Northern Arabian Sea

0336

STARSHIP SPLIT HIS MAIN SCREEN INTO TWO VIEWS, ONE WITH

the image of the Chinese carrier and the other focused on the Indian. The antiaircraft systems of both ships picked him up, but in neither case was he targeted, possibly because the human operators aboard the ships thought any helicopter this close had to be on their side. Starship knew this wouldn’t last—sooner or later, he thought, he’d be shot down—but he figured that until then he’d get as good a view of what was going on as possible. He bobbed and wove, hovering for a bit and then flitting off, trying to pay equal attention to each aircraft. Two missiles had hit the Indian carrier, one just below the forward deck where its main missile batteries were located, the other, more devastatingly, at the forward part of the carrier’s island, about where the bridge should be. The ship’s guns had shot down several other missiles.

The Chinese carrier had been hit once, almost straight on the starboard arm of its V-shaped flight deck. Two of its helicopters were hovering above the damage, preparing to conduct a rescue mission or otherwise render assistance.

“Werewolf, see if you can get closer to the Chinese ship,”

said Eyes.

“They’re tracking me. If I get much closer they may fire.”

“Just do it.”

Starship put Werewolf Two into an orbit around the Indian ship and gave it to the computer to control. That done, he pushed Werewolf One forward, zigging in the direction of the Chinese carrier’s stern. The carrier had a pair of twin 37mm close-in weapons and a larger caliber 57mm weapon mounted on deck bulges just below the flight deck on either side of the stern, but they were positioned in a way that made it difficult for them to strike anything approaching directly at the flight deck. Like most aircraft carriers, protection was meant to come from the escorts and the ships’

END GAME

203

planes; anything that actually made it through the screen faced relatively light defenses.

But not impotent ones—the 57mm gun on the port side began firing its large shells as the Werewolf skipped around. The stream of lead passed over the aircraft; Starship knew he was lucky. Now lined up perfectly with the stern, he took the aircraft up to fifty feet above the waves, then had a sudden inspiration: Why not fly directly over the flight deck?

“Hope this is close enough for you, Navy, ” he said, pushing the robot aircraft forward.

Aboard the Wisconsin , above the northern Arabian Sea

0338

THE J-13S WERE FLYING FROM THE NORTHEAST TOWARD THE

Abner Read. To get them with the AMRAAM-plus Scorpions, Dog had to change course and close down the angle the missiles would have to take. Doing so, he’d make the Megafortress itself an easier target.

The real problem was that he had only two Scorpions.

They’d filled the other slots on the rotating bomb dispenser with additional sonar and Piranha buoys.

“Start the turn now,” said Jazz, cuing him with the help of the flight computers.

“Wisconsin, I can take these guys,” said Cantor.

“There’s two of them.”

“Yeah, but I can get them.”

“Do it,” said Dog.

CANTOR SWUNG FLIGHTHAWK ONE AWAY FROM THE MEGA-fortress’s wing, pirouetting around the bigger aircraft as it maneuvered to put itself into a firing position to attack the J-13s. The nose of the robot aircraft was now on a parallel plane to the approaching enemy fighters. The J-13s were 204

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

moving very quickly; as soon as he made his first turn, the computer told him he had to turn again. He did, and found himself slightly ahead of the lead bogey. The J-13 was going so fast that it slipped right up under him in the blink of an eye; Cantor barely had time to press the trigger.

The 20mm slugs that poured from the belly of the U/MF

were not the largest bullets in the world, but scattered art-fully around the Chinese jet, they tore it to shreds. The outer third of the J-13’s right wing seemed to fold away; the aircraft turned into an unguided missile, its nose pushing toward the sea.

So far the intercept had played out perfectly; in fact, it followed to the millimeter a training simulation based on several of Zen’s real-life encounters. But the similarity to the exercise had a downside: As he recovered, Cantor expected the other aircraft to come up on his right, just as it did in the computer program. But as he edged in that direction, the display showed that the plane had already cut left.

Belatedly changing course, he failed to anticipate another cut by the J-13 and sailed past the plane without a chance for a shot.

Cantor corrected, twisting back toward the weaving aircraft. The Chinese plane turned in his direction, and even though he knew he didn’t have a good shot—the targeting bar was yellow—Cantor pressed his trigger.

The bullets trailed off to the left but got the J-13 pilot’s attention; worried about whoever it was behind him, the Chinese pilot pulled hard left. The turn was a mistake, taking away the bigger plane’s speed advantage. Cantor, with his much smaller turning radius, cut inside the other plane, narrowing the distance enough to get on his tail as he cut back. The bogey flew into the sweet spot in his targeting screen. Cantor pressed the trigger.

His bullets shot like a thick sword into his target’s heart.

Parts flew from the aircraft; Cantor pulled off as it exploded.

“Missile away,” said T-Bone, the airborne radar operator END GAME

205

on the deck above. The Chinese pilot had managed to target and fire his missile, probably at the cost of his own life.

Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0340

STORM SAW THE WARNING ON THE HOLOGRAPHIC MAP TABLE

before he heard the alarm. A second later the ship’s defensive weapons operator reported they were tracking a Styx missile headed in their direction.

“Distance to ship, twelve miles. Tracking. Missile does not appear to have locked onto target.”

The Chinese-made missile guided itself to the general vicinity of the target via an internal navigational system; once it got close, on-board radar would take over. The missile would descend to about twenty-five feet above the water, aiming not only to strike as low as possible but avoiding shipboard defenses. The Abner Read’s stealthy radar profile made it a difficult target for the missile, though anytime five hundred kilos of explosives were flying at you, it could not be taken lightly.

The missile covered roughly a third of a mile in a second.

Before thirty seconds had passed, the Phalanx close-in 25mm cannon battery had zeroed in on the approaching missile and was ready to take it down. The missile had not yet found the Abner Read; it was tracking off to the west and still relatively high. This wasn’t a problem, however: The Chinese missile flew into a cloud of nickel, cobalt, and tungsten, immolating itself about a mile from the ship.

By inclination and instinct, Storm wanted to retaliate against the Chinese. In his mind, he’d be completely justified sinking the aircraft carrier that had launched the plane. But his orders were very clear; he was to avoid conflict at all cost.

Still.

Still.

206

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Communications—get that Chinese carrier. I want to find out why the hell we were attacked. If they don’t apologize …”

He let his voice trail off. If they didn’t apologize, he’d sink the damn ship, consequences be damned.

“Excellent work, Weapons,” said Storm, switching into their circuit. “Dreamland owes us one.”