Aboard the Wisconsin , over the northern Arabian Sea

0501

MACK SMITH ACCELERATED AS HE APPROACHED THE PLATform, taking the Flighthawk down through fifty feet. He was too low and close to be seen by this radar system, but human eyes and ears were another matter. He had the throttle at max as he rocketed by the platform at close to 500 knots, banking around to the north and making another pass.

“If there’s a sub pen or docking area under that platform somewhere, I can’t see it,” he told Dog. “Cantor, where’s that submarine? Let me do a flyover as he comes up.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“He’s just coming to the surface, about a mile north of the platform, in very shallow water.”

Mack slid the Flighthawk around, slowing down now to get better images. Nothing showed on the screen, though, as he passed.

“Two MiG-29s coming off Bhuj,” warned T-Bone, naming an airfield along the coast. “And we have another flight coming in from the south—they’re going to their afterburners.”

“Want me to go cool their jets, Colonel?” asked Mack.

“No. Take another pass where that submarine is coming up. I want pictures.”

“Just call me Candid Camera.”

“THE MIGS OUT OF BHUJ ARE LOOKING FOR US,” SAID JAZZ.

“Carrying AMRAAMskis. They’re about a hundred miles away, speed accelerating over five hundred knots. Think the radar station picked up the Flighthawk?”

“I doubt it,” Dog told him. “They probably just got tired of us orbiting so close to them.”

Dog checked his watch. Danny and Boston in the Fisher were still twenty minutes away.

“Let’s do this,” he told Jazz. “Try and raise the Indian controller on his frequency. Tell him that there’s a submarine surfacing near his platform in Indian territory.”

“How do I explain that we know that?”

“Don’t,” said Dog.

“Southern flight of MiGs has also gone to afterburners,”

said T-Bone at the radar station. “Now approximately seven minutes away.”

“Mack, do you have any visuals for me?”

“Negative, Colonel. Submarine hasn’t broken the water yet.”

“All right. Come north with me. We’re going to run up toward the end of our patrol track and turn around. On the way back south we’ll launch Hawk Two.”

“You want me to take it?” interrupted Cantor.

END GAME

307

“No. Stay with Piranha. Mack will have to handle both planes for a while.”

“No sweat,” said Mack.

“If the Indians don’t back off, set up an intercept on the group coming out of the east, from Bhuj,” Dog told him.

“Got it, Colonel.”

“And Mack—don’t fire at them unless I tell you to.”

“Your wish is my command, Colonel. But say the word, and they’re going down.”

Aboard the Levitow ,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0503

STEWART OPENED HER EYES AND SAW THAT BREANNA HAD

left the bay. She rolled out of the bunk and pulled on her boots, then went out into the Megafortress’s galley area.

The restroom—imagine that in a B-1B!—was occupied.

“I’d like to brush my teeth,” she joked.

“I’ll be a while,” moaned the occupant.

It wasn’t Breanna. Stewart looked toward the front and realized that she had taken over as pilot four hours ahead of schedule.

Just like her.

Stewart grabbed her helmet and walked up past the radar stations to the first officer’s seat.

“Sorry I overslept. Mom forgot to set the alarm clock,”

she told the copilot, Dick “Bullet” Timmons. “Thanks for covering, Bullet.”

“I’m still on, Stewie. Lou’s stomach just went ballistic on him.”

“Bree and me are partners,” she told him. She glanced at Breanna. “Don’t want to break up the act.”

“Yeah, the teams ought to stay together,” Bree said.

Stewart felt her face flush. Finally, she thought, she’d been accepted.

308

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Your call, Captain,” said Bullet. “Time I stretch my legs anyway.”

“Just don’t try the bathroom for the next hour,” added Stewart.

THE LEVITOW’S LONG-RANGE RADAR PLOT SHOWED THE TWO

MiGs on afterburners, heading north to intercept Wisconsin.

Breanna clicked into the Dreamland communications channel. “Dreamland Levitow to Wisconsin. I assume you see those MiGs coming at you from the south.”

“Roger that, Levitow,” said Dog. “We’re moving north.

What’s your estimated time to station?”

“Still a good fifteen minutes away from the designated patrol area.”

“Be advised, Piranha’s contact has stopped about a mile from the radar platform. We think they may be planning a raid. We’re trying to alert the Indian authorities. Piranha is about a mile and a half from the stopped sub and is approaching another contact, apparently a similar submarine.”

“Do you still want us to take over Piranha when we get closer?”

“Let’s play that by ear. It may depend on what these MiGs do. I’m going to launch Hawk Two right now.”

“Roger that.”

“TURN HAWK THREE OVER TO THE COMPUTER AND THEN

swap stations with me,” Zen told Dork.

“You sure, Major?”

“Yeah, I’ll take Three. You launch Hawk Four from this station. Then if we’re in range and have to take over Piranha, you can do it while I fly both U/MFs. You can’t control Piranha from the left station.”

“I’ve only flown—I mean, sailed—Piranha in simulations.”

“It’ll be easy,” said Zen.

Far easier than flying two Flighthawks in combat, he thought, though he didn’t say that.

Dork put Hawk Three into one of its preset flight patterns, END GAME

309

turned its controls over to the computer, then undid his restraints and got out of his seat. Zen levered himself close enough to the other station so he could swing into the unoccupied chair. He landed sideways, then dropped awkwardly into position.

Blood rushed from his head. Whether it was an aftermath of the treatments or sleep deprivation, he felt zapped.

“Here’s your flight helmet,” said Dork.

“All right, thanks,” said Zen. “Let’s do the handoff, then get ready to launch. I’ll talk to Bree.”

Aboard the Fisher,

over the Arabian Sea

0505

LYING IN THE MANPOD WAS LIKE BEING IN AN ISOLATION CHAMber. A very cold isolation chamber. There were supposedly heating circuits in the damn things, but Danny had never used one yet without freezing his extremities off.

Not that he had all that much experience with the manpod. In fact, he’d only used it in training missions, and only once on a water jump.

The manpod could be ejected from either high or low altitude. In this case, the plan was to go out very low, so the EB-52 wasn’t detected. The pod would be more projectile than package, its descent barely retarded by a special drogue parachute.

“Danny?”

Colonel Bastian’s voice reverberated in his helmet.

“What do you need, Colonel?”

“I just want you to know that we have fighters approaching the area where the submarine is. I’ve told Lieutenant Chu that he’s to stay out of the area unless I instruct him otherwise.”

“Aw, Colonel, it’s cold in here. You have to let me jump or I’ll freeze to death.”

310

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“We’ll play it by ear, Danny. Sorry,” added Dog, the word echoing in Danny’s helmet.

LIEUTENANT CHU CHECKED HIS ALTITUDE ON THE HEADS-UP

display, keeping the Megafortress at precisely thirty-eight feet above the waves. The aircraft’s powerful surveillance radars were off, allowing it to slip undetected like a ghost in the night.

His adrenaline had his heart on double-fast forward. It had been like this the whole deployment, almost a high.