End Game

IX End Game

Clear of the Indian fighters and their missiles, Dog began climbing over the water, trying to sort out exactly what was going on. More than a dozen missiles had been launched at the Chinese aircraft carrier, which was beginning to respond with anticruise missiles. The Dreamland circuit buzzed.

"Colonel, we have a missile launch," said Jed Barclay, his words running together. "Go to End Game. I will stay on the line and update you."

"Bastian acknowledges, End Game is authorized," said the colonel calmly. "I need the status of Chinese aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping"

"Tai-shan order has not been given. Repeat, Tai-shan has not been given."

That meant that the electronic "ferret" satellite had not yet picked up the order authorizing the launch of the nuclear-equipped aircraft. But that wasn't enough.

"Jed, I need to know specifically that those aircraft are not on the hangar deck," said Dog.

"I am looking at the U-2 image now. Neither plane is on deck."

"Then I'm proceeding with End Game," said Dog. "Acknowledged," said Jed.

Dog hit the preset under the screen; Tommy Chu, the pi lot of Dreamland Fisher, appeared on the screen.

"Tommy, End Game has been authorized. Wisconsin and Levitow will proceed overland. I want you to take up station and be prepared to deal with the Deng Xiaopings planes if the Chinese order Tai-shan to proceed."

"Fisher acknowledges. Colonel, I'm roughly ten minutes from the radar platform on my present course. Should I go ahead with the drop or not?"

"I don't want you taking unnecessary risks. Tai-shan is higher priority."

"Understood, Colonel. But my best course at this point to avoid both aircraft carrier groups will take me right past the platform. And frankly, I think I'd do better without the man-pods on my wings."

"Have Danny check with Captain Gale on the Abner Read and find out the status of the Sharkboat he sent. Danny's not to proceed without coordination from the Sharkboat, and approval from Gale. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"If it looks too risky, call it off. Drop the pods near the Abner Read. If Danny gives you grief, refer him to me." "You got it, Colonel."

"Bastian out." Dog hit the preset to connect with Levitow. Breanna's face appeared on the screen.

"End Game has been authorized," he told her. "What's your position?"

"We're approaching the Indian coast, thirty miles north of Mumbai. We'll go from here."

Dog realized she was much farther south than they'd planned. Distancewise, that wouldn't be much of a problem. But it would take them much closer to the Indians' most fearsome antiaircraft defenses.

"We've turned off our radar," she added. "We'll make it, Daddy."

For once he didn't mind that she called him that. "I know you will. Check back in five." "Roger that."

MiG Two's nose had just come into Cantor's view screen when Colonel Bastian announced that they were going back over India. He stayed on course, closing to a mile before he got the signal from the computer that he had a shot. He pressed the trigger, releasing a hail of bullets for the MiG to fly into. Rather than turning to finish off his prey as he'd planned, he pulled back east, racing parallel to the Wisconsin.

"Didja get him, kid?" asked Mack.

"No."

"You got him away from us. That's the main thing."

"Thanks," said Cantor, surprised that Mack was trying to sound encouraging.

The Megafortress's flight plan would take them toward the Thar desert, a vast wasteland between Pakistan and India. They would be crossing Pakistani territory as well, which meant that they would be exposed to two American I-Hawk antiaircraft batteries as well as a number of Russian-made ones on the Indian side.

A more immediate threat, especially as far as Cantor was concerned, were the fighters both sides were hurling into the air. The second flight of Indian MiGs that had scrambled earlier were coming north, and the four Pakistani F-16s they'd detected were approaching the border directly in their path.

"I'll worry about the Indians," Cantor told Mack. "You've got the F-16s."

"Yeah, I was about to say the same thing, kid."

"You remember the Fort Cherry exercise? Same thing. You can let the computer program the attack route, because it'll look that encounter up. It's based on Pakistani tactics in a four-ship group that Zen taught during—"

"I don't need Professor Zen's pointers, kid," said Mack.

Typical Mack, thought Cantor. Just when you thought he'd stopped being a jerk, he rubbed your nose in it.

The explosion buffeted the Werewolf, but was too far away to do any damage. By the time Starship recovered and circled back to see what had happened, two of the legs holding the radar platform had collapsed. The structure tilted forward, as if about to dive head first into the water. One of the large antenna towers had fallen; the other two were twisted sideways.

The submarines sat on the surface between a mile and two miles from the platform. Starship dropped his speed and began a slow arc around them to the northeast. There were several aircraft nearby, Pakistani and Chinese, but as yet no one seemed to have reacted to either him or the boats.

"Eyes — they've hit the tower. The radar platform has been destroyed. You want me to stop these guys? They're boarding the submarines. I see two more small boats. One of the subs is moving."

Starship could choose between six Hellfire missiles, two 30mm chain guns, and a pair of 7.62 machine guns to use against the submarines. He opted for the Hellfires, whose shaped warheads would slice easily through their hulls. But he still needed permission to fire.

"Werewolf to Tac Commander, am I authorized to fire on these submarines? Am I supposed to stop them from getting away or what?"

"Go ahead," said Eyes finally.

Starship reached his right hand to the rollerball controlling the cursor for the laser designator, zeroed in on the nearest sub, and clicked to lock the target. Then he fired two missiles. The missiles rode a laser beam from the Werewolf down to the sub, zeroing in on the cue like a Walker foxhound chasing its prey in an overgrown field. The first Hell-fire hit with a wallop of steam; the second Hellfire rolled into the fog.

"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 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.

"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.

"Very good, Captain," said Storm. "Proceed. I'll let the Sharkboat know you're on your way. Eyes will liaison in Tac."

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.

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 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.

The Indian MiGs were twenty miles behind the Mega-fortress, and roughly ten behind Cantor. But rather than closing, the Indians were losing ground. Cantor waited for a minute or so; when the MiGs still didn't make a move to catch up, he decided to ignore them for the time being. He hiked his speed up, then checked the sitrep to see how Mack was doing.

In the exercise Cantor had mentioned, the four-ship formation broke into two pairs. One group flew parallel but in the opposite direction to the course of its target, while the other continued at a right angle to it. The elements would then launch separate attacks from either the sides or, more often, the rear quarter.

While there was no perfect solution, the best strategy for the Flighthawks was to avoid going too far from the Megafortress to take the first attack, even if you had a good opportunity to make a kill. Any defensive move by the fighters would leave the robot too far away to take the second element on.

Mack seemed to have avoided the first pitfall, and had gotten himself tangled up with one of the F-16s in the second group. Meanwhile, his wingman was angling to the north, trying for an end run.

Cantor pushed the throttle guide to max power, leaning forward as he tried to get into position to cut it off.

Mack pickled flares and flicked the Flighthawk to the left, rolling out of the way of the American-built Sidewinder AIM-9s fired by the Pakistani fighter. As good as the Sidewinders were, they couldn't resist the flare, which burned hotter than the Flighthawk's masked engine heat. By the time the missiles exploded, Mack had leveled off and was looking for a way to get at his antagonist.

The Pak jock was still behind him, trying for another shot. Mack started a turn to the right, hoping to use his superior turning ability to throw the F-16 out in front of him. Belatedly, he realized that the Viper's real purpose was to keep him busy while his wingman went for the Wisconsin. He was committed now; even if he turned back, he'd never catch the other airplane, which was flashing across the top corner of his screen.

"Hawk One to Wisconsin—I let one of those suckers get by."

"I have him, Mack," said Cantor, breaking in.

Mack was too busy dealing with the Viper behind him to ask how Cantor had managed to get into position to fight the PAF plane. Refusing to get into a turning battle with the Flighthawk, the F-16 fired another Sidewinder and swung back in the Wisconsin's direction. Mack went for his flares again, rolling out and changing course in time to get a shot on the F-16's tailpipe. But the Viper pilot managed to jerk out of the way, and Mack found himself too high and fast to fire again.

Cantor saw the missile flare under the F-16's wing just as he got the cue to fire from the computer. He laid into the Viper, signing his name in the left wing and tailplane. The canopy flew off, and the pilot quickly followed, projected upward by the ACES II ejection seat — but not before another missile flew out toward the Megafortress three miles ahead.

"Missiles!" yelled Cantor. "Sidewinders! Watch it!"

"We're on it," replied Dog calmly.

Cantor felt the Megafortress jerk hard to the right. He saw the aircraft in his screen, a shower of flares erupting from her belly. The Wisconsin pushed hard to the left; Cantor saw the Sidewinder that had been fired at it explode about three-quarters of a mile beyond the plane, too far away to do any damage.

"Hawk One is clear," said Mack.

"Two clear," said Cantor. "Wisconsin, your tail is clean." "Thank you, Hawks One and Two." "Thanks for the assist, Cantor," said Mack. "You're welcome."

"That second element cut back quicker than I thought they would," Mack said. "Better get Zen to change the programming on that simulation."

Cantor smirked — but only to himself. "I will, Major. Consider it done."

Starship skipped the Werewolf toward the two submarines, which were moving at three or four knots north ward. Stopping them without sinking them was going to be tricky, if not impossible. Obviously, the Hellfire was not the weapon to use — he switched to the light machine guns, which were locked to fire in line with the Werewolf's nose. The aiming cue showed he was high; he angled down accordingly and sent two rows of shells across the bow of the sub.

The vessel, continuing on, gave no sign that it was impressed. Starship let off on his trigger and flew toward the craft, buzzing within ten feet of its topside. He could see two men diving into the craft's conning tower as he passed; they went in the side, as if it were a speedboat rather than a submarine. By the time he spun around it had started to dive under the water. It moved forward, gliding down a long, gentle escalator. Starship aimed for the tail of the sub this time, firing his bullets into the water directly behind the disappearing body. When that didn't stop the boat, he fired a long burst at the rapidly disappearing conning tower.

Then he got another idea.

He switched over to the Hellfires and zeroed in on the water about fifty yards ahead of the submarine. Then he fired, hoping the missile would act something like a depth charge, damaging the submarine just enough to bring her back to the surface.

If the missile had any effect — if it even exploded — he couldn't tell.

Starship turned his attention to the other submarine, which was just disappearing underwater. He laced it with bullets, pouring them into the shadow as it slid down below the waves.

"Both submarines are under the water," he told Eyes. "I can't see them anymore."

"Stand by. We hope to have Piranha on line any minute now. Be alert for the approaching Megafortress."

Everyone but Jed jumped to attention as the President walked into the room.

"No, no," said Kevin Martindale. "As you were. Keep working. Jed, what's the situation?"

"We have alerts all across the board. India and Pakistan have fired on each other." Jed pointed to a screen from a Pentagon launch alert system set up to summarize what the analysts blandly called "launch events." As predicted, the Indians had reserved their longest range missiles, undoubtedly for use against China if she came to Pakistan's defense.

"What's the status of the E-bombs?"

"The Dreamland aircraft with the EEMWBs are on course," said Jed, gently correcting the President as he pointed to the screen where End Game's status was updated. "The plot here" — he toggled into a new window—"is from Dreamland Command and gives an approximate location of the bombers. It's accurate to within a mile."

"Good."

Martindale folded his arms and surveyed the rest of the room. Jed had seen the President in many tense situations; always, he was calm and almost detached. But clearly he recognized the tension in the room.

"The technology down here is great," said Martindale. He winked at Jed. "But what we really need is a good coffee machine."

Danny clicked the control for his smart helmet'svi-sor, selecting the image from the low-light camera in the Fishefs nose. The wrecked platform was dead ahead.

Tommy Chu's voice boomed in his ear. "We're sixty seconds from drop," said the Fisher's pilot. "The Sharkboat is eight miles to the west. The targets are diving. I'm going to drop you approximately five hundred yards ahead of their route calculated by the computer."

"What happened to Piranha?" Danny asked.

"We haven't reconnected yet," said Chu. "Ensign English is working on it. Things are pretty hot down there, Danny. Are you sure you want to go ahead?"

"No doubt in my mind."

"All right. One of our Flighthawks will orbit to assist if you need it. Thirty seconds."

"Boston, you ready?" Danny asked his sergeant on the other wing.

"Born ready, Cap. Can't wait to get in the water. Goin' stir crazy here. And freezin' my nuts off."

Danny switched the screen view to the manpod's rear camera, figuring that would be the one he'd want to use after the drop. Then he took a long breath, gripped the rails near his head, and closed his eyes.

Flying the Megafortress at high speed and low altitude was the ultimate thrill ride, the sort of attraction roller coaster designers could only dream about. The scenery north of India's largest city added to the sensation; exotic rooftops flew by the windscreens, giving way to yellowish fields, then more houses and factory buildings.

Breanna wasn't interested in the scenery, except as a reference point to make sure she was flying as low as possible. The thrills she could take or leave, though at the moment she couldn't live without them.

She hurled the Megafortress forward at 500 knots, counting on her reflexes to keep her out of trouble. They were less than fifty feet above ground level, so close to some of the buildings that if she extended her landing gear she could have scraped off shingles.

"Terrain rising!" warned Stewart.

"Thanks," said Breanna, even though she was already pulling back. "Levitow to Hawk leader — we're approaching Omega point."

"Roger that, Levitow. We're getting ready to say goodbye right now."

Unlike their mother ship, the Flighthawks were not shielded against the EEMWB's electromagnetic waves. To avoid the effects of the blast, Hawk Four would be sent to a rendezvous point south, piloted completely by the onboard component of its C³ flight-control computer. The Mega-fortress would pick it up on the way back. If for some reason they were unable to return within an hour, C³ would fly the plane westward and ditch in the ocean.

The other aircraft, Hawk Three, would stay with the Levi-tow until the EEMWBs went off. That would leave the Megafortress temporarily without an escort, but in theory anything nearby would have been zapped out of order anyway.

"Thirty seconds to disconnect," Dork told Zen. "Hard to let go, huh?" Zen asked the other pilot. "You got that, Major."

Zen kept Hawk Three five miles ahead of the Megafortress, flying at thirty feet. He was so low not simply to avoid detection — the Flighthawk's radar profile was con siderably stealthier than the Megafortress's — but as a kind of terrain bird dog to alert Breanna to anything unexpected.

"Hawk Four is no longer under my control," said Dork, sounding a little sad.

Zen leaned forward in his seat, eyes scanning the screen as the ground whipped by.

He'd made the right decision. This was exactly where he needed to be.

The concussion threw the midget submarine sideways. Sattari lurched against his seat belt, then fell back, suddenly weightless in the small craft.

He waited for a second blast, sure that the aircraft they had seen above would finish them off. He felt his heart pounding at the top of his chest, near his collarbone.

A minute passed, then another. There were no more explosions. Sattari bent his head and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving.

"Captain, we are losing power," said the submarine's commander. "We're losing speed."

The soft light from the instrument panel turned the man's face a brownish red; he looked like a demon.

"We will wait, then."

"If the Parvaneh has been seriously damaged, we may not be able to stay under very long."

"Let us examine the damage and discover what else we can do. Trust yourself, and Allah."

"Yes, Captain."

The manpod hit the water with a teeth-rattling smack and shudder. The nose — where Danny's feet were — shot downward, then flipped abruptly toward the surface. Danny hung onto the handles near his head, expecting the pod to spin or, worse, flip over. But it did neither. A buzzer sounded in the cabin as the pod's automated raft system prepared to inflate. He didn't override, and three seconds later a shrill hiss told him compressed air had filled the bladders at the sides, stabilizing the craft.

The feed from the rear cam showed nothing nearby. Danny reached to the back of his helmet and cued in the front view. Water lapped the top two-thirds of the screen; he couldn't see anything else.

Balling his hands into fists, he reached down and pounded the recessed handles above his stomach, blowing the top half of the pod off. He pulled himself upright, punching his visor into its low-light mode.

There was nothing nearby — including the other manpod.

"Boston?"

No answer.

"Boston?"

He was just about to switch back into the Dreamland circuit and make sure that Chu had dropped his sergeant when something broke the water a few yards away.

"Boston?" he yelled.

The figure waved. It had to be Boston, he decided, and reached down to his pants leg to take out the flashlight. He gave a quick flick of light to help the man find his way over, then pulled off his helmet.

"Boston?"

"Yo, Cap," said the sergeant, grabbing onto the side of the pod. "Had a little trouble. The stabilizer raft didn't inflate right, and I guess I blew the lid too soon."

"Where's your helmet?"

"Bottom of the sea. Lost the laughing gas too. Got my dive gear and weapons, though." Boston hauled the waterproof sacks up to Danny.

"All right. Let me see where our submarine is," Danny said, pulling his helmet back on.

Starship stayed in an orbit between the Sharkboat and his last sighting of the submarines.

"Werewolf, the Dreamland team is in the water," said Eyes. "Approach the area and give them cover."

"Copy that. I see them. Do you have a location on the submarine?"

"Dreamland Fisher is still working on that."

Starship sped forward. He saw a dark smudge in the water at about a mile. Thinking it was the Dreamland Whiplash team, he started to slow down, then realized it was one of the commandos' empty rafts. Tracking north, he found a small missilelike raft nose down in the water — one of the manpods.

"Werewolf has Whiplash manpod in sight," he told Eyes.

"I'm switching you over to the commander of Sharkboat One. You have a direct line on your channel two."

Starship gave the commander the GPS coordinates for the manpod. One man clung to the side and the other was in the tiny vessel.

"Stand by for the location of the submarines, via Dreamland Fisher commander," said Eyes, breaking in.

The global positioning cue in the smart helmet indicated that the submarine was four hundred yards almost directly south. It appeared to have stopped moving, drifting less than twelve feet below the surface.

"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."

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 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 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 screwdriver, 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.

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 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."

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 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.

Danny was thrown off the side as the submarine popped up. His foot grabbed in the side rail and he slammed against the hull, caught on the deck. He pushed himself back toward the conning tower, half swimming, half stumbling, in the direction of Boston, who was already at the hatch. The submarine twisted, whirling as the waves frothed and steamed. Danny lurched to his knees and slid into Boston's back just as the sergeant dropped his tear gas canisters down into the vessel. Catching his balance, Danny gripped the edge of the conning tower. He tossed off his knapsack and unzipped the outer and then the inner skins, exposing the CQWS shotgun.

The close-quarters weapon — developed by Dreamland's weapons lab, the letters stood for Close Quarters Whiplash Shotgun — looked like a Pancor jackhammer shotgun that had been sawed off just fore of the trigger. It held twelve rounds of plastic pellet-filled shells, designed to incapacitate but not kill a person. The shells were expelled with enough force to knock down a 250-pound man.

Danny grabbed the gun and leapt down into the submarine. He saw only smoke in front of him, but immediately fired two rounds. Something fell at his feet — a man. Danny sidestepped him, then raised his gun as something moved a few feet away. He fired point-blank and it went down.

Boston was right behind him. Danny pushed through the thick haze, still using his dive pack to breathe. The submarine had an aisle down the middle, with a seat to each side. He saw a station with a wheel at the front, a shadow moving next to it. He put two shells into the shadow.

Someone grabbed at his side. A sharp elbow got rid of his assailant, but as he brought his gun up, a bullet ricocheted nearby. Before Danny could react, he felt a burning sensation in his calf. He fired toward the front of the submarine, heard another bullet, and found himself falling.

Dog veered to the south as soon as Jazz gave him the warning about the SA-12s. The Megafortress groaned with the strain, pulling nearly eight g's. Engines at max power, he pushed his nose down, increasing his speed.

"Colonel — you're heading straight for the SA-10 site."

"Turn off the ECMs."

"Colonel?"

"Jazz."

"ECMs off. Clam Shell acquisition ra— They have us! They have us! They're launching — two, four missiles."

Three behind them, four in their face. Dog continued on a beeline for the Indian site that had launched the SA-10s for another twenty seconds.

"Give it everything you got, Jazz," he said. "Chaff, ECMs, the kitchen sink. Crew — stand by, this one's going to be close."

Though the Flighthawk was several times more ma-neuverable than the EB-52, Mack had trouble keeping Hawk One close to the Wisconsin as she jinked and jived toward the ground, rolling on her wing and then heading almost straight down. It wouldn't have been half bad if he hadn't actually been in the plane — the hard maneuvers while he was flying in a different direction threatened to tear his head from his body. His stomach felt like it was where his legs should be, and the g forces tried to jerk his arms out of their sockets.

One of the Indian missiles was beelining for the Flighthawk. That wasn't a bad idea, he thought — intercept the missile before it hit the Megafortress. But the telephone-pole-sized weapon flew by him at the last second.

Dog powered the Megafortress into a dive. He glanced at the sitrep, then back at the windscreen.

"SA-12s are following — no, he's off — he's going for the SA-10," shouted Jazz.

"Hang with me, son."

Confused by the jamming gear and the apparent disappearance of their target, the two sets of missiles quickly found alternatives — each other. None managed to complete an exact interception, but when the first missile detonated, the others quickly followed suit.

The plane shuddered, and the computer warned that it was "exceeding normal flying parameters" — a polite way of asking if the pilot had lost his mind. Dog struggled through an uncontrolled invert; with the computer's help he leveled off at fifteen thousand feet.

They were beyond the missile batteries.

"You did it, Colonel. They cooked each other. We're past them."

"We got a ways to go yet, Jazz," said Dog, hunting for the heading to the launch area.

Danny landed on a body as bullets flew by. Hesaw someone rising behind him. Thinking it was Boston, he hesitated for a moment, then saw the silhouette of a pistol in the man's hand. He fired two rounds from his shotgun point-blank at the shadow's head.

Someone grabbed him by the throat. Choking, he pointed the shotgun backward and fired once, twice, three times be fore the hand finally let go. He jumped up, firing two more times at the prone body.

Boston loomed behind him, waving his hand. They'd subdued everyone aboard the submarine.

Breathing heavily, they began trussing the men with plastic handcuffs and grabbing any guns they could find. Danny's leg screamed with pain. He stumbled over the bodies in the aisle, then found his way to the ladder, clambering topside. He crawled out onto the deck of the submarine and pulled down his mask and breathing gear, hyperventilating in the fresh air.

"Sharkboat dead ahead!" said Boston, coming up behind him.

The low-slung patrol craft was less than fifty yards away. Danny dug in his equipment belt for the flare they were supposed to use to tell them the submarine's crew had been subdued; by the time he found it, three sailors were already aboard.

"Hey, Captain Whiplash!" yelled one of the Navy men, who'd worked with Danny before.

"About time you got here," said Boston. "Put your damn gas masks on — place is a mess down there."

Sattari felt himself being lifted and carried upward. He was going to Paradise, his battle done.

He sailed through a narrow tunnel, flooded with light.

Was his wife waiting for him?

His head slapped hard against the ground. Water splashed over him — he was wet — he was alive.

The submarine had been attacked. There had been gas and explosions, men…

Someone shouted nearby. The words were foreign— English.

Americans!

When he tried to move his hands, he found they were bound in front of him.

They would not take him alive. Sattari pushed over the side, diving into the water.

"Hey, one's jumping in the water!"

Danny turned in time to see a pair of legs crashing through the waves. Without thinking, he dove forward off the submarine, stroking for the man. His leg throbbed as he tried to kick; it went limp on him, stunned, as if anesthetized — except it still hurt like hell. He saw the man surfacing a few feet away and lunged for him. He grabbed the man's back, pulling him to the left; the man jerked away and fell back under the waves.

Sattari's lungs screamed for air but he ignored them, pushing himself downward. He would cheat his enemies of this.

The man who'd followed him grabbed him by the left arm. Sattari shoved him aside. He opened his mouth, trying to swallow the sea.

He saw the man's eyes in front of his face, wide and white. Sattari threw his hands forward and found the man's neck.

"You're coming with me," Sattari told him.

Before Danny could react, the hands tightened around his neck. Dragged down, he tried to kick but couldn't. He began punching the other man, but the man didn't let go. Both of them continued to sink. I'm going to die here, he thought.

Danny flailed desperately, poking and punching and kicking, forcing his injured leg to move, using every ounce of energy in his body to push off his attacker. His lungs were bursting, his nose and mouth starting to suck seawater.

Suddenly, the hands slipped away. Danny threw himself up toward the surface. He burst above the waves, gulped a breath, half air, half water. Coughing violently, he slipped back down, fought his way back to the air, tried to float. He gasped and coughed at the same time.

"Here, here!" someone shouted nearby.

Danny turned over to paddle but his arms were too tired now. His body sagged and exhaustion felt very near. He pushed once, then slipped down below the waves, happy to rest finally.

Then he felt himself moving upward. He took a breath and coughed. He coughed until the world around him was red. When he stopped, he found himself in a small rigid-hulled craft from the Sharkboat.

"You OK, Captain?" said a sailor, standing over him.

"That guy… "

"Don't see him anywhere."

Too tired to look himself, Danny collapsed against the gunwale.

Zen checked his watch. They were three minutes to Point Baker, where the Megafortress would begin its five-minute climb to the launch point.

"Bandits ahead," warned Stewart. "ID'd as MiG-21 Fishbeds. Four planes. They don't see us yet."

Zen saw them on the sitrep as the copilot read off their heading and altitude. They were at eight thousand feet, flying northwest on a course that would bring them to within two miles of the Megafortress, just at the point where Bre-anna would have to start to climb.

"Jeff, you think we can sneak past these guys?" asked Breanna.

"I was just about to ask you the same question," Zen told his wife. While it would be foolish to underestimate the fighters, their radars were limited and there was a decent possibility that the EB-52 could get past them without being noticed.

"If we didn't have to climb, I'd say we take the chance," Breanna told him. "But if they see us, they'll be on our back at the worst possible time."

"Roger that, Levitow. I have the lead element." "Look at our flight path — can you hold off until they've crossed it?"

"That's not a problem," said Zen.

"We'll use Scorpions on Bandits Three and Four" explained Breanna. "I'll pivot and fire two missiles. If I recover quickly, I'll be back on course in just over a minute and a half."

"Roger that."

As Zen took the Flighthawk northwest and began to climb, he worked out the game plan in his head. The MiGs were flying close enough for him to take both planes out in a single pass. He'd loop in from the west, firing on the wingman first; it would take barely a nudge on his stick to get his sights on the lead plane. The MiGs were moving at 320 knots; he'd be able to close on them easily.

It was a great plan, but the Indians didn't cooperate. When they were less than three miles from the Mega-fortress, the planes suddenly accelerated.

"I think they see us," said Stewart, her voice shrill.

"Yeah, I'm on it," Zen told her. "Relax there, Levitow."

"Trying," said the copilot.

Zen knew better than to bother chasing the lead element; he might catch one of the planes but couldn't hope to take two.

"Bree, let's swap targets. I'll take Three and Four, you go for One and Two."

"Roger that, Flighthawk. Kick butt." "You got it, baby."

Stewart's fingers grew cold as she worked through the screen, redesignating her targets. It was easy, it was simple, she'd done it gadzillion times in the drills — but she could feel her heart pounding harder and harder.

"Ease up, Jan," said Breanna. "You're hitting the touchscreen like you're fighting Mike Tyson."

"I guess I am," she said. She put her hands together, warming her fingers. She didn't relax, exactly, but she did pull back from hyper mode.

"Bay," said Breanna. "Fire when ready."

If we wait that long, we'll be dead, Stewart thought.

The second element of MiGs altered course, banking into a tight turn to put themselves behind the Megafortress.

The MiG-21 had been designed in the 1950s, and while outdated long ago, the aircraft retained many of its original virtues. Small and maneuverable, it could touch Mach 2 if necessary, and was tough in a close-quarters knife fight. The two Indian jocks who were turning toward the Levi-tow's tail undoubtedly thought they had the Megafortress right where they wanted her — about five miles ahead and several thousand feet below them. All they had to do was close in; their heat-seekers would do the rest.

The problem with that strategy came in the form of 20mm shells ripping through the nose and canopy of Bandit Four. Zen hit the MiG from above, riding his cannon through the humped midsection of the plane. Two or three dozen bullets hit the aircraft in a fraction of a second, shredding the plane's avionics, engine, and most of all its pilot.

Zen pulled his nose up and found Bandit Three dead on in his gunsight. The weapons bar went red; he waited a full second then fired. The MiG rolled its wing left, trying to duck away. Zen had too much momentum to follow and still get a kill; instead he banked back in the direction of the Megafortress, losing sight of his opponent.

"Fire Fox One! Fire Fox One!" warned Stewart. Though still excited, her voice wasn't nearly as shrill as it had been.

Two missiles spurted from the bay of the EB-52, AARAAM-pluses heading for Bandits One and Two.

Zen looked at the sitrep, trying to figure out what had happened to the other MiG. The plane wasn't on the display, but he knew it had to be around somewhere; the radar had difficulty seeing objects very close to the ground behind its wings.

"Levitow, I lost Bandit Three," Zen warned.

"Roger that, Flighthawk. Tail Stinger is activated. We're climbing," added Breanna.

Zen decided that the other MiG had either gotten away south or was running parallel to him somewhere beyond the Megafortress's right wingtip, where it would be difficult for the radar to spot.

He started crossing, then realized there was a possibility he hadn't considered — just below his own tail.

Tracers exploded past his nose. Now the tables were turned, and Zen was the surprised target. He cut back to his left, hoping to throw the MiG out in front of him as he began to weave in the sky. But the Indian pilot didn't bite, and Zen had to duck a fresh stream of bullets.

He wasn't completely successful. Three shells went into the Flighthawk's left wing. The computer tallied the score:

Zen continued to zig up and down, back and forth, depriving the other pilot of an easy shot. If they hadn't been so close to the Megafortress, he would have started a turn; if the MiG followed, he could use the Flighthawk's superior turning radius and maneuverability to reverse their positions. But that wasn't an option here, since it would leave the way clear for the MiG to close on the Megafortress before he could get back.

The launch warning sounded — the MiG had fired two heat-seeking missiles at him. Now he had to get out of the way. Zen tossed flares and tucked toward the ground, then immediately zigged right and hunted for the MiG. Sure enough, the Indian jock was accelerating straight ahead, trying to close on the EB-52's tail.

Zen's quick roll had taken him below the MiG-21. He turned into the enemy plane and began firing despite the computer's warning that he didn't have a shot. The hail of bullets broke the MiG's attack; he pushed off to the right, jerking hard and pulling at least six g's. No conventional fighter could have stayed with him, but the Flighthawk wasn't a conventional fighter. The MiG's tailpipe grew fat in the middle of his screen. He leaned on the trigger, giving the Indian craft a 20mm enema. The canopy flew off in short order, the pilot hitting the silk.

"Splash Bandit Three," said Zen, looking for the Megafortress.

Stewart stared at the message in her screen: target one destroyed.

She'd got it! The bastard was dead.

But where was the other plane?

Still flying, six miles ahead. The other missile?

She'd missed.

"Bandit One is hit," she told Breanna. "Bandit Two is still there. The missile must have missed." "All right," said Breanna. "Should I fire another?" "Just stand by."

Stewart felt a wave of resentment come over her. But then she realized they weren't in a good position to fire. The pilot wasn't criticizing her; she preferred to stay on course and keep her missiles if she could. It made more sense to at least check first with the Flighthawk pilot to see if he could take the plane.

"Standing by," said Stewart.

"I can just get there if Bandit Two stays on his present course and speed," Zen told Breanna. "But only just." "Try. We're two minutes to launch point."

"Got it."

Zen accelerated ahead, climbing to meet the MiG. The other aircraft was three thousand feet above him. "Fuel warning," said the computer.

Zen called up the fuel panel. Sure enough, the Flighthawk was into its reserves, well ahead of schedule. The tanks must have been damaged, though the status board claimed that they were OK.

There was nothing he could do about it now — the Indian fighter loomed at the top of his screen. Zen pulled his nose up and took a shot as the plane passed, getting the MiG to break south. Knowing that he hadn't put enough bullets into him to shoot him down, Zen started to follow. Breanna, meanwhile, had pulled the Megafortress farther south and begun to level off, preparing to fire the EEMWBs.

"Fuel emergency," declared C³.

Zen glanced at the fuel screen. The tanks were nearly drained — he had under five minutes' worth of juice.

"How did I use fifteen minutes' worth of jet fuel in thirty seconds?" he asked the computer.

"Unknown command," it replied.

Was the problem simply with the gauge? Zen hoped so.

He pressed his nose down as the targeting bar began to blink yellow. The MiG was starting a turn to his left, banking to get behind the Megafortress.

"Fuel emergency," repeated the computer.

"Yup." Zen leaned the Flighthawk onto its left wing, pushing his enemy into the sweet spot of his target zone. He pressed the trigger; bullets began flying from the nose.

Then the Flighthawk veered down.

"Engine has lost power. Fuel emergency. No fuel. No fuel," sang the computer.

Zen slapped the computer's audible warning system off.

"Hawk Three to Levitow—Bree, I'm out of fuel. Something must have hit the Flighthawk and caused a breach in the tanks. Didn't show on the damage panel. That MiG is still out there."

"Acknowledged," said Breanna. "Ninety seconds to launch point."

Starship took the Werewolf over the Sharkboat, circling as the last of the submarine's survivors were taken aboard. The Sharkboat was preparing to tow the vessel back to the Abner Read, some sixty miles to the west.

Sixty perilous miles between the Chinese and the Indian forces.

Starship headed west, scouting the area. The closest vessel was a Chinese destroyer, fifteen miles away. It had been hit by two Indian missiles, and had a gaping hole at the bow; it was unlikely to come for them. More problematic was the guided missile cruiser rushing to its aid.

"Werewolf to Tac. I have an update on the two Chinese vessels closest to the Sharkboat," said Starship. "Destroyer looks pretty badly damaged. Cruiser's going to help it. I'd say go now while the going is good."

"Acknowledged. We have a contact for you to check out five miles north of us — we think it's a downed pilot in the water. Can you get there?"

"On my way."

The Megafortress that dropped the manpod had turned on its surface radar, giving the Abner Read and Storm a good picture of the battle. The Indian carrier appeared to be sixty miles southeast of them — in range of his Harpoon missiles.

And the Standards. He'd use a mix; it was the only way to guarantee he could take out the Chinese carrier as well. And he was going to get them.

The two fleets were repositioning themselves after the first wave of attacks. Two Chinese escorts had been severely damaged, and it appeared that one Indian vessel was sunk. The Deng Xiaoping's radar helicopters and two of its fighters had been shot down, but only one of the Indian mis siles managed to reach the ship, and it had not done enough damage to impede air operations. The Indian ship Shiva had not been hit and was beginning to recover the aircraft involved in the attack.

"Weapons, target the Indian carrier Shiva" Storm said. "I want a mix of Harpoons and Standards. Use the plan we established earlier."

"You want me to target the carrier, sir?"

"Am I speaking English? Target the Shiva with enough weapons to sink her." Storm pounded the side of the holographic display. He looked down at the table. A pool of water disrupted the projection.

Was it water? Or blood?

His head felt as if it was going to lift off from his head. "Captain," said Eyes. "Storm — we can't sink the Indian ship."

"Like hell I can't. Our orders said that we were allowed to defend ourselves. The Indian ship is regrouping for an attack."

"The planes on the Chinese carrier — we're already out of position to act as backup against them, and—"

"Don't second-guess me, Eyes. No one's going to attack us and not get a fistful of explosives back in their face. Weapons — use a mix of missiles. Keep enough to sink the Chinese carrier if we have to, but you lock on that damn Indian ship and sink the bastard!"

Chu, the pilot of Dreamland Fisher, began speaking as soon as Dog cleared the communication.

"I have two Chinese aircraft on my wingtips telling me to get out of the area or face the consequences, Colonel. They're not specifying what the consequences are."

"I assume you've told them you're in international air space?"

"I told them in English and in Chinese, Colonel. They weren't impressed."

"All right, Chu, stand by." Dog hot-buttoned to the channel reserved for Jed Barclay at the NSC during the operation. "Jed, are you there?"

"I'm here, Colonel."

"What's the status on the Deng Xiaoping?"

"Tai-shan aircraft have not appeared on the deck. NSA has not yet picked up the command to launch."

Well, that was something at least, thought Dog. But it might be only a matter of time — the Chinese might not have picked up the Indian launch yet.

"The Chinese are challenging Dreamland Fisher, which is supplying radar information to the Abner Read. I'm going to have the pilot back off a little bit to avoid provocation."

"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.

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.

"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.

"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.

"Thirty seconds to launch point," broke in Jazz. "Very good," said Dog, making sure he was precisely on course.

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.

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

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 altogether 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 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.

Somewhere below, a pair of close-in weapons began to fire. Fear surged through Memon so strongly that he could not move nor breathe, not even think. Cold air invaded his chest; his heart and lungs turned to ice. He waited, unable to do anything else.

The first explosion seemed incredibly far away; he heard a light rumble but felt nothing. The second, a half second later, was like the peal of thunder when lightning strikes a tree at the edge of a yard.

The third reverberated as if it were under his feet, twisting his chest and head in opposite directions. He flew against a console, thrown so abruptly that he felt as if he hadn't moved at all. He lay on the deck, watching the others scramble to get up.

Only Admiral Skandar managed to stay on his feet. The Defense minister reached calmly for the phone, speaking as the ship rocked with fresh explosions. Memon wanted to get up and join him but could not; he wanted to move but found his body paralyzed. All he could do was stare from the depths of his cowardice and fear.

The aircraft lurched in the sky, then felt as if it was going to fall out from under her. Breanna pushed against the stick, finally leveling off — the computer began compensating for the damaged control surfaces.

"Engine four — gone," said Stewart. Her voice was surprisingly calm.

"Compensating," Breanna told her. "Where are the other missiles?"

"One more going north. We're clear."

"Assess the damage."

"Assessing. Ten seconds to first EEMWB pulse."

Each individual system on the plane had its own shielding, but Levitow also had special deflectors — antennas that could attract the waves and disrupt their pattern — in the wings. As the techies explained it, the deflectors reduced the overall amount of T-Rays washing over the ship, making the components easier to shield.

Or, as the metaphor they used had it, reducing a hurricane surge to high tide.

"If you need help, we're here," said Bullet, the relief copilot behind her.

"Thanks," said Breanna. "Stand by for EEMWB wave."

"EEMWB One—"

"EEMWB One what?" Breanna asked Stewart.

The copilot didn't answer. The interphone system had been wiped out.

And so had the GPS guidance, and half of the indicators on the systems panel.

Dog checked his watch. "Sixty seconds to first EEMWB," he told his crew. "Jazz?"

"I'm ready, Colonel. Looks like that SA-2 is trying to lock on us to launch."

"He's beside the point now," said Dog. "Let's go to manual control. Emergency manual procedure, authorized Bast-ian 888."

The computer accepted the code, and Dog reached to the bottom of the center panel to engage the hydraulic controls. The stick felt almost dead in his hand.

As soon as they calculated that the last EEMWB had exploded, Jazz would remove their backup radio from its shielded case and plug its antenna lead to the auxiliary antenna at the side of cockpit between the copilot's station and the radar operator. Dog and Jazz would be able to talk on the Dreamland communications network via a pair of headsets.

The Dreamland communications panel buzzed. "Bastian."

"Wisconsin, we've been hit by an air-to-air missile," said Breanna. "We've lost some systems because—"

The transmission went blank, and the cockpit went dark. Their first EEMWB had exploded.