Before Dog could say anything else, Jed Barclay came on the line. “Are you there, Colonel?”
“I’m here, Jed,” said Dog.
“I, um, I’m going to start with some background. I don’t think you know about Tai-shan, right?”
Dog listened as Jed described the Chinese naval nuclear program and explained what the Werewolf had found.
“We’re not sure whether the fact that there are two aircraft means that there are two bombs, or whether one is intended as a backup,” Jed told him. “Navy Intelligence is preparing a dossier that will help you identify the aircraft.”
The recent showdown notwithstanding, the Megafortress was not the weapon of choice for shooting down J-13s, or any frontline fighter for that matter.
“The Abner Read is subordinate to you for this mission,”
added Jed.
“Does Captain Gale know that?”
“The President will be telling him shortly.”
Dog could only imagine the fallout from that conversation.
“You have to be in a position to stop the strike if it appears imminent,” reiterated Jed, making his instructions ab-
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solutely clear. “Whatever you have to do to accomplish that, you’re authorized to do. I, um, we’ll have a twenty-four-hour link set up to provide you with intelligence on the situation. I’m working on it now.”
Aboard the Abner Read , northern Arabian Sea
1213
STORM LISTENED INCREDULOUSLY AS THE PRESIDENT CONtinued. He had no problem with attacking the Chinese aircraft—he told the President that he would sink the carrier if he wanted—but putting Bastian in charge? A lieutenant colonel over a Navy captain?
An Air Force zippersuit over a sea captain?
“Sir, with respect, with due respect—I outrank Bastian.”
“Will it make you happy if I demote you to commander?”
answered the President.
“No, sir.”
“Stand by for a briefing from Jed Barclay of the NSC.”
“I can sink that damn carrier now,” insisted Storm when Jed came on the line. “Bam. It’s down. Six missiles. All I need.”
“Um, uh, sir, um, you can’t do that.”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” snapped Storm, slamming the handset into its receiver.
The petty officer manning communications looked over warily from his station at the other side of the small room.
“Get me Fleet—no, get me Admiral Balboa.”
“The head of the Joint of Chiefs of Staff?”
“You got it. Get him.”
“Yes, sir. Incoming communication on the Dreamland channel. Colonel Bastian.”
Gloating already?
I’m a new man, Storm told himself. I don’t get angry.
“I don’t like this any more than you do, Storm,” said END GAME
233
Dog, coming on the line. “But we have to make the best of it. Let’s come up with a plan—”
“Here’s the plan, Bastian. Spot the planes on their deck, and I’ll launch the missiles.”
“Listen, Storm. We don’t have to be friends, but—”
“We’re not. ”
“But we have the same goal.”
“As long as you remember that, we’ll be fine.”
Aboard the Shiva ,
Arabian Sea
1213
MEMON STARED AT THE CEILING OF THE SHIP’S MEDICAL CENter. His head pounded and he wanted to sleep, but he dared not; every time he closed his eyes he saw the severed limb on the deck before him.
Thirty-three Indian men had been killed in the brief engagement, most of them aboard the corvette that was sunk by two C-601 missiles, air-launched Chinese weapons similar to the Russian Styx. Another hundred or so had been wounded; twenty were missing and almost certainly dead.
The toll aboard the Shiva was relatively small—seven dead, eighteen wounded. Kevlar armor at the belt line of the ship where the first missile struck had prevented serious damage. But the missile that struck the bridge area had wiped out part of the bridge and, more important, deprived the ship of many of its most important officers, including the admiral.
The list of the dead did not stun Memon anywhere near as much as the news that they had sunk only one of the Chinese ships, a frigate. The aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping continued operations, and even had the audacity to send a high-speed reconnaissance flight in their direction. The Shiva’s fighters responded, supposedly shooting down the craft.
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Memon did not trust the report. He no longer trusted anything, not even his own judgment.
He saw the blood of the victims everywhere he looked.
Every spot on the wall, every shadow on the ceiling, appeared to him to be blood. His hands were free of it, but how long would that last?
“Deputy Minister?”
Memon looked to his right and found a sailor standing there.
“A message from the Defense minister, sir.”
Memon sat up. He slit the tape holding the folded piece of paper together, then read slowly.
MOVE SOUTH OUT OF IMMEDIATE CONTACT WITH DENG XIAOPING.
AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS.
—ADM. SKANDAR
Memon got to his feet, then sat back down, realizing be-latedly that he had taken his shoes off. The blood rushed from his head, and he had to wait for the wave to subside.
“Take me to Captain Adri,” he told the messenger.
“He’s on the backup bridge.”
“Take me there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Adri was reviewing the course with the helmsman when Memon arrived.
“A note,” said Memon, holding it out. His head no longer hurt, but he still felt somewhat dazed. His eyes burned, and he saw a pattern before them when he stared at the floor.
The pattern of the explosion flash? Or of the blood surrounding the dead man’s arm?
“We can’t retreat,” said Captain Adri, giving him the note back. “You have to tell him. We have to show our resolve, or they’ll attack again.”
“The admiral is right. We should withdraw farther.”
“You’re a coward,” said Adri. “As soon as you see blood, END GAME
235
you want to cut and run. You urged Admiral Kala to attack, and now you can’t face the consequences.”
Dismiss him, Memon thought. That is the only option. A subordinate cannot be allowed to question orders so pub-licly, let alone use insults to do so.
But Memon knew he was not a sailor. He couldn’t run the ship without Adri. And if he ordered someone to take Adri’s place, the sailors might mutiny.
Insurrection was better than indecision. And yet he stood frozen in place, unable to say anything.
So he was a coward, then, wasn’t he? A disgrace to the country.
Adri pushed his face next to Memon’s. “This is no way to win a war. We have to attack. Attack. ”
Memon shuddered. Adri’s voice sounded like his own just a day before.
“You must obey the minister’s orders,” managed Memon.
“I answer to the chief of the naval staff, not the defense minister. I will follow my instincts, not yours.”
Aboard the Deng Xiaoping,
northern Arabian Sea
1213
TWENTY-THREE CREWMEN ABOARD THE DENG XIAOPING HAD
been killed in the attack. It was Captain Hongwu’s duty to write to each man’s family. And so, after the damage was assessed and repairs begun, after the wounded were cared for, after the battle’s success and failures were toted, he retreated to his wardroom suite. For his bottom desk drawer he removed a small wooden box and then unwrapped his calligrapher’s pen and nubs. He took some rice paper and ink, commemorating each man to his family with a few well-chosen but simple words.
The Indian attack had been warded off quite success-
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fully, due to the success of the Pili batteries. The weapons had struck all but two of the dozen missiles launched at the ship. It helped that the Indian attack had not been well-coordinated. Still, Captain Hongwu was now confident that the Thunderbolt could protect him from an even more intense attack; he would say so in his report to Beijing.