The overflight by the American aircraft of his deck was another question entirely. The audaciousness of the flight astounded Hongwu almost as much as its success. His ship’s radar systems had tracked the aircraft intermittently when it was ten miles from the ship, but never any closer.
Both his intelligence and radar officers blamed programming in the units that controlled the radar, believing that the helicopter’s slow speed had somehow confused it. Hongwu was inclined toward human error—though he had to admit that the operators had done extremely well in every other respect. Whatever the problem, it would have to be studied and fixed.
Should he report it to Beijing? If he did, his victory today would be overshadowed.
No, there was no reason to do so, at least not until the failure had been properly analyzed. He had already risked Beijing’s disapproval by noting that two of his aircraft had mistaken the Abner Read for an Indian ship, apparently believing the radar it was using belonged to an Indian frigate.
The mistake was understandable given the chaos of battle, but his superiors disapproved nonetheless.
Perhaps it would have been better if the planes had sunk the ship, he thought.
Hongwu dipped his pen and began to write: Your son was a lion. I saw him pull another sailorfrom the fire, risking his life.
He shuddered at the memory, then signed his name.
END GAME
237
Dreamland Command Center
2344, 12 January 1998
(1244, 13 January, Karachi)
RAY RUBEO RUBBED HIS FACE WITH HIS HANDS, THEN LOOKED
back at the screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.
“We’re months away from testing the long-range version of the Scorpion missile, Colonel. I can’t even give you a mockup at this point,” said Rubeo. “And the airborne version of the Razor is even further off. Funding—”
“I realize you can’t perform miracles, Ray. I’m just looking for anything that can give the Megafortresses an edge here. They’re not interceptors.”
“I’m well aware of their capabilities, Colonel. Now, if you want to bomb the carrier, the weapons people have studied that matter as well,” added Rubeo. “The general consensus is that you would require nine well-placed strikes on the carrier to guarantee sinking it. Assume the Chinese weapon operates near its same efficiency, and its close-in weapon works as it has in the past: 17.3 missile launches, a minimum.”
“Or eighteen,” said Colonel Bastian.
“Yes. Eighteen would be the practical number.”
“I’m not looking to sink the carrier.”
“I have another suggestion,” said Rubeo. “Use the EEMWBs against the planes.”
“The weapon needs further tests.”
“They’ll work. You’ll disable the bombs completely, without even shooting down the planes. The only drawback,” added Rubeo, “is that the versions we currently have ready will wipe every piece of electronics within five hundred miles.”
“How many would it take?”
“One. However, I would launch two in case of the unforeseen. The weapons were due to be relocated at the end of the week in preparation for the tests anyway. We can ship 238
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
them and technicians to Diego Garcia. The tests can be conducted from there following your mission.”
“How soon can you get the weapons over here?”
FOR ZEN, IT WAS A VIBRATING FEVER INSIDE HIS CHEST AND
head, a dread and a desire—an imperative to be with his wife, to help her, save her, simply to be there. It was more important than food, more important than his legs, certainly; everything would be meaningless without her. He had to go. He had to be there. Only then would the dreams stop; only if he was with her would the fever break.
He wanted to walk—he would walk—but first he had to go and be with her.
He’d left a phone message for Vasin. The doctor would understand. And if he didn’t—well, that was the way it had to be.
Zen rolled down the ramp of the Megafortress hangar, heading toward the door that led to the bunkers below. The doors whisked open before he reached them.
“Dr. Rubeo, just who I’m looking for.”
“Major. Can I help you?”
“I hear you’re putting together a flight to Crete.”
“I am sending some items to support the Whiplash deployment,” said Rubeo discreetly.
“I’m going.”
“Going where?”
“To Crete. And then Diego Garcia. I’m joining the deployment.”
Rubeo gave him a typical Rubeo look—a kind of mock be-fuddlement that the world was not as intellectual as he was.
“I was given to understand that you were involved in an experiment relating to your walking again,” said Rubeo.
“Yeah, well, that’s on hold right now,” said Zen. “This is more important. I need to be there.”
“I’m sure I’m not the one to say this to you, Major, but were I in your position—”
“You’re not.”
END GAME
239
“I’ll tell the MC-17 pilots you’re on the way. The aircraft is nearly ready to leave, so you’d best hurry.”
Aboard the Abner Read
1403
“WHAT DO THESE EGGHEADS KNOW ABOUT NAVAL WARFARE?”
thundered Storm. “Eighteen missile launches? Absurd. The Pentagon people tell us we can do it with three. Well, all right, that’s ridiculous, too. We figure six hits, which at most calls for eight launches. Eighteen? That’s ridiculous.”
Storm glanced at Eyes and his weapons officers as he waited for Colonel Bastian to respond via the communications system, which was being piped over the small conference speaker on his desk. His quarters was the most convenient place for the secure conference, but if there had been one more person in the cabin, they wouldn’t have been able to move.
“I’m just telling you what their simulations showed,” said Dog. His face jerked in the video feed, not quite in sync with the sound. “I thought you’d appreciate knowing.”
“Well, let’s get on with it,” said Storm. “Where are we to position ourselves for this intercept?”
“I need you to sail west.”
“West?”
“Two hundred miles west.”
“Two hundred miles west?”
“We’re going to use a weapon that will fry their electronics. It’ll affect yours as well. The radius is roughly five hundred miles, but to be safe—”
“No way, Bastian. No way.”
“Listen, Storm—”
“I can understand you wanting to grab all the glory for yourself. I really can. You’re ambitious, and you have the track record to prove it. But telling us to leave the area when we have a mission here? No way.”
240
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“I’m telling you for your own protection.”
“Our vital systems are shielded against magnetic pulses,”
said Eyes.
“Not like this.”
“I’m not moving, Bastian. You can take that to the bank.”
Storm folded his arms and scowled at the screen. As soon as this call was over, he was calling Balboa personally, before Bastian got his version of the story in.
“I can’t guarantee that we can detonate the weapons far enough away from you not to harm you,” the colonel told him.
“I’m not looking for guarantees. I’m telling you: I’m notmoving. ”
Northern Arabian Sea
2010
CAPTAIN SATTARI CLIMBED ONTO THE DECK OF THE PARVANEH
submarine, legs wobbly from the long day and night below the water. A breeze struck the side of his face, tingling it; his scalp bristled, and his lungs—his lungs luxuriated as they sucked in real air. The rest of his men crowded up behind him, anxious to breathe and move freely after hours of drowsy confinement. A few dropped to their knees, praying in thanksgiving. Sattari did not remind them that they were very far from being safe.
“Boat Four, dead ahead,” said the Parvaneh’s mate. He held up the signal lamp.