STARSHIP SPUN THE WEREWOLF DIRECTLY OVER THE SPLIT IN
the Deng Xiaoping’s flight deck, the aircraft’s cameras recording the scramble of the crew as it prepared to recover two of its aircraft. He felt as if he were a voyeur who’d snuck into a foreign palace. A J-13 slammed to a stop at the far side of the deck; men swarmed over it, wrestling it off the arrestor cables and wheeling it forward to an elevator.
A second J-13 appeared in the distance, making its approach.
“Werewolf, check out the escort ships in the Chinese group,” said Eyes. “Look for the frigate. We have enough on the carrier now. Stand by for coordinates.”
The J-13 landed, and once more the crew swarmed over her. A notion seized Starship as they began pushing the plane forward: Why not get a look at the hangar deck of the carrier? Just hover right over the other aircraft as it went down, spin around, then shoot the hell out of there.
Before he fully considered the idea, Starship had pushed the Werewolf forward, skittering across the flat surface of the Chinese vessel about eight feet from the deck. The ship’s lights threw a crosshatch of white and black in his face. The J-13 had just been secured on the elevator; as he approached, he saw the startled face of one of the deck crew diving for cover.
Starship thought he’d made his move too soon—the J-13
sat below him, not moving. Two figures were crouched near the folded-up wings. He spun the Werewolf around, picking up his tail slightly to give the forward camera a better view.
Disappointed, he was just about to hit the gas and get out of there when the elevator began cranking downward.
END GAME
207
Starship descended as well. He moved a little too fast—the skids smacked against the J-13. He jerked upward, then settled back down, hitting his floodlights. When the elevator stopped at hangar level, he was just above the airplane, with maybe four or five feet worth of clearance between him and the roof. He spun around once as slowly as he dared, glimpsing aircraft, people, machinery, all in a blur. Then he jerked the Werewolf straight up, praying that he was still in the same position as when he’d descended.
“What the hell are you doing?” yelled Eyes.
“Taking a look inside the sardine box,” Starship told him.
“What were those coordinates?”
Aboard the Shiva,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0345
THE DOCTOR HELD HIS SMALL PENLIGHT UP AND TOLD
Memon he had received a mild concussion.
“You should rest,” he said.
“The ship,” said Memon. “I’m responsible.”
“Captain Adri is in charge.”
“Adri, yes. Where is he?”
“You just came from him.”
“Someone take me to him.”
Memon pushed himself off the cot. The doctor grabbed his arm to help steady him, then passed him gently to a sailor, who led him back through the corridor, up a flight of stairs, then through another passage to the combat center.
Adri and several other officers were stooped over a set of charts, discussing something.
“We have to strike them again,” said Adri, his voice rising above the din in the low-ceiling room. “We must drive home our gains.”
Adri? Adri was talking of attack?
Memon was amazed. Adri had opposed him earlier. He 208
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
and Bhaskar had done everything they could to avoid a fight.
And they’d been right.
They’d been right!
“We should not attack,” said Memon, approaching them.
Adri looked up. “What?”
“We should withdraw.”
“You? You’re saying that?”
“Yes. You were right earlier. We should withdraw.”
“It’s too late for that.”
The flash had done something to his vision, Memon thought—the world had shaded deep red. Even the lights appeared to be crimson rather than yellowish white.
“Thank you for your advice,” sneered Adri. “Someone please take Mr. Memon back to sickbay.”
Aboard Whiplash Osprey,
near Karachi
0345
THE WIND WHIPPED THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR AS THE OSPREY
lowered itself toward the three men on the pier. Light petro-leum or fuel from one of the nearby tanks had spread onto the water and caught fire; blue flames curled across the dark surface, looking like tumbleweeds in a fantasy Wild West show. But the flames were very real—when they reached the small bobbing boats nearby, they erupted in red volca-noes, consuming the vessels and everything aboard. Danny tried not to think of the possibility that there were people on some of the boats.
“One of us has to go down there,” said Boston, pulling gloves from his tactical vest. “These guys ain’t doing it themselves. Look—they’re burnt to shit and scared besides.
In shock.”
“Let them grab the basket,” said Pretty Boy. “Faster.”
“Yeah, but they’re not gonna.” Boston had already END GAME
209
climbed half inside it. He had his radio unit but no wet suit, just the standard combat fatigues they’d turned out in earlier. “You drop me, Pretty Boy, and I’m getting you back.”
Pretty Boy cursed at him but began working the controls to the winch, lowering the line as the Osprey continued to descend. Danny pulled out some blankets and the medical chest, getting burn packets ready.
The tanks were still burning nearby, and it took considerable work to keep the aircraft in a stable hover. Every so often it would twitch right or left, but they always got it back.
“Number one coming up!” shouted Boston, his voice blaring in Danny’s smart helmet. He went to the door and waited as the cable cranked upward. When the basket finally appeared, the man inside forgot about the belts Boston had secured and tried to leap into the cabin. As he did, the Osprey tilted with a sudden updraft. The stretcher lurched out of Danny’s reach, then swung back so hard it nearly knocked him over. Danny grappled the stretcher to a stop as Pretty Boy grabbed hold; they pulled the panic-stricken man inside and rolled him to the floor.
First degree burns covered the man’s right arm. His face was putty white, and his pulse raced; he was in shock and pain, but in a relative sense not that badly off. Danny cut away his shirt and part of his pants leg, making sure there were no further injuries. Then he put a pair of ice packs on the burns and covered the man with a blanket. Color had already started to return to his face.
“Need help here, Cap,” said Pretty Boy.
Danny reached the door as the basket returned. The man inside was unconscious. Danny pulled at the stretcher but it didn’t budge. Pretty Boy jumped up to help as the Osprey lurched once more. He tumbled against Danny, his head pounding him in the ribs, but he managed at the same time to pull the stretcher inside.
Danny took the man in his arms and carried him to the rear, stumbling as the Osprey continued to buck.
210
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Getting wicked down there,” said the pilot. “We can’t hold this much longer!”
“Just one more,” said Danny. “Boston? Come up with this load.”
Boston’s response was garbled. Danny concentrated on the new patient, whose charred clothes disintegrated as he examined them. Motley patches of crinkled black skin alternated with white blotches on the Pakistani’s chest and left hand; third degree burns. Danny pulled a bottle of dis-tilled water from the burn kit and irrigated as much of the wounds as he could. He wrapped a burn dressing over them, wincing as he worked, though his patient didn’t react. He was definitely breathing, though; Danny left him to help Pretty Boy with their final rescuee.
Pretty Boy was two-thirds of the way out of the cabin, trying to secure the stretcher. The Osprey had started to revolve slowly, as if it were twisting at the end of a string, and the momentum of the aircraft seemed to be pitching the stretcher away from the cabin. One of Pretty Boy’s legs disappeared. Danny leapt at the other, trying to keep his trooper inside the craft. The shoestring tackle would have made his old high school football coach proud; Pretty Boy sailed back into the cabin, along with the stretcher.