“Yes, it is beautiful,” managed Memon. “Incredibly beautiful.”
NSC Situation Room
1740, 14 January 1998
(0340, 15 January, Karachi)
JED BARCLAY WHEELED HIS CHAIR BACK FROM THE COMMUnications console and surveyed the screens arrayed before him. Twenty-three different computers were tied into various intelligence networks, allowing him almost instanta-neous information on what was happening in India and Pakistan. Updated feeds from satellites designed to detect missile launches took up four screens at the left; the coverage overlapped and had been arranged so the entire subcontinent was always in view. A pair of screens collated feeds END GAME
297
from a pair of U-2s covering the Arabian Sea. The planes’
sensor arrays, dubbed “Multi-Spectral Electro-Optical Reconnaissance Sensor SYERS upgrades,” provided around-the-clock coverage of the region, using optics during the day and in clear weather, and infrared and radar at other times.
The next screen provided a feed from an electronic eavesdropping program run by the National Security Agency; the screen filled with updates on intelligence gathered by clandestine electronic listening posts near India and in Pakistan. Interpretations on captures of intelligence on Pakistani systems filled the next screen. Then came a series of displays devoted to bulletins from the desks at the different intelligence agencies monitoring the situation. Finally there was the tie-in to the Dreamland Command network, which allowed Jed to talk to all of the Dreamland aircraft and share the imagery.
Six people were needed to work all of the gear. Jed was the only one authorized to communicate directly with the Dreamland force. He would be relieved in the morning by his boss, who had just gone to dinner and who expected to be paged immediately if things perked up.
“I say we send out for pizza,” said the photo interpreter monitoring the U-2 and satellite images.
“How about Sicilian?” suggested Peg Jordan, monitoring the NSA feed.
“Sounds good,” said Jed.
“Let’s call Sicily and have it delivered,” deadpanned Jordan.
Everyone laughed. As lame as it was, Jed hoped the joke wouldn’t be the only one he heard tonight.
298
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Wisconsin,
above the northern Arabian Sea
0345
DOG DOUBLE-CHECKED HIS POSITION, MAKING SURE HE WAS
still outside Pakistani territory. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying thirty miles due east of him, very close to the country’s border with India. The planes had queried him twice, making sure he wasn’t an Indian jet. Even though that should have been obvious, Dog had Jazz reassure the pilots, telling them they were Americans hoping to “help keep the peace.” There was no sense having to duck the planes’ missiles prematurely.
Besides the Pakistani flight, the Megafortress was being shadowed by a pair of Indian MiG-21s. Much older than the F-16s, they were farther away and less of a threat. But they were clearly watching him. Probably guided by a ground controller, they changed course every time he did. He knew this couldn’t go on much longer—the small fighters simply didn’t carry that much fuel—but it was an ominous portent of the gamut they’d have to run if things went sour.
Jed had warned that they couldn’t expect the Pakistanis to be friendly. Annoyed at the neutral stance of the U.S., the government of Pakistan had specifically warned that the Dreamland aircraft were “unwelcome” in Pakistani airspace for the length of the crisis.
If ballistic missiles were launched, Dog would know within fifteen seconds. Ideally, he would then rush over the Thar Desert, flying at least twelve and a half minutes before firing the first salvo of three missiles, which would detonate roughly seven minutes later. Seconds before they did, he would fire his last missile. Soon afterward, he would lose most if not all of his instruments and fly back blind. And while the radars and missile batteries along the route he was flying would be wiped out, the closer he got to the coast, the higher the odds that he’d be in the crosshairs. The Wisconsin might never know what hit her.
END GAME
299
The worst thing was, if the new calculations were correct, the mission might be in vain. And the same went for the Levitow. It was going to be ten or twelve hours before they could have both aircraft on station.
“J-13s from the carrier are headed our way,” said Jazz.
Dog grunted. The Chinese seemed to be working on an hourly schedule—every sixty minutes they sent a pair of planes to do a fly-by and head back to the carrier.
“Wisconsin, this is Hawk One—you sure you don’t want me to get in their faces?”
“Negative, Mack. Conserve your fuel. And your tactics.”
“Roger that.”
Dog thought Mack must be getting tired—he didn’t put up an argument.
“Colonel, Piranha is within ten miles of that underwater contact,” said Cantor. “Computer is matching this to the other craft. The one that scuttled itself the other day.”
“You’re positive, Cantor?”
“Computer is, Colonel. Personally, I haven’t a clue.”
“All right. I’ll contact Captain Chu and Danny in Dreamland Fisher. Good work.”
Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea
0348
STORM WATCHED THE PLOT ON THE RADARMAN’S SCOPE, tracking the Indian jets as they circled to the east.
“Keeping an eye on us,” said the sailor. “Every fifteen minutes or so they split up. One comes straight overhead.”
Storm scratched the stubble on his chin, considering the situation. The planes were well within range of the Standard antiair missiles in the forward vertical launch tubes.
The problem was, his orders of engagement declared that he had to wait for “life-threatening action” before he could fire. That meant he couldn’t launch his missiles unless the 300
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Sukhois got aggressive—which at this close range might be too late. Storm decided that when he got back to the bridge he would radio Bastian and see if he couldn’t get one of his little robot fighters over to run the Indians off.
Continuing with his tour of the Tactical Center, Storm moved over to the Werewolf station. Starship had gone off to bed, and one of Storm’s crewmen—Petty Officer Second Class Paul Varitok—was at the helm of the robot. The petty officer was one of the ship’s electronics experts and had volunteered to fly the aircraft when it came aboard. He was still learning; even discounting the fact that Storm’s presence made him nervous, it was obvious to the captain that he had a long way to go.
Storm completed his rounds and headed over to the communications shack. After checking the routine traffic, he made a call to Bastian. The Air Force lieutenant colonel snapped onto the line with his customary, “Bastian,” the accompanying growl practically saying, Why are you bothering me now?
“I have two Indian warplanes circling south at five miles,” Storm told him. “What are the odds of you chasing them away?”
“No can do,” said Dog. “Stand by,” he added suddenly, and the screen went blank.
It took the Air Force commander several minutes to get back to him, and he didn’t offer an apology or an explanation when he did. If he wasn’t such an insolent, arrogant, know-it-all blowhard—he’d still be a jerk.
“Storm—we have a contact we think may be another midget submarine. It’s similar to the one that blew itself up.
We’re going to track it. My Whiplash people will be en route shortly.”
“Where is it?”
“A few miles off the Pakistani coast, just crossing toward Indian territory.”