“That’s ridiculous—send one of your aircraft after this flight, and then get your butt down south and find this submarine. Drop your buoys. Jee-zus, Bastian. Since when do I have to tell you your job?”

Same old Storm, thought Dog, looking at the captain’s red face.

“The Flighthawks were designed to stay close to the Megafortress,” said Dog, keeping his voice neutral. “I don’t like those limits myself, but we’re stuck with them at the moment. Do you want me to follow the plane or to look for the submarine?”

Storm, apparently interrupted, glanced at someone else on the bridge.

“We can continue to track him with our radar,” added Dog. “Out to about three hundred miles or so, maybe more depending on his altitude.”

Storm turned back to the screen and raised his hand.

“Hold on Bastian, hold on.”

“Hey, Colonel, I have the aircraft on the viewscreen,”

said T-Bone over Wisconsin’s interphone. “Computer can’t ID it, but it’s about the size of a Cessna. Two engines.”

END GAME

87

“You think there’s a possibility that plane launched a torpedo?”

“Doesn’t look big enough. Hard to tell from here, but guessing from the size of the engines and given his speed, I doubt he could have taken off with it. You might have a better idea.”

“Doesn’t look likely,” said Jazz, who’d brought up some of the data on his screen. “If it’s a smuggler, he might have been working with that tanker. Might be a seaplane.”

“I’m not positive it’s a seaplane,” said T-Bone.

“Thanks. Stand by.”

He glanced at the video screen at the lower left of his control panel. Storm was still busy, so Dog used the circuit to talk to Starship. “Wisconsin to Werewolf One. Starship, this is Colonel Bastian. How are you?”

“Busy, Colonel; just coming up to the Indian destroyer now. But OK, sir.”

“Can you give us anything else on that aircraft? Was he aboard that tanker? Next to him? Had he been in the air and en route south?”

“Don’t know on any of that, Colonel. I’m sorry.”

Starship broke to answer a communication from the destroyer; Dog heard him being directed to the starboard side of the ship, where the destroyer had several men in the water.

“All right, Werewolf One,” said Dog. “Contact us when you get a chance.”

“Werewolf,” said Starship quickly.

“Bastian?”

“Yes, Storm. Go ahead.”

“Concentrate on the submarine. Where’s the Piranha?”

“The aircraft carrying it will be taking off in about an hour.”

“Hurry it up. Get it over there ASAP.”

“Roger that.” Dog switched over to the interphone.

“T-Bone, continue to track that aircraft Werewolf was after.

Update me every few minutes.”

88

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Abner Read,

off the coast of Somalia

2018

STARSHIP COULD SEE THE INDIAN DESTROYER LISTING HEAVILY

to its starboard side as he approached. The torpedo had exploded close to the hull, but either by deft maneuvering or good luck, the Indian warship had sustained only a glancing blow. That was still enough to do heavy damage, however, and the crew was working feverishly to block off sections of the ship that were being flooded.

The Werewolf’s searchlights made small circles on the foaming waves near the crippled ship. A small boat had disembarked from the destroyer and was approaching the area.

Starship dropped the robot aircraft into a hover, concentrating on illuminating the area near the boat.

The Indian ship radioed to ask that he move toward the bow of the destroyer. It took a few seconds for Starship to understand what the radioman was saying through his accent.

“Roger that. Moving toward bow.”

Large bits of debris floated near the ship. The Werewolf’s search lamps caught a twisted pipe sticking out from the side of the ship, an obscene gesture directed back at whoever had attacked it.

Something bobbed at the far right of his screen, just outside the area he was illuminating. He nudged the stick, moving the robot helo toward it and zooming his optical video feed to full magnification.

A head bobbed in his screen.

“Calcutta, I have something,” he told the destroyer.

“Have the boat follow my beam.”

He waited anxiously, lights trained on the seaman. The boat reacted in slow motion. Starship lost sight of the man for a second and started shouting. “Get over there, damn it!

Get over there! Get him before he drowns! Come on!

Come on! ”

As the prow of the rescue boat came into view, the head END GAME

89

bobbed back up. Starship saw someone in the boat reaching with a pole, but the man in the water didn’t take it. The boat got closer; one of the sailors leaned out toward the stricken man. Starship kept the Werewolf steady, trying to stay close enough to give them plenty of light but not wipe them out with the wash of the rotors.

The man in the boat grabbed the stricken sailor by the back of the shoulders. He hauled him into the boat.

Starship’s eyes were glued to the screen. He saw the head coming out of the water, and then the arms and the top of the man’s back—and nothing else.

The man had been severed in two by the explosion.

Bile ran up Starship’s throat. He threw his hand over his mouth but it was too late; some of the acid spurted out over his shirt. Eyes tearing, he tried choking it back down, struggling with his other hand to control the Werewolf.

STORM PACED THE BRIDGE, ANXIOUS TO GET HIS SHIP SOUTH.

The Abner Read was built for stealth, not speed; still, she could touch forty knots, a good speed for a small craft.

Right now she was doing 38 knots. Even if they held that speed, it would take roughly five hours to reach the destroyer.

“I’m going out for some air,” he told the others. Then he walked out onto the flying bridge at the side.

No more than a platform that could be folded into the superstructure, the design of the flying bridge had been carefully calculated to have minimal impact on the AbnerRead’s radar signature. Not only was it the highest point on the low-slung ship, but it was one of the few dry and flat surfaces outside. The main deck sloped down and was often lapped with waves.

The salty breeze bit Storm’s cheeks. The wind was coming up and he felt a chill. But it was a good chill, the sort of wind that reminded him why he’d wanted to join the Navy in the first place.

The aircraft the Werewolf had seen near the oil tanker bothered him. It seemed similar to the ones they’d spotted 90

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

the night Port Somalia was struck. If it had been a little bigger, he supposed, it might have launched the torpedo itself.

Maybe it was working with the submarine that made the actual attack. Or maybe the tanker.

There’d been a tanker nearby when he lost the other submarine as well. This was a different ship, but the parallels had to be more than a coincidence.

Didn’t they?

The submarine might be the same vessel he had chased the other night, able to hide along the coast because its clever captain knew the waters so well. A Chinese Kilo, maybe.

But then what was the aircraft doing? Was it Chinese as well?

Storm decided the submarine was the key to the mystery.

He would find it and then—since he couldn’t attack—he’d give the exact location to the captain of the Indian destroyer, who no doubt would be anxious for revenge.

Assuming his ship didn’t sink before then.

Storm allowed himself one more deep, luxurious breath of air, then went back inside.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2045