The Shiva’s position as well as that of its aircraft and the different vessels around them were tracked on a large plex-iglass display at one side of the combat center. The admiral consulted the display and then the charts on the nearby map table as Captain Adri, the ship’s navigation officer, and Captain Bhaskar, the executive officer, looked on.
“The tanker is sailing toward Karachi,” said Admiral Kala, tracing its course. “We can intercept it fifty miles from Pakistani coastal waters, if we change course within the hour.”
“That will mean leaving the Calcutta to wait for the oceangoing tug,” said Adri, glancing at his charts. “It will be another twenty-four hours at least.”
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“We should search them ourselves,” said Memon, folding his arms.
“Captain, in my opinion we should not,” said the executive officer. “The Americans have already done so.”
“Change course, Mr. Adri,” said Admiral Kala. “I will inform the Calcutta.”
Drigh Road
10 January 1998
2000
CANTOR STEADIED THE POOL CUE AGAINST HIS FINGERS, pulling it back and forth as he lined up the shot at the far end of the table. He had to hit the cue ball straight and hard.
Not a problem. He’d just think of it as Major Mack Smith’s head.
“Eight ball in the corner,” he told Jan Stewart, watching from the nearby couch.
“Never.”
Thwack! The ball flew down the table. The eight ball jammed hard against the cushion at the side of the hole and dropped straight down. The cue ball rebounded off the nearby rail and sailed back to him.
“You’ve been practicing,” said Stewart, getting up.
“Just found the proper motivation.”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking the cue ball is Captain Stockard, but it doesn’t seem to help. Another game?”
Cantor glanced at the clock on the wall of the large room.
“Yeah, OK. Rack ’em up. Then I’m going to have to check with the maintainers and make sure the Flighthawks are all ready to rock. I have to preflight in an hour or so.”
“Chief Parsons will make sure the planes are ready.”
“Yeah, but if I don’t let him growl at me, he’ll be in a bad mood the rest of the day,” said Cantor, applying some chalk to the tip of his cue.
“Isn’t that Mack’s job?”
END GAME
109
“The chief said that if Mack bothers him one more time, he’ll hold me personally responsible.”
“ ’Nuff said.”
The Dreamland contingent had been given a pair of buildings once used by a Pakistani fighter wing at the far end of the sprawling complex. The aircraft they flew might have been old—the wall opposite the clock had a logo for the Shenyang F-6, which had all but been phased out of active service years before—but their facilities were top-rate, including the rec room that the Dreamland team had adapted as an informal squadron ready room, office, and general hangout. Besides the pool table, there were two foosball tables and a Ping-Pong setup. Beyond the briefing area sat a full kitchen with electric appliances, including two large refrigerators.
“Who’s bothering who, Cantor?” said Mack, striding into the ready room. His timing was perfect: He distracted Stewart so badly that she sent the white ball curling off to the side; she barely missed scratching and hardly dented the triangle of pool balls.
“Nobody, Major.” Cantor eyed the table. The break was so poor it hadn’t left him any shots. “Fourteen, I guess, corner pocket.”
“You’re up in two hours,” said Mack.
Cantor narrowed his eyes until he saw only the cue ball.
He rapped the ball so hard it flew at the fourteen, which fell into the pocket with a resounding thud. As an extra bonus, his cue ball bounced the twelve into the opposite corner.
“Nice shot, junior,” said Mack.
“You got something you need me to do, Major?”
“No, I’m just making sure you’re ready to go.”
“I read the schedule.” Cantor called the eleven in the side. This time he hit it so hard it rebounded off the pocket—and sank into the opposite pocket.
“Which side did you call?” Stewart asked.
“No, your shot.”
“Guts is sick, so I’m going in Levitow,” added Mack.
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“I’m going to tell Breanna to load two Flighthawks on the plane.”
Cantor knew he should keep his mouth shut. After all, not having Major Mack Smith sitting next to him for eight or ten hours was more than he could wish for. But he couldn’t help himself.
“I don’t think you can take two planes, Major. In all honesty, one—I mean, no disrespect but—”
“What are trying to say, junior?” Mack slammed the refrigerator door.
“I just think you could use a little more practice.”
“Listen, kid, I’ve been flying since you were in grammar school.”
“But not the Flighthawk.”
Mack threw one of the desk chairs out his way and stormed across the room. Cantor was sure for a moment that the other pilot was going to hit him. It wouldn’t be a fair fight—Mack had nearly a foot on him and possibly fifty pounds—but he was so angry at the other pilot that he actually started to relish hitting him.
“You telling me I don’t know how to handle them?” demanded Mack.
“You can’t do two. No.”
“You better go check on your aircraft, kid. I got stuff I have to do.”
Cantor bit down on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to punch him—he really did.
It wasn’t the size advantage that held him back. Mack was a major, and he was a lieutenant. Throwing the first punch would pretty much guarantee he was gone from Dreamland.
Throwing the second punch would be a different story.
They stared at each other. Then Mack snorted in con-tempt and walked out of the room.
“Whoa,” said Stewart on the other side of the table.
“Yeah,” said Cantor. “I wish he’d taken a swing.”
*
*
*
END GAME
111
COLONEL BASTIAN SHIFTED IN HIS SEAT IN FRONT OF THE SEcure video screen, listening as Ray Rubeo described what the Dreamland scientists had done with the radar intercepts of the aircraft.
“The design appears similar to a number of studies conducted by the Beriev company in Russia,” continued Rubeo, Dreamland’s head scientist. “Approximately thirty-five feet long with a wingspan of forty-two feet. Notice the wing shape—here in this slide we superimpose the print from the Beriev design documents onto the image generated from the intercept. And, of course, the engines are in the same location.”
“But this was just a study,” said Dog. “No planes were built.”
“No planes were sold or registered anywhere that we could find through simple checks. But that doesn’t mean no planes were built.”
“How can we find out if there were any? Can we call the CIA?”
Deep dimples appeared in Rubeo’s cheeks.
“Yes,” he said. “I asked Major Catsman to try that. They say they’re researching it. In the meantime, I took the lib-erty of having one of our technicians who speaks Russian contact the company.”
“And?”
“I can give you a very good deal on one, Colonel. Less than half a million dollars.”
“Could it carry a torpedo?”
“The problem is not so much whether it could carry one, for certainly it could.” Rubeo sighed, as if he were a college professor working a particularly dull class through a complicated calculus solution at the end of a long day.
“Assume a Russian surface torpedo at 7.2 meters—a bit over twenty-one feet. It will sit awkwardly below the fuselage but nonetheless may be carriaged there. A smaller torpedo—the French-built L5, for example, at roughly fourteen feet—still awkward but doable. In terms of bal-
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ance, the longer Russian design is actually easier to accommodate—”