End Game

X Tai-shan

"Multiple hits! Multiple hits!"

Storm pulled off the headset. Whatever else happened today, the course of sea warfare had been changed as dramatically as it had at Hampton Roads in 1862, when the Monitor met the Merrimack, or in June 1942 at Midway, when the U.S. and Japanese fleets fought each other completely by air. A small, relatively inexpensive warship had just crippled, and maybe even sank, a large aircraft carrier, until now considered the mainstay of any great naval power. His name would be written in the history books.

Storm sat on the jumpseat next to the holographic display, staring out the window of the bridge. He wasn't meditating on history; he was trying to will away some of the pain. Finally, after little success, he pulled the headset back on.

"Eyes — where's our Sharkboat?"

"They're under way, but still an hour off."

"All right."

"Dreamland Fisher reports the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping is launching a new wave of aircraft," said Eyes. "We have an Indian destroyer thirty-five miles south of us. We should not be on his radar, but he is moving in our direction."

The Chinese — he'd take them out too. All he needed was an excuse.

"Captain?"

"Nothing," Storm said. "Keep me informed."

Starship circled the Werewolf back over the area where the Indian pilot supposedly had gone down. He couldn't see anything, not even debris.

"Tac, how long do you want me to keep at this search?" he asked. "There's nothing here."

"Head back to the Sharkboat and escort them toward us."

"I'd like to refuel first, since I'm nearby and they're quiet for the moment. We may not get a chance later."

"Roger that. Come on in."

Breanna worked through the systems with Stewart, checking for units that had been affected by the electromagnetic pulse weapons or the missile blast. The main flight computer itself seemed fine. She had lost engine four; parts of its shredded housing could be seen from the copilot's station. Engine three's temperature was a few degrees higher than normal, but the oil pressure and power output were steady. Two of the compartmented fuel tanks in the right wing had been damaged; the fire retardant system had prevented a catastrophe, but the indicators showed that fuel was leaking. The last three feet of the wingtip on the right side were gone, and the control surfaces were damaged but intact.

The satellite radio, the internal communications system, and the navigation gear were all offline. The self-diagnostic on the Megafortress's native radar — not the larger, more powerful unit installed above the wings — indicated a number of circuit problems, yet the radar seemed to be working, identifying the Pakistani flight they had seen earlier. The

PAF planes were in serious trouble, flying erratically and dropping altitude. They were deep in enemy territory, and their prospects for survival seemed dim.

"Recheck the weapons systems," Breanna told Stewart. They'd pulled off their helmets so they could hear each other. "Open the bay. Make sure everything is online."

"Weapons?"

"Yes."

Stewart hesitated. "OK," she said finally. "Testing weapons."

Breanna looked at the fuel panel. The damage to the tanks added one more level of complexity to the problem of keeping the Megafortress balanced — an important consideration under any circumstance, but especially when you were missing an engine and a good chunk of a wing. The computer was doing a good job directing the flow, however, and Breanna turned her attention to engine three, whose temperature was continuing to sneak higher.

The aircraft shook as the bomb bay doors were opened. The increased drag cost them nearly thirty knots in forward airspeed, a huge hit. But Stewart was able to rotate the missile launcher and confirm that it was operable.

"Weapons system is in the green," said the copilot.

Breanna had asked Lou and Bullet — the relief pilot and copilot — to run the diagnostics on the environmental and some of the secondary systems from the auxiliary panel on the starboard radar station. Lou came over and told her that aside from some of the lights and the fan in the upper Flighthawk bay, the systems were functioning.

"Coffeemaker's gone, though. Ditto the refrigerator and microwave."

"Don't tell Zen about the coffeemaker," said Breanna. "We have to keep his morale up."

"There's probably a pattern to the circuits that took the hit," said the other pilot. "But I can't quite figure it out."

"We'll save it for when we get home," Breanna told him. "Give the scientists something to do. How's your stomach?"

"Much better. I think some of your twists and turns jerked it back into place."

The Megafortress contained only six ejection seats. If they had to ditch, two people would have to don parachutes and jump from the Flighthawk bay. Ejecting from the Megafortress in the seats was a harrowing experience— Breanna had done it and been banged around quite a bit in the process. Jumping out without the benefit of the forced ejection was even more dangerous. The slipstream around the big aircraft was like a violent, flooded creek, completely unpredictable. It might give you a decent push downward and away from the aircraft. Or it could bang you against the EB-52's long body, smacking you like you a rag doll caught under the chassis of a car.

If it came to that, Breanna knew she would make one of the jumps herself. But how to choose the last person?

She pushed the thought from her mind. It wasn't going to come to that.

Jed knew the EEMWBs had worked as soon as the feed from one of their satellites died. He immediately turned to the screen that showed data from one of the ELINT "ferrets," or radio signal stealers, just outside of the effected area. The screen did not provide raw data, which would have been meaningless to the people in the room; rather, it presented a line graph of the volume of intercepts on frequencies used for missile control. The line had plummeted. Jed stared at it, willing it to stay at the bottom of the screen.

But it didn't. It jerked back up, though only to about a fourth of where it had been.

"What's going on?" he asked the operator.

"This is in the northern Arabian Sea. It's too far from the explosions to affect them. But the target area was wiped out totally. Just about over to the coast — better results than expected."

"Are the nukes down?"

"I don't know for sure. Too soon."

Jed went to the screens showing the U-2 feeds over the Arabian Sea. The display from the northernmost aircraft shocked him: Seven missiles had just struck the Indian aircraft carrier Shiva. The photo captured the exact instant of impact of two of the missiles, and showed two more about to strike.

"That's the Shiva?" Jed asked.

"Yes," said the technician.

"Wow."

"That'll sink her."

National Security Advisor Philip Freeman had joined the President and his small entourage at the side of the room. He came and looked over Jed's shoulder.

"The Chinese struck the Indians?" he asked.

"Those missiles came from the Abner Read" said the techie.

"Our missiles?" asked the President.

The man nodded.

Freeman glanced at Jed in alarm.

"They came under attack," said Jed.

"Captain Gale is certainly living up to his name," said Martindale. "It's too late now, Philip. We'll deal with Storm later. And Balboa, who probably authorized this."

"I want Balboa's scalp," said Freeman. "It's way past due."

"Mr. President, Jed — the NSA just picked up a transmission from China for the carrier," said Peg Jordan, the NSA liaison. "Tai-shan. It's a go."

The Megafortress's stick felt surprisingly light in Colonel Bastian's hand, the big aircraft responding readily to his inputs. They were in good shape; while the plane's electronic systems were offline, Dog could talk to Dreamland Control via the shielded backup radio. When they reached the coast, Major Cheshire would be able to track them via one of the U-2s that was surveying the northern Arabian Sea. She would guide them to Chu and Dreamland Fisher, or all the way back to Diego Garcia if necessary.

A buzzer sounded in Dog's headset. He said his name and then his clearance code. The system had to process both before the communication was allowed to proceed.

"Colonel Bastian?" said Jed Barclay, coming onto the line.

"Go ahead, Jed."

"The Chinese have ordered the aircraft carrier to use the nuclear option."

"All right, Jed. We understand. I'm in contact with the other aircraft and will be right back with you."

Captain Hongwu looked at the cable again, even though it contained only two characters: Tai-shan.

Much was left unsaid in the cable, beginning with the target. The captain knew it to be Mumbai, the large port on the coast that housed a major naval facility. The cable also did not say why the order had been given, though he knew it would only have been issued if the Indians had ignored the Chinese ultimatum not to fire their nuclear weapons.

The cable was silent, too, on what the consequences of the action would be. These, Captain Hongwu tried to put out of his mind.

"Clear the flightdeck and prepare the Tai-shan aircraft," said the captain. "Launch all aircraft."

The men on the bridge began to respond.

"Captain, Squadron One is reporting multiple missile strikes on the Indian aircraft carrier," said the air boss. "The missiles have apparently come from the American vessel."

"The Americans?"

"It's the only explanation."

Without their radar helicopters, the carrier had no long-range sensors. While it was an exaggeration to say it was blind, Hongwu and his officers had a very limited picture of the battlefield.

"Investigate. Send two aircraft to find the precise location of the American ship and keep it under surveillance. Make sure they are prepared for surface attack."

"Are the Americans our allies now, Captain, or our enemies?"

"Perhaps both," said Hongwu, staring out at the sea.

The temperature in engine three had moved well into yellow. If she'd had three other good power plants, Breanna would have shut it down, but given their present condition, she decided to push it as far as she could.

Managing 390 knots, the Levitow was still about twenty minutes from the coast. They wouldn't be out of danger once she got there either — the effects of the EEMWBs wouldn't quite reach that far, and any aircraft operating on the western coast of Indian and to the south would be a threat.

"We ought to head farther south," suggested Stewart. "If we go back to our original course, we can pick up the Flighthawk."

"It'll take too long to get into position to join Dreamland Fisher and watch the Chinese carrier."

"We're not going to be able to do that."

"What?" Breanna turned toward her copilot.

"We're not going to be able to do it," repeated Stewart, her eyes welling.

In all the time since the missile struck the Megafortress, Breanna hadn't even considered the possibility that she would have to scrub her mission. She'd thought of everything else — everything — but that.

"We have to try."

"If we're down to two engines, it'll take a miracle to position ourselves for a Scorpion shot," said Stewart.

"You're right," said Breanna. "We'll get the Flighthawk. Zen can make the interception. Plot a course."

Zen folded his arms, leaning back against the stiff seat. He hadn't completely given up the chance to walk, just put it off.

The docs might be pissed, Vasin especially. But they'd get over it.

Was he afraid to walk?

They might accuse him of that. But he knew why he was here.

"Hey, Major, Lieutenant, we're changing course again," said Bullet, the relief copilot who'd climbed down from the upper deck. "Bree wanted you to know. We're going to try and pick up the Flighthawk if we can. Have it target the Tai-shan aircraft."

"Sure," said Zen. "How's the engine?"

"Not very good. I'm surprised it's gotten us this far. Bre-anna's babying it, but unless she can crawl out on the wing, it's a goner."

"Do me a favor. Don't suggest that to her."

"Colonel, we may not be able to make it to the carrier in time for the intercept," Breanna said, speaking over the Dreamland communications network to the Wisconsin. "Engine four is gone, and I'm going to have to shut down engine three in a few minutes. We're going to try and rendezvous with our Flighthawk. Once we hook up with it, we'll head that way. I'm sorry, but I can't give any guarantees. We're going too slowly."

"All right, Breanna. We have Chu and the Abner Read. Your priority is your aircraft and crew. Hear?"

Maybe it was because he was her father, but she thought he sounded as if he were telling her to hurry home after a late date.

"Thanks," said Breanna. She killed the connection. "Engine three's going critical," said Stewart. "All right, let's shut it down. Work with me, Jan. Let's do this together."

Dog clicked into Chu's channel on the Fisher.

"Wisconsin to Dreamland Fisher. Chu? What's your situation?"

"I have two J-13s shadowing me, Colonel. The Chinese carrier has launched a dozen planes within the last ten minutes. They're headed in the direction of the Indian task group."

"How close are you to the Deng?" "Sixty west. You wanted me to back off." "The Tai-shan order has been given. Set up an intercept on the aircraft after they come off the carrier." "Fisher."

Storm relented and let the corpsman treat his wound, daubing at the ripped flesh with gauze that felt as if it had been dipped in kerosene. He squeezed his fingers into a fist and ground his back teeth together, trying unsuccessfully to ward off the pain.

"Sir, communication from Dreamland Wisconsin for you," said the commo officer. "Colonel Bastian."

Never had Storm been so glad to talk to Bastian. He put up his hand, stopping the corpsman mid-swipe.

"I have to talk."

"Sir, if it hurts—"

"It doesn't hurt," snapped Storm, holding the headset up. "Gale here."

"The Chinese have issued the Tai-shan order. Levitow has been hit and won't be able to help in the attack. Dreamland Fisher is moving into position for the intercept."

Storm struggled to his feet. "All right. Good. We'll proceed. We have to move farther east."

"You all right, Storm?"

"Don't worry about me, Bastian." Storm reached to the communications controller. "Eyes — the Chinese have issued the Tai-shan order. Move us east. Get ready to intercept those aircraft. We have roughly twenty minutes."

"We're not in good position for the intercept, Captain. The action against the Shiva took us away."

"Then get us back into position. We have to back them up."

"Aye aye."

Storm leaned against the hologram table, orienting himself. They weren't that far out of position. Granted, taking the aircraft was a long-range shot from here, but they were still within the targeting area.

He was close enough to sink the damn carrier. That's what he should do. Sink the damn thing. His order justified it.

"Captain, Dreamland Fisher reports two J-13s coming hot at us," said Eyes a moment later. "Dreamland's radar analysis shows they're armed with antiship missiles."

The bastards knew what they were up to! They were going to sink them so they couldn't interfere.

Attack. Attack them now!

"You're sure about this, Eyes?"

"They're just coming into our radar range now. Should I target them?"

He had four Standards left. He wanted to fire two apiece at the Tai-shan planes, guarantee a hit.

Two now? Two later?

If they sent another wave of planes, he'd be defenseless — or he'd fail his mission.

"Target the carrier Deng Xiaoping. Same mix we used against the Shiva. Have the Sharkboat fire as well."

"The carrier?"

"They've just launched an attack on us, Eyes. And they're about to drop a nuke. We have to take them down."

"Agreed," said Eyes. "But if we use the same mix, we won't have any missiles left for air defense."

"We'll use the close-in weapons against these two airplanes. If we sink the carrier, we won't need anything else. Do it. Give it everything we've got."

"Aye aye, Captain."

Storm steadied himself against the holographic display. Two aircraft carriers in one day? His name would be linked with Nimitz, with John Paul Jones.

"Captain, you have to let me treat you, sir," said the corpsman. "We need to clean the wound."

"Later."

Lieutenant Chu had eight Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses in his bomb bay, but even twenty more would do him no good if he wasn't close enough to use them. The planes would be most vulnerable when they came off the carrier, and to guarantee a hit he wanted to be as close as possible. At the same time, the Chinese were watching him carefully — they'd sent two J-13s to shadow him, and the four planes flying combat patrol above the carrier were prowling the area he wanted to be in. Chu decided that his best approach would be to extend his patrol area as nonchalantly as possible, widening his orbit and flying south before going farther east.

"The J-13s are right on our wings, Tommy," said his copilot. "I'm afraid that once we open the bay to fire the Scorpions, they're going to pounce."

"The Flighthawks will hold them off," said Chu. "We'll hang in and fire everything we've got."

"Everything?"

"Too important to take a chance."

"What about the patrol near the carrier?"

"We'll go toward the Abner Read, get coverage from them. The Flighthawks can hold them off in the meantime."

Chu told the Flighthawk pilots what they were going to do. Neither man said anything more than "Understood." He started his turn, focusing on the heads-up display in his windscreen. A calmness settled over him; his muscles relaxed; he felt almost as if he were watching himself from the comfort of a living room sofa far away.

The missiles flew from the forward tubes in quick succession, spiraling upward in a glistening arc of white against the brilliant blue of the sky. Storm waited until the last one had gone before turning back to the holographic display where they were being tracked.

The other ships would come for them, he realized. He had to prepare.

"Take us south, Helm," he said, reaching for his communications controller. "Eyes — the Sharkboat. Tell them we're going south. We want to put some space between us and the Chinese."

"Aye aye, Captain."

Starship touched the Werewolf down on the helipad behind the Abner Read's low-slung superstructure, killing the engines. The two seamen assigned to fuel the robot ran out and began tending to her.

He turned and looked behind him in the Tactical Center. Eyes was standing only a few feet away, a perplexed look on his face as the men around him took turns shouting information in his direction.

Starship waited a few seconds, hoping for a calm patch. When none came, he asked, "Eyes, do you want me to attack the carrier when I'm topped off?"

"The carrier?"

"The Deng Xiaoping. With my Hellfires."

The Tac commander's mouth squirreled up, his cheeks puffing out. "Hellfires?"

"It's something. I can get up there in fifteen minutes tops, once I'm reloaded. That should be ten minutes from now."

"Too late." Eyes's frown turned into a forlorn smile. "But thanks for the offer. Get back in the air as soon as you can. We'll need you to show us what's going on."

"Multiple missile launches from the Abner Read!" shouted the surface radar operator, his voice rattling Tommy Chu's headset. "Eight missiles — more from the Sharkboat. Targeted — they're going after the carrier!"

"What the hell are they doing?" Chu reached to the communications panel to contact the Abner Read. Before he could, the screen indicated an incoming message from the ship. The Abner Read's tactical officer's face appeared in the screen. "What the hell's going on?" Chu demanded.

"We've launched our attack on the Chinese carrier. We need you to intercept the two fighters."

"I'm not in position to do that. Why did you launch the attack without telling us?"

"I need you to intercept those planes."

"I can't. Why did you launch without contacting us first?"

"I don't need your permission to accomplish my mission."

The screen blanked. Chu angrily smacked at the kill button anyway.

"The Abner Read has launched an attack on the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping," he told the rest of the crew. "We'll take down the J-13s before they realize what's going on, then remain on course in case the strike fails."

Twelve missiles had been fired at the Deng Xiaoping. Captain Hongwu listened closely as the threats were identified: A total of eight Harpoon missiles had been fired, four from the Abner Read and four from the small patrol boat, along with four SR-2 or Standards from the Abner Read.

The threats had to be prioritized; they no longer had enough missiles to intercept them all.

He turned to the officer in charge of targeting the weapons.

"Target two of the SR-2s with our anticruise missiles. Target all of the Harpoons from the Abner Read. Attempt to intercept the missiles from the small patrol craft with our fighters, and turn the close-in weapons on everything else."

"Yes, Comrade Captain."

He had known it would come to this. But there was no satisfaction in being proven correct. Hongwu folded his arms, demonstrating to the others that they must be resolute and calm.

"Have the aircraft aloft engage the American warplane. Shoot it down immediately. The two planes observing the Abner Read—divert them and have them attack the Megafortress as well. The warship will be easier to deal with once the radar plane is gone."

"Ready?" Chu asked the copilot.

"Ready. Flighthawks will go on your signal."

"Now!" said Chu, and he pushed the stick forward, tucking the Megafortress away.

The air roiled as the two robot planes closed in for the kill. Chu began a sharp turn south, then cut back.

"Missiles in the air!" warned the copilot. "Heat-seekers!"

"Flares." Chu pushed the plane onto its wing, unsure exactly who had fired the missiles.

"Russian AA-12 type missile launched," added the copilot. "Not a factor. The two planes that were tracking toward the Abner Read are turning in our direction."

"Splash one J-13!" said one of the Flighthawk pilots. "The other plane is on our tail," said the copilot. "Stinger air mines," said Chu as the air around him began to percolate with tracers.

"Two Standard missiles intercepted. One Harpoon lost."

Storm stared at the hologram, letting the report sink in. Already, the Chinese had done much better than the Indians, who had managed to shoot down only one of his missiles.

Another of the Harpoons disappeared from the display. That might not mean it had been shot down; the ship's systems occasionally lost track of the missiles as they dipped toward their target.

God, his head hurt worse than he thought possible.

"Dreamland Fisher is under attack," said Eyes.

Storm nodded, as if his tactical commander was standing on the bridge next to him.

"Standard missile three has struck the carrier," said Weapons. "Standard missile four has struck the carrier."

Two out of four. Acceptable against such an accomplished opponent. As an opening volley.

"Harpoon One is on target. Harpoon Three is on target. Harpoon Four is off our screen, possibly intercepted."

Another two out of four performance?

He should have been closer. He should have reserved more of his missiles. He should have made better use of his people.

"Harpoon Three has struck the Deng Xiaoping. Harpoon One — unknown." "Unknown?"

"Sorry, sir. We're working on it now. At this range—"

"The Sharkboat?"

"SB Harpoon One is off course. SB Harpoon Two and Three running true. SB Harpoon Four has been intercepted."

"Where are those planes that were attacking us?" said Storm.

"Turned off — going after the Fisher." "Can we help them?" "Too far. We have no more missiles." "Very well," said Storm. "They'll come out of it. Those Dreamland people always do."

Chu tried to shut out everything but the sky in front of him, concentrating on getting the Megafortress away from its pursuer. He knew eventually the Stinger air mines would take the J-13 down; the trick was to survive until then. The plane rocked up and down as he zigged south. He knew one of his engines had been hit, but this wasn't the time to deal with it; a fresh warning indicated four AA-12s had been fired by the planes coming up toward his nose.

He wanted to use all eight of his Scorpions against the Tai-shan aircraft, but it would be at least fifteen minutes before the planes were in the air. He'd never make it that long if he didn't knock down some of the J-13s nearby.

"Target those fighters," he told his copilot. "One missile apiece."

"Hawk Six has been shot down," said the copilot.

"Bay."

"Bandits are targeted. We have two missiles coming for us."

"Fire. ECMs. Hawk Five, stay with me," added Chu as the air around him exploded with shells from the Chinese aircraft.

The first Scorpion clunked from the dispenser. Chu kept the plane steady as the next rotated into position and fired. The plane began to shake.

"Hawk Five, we're going north," said Chu. He sank deeper into the sofa, even calmer.

"Following."

"Missile closing."

"Chaff, ECMs."

Chu pushed the Megafortress's stick hard to the left, trying to get away from the missile. The Megafortress shuddered and began dropping. He couldn't hold the plane steady; alarms sounded, warning him that engines one and three had been damaged, warning him that there were holes in the fuel tanks, warning him that he was surrounded and faced certain death.

"Target the carrier with our AMRAAM-pluses," he told the copilot. "Fire as soon as you're locked." "Engine one is gone."

"The hell with the damn engine. Fire the missiles!"

The left side of Chu's face imploded. He saw red and then black, and felt himself relaxing again, sinking back on his couch, easing back, enjoying a nice scotch for one last time.

Captain Hongwu nearly lost his balance as the ship absorbed the blows of the Harpoon missiles. The lights blinked off but came back.

There were three more missiles. Hongwu heard the air boss trying to direct the aircraft to intercept them. The Harpoons were subsonic and flew relatively predictable patterns, but shooting them down was exceedingly difficult, and it did not seem that his pilots could accomplish the task.

Still, if only one was intercepted, he felt they could survive.

The close-in weapons were so loud that Hongwu could hear them even here as they aimed at the incoming missiles. He grabbed the nearby table, sensing they would miss. The ship shook with an explosion, this one much closer than the others.

The lights went out. Captain Hongwu found himself on the deck, the emergency lights on. Someone helped him up.

"We've taken two more strikes to the hull below the hangar deck," said the damage control officer. "Compartments 103, 105, 107, are taking water. We have not heard from—"

"Can the Tai-shan aircraft take off?" asked Captain Hongwu.

"We believe so, sir. They are still being prepared."

"That is of primary importance. Deal with the damage expeditiously, but those aircraft must launch."

"Air Group One reports that the Indian aircraft carrier has begun to sink at the bow," said the air boss. "Should they attack alternative targets?"

"Have them attack the American warship," Hongwu told him. "They are our priority now."

All of the missiles launched from both Pakistan and India had been disabled by the T-Rays. But the attack on the Deng Xiaoping, though it left the aircraft carrier on fire, had not stopped preparations to launch the Tai-shan aircraft. A near-real-time photo from the U-2 spy showed a swarm of men prepping the planes, even as a damage control party played a fire hose on a piece of decking a few yards away.

"Bastards are going to go ahead and nuke India anyway," Freeman said, looking at the image.

"Maybe they don't know we've destroyed the missiles," said Jed.

"They should by now. They see an advantage and they want to take it."

"More likely, the Chinese aren't entirely sure what's going on," said President Martindale. He put his coffee mug down — a Secret Service agent had retrieved some from the cafeteria upstairs. "Time to talk to them."

"And say what?" demanded Freeman.

Rather than answering him, the President turned to Jed Barley. "You ever play poker, young Jed?"

"Um, sure."

"One of the advantages of stud is that your opponent knows part of your hand. The better the hand looks, the more he has to guess."

"They'll never trust us," said Freeman.

"I'm counting on that. Give me the phone."

They hadn't spotted the Flighthawk yet, but India's western coastline lay fifty miles ahead. The Levitow had made better time than Breanna had hoped.

But their free ride was about to come to an end.

"Two Su-27s coming from the west," Stewart told her. "Their radars are working."

"Do we have the Flighthawk?"

"Not on radar. It may be too low for us to see until we get closer."

They should have found it by now. But it was just one more problem she didn't have time to worry about.

"Lou, do you think you could operate the Stinger air mines from the auxiliary station? I'll need Jan to help me fly the aircraft if we have to do any sort of maneuvering."

"Not a problem."

"Ground radar active," said Stewart. "Rajendra — phased array. Fire control for Akash."

"The missiles have a thirty kilometer range," said Bullet. "About nineteen miles. We should be able to steer away from them."

"That's what we're going to do," Breanna said. "Give me a heading."

Zen sat at his station, waiting for the Flighthawk to pop onto the tracking scope. While they were not precisely on the flight route the plane was supposed to take, they were close enough. Even if for some reason they couldn't find it on radar, the Flighthawk would periodically send out a signal, in a sense "calling home." Its power was limited for tactical reasons, but he knew they should have no problem finding each other at fifty miles.

"I guess this is what girls go through waiting for a guy to call back after a first date, huh, Dork?" Zen asked.

"Must be."

"You got a girlfriend?" Zen asked the other pilot.

"Kinda."

"Kinda?"

Before Dork could answer, the Flighthawk's locator beacon lit on the screen.

"All right," Zen said. The Flighthawk was about fifty-three miles behind them, off the east. He was about to tell Breanna that via the interphone, then remembered that the system was out.

"Run up and tell Captain Stockard our escort is behind us. Present speed and course, it ought to catch up in about ten minutes."

The course around the Akash missiles also took them out of the path of the Su-27s, which for the moment at least did not appear to have seen them. Her airspeed tacked below 250 knots; no matter what Breanna did, she couldn't get it any faster. She was at 23,000 feet, and had to keep edging lower as her speed crept downward.

"Big base at Puna," warned Bullet, who was working to psych what might lie ahead. "MiG-29s. They'll be patrolling near Mumbai."

Breanna planned to turn back west and make the coast well north of Mumbai, but there was a good possibility that the radars in the area would see them. Nor could she risk getting under the radar coverage — on two engines, she'd never be able to climb out of danger.

"Su-27s are turning in our direction," said Stewart.

"The Flighthawk is behind us," shouted Dork, coming onto the flightdeck. "Pick us up in about ten minutes."

"Something to shoot for," said Breanna, starting her turn toward the coast.

The morning sun had painted the northern Arabian Sea a brilliant azure blue. But black clouds dotted the horizon as Colonel Bastian flew his aircraft over the coastline at treetop level; the naval conflict had continued, unaffected by the electromagnetic pulses originating from the east.

Dog pushed the aircraft down closer to the waves. They'd seen four contrails as they approached the coast, but so far no other aircraft. If they'd been targeted by anyone, they had no way of knowing.

"Colonel Bastian?"

Dog recognized Major Catsman's voice on the Dreamland communications channel. "Bastian."

"The Fisher has been shot down. They were attacked by at least six Chinese fighters when the Abner Read launched its attack on the Deng Xiaoping."

"They attacked the Deng?"

"Two fighters were headed in their direction. They may have been under attack and saw that as their only chance to strike," said Catsman. "The Deng Xiaoping has been hit but is still afloat. They're preparing the Tai-shan planes for launch."

"Do you have a location on where the Fisher went down?"

"We have an approximate location, Colonel. The Abner Read is too far south to conduct rescue operations at this time."

"How far am I from them?"

"I can only give you an approximate location. You're northeast about sixty miles."

He had four Harpoon missiles in the bomb bay, but no way to fire them.

"I need to talk to Storm," he told Catsman. "Stand by."

A layer of turbulent air rattled the plane. Breanna was forced to edge the Levitow still lower, her airspeed dipping precariously.

"The Su-27s are challenging us," said Stewart. "What should I tell them?"

Breanna considered saying they were a civilian airliner, but that was unlikely to stop them from coming and having a look; civilian flights had been banned.

"Tell them who we are. Say we were on a reconnaissance flight and are returning home."

"You think that's going to make a difference?"

"I think they might have to ask their ground controller what to do. Maybe we'll gain a few minutes."

"We still have the Scorpions," said Stewart.

"We'd have to turn and get in their faces to fire," said Breanna. "We'll hold off for now."

There were three other reasons not to fire. First of all, opening the bay doors would deprive them of even more momentum, making it more difficult to fly the plane. Second, the fighters would detect the missiles and undoubtedly launch their own. And last — and most important for Breanna — using the missiles would lessen the possibility that she could intercept the Tai-shan planes.

Sixty seconds later one of the Indian pilots told them they were in Indian territory and would have to divert to the air base at Puna "or face the consequences."

"What consequences would those be?" asked Breanna.

"Dire," responded the pilot.

Breanna told Bullet to find out how long it would be before the Flighthawk caught up. Then she went back on the line with the Indian pilot.

"I don't think I can make it to Puna," she said. "My intention is to ditch in the sea. One of my engines tore loose from its mount and damaged the wing. We're very low on fuel. I do not want to cause a national catastrophe."

The pilot told her to stand by.

"Three minutes," said Bullet, running upstairs.

"Five more to get to the coast from here," said Stewart. "Maybe if you make a feint for Puna, you can gain some more time."

"I'm worried about their missile batteries," Breanna told her. "SA-12s. Our best bet is to stay on course."

Zen spent the time waiting trying to work out exactly how he would take down the two fighters. They were now east of them, not quite aligned with the Megafortress's tail but headed in that direction. The Flighthawk was approaching from the east as well, though to the south of the Sukhois. Given the Megafortress's condition, he wanted to engage them as far from the mother ship as possible, certainly before they were close enough to fire their infrared missiles. But he had no control over that — even when the Flighthawk got close enough to reestablish its connection, he'd still be more than ten miles behind the enemy fighters. Worse, the loss of the interphone system made it almost impossible to coordinate strategy with Breanna. Sending people back and forth between the decks took too much time.

"Dork, tell Breanna if these guys stay in their present formation, I'll take Bandit One to the east."

"OK," said Dork. "Major, you ever play telephone?"

"Huh?"

"You know, where you whisper a message in someone's ear and they pass it on? We could do that here."

"Isn't the purpose of that to show how mangled a message can be?"

"Well, yeah, but it's better than nothing."

"All right, it's a good idea, Dork. Set it up. Hey — you just got yourself a new nickname: Telephone."

"I think I like Dork better."

"You will proceed as directed. Emergency vehicles are standing by," the Indian pilot told Breanna.

Ain't that sweet, thought Breanna. Prison cells too, no doubt.

"Can you give me a course heading and a — um, a — uh… " Breanna continued to stall. "Distance. I need a distance."

The Indian pilot, clearly losing patience, told her to change her heading forty degrees—now.

"Zen has control of the Flighthawk!" said Bullet, the last link in the communications chain. "Needs another two minutes to get behind them."

"Tell him I'm going to descend a bit," said Breanna.

"The Indian fighters are right on our back now, Bree," said Stewart.

"Visual range?"

"Not yet, but very close. Just about within range for an A-10 heat-seeker."

"Lou, be ready to turn the Stinger radar on as soon as I say." Breanna pushed the nose of the Megafortress forward, descending. Five minutes on this course — five minutes to the sea.

But so what? The Sukhois could easily follow them there.

"American aircraft — you are ordered to change course or face the consequences."

"He's activated his gun radar," said Stewart. "I think he'll close and try throwing some warning shots across the bow."

Come on, Zen, Breanna thought. Hurry up with that Flighthawk.

Zen could see the two Indian fighters ahead, flying parallel and very close to the Megafortress's tail.

"Megafortress descending!" said Dork.

"Sixty seconds." Zen flexed his hand around the joystick. The Indian pilots, so focused on what they were doing, had not bothered to check six — or maybe they had looked behind their aircraft and missed the diminutive Flighthawk.

"Can you get both planes?" Dork asked.

Maybe. But he couldn't guarantee it.

"No," said Zen. "Tell Breanna to take the one to the west with the Stinger air mines. She has west. Confirm."

The Flighthawk pushed on steadily. He was two miles away — the screen began blinking red.

"Confirmed. She has west."

"Ready!" yelled Zen as the screen went solid red.

"Ready!" yelled Dork.

"Go!" Zen began firing.

Breanna pushed the Megafortress to her left as hard as she dared, throwing the rear Stinger battery in the face of the Indian fighter. At the same time, the Stinger began firing even though it couldn't possibly have locked on its target yet.

The Levitow began to shake. Tracers were popping to its right.

"Going for the coast!" Breanna shouted, her words intended for Zen. "Stewart — what's our status?"

"Bandit One breaking off. Two is still behind us."

Breanna started to push the nose of the Megafortress forward, wanting to increase her speed and give Zen some room to work with as he went for the other fighter. As she did, the Megafortress started to flail to the side, and within seconds she was fighting a yaw.

Zen got two long bursts into Bandit One, enough to draw smoke from her tailpipe. He let the fighter go, turning to try and get some shots on the other one. Bandit Two rolled away, just as a hail of air mines exploded behind the Megafortress.

As Zen followed the Indian plane downward, he caught a glimpse of the damaged EB-52. It was much worse than he had thought — the right wing had several large cracks running through it, with gaps big enough to see the foam protection for the fuel tanks. The starboard tailplane had been chewed up; less than a quarter of it remained.

Bandit Two, still concentrating on the Megafortress, swung into position to fire his heat-seekers. Tucking his nose down, Zen got the Sukhoi in the middle of his crosshairs and sent a stream of bullets across its wings, across its fuselage, across the burning hulk he turned the plane into.

"Scratch Bandit Two" he told Dork, pulling off. "I'm going to bird-dog over the coast."

It was then that he finally noticed that the Megafortress was moving back and forth in the air, each swing a little stronger.

Desperate to control the ship, Breanna had Stewart dial back power to engine one as she tried to rebalance her aircraft. It helped, but it also cost more airspeed. The water, at least, was just ahead, beyond a thick line of factories and boats.

"Radar — Top Plate — there's a patrol boat off shore," said Stewart. "Correct that — a frigate. They'll have Geckos."

"Gecko" was the NATO code word for SA-N-4s. The missiles would be potent under any circumstance, but the Megafortress would be an easy target now.

"Where are they?"

"Ten miles ahead."

"ECMs." Breanna had the plane back almost completely under control, the yaw reduced to a wobble. Her altitude was now below fifteen thousand feet. Forget the missiles, she thought, they'd be low enough for the antiaircraft guns by the time they got close to the frigate. "I'm going to go north," she said. "We need to get some distance between us and that ship."

As she prepared to bank, the Megafortress abruptly dropped thirty feet.

Zen turned the Flighthawk back toward the Mega-fortress. As he came close, he saw a chunk of the right wing's skin fly off, pried loose by the plane's violent shakes and the wind's ravenous appetite. He couldn't tell for certain, but he thought the cracks he'd noticed before were longer. They weren't going to make it.

"Tell Breanna to select the view from Hawk Three" he told Dork.

Breanna alternately wrestled and coaxed the airplane, knowing it was a losing battle. The only question was where they were going to crash.

She preferred ditching at sea, where the shot-up plane wouldn't kill any civilians when it crashed. It would also be arguably better to bail there, since they might have a chance of being picked up by a U.S. ship or even the Osprey, rather than the Indian authorities.

"All right, crew, here's what we're going to do — we're not going to make it much farther. We have six ejection seats and eight people. I'm going to go out with a parachute from the Flighthawk deck. We'll draw straws for the other place."

"I volunteer," said Stewart.

"I'm sure everyone will volunteer," she said. "That's why we're drawing straws."

Zen had already decided what he was going to do when Dork passed the word. He turned the Flighthawk over to the computer, then pulled off his helmet.

"Doesn't make any sense for me to use the ejection seat. I have nothing left to protect," he said. "I'll take my chances dropping."

"But Captain Stockard said—"

"I outrank everyone aboard this aircraft, including my wife," said Zen, pushing himself up out of the seat. "Besides, I'm a much better swimmer than anyone else here. I can make it to the coast if I have to. You guys won't. Yo, Bullet, this chair's for you. Grab a brain bucket and saddle up."

Memon saw Admiral Skandar mouthing the words before he heard them, as if he were watching an out-of-sync motion picture.

"You are ordered to abandon ship," said the admiral calmly. "I repeat. Abandon ship."

The ship's fantail was now well out of the water, and the list to starboard so pronounced that Memon could see only the water outside the ship. He'd managed to get to his feet but gone no farther since the first explosion. He had no idea how much time had passed; it seemed both an eternity and a wink.

Down below, one of the armament stores had caught fire, and weapons cooked off with furious bangs. The explosions seemed fiercer than those caused by the American missiles, more violent and treacherous, as if the ship were being torn up by demons.

The ship's crew began moving in slow motion, following routines established during drills they'd hoped never to perform in real life. One by one the Defense minister bid them farewell.

I am so much a coward, thought Memon, that I cannot even move. I deserve to die a coward's death.

"You must abandon ship too," Skandar told Memon. "Go. Save yourself."

"I will stay," said Memon. His throat was dry; the words seemed to trip in it.

Was it the coward's way to save himself? He wanted to live, and yet he could not move.

"It is your duty to carry on the battle," said Skandar. "I am an old man. It is my turn to die."

There was no question that Skandar was brave, and Memon knew himself to be a coward. Yet their fates were the same. Here they were, together on the bridge, stripped bare of everything but nerve and fear.

"Admiral. You must live to help us rebuild and fight again."

Skandar did not answer.

"Admiral?"

The sound of metal twisting and breaking under the pressure of water filled the compartment.

Memon wanted to live. Yet he could not move.

Skandar turned away and looked out through the broken glass at the sea. "In the next life, I will be a warrior again," he said.

Before Memon could answer, the deck collapsed below them, and he and Admiral Skandar plunged into the howling bowels of the burning ship.

Storm struggled to ward off the pain as the Chinese aircraft began their attack from thirty miles off — too far for their radars to lock on the slippery ship. They were relying on the guidance systems in their missiles to lock as they approached the target.

There were four J-13s, each armed with four cruise missiles. The Abner Read was an awesome warship — but she wasn't invincible. In simulated trials the ship had managed to shoot down seven out of eight missiles in a massed attack. More than eight missiles, and the systems and men running them were overwhelmed. His strategy would be to push the odds as close to his favor as possible.

They got one break — rather than firing all of their weapons en masse, the Chinese launched a first wave of only four missiles.

"Helm, hard right rudder," he said. They turned the ship to lower its radar profile, making it more difficult for the missiles to acquire them on final approach. This also limited the number of Phalanx guns he could put on the missiles, but it was an acceptable trade-off if the Chinese were only firing four weapons at a time.

Two of the Chinese missiles quickly lost their target and exploded in frustration. The final two kept coming in their direction.

"Status!" barked Storm.

"Neither missile has locked, Captain."

Storm studied the holographic display. The missiles looked like they were going too far east. They looked like they were going to miss, though not by much.

One did. The other veered toward the ship. Before Storm could even say "Defensive weapons," the Phalanx operator had shot down the missile.

Four down. Twelve to go.

Starship stayed south of the Abner Read as the close-in weapons system fired; the automated system had mistaken Werewolves for missiles in the past, nearly shooting them down.

Besides his Hellfires and the chain gun, he had two

Sidewinder missiles for air defense on the Werewolf's wingtips. The Werewolf couldn't take on the J-13s in anything like standard air combat; it might be fast for a helicopter at 450 knots top speed, but that was far slower than the Chinese jets.

On the other hand, if he could set up the right circumstances, he knew he might be able to take one of the planes. As a fighter jock, he was aware that helicopter pilots were taught to turn and fly toward their attacker, staying as low to the ground, zigging, and making a straight-on shot hard to line up. As the pursuing fighter passed, the chopper should then turn and fire.

Assuming, of course, it was still in one piece.

The J-13s had split into two groups. Two tacked to the east and launched a fresh pair of missiles. A second group of two planes was swinging around to the west, obviously aiming for their own try from that direction.

"Tac, I'm going to the west and take on one of those fighters," said Starship. "Probably Bandit Four"

"Werewolf?"

"I'm going to take on one of these fighters. No, belay that," he said, using a Navy term for the first time in his life. "I'm going to nail one of those fighters."

"Colonel Bastian for you, Storm."

Storm clicked into the circuit. "Gale," he said.

"The Tai-shan aircraft are almost ready to launch," said Dog. "Are you in position to shoot them down?"

"I regret to say… " The words stuck in Storm's throat. The close-in guns were firing again. "I regret to say it's unlikely we will be in position to shoot down the planes. We may be sunk ourselves."

The J-13s dropped their speed and altitude as they approached the Abner Read. Starship singled out his target. The enemy plane, flying at only a hundred feet, ignored him at first, too focused on his target to notice the tiny bug com ing straight at him. For a second Starship thought he might be able to fly into the jet, but the J-13 began to climb, either because he'd spotted him or to launch his missiles.

Time to improvise.

Starship leaned on his stick, pushing the Werewolf's nose nearly upright. He fired two Hellfires in the general direction of the Chinese fighter, hoping to distract him rather than shoot him down. Then he slammed the helicopter around and leaned on the throttle, trying to pick up some momentum as the plane passed overhead. He cued the Sidewinder, got a growl — or thought he got a growl— indicating a lock, and fired.

The missile immediately went off to the right, a miss from the get-go. But Starship was still on the fighter's tail. Spooked, the Chinese pilot abandoned his target run and started a turn north to evade him. The Sidewinder growled again; Starship fired.

This time he watched the missile run right up the rear end of the Chinese plane and tear it to pieces.

The Chinese cruise missile hit the Abner Read so hard that the ship's bow rose several feet under the water. Storm tried to grab onto something but could not; he was thrown against the helmsman and rebounded against the jumpseat near the holographic display.

"More missiles! Four more missiles!" warned the defensive radar.

"Jam them," said Storm, even though he knew his crew didn't need his order to do so. "Jam them — get them. Destroy them."

He tried to get up to see the holographic display tracking the missiles. But his head was light and his legs were shaky. He found himself back on the deck.

I'll be damned if I'm going to die on my back on the deck of my ship, he thought, struggling to get up.

Dog turned around in his seat. "Crew, prepare for emergency bailout!" he shouted. "Dish, tell them downstairs. You're going out in sixty seconds."

"Sixty seconds?" said Jazz. "Why are we bailing?"

"Because it's time to get out. That's my order."

Dog turned his attention back to the plane. They were thirty miles north of the carrier. He could see one of the aircraft on combat patrol in the distance.

"Colonel, why are we bailing?" demanded Mack Smith, appearing behind him.

"I have to stop those planes from taking off," Dog told him. "Go prepare to eject."

"You're going to crash into the carrier?"

"I'll bail out at the last minute."

"Then I'm going with you," said Mack.

"No."

"I'm going too," said Cantor, appearing behind him. "I appreciate the sentiment — but get the hell back to your stations."

"Colonel, Jed Barclay on the Dreamland channel says the U-2 picture shows one of the Tai-shan planes being wheeled into position."

Dog turned the Megafortress south. "Tell him we have it under control. And then everyone bail out. Bail out!"

"The point is very simple, Mr. Premier." President Martindale paused to let the interpreter translate his words for the Chinese leader. "I've just stripped India and Pakistan of their nuclear weapons. I can do the same to China." He looked over at Jed. "Not just those in the Arabian Sea, but all of your weapons. Under those circumstances, some of my people might strongly advise me to end our China problem once and for all."

Jed glanced at the display from the U-2 near the Deng Xiaoping. The planes were getting ready to take off. Would an order even reach them in time?

They could physically link the phone conversation through the Dreamland communications network through the Situation Room's communications setup, but they could not get it to the ship. The Wisconsin could not broadcast on regular radio frequencies.

The Abner Read could. Maybe they could retransmit it over the radio frequencies.

"Yes, the hawks are extremely strong in my country," President Martindale told the Chinese premier. "A shame. I'm really very powerless against them. Very regrettable."

Freeman rolled his eyes, and even Martindale winked.

"Can you broadcast that command immediately? I'll stand by." Martindale cupped his end of the receiver. "He's agreed to rescind the order."

"I think we can broadcast it from the Abner Read to the carrier," said Jed. "If you can get him to say it over the phone."

"They may think it's a trick," said Freeman.

"The Premier is using his own network," said the President. "When he comes back on, I'll suggest it."

"Let's have the Abner Read broadcast the information in the meantime," suggested Freeman.

"They've just attacked them," said the President. "They won't trust them at all."

"What if Colonel Bastian tried talking to them?" said Jed. "He's well-known in China because he saved Beijing from the Taiwan renegades and their nuclear weapon. We might be able to have him communicate through the Abner Read."

"See if you can do it," said the President.

Freeman walked to the NSA screens, looking to see if the Premier issued the order. "What do we do if he calls your bluff, Mr. President?"

"Let's hope he doesn't," said Martindale.

Faced with a mini-mutiny, Dog concentrated on his course. The fact that his radar wasn't working was an advantage in a way — it meant there were no aggressive signs from the aircraft. Sooner or later, however, the Chinese would decide he had to be dealt with.

They'd undoubtedly used many of their weapons in the earlier battles. The question was what they had left. If he was just facing cannons, Dog thought he'd make it to the deck — as long as he was there to steer it all the way down.

Dreamland Command told him he was now thirty miles from the carrier — roughly three minutes flying time.

"All right, crew. This is it. One by one we go out. Mack, you're first."

"Colonel—"

"I can't jump if you guys don't jump. We're two minutes from impact. Time to get out. Now!"

Mack cursed, then Dog heard the pop and whish as he pulled the yellow handles next to his seat.

One by one the others jumped. Jazz was the last. "Colonel, I'll stay until you're ready."

"Out, Jazz. We're two minutes from target."

"I know what you're doing. We don't have the computer, so you need to stay with the plane to guarantee it'll go where you want."

"Go."

Dog's voice shook the cockpit. The copilot ejected.

A J-13 appeared at his side, making hand signals. Dog waved to him.

"Colonel Bastian?" said Jed Barclay on the Dreamland Command line. "Bastian."

"Colonel, the Chinese Premier has ordered the carrier to stand down. We want you to relay the order." "How?"

"We're rigging something through the Abner Read. Just start talking."

Dog pushed the stick down, starting into a plunge toward the carrier. He was too far from the ship to see the planes, but Jed could via the U-2—he wouldn't be asking him to do this if the planes weren't ready to take off.

"Colonel?"

Tracers flew in front of him.

"I'll talk, Jed. But I doubt they're going to listen."

Captain Hongwu was surprised by the voice.Itwas deep and calm, sure of itself without being haughty, exactly like the voice he had heard on television after Beijing was saved.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian of the United States Air Force. I'm going to destroy your vessel unless you stand down the Tai-shan aircraft. The nuclear weapons launched by India have been neutralized. Your government has rescinded your order to attack."

"I am honored to speak to the man who saved Beijing from disaster," said Hongwu. "But I must follow my orders."

"Your government is in the process of issuing the order. You will receive it shortly."

Hongwu turned to his executive officer. "Have we received an order on the encrypted fleet frequency?" He shook his head.

"A nice trick, Colonel. I am afraid my duty requires me to shoot you down. It is with regret. You saved many of my relatives and friends with your bravery over my country."

"Then you know I am not a liar or someone who uses tricks. And you also know that you will not be able to shoot me down."

"The American plane is five miles from us!" warned the executive officer. "He's coming up the stern." "Fire the guns when he is range." "Only two are left." "Two should be enough."

"A communication!" shouted the radio officer. "An encrypted communication from Beijing directly!"

Dog could feel the Megafortress tucking her wings back. He was still too far to see the airplanes on the deck, but he knew about where they would be.

A pair of black clouds rose from the rear of the ship— flak. The bullets rose in an arc and fell away. He thought he could get in between them, though perhaps that was merely an optical illusion.

Tracers danced in front of his windscreen. Then he heard the sick thump-thump-thump of slugs slapping into his right wing.

Dog struggled to hold the plane steady. Without the computer to help trim the aircraft, the Megafortress was a stubborn beast. Once she had her momentum going in a certain direction, she insisted on following through.

Which was just as well in this case.

More tracers. Then the J-13 zoomed ahead and banked in front of him.

The ship was starting to get bigger. He'd have a fat target now. He could see the antiaircraft fire. It had been fired too early, too desperately.

The ship moved to his right, turning.

To get away?

He pushed on the stick. He was close enough. They were dead.

For a brief, flickering moment Colonel Tecumseh "Dog" Bastian thought of his daughter Breanna. He was proud of her, the woman she'd become. His one regret in life was that he'd been too busy to pay much attention to her growing up. He'd done his best to make it up now, but there were shortcomings you never really could excuse.

He had them now. He leaned toward the windscreen.

"They're standing down!" yelled Jed Barclay in his headset. "They've pulled the Tai-shan aircraft away from the launchers. They're turning out of the wind! Colonel — don't attack them! Don't attack them!"

Dog pulled back, clearing the carrier deck by three feet.

The six ejection seats fired almost simultaneously. The long explosion morphed into a howling wind.

Breanna helped her husband cinch the substitute helmet a few feet from the gaping holes in the floor of the Flighthawk deck.

"You ready?" she shouted in his face.

"Hell, no, but let's do it anyway," said Zen. He pulled her close, squeezing as tight as he could.

The plane rocked violently.

"We have to go out!" she yelled.

"Why were you mad at me?"

"Mad?"

"You were mad at me. I didn't pick it up at first, but then I figured it out."

"It wasn't important if I was."

"Yes." He held her tight, though she tried to pull away.

"I didn't want you to give up."

"Who gave up?"

"Your dream of walking."

"You want me to walk?" he said.

"I want you to be happy. I want — I do want you to walk," she said. He could feel her tears on his cheek. "But I don't want you to give up fighting. I want you to keep fighting. I don't want you to give up for me."

"I didn't give up," said Zen.

They looked at each other for an instant, a moment of time but an enternity in every other way.

"We have to go," said Breanna.

"Well, let's get the hell out of here."

Breanna stayed next to Zen as he crawled close to the blown-off hatches in the Megafortress.

She'd jump with him, holding on for as long as possible. If the slipstream slammed them against the jet, if it pushed them away to the water — they'd be together.

That was the way it should be. The only way.

"Here we go!" yelled Zen, and with one push they tumbled through the hatchway.