End Game

VIII Inevitability

Breanna pushed the lock of hair away from her eye, arranging it behind her ear with her fingers. The mirror in the tiny bathroom wasn't big enough to show more than a quarter of her face, let alone the rest of her. Her nightshirt — actually an oversized T-shirt she'd appropriated from Zen months ago — was hardly sexy, but it was marginally more alluring than the heavy sweats she usually slept in.

Not that she wanted to be alluring, or felt a need to be. What she wanted to be was honest and easy and uncomplicated, not wracked with guilt and fear, if that was the right word. She wanted to talk with her husband without worrying about landmines, to be able to say she loved him and wanted the best for him, and ask why he was giving up.

Why was he giving up?

"Hey," Zen grunted from inside the room. "You comin' to bed?"

Breanna snapped off the light. "I'm thinking about it," she said, forcing her voice to be cheerful.

She opened the door and stepped into the darkened room, nearly tripping over the cots they'd pushed together to form a double bed. She slipped in beside him, wrapping her arm around his chest and then gently resting her head on his shoulder.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"Missed you too. More than ever." "You think you'll be able to sleep? My body clock's all messed up."

"I have some Ambien if you need it." "Thanks."

I'm being a coward, she told herself. Just blurt it out. "Jeff?"

"You feeling frisky?" he asked, leaning his body to the side and starting to fondle her breast.

"I—"

Before she could continue, there was a knock on the door.

"Major Stockard? Captain?" said Boston from the hallway. "Uh, sir, ma'am? You awake in there?"

"We're busy, Boston," growled Zen. "Come back next year."

"I really wish I could, sir. I really wish I could. But the colonel needs to talk to you ASAP over at the Dreamland Command trailer."

"He's back already?" said Breanna. She glanced at her watch. The original plan called for the Wisconsin to stay on station until the Levitow returned to the area. It wasn't supposed to be ready to take off for another hour yet, at least.

"Uh, no, ma'am. He's on the secure line."

"All right. We'll be right there," said Zen, pushing himself upright.

Ten minutes later Zen and Breanna joined the other Dreamland officers crowding into the Dreamland Command trailer. Zen had to squeeze past the door and pivot to his right, never easy in these cramped quarters as he came up the ramp, and harder today, not so much because of the crowd as the fact that he was tired.

Danny had folded back the divider between the secure communications area and the main room, making it possible to swing the video conferencing unit out where everyone could see — or at least pretend to see. He'd also jacked up the volume, though even at its highest level it was just barely audible at the far end of the trailer.

"We've had some more simulations done at Dreamland," Dog told them after briefly recounting their mission and the general situation. "The computer models show that we need more detonations to be successful than we thought earlier. That means, for practical purposes, seven missiles, fired in a preplanned sequence. And from somewhat farther over Indian territory than we had originally planned."

Zen guessed the rest: The Levitow and Wisconsin would have to stay on station until the crisis passed, or until more EEMWBs were manufactured. The Levitow, due to take off within the hour, would have two sets of pilots and an extra radar operator; the crews would rotate, with those off-duty trying to catch some z's in the compartment behind the flight deck. Used by the defensive team in a "stock" B-52, the compartment was designed for another set of Flighthawk operators, but in Dreamland EB-52s it was usually empty or else crammed with test gear. Cots had been installed during some deployments and long sorties. There was no confusing the accommodations with a deluxe hotel, or even a sturdy Army cot, but they were serviceable.

"What about the Flighthawks?" asked Zen.

"Two per plane. They're not shielded, so Zen, you'll have to work out a strategy to maximize protection if we have to move ahead. We'll exchange Ensign English for a Flighthawk pilot on Levitow. The Piranha unit is nearing the end of its patrol time anyway; its fuel cell is almost used up. The second pilot will control it for as long as possible, then put it into autonomous mode."

"What about the planes on the Chinese carrier?" asked Breanna.

"The Levitow will target them, with the Abner Read backing her up."

"I think Dreamland Fisher ought to be dedicated to the targeting mission," said Tommy Chu, the aircraft's pilot. "If the Levitow can't get back in time, it will be in position."

"We can use it for the Whiplash mission as well," said Danny.

"All right. Let's do it. Wisconsin will return to base as soon as the Levitow is on station. Bennett is en route home right now; they'll try and grab some rest and then form the backup crew on Wisconsin. We want a hot pit — basically just long enough for our backup pilots and crew to jump aboard. The diplomats are working overtime," added the colonel, trying a little too hard to sound positive. "If we can get past the next forty-eight hours or so, tensions should calm."

A big if, thought Zen, though he didn't say it.

Fifteen minutes later, out on the apron near the runway, Danny wondered what he'd gotten himself into. The manpod — actually a large, flat, pressurized container designed to fit under a B-2 or a B-52's wing — did not want to align properly with the detents that would allow auxiliary power to be pumped into the unit from the Fisher. The power was necessary for several reasons, not least of which was the fact that without it the pod would not pressurize.

It wasn't as if Danny could do an awful lot about the problem — he and Boston were packed inside their respective pods, talking through the "smart helmet" com links to Sergeant Liu, who was supervising the "snap in" — or trying to.

The lift truck lowered him again.

"Hey, guys, I'm supposed to be part of the plane, right?" said Danny.

No one answered for a second, then Danny overheard a muffled grumble through Liu's microphone. He couldn't make out the words, but the grumble had a familiar snarl to it.

"Good morning, Captain," said Greasy Hands — aka Chief Master Sergeant Al Parsons — a moment later. "We seem to be having a little difficulty here."

"You're telling me."

"Well, you just hold on for a second, Captain, while I straighten these boys out."

A moment later Danny felt the manpod being lifted off its carrier. Over the com system he heard someone — it had to be Greasy Hands — counting off in the background. Then the manpod was thrust upward against the wing, slapping into the brace with a resounding clunk.

"There you go," snarled Greasy Hands. "We'll have Boston on in a minute. Less time if someone here would get me my coffee!"

"Pretty Boy, get the chief a pot of coffee, on the double," said Danny to Sergeant Jack Floyd, his ears ringing.

"God is great," the Mitra's captain told Sattari. "The destroyer has changed course and is heading west." "You're sure?"

"Look for yourself. His stacks are billowing — he must be off to meet one of the Chinese ships. I've sent to the radio room to see if they have intercepted any messages."

Sattari took the night glasses. He saw the cloud of warm exhaust rising in the distance, but not the Pakistani ship.

"We will leave immediately," Sattari said. "With the protection of God, we will do our duty. Protect yourself," he added, handing the glasses back.

"We will do our best," said the captain. "May God be with you."

Cantor stared at the Piranha's screen, trying to blink away some of the burn he felt in the corner of his eyes. The milky representation of the ocean was supposedly a huge advance over the displays used by conventional passive sonar systems, but the only thing he had to compare it to was the Flighthawk's synthesized radar images, and that was like comparing shadows reflected from a campfire to an iMax movie.

Piranha had followed the Chinese submarine into Pakistani waters south of Karachi, close to the border with India. This happened to suit them well, taking them within six minutes' flying time to the spot where they would cross the border if they had to fire their EEMWBs. For the past two hours, the Kilo-class sub had sat a hundred feet below the surface of the water, silently waiting. But now that the Chinese submarine began to move westward, Colonel Bastian would have to decide whether they would drop another control buoy and follow or pull the Piranha back.

Besides the submarine, there were two surface ships in the vicinity. One — too far away to be identified by the Piranha, but ID'd by the surface radar as a Pakistani patrol craft — was sailing south. The other was a civilian ship. Cantor could see both vessels on the large surface radar plot in his lower left-hand screen.

The computer gave an audible warning that the Piranha was approaching the limit of the buoy's communication system. Cantor throttled the robot back, then asked Colonel Bastian what he wanted to do.

"Tell you what, Cantor—Levitow is about two hours' flying time away. Let's put down one more control buoy and move south. They can pick it up when they come on station."

"Copy that, Colonel. We could swing south about six miles and drop it there."

"I have to watch out for traffic," said Dog. "Stand by."

While he was waiting, Cantor swung the Piranha around, doing the robot submarine's version of "checking six" to see what was behind it. The merchant ship showed up on the screen — a long blurry shadow, with a set of numbers giving data on the direction the contact was moving and categorizing the sound it made. Cantor moved his cursor to select the contact, directing the computer to check the sound against its library of contacts. The computer classified the vessel as an "unknown oil tanker type," as had the system tied into the Megafortress's surface radar.

As the Piranha continued to swing through the circle, its passive sonar picked up another contact, this one underwater. The contact was so faint the robot's gear couldn't tell how far away it was.

Was it really there? The irregular coastal floor nearby played tricks with sound currents, and it was possible that Piranha was "seeing" a reflection of the submarine or one of the surface ships. The only way to tell was to get closer.

Cantor halted the Piranha's turn, sliding the stick forward and moving gingerly in the direction of the contact. The scale showed the contact was at least twenty miles away, just about in territorial waters.

"Colonel, I think I have something, another sub maybe," Cantor told Bastian. "It's a good twenty miles east of us. I wonder if we should check it out."

"You're sure it's a sub?"

"I'm not sure at all," Cantor admitted. "But if I follow the Chinese Kilo, I'll definitely lose it. Very faint signal— extremely quiet."

"Give me the coordinates," said Dog.

Memon watched as the last Su-35 exploded off the deck of the carrier, its rapid ascent into the night sky belying the heavy load beneath its wings. Six new jets had arrived last evening, bringing the carrier's flyable complement to eighteen. All but two were now in the air; if the order was given to attack, it would take no more than ten minutes for the first missile to strike its target.

He hoped it would not come to that.

Did this mean he was a coward? Or was Skandar right— was it just a matter of experience, of getting past the first shock?

"A beautiful sight, isn't it?"

The voice sounded so much like Admiral Kala's that Memon turned around with a jerk. But it wasn't the dead admiral or his ghost, just one of the NCOs, an older man who supervised the radar specialists.

"Yes, it is beautiful," managed Memon. "Incredibly beautiful."

Jed Barclay wheeled his chair back from the communications console and surveyed the screens arrayed before him. Twenty-three different computers were tied into various intelligence networks, allowing him almost instantaneous information on what was happening in India and Pakistan. Updated feeds from satellites designed to detect missile launches took up four screens at the left; the coverage overlapped and had been arranged so the entire subcontinent was always in view. A pair of screens collated feeds from a pair of U-2s covering the Arabian Sea. The planes' sensor arrays, dubbed "Multi-Spectral Electro-Optical Reconnaissance Sensor SYERS upgrades," provided around-the-clock coverage of the region, using optics during the day and in clear weather, and infrared and radar at other times.

The next screen provided a feed from an electronic eavesdropping program run by the National Security Agency; the screen filled with updates on intelligence gathered by clandestine electronic listening posts near India and in Pakistan. Interpretations on captures of intelligence on Pakistani systems filled the next screen. Then came a series of displays devoted to bulletins from the desks at the different intelligence agencies monitoring the situation. Finally there was the tie-in to the Dreamland Command network, which allowed Jed to talk to all of the Dreamland aircraft and share the imagery.

Six people were needed to work all of the gear. Jed was the only one authorized to communicate directly with the Dreamland force. He would be relieved in the morning by his boss, who had just gone to dinner and who expected to be paged immediately if things perked up.

"I say we send out for pizza," said the photo interpreter monitoring the U-2 and satellite images.

"How about Sicilian?" suggested Peg Jordan, monitoring the NSA feed.

"Sounds good," said Jed.

"Let's call Sicily and have it delivered," deadpanned Jordan.

Everyone laughed. As lame as it was, Jed hoped the joke wouldn't be the only one he heard tonight.

Dog double-checked his position, making sure he was still outside Pakistani territory. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying thirty miles due east of him, very close to the country's border with India. The planes had queried him twice, making sure he wasn't an Indian jet. Even though that should have been obvious, Dog had Jazz reassure the pilots, telling them they were Americans hoping to "help keep the peace." There was no sense having to duck the planes' missiles prematurely.

Besides the Pakistani flight, the Megafortress was being shadowed by a pair of Indian MiG-21s. Much older than the F-16s, they were farther away and less of a threat. But they were clearly watching him. Probably guided by a ground controller, they changed course every time he did. He knew this couldn't go on much longer — the small fighters simply didn't carry that much fuel — but it was an ominous portent of the gamut they'd have to run if things went sour.

Jed had warned that they couldn't expect the Pakistanis to be friendly. Annoyed at the neutral stance of the U.S., the government of Pakistan had specifically warned that the Dreamland aircraft were "unwelcome" in Pakistani airspace for the length of the crisis.

If ballistic missiles were launched, Dog would know within fifteen seconds. Ideally, he would then rush over the Thar Desert, flying at least twelve and a half minutes before firing the first salvo of three missiles, which would detonate roughly seven minutes later. Seconds before they did, he would fire his last missile. Soon afterward, he would lose most if not all of his instruments and fly back blind. And while the radars and missile batteries along the route he was flying would be wiped out, the closer he got to the coast, the higher the odds that he'd be in the crosshairs. The Wisconsin might never know what hit her.

The worst thing was, if the new calculations were correct, the mission might be in vain. And the same went for the Levitow. It was going to be ten or twelve hours before they could have both aircraft on station.

"J-13s from the carrier are headed our way," said Jazz.

Dog grunted. The Chinese seemed to be working on an hourly schedule — every sixty minutes they sent a pair of planes to do a fly-by and head back to the carrier.

"Wisconsin, this is Hawk One—you sure you don't want me to get in their faces?"

"Negative, Mack. Conserve your fuel. And your tactics."

"Roger that."

Dog thought Mack must be getting tired — he didn't put up an argument.

"Colonel, Piranha is within ten miles of that underwater contact," said Cantor. "Computer is matching this to the other craft. The one that scuttled itself the other day."

"You're positive, Cantor?"

"Computer is, Colonel. Personally, I haven't a clue." "All right. I'll contact Captain Chu and Danny in Dreamland Fisher. Good work."

Storm watched the plot on the radarman's scope, tracking the Indian jets as they circled to the east.

"Keeping an eye on us," said the sailor. "Every fifteen minutes or so they split up. One comes straight overhead."

Storm scratched the stubble on his chin, considering the situation. The planes were well within range of the Standard antiair missiles in the forward vertical launch tubes.

The problem was, his orders of engagement declared that he had to wait for "life-threatening action" before he could fire. That meant he couldn't launch his missiles unless the

Sukhois got aggressive — which at this close range might be too late. Storm decided that when he got back to the bridge he would radio Bastian and see if he couldn't get one of his little robot fighters over to run the Indians off.

Continuing with his tour of the Tactical Center, Storm moved over to the Werewolf station. Starship had gone off to bed, and one of Storm's crewmen — Petty Officer Second Class Paul Varitok — was at the helm of the robot. The petty officer was one of the ship's electronics experts and had volunteered to fly the aircraft when it came aboard. He was still learning; even discounting the fact that Storm's presence made him nervous, it was obvious to the captain that he had a long way to go.

Storm completed his rounds and headed over to the communications shack. After checking the routine traffic, he made a call to Bastian. The Air Force lieutenant colonel snapped onto the line with his customary, "Bastian," the accompanying growl practically saying, Why are you bothering me now?

"I have two Indian warplanes circling south at five miles," Storm told him. "What are the odds of you chasing them away?"

"No can do," said Dog. "Stand by," he added suddenly, and the screen went blank.

It took the Air Force commander several minutes to get back to him, and he didn't offer an apology or an explanation when he did. If he wasn't such an insolent, arrogant, know-it-all blowhard — he'd still be a jerk.

"Storm — we have a contact we think may be another midget submarine. It's similar to the one that blew itself up. We're going to track it. My Whiplash people will be en route shortly."

"Where is it?"

"A few miles off the Pakistani coast, just crossing toward Indian territory."

Dog gave him the coordinates, about sixty miles to the east of the Sharkboat, which was another forty to the east of the Abner Read.

"It will take about two hours for the Sharkboat to get there," Storm told him. "But those are Indian waters. If we're caught there, it will be viewed as provocative. The Indians will have every right to attack us."

"You're telling me you won't go there?"

"This has nothing to do with the aircraft carrier, Bastian. You can't give me an order regarding it."

"I'm not. But if we want to get the submarine, we have to do it now. I would suggest—suggest—that you position your Sharkboat several miles offshore so it can come to the aid of the craft when it begins to founder."

"You know all the angles, don't you?" snapped Storm.

Dog didn't respond.

"Yes, we'll do it," said Storm. "Get with Eyes for the details." He jabbed his finger on the switch to kill the transmission.

Zen watched as Lieutenant Dennis "Dork" Thrall finished the refuel of Hawk Three. Dork backed out of Levi-tow, rolling right as he cleared away from the Megafortress. Hawk Four remained on the wing; Zen would have to take the Piranha when they arrived on station, and didn't want to leave Dork to handle two planes.

Dork steered the Flighthawk out in front of the Megafortress, climbing gradually to 42,000 feet, about five thousand higher than the EB-52. They were still forty-five minutes from the Wisconsin's position, but already they'd encountered three different Indian patrols. They had also passed a Russian guided missile cruiser steaming north ward with two smaller ships. If tempers were cooling, Zen saw no evidence of it.

He heard something behind him, and turned to find Bre-anna climbing down the metal ladder at the rear of the deck.

"I thought you were sleeping," he told her.

"I fell asleep for, oh, twenty minutes," she said. "Hard to sleep with Stewart snoring in my ear. She's louder than the engines."

"Dork's flying Hawk Three" said Zen.

"So I gathered. You're just surplus?"

"Nothing but a spare part. You too?"

"Actually, I'm going to switch with Louis and take the stick. He's feeling the aftereffects of the Navy food."

"You sure you shouldn't get more rest?"

"Nah," said Breanna. Then she added cryptically, "Hardly worth giving up your treatments for."

"Huh?" Zen looked up at her, shocked — almost stunned — by what she'd said.

"You want anything? Coffee?"

"I'll take a cup."

He watched her disappear upstairs and felt a pang of regret at not being able to get up and go with her — at not being able to walk up with her.

She thought he'd made a mistake. That's what she'd meant. She wanted a whole man for a husband: one who walked.

Zen forced himself to go back to watching Dork. The Flighthawk pilot checked his sitrep, keeping a wary eye on a pair of Indian MiG-29s that the Levitow''s radar painted about 150 miles to the east. He had a good handle on what he was doing; while there were no guarantees, Zen thought he'd do well in combat once he got a little experience under his belt.

Maybe no one really needed him here at all. "Coffee," said Breanna, returning with a cup. "Where's yours?"

"I have to get back. Lou's whiter than a ghost." "All right. See you around."

"Something wrong, Jeff?"

"Nah. I'll be talking to you." He tried to make it sound like a joke, but couldn't quite manage it.

"Piranha to Wisconsin."

"Go ahead, Cantor," said Colonel Bastian, checking his position to make sure he was still in international airspace, about fifteen miles to the west of shore.

"The submarine is surfacing, Colonel. I think they're going to that radar platform. And I think there's another one nearby, closer to the coast but behind us. I'll have to circle around to find out."

The platform held one of a series of large radar antennas used to detect aircraft by the Indians. It would be a perfect target for a covert operation.

There was also a small building and shed at the base — a good place to resupply a small vessel.

"Wisconsin to Flighthawk leader — Mack, I want you to take a pass at the radar platform and give us some visuals. I want to see if that platform is expecting them."

"On it, Colonel."

Captain Hongwu, the master of the Deng Xiaoping, reviewed the movements of the Indian ships over the past several hours. The Shiva and her escorts had spread out, and at the same time come closer to him. Clearly they were positioning themselves for an attack.

While he had expended most of his anticruise missiles in his earlier engagement, Hongwu felt confident he could handle the Indians by overmatching their aircraft with his larger squadron, allowing him to reserve the missiles for use against ship-launched weapons. He would devote his planes to defense initially, counterattacking only after he had broken the enemy's thrust.

But he worried about what role the Americans would play. Besides the warship his pilots had misidentified, they were flying Megafortresses above the Arabian Sea. One seemed to be tracking his fleet. He thought it unlikely that they would help the Indians, but he knew he had to be prepared.

"The American aircraft should be kept at least fifty miles from us at all times," he told his air commander. "We must keep their air-to-air missiles out of easy range of the radar helicopters. And if fighting starts again, they should be moved back beyond the range of the standard Harpoon missiles they carry — eighty miles."

Hongwu immediately noted the concern on the air commander's face.

"If necessary, assign four aircraft to escort them," added Hongwu. "Escort them at very close range, where their air-to-air missiles will not be a factor."

"It will be done, Captain."

Captain Sattari rolled his neck sideways and then down toward his chest, trying to stretch away the kink that had developed there in the past hour. They were almost at their destination; he wanted to be out, and so did everyone else aboard the submarine.

"We are a little ahead of schedule, Captain," said the Par-vaneh's captain. "The others may be well behind us."

"Good. We will lead the charge." Sattari got up and turned to the rest of the commandos. "Be prepared to fire your weapons the moment we are out of the submarine."

"The radar platform at DwArka reports that an American Megafortress is orbiting it to the west," the radar officer told Admiral Skandar. "A flight of air force interceptors is being scrambled to meet it."

Skandar nodded, and turned to Memon. "Do you still think the Americans are neutral?"

"No, Minister," said Memon, though the question was clearly rhetorical.

"They are targeting the radar platform. You will see — it will be attacked at any moment." Skandar turned to his executive officer. "Warn the platform to be on its guard. Have the men move to their battle stations. The showdown is about to begin."

Mack Smith accelerated as he approached the platform, taking the Flighthawk down through fifty feet. He was too low and close to be seen by this radar system, but human eyes and ears were another matter. He had the throttle at max as he rocketed by the platform at close to 500 knots, banking around to the north and making another pass.

"If there's a sub pen or docking area under that platform somewhere, I can't see it," he told Dog. "Cantor, where's that submarine? Let me do a flyover as he comes up."

"He's just coming to the surface, about a mile north of the platform, in very shallow water."

Mack slid the Flighthawk around, slowing down now to get better images. Nothing showed on the screen, though, as he passed.

"Two MiG-29s coming off Bhuj," warned T-Bone, naming an airfield along the coast. "And we have another flight coming in from the south — they're going to their afterburners."

"Want me to go cool their jets, Colonel?" asked Mack. "No. Take another pass where that submarine is coming up. I want pictures."

"Just call me Candid Camera."

"The MiGs out of Bhuj are looking for us," said Jazz. "Carrying AMRAAMskis. They're about a hundred miles away, speed accelerating over five hundred knots. Think the radar station picked up the Flighthawk?"

"I doubt it," Dog told him. "They probably just got tired of us orbiting so close to them."

Dog checked his watch. Danny and Boston in the Fisher were still twenty minutes away.

"Let's do this," he told Jazz. "Try and raise the Indian controller on his frequency. Tell him that there's a submarine surfacing near his platform in Indian territory."

"How do I explain that we know that?"

"Don't," said Dog.

"Southern flight of MiGs has also gone to afterburners," said T-Bone at the radar station. "Now approximately seven minutes away."

"Mack, do you have any visuals for me?"

"Negative, Colonel. Submarine hasn't broken the water yet."

"All right. Come north with me. We're going to run up toward the end of our patrol track and turn around. On the way back south we'll launch Hawk Two."

"You want me to take it?" interrupted Cantor.

"No. Stay with Piranha. Mack will have to handle both planes for a while."

"No sweat," said Mack.

"If the Indians don't back off, set up an intercept on the group coming out of the east, from Bhuj," Dog told him.

"Got it, Colonel."

"And Mack — don't fire at them unless I tell you to." "Your wish is my command, Colonel. But say the word, and they're going down."

Stewart opened her eyes and saw that Breanna had left the bay. She rolled out of the bunk and pulled on her boots, then went out into the Megafortress's galley area. The restroom — imagine that in a B-1B! — was occupied.

"I'd like to brush my teeth," she joked.

"I'll be a while," moaned the occupant.

It wasn't Breanna. Stewart looked toward the front and realized that she had taken over as pilot four hours ahead of schedule.

Just like her.

Stewart grabbed her helmet and walked up past the radar stations to the first officer's seat.

"Sorry I overslept. Mom forgot to set the alarm clock," she told the copilot, Dick "Bullet" Timmons. "Thanks for covering, Bullet."

"I'm still on, Stewie. Lou's stomach just went ballistic on him."

"Bree and me are partners," she told him. She glanced at Breanna. "Don't want to break up the act."

"Yeah, the teams ought to stay together," Bree said.

Stewart felt her face flush. Finally, she thought, she'd been accepted.

"Your call, Captain," said Bullet. "Time I stretch my legs anyway."

"Just don't try the bathroom for the next hour," added Stewart.

The Levitow's long-range radar plot showed the two MiGs on afterburners, heading north to intercept Wisconsin.

Breanna clicked into the Dreamland communications channel. "Dreamland Levitow to Wisconsin. I assume you see those MiGs coming at you from the south."

"Roger that, Levitow," said Dog. "We're moving north. What's your estimated time to station?"

"Still a good fifteen minutes away from the designated patrol area."

"Be advised, Piranha's contact has stopped about a mile from the radar platform. We think they may be planning a raid. We're trying to alert the Indian authorities. Piranha is about a mile and a half from the stopped sub and is approaching another contact, apparently a similar submarine."

"Do you still want us to take over Piranha when we get closer?"

"Let's play that by ear. It may depend on what these MiGs do. I'm going to launch Hawk Two right now." "Roger that."

"Turn Hawk Three over to the computer and then swap stations with me," Zen told Dork. "You sure, Major?"

"Yeah, I'll take Three. You launch Hawk Four from this station. Then if we're in range and have to take over Piranha, you can do it while I fly both U/MFs. You can't control Piranha from the left station."

"I've only flown — I mean, sailed — Piranha in simulations."

"It'll be easy," said Zen.

Far easier than flying two Flighthawks in combat, he thought, though he didn't say that.

Dork put Hawk Three into one of its preset flight patterns, turned its controls over to the computer, then undid his restraints and got out of his seat. Zen levered himself close enough to the other station so he could swing into the unoccupied chair. He landed sideways, then dropped awkwardly into position.

Blood rushed from his head. Whether it was an aftermath of the treatments or sleep deprivation, he felt zapped.

"Here's your flight helmet," said Dork.

"All right, thanks," said Zen. "Let's do the handoff, then get ready to launch. I'll talk to Bree."

Lying in the manpod was like being in an isolation chamber. A very cold isolation chamber. There were supposedly heating circuits in the damn things, but Danny had never used one yet without freezing his extremities off.

Not that he had all that much experience with the man-pod. In fact, he'd only used it in training missions, and only once on a water jump.

The manpod could be ejected from either high or low altitude. In this case, the plan was to go out very low, so the EB-52 wasn't detected. The pod would be more projectile than package, its descent barely retarded by a special drogue parachute.

"Danny?"

Colonel Bastian's voice reverberated in his helmet. "What do you need, Colonel?"

"I just want you to know that we have fighters approaching the area where the submarine is. I've told Lieutenant Chu that he's to stay out of the area unless I instruct him otherwise."

"Aw, Colonel, it's cold in here. You have to let me jump or I'll freeze to death."

"We'll play it by ear, Danny. Sorry," added Dog, the word echoing in Danny's helmet.

Lieutenant Chu checked his altitude on the heads-up display, keeping the Megafortress at precisely thirty-eight feet above the waves. The aircraft's powerful surveillance radars were off, allowing it to slip undetected like a ghost in the night.

His adrenaline had his heart on double-fast forward. It had been like this the whole deployment, almost a high.

Chu had been thinking of trading in his pilot's wings and going to law school before he got the Dreamland gig. He still hoped to be a lawyer someday, but this deployment had convinced him to push someday far into the future. Driving a Megafortress was the most fun you could have with your clothes on.

"Whiplash to Dreamland Fisher—yo, Tommy, what'd you tell the Colonel?" asked Captain Freah, who could communicate through a special channel in the Dreamland com system.

"Told him we were ready to kick butt and not to worry about the fighters."

"Keep singing that song."

"I will, Danny. Hang loose in there."

"I am, but next flight, I want stewardesses and a better movie."

The sea air pulled Captain Sattari out of the Parvaneh submarine, up to the deck behind the lead commando and the mate. He moved toward the rubber boat, AK-47 in one hand, grenade launcher in the other. His lungs filled with the sweet, wet breeze.

They were farther from the platform than he thought.

There were planes nearby, jets flying somewhere in the dark sky. He twisted his head back and forth but couldn't see anything.

"Bring the SA-7s!" he yelled, telling the others to take the antiaircraft missiles. "Quickly! Into the boat. We have to paddle at least three hundred meters to reach the rocks! Hurry, before we are seen!"

"Midget sub is on the surface," Dish told Dog. "Very small. Similar to the vessel that sank itself."

"Jazz, have the Indians responded to our warning?"

"Negative," said the copilot.

Dog toggled into the Dreamland Command line. "Wisconsin to Abner Read. Eyes, I need to talk to Storm." "I'm here, Bastian. Go ahead."

"The submarine we were tracking has surfaced about a mile north of the platform. Looks like an attack. I've tried contacting the Indians but gotten no response. I have two MiGs coming at me from the east. They may think we're attacking the radar."

"We'll try notifying the Indians," said Storm. "Don't put yourself in danger for them."

Jeez, thought Dog, he sounds almost concerned.

"Colonel, the lead MiG's radar is trying to get a lock on us," warned Jazz. "Threat analyzer says he has a pair of AA-12 Adder AMRAAMskis."

"Storm, the Indian fighters are using their weapons radars to lock on us," Dog said. "I'm not in their territory. I can't tell if it's a bluff or not, but if I have to defend myself, I will."

"Understood."

Dog killed the circuit.

"Jazz, try telling the Indian fighters their radar station is being attacked by commandos. Maybe they can talk to the station."

"I'll give it a try, Colonel."

"Wisconsin to Hawk One—be advised the MiGs are trying to lock their radar weapons on us," Dog told Mack. "On it, Colonel."

Storm glanced at the holographic display. Sharkboat One was still a good twenty miles to the east of the Indian radar station's atoll; it would take the small patrol boat another forty-five minutes to reach the platform, assuming he authorized it to enter Indian waters.

"Eyes, what's the status on Werewolf?" he asked.

"Should be just finishing refuel."

"Good — get it up and over to the radar station. The submarines have surfaced. And Airforce — where the hell is he?" "Sleeping, Captain."

"Get him out of bed. I want him at the wheel of that helicopter."

"But—"

"Pour a pot of coffee down his throat and get him up. I want him flying that bird. Got me?" "Yes, sir."

Belatedly, Storm realized that Eyes was concerned not about getting Starship up but about breaking the news to Petty Officer Varitok, the man who was flying Werewolf now.

"I'll explain it to Varitok," he added. "It's nothing personal. Have him come up to the bridge as soon as Airforce has taken over."

"Aye aye, Captain."

Captain Sattari's oar struck the rocks about mid-stroke. The jolt threw him forward so abruptly he nearly fell out of the raft. He pulled himself back, aware that his mistake had thrown off everyone else in the boat.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, pushing the oar more gingerly this time. It hit the rocks about a third of the way down this time, and he was able to push forward, half paddling, half poling.

Two more strokes and the bottom of the raft ran up on something sharp — a wire fence just under the waterline. Before Sattari could react, the water lapped over his legs. He could feel the rocks under his knees.

"Wire," said the man at the bow in a hushed whisper. "I need the cutters."

"Push the boat forward and use it to get over the wire onto the rocks," said Sattari. "We can just go from here."

The man at the bow stood upright in the raft. Holding his AK-47 above his head, he stepped over onto the nearby rocks, then reached back to help Sattari. The captain fished the grenade launcher that had been next to him from the water and then got up, stumbling but managing to keep his balance.

The others splashed toward him, carrying their waterproof rucks with explosives. The legs of the platform loomed in the darkness just ahead. At any moment Sattari expected to hear gunfire and shouts; it seemed a miracle that the Indians had not detected them so far.

"The ladder is here," said someone, not bothering to whisper.

Sattari moved toward the voice, slipping on the rocks but keeping his balance. He reached a set of metal bars that had been planted in the rocks to hold part of the gridwork of a ladder. The captain grabbed the rail with his right hand and pulled himself up. He still clutched the grenade launcher with his left hand.

Eight feet above the rocks, the ladder reached a platform. A set of metal stairs sat at one end; the other opened to a catwalk that extended around the legs.

"Place a signal for the other boats," Sattari told the men who clambered up behind him. He did not single the men out as he spoke, trusting that they would divvy up the duties on their own. "Place your charges on the leg posts, then follow me."

As he pushed toward the metal stairway, he heard a shout from above, then a round of gunfire.

Finally, he thought. It hadn't seemed real until he heard the gunfire.

Mack Smith throttled Hawk One back toward the Megafortress, banking in the direction of the MiGs. If they were looking to play chicken, he was ready for them; he'd have them breaking for cover in a few minutes.

Ten miles from the Megafortress he began another turn, aiming to put himself between the two bogies and the mother ship at roughly the distance they could fire their radar-guided missiles. As he got into position, Jazz gave an update.

"MiG One is breaking off," reported the copilot. "Heading east. MiG Two— Whoa! Watch out! MiG Two is firing."

"He's mine," said Mack, checking the sitrep. The Indian plane was three miles behind his left wing, closing fast. Mack brought up his weapons screen, readying his cannon.

Besides the midget submarine they'd found on the surface, there were two others, still submerged, but rising.

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 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 tail-fin, 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.

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."

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 Hawk Two 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.

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."

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."

"I'll be here, Colonel."

"MiG One is launching missiles," warned Jazz. "AM-RAAMskis! 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."

"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.

"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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

"But we haven't gotten the order yet."

"I want to be in a position to respond if we do. Long-range radars off," added Breanna, adopting the mission plan. "Prepare to penetrate hostile territory."

"Roger that."

"Dreamland Levitow to Hawk Three and Four—we're changing course and descending. Stay with me."

Storm flew against the side of the littoral destroyer's superstructure, slamming back and recoiling onto the deck. He slid on the gridwork, grappling for a handhold to keep from falling into the sea.

The Abner Read lurched away from the explosion — and then back toward it. Storm's legs shot over the edge of the flying bridge as his fingers dug into the grating. He got enough of a hold to get to his knees before he lost his grip and slid as the ship bobbed violently, rolling him toward the portal that led back inside to the bridge. He caught the side of the opening with his wrist, slid his hand there for a grip and, finally, with the boat still rocking violently, managed to push his right knee up under him and throw himself inside the ship.

He only got two-thirds of the way in, but it was far enough to grab hold of one of the legs of the instrument console. He clutched it as tightly as he could, squeezing with all of his might. Then he pulled himself upward, smacking his head on the shelf as he did.

"Captain!" yelled one of the men on the bridge. He too was on his knees.

Dazed, Storm struggled to his feet.

"Damage Control, report," he said. "Damage—"

Storm put his hand to his face; his headset was gone.

One of his men grabbed him, steadying him on his feet. It was Petty Officer Varitok, the Werewolf pilot he'd ordered replaced.

"You all right, Captain?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Get me the backup headset. In my cabin — go."

Storm went to the holographic display, activating the damage control view. One of the compartments on the starboard side had been breached.

It was too soon to tell how bad the damage was, but al ready the automatic damage control system had cordoned off the area. Even if the compartment was a total loss, the ship would not sink.

His heart pounding in his chest, Storm turned his attention to the helmsman, who was still at his post. "Keep us steady, Helm," he said. Then he clapped the man on the back. "Damn good job, son. Damn good job."

"Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm sure I look worse than I feel," said Storm. He wiped his face again, and discovered that what he'd assumed was seawater was actually blood.

"Captain!" yelled Varitok, returning with the headset. "Your face. You're bleeding."

"It never looked that good to begin with," said Storm, pulling on the headset. "Eyes — if any other aircraft get within ten miles of us, shoot them down."

The grenade seemed to fly in slow motion from Captain Sattari's launcher, spinning in the direction of a low wall of sandbags. Sattari saw everything that was happening, not merely on the platform, but in the ocean and the world around him: the ships and airplanes charging into war, the missiles that the Indians would fire against the Pakistanis, the Chinese weapons that would retaliate. He saw himself standing at the center of it all.

He turned his attention to the area in front of him. Two men with rifles leaned over the sandbags above. Bullets spewed from their weapons — he could see each one as it flew from the barrel, a dark cylinder coming for him. The Russian-made RPG-7 grenade he'd fired flew toward them, nudging against the top of the uppermost sandbag protecting the enemy's position. Deflected slightly, it continued over the bag toward an upright grating behind the position.

The bullets stopped coming toward him. The grenade halted in midair. It was the greatest moment of his life, an instant that filled him with a sensation that went beyond pleasure: an infinite grandeur, a knowledge that he had fulfilled the wish God had for him when he was created.

Then light cracked open the sky, and the world returned to its chaotic tumble. The grenade exploded directly behind the Indian soldiers guarding the station, and the platform jolted with the explosion. Sattari found himself facedown on the metal steps, his breath taken away by the shock. By the time he managed to fill his lungs, the others had run up to the landing and finished the wounded Indians off. Dazed, Sattari followed without completely comprehending what was going on. His men ran past him to set their charges.

"Helicopter!" yelled someone.

The word cleared Sattari's head.

"Quickly! Set the explosives and back to the Parvanehs," he shouted. "Go!"

The Abner Read rocked so violently that Starship was yanked half off his seat. He grabbed the handhold at the side of the station, gripping it as the vessel shuddered from the effects of an explosion somewhere nearby. If he'd been a little sleepy before, he was wide awake now.

Bracing himself against the seat with his legs, Starship let go of the handhold and put his hands back on the Werewolf controls. The aircraft was programmed to drop its speed and glide into a hover when pressure was suddenly removed from the controls; Starship reasserted control gingerly, picking up speed and increasing his altitude as he hunted for the radar rig.

He saw it three miles away, five degrees south. The platform looked like a squat oil drilling rig with thin derricks jutting from the top. He spotted pinpricks of light as he approached — tracers. A white flash swallowed the gunfire, then blackness returned.

"Action on the radar platform," he told Eyes. "I have three vessels on the surface, at the north end."

People were yelling behind him. If Eyes answered, Star-ship couldn't hear. He dipped the Werewolf in the direction of the vessels. From two miles off they looked like speedboats or pleasure cruisers very low in the water.

"I think I have the midget submarines," he told Eyes. "Werewolf to Tac — I have the submarines in view, north of the tower, on the surface."

He steadied the aircraft and switched his main view from infrared to light-enhanced mode, which gave a sharper digital photo. He was still too far to get a good shot, and began moving forward slowly, filling the frame with one of the vessels at maximum zoom. He took the photo, creating and storing an image in standard, low resolution.jpg format; then he moved in to get a close-up of what looked to be the sub's conning tower.

When he backed the zoom off, Starship saw small boats in the water. Before he could figure out if they were leaving or returning, the screen went white at the right side. Star-ship jammed the Werewolf controls to race away from the explosion, though he knew he was already too late.

Things ratcheted up so quickly it seemed to Jed that a hidden fast forward switch had been thrown. One moment the screens with information from the U.S. intelligence agencies were mostly blank or filled with log entries indicating "nothing new." Then bulletins and updates began scrolling onto the screens in rapid succession.

Jed grabbed the direct line to the NSC Advisor before it finished its first ring; he had paged Freeman via his Blackberry a few minutes before.

"It looks like the Indians are launching an all-out attack on the Chinese and Pakistani ships in the northern Arabian Sea," Jed told his boss. "One of their radar platforms has been attacked. Pakistani aircraft are being vectored to meet Indian flights near the border. One of our Megafortresses has been shot at."

"Are they OK?"

"Yes. I think the attack on the platform may have started things off, but it's hard to sort it out," Jed added.

"That's immaterial right now, Jed. What's the status of the Indian nuclear units?"

"They're one step below launch."

"Is the Dreamland mission still viable?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm on my way back. I'll alert the President. He may arrive before I do. Hang in there, Jed." Barclay put down the phone.

"Indian missile site at Bhatinda has just gone to launch warning," said Jordan, reading from the NSA screen.

"Warning? Do we have that area on satellite?"

"There," said the image interpreter, pointing to the display. "They're getting ready to launch."

Jed reached for the button to key into the Dreamland communications network.

"Launch in Pakistan!" yelled Jordan. "My God, they're really going to try and end the world!"