The tanker’s crew and its captain were cooperating, but END GAME
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Storm wasn’t taking any chances. The Werewolf, with Starship at the controls, hovered overhead. The aircraft’s floodlights made it look like one of the riders of the Apocalypse, the gun at its nose a black sword as it circled menacingly around the forecastle.
Storm had decided he would go aboard personally, partly as a gesture of respect to the other captain, and partly to show him how seriously they were taking the matter.
“Secure, sir,” said the ensign in charge of the landing team, speaking over their short-range communications system.
“Very good,” said Storm. He’d exchanged his shipboard headset for a tactical unit, which had an earset and a mike clipped to his collar. He didn’t bother with the helmet most of the boarding party wore, though he did have a flak vest on. “I’ll be aboard shortly.”
Storm checked back with Eyes as he waited for the boat to draw alongside the tanker.
“No sign of the submarine at all,” Eyes said. “Piranha has gone to silent mode, just waiting. If it’s nearby, she’ll hear it when it moves out.”
“Keep me informed. Storm out.”
The petty officer who headed the boarding team in Storm’s boat leapt at the chain ladder on the side of the tanker as they drew near. He pulled himself up two rungs at a time, leading his team to the deck.
This is the way my crew operates, Storm thought, following. A seaman from the Abner Read met him at the rail and helped him over, then led him up to the tanker’s captain, waiting with Storm’s ensign on the bridge.
At nearly seven feet tall, the captain towered over Storm.
A rail of a man, he gripped Storm’s hand firmly when they were introduced.
“You were near the Indian destroyer when it was struck by a torpedo,” said Storm, dispensing with the preliminaries. “Why didn’t you stop?”
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“They did not ask for our assistance.” The Pakistani’s English was good, his accent thin and readily understandable.
“You saw the submarine?” asked Storm.
“No. We did not understand what happened. It was only your man here who told me that the ship had been fired on.
From our viewpoint, we thought they were simply testing their weapons. The explosion was in the water.”
“Perhaps we could speak in private, Captain,” suggested Storm.
“As you wish.”
The tanker captain led him off the bridge, down a short flight of stairs to a small cabin nearby. A desk sat opposite a bunk at least a foot too short for its owner; the space in between was barely enough for two chairs.
“Drink?” asked the Pakistani. He produced a bottle of scotch from the drawer of the desk
“No, thank you,” said Storm.
“Then I won’t either,” said the other captain. He smiled and put the bottle back.
“The Indian destroyer was hit by a torpedo. I’m sure it made quite an explosion.”
“We were a few miles away.” The captain spoke softly, and it was not possible to tell if he was lying or not. It seemed unlikely to Storm that he didn’t realize what had happened, though if he had no experience with warfare, he might have been confused at first. “The Indians do not generally regard ships flying the Pakistani flag as friends,”
added the man. “They did not ask us for assistance.”
“Would you have stopped if they did?”
“Absolutely.” The captain leaned back in his chair. “Who fired the torpedo?”
“Possibly a submarine. Though it would have been possible for you to fire it as well.”
The captain jerked upright. “Impossible.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Search my ship.”
“I intend to.”
END GAME
97
The Pakistani captain frowned. “The Indians no doubt accused us. Probably they invented the submarine, and the torpedo. A hoax to cover their own incompetence. I would not be surprised if they blew up themselves by accident.”
“There was an aircraft in the area,” said Storm. “It was spotted after the attack. Did you see it?”
“I don’t recall.”
“What was he smuggling?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come on, Captain. Don’t make me order my men to tear your ship apart piece by piece. Was the airplane picking up medicine? Or was it delivering something?”
The Pakistani wore a pained expression.
“I know that many ship captains are poorly paid,” said Storm. “In this region, one earns what one can.”
“I am not a smuggler, Captain.”
“Fine. We will search your ship.”
“You have the guns. Do as you will.”
Storm, frustrated but determined, got up. He paused at the doorway. “Information about the submarine would be very helpful.”
“If I had any to give, I would.”
“Search the ship,” Storm told his ensign on the bridge.
“We’ve already gone over the deck, Captain. We haven’t found any sign that they fired a torpedo, no launch tube, no sign of bolts or anything where it could have been mounted.”
“All right. Keep looking. Find out what they smuggle.
They must do more than run oil over to Pakistan. I want a full inventory, down to the last toothpick.”
Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden
0445
DOG UNDID HIS RESTRAINTS AND SQUEEZED OUT FROM BEHIND
the stick of the Megafortress, taking a moment to stretch his 98
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
legs before they began the trek back to their base. It had been a frustrating sortie. Not only had they failed to locate the submarine, but Major Smith proved himself an extremely annoying Flighthawk pilot, refusing to let the computer handle the robot during refuelings. The procedure was notoriously difficult; the Megafortress’s large and irregular shape left a great deal of turbulence immediately behind and below it, and even Zen occasionally had trouble making the connection. For that reason, the routine had been hard-wired into both the Megafortress’s flight control computer and C3, which directed the U/MFs. But Mack insisted on trying it himself—even though it took no less than five approaches for him to get in. Dog found himself becoming so short-tempered that he nearly let Jazz take the stick.
Mack and Storm. Between them, he was going to end up in an insane asylum.
Dog walked to the end of the flight deck, where a small galley complete with a refrigerator and a microwave had been installed. He ducked down to the fridge and found a small milk container, then reached into a nearby cabinet for a pack of oatmeal cookies. The techies complained about the crumbs, but there was something comforting about the old-fashioned snack, especially when you were having it aboard one of the most advanced warplanes in the world.
“Captain Gale for you, Colonel,” said Jazz.
Dog sighed and flipped on the communications unit at the auxiliary station next to one of the radars where Dish was working.
“Bastian here.”
“You have anything new?”
“Negative, Storm. I’d surely have told you if I did.”
“We just finished turning that tanker inside out. Nothing.” Storm squinted toward the camera. “I think it has to be some sort of Chinese sub.”
“Why Chinese?”
“They hate the Indians. I’m going to return to the Indian END GAME
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destroyer. They have the damage under control. They’re heading back east at sunrise. There’s an Indian task group supposedly setting sail. I assume they’ll meet up.”
“All right.”
“Tell your people—this task force is headed by a small battle carrier. It’s a combination aircraft carrier and missile ship. It used to belong to the Russians. The Indians have fixed it up considerably. We’ll have a full briefing for you.
They have an air arm aboard—a dozen Su-33 Sukhois.”
“We can handle them.”