END GAME
335
“Starship, what the hell are you doing?” yelled Eyes.
“Taking out the submarines.”
“Belay that— stop! I haven’t given you the order. Hold your fire.”
“You just said go ahead.”
“I wasn’t telling you to attack. I thought you wanted to talk to me. We need authorization from the captain.”
“I don’t have it?”
“Negative, negative. Hold your fire.”
“Roger that. Holding fire.”
Starship circled the Werewolf farther from the submarines. The first craft had disappeared. The other two were moving to the north.
He knew he’d asked, and he knew what he’d heard. The stinking Navy could never make up its mind.
No, it was just Eyes.
“What’s your situation, Airforce?” asked Storm, coming on the line.
“Captain, the radar platform has been destroyed by a commando attack. There are three submarines to the north.
I fired on one thinking I had been ordered to do so.”
“What are the others doing?”
“Moving to the north.”
“Our intention is to seize the submarines. See if you can keep them on the surface.”
“I’ll try, sir. But it’s possible my gunfire will sink them.”
“Do your best, Airforce.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
STORM’S UNIFORM WAS SOAKED FROM THE BLAST AND HE’D
cut his face and hands. Two other men had been hurt; one had a severe head wound and was in serious condition in sickbay.
The blast started a very small leak above the belt line of the ship. The damage had already been repaired, and only a small amount of water had gotten in.
Storm wanted to launch an immediate counterattack on 336
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
the Indian carrier—he wanted to show the bastards what happened when you attacked a U.S. Navy ship. But they were out of range for the Harpoons.
That could be fixed.
“Eyes, we’re going south,” he said over the intraship com system. “Where is that Indian aircraft carrier?”
“Storm, we have to stay in range of the Chinese carrier’s aircraft, to back up the Dreamland people.”
“I know what my damn orders are, Commander.” Storm’s head began to pound. His anger was flaring. This is what happens when you’re a nice guy, he thought. Your subordinates take you for granted.
He would get his way, no matter what. But he had to be careful about it, had to be clever—yes, the way Bastian was clever, always covering his butt and making it seem as if he was in the right.
He’d already been fired on, and feared for the safety of his people.
His head pounded.
And he had a mission—he was supposed to get that submarine.
“We have an operation under way,” Storm told Eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain. “I want to protect my Sharkboat.”
“Should I order them to come back?”
“No—I want that submarine. They’re to get it.”
“Captain, I’d advise calling the mission off.”
“Thank you for your advice, Eyes.” Storm turned to the helmsman. “Take us east. Stay close enough to launch on the Deng’s aircraft if we have to.”
“Heading, Captain?”
“South.” Storm looked down at the holographic display.
The Megafortress had gone inland; there was no more long-range view of the ships and aircraft in the area. He thumbed the display back, found the Shiva’s last known position and gave the heading to Helm.
His headset buzzed.
END GAME
337
“Dreamland Whiplash team trying to contact you, Colonel,” said the communications officer. “Looking for a go/no go on the platform.”
“It’s go.” Storm punched into the line. “Is this Freah?”
“Freah.”
“This is Captain Gale aboard the Abner Read. What’s your status?”
“We’re roughly ten minutes from the radar platform,”
said Danny. “I need your approval to proceed.”
Storm checked his impulse, but just barely. He knew he had to think, to consider, not react—but it was damn hard with his head pounding.
“You’re aboard a Megafortress or the Osprey?” he asked.
“Megafortress. The Osprey is three hours behind,” said Danny. “Do you want us to proceed?”
“Damn straight I do.”
“Good. We’re on a low-altitude approach, flying without our long-range radar,” continued the Air Force Whiplash leader. “We don’t believe we’ve been detected. What’s the status of your Sharkboat?”
“I’m going to order them in,” said Storm.
Had he already done that? He couldn’t remember.
Think. Make your decisions in a calm, reasonable manner.
Ten minutes might be too long. The submarines would be under the surface by then, and the Sharkboat lacked the sensors needed to pick it up.
“If the submarines dive, the Sharkboat won’t be able to find them,” Storm said. “We need Piranha to locate them.
Wisconsin was operating them but had to leave the area.”
“Ensign English will take control of the probe,” said Danny. “She’ll find it.”
He couldn’t control every variable. If Freah was willing to take the chance, so was he.
He was more than willing. He wanted that sub.
And he wanted the Indian carrier as well. Which he was going to get.
338
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Very good, Captain,” said Storm. “Proceed. I’ll let the Sharkboat know you’re on your way. Eyes will liaison in Tac.”
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0538
MEMON STARED AT THE SHADOWY SEA, HIS EYES LOSING THEIR
focus. Reports from the first wave of attacks on the Chinese carrier were just coming in. Remembering how overly optimistic the news had been during the last attack, Memon resolved not to believe them. He made his face into a stone mask, impassive.
“First missile has missed. Second missile—we’ve lost contact.”
“Aircraft are attacking the Chinese helicopter—one shot down.”
One of the Chinese escort ships fired back. Two flights of Chinese aircraft had made it past the Indian screening aircraft and were attacking. A flight of Pakistani F-16s was being engaged to the north by shore-based planes.
Admiral Skandar listened impassively to the chatter from the radio and the ship’s intercom systems. “Battle is a struggle against chaos,” he told Memon.
“Enemy missiles launched! On their way!”
Something squeezed Memon’s stomach, and he felt tears stream from his eyes.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
above the northern Arabian Sea
0540
AT FIRST THE PAKISTANI F-16S SHOWED NO INTEREST IN THE
Wisconsin. Mack stayed close to the Megafortress; he was starting to get low on fuel and was more than willing to let END GAME
339
the planes go if they didn’t want to tango. But as the F-16s got to within twenty miles, a pair veered in the direction of the EB-52, starting what Mack interpreted as a maneuver to get behind the Megafortress. He swung out to meet them.
The PAF aircraft stayed together, closing quickly. The two groups of planes were rushing toward each other so fast that within thirty seconds they were separated by less than ten miles. Mack, descending from thirty thousand feet, had barely enough time to get his gun ready before the closest aircraft raced into his targeting pipper. He slammed his finger onto the trigger, ripping through the left wing root and into the fuel tanks and engine of the aircraft. He pumped his cannon twice more, catching a bit of the wing as the aircraft rolled downward. Then he tucked left, trying to line up to take the stricken Viper’s wingman. But the other F-16 had veered back northward, and by the time Mack found him, he was too far off to engage.
He banked Hawk One to the east, pushing back closer to Wisconsin. He glanced at the sitrep to find out what had happened to the other F-16s. He found out a lot sooner than he would have hoped—a launch warning sounded; he’d turned almost directly in the path of the second element of PAF fighters.