END GAME
315
They were about three miles northeast of the radar platform, within fifty yards of each other. Cantor put the Piranha into the underwater robot’s version of a hover, its motor pushing just hard enough to keep the current at bay and stay in position.
He got a connection warning that the Megafortress was going outside the range of the control buoy.
“Piranha to Wisconsin—Colonel, we have a total of three submarines, one on the surface and two more coming up.
Should be on the surface in less than a minute. But we’re coming up to the edge of communications range with the buoy.”
“Roger that, Piranha, but I have other priorities—we have a missile on our tail and two apparently hostile aircraft pursuing us. Can you hand off to Wisconsin?”
“Negative. They’re not close enough.”
“Park it,” Dog told him. “Prepare to launch Hawk Two as soon as you can.”
UNTIL NOW, ALL OF THE AIRCRAFT MACK HAD ENCOUNTERED
while flying the Flighthawks had acted as if he wasn’t there.
The small planes were invisible to their radar except at very close range, and in the dark they were almost impossible to see. Mack planned his move against the Indian MiG as if that were the case now, expecting the aircraft to clear right after firing a second missile, at which point he could tuck into a tighter turn and get Hawk Two on its back. Alternatively, he might continue behind the Megafortress, positioning himself to fire heat-seekers if the radar-guided missiles failed to hit.
But the MiG didn’t fire another missile, nor did it turn off or even speed past him. Instead Mack found himself roughly a half mile in front of the MiG, well within range of its 30mm cannon. Seconds later tracers flew past Hawk Two’s nose.
Mack pickled flares as decoys and swung the Flighthawk into a shallow dive to his right. When he realized the MiG
hadn’t followed, he tried to pull back up and come up behind it. As he started to accelerate, the Indian pilot fired another AMRAAMski at the Wisconsin, then pulled hard to 316
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
the right. Mack finally had his shot, but it was fleeting and at a terrible angle; he spit a few shells at the MiG’s fat tailfin, but lost the target in a turn. He tucked a little too hard to the right trying to stay with him and within seconds lost the plane completely and had to swing back in the direction of the Megafortress to keep from losing his connection.
Not exactly auspicious. But as he glanced at the sitrep, he saw that MiG One was flying almost directly at him.
If you’ve been handed a lemon, make lemonade, he thought, setting up for an intercept.
Aboard the Shiva
0516
MEMON’S LEGS TREMBLED AS HE STEPPED ONTO THE DECK OF
the Shiva’s backup bridge, a space at the seaward side of the carrier’s island that had not been damaged by the earlier attack. Even though it bore only a passing resemblance to the main bridge, Memon felt as if it were inhabited by ghosts.
The fear that had hovered around him earlier pressed close to his ribs.
“A message, Admiral!” one of the men on watch shouted to Admiral Skandar. “From the radar platform!”
A commando team had been spotted trying to make an attack. A small American patrol craft was sailing in the general vicinity, and a flight of Indian landborne fighters were engaging the Megafortress nearby. It was assumed that the Americans had launched the attack.
“You see, I was quite correct about where the true danger lay,” Skandar told Memon. “They are honoring their commitments to Pakistan. This is the prelude to an attack by their aircraft on our bases.”
He picked up the phone connecting him to the ship’s combat center. “Launch the attack. Do not neglect the American ship.”
END GAME
317
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0517
THE INDIAN’S FIRST MISSILE HAD BEEN FIRED FROM EXTREMELY
long range, so far in fact that Dog knew from experience that he could simply outrun it. But the second missile was a different matter. He jerked the Megafortress’s stick sharply, turning the bomber to the east. The radar tracking the Megafortress lost its slippery profile, and the missile flew on blind for several miles, vainly hoping that the ghost it was chasing would materialize in front of it when it used its own radar for terminal guidance.
The sharp maneuver took Dog into Indian territory, where a host of ground radars that had been tracking them at long range suddenly sharpened their eyes and ears.
“That SA-10 battery inland is trying to get a lock,” said Jazz.
“Tell these idiots we were in international airspace and are not hostile.”
“I’ve broadcasted that six ways to Sunday. I’ll try again.”
“Cantor, you ready to launch?”
“Booting the command sequences now, Colonel. Screens are just finishing their diagnostics.”
“Emergency launch of Hawk Two in sixty seconds.”
“MiG One is turning toward us from the east, roughly forty miles away,” warned Jazz.
“I’ve been expecting him,” said Dog. “Get ready to launch.”
CANTOR TOOK CONTROL OF HAWK TWO AND IMMEDIATELY
pushed east, figuring he could cut off the Indian fighter MiG
One. But a glance at the sitrep showed that Mack and HawkTwo had gone in that direction, leaving the other plane free—and much closer to the Wisconsin.
“I have Hawk Two,” Cantor told Mack. “I’ll get MiG One.
318
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
You concentrate on MiG Two. He’s off your left wing, two miles.”
“No, I have MiG One, ” said Mack.
There was no point in arguing. Cantor immediately changed course, dipping his wing and plotting an intercept.
DOG SWUNG THE WISCONSIN OUT TO SEA, STILL PURSUED BY
the AMRAAMski. The missile had a finite load of fuel; by rights it should have crashed into the sea by now.
Or maybe time just seemed to be moving at light speed.
Dog pitched his big aircraft on its wing in another sharp cut, trying to take advantage of one set of physical principles—those governing radio or radar waves—while defying another—those governing motion, mass, and momentum.
In this case radio won out—the missile shot wide right and immolated itself.
“MiG Two is swinging south,” said Jazz. “Looks like he and his partner are going to try and sandwich us.”
“They can try if they want,” said Dog.
“At what point do we go to the Scorpions, Colonel?”
“I’d rather hold on to them as long as we can,” he told the copilot. “We may need them.”
And pretty soon too. This looked suspiciously like the start of all-out war.
Dog turned back to the communications screen, activating the link with Jed Barclay in the NSC’s Situation Room.
“Jed, we’ve been fired on here by Indian MiGs,” he told the NSC deputy as soon as his face appeared in the screen.
“We’ve detected three submarines that we believe are trying to launch a commando attack on an Indian early warning radar platform near the border with Pakistan.”
“Are they Pakistani submarines? Or Chinese?”
“We haven’t identified them, but they match the sound profile Piranha recorded for the submarine that scuttled itself, which we believe was involved in the attack on Karachi.”
“Understood, Colonel. We’re starting to get some alerts here now.”
END GAME
319
Jazz broke in to tell Dog that there were four F-16 Pakistanis coming from the east.
“Jed, things are getting a little crowded at the moment.
I’ll check back with you in a few minutes.”