“Your call, Colonel.”
“Both of the aircraft with EEMWBs are within ninety seconds of their launch points,” he added. “Are we cleared to go?”
“Stand by. I have Mr. Freeman right here.”
The National Security Advisor’s face came into view on the screen. It was gray and deathly.
“Colonel Bastian, I have just spoken with the President of the United States. You’re ordered to proceed. God be with you all.”
Never had a blessing sounded so dire.
“Thank you, sir,” said Dog, pressing the button to flip back to Chu.
END GAME
367
Aboard the Levitow ,
over India
0620
BREANNA CLEARED THE TRANSMISSION. HER FATHER’S FACE
came on the screen.
“Proceed with End Game,” he said.
“Roger that—I’m sixty seconds from launch. What’s the status on the Chinese aircraft carrier?”
“Responding with conventional weapons so far. Launch your three EEMWBs and reserve the last for the carrier as planned. Chu is flying to the west and will back you up with conventional weapons. Give him enough warning to get south before you launch.”
“Will do.”
Breanna checked her position, then told Stewart to get ready to launch the first two missiles.
“Ready,” said Stewart.
“Any fighters nearby?”
“Negative.”
“Crew, we’re thirty seconds from weapons launch. First explosion will follow in ten minutes.”
Breanna turned her attention back to the helm of her ship. She was climbing through twenty thousand feet.
Somewhere far above her, Indian missiles were arcing on their course toward Pakistan.
“Counting down from ten,” said Stewart. “Nine, eight, seven …”
Breanna stared at the blue sky ahead. At this altitude, the world appeared blissful.
“… three, two, one.”
“Fire EEMWB one,” said Breanna. “Fire two.”
“Firing EEMWB one. Firing EEMWB two.”
Missile one rocketed off its launcher on the right wing, climbing ahead with a furious spurt of energy. Breanna turned to left, looking for the contrail from missile two. But it was nowhere to be seen.
368
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Stewart, where’s missile two?”
“Launched—engine failed to ignite.”
“Retarget missile three and fire.”
“Retargeting. Firing missile three.”
The missile shot up ahead.
“Missile one is on course,” said Stewart. “Missile two has been lost. Missile three is on course. Time to launch missile four is zero-seven minutes. You have a turn coming up in thirty seconds.”
Breanna acknowledged, then keyed in the Dreamland communications line to tell Colonel Bastian that one of the missiles had malfunctioned.
Aboard the Wisconsin , over India
0622
“WHAT’S THE STATUS ON THAT SA-2 MISSILE SITE?” DOG
asked Jazz.
“Tracking us.”
“Our EEMWBs?”
“Missile one is on course. Missile two is on course,” Jazz told Dog. “Sixty seconds to launch point two.”
Dog began a ten degree turn to the north, positioning himself for the final launch. The first of their missiles would explode approximately two minutes after he fired; he’d be on manual controls after that.
The Dreamland communications line buzzed.
“Levitow to Wisconsin. One of our missiles failed to ignite. Motor failure. We fired a replacement.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Should I fire the last missile or reserve it for the Deng?”
“Fire the missile as planned,” Dog told her. “Then get back to use your Scorpions against the Tai-shan planes. I’ll alert Dreamland Fisher.”
“Levitow,” said Breanna, acknowledging.
END GAME
369
“Thirty seconds to launch point,” broke in Jazz.
“Very good,” said Dog, making sure he was precisely on course.
Aboard the Abner Read , in the northern Arabian Sea
0622
STORM’S HEAD HURT SO BADLY HE HAD TO SIT ON THE SMALL
fold-down jumpseat at the side of the holographic display.
He knew he was bleeding—every time he wiped his forehead, his fingers were drenched in fresh blood.
“Weapons, what’s our status?”
“Ready to launch on command, Captain.”
“Stand by. Weapons will launch on my command.”
In the days of sailing ships, the order to attack another ship could take hours to carry out, with crew working feverishly just to position the ship, let alone fill and fire the cannons. Now it took only fractions of a second.
“Weapons, fire all missiles.”
“Firing, Captain.”
A pair of missiles flared from the forward deck, followed by two more, then another pair, then another. The ship’s bow bent down toward the waves with the fusillade.
“Deal with that, you bastards,” Storm muttered as the missiles leapt away.
Aboard the Levitow ,
over India
0626
EEMWB FOUR CLUNKED OFF THE LAUNCHER, ITS ROCKET
motor igniting with a burst of red flame. Breanna immediately changed course to the southwest.
“Flight of Su-27s closing in on us from the south,” said 370
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Stewart. “Thirty-five miles away. Four aircraft. They have AA-12s.”
“Target the lead element. Reserve four Scorpions. I want two missiles apiece for the Tai-shan aircraft.”
“Targeting.”
“Bay.”
“Bomb bay open.”
“Fire as soon as you’re locked.”
“Bree, I have launch warnings.”
“Fire Scorpions. Crew—stand by for evasive maneuvers.”
“TALK ABOUT IMPOTENT,” MUTTERED ZEN AS THE MEGA-fortress jerked away from the Indians’ antiaircraft missiles.
He switched his main view from the sitrep screen to the Levitow’s forward video camera, then killed the display al-together and took off his helmet. Flying wasn’t a spectator sport, especially when you were under attack.
“They going to hit us?” asked Dork. He sounded scared.
“Nah. Captain Stockard likes to cut things close, but not that close.”
The Megafortress jerked so sharply Zen’s restraints cut into his chest.
“We ought to work on getting you a new nickname,” he told the other Flighthawk pilot as the plane straightened out.
“What were you called in high school?”
“Dork, sir.”
A FLIGHT OF PAKISTANI AIRCRAFT APPEARED TO THE NORTH; very possibly the Indians had been looking for them when they found the Megafortress instead. That was of small consolation to Breanna, who was desperately wheeling Levitow between the clouds, trying to duck their missiles.
“SA-12 site tracking us,” warned Stewart.
“The more the merrier,” said Breanna.
“I have every ECM—”
“Keep them there,” said Breanna. “Chaff, flares, every-
END GAME
371
thing you got. We have another sixty seconds until the EEMWBs go off. That’s all we need.”
“Scorpion One has scored. Two—uh, near miss.”
“Good.”
“AMRAAMski going off track.”
About time, thought Breanna.
“One more.”
Breanna put her hand on the throttle, even though she knew it was at max power. Then she jerked her stick hard right, trying to turn the Megafortress into a hummingbird and veer out of the way of the missiles.
The computer complained that they were about to exceed eight g’s. Breanna kept the pressure on her stick anyway.
“Two more missiles missed,” said the copilot. “I can’t find the last one.”
Breanna sensed where it was and let off on the stick. The Megafortress stumbled, but began to recover.
As it did, the enemy air-to-air missile exploded under her right wing.
Aboard the Shiva ,
in the northern Arabian Sea
0632