“Don’t shoot them down,” said Storm quickly. “I know you people are light on the trigger.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
“We’re going off station in a few minutes. Levitow will continue controlling Piranha.”
“Good,” said Storm, his sharp tone suggesting the opposite as the communication screen blanked.
Dog straightened. He glanced over Dish’s shoulder. The sergeant was busy fine-tuning the large screen in front of him, which showed that there were two ships, a cargo container carrier and a garbage scow, sailing twenty miles to their south.
On the other side of the aisle, T-Bone was tracking a pair of civilian airliners heading toward India, and a cargo craft flying south along the African coast. Except for their Flighthawks and the Levitow, the sky in their immediate vicinity was clear.
“Say, T-Bone, can you give me more information about that civilian plane we tracked?” Dog asked. “The one that was near the oil tanker.”
“Don’t have that much to give you, Colonel.” T-Bone reached to a set of switches at the right of his console, fingers tapping quickly over the elongated keyboard. A radar plot appeared on the auxiliary screen to the right of T-Bone’s station.
“This is the first solid long-distance contact we had.”
100
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
T-Bone’s fingers danced again. A new image appeared, showing Dog an enhanced radar view. T-Bone did a double tap on the lower keyboard at his right. A window opened on the screen.
“This is the spec screen where the computer—and me—tried to figure out what the hell it was,” explained the sergeant. The computer used the radar return to analyze the aircraft’s structure, identifying its type and capabilities. Depending on the range, it could also identify weapons the plane carried, which could also be done by analyzing the radars emanating from the plane. Knowing an enemy plane’s type and capabilities before engaging it was an enormous advantage, and much of the work that went into perfecting the Dreamland radar system had been aimed at doing that. The onboard computer library had data on nearly everything that had ever flown, right back to the Army’s Wright Model A.
“No hit in the library, see?” said T-Bone, pointing to the screen. “Light aircraft, civilian type, two engines far back on the fuselage. Looks like a small seaplane, with the engines up there to stay out of the spray. Hull is boat-shaped.”
“Definitely makes sense,” said Dog. “Why wouldn’t we have seen him earlier?”
“Two possibilities. One, he was outside our range, flying in from the east. Two, he was on the surface of the water, probably at that oil tanker. If he’s a smuggler—”
“Far south for that.”
“Maybe they’re changing tactics because the Abner Read has done such a good job farther north.”
“Maybe.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t think Storm was doing a good job; clearly they were missing something.
“Get Dreamland Control. Send this information back. I want Dr. Rubeo to get some of his people on this. I want to know what type of aircraft this is, what’s it’s capable of.
Dish …”
END GAME
101
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, turning around.
“Get as much data as you can on the torpedo that damaged the Indian ship. Size, that sort of thing. Give that to Dreamland Command as well. I think this little aircraft is more of a problem than we know.”
III
Be Boarded, or Be Sunk
Aboard the Shiva,
in the Indian Ocean
10 January 1998
0800
ANIL MEMON ZIPPED HIS WINDBREAKER AS HE STEPPED OUT
onto the observation deck of the Shiva. India’s deputy defense minister immediately grabbed for the railing, thrown off balance not by the rolling of the ship but the roar of one of her Su-33s charging off the ramped runway below. The warplane lurched into the sky, her left wing bucking down for a brief moment before the thrust from her two massive engines muscled her upward.
“An impressive site, Mr. Memon, is it not?” said the commander of the Shiva, Admiral Kala. A short, slight man, he did not weigh much more than 120 pounds, but he was one of the most respected commanders in the navy. “When we have five more ships like this, no one will challenge India’s greatness, not even the Americans.”
Memon smiled. To get five more ships such as the Shiva would not be easy.
He turned his attention back to the sea, scanning the surface for the wounded destroyer Calcutta. One of the lookouts had said it was just visible on the horizon, but even with his powerful binoculars he couldn’t see it.
“It’s to port, ten degrees,” said the admiral, guessing what he was looking for.
Memon adjusted his view and saw the mast.
“I was aboard the Calcutta last year,” Memon said. “I 106
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
can’t imagine she was struck by a torpedo from a submarine. She would have heard the vessel before the attack.”
“We will know the answer soon.”
A sailor appeared behind them, his uniform so crisp that a scent of starch filled the air.
“Admiral Kala, communication with the American ship has been established.”
“Very good. Deputy Minister Memon, will you join me?”
Memon followed the admiral back into the superstructure of the ship. Allowing for the metal walls and the pipes, the interior of the Shiva seemed more like the inside of a large office complex than that of a ship. The halls still smelled of fresh paint, and even the decking had a glow to it.
The ship had three different secure communications suites. The one the sailor led Admiral Kala and Memon to looked like a television studio, and had a special copper-enclosed booth at the side where top-secret conferences could be held without fear of anyone aboard eavesdropping.
Admiral Kala pointed to a phonelike handset below one of the screens at the left side of the space, then picked up the one next to it.
“This is Admiral Kala, the commander of the Indian aircraft carrier Shiva. To whom am I speaking?”
“Captain Gale, of the USS Abner Read. What can I do for you, Admiral?”
“We thank you and your crew for rendering assistance to the Calcutta,” said Kala. “Her captain told me personally of your aid.”
“Right.”
“I have been given to understand that you tracked and stopped a Pakistani vessel that had been in the vicinity.”
“Damn straight. My people searched it stem to stern. We found nothing. Anything else I can do for you?”
“This is the deputy defense minister,” Memon said into his headset. “It has not escaped my notice that the United States not only had a warship in the area, but an aircraft as well.”
END GAME
107
“The Abner Read was nearly two hundred miles away.
What’s your point?”
“You had a helicopter close enough to launch the torpedo,” said Admiral Kala.
“You know what, Admiral? I’m a little busy right now.
Maybe you should take your inquiries through diplomatic channels.”
“Captain—”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t know you from Adam. And I’m not going to listen to slander.”
The line went dead.
Memon felt his cheeks burning. But the insult did not appear to have registered on the admiral’s face.
“We should inspect the tanker ourselves,” suggested Memon. “It would not be impossible to mount a torpedo tube on its deck, camouflaging it in some way. Or perhaps arranging so it could be fired from below the waterline. I don’t trust the Americans.”
The admiral walked silently to the carrier’s combat control center, a level below the bridge at the center of the island superstructure. Memon followed, still seething—the American should have been put in his place. It was true that the Calcutta did not believe the Americans had been involved in the attack, but his question had been a natural one.