“Do not attack the carrier.”
END GAME
245
“I didn’t say I was going to, did I?”
Dog bit his cheek to keep from responding.
CANTOR EASED PIRANHA CLOSER TO ITS TARGET, MOVING AS
slowly as he could. The probe literally swam through the water, using a series of expandable joints to wag its body back and forth as a fish would. The sound and wave patterns that the movement created would seem to all but the most discerning observer to belong a medium-size shark—assuming they were detected at all. But Cantor was loath to take chances. At a dead stop, a submarine could generally hear quite well, and it was preferable that it did not know it was being observed.
When he had eased to two hundred meters, Cantor eased Piranha into a hover and changed his sensor selection. A blur of colors appeared before him; the computer then adjusted the colors, shaping them into an image of a small, odd-looking vessel. The computer analyzed the object, giving its approximate dimensions: twenty meters long, and only 2.65 wide, or at beam, according to the nautical term.
Its height was 2.2 meters. It looked more like a sunken pleasure cruiser than a sub.
The smallest non-American military submarine listed in the computer reference for Piranha was the Russian Project 865, a special operations craft. The 865 had a crew of nine and carried only two torpedoes. It was 28.2 meters long, 4.2
at beam, and looked very much like a down-sized conventional sub.
Cantor wasn’t sure how well the image corresponded to the actual vessel. He started to move again, circling the sub to get a fuller view. When Piranha had gone about two-thirds of the way around the submarine, the computer made a light clicking noise—the sub was starting to move.
Upward.
“Piranha to Wisconsin,” said Cantor. “Looks like he’s headed toward the surface.”
“Roger that. Thank you, Piranha. Mack, stand by.”
246
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Souda Bay U.S. Navy Support Base,
Crete
1922 (2222, Karachi)
AIDED BY A STRONG JET STREAM AND POWERFUL DREAMLAND-modified supercruise engines, the MC-17D “Fastmover”
carrying Zen took just under eight hours to get from Dreamland to Crete, but every minute seemed an hour to him. He was so happy to finally get there that he didn’t mind being carried ignobly down the ramp to the runway. Two sailors—the base was a Navy supply facility—carried him between their arms. After the humiliation of the past week involving the tests, it was a minor annoyance. They even set him down gently in his wheelchair.
“Jeff?”
“Hey, babe, how’s it going?” he said as Breanna came toward him.
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Believe it.”
“You’re supposed to be at the medical center.”
“This is more important.” She got a funny look on her face, so he added, “It wasn’t working. They need more research. And you guys need me right now.”
“But …”
Zen rolled his wheelchair forward. “Can we get some chow? I’m starving. And if there’s any coffee on this base, I want to start an IV.”
Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea
2242
DREAMLAND WAS A DEVELOPMENTAL LABORATORY, NOT AN INtelligence center. Still, they had access to some of the most brilliant minds in the country, as well as experts in just END GAME
247
about every weapon or potential weapon imaginable—and it still took more than an hour for them to tell Dog what they had found.
“Civilian submarine. Nautilus Adventure 2000. Heavily modified,” said Ray Rubeo. “But hardly cutting edge.”
“I’ve never heard of civilian submarines,” said Dog.
“Yes.” Rubeo’s tone implied that everyone else in the world had. “It’s a small market. Primarily for tour boats, though for the well-heeled it’s a status symbol. I suppose you can park it next to the yacht. This would seem to be from a German firm. We’ll have to rely on the CIA for additional data, but we have a spec sheet of the base model for you. It’s powered by batteries and diesel.”
“Have you tried to trace it?”
“Colonel—”
“I realize you have a lot to do, Ray. Pass the information along to the NSC. I’ll tell Jed to expect it.”
“Very good.”
“Sub is moving again, Colonel,” said Cantor. “On the surface.”
“Thanks, Cantor.”
“Jazz, get hold of that Sharkboat and find out how long it’s going to be before they get up here. And tell them the sub’s moving.”
“Just did, Colonel. He’s five miles due south. Roughly ten minutes away.”
“Making sounds like it might be starting to submerge,”
said Cantor. “Taking on water.”
“Mack, see if you can get some close-ups and maybe distract them.”
“I’ll land on them if you want.”
“Just annoy them,” said Dog. “You ought to be good at that.”
MACK BROUGHT THE FLIGHTHAWK DOWN THROUGH THE
clouds, clearing a knot of rain as he headed for the midget 248
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
submarine. The vessel was about a half mile away, gliding across the surface at two or three knots. He swung to his left, arcing around so he could approach it head-on. He took the Flighthawk down to five hundred feet and saw figures near the wedge-shaped conning tower.
“Smile down there, kiddies,” said Mack, passing overhead.
He looped back, pushing Hawk One down through three hundred feet, passing two hundred and still descending. He leveled off fifty feet above the waves as he began his second run. Two men were still on the deck of the sub as he approached. The submarine seemed to have stopped descending.
“Stand still and I’ll give you a haircut,” he told them.
One of the figures on the submarine jerked something out of the tower structure. Instantly, Mack hit the throttle and reached for his decoy flares.
“Missile launch!” warned the Flighthawk’s computer.
Souda Bay U.S. Naval Support Base,
Crete
2000 (2300, Karachi)
JAN STEWART CLIMBED UP ONTO THE DARKENED FLIGHT DECK
of the Levitow, her way lit only by the glow of the standby power lights and a few instruments. She was just approaching her seat when something moved beside it. She leapt back before realizing it was Breanna Stockard, sitting alone in the airplane.
“Just me,” said Breanna.
“Jesus, you scared me,” said Stewart. Annoyed, she pulled herself into her seat. “I thought you were with your husband.”
Breanna didn’t answer. Stewart glanced at her, then took a longer, more careful look. Even in the dim light, she could tell Breanna’s eyes were red.
The Iron Bitch crying?
END GAME
249
Stewart put her mission card—a flash memory unit with recorded data about their mission—into its slot and powered up her station. She couldn’t imagine Breanna Stockard crying about anything, and surely with her husband here—but those weren’t tears of happiness.
The copilot busied herself with checking the computer data on the flight computer. Breanna made no pretense of working, continuing to sit silently and stare out the windscreen.
“We could go to the checklist on the engine start, even though it’s a little early,” said Stewart when she ran out of things to do.
“I can’t believe he gave up.”
“Who?” asked Stewart.
“Zen.”
“What did he give up?”
A tear slipped from Breanna’s eye as she turned toward her. Stewart felt not only shocked but afraid. Breanna’s pain somehow made her feel vulnerable.
“Zen left—he was in a program to rebuild his spinal cord. He left it because he thought we were in trouble.”
Stewart, still not understanding, said nothing.
“He’s always wanted to walk again,” explained Breanna.