“Saber rattling,” said Mack.
“Our immediate mission is to beef up Xray Pop, the task force that the Abner Read heads. We’re going to help it figure out who’s behind the attack. We’re also going there to show both sides just how serious a matter this is.”
“Blessed are the peacemakers—” said Mack.
“Thank you, Major, but I can do without the running commentary,” said Dog. “We will be under the operational command of Xray Pop’s commander, Captain ‘Storm’
Gale. A lovely fellow.”
Everyone who had been on the last deployment snickered.
Dog turned to the projection behind him, using a laser pointer to highlight an X on the eastern coast of Somalia at the north.
“This is Port Somalia. It’s an oil terminal, the end point for a pipeline the Indians have paid to be built to deliver oil from northern Somalia and the Gulf of Aden. It’s part of an ambitious network that they are constructing that will give them access to oil from the entire Horn of Africa, all the way back to the Sudan. A second port is planned to open farther south later this year.”
The colonel clicked the remote control he had in his left hand and a new map appeared on the screen behind him. India sat at the right, Somalia on the left. The Arabian Sea, an arm of the Indian Ocean, sat between them. Above Somalia was the Saudi peninsula, with Yemen at the coast. Iran and Pakistan were at the northern shores of the sea, separating India from the Middle East.
END GAME
65
“To give you some idea of the distances involved here,”
said Dog, “it’s roughly fifteen hundred miles from Port Somalia to Mumbai, also known as Bombay, on the coast of India, not quite halfway down the Indian subcontinent.
Three hours flying time, give or take, for a Megafortress, a little less if Lightning Chu is at the controls.”
The pilots at the back laughed. Captain Tommy Chu had earned his new nickname during recent power-plant tests by averaging Mach 1.1 around the test course, defying the engineers’ predictions that the EB-52 could not be flown faster than the speed of sound for a sustained period in level flight.
“Timewise, we are eleven hours behind. When it is noon here, it is 2300 hours in Port Somalia, same time as Mo-gadishu. Problem, Cantor?”
Lieutenant Evan Cantor, one of the new Flighthawk jocks recently cleared for active combat missions, jerked upright in the second row. “Uh, no sir. Just figuring out days.
They’re a half day ahead. Just about.”
“Just about, Lieutenant. But don’t do the math yet. We’ll be based at Drigh Road, the Pakistani naval air base near Karachi. We’ll use Karachi time for reference. That’s thirteen hours ahead. A section of the base has already been cordoned off for us. Problem, Lieutenant Chu?”
“Just trying to figure out how many watches to wear,”
said Chu.
“Why Karachi?” said Breanna.
“Mostly because they won’t object, and they’re relatively close,” said Dog. “But we’ll have to be very, very aware that we’re in an Islamic country, and that our presence may be controversial to some.”
Controversial was putting it mildly. Stirred up by local radicals, civilians near the air base the Dreamland team had used in Saudi Arabia during their last deployment had come close to rioting before the Megafortresses relocated to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean.
66
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“We’ll have four Megafortresses: the Wisconsin, our old veteran; and three newcomers, the Levitow, the Fisher, and the Bennett. ”
The choice of the planes was not haphazard; all were radar surveillance planes, with both air and sea capabilities.
Information from the Megafortresses’s radars would be supplied to the Abner Read via a link developed by Dreamland’s computer scientists, giving the small littoral warrior a far-reaching picture of the air and oceans around it. Additionally, an underwater robot probe called Piranha could be controlled from one Flighthawk station on each plane, and special racks and other gear allowed the Megafortresses to drop and use sonar buoys.
“We’ll rotate through twelve-hour shifts, with overlapping patrols, so there are always at least two aircraft on station at any one time,” continued Colonel Bastian.
“Lieutenant Chu has worked up some of the patrol details, and I’ll let him go into the specifics. We’re to be in the air as soon as possible; no later than 1600.”
The trip would have been long enough if they’d been able to fly in a straight line—somewhere over nine thousand miles. But political considerations forced them to skirt Iran and Russia, adding to the journey.
“I believe everyone knows everyone else on the deployment. The one exception may be Major Mack Smith, who’s back with us after a working vacation in the Pacific. Mack has been pinch-hitting for Major Stockard while he’s on medical leave for a few weeks, and he’ll continue to head the Flighthawk squadron during the deployment.”
Mack, ever the showoff, turned and gave a wave to the pilots behind him.
Though he’d helped develop the Flighthawks, he had extremely little time flying them. That wasn’t a serious defi-ciency handling the odd piece of paperwork at Dreamland, where Zen was only a phone call away; it remained to be seen what would happen in the field.
“One question, Colonel,” said Danny Freah, whose END GAME
67
Whiplash team would provide security at the base. “How long are we going to be there?”
Dog’s mouth tightened at the corners—a sign, Breanna knew, that he was about to say something unpopular. “As long as it takes.”
Las Vegas University of Medicine,
Las Vegas, Nevada
1200
“I’LL JUST SAY I CAN’T GO.”
“No way. You can’t do that.”
“Sure I can do that. You’re my husband.”
“Yeah, I do seem to remember a ceremony somewhere.”
Zen laughed. The two nurses at the other end of the room looked over and gave him embarrassed smiles.
“Jeff—”
“No, listen Bree, it’s fine. Things are going great here. I still can’t eat anything, but other than that, I’m in great shape. I may even go for a walk later.”
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m not joking. It was a figure of speech.” Zen pulled his gown primly closer to his legs. When the phone call was finished, he’d go back facedown on the bed butt naked, but somehow it felt important to preserve what modesty he could.
“The operation was OK?”
“Bing-bing-bing. Didn’t feel anything. Laser looked pretty cool. The nurse are great,” he added. “I won’t describe them or you’ll get jealous.”
The women—neither of whom was under fifty—blushed.
“I love you, Jeff.”
“I love you too, Bree. Take care of yourself, all right?”
“You’re sure?”
“Shit yeah.”
“I’ll call.”
68
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Call when you can.”
“Jeff?”
“Yup?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Southeastern Iran,
near the coast
8 January 1998
1312
CAPTAIN SATTARI’S KNEE, BRUISED IN THE RECENT ACTION AT
Port Somalia, started to give way as he climbed from the back of the Mercedes. He grabbed hold of the door to steady himself, pretending to admire the splendor of the private villa three miles east of Chah Bahar on Iran’s southern coast. Being thirty-nine meant the little tweaks and twists took longer to get over.
The villa was something to admire; its white marble pillars harked back to the greatness of the Persian past, and its proud, colorful red tower stood in marked contrast to the dullness that had descended over much of the land in the wake of the mullahs’ extreme puritanism. Jaamsheed Pevars had bought the house before he became the country’s oil minister. He was one of new upper class, a man who had earned his money under the black robes and thus owed them some allegiance. A decade before the small company he owned had won a contract to inspect oil tankers for safety violations before they entered Iranian waters. Inspection was mandatory, as was the thousand dollar fee, only half of which went to the government.