The weapons people at Dreamland had studied the possible paths the ballistic missiles would take, and they decided that only two explosions would be needed to disrupt the missiles. But to guarantee success, they wanted four launches in an overlapping pattern; that way, if one or even two failed to work or the yield was unexpectedly low, the plan would still succeed. That complicated matters for Dog, since to take out the carrier plane, he had to keep a second Megafortress in the area. He’d also told Storm to stay close to the carrier as well, a directive that was met with a grunt, END GAME
267
which in Dog’s experience represented almost euphoric en-thusiasm on the naval commander’s part.
Dog continued his walk-around, escorted by Chris Morris, the airman first class who was acting crew chief for the plane while it was “pitted” at Crete. The young man had come from Dreamland with the missiles; this was not only his first deployment with the unit, but the most responsibility he’d ever been given in his life. He’d had a great deal of help prepping the plane from the Navy and from an experienced Air Force crew of maintainers that had flown in from Ger-many to help out. Still, as a Dreamlander he was the one ultimately responsible for the plane. He wouldn’t have been sent if he wasn’t up to it, but Dog could sense the butterflies in Airman Morris’s stomach every time he stopped to look at something. Finally, when they’d done a complete circuit around the aircraft, Dog folded his arms in front of his chest.
“Something wrong, Colonel?” asked Morris.
“I’ve never seen aircraft more ready to fly,” Dog told him. “Job well done.”
The kid’s smile could have lit half the island. Dog ducked back under the wing, heading toward the ladder.
“Colonel!” shouted the airman.
Dog turned back.
“Um, Greasy Hands said I, um, I wasn’t supposed to let you go without telling you.”
“Telling me what?”
“Don’t break my plane. Sir.”
Dog laughed. “I’ll try not to. Go get yourself some sleep.”
CANTOR WATCHED FROM HIS STATION AS MACK COMPLETED
the launch procedure with Hawk One and took control of the aircraft. He rolled right, swinging the UM/F out ahead of the Megafortress as they flew over the eastern Mediter-ranean. They would fly over Israel, Jordan, and then Saudi Arabia en route to their station over the Arabian Sea. HawkTwo remained on the wing. Colonel Bastian had modified his one pilot-one Flighthawk rule slightly, allowing two 268
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planes to be used “in an emergency,” but it was highly unlikely the plane would be launched on their way to the patrol area. Cantor thus had nothing to do until they got to the Arabian Sea, where he would take over control of the Piranha from Ensign English aboard Levitow. Piranha had gone south and was searching for the Chinese Kilo submarine escorting the Deng Xiaoping.
Cantor found himself wishing for an alert—scrambling Syrian MiGs as they approached the coast, an overanxious Yemen patrol—to break the monotony.
“So what do you think, kid?” said Mack as the flight dragged on. “Would you rather face two Su-35s? Or one F-15?”
“One F-15.”
“An F-15? Why?”
“ ’Cause I know what he’ll do. The Indians I’m still studying.”
“Fair enough. We won’t be fighting against them anymore this time around, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because now that the Indians and China have gotten their taste of what real action is like, they’ll back off. I’ve seen this before. They don’t want to lose any of their toys.”
DOG CLEARED THE TRANSMISSION. DANNY FREAH’S FACE APpeared in the Dreamland communications panel.
“Hey, Colonel, I’ve finished analyzing the attack on the Karachi terminal,” he told Dog. “Definitely done by explosives. I’d say they used a dozen people, maybe more.”
“Twelve is a few too many for that submarine,” Dog said.
“Rubeo says they’re figuring maximum capacity at about eight, maybe ten.”
“Yeah. But working out the way the explosives were set and the time of that first contact, there had to be at least twelve guys, like I say. I think it’s likely there’s at least one more submarine.”
END GAME
269
“All right. Thanks, Danny.”
“Hey, Colonel?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to draw up a mission to take the sub.”
“What do you mean?”
“Capture it. I’ve studied the data Ray Rubeo gave us, and talked to some submarine people on how to do it. There’s a kind of a safety valve we can use to blow the tanks to get it to surface. When it does, we drop tear gas inside, get in and disarm whoever’s aboard. Can’t be more than eight people, maybe less.”
“First of all, Danny, I’m not sure you’d be able to disable everyone aboard before they blew it up.”
“There’s also an external air fitting for emergency air—we could pump in nitrous oxide. There’s a dentist over here who—”
“Second of all—and more to the point—you’re four hours flying time from the general area in a Megafortress traveling at top speed. The Osprey would take twice as long, to have enough fuel to make it.”
“Be worth the trip. You have to find out where these guys are coming from, right? This is the best way to do it.”
“You’re assuming we’re going to see these guys again.”
“If I had a weapon like that, I’d use it until it broke,” said Danny. “We should be ready, right?”
“I’ll discuss it with Storm,” Dog told him. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Aboard the Levitow ,
over the northern Arabian Sea
1230
IT FELT AS IF IT HAD BEEN MONTHS SINCE HE’D FLOWN. ZEN
had trouble lining up for the refuel, coming on tentatively and then rushing into the furling turbulence behind the big 270
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
plane. Hawk Three’s nose shot downward and he aborted, riding off to the right, more bemused than angry. He came around again, easing his hand forward on the stick.
His muscles began to spasm—a side effect of the treatments?
Forget the treatments, he told himself.
He pushed his body down in the seat, trying to ease the cramps without actually affecting his control of the airplane. He drove the Flighthawk into the hookup, then let the computer take over. By now his arm felt as if it had been mangled in a wheat thresher.
“Levitow to Flighthawk leader,” said Breanna. “We have two J-13s coming at us hot out of the east. Distance is sixty miles.”
“Yeah, OK, I got ’em on the sitrep,” said Zen. “I’ll say hello.”
Zen took Hawk Four over from the computer and began cutting north. The Chinese aircraft were not part of the normal patrol over the carrier; these were sent here to get a look at the Megafortress. With the help of C3 he started back south at the very edge of his control link with the Levitow, putting himself in position to pull up behind the J-13s as they closed in.
“Hawk Three refueled,” said the computer.
Zen popped back into Hawk Three and slid her out from under the mother ship’s refueling line. Then he ducked under the Megafortress’s flight path, aiming at the oncoming J-13s. He had the robot planes positioned to sandwich the Chinese craft; he’d also be able to follow if they split up or did something unexpected.
“Looks like they’re going to draw up alongside you and take pictures,” Zen told Breanna.
“Levitow.”
She was angry at something. Zen wondered if she was having more trouble with Stewart; the copilot had had trouble adjusting to the program.
END GAME
271
When they were about seven miles from the Megafortress, the J-13s turned so they could come up alongside either wing. As they did, Zen slid Hawk Three between them, twisting into a roll and making it obvious that he was there. Their attention consumed by the approaching plane, he pushed Hawk Four within spitting distance of BogeyTwo’s tail. The Megafortress turned as it approached the end of its patrol track; Zen pulled Hawk Three around so he had a Flighthawk on each J-13. If they did anything hostile, he could take them down in an instant.