None of the so-called experts had been in battle, however; Storm had, and he suspected their estimates were optimistic. Two months ago it had taken four Harpoons to sink END GAME

175

an old Russian amphibious warfare ship that had light defenses and no appreciable armor. Storm and his officers had concluded that it would take at least six very well-placed missile hits to permanently disable either one of the vessels.

The real question was how many missiles it would take to get six hits. The answer depended not only on the profi-ciency of the people firing the missiles and the defenses they faced, but sheer luck. The intel officer threw around some fancy mathematics he called regression analysis and claimed that seven launches would yield six hits, but Storm knew he was just guessing like everyone else.

Missiles were not the Abner Read’s only weapon. Storm could use his below-waterline tubes to fire torpedoes at a submarine, and his 155mm gun to hit a surface ship that came within twenty-two miles. His accompanying Sharkboat had four Harpoons and a much more limited 25mm gun. And then there were the Megafortresses …

“Tac to bridge—Storm, Dreamland Levitow needs to talk to you right away. Piranha’s picked up another submarine contact.”

Storm hit the switch on his belt and opened the com channel. “Talk to me, Dreamland.”

“The Piranha operator has an unknown contact near Karachi,” said Breanna Stockard. “I’m going to let her fill you in.”

“Do it.”

Another voice came on the line—Ensign Gloria English, who’d been assigned to wipe the Dreamland team’s noses.

“Captain Gale, we have an unknown contact near the Karachi port, two miles south of the oil terminal. It appears to be headed toward shore. I can’t follow it and the Chinese submarine at the same time.”

“It’s going toward shore?”

“Affirmative. I’m going to punch in the coordinates through the shared-information system. They should be there—now.”

176

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Storm looked at the holographic table. A small yellow dot appeared near the coast, roughly twenty miles from the Chinese submarine. Given the direction it was heading, he knew it might be a Pakistani vessel.

Or an Indian boat preparing an attack?

It seemed too far for that.

“Ensign English—what sort of submarine is it?” asked Storm.

“Sir, I can only tell you what it isn’t. It’s not a Kilo boat, it’s not anything the Pakistanis have, at least that we know of. Same with the Indians.”

“You’re sure it’s not Indian?”

“I tried matching against German Type 209s, Kilos, and Foxtrots,” she said, naming the three types of submarines in the Indian fleet. “No match. I even tried comparing the profile to the Italian CE-f/X1000s. Nada.”

“Help me out here, Ensign. What are those Italian boats?”

“Two-man special forces craft, submersibles. They only have a range of twenty-five miles, but I thought I better be sure. I checked comparable Russian craft as well.”

Was this the boat that had launched the torpedo at the Indian destroyer and taken the special forces teams in and out of Port Somalia?

If so, it was a Pakistani vessel, returning to port.

Not port, exactly. Storm looked at the hologram. There was no submarine docking area anywhere near Karachi.

That he knew about. Which made the sub worth following.

But if Piranha turned off, he’d lose track of the Chinese submarine. That might put his own ship in danger; it was out of range of his sonar array.

It had to be a Pakistani sub. In the end, English would be wasting her time following it—he couldn’t do anything about the Paks.

“Stay with the Chinese Kilo. That has to be your priority,” Storm told her. “Get as much data on this as you can.

We’ll want to look into it.”

END GAME

177

“Aye aye, sir.”

Storm hit the switch on his com unit, tapping the small buttons to contact Colonel Bastian.

“Bastian, this is Storm,” he said when the colonel’s face appeared on the bridge communications screen. “Piranha has an unidentified contact near Karachi. It can’t stay with it. But I’d like to figure out just what the hell it is.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Since your Megafortress can’t be in two places at the same time, I want you to get another one out there. The sub will have to surface soon, and you can catch it on your radar.”

“Can’t do that, Storm. We’re on a very tight rotation as it is. If you want coverage—”

“Damn it, Bastian. Find a way to make it happen.” He killed the connection with an angry slap at the control unit.

Karachi oil terminal

0305

CAPTAIN SATTARI LOOPED THE WIRE FROM THE EXPLOSIVE

pack around the terminals, then strung it across the metal girder to the base of the stanchion below the massive tank.

The explosives were rigged to ignite the collector unit at the Karachi oil terminal complex. Designed to capture fumes from the storage tanks and prevent them from leaking into the environment, the system was the terminal’s weak link—blow it up, and the resulting backforce would rip through the pipes and cause fires and explosions in the storage tanks themselves.

Or at least the engineer who had analyzed the terminal believed that to be the case.

Sattari climbed over the long concrete barrier, letting the wire roll out of its spool as he went. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back and the sides of his body. He welcomed it—the poison was running from his body, the poison of fear.

178

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The terminal consisted of several different tank farms, connected by a vast network of piping. Three different docks were used by ships loading and unloading. The gas collection system was at the extreme eastern end, located on a man-made pennisula with a rock jetty that extended to the sea.

The team’s demolition expert waited near the rocks. Sattari was glad to find he was not the last man to bring back the wire; two more men had yet to report back. He held up the wire for the man’s cutters.

“Thank you, Captain,” said the man, quickly stripping the strands and attaching them to his unit.

There were backup timers on each of the explosives, all set for the same time, but to do maximum damage to the tanks the explosives all had to go off at once, and the best way to guarantee that was by igniting them together. The signal would be received here by short-range radio, then instantly transmitted to the units.

Sergeant Ibn climbed up over the nearby rocks. “The next to last boat is leaving,” he told the captain. “You should go.”

“No,” said Sattari. “Two more men.”

“Captain.” The rocks were covered in shadow, but even in the dim light Sattari knew that his captain was looking at him reproachfully. “You should be back aboard the submarine, sir. I will wait for them.”

“Thank you, but I will not leave my men,” said Sattari.

“We will come when we have ignited the tanks.”

“Very good, Captain. Very good.”

Ibn put his hand to his head and snapped off a salute.

How much had changed in just a few short days; the aches and bruises, the sweat, even the fear, they were all worth it.

Sattari returned the salute, then turned back to look for the others.

END GAME

179

Aboard the Shiva ,

northern Arabian Sea

0310

MEMON FELT HIS CHEST CATCH AS HE READ THE MESSAGE: WITHDRAW TO 24° 00’ 00”. DO NOT PROVOKE THE CHINESE.

—ADM. SKANDAR

He handed the message to Captain Adri, who smirked but said nothing before giving the paper back to Admiral Kala.

“We will recover the aircraft,” the admiral said in a tone that suggested he was talking to himself rather than giving orders. “Then we will sail south, and farther out to sea.”