the F-16 out in front of him. Belatedly, he realized that the Viper’s real purpose was to keep him busy while his wingman went for the Wisconsin. He was committed now; even if he turned back, he’d never catch the other airplane, which was flashing across the top corner of his screen.

  “Hawk One to Wisconsin—I let one of those suckers get by.”

  “I have him, Mack,” said Cantor, breaking in.

  Mack was too busy dealing with the Viper behind him to ask how Cantor had managed to get into position to fight the PAF plane. Refusing to get into a turning battle with the Flighthawk, the F-16 fired another Sidewinder and swung back in the Wisconsin’s direction. Mack went for his flares again, rolling out and changing course in time to get a shot on the F-16’s tailpipe. But the Viper pilot managed to jerk out of the way, and Mack found himself too high and fast to fire again.

  CANTOR SAW THE MISSILE FLARE UNDER THE F-16’S WING just as he got the cue to fire from the computer. He laid into the Viper, signing his name in the left wing and tailplane. The canopy flew off, and the pilot quickly followed, projected upward by the ACES II ejection seat—but not before another missile flew out toward the Megafortress th
ree miles ahead.

  “Missiles!” yelled Cantor. “Sidewinders! Watch it!”

  “We’re on it,” replied Dog calmly.

  Cantor felt the Megafortress jerk hard to the right. He saw the aircraft in his screen, a shower of flares erupting from her belly. The Wisconsin pushed hard to the left; Cantor saw the Sidewinder that had been fired at it explode about three-quarters of a mile beyond the plane, too far away to do any damage.

  “Hawk One is clear,” said Mack.

  “Two clear,” said Cantor. “Wisconsin, your tail is clean.”

  “Thank you, Hawks One and Two.”

  “Thanks for the assist, Cantor,” said Mack.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “That second element cut back quicker than I thought they would,” Mack said. “Better get Zen to change the programming on that simulation.”

  Cantor smirked—but only to himself. “I will, Major. Consider it done.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0540

  STARSHIP SKIPPED THE WEREWOLF TOWARD THE TWO SUBMARINES, which were moving at three or four knots northward. Stopping them without sinking them was going to be tricky, if not impossible. Obviously, the Hellfire was not the weapon to use—he switched to the light machine guns, which were locked to fire in line with the Werewolf’s nose. The aiming cue showed he was high; he angled down accordingly and sent two rows of shells across the bow of the sub.

  The vessel, continuing on, gave no sign that it was impressed. Starship let off on his trigger and flew toward the craft, buzzing within ten feet of its topside. He could see two men diving into the craft’s conning tower as he passed; they went in the side, as if it were a speedboat rather than a submarine. By the time he spun around it had started to dive under the water. It moved forward, gliding down a long, gentle escalator. Starship aimed for the tail of the sub this time, firing his bullets into the water directly behind the disappearing body. When that didn’t stop the boat, he fired a long burst at the rapidly disappearing conning tower.

  Then he got another idea.

  He switched over to the Hellfires and zeroed in on the water about fifty yards ahead of the submarine. Then he fired, hoping the missile would act something like a depth charge, damaging the submarine just enough to bring her back to the surface.

  If the missile had any effect—if it even exploded—he couldn’t tell.

  Starship turned his attention to the other submarine, which was just disappearing underwater. He laced it with bullets, pouring them into the shadow as it slid down below the waves.

  “Both submarines are under the water,” he told Eyes. “I can’t see them anymore.”

  “Stand by. We hope to have Piranha on line any minute now. Be alert for the approaching Megafortress.”

  NSC Situation Room,

  Washington, D.C.

  1940, 14 January

  (0540, 15 January, Karachi)

  EVERYONE BUT JED JUMPED TO ATTENTION AS THE PRESIDENT walked into the room.

  “No, no,” said Kevin Martindale. “As you were. Keep working. Jed, what’s the situation?”

  “We have alerts all across the board. India and Pakistan have fired on each other.” Jed pointed to a screen from a Pentagon launch alert system set up to summarize what the analysts blandly called “launch events.” As predicted, the Indians had reserved their longest range missiles, undoubtedly for use against China if she came to Pakistan’s defense.

  “What’s the status of the E-bombs?”

  “The Dreamland aircraft with the EEMWBs are on course,” said Jed, gently correcting the President as he pointed to the screen where End Game’s status was updated. “The plot here”—he toggled into a new window—“is from Dreamland Command and gives an approximate location of the bombers. It’s accurate to within a mile.”

  “Good.”

  Martindale folded his arms and surveyed the rest of the room. Jed had seen the President in many tense situations; always, he was calm and almost detached. But clearly he recognized the tension in the room.

  “The technology down here is great,” said Martindale. He winked at Jed. “But what we really need is a good coffee machine.”

  Aboard the Fisher,

  near Dwārka Early Warning Platform

  0543

  DANNY CLICKED THE CONTROL FOR HIS SMART HELMET’S VISOR, selecting the image from the low-light camera in the Fisher’s nose. The wrecked platform was dead ahead.

  Tommy Chu’s voice boomed in his ear. “We’re sixty seconds from drop,” said the Fisher’s pilot. “The Sharkboat is eight miles to the west. The targets are diving. I’m going to drop you approximately five hundred yards ahead of their route calculated by the computer.”

  “What happened to Piranha?” Danny asked.

  “We haven’t reconnected yet,” said Chu. “Ensign English is working on it. Things are pretty hot down there, Danny. Are you sure you want to go ahead?”

  “No doubt in my mind.”

  “All right. One of our Flighthawks will orbit to assist if you need it. Thirty seconds.”

  “Boston, you ready?” Danny asked his sergeant on the other wing.

  “Born ready, Cap. Can’t wait to get in the water. Goin’ stir crazy here. And freezin’ my nuts off.”

  Danny switched the screen view to the manpod’s rear camera, figuring that would be the one he’d want to use after the drop. Then he took a long breath, gripped the rails near his head, and closed his eyes.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over northwestern India

  0545

  FLYING THE MEGAFORTRESS AT HIGH SPEED AND LOW ALTITUDE was the ultimate thrill ride, the sort of attraction roller coaster designers could only dream about. The scenery north of India’s largest city added to the sensation; exotic rooftops flew by the windscreens, giving way to yellowish fields, then more houses and factory buildings.

  Breanna wasn’t interested in the scenery, except as a reference point to make sure she was flying as low as possible. The thrills she could take or leave, though at the moment she couldn’t live without them.

  She hurled the Megafortress forward at 500 knots, counting on her reflexes to keep her out of trouble. They were less than fifty feet above ground level, so close to some of the buildings that if she extended her landing gear she could have scraped off shingles.

  “Terrain rising!” warned Stewart.

  “Thanks,” said Breanna, even though she was already pulling back. “Levitow to Hawk leader—we’re approaching Omega point.”

  “Roger that, Levitow. We’re getting ready to say goodbye right now.”

  UNLIKE THEIR MOTHER SHIP, THE FLIGHTHAWKS WERE NOT shielded against the EEMWB’s electromagnetic waves. To avoid the effects of the blast, Hawk Four would be sent to a rendezvous point south, piloted completely by the onboard component of its C3 flight-control computer. The Megafortress would pick it up on the way back. If for some reason they were unable to return within an hour, C3 would fly the plane westward and ditch in the ocean.

  The other aircraft, Hawk Three, would stay with the Levitow until the EEMWBs went off. That would leave the Megafortress temporarily without an escort, but in theory anything nearby would have been zapped out of order anyway.

  “Thirty seconds to disconnect,” Dork told Zen.

  “Hard to let go, huh?” Zen asked the other pilot.

  “You got that, Major.”

  Zen kept Hawk Three five miles ahead of the Megafortress, flying at thirty feet. He was so low not simply to avoid detection—the Flighthawk’s radar profile was considerably stealthier than the Megafortress’s—but as a kind of terrain bird dog to alert Breanna to anything unexpected.

  “Hawk Four is no longer under my control,” said Dork, sounding a little sad.

  Zen leaned forward in his seat, eyes scanning the screen as the ground whipped by.

  He’d made the right decision. This was exactly where he needed to be.

  Northern Arabi
an Sea

  0548

  THE CONCUSSION THREW THE MIDGET SUBMARINE SIDEWAYS. Sattari lurched against his seat belt, then fell back, suddenly weightless in the small craft.

  He waited for a second blast, sure that the aircraft they had seen above would finish them off. He felt his heart pounding at the top of his chest, near his collarbone.

  A minute passed, then another. There were no more explosions. Sattari bent his head and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving.

  “Captain, we are losing power,” said the submarine’s commander. “We’re losing speed.”

  The soft light from the instrument panel turned the man’s face a brownish red; he looked like a demon.

  “We will wait, then.”

  “If the Parvaneh has been seriously damaged, we may not be able to stay under very long.”

  “Let us examine the damage and discover what else we can do. Trust yourself, and Allah.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  THE MANPOD HIT THE WATER WITH A TEETH-RATTLING SMACK and shudder. The nose—where Danny’s feet were—shot downward, then flipped abruptly toward the surface. Danny hung onto the handles near his head, expecting the pod to spin or, worse, flip over. But it did neither. A buzzer sounded in the cabin as the pod’s automated raft system prepared to inflate. He didn’t override, and three seconds later a shrill hiss told him compressed air had filled the bladders at the sides, stabilizing the craft.

  The feed from the rear cam showed nothing nearby. Danny reached to the back of his helmet and cued in the front view. Water lapped the top two-thirds of the screen; he couldn’t see anything else.

  Balling his hands into fists, he reached down and pounded the recessed handles above his stomach, blowing the top half of the pod off. He pulled himself upright, punching his visor into its low-light mode.

  There was nothing nearby—including the other manpod.

  “Boston?”

  No answer.

  “Boston?”

  He was just about to switch back into the Dreamland circuit and make sure that Chu had dropped his sergeant when something broke the water a few yards away.

  “Boston?” he yelled.