His first three or four bullets caught the center fuselage behind the cockpit; the next dozen riddled through the engine.
The enemy aircraft tucked off to the left, damaged. Mack struggled to stay with it; if he’d been wheeling an F-15
across the sky he’d have overshot by several miles. But the Flighthawk forgave him, shoving its stubby little airframe into a tighter turn than Mack could have hoped. The rear end of the Sukhoi sailed back and forth in front of him; Mack started to fire, then lost the shot.
“Come west, Mack,” said Breanna.
“I have to finish this guy off first.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“West.”
The targeting bar went red. Mack nailed the finger on the trigger. The Flanker dove straight down; Mack got a warning that he was almost out of range. This time he leveled off and headed for the mother ship.
BREANNA BLEW A SLOW BREATH INTO HER FACE MASK, FORCing her lungs to completely empty themselves before taking another breath. They were finally clear.
“Bogey Four is down—hit by our Scorpion,” said Stewart. “Bogey Three is circling back in its vicinity. Bogey Two, unknown damage.”
“Was there a parachute?” Breanna asked.
The airborne radar operator answered that he hadn’t de -
tected one.
“Helicopters launching from the carrier,” he added.
They would be search and air rescue aircraft. Even though he’d been trying to shoot her down, Breanna hoped they’d find the pilot.
She glanced at the communications panel. She had to tell Storm what had happened. He wasn’t going to like it.
“All right. Everybody take a deep breath,” she told her crew. “Flighthawk leader, we can refuel if you want.”
“Roger that. Three’s getting thirsty. What was my score there? I get one or two?”
“I hate to be the one to break this to you, Major, but all of your aircraft are still in the air.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Check the long-range plot on the sitrep.”
“They didn’t ditch on the way back to the carrier?”
“Apparently not.”
Mack cursed.
“I’m sure you did decent damage to them,” Breanna said.
“The important thing is, you kept them from getting us.”
“Yeah,” said Mack, clearly deflated. “Roger that. Lining up for a tank.”
END GAME
141
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0500
MEMON FELT TEARS BRIMMING IN HIS EYES AS THE EXECUTIVE
officer and the flight operations commander reported to the admiral. One of their Sukhois had been shot down; its pilot was missing. The three other Flankers had been severely damaged. None would be available for the rest of the cruise.
The decision to challenge the American aircraft had been a foolish one. But what was the alternative?
The Americans had just proven where they stood. It was very possible that they were behind the strike on the Calcutta, despite all of their claims and supposedly peaceful gestures.
So be it. They would pay for this.
“I will make the report to the Chief of Naval Operations,” said Memon. “Coming from me—”
The admiral shook his head. “No. It’s my job. The decision was mine. The consequences are mine. I will talk to the admiral myself.”
“The crew of the tanker will be taken aboard shortly.
Their ship has been abandoned,” said Captain Bhaskar, the executive officer. “The boarding party saw no sign of torpedo launching stations or targeting equipment. It has not been an auspicious day.”
“Tomorrow will be a better one,” said Memon defiantly.
IV
Monkeys in the Middle
Washington, D.C.
1920, 10 January 1998
(0520, 11 January, Karachi)
JED BARCLAY TOOK THE STEPS TWO AT A TIME, RUNNING UP
to his boss’s office in the West Wing of the White House.
He made the landing and charged through the hall, barely managing to put on the brakes as he came to Philip Freeman’s door.
The National Security Advisor’s secretary looked up from her desk in the outer office. “Jed, this isn’t high school.”
“I have to talk to Mr. Freeman.”
“Catch your breath first.”
Jed nodded, but walked immediately to the door to Freeman’s inner office. He knocked, then went inside.
“An Indian airplane was shot down,” he told Freeman, huffing. “By one of our Megafortresses. Others were damaged.”
“You ran all the way up here from the situation room downstairs?” said the National Security Advisor.
“You said to bring you the details immediately and in person,” said Jed, still catching his breath.
Freeman motioned with his hand. “I didn’t mean you had to run. Sit down, Jed. Fill me in.”
Jed began recounting what Colonel Bastian had told him about the encounter, then added the information he had gleaned from the Pentagon report and the intercepts the NSA had provided at his request.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“It happened less than twenty minutes ago,” said Jed.
“There’s some information on the DoD network.”
“Yes, I was just looking at the Defense Department report,”
said Freeman. He reached to the phone behind his desk.
Five minutes later Jed and his boss were shown into the Oval Office. President Kevin Martindale stood in front of his desk, phone in hand. He motioned for Freeman and Jed to take seats at the side, then continued his conversation, walking back and forth as he spoke. He quickly wrapped up the conversation, telling his caller—clearly a congressman—that he would talk to him before the State of the Union address later that month.
“Good evening, Philip, young Jed.” Martindale replaced the phone on its cradle and sat on the edge of the desk. “So what’s going on in the Arabian Sea?”
“The Indians’ new aircraft carrier just destroyed an unarmed Pakistani oil tanker,” the National Security Advisor said. “One of our Dreamland aircraft was in the area and warned them not to fire. Four Indian aircraft attacked our plane. We shot one down. The others may have been damaged.”
“We’re sure the oil tanker was unarmed?”
Freeman turned to Jed. “It’s the same tanker the AbnerRead stopped the other day,” he said. “They searched it pretty thoroughly.”
There was a knock at the door. Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman was ushered into the room by one of the President’s aides. As he took his seat, he gave Jed the sort of glare one gave a new puppy who’d messed on a rug. Jed and the Secretary had had a serious run-in a few weeks back over information given to the UN; if it had been up to Hartman, Jed would be down in the Antarctic conducting penguin surveys. Fortunately, Jed’s boss couldn’t stand Hartman, and the incident had actually helped Jed rather than hurt him.
“Dreamland, again,” said Hartman after the President summarized what had happened. “And this clown Gale.
Where’s Chastain?”
END GAME
147
He was referring to Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain.
“He left the Pentagon a short while ago and should be here shortly,” said the President. “The question I have for you, Mr. Secretary, is what will Pakistan do about the tanker?”
“Immediate mobilization,” predicted Hartman. “And India will step up its mobilization as well. The Chinese will use that to justify their own saber rattling. Where’s their new aircraft carrier?”
“The Deng Xiaoping and its escorts are already in the Gulf of Aden,” said Jed.
Hartman scowled in his general direction, then turned to the President. “Did the Indians at least have a reason for the attack?”
“I think they, um, they thought the tanker was connected to the attack on the Calcutta. They wanted to inspect it.”