“I think Dreamland Fisher ought to be dedicated to the 292
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
targeting mission,” said Tommy Chu, the aircraft’s pilot. “If the Levitow can’t get back in time, it will be in position.”
“We can use it for the Whiplash mission as well,” said Danny.
“All right. Let’s do it. Wisconsin will return to base as soon as the Levitow is on station. Bennett is en route home right now; they’ll try and grab some rest and then form the backup crew on Wisconsin. We want a hot pit—basically just long enough for our backup pilots and crew to jump aboard. The diplomats are working overtime,” added the colonel, trying a little too hard to sound positive. “If we can get past the next forty-eight hours or so, tensions should calm.”
A big if, thought Zen, though he didn’t say it.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, OUT ON THE APRON NEAR THE RUNway, Danny wondered what he’d gotten himself into. The manpod—actually a large, flat, pressurized container designed to fit under a B-2 or a B-52’s wing—did not want to align properly with the detents that would allow auxiliary power to be pumped into the unit from the Fisher. The power was necessary for several reasons, not least of which was the fact that without it the pod would not pressurize.
It wasn’t as if Danny could do an awful lot about the problem—he and Boston were packed inside their respective pods, talking through the “smart helmet” com links to Sergeant Liu, who was supervising the “snap in”—or trying to.
The lift truck lowered him again.
“Hey, guys, I’m supposed to be part of the plane, right?”
said Danny.
No one answered for a second, then Danny overheard a muffled grumble through Liu’s microphone. He couldn’t make out the words, but the grumble had a familiar snarl to it.
“Good morning, Captain,” said Greasy Hands—aka Chief Master Sergeant Al Parsons—a moment later. “We seem to be having a little difficulty here.”
END GAME
293
“You’re telling me.”
“Well, you just hold on for a second, Captain, while I straighten these boys out.”
A moment later Danny felt the manpod being lifted off its carrier. Over the com system he heard someone—it had to be Greasy Hands—counting off in the background. Then the manpod was thrust upward against the wing, slapping into the brace with a resounding clunk.
“There you go,” snarled Greasy Hands. “We’ll have Boston on in a minute. Less time if someone here would get me my coffee! ”
“Pretty Boy, get the chief a pot of coffee, on the double,”
said Danny to Sergeant Jack Floyd, his ears ringing.
Northern Arabian Sea
15 January 1998
0115
“GOD IS GREAT,” THE MITRA’S CAPTAIN TOLD SATTARI. “THE
destroyer has changed course and is heading west.”
“You’re sure?”
“Look for yourself. His stacks are billowing—he must be off to meet one of the Chinese ships. I’ve sent to the radio room to see if they have intercepted any messages.”
Sattari took the night glasses. He saw the cloud of warm exhaust rising in the distance, but not the Pakistani ship.
“We will leave immediately,” Sattari said. “With the protection of God, we will do our duty. Protect yourself,” he added, handing the glasses back.
“We will do our best,” said the captain. “May God be with you.”
294
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea
0330
CANTOR STARED AT THE PIRANHA’S SCREEN, TRYING TO BLINK
away some of the burn he felt in the corner of his eyes. The milky representation of the ocean was supposedly a huge advance over the displays used by conventional passive sonar systems, but the only thing he had to compare it to was the Flighthawk’s synthesized radar images, and that was like comparing shadows reflected from a campfire to an iMax movie.
Piranha had followed the Chinese submarine into Pakistani waters south of Karachi, close to the border with India. This happened to suit them well, taking them within six minutes’ flying time to the spot where they would cross the border if they had to fire their EEMWBs. For the past two hours, the Kilo-class sub had sat a hundred feet below the surface of the water, silently waiting. But now that the Chinese submarine began to move westward, Colonel Bastian would have to decide whether they would drop another control buoy and follow or pull the Piranha back.
Besides the submarine, there were two surface ships in the vicinity. One—too far away to be identified by the Piranha, but ID’d by the surface radar as a Pakistani patrol craft—was sailing south. The other was a civilian ship.
Cantor could see both vessels on the large surface radar plot in his lower left-hand screen.
The computer gave an audible warning that the Piranha was approaching the limit of the buoy’s communication system. Cantor throttled the robot back, then asked Colonel Bastian what he wanted to do.
“Tell you what, Cantor— Levitow is about two hours’ flying time away. Let’s put down one more control buoy and move south. They can pick it up when they come on station.”
“Copy that, Colonel. We could swing south about six miles and drop it there.”
END GAME
295
“I have to watch out for traffic,” said Dog. “Stand by.”
While he was waiting, Cantor swung the Piranha around, doing the robot submarine’s version of “checking six” to see what was behind it. The merchant ship showed up on the screen—a long blurry shadow, with a set of numbers giving data on the direction the contact was moving and categorizing the sound it made. Cantor moved his cursor to select the contact, directing the computer to check the sound against its library of contacts. The computer classified the vessel as an “unknown oil tanker type,” as had the system tied into the Megafortress’s surface radar.
As the Piranha continued to swing through the circle, its passive sonar picked up another contact, this one underwater. The contact was so faint the robot’s gear couldn’t tell how far away it was.
Was it really there? The irregular coastal floor nearby played tricks with sound currents, and it was possible that Piranha was “seeing” a reflection of the submarine or one of the surface ships. The only way to tell was to get closer.
Cantor halted the Piranha’s turn, sliding the stick forward and moving gingerly in the direction of the contact. The scale showed the contact was at least twenty miles away, just about in territorial waters.
“Colonel, I think I have something, another sub maybe,”
Cantor told Bastian. “It’s a good twenty miles east of us. I wonder if we should check it out.”
“You’re sure it’s a sub?”
“I’m not sure at all,” Cantor admitted. “But if I follow the Chinese Kilo, I’ll definitely lose it. Very faint signal—extremely quiet.”
“Give me the coordinates,” said Dog.
296
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0340
MEMON WATCHED AS THE LAST SU-35 EXPLODED OFF THE
deck of the carrier, its rapid ascent into the night sky belying the heavy load beneath its wings. Six new jets had arrived last evening, bringing the carrier’s flyable complement to eighteen. All but two were now in the air; if the order was given to attack, it would take no more than ten minutes for the first missile to strike its target.
He hoped it would not come to that.
Did this mean he was a coward? Or was Skandar right—was it just a matter of experience, of getting past the first shock?
“A beautiful sight, isn’t it?”
The voice sounded so much like Admiral Kala’s that Memon turned around with a jerk. But it wasn’t the dead admiral or his ghost, just one of the NCOs, an older man who supervised the radar specialists.