“Boston! Yo Boston!” he yelled as shadows danced around him. “Boston, you hear me?”
The wind howled. Danny took a breath, ready to dive in, then remembered his boots. He doffed them and dove back into the water, the stink of oil and kerosene stinging his nose.
In three strokes he reached his hand to the metal rail at the base of the pier—then jerked it off and dove back down below the water.
By the time the pain came, a wall of flames had passed overhead. Smarting from the burn, Danny worked his way to his right, in the direction he thought Boston would be.
About five yards down he had to push around another underwater pillar before reaching the wooden surface of the pier. Tired, he didn’t have enough energy or leverage to make it up and fell back into the water.
“Boston!” he yelled, trying to jerk the LAR-V rebreather gear he was carrying onto the pier. “Boston!”
A hand grabbed him from behind.
“Here, Cap,” said Boston, in the water behind him.
Danny pulled the breathing gear back down between them.
“Damn hot up there,” said Boston. “Whole place is on fire.”
“We have to swim out beyond the fire,” Danny told him.
“So the Osprey can pick us up.”
“They told me,” shouted Boston in his ear.
“This way,” said Danny, pointing before plunging down.
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Aboard the Wisconsin,
above the northern Arabian Sea
0407
“LOOKS LIKE BOTH NAVIES ARE WITHDRAWING,” T-BONE TOLD
Dog. “The aircraft are staying over the ships. The Chinese have three J-13s and one helicopter over the Deng. Three helos west, doing search and rescue on the frigate that sunk.
The Indians have two planes over their carrier. Nothing else in the air.”
Less than an hour had passed since the first shot had been fired. Two ships had been sunk, one by each navy. Each side had lost four jets; the Chinese had also lost a helicopter.
Considerable damage had been done to the remaining ships and aircraft.
And then there was the oil terminal, still burning, sure to be completely destroyed before the fires were out.
“Thanks, T-Bone. Dish, you have anything to add?”
“Just that I could use some breakfast.”
“I’ll take your order,” volunteered Jazz. “As long as it’s coffee and microwaved muffins.”
Dog, not quite in the mood to laugh, nudged his stick to take the Megafortress a little higher.
Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea
0415
TOASTED BY THE INDIAN SHIP, STARSHIP TURNED HIS ATTENtion to the other Werewolf. The aircraft was circling alone over the survivors of the Chinese ship. The water seemed absurdly peaceful.
“Werewolf One heading back to the ship,” he told Eyes.
“Two is gone.”
“You lost the aircraft?”
END GAME
217
What the hell did you expect? thought Starship. But he kept his mouth shut, not even bothering to acknowledge.
“A THOUSAND PARDONS?” SCREAMED STORM INTO HIS
mouthpiece. “A thousand pardons?”
“That’s what he said, Captain.” The radioman’s voice was nearly as incredulous as Storm’s. “That was their message from their captain.”
“He sends his airplanes to sink my ship, and he says a thousand pardons?”
“They say he didn’t send them. They must have mistaken us for an Indian vessel.”
“Oh, that’s believable.” Storm shook his head. “Did you tell him the two airplanes that made the attack were shot down?”
“I said they required assistance. He asked if we could render it.”
“Gladly,” said Storm. “As soon as hell freezes over.”
Near Karachi oil terminal
0415
WHEN DANNY BROKE WATER AFTER TEN MINUTES OF SOLID
swimming, he had cleared the worst of the smoke. Large pieces of wood bobbed in the water nearby. The first one was too small to support him; the second, a plastic milk crate or something similar, sank beneath his weight. As he was searching for something else, Boston popped up nearby.
“There, over there,” shouted Boston, pointing to the west.
“Those lights are the Osprey’s.”
Danny turned and saw two beams extending down to the water. Reaching into a pocket sewn under the Draeger vest, he took out a small waterproof pouch. Inside the pouch was a pencil flare, a small signaling device intended for emergency pickups like this. The flare was designed to work even in the water, but getting it ready was not the easiest 218
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thing in the world. He took in a mouthful of foul seawater before managing to set it off.
Boston flipped onto his back and paddled nearby.
“You look like you’re in a goddamn pool,” said Danny, his teeth starting to chatter.
The Osprey’s rotors kicked up a strong downdraft, and a swell pushed Danny under. He had to fight to the surface.
“Grab on, grab on!” yelled Boston, who’d already gotten hold of the cable. “Come on, Cap.”
Danny threw himself at his sergeant, thrashing around until he managed to hook his arm around the other man’s.
He got another mouthful of water before the cable began winching upward.
“They told me you were out of your mind,” Boston repeated. “Damn good thing!”
“Damn good thing,” Danny said to himself, twisting as the cable hauled them to safety.
VI
Catastrophic Events
Allegro, Nevada
1710, 12 January 1998
(0610, 13 January, Karachi)
ZEN FLIPPED THROUGH THE TELEVISION STATIONS AS HE RESTED
between dumbbell sets. He wished it were baseball season; baseball was the perfect sport to watch when you were only half paying attention.
He stopped on CNN, put down the remote control and reached back for the weights. He took a long breath and then brought the dumbbells forward, doing a straight pullover.
“A CNN special report—breaking news,” blared the television.
Zen ignored it, pulling the weight over his head. He’d let his workout routines slip because of the procedures. He hadn’t swum since last Saturday, and the weights felt heavy and awkward.
“We have a live report from Stephen Densmore in Delhi, India,” said the television announcer.
Zen, concentrating on the exercise, lowered the dumbbells toward his waist, then pulled them back overhead. As he brought the bars back behind him to the floor, the news-man began talking.
“Over a hundred people were reported killed and at least that number are missing following the early morning clash between Indian and Chinese naval vessels off the Pakistani coastline. An oil terminal in Karachi was said to have been destroyed in the fighting.”
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“Karachi?” said Zen. He let the weights drop and rolled over to his stomach. The screen showed a still photo of an Indian naval vessel said to have been sunk.
“Where was this?” Zen asked the TV. “Where?”
But the network cut to a commercial. Zen waited patiently through a spot for Folger’s coffee, but instead of adding more details when they returned, the anchor cued the weath-erman. Zen crawled toward the end table and reached for his phone.
Aboard the Abner Read , northern Arabian Sea
13 January 1998
0610
“AIRFORCE, WHY DID YOU PUT THE WEREWOLF DOWN INTO
that ship?”
Starship shifted uneasily. He’d actually forgotten all about that, sure that Storm was going to ball him out for losing the Werewolf to the Indian missile.
“I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, sir.”
Lame, completely lame, but what else could he say?
Storm shook his head. “Do you realize the Chinese could have grabbed the Werewolf at any moment?”