END GAME
161
Dreamland
0100 (1400, Karachi)
THE GUARD SNAPPED TO ATTENTION, RECOGNIZING ZEN AS
soon as he got off the elevator.
Then again, how many people on the base were in wheelchairs?
“Major Catsman inside?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Zen locked his wheelchair and raised himself up to look into the retina scan. The doors to the Dreamland Command Center flew open, and Zen wheeled himself into the arena-style situation room that helped coordinate Whiplash missions.
“Zen, what are you doing here?” Catsman’s eyes were even more droopy than normal.
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d find out what’s going on over there.”
“Officially, you should be back home in bed.”
“I am. Off the record, tell me what you can.”
Catsman gave him an abbreviated version of the day’s events.
“It’s only going to get worse,” she added, with uncharacteristic pessimism. “Now we’re just monkeys in the middle out there.”
Zen knew he should be there. He could feel it, a magnetic force pulling him. The hell with the experiments—the hell with everything but Breanna.
Maybe the dreams were omens. He couldn’t lose her, not for anything.
“I wouldn’t worry about her.”
“Huh? About Bree? I’m not worried,” said Zen.
“She’s a hell of a pilot.”
“Damn straight. Only pilot I trust.” Zen forced himself to smile. “I just wanted to know, you know, what was up.
Thanks for telling me.”
He was a bit too nervous for her, wasn’t he? It wasn’t that 162
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
he didn’t think she knew what she was doing, or that she couldn’t take care of herself.
Maybe it was time to go back home, get some rest. Clear his head.
“How are the treatments going?” Catsman asked.
“They’re going,” Zen said, wheeling himself back up the ramp.
Iran
12 January 1998
1900
CAPTAIN SATTARI EYED THE BIG AIRCRAFT ON THE NEARBY
ramp, waiting for the last gear to be loaded aboard. Already, two of his submarines had been loaded into its belly through a bay originally intended to hold search and rescue boats. Their crewmen and ten of Sattari’s guerrillas waited inside.
At nearly 150 feet long, the A-40 Albatross was one of the biggest flying boats ever made, and the only jet-powered one to enter regular service. This particular aircraft had been sold by the Russians as surplus, and according to all the official records had been scrapped a year ago.
“We’re ready, Captain,” said Sergeant Ibn. “The pilot would like to take off as soon as possible.”
Their destination was a point exactly thirteen miles south of Omara, a small city on the western Pakistani coast. The submarines would disembark and proceed to another point thirty miles away, rendezvousing with the other two subs, which had been deposited the day before. Together, they would proceed to their next target—an oil terminal in the port of Karachi.
“Yes, we should go,” said Sattari, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t afraid of the Indians, let alone the Pakistanis. But the Americans—the Americans were waiting for him. He’d END GAME
163
cheated them the other night, hadn’t he? Now they would want revenge.
They had undone his father, stripping him of the weapon that would have made him the most powerful man in Iran.
Now he was a mere toady of the black robes.
That was unfair. He hadn’t been their messenger the other day—more like a father shielding his son. And in truth, the imams had not done wrong by Sattari personally—their slanderous lies behind his back excepted.
“Let us go,” said Sattari, shouldering his rifle. “Fate awaits us.”
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
13 January 1998
0130
MEMON WOKE TO A SERIES OF LOUD RAPS AT THE CABIN DOOR.
Disoriented, he could not interpret the sound or even remember where he was. Then a voice from behind the door called his name.
“Deputy Minister Memon? Sir, are you awake?”
“Yes,” said Memon.
“The admiral had me call for you.”
Memon pushed himself upright. “I’m awake,” he said.
“Aircraft from the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping have been spotted,” said the man. “The admiral wanted you to know. He’s on the bridge.”
“I’m coming,” said Memon.
164
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea
0130
THE SITREP SCREEN MADE THE SITUATION BELOW LOOK ALmost placid. That was the strength and weakness of sensors, Colonel Bastian thought as he surveyed the scene; they couldn’t quite account for the spitting and hissing.
The Deng Xiaoping had sailed day and night at top speed; it was now within fifty miles of the Indian carrier Shiva. Dish, working the surface radar, added that the ships were both turned into the wind, making it easier for them to launch and recover aircraft.
“Thanks, Dish,” said Dog. “T-Bone, we have all their aircraft?”
“Roger that, Colonel. Four J-13s from the Deng, split into two orbits, one roughly five miles and the other fifteen from the carrier in the direction of the Shiva. There’s another two-ship of J-13s over the carrier as an air patrol, and a helicopter with airborne radar. Indians have two Su-33s riding out to meet them. They have two other aircraft over their carrier. The two Pakistani F-16s I told you about earlier are well to the east now; they should be running home soon to refuel. Haven’t spotted their replacements yet.”
“Cantor, you see those Indian Flankers?” Dog asked.
“Just coming into range now, Colonel.”
“Keep your distance, but don’t let them get between you and the Wisconsin.”
“Copy that, Wisconsin.”
Dog checked the sitrep. They were to the west of both carriers and their aircraft. He tapped the Dreamland Command channel and updated Eyes. The Abner Read’s executive officer once more reminded him that he was not to interfere with the other ships “no matter what.”
“I get the message,” said Dog.
*
*
*
END GAME
165
CANTOR WATCHED THE SU-33 GROW IN HIS VIEW SCREEN, waiting until the aircraft was exactly three miles away to start his turn. By watching Mack’s mission tapes as well as those from his own encounters, he’d determined that was the sweet spot—far enough away so the Sukhoi pilot couldn’t detect him, but close enough so that no last second maneuver could get him free. The Flighthawk swung through a tight arc, crossing behind the Sukhoi. The separation at the end of the turn was about a mile—close enough for a sustained burst from the Flighthawk cannon.
And it had to be sustained. Mack had gotten bullets into all of the fighters he’d faced, but taken none of them down.
The Russian-made craft were even tougher than advertised.
But the Sukhoi pilot had no idea the Flighthawk was tag-ging along right behind it. It had a dead spot behind its tail, and unless his wingman flew very close, the Flighthawk was almost impossible to detect. Mack figured he could stay there all night.
“American aircraft, you are ordered to remove yourself from our vicinity,” said the Indian carrier, broadcasting over all frequencies. The transmission was directed at the Wisconsin, not Hawk One, which couldn’t be seen by the carrier from this distance, a little over fifty miles away. Cantor heard Jazz tell the carrier blandly that they were in international waters and were on a routine patrol. He drew out his words matter-of-factly; Cantor thought he could be telling his wife that he’d bring home a bottle of milk.