End Game

by Dale Brown

  “You OK, Captain?” said a sailor, standing over him.

  “That guy…”

  “Don’t see him anywhere.”

  Too tired to look himself, Danny collapsed against the gunwale.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over India

  0614

  ZEN CHECKED HIS WATCH. THEY WERE THREE MINUTES TO Point Baker, where the Megafortress would begin its five-minute climb to the launch point.

  “Bandits ahead,” warned Stewart. “ID’d as MiG-21 Fishbeds. Four planes. They don’t see us yet.”

  Zen saw them on the sitrep as the copilot read off their heading and altitude. They were at eight thousand feet, flying northwest on a course that would bring them to within two miles of the Megafortress, just at the point where Breanna would have to start to climb.

  “Jeff, you think we can sneak past these guys?” asked Breanna.

  “I was just about to ask you the same question,” Zen told his wife. While it would be foolish to underestimate the fighters, their radars were limited and there was a decent possibility that the EB-52 could get past them without being noticed.

  “If we didn’t have to climb, I’d say we take the chance,” Breanna told him. “But if they see us, they’ll be on our back at the worst possible time.”

  “Roger that, Levitow. I have the lead element.”

  “Look at our flight path—can you hold off until they’ve crossed it?”

  “That’s not a problem,” said Zen.

  “We’ll use Scorpions on Bandits Three and Four,” explained Breanna. “I’ll pivot and fire two missiles. If I recover quickly, I’ll be back on course in just over a minute and a half.”

  “Roger that.”

  AS ZEN TOOK THE FLIGHTHAWK NORTHWEST AND BEGAN TO climb, he worked out the game plan in his head. The MiGs were flying close enough for him to take both planes out in a single pass. He’d loop in from the west, firing on the wingman first; it would take barely a nudge on his stick to get his sights on the lead plane. The MiGs were moving at 320 knots; he’d be able to close on them easily.

  It was a great plan, but the Indians didn’t cooperate. When they were less than three miles from the Megafortress, the planes suddenly accelerated.

  “I think they see us,” said Stewart, her voice shrill.

  “Yeah, I’m on it,” Zen told her. “Relax there, Levitow.”

  “Trying,” said the copilot.

  Zen knew better than to bother chasing the lead element; he might catch one of the planes but couldn’t hope to take two.

  “Bree, let’s swap targets. I’ll take Three and Four, you go for One and Two.”

  “Roger that, Flighthawk. Kick butt.”

  “You got it, baby.”

  STEWART’S FINGERS GREW COLD AS SHE WORKED THROUGH the screen, redesignating her targets. It was easy, it was simple, she’d done it gadzillion times in the drills—but she could feel her heart pounding harder and harder.

  “Ease up, Jan,” said Breanna. “You’re hitting the touch-screen like you’re fighting Mike Tyson.”

  “I guess I am,” she said. She put her hands together, warming her fingers. She didn’t relax, exactly, but she did pull back from hyper mode.

  “Bay,” said Breanna. “Fire when ready.”

  If we wait that long, we’ll be dead, Stewart thought.

  THE SECOND ELEMENT OF MIGS ALTERED COURSE, BANKING into a tight turn to put themselves behind the Megafortress.

  The MiG-21 had been designed in the 1950s, and while outdated long ago, the aircraft retained many of its original virtues. Small and maneuverable, it could touch Mach 2 if necessary, and was tough in a close-quarters knife fight. The two Indian jocks who were turning toward the Levitow’s tail undoubtedly thought they had the Megafortress right where they wanted her—about five miles ahead and several thousand feet below them. All they had to do was close in; their heat-seekers would do the rest.

  The problem with that strategy came in the form of 20mm shells ripping through the nose and canopy of Bandit Four. Zen hit the MiG from above, riding his cannon through the humped midsection of the plane. Two or three dozen bullets hit the aircraft in a fraction of a second, shredding the plane’s avionics, engine, and most of all its pilot.

  Zen pulled his nose up and found Bandit Three dead on in his gunsight. The weapons bar went red; he waited a full second then fired. The MiG rolled its wing left, trying to duck away. Zen had too much momentum to follow and still get a kill; instead he banked back in the direction of the Megafortress, losing sight of his opponent.

  “Fire Fox One! Fire Fox One!” warned Stewart. Though still excited, her voice wasn’t nearly as shrill as it had been.

  Two missiles spurted from the bay of the EB-52, AARAAM-pluses heading for Bandits One and Two.

  Zen looked at the sitrep, trying to figure out what had happened to the other MiG. The plane wasn’t on the display, but he knew it had to be around somewhere; the radar had difficulty seeing objects very close to the ground behind its wings.

  “Levitow, I lost Bandit Three,” Zen warned.

  “Roger that, Flighthawk. Tail Stinger is activated. We’re climbing,” added Breanna.

  Zen decided that the other MiG had either gotten away south or was running parallel to him somewhere beyond the Megafortress’s right wingtip, where it would be difficult for the radar to spot.

  He started crossing, then realized there was a possibility he hadn’t considered—just below his own tail.

  Tracers exploded past his nose. Now the tables were turned, and Zen was the surprised target. He cut back to his left, hoping to throw the MiG out in front of him as he began to weave in the sky. But the Indian pilot didn’t bite, and Zen had to duck a fresh stream of bullets.

  He wasn’t completely successful. Three shells went into the Flighthawk’s left wing. The computer tallied the score:

  DAMAGE TO CONTROL SURFACE. DEGRADATION FIVE PERCENT.

  Zen continued to zig up and down, back and forth, depriving the other pilot of an easy shot. If they hadn’t been so close to the Megafortress, he would have started a turn; if the MiG followed, he could use the Flighthawk’s superior turning radius and maneuverability to reverse their positions. But that wasn’t an option here, since it would leave the way clear for the MiG to close on the Megafortress before he could get back.

  The launch warning sounded—the MiG had fired two heat-seeking missiles at him. Now he had to get out of the way. Zen tossed flares and tucked toward the ground, then immediately zigged right and hunted for the MiG. Sure enough, the Indian jock was accelerating straight ahead, trying to close on the EB-52’s tail.

  Zen’s quick roll had taken him below the MiG-21. He turned into the enemy plane and began firing despite the computer’s warning that he didn’t have a shot. The hail of bullets broke the MiG’s attack; he pushed off to the right, jerking hard and pulling at least six g’s. No conventional fighter could have stayed with him, but the Flighthawk wasn’t a conventional fighter. The MiG’s tailpipe grew fat in the middle of his screen. He leaned on the trigger, giving the Indian craft a 20mm enema. The canopy flew off in short order, the pilot hitting the silk.

  “Splash Bandit Three,” said Zen, looking for the Megafortress.

  STEWART STARED AT THE MESSAGE IN HER SCREEN: TARGET ONE DESTROYED.

  She’d got it! The bastard was dead.

  But where was the other plane?

  Still flying, six miles ahead. The other missile?

  She’d missed.

  “Bandit One is hit,” she told Breanna. “Bandit Two is still there. The missile must have missed.”

  “All right,” said Breanna.

  “Should I fire another?”

  “Just stand by.”

  Stewart felt a wave of resentment come over her. But then she realized they weren’t in a good position to fire. The pilot wasn’t criticizing her; she preferred to stay on course and keep her missiles if she could. It made more sense to at least check first with the Flightha
wk pilot to see if he could take the plane.

  “Standing by,” said Stewart.

  “I CAN JUST GET THERE IF BANDIT TWO STAYS ON HIS PRESENT course and speed,” Zen told Breanna. “But only just.”

  “Try. We’re two minutes to launch point.”

  “Got it.”

  Zen accelerated ahead, climbing to meet the MiG. The other aircraft was three thousand feet above him.

  “Fuel warning,” said the computer.

  Zen called up the fuel panel. Sure enough, the Flighthawk was into its reserves, well ahead of schedule. The tanks must have been damaged, though the status board claimed that they were OK.

  There was nothing he could do about it now—the Indian fighter loomed at the top of his screen. Zen pulled his nose up and took a shot as the plane passed, getting the MiG to break south. Knowing that he hadn’t put enough bullets into him to shoot him down, Zen started to follow. Breanna, meanwhile, had pulled the Megafortress farther south and begun to level off, preparing to fire the EEMWBs.

  “Fuel emergency,” declared C3.

  Zen glanced at the fuel screen. The tanks were nearly drained—he had under five minutes’ worth of juice.

  “How did I use fifteen minutes’ worth of jet fuel in thirty seconds?” he asked the computer.

  “Unknown command,” it replied.

  Was the problem simply with the gauge? Zen hoped so.

  He pressed his nose down as the targeting bar began to blink yellow. The MiG was starting a turn to his left, banking to get behind the Megafortress.

  “Fuel emergency,” repeated the computer.

  “Yup.” Zen leaned the Flighthawk onto its left wing, pushing his enemy into the sweet spot of his target zone. He pressed the trigger; bullets began flying from the nose.

  Then the Flighthawk veered down.

  “Engine has lost power. Fuel emergency. No fuel. No fuel,” sang the computer.

  Zen slapped the computer’s audible warning system off.

  “Hawk Three to Levitow—Bree, I’m out of fuel. Something must have hit the Flighthawk and caused a breach in the tanks. Didn’t show on the damage panel. That MiG is still out there.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Breanna. “Ninety seconds to launch point.”

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  in the northern Arabian Sea

  0619

  STARSHIP TOOK THE WEREWOLF OVER THE SHARKBOAT, CIRCLING as the last of the submarine’s survivors were taken aboard. The Sharkboat was preparing to tow the vessel back to the Abner Read, some sixty miles to the west.

  Sixty perilous miles between the Chinese and the Indian forces.

  Starship headed west, scouting the area. The closest vessel was a Chinese destroyer, fifteen miles away. It had been hit by two Indian missiles, and had a gaping hole at the bow; it was unlikely to come for them. More problematic was the guided missile cruiser rushing to its aid.

  “Werewolf to Tac. I have an update on the two Chinese vessels closest to the Sharkboat,” said Starship. “Destroyer looks pretty badly damaged. Cruiser’s going to help it. I’d say go now while the going is good.”

  “Acknowledged. We have a contact for you to check out five miles north of us—we think it’s a downed pilot in the water. Can you get there?”

  “On my way.”

  THE MEGAFORTRESS THAT DROPPED THE MANPOD HAD TURNED on its surface radar, giving the Abner Read and Storm a good picture of the battle. The Indian carrier appeared to be sixty miles southeast of them—in range of his Harpoon missiles.

  And the Standards. He’d use a mix; it was the only way to guarantee he could take out the Chinese carrier as well.

  And he was going to get them.

  The two fleets were repositioning themselves after the first wave of attacks. Two Chinese escorts had been severely damaged, and it appeared that one Indian vessel was sunk. The Deng Xiaoping’s radar helicopters and two of its fighters had been shot down, but only one of the Indian missiles managed to reach the ship, and it had not done enough damage to impede air operations. The Indian ship Shiva had not been hit and was beginning to recover the aircraft involved in the attack.

  “Weapons, target the Indian carrier Shiva,” Storm said. “I want a mix of Harpoons and Standards. Use the plan we established earlier.”

  “You want me to target the carrier, sir?”

  “Am I speaking English? Target the Shiva with enough weapons to sink her.” Storm pounded the side of the holographic display. He looked down at the table. A pool of water disrupted the projection.

  Was it water? Or blood?

  His head felt as if it was going to lift off from his head.

  “Captain,” said Eyes. “Storm—we can’t sink the Indian ship.”

  “Like hell I can’t. Our orders said that we were allowed to defend ourselves. The Indian ship is regrouping for an attack.”

  “The planes on the Chinese carrier—we’re already out of position to act as backup against them, and—”

  “Don’t second-guess me, Eyes. No one’s going to attack us and not get a fistful of explosives back in their face. Weapons—use a mix of missiles. Keep enough to sink the Chinese carrier if we have to, but you lock on that damn Indian ship and sink the bastard!”

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over India

  0619

  CHU, THE PILOT OF DREAMLAND FISHER, BEGAN SPEAKING AS soon as Dog cleared the communication.

  “I have two Chinese aircraft on my wingtips telling me to get out of the area or face the consequences, Colonel. They’re not specifying what the consequences are.”

  “I assume you’ve told them you’re in international air space?”

  “I told them in English and in Chinese, Colonel. They weren’t impressed.”

  “All right, Chu, stand by.” Dog hot-buttoned to the channel reserved for Jed Barclay at the NSC during the operation. “Jed, are you there?”

  “I’m here, Colonel.”

  “What’s the status on the Deng Xiaoping?”

  “Tai-shan aircraft have not appeared on the deck. NSA has not yet picked up the command to launch.”

  Well, that was something at least, thought Dog. But it might be only a matter of time—the Chinese might not have picked up the Indian launch yet.

  “The Chinese are challenging Dreamland Fisher, which is supplying radar information to the Abner Read. I’m going to have the pilot back off a little bit to avoid provocation.”

  “Your call, Colonel.”

  “Both of the aircraft with EEMWBs are within ninety seconds of their launch points,” he added. “Are we cleared to go?”

  “Stand by. I have Mr. Freeman right here.”

  The National Security Advisor’s face came into view on the screen. It was gray and deathly.

  “Colonel Bastian, I have just spoken with the President of the United States. You’re ordered to proceed. God be with you all.”

  Never had a blessing sounded so dire.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Dog, pressing the button to flip back to Chu.

  Aboard the Levitow,

  over India

  0620

  BREANNA CLEARED THE TRANSMISSION. HER FATHER’S FACE came on the screen.

  “Proceed with End Game,” he said.

  “Roger that—I’m sixty seconds from launch. What’s the status on the Chinese aircraft carrier?”

  “Responding with conventional weapons so far. Launch your three EEMWBs and reserve the last for the carrier as planned. Chu is flying to the west and will back you up with conventional weapons. Give him enough warning to get south before you launch.”

  “Will do.”

  Breanna checked her position, then told Stewart to get ready to launch the first two missiles.

  “Ready,” said Stewart.

  “Any fighters nearby?”

  “Negative.”

  “Crew, we’re thirty seconds from weapons launch. First explosion will follow in ten minutes.”

  Breanna turned her attention back to t
he helm of her ship. She was climbing through twenty thousand feet. Somewhere far above her, Indian missiles were arcing on their course toward Pakistan.

  “Counting down from ten,” said Stewart. “Nine, eight, seven…”

  Breanna stared at the blue sky ahead. At this altitude, the world appeared blissful.

  “…three, two, one.”

  “Fire EEMWB one,” said Breanna. “Fire two.”

  “Firing EEMWB one. Firing EEMWB two.”

  Missile one rocketed off its launcher on the right wing, climbing ahead with a furious spurt of energy. Breanna turned to left, looking for the contrail from missile two. But it was nowhere to be seen.

  “Stewart, where’s missile two?”

  “Launched—engine failed to ignite.”

  “Retarget missile three and fire.”

  “Retargeting. Firing missile three.”

  The missile shot up ahead.

  “Missile one is on course,” said Stewart. “Missile two has been lost. Missile three is on course. Time to launch missile four is zero-seven minutes. You have a turn coming up in thirty seconds.”

  Breanna acknowledged, then keyed in the Dreamland communications line to tell Colonel Bastian that one of the missiles had malfunctioned.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over India

  0622

  “WHAT’S THE STATUS ON THAT SA-2 MISSILE SITE?” DOG asked Jazz.

  “Tracking us.”

  “Our EEMWBs?”

  “Missile one is on course. Missile two is on course,” Jazz told Dog. “Sixty seconds to launch point two.”

  Dog began a ten degree turn to the north, positioning himself for the final launch. The first of their missiles would explode approximately two minutes after he fired; he’d be on manual controls after that.

  The Dreamland communications line buzzed.

  “Levitow to Wisconsin. One of our missiles failed to ignite. Motor failure. We fired a replacement.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Should I fire the last missile or reserve it for the Deng?”

  “Fire the missile as planned,” Dog told her. “Then get back to use your Scorpions against the Tai-shan planes. I’ll alert Dreamland Fisher.”