“The Chinese showed restraint by not using the planes when they were attacked,” said Freeman. “But can we count on that in the future? Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that the carrier is off the coast of India. China could be planning a first strike against the Indian leadership.”
“Are you suggesting we alert the Indians?” asked the President. “That could backfire—they might use that as an excuse to fire nukes at the carrier. They’ve already tried to sink it.”
Martindale got up from his desk. He still had the dollar coin in his hand. He played with it absentmindedly, twirling it between his fingers.
“India is not our ally,” said Freeman. “But then neither is China.”
“We can’t allow a nuclear war in Asia. The consequences would be devastating,” said the President. “Even a conventional war. We need to get some distance between the two sides, work up something diplomatically, either in the UN
or on our own.”
“Neither side trusts us,” said Freeman bitterly.
“See, they have something in common,” said the President sardonically. “How long will it take to get the Nimitz and its battle group into the area?”
“Two weeks,” said Jed.
“What if we sent a private message to the Chinese, telling them we know they have the weapon, and that if they try to use it, we’ll sink their ship?” Martindale asked Freeman.
“For one thing, we’ll be taking sides. For another, we’ll be giving away intelligence that may help us down the road.”
“If they don’t use the weapon.”
“True.”
“I’d rather sink it here than off Taiwan. We could blame the Indians somehow.”
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“Maybe the Indians will sink it for us,” said Freeman.
“It may not be that easy to sink,” said Jed. “It came through the battle with the Indians.”
“We can sink it,” said Freeman.
“What if we positioned ourselves to attack the carrier once the planes appear on deck, and attack then? Could Dreamland and the Abner Read handle that sort of attack on their own?”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” said Freeman. “We’re going to risk our own people for India?”
“India and China, and the rest of southern Asia,” said the President. “Is it feasible?”
Freeman turned to Jed.
“Um, they might. Another thing, um, they might be able to shoot down the planes.”
“All right. That might work,” said Martindale. “We’ll discuss it with the cabinet.”
He picked up the phone and told the operator to contact the other cabinet members, along with Joint Chiefs of Staff, for an emergency meeting.
“I want Bastian in charge of this,” he said when he got off the phone.
“He’s attached to Xray Pop, and Captain Gale on the Abner Read outranks him,” said Freeman.
“Captain Gale has lived up to his nickname ‘Storm’ once too often for my taste. Bastian is the one I trust out there.
I’ll talk to them personally.”
Diego Garcia
1200, 13 January 1998
(1100, Karachi)
DOG CLAMBERED DOWN THE EB-52’S LADDER, HIS THROAT
parched and his legs aching from the long flight. Diego Garcia was a small atoll in the Indian Ocean, south of India.
Among the most secure American bases in the world—
END GAME
229
surrounded by miles and miles of open ocean—it was also a four hour flight from their patrol area. Dog did not relish the idea of operating from here for very long.
“Hey, good to see you, Colonel,” yelled Mack Smith, hopping off a small “gator” vehicle as it pulled to a stop. A pair of maintainers got off the golf-cart-sized vehicle, which they used to ferry tools and supplies around while working on the big aircraft. “How was the flight?”
“Long,” Dog told him, getting his bearings.
“So was mine. I’ll tell you, nothing’s changed, Colonel—place looks just like we left it last week.”
Actually it had been almost two months now, back before Thanksgiving. But Diego Garcia did have something of a timeless quality to it, at least to the occasional visitor. The sand and trees and old ruins belonged to the British; everything else here was operated by the U.S. Navy. A small ad-ministrative building had already been set aside for the Dreamland force, as had six dugout revetments for the aircraft. More carport than hangar, the parking areas were more important for the shade they provided than the protection against terror attack; the closest thing to a terrorist on the island was the constable who handed tickets out to bicyclists exceeding the speed limit.
“Since I was ranking officer, I took it upon myself to contact the natives,” Mack told Dog as he walked toward a Navy jeep that had been sent to meet him. “Base commander is Mr. Cooperation.”
“That’s nice, Mack,” said Dog, who’d already spoken to the commander twice while en route.
“Got our old digs, everything’s shipshape.”
“Great.”
“I hear my pupil Cantor shot down two J-13s when they wouldn’t turn back,” added Mack. “Chip off the old block.”
“Your pupil?”
“He’s coming along, isn’t he?” said Mack, without a trace of irony.
Dog started to climb into the jeep when a bicycle ridden 230
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
by a man dressed in camo fatigues appeared on the roadway in front of them. The colonel told the driver to wait a moment, realizing that the bicyclist was one of his Whiplash troopers; during their earlier stay they’d found that mountain bikes were the most effective way of getting around the base. The rider was Danny Freah, who sported a wide bandage on his left hand but otherwise showed no signs of wear from his recent ordeal.
“I thought you were going to get some rest,” Dog said.
“So’d I. You have a high-level call at the trailer.”
“Hop in,” Dog told him.
“Nah,” said the Whiplash captain, grinning as he whipped his bicycle around. “I’ll race ya.”
BREANNA PAUSED IN FRONT OF THE DOOR, REHEARSING WHAT
she had to say one last time. Then she sighed and raised her hand to knock. At the first rap, the door flew open.
“Captain,” said Jan Stewart, startled. “I was just going to get something to eat.”
“Oh, good,” said Breanna. “I’ll go with you.”
Stewart shrugged, pulling the door closed behind her.
Breanna realized the suggestion had been a mistake, but she was stuck with it now. She led Stewart out of the dormitory building they’d been assigned, and didn’t speak until they were outside. The mess—or galley, in Navy talk—was several hundred yards away.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Breanna said. “I’ve been noticing some problems you’re having.”
“What problems?” snapped Stewart.
“Little things,” said Breanna. “But a lot of them. You’re having trouble processing all the systems in combat.”
Stewart stopped and turned toward her. “Are you un-happy with my performance, Captain?”
“Yes,” said Breanna. The word blurted out; Breanna had meant to approach the topic with much more tact.
Stewart’s face reddened. “Well, thank you for your honesty,” she said, turning and continuing toward the cafeteria.
END GAME
231
Well, that went well, Breanna thought. And now I can’t even go and eat without getting the evil eye.
“DOG, IT’S GOOD TO TALK TO YOU UNDER ANY CIRCUMstance,” President Martindale told Colonel Bastian after the call was put through. “I hope you’re well.”
“I am, sir. Thank you.”
“I’m going to let Jed Barclay fill in the details, as he has so often in the past,” said the President. “But I want to em-phasize two things. Number one: You are taking your orders directly from me. No one and nothing are to interfere with this mission. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Number Two: You are in command. As such, you are representing me. Your judgment is my judgment. The stakes are extremely high, but I trust you. Follow your instincts.”