“I’ll be here, Colonel.”

“MiG One is launching missiles,” warned Jazz. “AMRAAMskis! Long range—sixteen, seventeen miles. Guess these guys believe the advertising.”

“ECMs. Stand by for evasive maneuvers. Mack, I thought you said you had this guy.”

MACK HAD JUST MADE A TURN AND STARTED TO CLOSE ON THE

MiG’s tail when he saw the flare under its wings. Two large missiles ignited, steaming off in the direction of the Wisconsin. Mack’s weapons screen indicated that he was not in range to fire; all he could do was wait for the tail of the Indian warplane to grow larger at the center of his screen. The targeting bar went yellow, then flickered red before turning back to yellow; the MiG pilot had punched his afterburner for more speed.

Mack cursed as the aircraft steadily pulled away.

“Hawk One, I’m turning back south,” said Dog.

“Yeah, OK,” said Mack. He started to follow, then realized that if he kept his present heading he could catch the MiG when it made its own turn to follow the Megafortress.

Sure enough, a few seconds later the Indian aircraft appeared at the top corner of his screen. He closed in, then just as the targeting bar turned red—indicating he had a shot—the computer warned that he was going to lose his connection. Mack fired anyway, putting two long bursts into the underside of the MiG’s fuselage. There was no doubt that he got a hit this time—flames poured out of the aircraft.

Mack jerked his stick back just in time to keep the link with the Wisconsin.

“Splash one MiG. Finally,” he said. “And about time, if I do say so myself.”

*

*

*

320

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“ONE OF THOSE MISSILES IS STILL COMING FOR US, COLONEL.”

Dog pulled the Megafortress into a tight turn, trying to beam the guidance radar by flying parallel to the radar waves.

The tactic didn’t work this time; the missile continued to close. They threw chaff and sent a wave of electronic countermeasures into the air to scramble the missile’s brains.

Dog, sensing he was still being pursued, rolled the big plane onto its wing, dropping and twisting behind the fog created by the countermeasures. This finally did the trick; the missile sailed overhead, exploding a mile away.

“Action near the Chinese carrier,” said T-Bone. “Air groups from the Shiva—they’re coming north at a high rate of speed. Missiles being fired! Jesus—they’re throwing everything at them!”

Dog went on the Dreamland Command line to warn Storm.

Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea

0523

“MULTIPLE MISSILE LAUNCHES FROM THE SHIVA AND OTHER

Indian ships,” Eyes told Storm. “Dreamland aircraft Wisconsin reports Indian aircraft moving toward the Deng Xiaoping in apparent attack formation.”

“Where are our shadows?”

“Still circling overhead.”

“If they turn their weapons radars on, shoot them down.”

“We’re ready, Captain.”

Storm took his night vision binoculars and stepped out onto the flying bridge, scanning the air above, and then the horizon in the direction of the Chinese carrier sixty miles away.

Too far to see the results of the Indian attack. A pity, he thought. A real pity.

STARSHIP RUBBED HIS EYES FURIOUSLY AS HE WAITED FOR

Petty Officer Varitok to put the Werewolf into a hover so he END GAME

321

could take over. The Tac Center, never a picture of calm, looked like a commodities exchange on steroids behind them. The Indians were launching dozens of missiles, and the Chinese were starting to respond.

“All yours, Airforce,” said Varitok, leaping out of the seat. “You’re right over the Sharkboat.”

Starship pulled on his headset and dropped into the chair.

There was a flash of red on the main screen. “Is that coming from the radar platform?”

Varitok looked at the screen. “Can’t tell. It’s ten miles east, two miles from shore.”

Starship pushed the Werewolf forward, accelerating from zero to 200 knots in a matter of seconds. He saw a second flash, and realized the explosions were too high to be from the radar platform.

There were fighters nearby—a pair of Su-35s far overhead, and a MiG-29 at about ten thousand feet, fortunately heading north. A missile launched from a boat to the south, crossing within a half mile.

“Tac, it’s getting ugly out here,” Starship told Eyes. “You want Werewolf to continue this mission, or come back to the Abner Read?”

“Continue your mission until told not to.”

“You got it.”

STORM LISTENED AS RADAR UPDATED HIM ON THE SU-35S.

They’d begun to descend rapidly in the direction of the ship, but still had not activated the radars normally associated with air-to-ship missiles.

What were they doing? Sightseeing?

The hell they were.

“Eyes—take down those planes!” shouted Storm.

“They’re going to either switch their targeting radars on at the last minute or hit us with iron bombs.”

“Aye aye, Captain, firing missiles.”

Two Standard SM-2 AERs spit out of the vertical launch tubes. Storm tracked their flares as they arced upward.

322

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Thirty seconds later the sky flashed white. A loud boom rent the air. Another flash. Boom! Bar-oom!

“Both planes hit,” Eyes reported.

“Good work.”

As Storm turned to go inside, the Phalanx close-in air defense gun on the starboard side of the ship began firing.

Storm gripped the rail, and in the next moment the ocean erupted beneath him.

Dw ¯arka Early Warning Radar Platform One 0523

CAPTAIN SATTARI FELT HIS HEART POUND AS HE RAN UP THE

stairs, a few steps behind the team’s point man. Bullets flew down from above, but they were unaimed, falling into the nearby water. Sattari’s chest heaved as he reached the landing. The other soldier had stopped to wait for him and the others.

“One more set of steps and we are at the main level,” said the point man, repeating the brief Sattari himself had delivered before the mission. “There will be four men there, no more.”

Sattari grunted, too winded to reply. He pulled up the grenade launcher while he caught his breath, making sure it was ready to fire.

Had the water ruined it? The only way to find out would be to use it.

Two more men reached the landing.

“Let us take them now,” said Sattari, his wind back. He pushed to the nearby steps. By the time he got halfway up the flight, the others had run ahead of him, his age finally starting to tell.

Gunshots peppered the air as they reached the turn. Two of the men threw themselves down, answering with their own gunfire. The third—the point man who had just been leading Sattari upward—tumbled down, shot several times.

END GAME

323

Sattari slid close to the railing and went up, stopping below the crouching men. Once again he checked the grenade launcher.

“All right,” he said, crawling next to them. “Wait until I fire.”

If only he could have one of the black robes who’d questioned his courage with him now—he would use him as a shield.

When the rattle of the automatic guns above started to die, Sattari leapt to his feet, raised the launcher and fired.

Aboard the Levitow ,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0525

BREANNA CHECKED THEIR POSITION AGAIN. THEY WERE NOT

quite ten minutes from their patrol area. The Indian aircraft carrier Shiva was forty miles to the northeast.

“All hell’s breaking loose up there,” said Stewart. “Multiple missile firings from the Shiva and their task group.”

“Plot a course to the EEMWB launch point,” said Breanna. “I’m going to turn east. There’s no sense going through the middle of this.”