It wasn’t that he hadn’t been expecting the question. In fact, he’d rehearsed the answer for nearly a half hour. It was just that speaking in front of this many people—this many important people—was always a struggle.
He pushed a few words out of his mouth, stuttering as he went.
“Um, we, um, the EEMWB is an electronic bomb, like an E bomb. It uses T-Rays to disrupt electronic devices. The weapons would be much more efficient against the aircraft carrier than the Harpoons.”
“Another pie-in-the-sky Dreamland program,” said Balboa.
“Um, they’ve been used in tests and were supposed to be tested in two weeks in the Pacific.”
“Yes, I know about the weapons,” said Balboa. “This isn’t the place to be taking chances. We should have the AbnerRead take the lead on this—position it between the Chinese and the Indians, as I argued yesterday. And who told Bastian he could use these weapons?”
“I told him he could use whatever he needed to get the 258
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job done,” said the President. “Jed, could these EEMWBs stop the Indian and Pakistani missiles?”
Jed nodded. “It would depend on the flight paths and everything. In theory, yes.”
“Talk to Bastian. Make it work,” said Martindale. He turned and looked at Balboa. “The Abner Read will continue to be subordinate to Colonel Bastian on this aspect of the mission. If Storm wants to move, he’s to clear it with the colonel.”
JED PLAYED NERVOUSLY WITH HIS PENCIL AS HE WAITED FOR
the call to Colonel Bastian to go through on the Dreamland communications channel. The ultra-high-tech Situation Room in the basement under the White House had just un-dergone new renovations, increasing the available information stations and adding several security features. The situation room seemed to be a constant work-in-progress; this was at least the fourth major renovation it had undergone since Jed joined the NSC.
“Bastian,” said Dog, appearing in the screen.
“Colonel, your mission has been altered,” said Jed. As he relayed the President’s new commands, he hit a switch that popped a map onto the screen so he could show Bastian where the missile sites were located.
“Pretty far inland,” said Dog.
“Can you strike those spots?”
“In theory, yes. Looks like you’d need three missiles, more or less in a straight line almost directly over the border. The weapons scientists will have to run some simulations to be sure. When is this taking effect?”
“Immediately.”
“We’ll work something out. What about the carrier?”
“Not as important, but still—”
“I get the picture.”
“If this isn’t doable, Colonel …”
“It’s a stretch, Jed. I have to be honest. But we’ll do our best. Technically, it’s nothing we’re not capable of.”
END GAME
259
“The diplomats are working around the clock to calm things down.”
“I hope to hell they succeed.”
Northern Arabian Sea
14 January 1998
0400
WHEN THE SAILOR ABOARD THE MITRA WOKE HIM, CAPTAIN
Sattari did not know where he was. For a moment he believed—or perhaps wanted to believe—he was at his family’s old house on the shore of the Black Sea, huddled with his wife Zenda. But she had died only three years after their marriage and lay enshrined in his memory as the perfect beauty, the flawless young bride he returned to when-ever reality’s storms were severe.
“Captain, an important message for you,” said the sailor.
Sattari took one last breath of Zenda’s perfume, then opened his eyes. The man was holding a folded piece of paper in his hands. Pulling himself out of the narrow bunk, Sattari steadied his sockless feet on the floor and took the paper.
“Bring me coffee,” he told the sailor.
“Yes, sir.”
The message had been relayed by radio and contained only two words: “Excellent. Accelerate.” It could only have come from Pevars, the oil minister, as he was the only one in the world who knew how to contact him.
Sattari rubbed his chin, eyes focused on the thin carpet of the floor. He reached to the side of the bed, where he had left his shirt and a fresh pair of socks. He knew that BoatThree had not shown up during the night, for otherwise he would have been woken sooner.
Another argument for stepping up their schedule, if he had needed one.
In truth, he had hoped after Karachi it would not be necessary. The Mitra’s master said the Indians had attacked the 260
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Chinese aircraft carrier meant to reinforce the Pakistanis; surely that alone would mean war.
Sattari buttoned his shirt, then pulled on his socks. As he reached for his shoes, the sailor returned with his coffee.
“Is the ship’s captain awake?” Sattari asked.
“Usually not for two more hours.”
“Go and wake him,” said Sattari. “There has been a change in plans.”
Diego Garcia
0740 (0640, Karachi)
DANNY FREAH SHUFFLED THE CARDS AND BEGAN LAYING OUT
a solitaire hand on the table in the middle of the Command trailer’s main room. He knew he ought to be enjoying the easygoing pace of the deployment, where Whiplash’s only task was to provide security inside an installation that probably rated among the most secure in the world. Diego Garcia was literally an island paradise, and aside from the fact that he didn’t have his wife with him, it would be the perfect place to while away a few days or even weeks. He didn’t often get a lull, and after his adventures in Karachi he deserved one.
But one man’s vacation was another’s purgatory. Danny Freah couldn’t kick back while other people were putting their lives on the line. Besides, his night swim in the fiery waters was already receding in his memory, like the light burns on his hands.
A buzzer sounded from the Dreamland communications section, indicating there was an incoming message. Danny grabbed his coffee and went to the small station in the next room. Ray Rubeo’s pale face appeared in the screen when he authorized the link.
“Captain Freah, we have information regarding the submarine that sank itself. Colonel Bastian requested a copy.
I’d like to upload it to you now.”
END GAME
261
“Go for it,” Danny told the scientist. “So what is it? Russian Special Forces?”
“Hardly,” said Rubeo. “It’s civilian craft made by a Pol-ish company. Some of the members of our Piranha team have done a little digging.”
“Whose sub is it?”
“Good question. We’ve asked the CIA, which means we will never know.”
Danny laughed. When the download was finished, he opened the file to make sure it had transferred properly. He found himself looking at a brochure of a craft that looked more like a pleasure boat with portholes in the bottom.
“It has windows?” asked Danny.
“No. Those would have been filled in. Flip to the end of the file and you will see a schematic diagram one of the Piranha people did based on this and the findings from the probe. The basic systems from the commercial design appear intact, much as the chassis of a General Motors car would be similar across divisions.”
“Gotcha,” said Danny, toggling through to the diagrams.
“Say, Ray—if I was going to disable the submarine, what would I do?”
“What would be the purpose?”
“Just say I wanted to disable it. To capture it, and the people inside. What would we do?”
Rubeo gave Danny one of his what-fools-these-mortals-be sighs. “I am not an expert on submarine warfare, Captain. I can get one of the Piranha people to talk to you if this is of more than theoretical interest.”
“Oh, it’s very theoretical. But I’d like to talk to him anyway.”
“Very well. One area to question him on—this being a civilian submarine, it has many safety features incorporated into the design. The most interesting is an external emergency blow device.”