“What do you think of joining the Shiva?” added Skandar.
Memon had been instrumental in the conversion of the ship from the Russian, Tiazholyi Avianesushchiy Kreyser, or Heavy Aircraft-Carrying Cruiser, Kiev. To Memon, the Shiva epitomized India’s new aggressiveness, and he would love to be aboard her. Its captain, Admiral Asad Kala, was an old acquaintance.
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But why was Skandar suggesting it? To get him out of New Delhi?
“I would like nothing better than to join the Shiva, ” said Memon warily. “If you can spare me.”
“Good, then.” Skandar rose. “You should make your plans immediately.”
Dreamland
6 January 1998
1140
“THIS ISN’T A B-1, CAPTAIN. YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET UP
over that mountain unless you start pulling the stick back now.”
Jan Stewart clenched her teeth together but did as she was told, jerking the control yoke toward her. The EB-52
Megafortress lifted her nose upward, shrugging off a wave of turbulence as she rose over Glass Mountain at the northern edge of Dreamland’s Test Range 4. As soon as she cleared the jagged peak, Stewart pressed the stick forward, aiming to stay as close to the mountain as possible. But it was no good—though a vast improvement over the B-52H
she had been converted from, the Megafortress was still considerably more comfortable cruising in the stratosphere than hugging the earth. Her four P&W power plants strained as Stewart tried to force gravity, momentum, and lift into an equation that would get the plane across the ridge without being seen by the nearby radar sentry, a blimp hovering two miles to the west.
The computer buzzed a warning:
DETECTED. BEING TARGETED.
Stewart sensed her copilot’s smirk. If only it had been Jazz, or anyone other than Breanna Stockard.
“Defense—evade—ah, shit,” Stewart said, temporarily flustered.
ENEMY LASER LOCKED.
END GAME
61
“ECMs,” said Stewart, back in control. “Evasive maneuvers. Hold on.”
“ECMs,” acknowledged Breanna.
Stewart banked hard and nailed the throttle to the last stop, trying to pirouette away from the laser targeting them.
Her efforts were not in vain—the airborne antiaircraft laser fired and missed by about fifty yards. But the respite was brief. The EB-52 couldn’t rebuild momentum quickly enough, and the laser recycled and sent a full blast at the cockpit. Several thousand joules of energy—simulated—struck the ship just aft of the pilots’ station. The blast fused the satellite antenna and blew out the assorted electrical circuits, as well as punching a six-inch-wide hole across the top of the fuselage. The emergency panel in front of the pilots lit up like a Christmas tree, and alarms sounded throughout the aircraft. Ten seconds later a second salvo burned a hole through the metal covering the fuel bag immediately behind the wings. The temperature in the fuel de-livery piping increased tenfold in an instant, and an explosion ripped across the plane’s backbone.
“We’re dead,” said Breanna.
Stewart leveled off silently, easing back on the thrust as Breanna called the test range coordinator to acknowledge that they’d been wiped out.
“Roger that,” said the coordinator. “Got you on that second blast. Good work.”
“You want another run?”
“Negative. We’ve got plenty of data. Thank you very much.”
“Pleasure is ours,” said Breanna.
Stewart ground her back molars together, stifling a scream. She took the Megafortress up through eight thousand feet, circling at the eastern end of the range before contacting the control tower for permission to land.
“Tower to EB-52 Test Run, you’re cleared to land.
What’s wrong? Didn’t you have your Wheaties today?”
“Test Run,” snapped Stewart, acknowledging the clear-
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ance but not the sarcasm. The controller chortled as he gave her information about the wind, rubbing in the fact that she’d just had her clock cleaned by a pair of robots in a blimp and an ancient C-130.
“YOU’RE GETTING BETTER,” SAID BREANNA AS STEWART
rolled toward the hangar bunker.
“Don’t give me that, Stockard. I really don’t need a pep talk from you. I got toasted.”
“The purpose of the exercise was to get toasted. We’re just guinea pigs.”
“I could have made it past the ridge if you hadn’t made me pull up,” said Stewart angrily. “I had plenty of clearance.”
“The computer would have taken over for you if you hadn’t pulled back on the stick.”
“The safety protocols are too conservative.”
“Why are you so touchy? It’s only a test. Nobody’s keeping score. If we’d gotten through on that pass we would have had to take another run anyway.”
“I could have made it,” insisted Stewart, powering down at the signal from the crewman outside.
Breanna sighed, and pretended to busy herself with the postflight checklist. She’d had Stewart fly as pilot to give her more experience behind the stick, not to show her up.
Stewart had the qualifications to be a lead pilot, but so far she just wasn’t hacking it. Hopefully it would come in time.
If her personality let it.
“Hey, Bree, Dog’s looking for you,” said Danny Freah, sticking his head up at the rear of the cockpit area.
“What’s up?”
“We’re moving out. You’ll never guess where.”
“Mars.”
“I wish. Going back to the Gulf of Aden. We’re going to work with Xray Pop and the infamous Captain Storm. Hey, Stewart, you’re invited too. Looks like your first Whiplash deployment is about to begin.”
END GAME
63
“Great,” said Stewart, her tone suggesting the opposite.
“Newbies buy.”
“Screw yourself, Captain.”
“What’s buggin’ her?” said Danny after the pilot left the plane.
“Doesn’t like to buy,” said Breanna.
BY THE TIME BREANNA AND DANNY GOT TO CONFERENCE
Room 2 in the Taj Mahal, Colonel Bastian had started the briefing. A large map at the front of the room showed northeastern Africa, the Gulf of Aden, and part of the nearby Indian Ocean. Somalia sat like a large, misshapen 7 wrapped around the northern and eastern shores of the continent.
During its last deployment, the Dreamland Whiplash team and the Megafortresses supporting it had seen action on land and above the sea at the north, where the Gulf of Aden separated Africa from the Saudi peninsula. Today, the eastern shore of the war-torn country was highlighted, with a large X near the town of Hando on the Indian Ocean.
“I’m going to start by giving you all some background on political situation here,” said the colonel. “As many of you already know, pirates have been roaming the Gulf of Aden for nearly a year. They’ve been taking advantage of trouble elsewhere—specifically in the Balkans, in the Philippines, Japan, and Taiwan—to prey on oil tankers and other merchant ships traveling through the gulf.”
“While the cat’s away, the mice do play,” said Major Mack Smith down in front. He turned around, smiling for everyone behind him, as if he were in junior high and had just made the most clever statement in the world.
“The Navy sent a small warship called the Abner Read into the gulf a few months ago,” continued Dog, ignoring Smith. “Some of us supported them. We won a major victory against the strongest group of pirates two months ago.
Things have been relatively calm since, with some sporadic attacks but nothing on the order of what we’d seen before.
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Yesterday, however, there was a major attack on Port Somalia, an oil terminal that has just been opened by the Indians.
The Indians are blaming Pakistan and are threatening to retaliate. That’s not sitting too well with the Pakistanis, who say they had nothing to do with this attack. Both countries have nuclear weapons. Our satellites have detected preparations at the major Indian ballistic missile launching area and at its Pakistani counterpart.”