“I see two missile strikes,” Starship told Eyes, “on the Chinese destroyer—it’s UNK-C-1 on my screen,” he added, using the computer’s designation for the contact.
“We see it. Good work. Get over to the carrier,” said Eyes.
“Working on it,” said Starship.
Aboard the Levitow ,
above the northern Arabian Sea
0328
“HAWK THREE IS THIRTY SECONDS FROM THE INTERCEPT,”
Stewart told Breanna. “What do you want him to do?”
“He’s going to shoot the Chinese planes down if they don’t break off,” said Breanna.
Stewart nodded to herself. How could Breanna be so calm? All hell was breaking loose—besides the two J-13s, another pair of jets had just taken off from the Chinese carrier and were turning in their direction. There were all sorts of missiles in the air, radars, aircraft—Stewart couldn’t keep track of any of it.
She had dealt with just this sort of chaos dozens of times in simulations. But this was exponentially different.
“Try the Chinese one more time,” said Breanna.
As Stewart went to push the communication button to broadcast simultaneously on all-known frequencies, she re-
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alized she already had set the unit to do so. “DreamlandLevitow to Chinese J-13s following the Osprey aircraft—that’s one of ours. He’s on a rescue mission. Don’t fire on him, damn you. Acknowledge. Or else we’re shooting you down!”
She pressed the button on the next panel down, rebroadcasting the radio transmission in Chinese. Then, trying to anticipate what Bree would want to do, she went to the weapons screen and got ready to launch an AMRAAM-plus.
MACK SAW THE OSPREY IN THE LONG-RANGE SCAN, DANCING
over the burning tank farm. The pilot seemed to be using the fire as a way to deke any missiles launched at him. It seemed like a good idea, though it sure looked dangerous—the aircraft dipped and disappeared in the flames, bobbing upward only to zip down again.
The J-13 appeared on his screen, coming in from the right about three miles ahead of him. Mack began angling toward its tail, his heart starting to race as the targeting bar blinked yellow. He was going to nail this sucker, and it was going to feel good.
Just as the targeting bar began blinking red, the J-13
stretched in his screen. It was an optical illusion—the plane was veering hard to the right. Mack hung with it; the bar went solid red.
“He’s turning off, Mack,” said Breanna. “The Chinese aircraft is turning off.”
Too late, thought Mack. He’s dead.
But he lifted his finger off the trigger.
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0335
THE GUNS IMMEDIATELY BELOW THE BRIDGE BEGAN TO FIRE, their steady staccato the sound of a jackhammer tearing END GAME
199
through thin concrete. Memon stared in the direction of the steam of bullets but couldn’t see their target. Then yellow light rose from below. Memon saw the shadow of a man loom before him, then heaved over, the deck suddenly cut away. He felt hot and wet, surrounded by screams, and a curtain of pain stunned his vision black.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0336
“TWO J-13S HEADING IN THE DIRECTION OF THE ABNER
Read,” T-Bone told Dog, reading the screens at his airborne radar station. “Twenty-five feet above sea level. Not clear that they have the ship ID’d as a target. Approximately twenty-five miles from the Abner Read. Computer says they have very large missiles aboard, Colonel—Chinese variation of Styx, designation C-106.”
“Bay,” Dog told Jazz, changing course to intercept them.
The copilot acknowledged and the bomb bay door swung open.
“Dreamland Wisconsin to Abner Read. Two aircraft are heading in your direction. They appear equipped with versions of the Russian Styx.”
“Bastian, what do you have?” said Eyes.
“J-13s coming at you hot. Each has a Styx cruise missile.
I can take them out, but you have to decide right now.”
“Stand by.”
The com line went silent. Almost a full minute passed before Storm came back on the line.
“They’re homing in on our radar,” said Storm. “They may think we’re one of the Indian screening ships. We’ve broadcast a warning and they haven’t responded. If they don’t turn back in sixty seconds, shoot them down.”
“Copy that.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard Dreamland Osprey,
near Karachi
0336
A WALL OF FLAMES APPEARED DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THE OS-prey. Before Danny could blink, they’d flown into them.
The aircraft shot sideways, shimmying and shaking and jerking like a train that had suddenly come off its tracks. Finally, the nose moved upward in a gentle tilt and they climbed away from the raging fires.
Danny saw figures running along a pier near the northern side of the terminal. The water around them seemed to be on fire.
“Let’s see if we can rescue them,” he told the pilot.
“We’ll break out the rescue basket and winch it down.”
“The whole place is on fire,” said the pilot.
“Which means we better hurry.”
Danny ran to the rear of the aircraft and told Boston and Pretty Boy that they were going to try and pull the people off the pier. As they pulled the stretcher basket out from its compartment below the web seats, Danny clicked back into the Dreamland command line.
“Whiplash leader to Dreamland Levitow—Bree, you there?”
“Go ahead, Danny.”
“Listen, there are some people stranded on a pier here and we’re going to try helping them. In the meantime, we saw a wake west of the oil farm about ten minutes ago. We didn’t see anything on the surface, and then those fighters started chasing us. Maybe it’s your submarine.”
“Roger that. Thanks.”
END GAME
201
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0336
A THOUSAND DEMONS ROARED IN MEMON’S EARS, CURSING
the sun, swearing that it would never rise again. Shiva, the Hindu god of war, leered before him. The god’s tongue was pure fire; the flames licked at Memon’s eyes, burning through the sockets.
Memon rolled away. He found himself facedown on the deck, hands so hot they seemed to be on fire. He pushed upright and struggled to his knees.
A man’s body lay next to him. It seemed to have grown another arm in the middle of its chest, fingers curled around a knife. Memon struggled to comprehend what he was seeing—a sailor impaled by a huge piece of metal.
“Deputy Minister Memon! Help the deputy minister!”
Memon felt himself being pulled to his feet. A klaxon horn sounded nearby. There were shouts. Memon heard a sound like water running into a tub, then realized it was the whimper of a man dying nearby. His right arm had been sheered two-thirds off and he lay in a pool of blood.
Memon looked away. A hole had been blown in the side of the ship’s island, and the compartment next to them obliterated. He could see stars in the distance, twinkling white above the red-tinged sea.
“The admiral is dead,” said a sailor.
Memon shook his head, as if he might shake away the chaos and confusion. Someone was talking to him—
Captain Adri—but he could not process the words. Memon tried to force himself to understand, but could not. The captain seemed very insistent, repeating whatever he was saying over and over. Finally, not sure what he was agreeing to, Memon nodded his head to make Adri go away.
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