“I didn’t see it, the Indian destroyer didn’t see it, and most importantly, you didn’t see it. You’re telling me the Abner Read would have lost a Kilo. I just can’t believe it.”
The backhanded compliment mollified Storm slightly.
His tone softened infinitesimally as he continued.
END GAME
117
“I could see those aircraft unloading guerrillas for the attack on Port Somalia,” Storm told Dog. “But not carrying a torpedo for hundreds of miles. We don’t even know where they flew from.”
“Yemen. Iran. Iraq. Somalia. We reposition the Megafortress patrol areas to watch those coastlines. They’ll show up again.”
“And in the meantime, I don’t have any air cover, and I can’t use Piranha. Because you can’t be in two places at the same time,” added Storm, sarcastically referring to the mission the other night.
“You have the Werewolves. And my pilot.”
“What about Piranha? We can’t run that from the ship.”
Not only did they not have the control unit, but Piranha had to be within fifty miles of one of its control buoys to feed data, so that even if the Abner Read did have one, the robot would be of limited value.
“We’ll put the probe into autonomous sleep mode until we need her again,” suggested Dog. “We’ll park her out there.”
“We still need her now. We need to find that submarine.”
“Storm, you’re obsessing about a submarine that’s not there.”
“You don’t understand submarine warfare, Bastian. This is what happens when you deal with a good sub and crew.
You’re never really sure they even exist.”
“You have to agree the plane is suspicious.”
“Find it, then—but keep Piranha in operation on the search grids my people direct.”
Dog killed the link before he said something he would regret.
118
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
11 January 1998
0400
THE PAKISTANI TANKER WAS TWENTY MILES AWAY, TOO FAR TO
be seen with even the best pair of binoculars. But in the Shiva’s combat control center, the tanker could be viewed from every conceivable angle, thanks to the two Sukhoi fighters and a helicopter flying near the tanker. The helicopter sent back live infrared video, which was displayed on a large television at the front of the combat control center.
To Memon, the combat center looked overwhelmingly chaotic and sounded even worse, with officers and enlisted personnel nearly shouting in an undecipherable patois. But he realized the tumult was actually highly organized, and that the singing voices were a sign that things were going well. The sound one did not want to hear as action approached, the admiral said, was silence.
“When will we attack?” Memon asked Captain Bhaskar, the ship’s executive officer.
“I’m afraid I don’t have time for your questions, Mr.
Memon. I have work here.”
He turned and walked toward the radar section, Memon’s eyes burning a hole in his back.
“The marines will take off in twenty minutes,” said a lieutenant who was standing nearby. He was tasked to maintain communications with the ship boarding team; Memon could not remember his first name but resolved to find a way to help him in the future. “Two Sea King helicopters. We’ll see their positions on this screen here. They will be accompanied by a Mk42B with Sea Eagle missiles.”
The Mk42B was a special version of the Sea King helicopter equipped with antiship missiles and special search radar. All of the Sea Kings were variants of the Sikorsky END GAME
119
SH-3 built by Westland; in America, the originals were known as Sea Kings, with an Air Force version called the Jolly Green Giant.
“When the aircraft are airborne,” continued the lieutenant, “the admiral will give the tanker the order to stop and be boarded. The marines will secure the ship and the search will begin. The divers will arrive in a second wave, once the tanker is secured. No inch of the tanker will be left unexamined.”
“And if they launch a torpedo at us in the meantime?”
“We will be at safe distance and detect it instantly. The decoys will be launched to detonate it a mile from the ship.
The hull of this ship is considerably better protected than the Calcutta, and even if we were to be struck, we would survive. And the tanker will be dealt with mercilessly. The jaws of hell will receive it.”
“Yes,” said Memon. “That would be most appropriate.”
Aboard the Levitow,
taking off from Drigh Road
0412
MACK FELT THE MEGAFORTRESS LIFT UP ABRUPTLY BENEATH
him as it came off the runway. Somehow being a passenger made him feel out of sorts. It wasn’t just that there was no way to anticipate the tugs and pulls of flight properly. It was the fact that you were just along for the ride, like you were a passenger in a bus. And who wanted to be in a bus?
He was still sore at Bastian for demanding that he fly only one plane at a time. That seemed ridiculously cautious. The argument that only Starship and Zen had handled two in combat was ridiculous; the same could have been said about them before they did it. He’d done fine on his last sortie.
However, he would follow his master’s orders. No sense 120
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
going against the old graybeard, especially with his daughter at the helm of the plane. She’d be tattling in no time.
Mack shared the Flighthawk control compartment with Ensign Gloria English, who would be taking over as Piranha pilot once they reached their station. The ensign was a Navy girl; he didn’t hold that against her, but unfortunately her face could sink a thousand ships. Even though she had literally nothing to do for the next two hours, English was busy at her station, examining previous mission tapes.
“Levitow to Flighthawk leader. Mack, we’re climbing through ten thousand feet,” said Breanna a short time later.
“You’re going to want to start getting ready.”
“You don’t have to tell me my job, Captain,” snapped Mack. “I have it under control.”
“I don’t doubt that. Flight plan calls for a launch in ten minutes. We’ll be over international waters—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the drill.”
SAME OLD MACK, BREANNA THOUGHT AS SHE PREPARED THE
Megafortress for the Flighthawk launch. He’d seemed a little more mature over the past few months, but bad cream always curdled in the end.
“Captain, we have two Sukhoi Su-33s orbiting directly to the west, fifty miles,” reported Stewart. “Flying at twelve thousand feet. One helicopter as well. Additional aircraft from the south—three helicopters. All aircraft are Indian.”
“Where are they coming from?”
“Believe the Indian warship to the south,” said Stewart, tapping the configurable display in front of her. Data from the surface and airborne radars were forwarded to her station when they were operating, giving her a much longer-range view than normal.
“Ship on the surface,” added Stewart. “Oil tanker.”
“Flighthawk leader, be advised we have a pair of Indian Sukhois ahead,” Breanna told Mack.
“Yeah, I see them on the sitrep.”
END GAME
121
“Let’s go ahead and launch,” said Breanna. “Get HawkThree off the wing before we get too close.”
“Yeah, roger. Let ’er rip.”
Aboard the Shiva ,
northern Arabian Sea
0430
MEMON WATCHED THE OIL TANKER ON THE SCREEN IN THE
combat center. The image was blurred and shadowy, but one thing was clear—the tanker was not stopping. The helicopter with the antiship missiles and its two companions with the marine boarding party were now less than two miles away.