Chu had been thinking of trading in his pilot’s wings and going to law school before he got the Dreamland gig. He still hoped to be a lawyer someday, but this deployment had convinced him to push someday far into the future. Driving a Megafortress was the most fun you could have with your clothes on.
“Whiplash to Dreamland Fisher—yo, Tommy, what’d you tell the Colonel?” asked Captain Freah, who could communicate through a special channel in the Dreamland com system.
“Told him we were ready to kick butt and not to worry about the fighters.”
“Keep singing that song.”
“I will, Danny. Hang loose in there.”
“I am, but next flight, I want stewardesses and a better movie.”
Northern Arabian Sea
0508
THE SEA AIR PULLED CAPTAIN SATTARI OUT OF THE PARVANEH
submarine, up to the deck behind the lead commando and the mate. He moved toward the rubber boat, AK-47 in one hand, grenade launcher in the other. His lungs filled with the sweet, wet breeze.
They were farther from the platform than he thought.
END GAME
311
There were planes nearby, jets flying somewhere in the dark sky. He twisted his head back and forth but couldn’t see anything.
“Bring the SA-7s!” he yelled, telling the others to take the antiaircraft missiles. “Quickly! Into the boat. We have to paddle at least three hundred meters to reach the rocks!
Hurry, before we are seen!”
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0508
“MIDGET SUB IS ON THE SURFACE,” DISH TOLD DOG. “VERY
small. Similar to the vessel that sank itself.”
“Jazz, have the Indians responded to our warning?”
“Negative,” said the copilot.
Dog toggled into the Dreamland Command line. “Wisconsin to Abner Read. Eyes, I need to talk to Storm.”
“I’m here, Bastian. Go ahead.”
“The submarine we were tracking has surfaced about a mile north of the platform. Looks like an attack. I’ve tried contacting the Indians but gotten no response. I have two MiGs coming at me from the east. They may think we’re attacking the radar.”
“We’ll try notifying the Indians,” said Storm. “Don’t put yourself in danger for them.”
Jeez, thought Dog, he sounds almost concerned.
“Colonel, the lead MiG’s radar is trying to get a lock on us,” warned Jazz. “Threat analyzer says he has a pair of AA-12 Adder AMRAAMskis.”
“Storm, the Indian fighters are using their weapons radars to lock on us,” Dog said. “I’m not in their territory. I can’t tell if it’s a bluff or not, but if I have to defend myself, I will.”
“Understood.”
Dog killed the circuit.
312
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Jazz, try telling the Indian fighters their radar station is being attacked by commandos. Maybe they can talk to the station.”
“I’ll give it a try, Colonel.”
“Wisconsin to Hawk One—be advised the MiGs are trying to lock their radar weapons on us,” Dog told Mack.
“On it, Colonel.”
Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea
0510
STORM GLANCED AT THE HOLOGRAPHIC DISPLAY. SHARKBOAT
One was still a good twenty miles to the east of the Indian radar station’s atoll; it would take the small patrol boat another forty-five minutes to reach the platform, assuming he authorized it to enter Indian waters.
“Eyes, what’s the status on Werewolf?” he asked.
“Should be just finishing refuel.”
“Good—get it up and over to the radar station. The submarines have surfaced. And Airforce—where the hell is he?”
“Sleeping, Captain.”
“Get him out of bed. I want him at the wheel of that helicopter.”
“But—”
“Pour a pot of coffee down his throat and get him up. I want him flying that bird. Got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Belatedly, Storm realized that Eyes was concerned not about getting Starship up but about breaking the news to Petty Officer Varitok, the man who was flying Werewolf now.
“I’ll explain it to Varitok,” he added. “It’s nothing personal. Have him come up to the bridge as soon as Airforce has taken over.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
END GAME
313
Dw ¯arka Early Warning Radar Platform One, off the coast of India
0510
CAPTAIN SATTARI’S OAR STRUCK THE ROCKS ABOUT MID-stroke. The jolt threw him forward so abruptly he nearly fell out of the raft. He pulled himself back, aware that his mistake had thrown off everyone else in the boat.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pushing the oar more gingerly this time. It hit the rocks about a third of the way down this time, and he was able to push forward, half paddling, half poling.
Two more strokes and the bottom of the raft ran up on something sharp—a wire fence just under the waterline. Before Sattari could react, the water lapped over his legs. He could feel the rocks under his knees.
“Wire,” said the man at the bow in a hushed whisper. “I need the cutters.”
“Push the boat forward and use it to get over the wire onto the rocks,” said Sattari. “We can just go from here.”
The man at the bow stood upright in the raft. Holding his AK-47 above his head, he stepped over onto the nearby rocks, then reached back to help Sattari. The captain fished the grenade launcher that had been next to him from the water and then got up, stumbling but managing to keep his balance.
The others splashed toward him, carrying their waterproof rucks with explosives. The legs of the platform loomed in the darkness just ahead. At any moment Sattari expected to hear gunfire and shouts; it seemed a miracle that the Indians had not detected them so far.
“The ladder is here,” said someone, not bothering to whisper.
Sattari moved toward the voice, slipping on the rocks but keeping his balance. He reached a set of metal bars that had been planted in the rocks to hold part of the gridwork of a ladder. The captain grabbed the rail with his right hand and 314
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
pulled himself up. He still clutched the grenade launcher with his left hand.
Eight feet above the rocks, the ladder reached a platform.
A set of metal stairs sat at one end; the other opened to a catwalk that extended around the legs.
“Place a signal for the other boats,” Sattari told the men who clambered up behind him. He did not single the men out as he spoke, trusting that they would divvy up the duties on their own. “Place your charges on the leg posts, then follow me.”
As he pushed toward the metal stairway, he heard a shout from above, then a round of gunfire.
Finally, he thought. It hadn’t seemed real until he heard the gunfire.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0515
MACK SMITH THROTTLED HAWK ONE BACK TOWARD THE
Megafortress, banking in the direction of the MiGs. If they were looking to play chicken, he was ready for them; he’d have them breaking for cover in a few minutes.
Ten miles from the Megafortress he began another turn, aiming to put himself between the two bogies and the mother ship at roughly the distance they could fire their radar-guided missiles. As he got into position, Jazz gave an update.
“MiG One is breaking off,” reported the copilot. “Heading east. MiG Two— Whoa! Watch out! MiG Two is firing.”
“He’s mine,” said Mack, checking the sitrep. The Indian plane was three miles behind his left wing, closing fast.
Mack brought up his weapons screen, readying his cannon.
BESIDES THE MIDGET SUBMARINE THEY’D FOUND ON THE SURface, there were two others, still submerged, but rising.