“Quarter mile,” Danny told Boston. “Just below the surface. Probably trying to lay low until things quiet down.

Let’s paddle as close we can. We’ll skip the laughing gas, do everything else like we drew it up.”

END GAME

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Boston moved to the back of the raft and began kicking.

Danny picked up a paddle. The wind was gentle, but it was in his face, and it took quite an effort to reach the spot where the submarine was. Finally, Danny grabbed the waterproof packs from the inside of the manpod and gave one to Boston. He traded the smart helmet for a dive mask with a light and breather, and pulled on flippers.

“Ready?”

“If you say so,” replied Boston.

Danny took out his survival radio and held it to his face.

“Whiplash to Werewolf and Sharkboat. We’re ready to go below.”

“Sharkboat is fifteen minutes away,” replied the boat’s captain.

“Great. We’ll meet you on the surface.”

“Whiplash, you got a fighter coming at you out of the north. He’s at low altitude and slow.”

“Roger that. We’re in the water,” said Danny, tossing the radio behind him and slipping over the side.

The water was much darker than he had imagined it could be. Even with the light, he couldn’t see more than a few feet away.

Just when he thought he’d swum right by the sub, he spotted a black shadow looming a few yards to his right. A strong kick took him to the side of the vessel. He looked back and saw Boston’s light approaching.

Fearing that any noise outside the submarine might alert the people inside, he stayed off the hull, swimming above the deck to locate the emergency blow device. The sub expert had warned that the device might have been removed, but the door covering it was exactly where he’d seen it on the diagram. He reached gingerly to the panel, running his fingers around it. There were two latches. He slipped them to the sides and pried the panel upward. The large red lever sat inside, exactly as in the brochure advertising the civilian version of the submarine’s safety features.

Not ready to activate the system, Danny turned and 350

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

worked his way to the rear of the vessel, looking for the stern planes. Resembling a pair of airplane wings, the planes helped hold the vessel at the proper angle in the water; blowing them would make the submarine bob forward, further disorienting the passengers and making it harder for them to get away if something went wrong. He placed the small packs of explosive, then waited for Boston to put his on the propeller shaft. They pressed the timer buttons almost simultaneously. Then Danny swam back to the rescue device while Boston went to see if there were forward fins.

CAPTAIN SATTARI LISTENED AS THE CREAKS AND TREMORS OF

the great ocean rippled through the submarine, the sounds magnified by fear as much as acoustics.

If Allah permitted, they would stay here all day until the sun set. Then they could surface and repair whatever had caused the engine to fail. If unsuccessful, they would board the raft and head to shore.

It was possible. It would be done.

Sattari heard a loud clunk above him, so close it sounded as if someone had kicked the submarine.

“There may be patrol vessels searching for us,” said the Parvaneh’s commander. “We should be prepared to scuttle.”

Even as Sattari nodded, he found himself hoping it wouldn’t come to that. He wanted to stand before his father and tell him of his great victory.

THE HANDLE REFUSED TO BUDGE. DANNY PUT HIS FEET AS

gingerly as he could on the deck of the submarine and pushed, but still couldn’t get it to turn.

Boston swam up next to him and pointed at his watch.

The charges were set to go off in another sixty seconds.

Danny motioned to him to get near the hatchway, located inside the low-slung conning tower, so he would be ready to throw the grenades inside when the sub surfaced. Glancing at the timer on his watch—forty-eight seconds—he balled END GAME

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his hand into a fist, measuring his aim. As he did, he saw a long plastic knob next to the handle. It looked like a screw-driver, but turned out to be a release for the handle.

Before he could try the handle again, the charges exploded. Small as they were, they rocked the submarine upward. Danny jammed his hand against the lever as the top of the sub smacked him into his face mask. He felt himself propelled upward, as if he were sitting on an underwater volcano. He lost his grip on the handle but grabbed the device door, holding on as the submarine surfaced with a roar.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over India

0610

THERE WERE TIMES WHEN FLYING THE EB-52 WAS LIKE BEING

the engineer on a high-speed train riding on a dedicated rail, with relatively few decisions to make and a predictable program ahead of you.

This wasn’t one of those times.

Dog was being tracked by no less than six different missile batteries. He tried to zigzag between them and still stay on course.

“SA-12s to the right, SA-10s to the left,” said Jazz. “Pick your poison.”

“Tens,” said Dog.

“Flap Lid radar,” said the copilot, telling Dog that the SA-10’s engagement radar had locked onto them. “Breaking. I’m using every ECM we’ve got, Colonel.”

They were roughly seventy miles from the missile site, just outside its maximum reach. But their course was going to take them down to thirty miles from the battery.

“SA-12s are launching!” shouted Jazz. “I don’t think they have a lock.”

Dog immediately changed his course, dodging back to the north, closer to the SA-12 battery—if they were going 352

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

to fire at him anyway, there was no sense getting too close to the SA-10s.

The Russian SA-12—known to its makers as the S-300V—was a versatile missile that came in two different versions, depending on its primary use. The SA-12A—code-named Gladiator by NATO—was a low-to-high altitude missile that could reach targets up to fifteen and a half miles in the sky, with a range of just over forty-five miles. The B version was optimized as an antiballistic missile missile, with a higher altitude and longer range. Both missiles were incredibly fast, in the league of the American Patriot, which could hit Mach 5.

“He’s coming for us, Colonel. Forty miles.”

They had less than a minute to dodge the missile. Dog shoved the Megafortress hard to his left, trying to beam the Grill Pan missile radar.

“Still coming.”

“ECMs,” Dog told Jazz.

“I’m playing every song I know.”

“Chaff. Hang on, tight.” Dog veered down, trying to stay at a right angle to the radar and get the missile to bite on the tinsel.

“We’re clear! We’re clear!” said Jazz.

The missile’s warhead exploded a few thousand feet above them, two miles away. Dog kept the Megafortress level as he tried to sort out where he was relative to his original course. He’d strayed farther south than he wanted; as soon as he corrected, Jazz called out a fresh warning.

“We’re spiked! More SA-12s. The whole battery, looks like. This time they have a lock.”

Northern Arabian Sea

0612

THE PARVANEH SUBMARINE SHOOK WITH THE SHARP THUD OF

multiple explosions. Captain Sattari ripped the seat belt from around his waist and grabbed his AK-47 from the END GAME

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floor. He started to run toward the ladder to the deck above—the charges for the explosives that were sealed in the vessel’s hull were set off from the panel there.

After his third step he heard a loud roar, the sound of an old-fashioned locomotive letting off steam. Then he flew forward, knocked off his feet by the submarine’s sudden and unexpected rise toward the surface.