End Game

III Be Boarded, or Be Sunk

Anil Memon zipped his windbreaker as he stepped out onto the observation deck of the Shiva. India's deputy defense minister immediately grabbed for the railing, thrown off balance not by the rolling of the ship but the roar of one of her Su-33s charging off the ramped runway below. The warplane lurched into the sky, her left wing bucking down for a brief moment before the thrust from her two massive engines muscled her upward.

"An impressive site, Mr. Memon, is it not?" said the commander of the Shiva, Admiral Kala. A short, slight man, he did not weigh much more than 120 pounds, but he was one of the most respected commanders in the navy. "When we have five more ships like this, no one will challenge India's greatness, not even the Americans."

Memon smiled. To get five more ships such as the Shiva would not be easy.

He turned his attention back to the sea, scanning the surface for the wounded destroyer Calcutta. One of the lookouts had said it was just visible on the horizon, but even with his powerful binoculars he couldn't see it.

"It's to port, ten degrees," said the admiral, guessing what he was looking for.

Memon adjusted his view and saw the mast.

"I was aboard the Calcutta last year," Memon said. "I can't imagine she was struck by a torpedo from a submarine. She would have heard the vessel before the attack." "We will know the answer soon."

A sailor appeared behind them, his uniform so crisp that a scent of starch filled the air.

"Admiral Kala, communication with the American ship has been established."

"Very good. Deputy Minister Memon, will you join me?"

Memon followed the admiral back into the superstructure of the ship. Allowing for the metal walls and the pipes, the interior of the Shiva seemed more like the inside of a large office complex than that of a ship. The halls still smelled of fresh paint, and even the decking had a glow to it.

The ship had three different secure communications suites. The one the sailor led Admiral Kala and Memon to looked like a television studio, and had a special copper-enclosed booth at the side where top-secret conferences could be held without fear of anyone aboard eavesdropping.

Admiral Kala pointed to a phonelike handset below one of the screens at the left side of the space, then picked up the one next to it.

"This is Admiral Kala, the commander of the Indian aircraft carrier Shiva. To whom am I speaking?"

"Captain Gale, of the USS Abner Read. What can I do for you, Admiral?"

"We thank you and your crew for rendering assistance to the Calcutta," said Kala. "Her captain told me personally of your aid."

"Right."

"I have been given to understand that you tracked and stopped a Pakistani vessel that had been in the vicinity."

"Damn straight. My people searched it stem to stern. We found nothing. Anything else I can do for you?"

"This is the deputy defense minister," Memon said into his headset. "It has not escaped my notice that the United States not only had a warship in the area, but an aircraft as well."

"The Abner Read was nearly two hundred miles away. What's your point?"

"You had a helicopter close enough to launch the torpedo," said Admiral Kala.

"You know what, Admiral? I'm a little busy right now. Maybe you should take your inquiries through diplomatic channels."

"Captain—"

"Frankly, sir, I don't know you from Adam. And I'm not going to listen to slander." The line went dead.

Memon felt his cheeks burning. But the insult did not appear to have registered on the admiral's face.

"We should inspect the tanker ourselves," suggested Memon. "It would not be impossible to mount a torpedo tube on its deck, camouflaging it in some way. Or perhaps arranging so it could be fired from below the waterline. I don't trust the Americans."

The admiral walked silently to the carrier's combat control center, a level below the bridge at the center of the island superstructure. Memon followed, still seething — the American should have been put in his place. It was true that the Calcutta did not believe the Americans had been involved in the attack, but his question had been a natural one.

The Shiva's position as well as that of its aircraft and the different vessels around them were tracked on a large plexiglass display at one side of the combat center. The admiral consulted the display and then the charts on the nearby map table as Captain Adri, the ship's navigation officer, and Captain Bhaskar, the executive officer, looked on.

"The tanker is sailing toward Karachi," said Admiral Kala, tracing its course. "We can intercept it fifty miles from Pakistani coastal waters, if we change course within the hour."

"That will mean leaving the Calcutta to wait for the oceangoing tug," said Adri, glancing at his charts. "It will be another twenty-four hours at least."

"We should search them ourselves," said Memon, folding his arms.

"Captain, in my opinion we should not," said the executive officer. "The Americans have already done so."

"Change course, Mr. Adri," said Admiral Kala. "I will inform the Calcutta."

Cantor steadied the pool cue against his fingers, pulling it back and forth as he lined up the shot at the far end of the table. He had to hit the cue ball straight and hard.

Not a problem. He'd just think of it as Major Mack Smith's head.

"Eight ball in the corner," he told Jan Stewart, watching from the nearby couch. "Never."

Thwack! The ball flew down the table. The eight ball jammed hard against the cushion at the side of the hole and dropped straight down. The cue ball rebounded off the nearby rail and sailed back to him.

"You've been practicing," said Stewart, getting up.

"Just found the proper motivation."

"Yeah. I've been thinking the cue ball is Captain Stockard, but it doesn't seem to help. Another game?"

Cantor glanced at the clock on the wall of the large room.

"Yeah, OK. Rack 'em up. Then I'm going to have to check with the maintainers and make sure the Flighthawks are all ready to rock. I have to preflight in an hour or so."

"Chief Parsons will make sure the planes are ready."

"Yeah, but if I don't let him growl at me, he'll be in a bad mood the rest of the day," said Cantor, applying some chalk to the tip of his cue.

"Isn't that Mack's job?"

"The chief said that if Mack bothers him one more time, he'll hold me personally responsible." " 'Nuff said."

The Dreamland contingent had been given a pair of buildings once used by a Pakistani fighter wing at the far end of the sprawling complex. The aircraft they flew might have been old — the wall opposite the clock had a logo for the Shenyang F-6, which had all but been phased out of active service years before — but their facilities were top-rate, including the rec room that the Dreamland team had adapted as an informal squadron ready room, office, and general hangout. Besides the pool table, there were two foosball tables and a Ping-Pong setup. Beyond the briefing area sat a full kitchen with electric appliances, including two large refrigerators.

"Who's bothering who, Cantor?" said Mack, striding into the ready room. His timing was perfect: He distracted Stewart so badly that she sent the white ball curling off to the side; she barely missed scratching and hardly dented the triangle of pool balls.

"Nobody, Major." Cantor eyed the table. The break was so poor it hadn't left him any shots. "Fourteen, I guess, corner pocket."

"You're up in two hours," said Mack.

Cantor narrowed his eyes until he saw only the cue ball. He rapped the ball so hard it flew at the fourteen, which fell into the pocket with a resounding thud. As an extra bonus, his cue ball bounced the twelve into the opposite corner.

"Nice shot, junior," said Mack.

"You got something you need me to do, Major?"

"No, I'm just making sure you're ready to go."

"I read the schedule." Cantor called the eleven in the side. This time he hit it so hard it rebounded off the pocket — and sank into the opposite pocket.

"Which side did you call?" Stewart asked.

"No, your shot."

"Guts is sick, so I'm going in Levitow" added Mack.

"I'm going to tell Breanna to load two Flighthawks on the plane."

Cantor knew he should keep his mouth shut. After all, not having Major Mack Smith sitting next to him for eight or ten hours was more than he could wish for. But he couldn't help himself.

"I don't think you can take two planes, Major. In all honesty, one — I mean, no disrespect but—"

"What are trying to say, junior?" Mack slammed the refrigerator door.

"I just think you could use a little more practice."

"Listen, kid, I've been flying since you were in grammar school."

"But not the Flighthawk."

Mack threw one of the desk chairs out his way and stormed across the room. Cantor was sure for a moment that the other pilot was going to hit him. It wouldn't be a fair fight — Mack had nearly a foot on him and possibly fifty pounds — but he was so angry at the other pilot that he actually started to relish hitting him.

"You telling me I don't know how to handle them?" demanded Mack.

"You can't do two. No."

"You better go check on your aircraft, kid. I got stuff I have to do."

Cantor bit down on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to punch him — he really did.

It wasn't the size advantage that held him back. Mack was a major, and he was a lieutenant. Throwing the first punch would pretty much guarantee he was gone from Dreamland.

Throwing the second punch would be a different story. They stared at each other. Then Mack snorted in contempt and walked out of the room.

"Whoa," said Stewart on the other side of the table. "Yeah," said Cantor. "I wish he'd taken a swing."

Colonel Bastian shifted in his seat in front of the secure video screen, listening as Ray Rubeo described what the Dreamland scientists had done with the radar intercepts of the aircraft.

"The design appears similar to a number of studies conducted by the Beriev company in Russia," continued Rubeo, Dreamland's head scientist. "Approximately thirty-five feet long with a wingspan of forty-two feet. Notice the wing shape — here in this slide we superimpose the print from the Beriev design documents onto the image generated from the intercept. And, of course, the engines are in the same location."

"But this was just a study," said Dog. "No planes were built."

"No planes were sold or registered anywhere that we could find through simple checks. But that doesn't mean no planes were built."

"How can we find out if there were any? Can we call the

CIA?"

Deep dimples appeared in Rubeo's cheeks.

"Yes," he said. "I asked Major Catsman to try that. They say they're researching it. In the meantime, I took the liberty of having one of our technicians who speaks Russian contact the company."

"And?"

"I can give you a very good deal on one, Colonel. Less than half a million dollars." "Could it carry a torpedo?"

"The problem is not so much whether it could carry one, for certainly it could." Rubeo sighed, as if he were a college professor working a particularly dull class through a complicated calculus solution at the end of a long day. "Assume a Russian surface torpedo at 7.2 meters — a bit over twenty-one feet. It will sit awkwardly below the fuselage but nonetheless may be carriaged there. A smaller torpedo — the French-built L5, for example, at roughly fourteen feet — still awkward but doable. In terms of bal ance, the longer Russian design is actually easier to accommodate—"

"But the problem is weight," said Dog. "With those engines, that small a plane won't be able to fly with the extra weight? Or at least not take off."

"Precisely."

"How far could the plane go on the surface?" Something foreign creaked into the corner of Rubeo's mouth — a smile.

"Very far, Colonel. Several hundred miles." "So he's the culprit."

"No, I didn't say that, Colonel. Scientifically—"

"That's all right, Ray, we're not trying to prove the Theory of Relativity here. We need to get a list of where these planes have been sold."

"I put the question to Jed Barclay at the NSC. He said that he would have to work with the State Department, but would provide us with information before the end of the day."

"You know, Ray, you're almost becoming human."

"I take it that was a joke, Colonel?"

"Along those lines," said Dog. "Keep me updated."

He was alone in the Dreamland Security trailer, which was parked between the two buildings they were using at the base and the parking area for the Megafortresses and Flighthawks. His legs felt a little stiff — he hadn't had a chance to take his customary morning run, and in fact hadn't in several days now. He glanced at his watch, considering whether he had enough time to do a circuit around the buildings before preflighting his next sortie. He decided he did, but before he could head into the small room at the back of the trailer and grab his sweats, there was a sharp rap at the door.

"Come!" he yelled.

Lieutenant Cantor burst through the door as if he were running from a mob.

"What's up, Cantor?" Dog asked him.

"Colonel, I gotta talk to you. I really gotta talk to you." "Seat." Dog pointed. "Sit."

Cantor pulled out a chair. "Colonel — it's Major Smith."

"I know he's pain in the ass," said Dog. "But his post is only temporary. When we get back—"

"That's not it, Colonel. I just don't think he's ready to fly the Flighthawks on his own. Not two."

"Listen, Cantor, Mack has worked with the program before. He's just rusty."

"He hasn't flown in combat. He can't handle two planes. He'll get his ass kicked. Not that I wouldn't," added Cantor.

"Lieutenant, I don't particularly like Mack Smith. But he was shooting down MiGs before you joined the Air Force."

"In planes. That's the problem, Colonel. He's flying the Flighthawk as if he were flying an F-15 Eagle, or maybe an F-16."

"Mack's a cowboy, I'll give you that," Dog told the lieutenant. "Most days I wonder how he manages to fit his head into a helmet. But…"

Dog paused. He realized that he was reacting defensively, partly in reaction to a decision he had made — putting Mack in temporary charge of the Flighthawk program — and partly to a much lower ranking officer questioning the competence of a superior officer. But Cantor was not being disrespectful or insubordinate. His only offense was the fact that he wore a lieutenant's single bar.

And that Cantor took his policy of inviting "open discussion on any topic whatsoever" seriously.

"I understand your concerns," said Dog. "I think they're serious, and I think you've presented them in the proper manner. They're now my concerns. OK?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fair enough. We ready to fly?" "We will be, Colonel." "Good."

Cantor nodded, then got up and left. Watching him, Dog worried that he'd come off as too patronizing. He'd meant everything he said, but now that it was out of his mouth, it seemed a little phony-baloney.

For the first time since they deployed, he wished Zen were there.

The dream was exactly the same. The only difference was that Zen started shouting as soon as he smelled the smoke.

When he finally managed to escape from semiconscious-ness, Zen found himself surrounded by doctors and nurses on the table used to measure the nerve impulses. He looked up at a sea of anxious faces.

"Hello," he said bashfully. "I guess I was dreaming."

"Jeffrey, are you all right?" asked Dr. Vasin.

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine."

Vasin looked skeptical, but merely nodded, then left the room. The others began poking and prodding. When they were done, a male aide came and helped Zen dress.

"Dr. Vasin wants to talk to you in his office," said the aide as he helped Zen slide into his wheelchair.

Zen wheeled himself down the hall to the doctor's office.

"Come in, come in," said Vasin, still wearing his concerned grimace. "How are you feeling?"

"Bored, actually."

"Bored?"

"Yeah. I'm not used to lying around all day. I'm sorry I fell asleep."

"It is good that you were so relaxed." Vasin raised his head, but kept his eyes fixed on Zen, as if he were looking at him through the bottom half of a pair of bifocals. "Can you tell me about your nightmare?"

"Ah, it was nothing." "Please."

Reluctantly, Zen gave him a quick summary, adding that the dream recurred often. "Like this?" asked Vasin.

"The part with my wife and the fire is different. A little. It started a few days ago."

"You're worrying about your wife?" "Not really."

He realized it was a lie as the words left his mouth. Bre-anna wasn't the sort of woman you worried about. And she'd certainly proven that she could take care of herself. So why was he worried?

"Yeah, maybe I am. A little."

"Are you concerned about walking?" asked Vasin.

"Sure."

The answer seemed to mollify the doctor — but only for a moment.

"Have you spoken to Dr. Hamm?" asked Vasin.

"The shrink? Just during the evaluations last week."

Vasin grimaced at the word "shrink." Hamm was a psychologist with a wall of certificates. They'd talked about the obvious: whether Zen wanted to walk again or not.

Duh.

"If you feel the need to discuss things, sometimes a specialist will assist you in placing things into context," said Vasin.

"OK, thanks," said Zen. He backed away half a turn of the wheels, then stopped. "Any reprieve on coffee and beer?"

"No caffeine or alcohol. You feel the need?" "Just checking," said Zen turning to go.

"No, Mack, my point is not that I don't want you to fly. Nor am I relieving you of your assignment." Dog jabbed his finger in the air as he spoke, underlining each point. "My point is, only two people have been able to handle two Flighthawks at a time in combat — Zen and Starship. In both cases they flew the aircraft in combat for considerable time before handling two."

"There's always a first time."

Dog could practically see the steam coming off Mack's head. "I don't want you launching two planes."

"So what the hell are we supposed to do? Leave one home? That's bullshit, Colonel. What if one goes down?"

"You bring both. You keep one in reserve. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." His tone would have made a drill sergeant proud.

"Good," said Dog, matching it.

Somehow it seemed easier to deal with people when they were being unreasonable, Dog decided as he walked over to his aircraft.

An hour later Dog contacted Storm, tested his theory and found it wanting. Explaining to the captain what he thought had happened was more frustrating than talking to a wall.

"It's that airplane, and the others that you saw like it, that we have to look for," said Dog. "They're the key to this. Not a submarine. The submarine doesn't exist."

"Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist, Bastian."

"I didn't see it, the Indian destroyer didn't see it, and most importantly, you didn't see it. You're telling me the Abner Read would have lost a Kilo. I just can't believe it."

The backhanded compliment mollified Storm slightly. His tone softened infinitesimally as he continued.

"I could see those aircraft unloading guerrillas for the attack on Port Somalia," Storm told Dog. "But not carrying a torpedo for hundreds of miles. We don't even know where they flew from."

"Yemen. Iran. Iraq. Somalia. We reposition the Mega-fortress patrol areas to watch those coastlines. They'll show up again."

"And in the meantime, I don't have any air cover, and I can't use Piranha. Because you can't be in two places at the same time," added Storm, sarcastically referring to the mission the other night.

"You have the Werewolves. And my pilot."

"What about Piranha? We can't run that from the ship."

Not only did they not have the control unit, but Piranha had to be within fifty miles of one of its control buoys to feed data, so that even if the Abner Read did have one, the robot would be of limited value.

"We'll put the probe into autonomous sleep mode until we need her again," suggested Dog. "We'll park her out there."

"We still need her now. We need to find that submarine." "Storm, you're obsessing about a submarine that's not there."

"You don't understand submarine warfare, Bastian. This is what happens when you deal with a good sub and crew. You're never really sure they even exist."

"You have to agree the plane is suspicious."

"Find it, then — but keep Piranha in operation on the search grids my people direct."

Dog killed the link before he said something he would regret.

The Pakistani tanker was twenty miles away, too far to be seen with even the best pair of binoculars. But in the Shiva's combat control center, the tanker could be viewed from every conceivable angle, thanks to the two Sukhoi fighters and a helicopter flying near the tanker. The helicopter sent back live infrared video, which was displayed on a large television at the front of the combat control center.

To Memon, the combat center looked overwhelmingly chaotic and sounded even worse, with officers and enlisted personnel nearly shouting in an undecipherable patois. But he realized the tumult was actually highly organized, and that the singing voices were a sign that things were going well. The sound one did not want to hear as action approached, the admiral said, was silence.

"When will we attack?" Memon asked Captain Bhaskar, the ship's executive officer.

"I'm afraid I don't have time for your questions, Mr. Memon. I have work here."

He turned and walked toward the radar section, Memon's eyes burning a hole in his back.

"The marines will take off in twenty minutes," said a lieutenant who was standing nearby. He was tasked to maintain communications with the ship boarding team; Memon could not remember his first name but resolved to find a way to help him in the future. "Two Sea King helicopters. We'll see their positions on this screen here. They will be accompanied by a Mk42B with Sea Eagle missiles."

The Mk42B was a special version of the Sea King helicopter equipped with antiship missiles and special search radar. All of the Sea Kings were variants of the Sikorsky

SH-3 built by Westland; in America, the originals were known as Sea Kings, with an Air Force version called the Jolly Green Giant.

"When the aircraft are airborne," continued the lieutenant, "the admiral will give the tanker the order to stop and be boarded. The marines will secure the ship and the search will begin. The divers will arrive in a second wave, once the tanker is secured. No inch of the tanker will be left unexamined."

"And if they launch a torpedo at us in the meantime?"

"We will be at safe distance and detect it instantly. The decoys will be launched to detonate it a mile from the ship. The hull of this ship is considerably better protected than the Calcutta, and even if we were to be struck, we would survive. And the tanker will be dealt with mercilessly. The jaws of hell will receive it."

"Yes," said Memon. "That would be most appropriate."

Mack felt the Megafortress lift up abruptly beneath him as it came off the runway. Somehow being a passenger made him feel out of sorts. It wasn't just that there was no way to anticipate the tugs and pulls of flight properly. It was the fact that you were just along for the ride, like you were a passenger in a bus. And who wanted to be in a bus?

He was still sore at Bastian for demanding that he fly only one plane at a time. That seemed ridiculously cautious. The argument that only Starship and Zen had handled two in combat was ridiculous; the same could have been said about them before they did it. He'd done fine on his last sortie.

However, he would follow his master's orders. No sense going against the old graybeard, especially with his daughter at the helm of the plane. She'd be tattling in no time.

Mack shared the Flighthawk control compartment with Ensign Gloria English, who would be taking over as Piranha pilot once they reached their station. The ensign was a Navy girl; he didn't hold that against her, but unfortunately her face could sink a thousand ships. Even though she had literally nothing to do for the next two hours, English was busy at her station, examining previous mission tapes.

"Levitow to Flighthawk leader. Mack, we're climbing through ten thousand feet," said Breanna a short time later. "You're going to want to start getting ready."

"You don't have to tell me my job, Captain," snapped Mack. "I have it under control."

"I don't doubt that. Flight plan calls for a launch in ten minutes. We'll be over international waters—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the drill."

Same old Mack, Breanna thought as she prepared the Megafortress for the Flighthawk launch. He'd seemed a little more mature over the past few months, but bad cream always curdled in the end.

"Captain, we have two Sukhoi Su-33s orbiting directly to the west, fifty miles," reported Stewart. "Flying at twelve thousand feet. One helicopter as well. Additional aircraft from the south — three helicopters. All aircraft are Indian."

"Where are they coming from?"

"Believe the Indian warship to the south," said Stewart, tapping the configurable display in front of her. Data from the surface and airborne radars were forwarded to her station when they were operating, giving her a much longer-range view than normal.

"Ship on the surface," added Stewart. "Oil tanker."

"Flighthawk leader, be advised we have a pair of Indian Sukhois ahead," Breanna told Mack.

"Yeah, I see them on the sitrep."

"Let's go ahead and launch," said Breanna. "Get Hawk Three off the wing before we get too close." "Yeah, roger. Let 'er rip."

Memon watched the oil tanker on the screen in the combat center. The image was blurred and shadowy, but one thing was clear — the tanker was not stopping. The helicopter with the antiship missiles and its two companions with the marine boarding party were now less than two miles away.

Memon had donned a headset that allowed him to switch into the different radio channels being used during the mission. He listened now as the admiral repeated his warning.

"You are ordered to halt your ship. If you do not stop and allow yourself to be boarded, you will be sunk. Those are your alternatives."

There was a flurry of activity to Memon's right. An airplane coming from the vicinity of Pakistan had been picked up on radar about fifty miles away. Two of their planes were going to meet it.

The voices spiked with excitement — something had flared from below the plane.

A missile launch!

Memon's stomach tightened. The treacherous Pakistanis had lured them into a trap.

The voices calmed — the plane was identified as an American Megafortress, bound for the Indian Ocean near Africa. It had launched a small robot aircraft, not a missile.

"You look disappointed," said Captain Bhaskar.

Memon pulled off his headset. "How's that?"

"You want a battle, don't you?"

"I don't run from conflict. We must not be intimidated."

As Bhaskar frowned, one of the officers behind him announced that Admiral Kala had just given the order to stop the tanker.

"Tanker being targeted!" said Stewart, practically shouting. "The helicopter is going to fire — Sea Eagle anti-ship missile, active radar."

"Jam it," Breanna told her copilot.

"Captain—"

"Jam the guidance radar, now. Full ECM suite," said Bre-anna. She put her hand on the throttle glide, urging more speed from the Megafortress. "Hawk Three—be advised Indian helicopters are firing on the oil tanker."

"Roger that. I see it. What do you want me to do?"

"Just stay close."

"I'm hugging you," said Mack.

Breanna reached to the communications panel. But before she could tell Colonel Bastian what was going on, Stewart reported that the ECMs were on.

"They're firing anyway," added the copilot. "We're not optimized for weapons like that."

Breanna hit the preset on the communications panel so she could broadcast on the UHF frequency universally used for emergencies.

"This is Dreamland Levitow to Indian helicopters. Why are you firing on an unarmed civilian vessel?"

"First missile missed," said Stewart. "They're going to try again."

"Where are the Sukhois?"

"A mile and a half south. Aircraft carrier — bear with me," said Stewart, struggling to sort out the alerts and icons that were flashing on her screen. "Ship-to-ship — they have a targeting system for SS-N-12 Sandbox antiship missile. Surface-to-air. Short-range — um, SA-N-4 Gecko. Guns."

The SA-N-4 was a Russian-built short-range antiaircraft missile. Guided by radar, it was not a threat to the Megafortress as long as she stayed above sixteen thousand feet. The guns — they would be 30mm antiaircraft cannon— were likewise not a threat.

"SS-11—Grisons," added Stewart. "That's it."

"Also short-range. All right. Concentrate on the Su-33s," Breanna told her copilot.

Also known to NATO as CADS-1, Dagger and Chestnut Tree, the SS-11 Grisson was a close-in weapons system and was not a problem at present. The Sukhois were the real threat, though Breanna was confident she could handle them.

"Wisconsin, this is Levitow," said Breanna, clicking into the Dreamland Command communications channel.

"More missiles!" warned Stewart.

"Continue ECMs," said Breanna. Even if the electronic countermeasures confused the targeting radar, eventually whoever was piloting the helicopter would simply get close enough to hit the tanker without guidance. It was a pretty big target and it would be hard to miss.

"Breanna?" said Colonel Bastian, coming on the screen.

"We have a situation here — Indian helicopter firing missiles at an oil tanker. There are Sukhois — other helicopters. I can't let them kill civilians."

"Stand by."

"Sukhois are changing course," warned Stewart. "Hawk Three—Mack, we have their attention." "Good."

Bastian's voice boomed in Storm's ear as he switched into the channel.

"Indian aircraft are attacking a Pakistani oil tanker," said Dog. "One of our aircraft is in the vicinity."

Typical Dreamland, thought Storm. Always getting their bull necks into the middle of a firefight.

"Explain it to me simply, Bastian."

"I just did. The aircraft is Dreamland Levitow, an EB-52 with Captain Stockard in command. You can speak to her directly on the Dreamland Command line."

Captain Stockard — aka Breanna Bastian Stockard. A chip off the old renegade, trouble-seeking block.

"I'll take care of it," he said. He had one of his radio operators make the hookup. In seconds he had the pilot on the line. "This is Captain Gale. What's going on?"

"A helicopter gunship launched two radar-guided missiles at a civilian oil tanker. We've blocked them with our ECMs but they're maneuvering for another shot. Two Sukhoi jets changing course to intercept us."

"Indians?"

"Roger that."

Storm knew the aircraft must be from the Shiva, India's new, so-called superweapon.

"Don't interfere," said Storm. He could just imagine what Admiral Johnson would do to him if he got into a pissing match with the Indians.

Not that he wouldn't mind taking the Shiva down a few notches.

"Stand down, Captain," he told Breanna. "We're not at war with the Indians." "This is a civilian ship—"

"What part of 'stand down' do you not understand?"

"Can I defend myself?"

"Get your butt out of there."

"Yes, sir," she snapped, and the connection died.

Mack changed course, bringing the Flighthawk ten miles ahead of the Megafortress, on a direct line with the mother ship's nose. The two Sukhoi Flankers were forty-five miles ahead, flying abreast of each other, one on his left wing and one on his right. They were climbing at a good pace, but both Mack and the Megafortress were more than ten thousand feet above them.

"Weapons ID'd on Sukhois," said Stewart, passing along information that had been gleaned from the Megafortress sensors. "Air-to-surface missiles, long- and short-range. Only air defense weapons are Archer heat seekers; four apiece."

The Archers were short-range weapons, similar — some said superior — to the American Sidewinder.

C³'s tactics section offered up a suggestion — fly north, tackle the bogey there, then hit number two.

"Yeah, like number two is going to be stupid enough to suck his thumb while I'm zeroing out his buddy," Mack told the computer mockingly.

"Dreamland Levitow to Flighthawk leader — Mack, we're going to cut north."

"Levitow, tell you what — I'm going to take Bogey One" said Mack, using the ID on the screen. "Suggest you pound Two with a Scorpion missile."

"Negative, negative, Flighthawk — we're ordered to disengage."

"What do you mean? Run away!"

"Yeah, well, those are my orders. Stay with me. Do not attack."

Mack jerked the control stick to the right so hard the aircraft took almost eight g's, skidding through the sky as it tried to follow his instructions.

Breanna continued to stew as she held the Mega-fortress on the course north, tracking toward the Pakistani coast. To allow a civilian ship to be fired on was unconscionable.

But so was disobeying a lawful order from a superior. Zen would say screw it. Zen would say you do what you gotta do, and deal with fallout later. And her father?

He wouldn't have handed her off to Storm if he didn't think she should do what he said. They were under Captain Gale's command.

"We're going back south," she told her copilot. "Open the bay doors. Maybe we can bluff them."

"But—"

"We're not firing," added Breanna. She punched up the weapons panel, activating the AMRAAM-plus Scorpion missiles' radar herself. "I have the weapons screen on my station. Hawk Three—we're changing course. Keep an eye on those Sukhois."

"Now you're talking, Breanna."

"Hang on," she said, pulling the Megafortress south.

The Sukhois had turned back west when the Mega-fortress went north, and were slow to react as it swung back. By the time they turned to meet the Megafortress, Mack already had Hawk Three on a dead run at the leader's nose.

As he closed to within a mile, the Sukhoi's radar finally found him. But that was far too late. The Indian pilot threw flares and electronic chaff in the air, probably mistaking the radar indication or the blur speeding toward him for a mis sile. He also inexplicably jerked his plane in Mack's direction, perhaps panicking in his sudden haste to get away. The move would have been fatal had Mack been allowed to fire his cannon; the Sukhoi presented a fat target, and even a quick burst would have riddled the fuselage with bullets.

Instead, Mack went after the second Sukhoi, five thousand feet below and a mile southwest of his leader. Jamming his stick in that direction, he managed to skid through a turn and point the U/MF's nose at the bogey. Here was one advantage of flying a robot plane: The aircraft took somewhere over nine g's in the maneuver, which would have scrambled the brain of anyone sitting inside, even Mack's. C³ used the entire airfoil as a brake, pitching the airplane's tail up and then spinning onto the course like a knuckleball floating toward the plate.

And here was one disadvantage of flying a robot plane: Mack got a disconnect warning from the computer. He was eighteen miles away from the Megafortress, and would disconnect in five seconds if he didn't get closer.

"Twenty, twenty, I'm supposed to have twenty miles," he grumbled. Hoping the computer was just being conservative, he stayed on his course toward the Indian aircraft.

"Disconnect in three seconds," said the computer.

Cursing, Mack pushed the stick in the direction of the Megafortress to the east, but it was too late; the main screen went white and black letters appeared at the center: connection lost.

To Jan Stewart, it seemed as if someone had hit the fast-forward switch on the world. Icons on her configurable screens popped up in rapid succession. She no sooner interpreted one and began to act on it when two more flashed on the other side of the dashboard. The radar operators were jabbering in her ears, and she was also trying to listen to the radio channel used by the Indian pilots as well.

"Flighthawk is no longer under direct control," she told Breanna. "Uh — on course to return."

"Roger that."

"You want to launch the second one?" asked Stewart.

"No time. It'll be back inside a minute anyway if we're still on this course. Hail the Indians again and tell them not to attack."

"I've tried. They're not acknowledging us at all." "Where are the helos?"

Stewart looked at the sitrep screen but couldn't find them. She start to change the zoom but her brain froze; she couldn't remember how to do it, even though it was something she did maybe ten times an hour on a normal flight.

"Shit!" said Breanna.

"Don't yell at me," snapped Stewart, but as she raised her eyes from the screens to the windscreen, she realized Bre-anna hadn't been cursing at her at all — a black-rimmed fireball rose from the oil tanker ahead.

They were too late.

When Memon reached the bridge, he found Admiral Kala receiving a report from the air commander. Two of the jets patrolling above the tanker they were stopping had encountered an American aircraft, probably a B-52. They believed they had been fired upon without warning.

Memon was shocked by the report. While the United States was not technically a military ally, the two countries had many economic and diplomatic ties. This was a betrayal of the worst sort.

"The aircraft is now flying back in the direction of our helicopters," added the air commander. "It is acting in a hostile manner."

"What happened to the plane that was fired on?"

"The missile flew close to one of our aircraft but he was able to avoid it. There were no radar guidance indications— the situation is unclear to me."

"Shoot them down," said Memon. "They've provoked it."

The air commander turned to him. "Shoot down an American plane?"

"We were fired at first, Admiral," he said, making his plea directly to Kala. "We have a right defend ourselves."

"Warn them to leave," said the admiral. "If they do not, shoot them down. They are a danger to the Shiva, as well as the boarding force."

Mack smacked the button to change the screen configuration. The view from the Megafortress's forward television camera snapped onto his main screen. A red tongue of fire filled the lower left-hand corner.

"They hit the oil tanker," said Ensign English next to him.

"Looks like it."

"The Flighthawk disconnected?"

Mack turned to her, ready to tell her to mind her own business. But the puzzled look on her face stopped him.

"Yeah, the intercept took me too far away after the Megafortress changed course."

"Sucks."

"Yeah."

"It'll come back, though, right? It's programmed to fall back into trail?"

"Yuppers." The Megafortress's latest maneuvers had increased the distance between it and the Flighthawk; C³ predicted it would be another four minutes before it could catch up if the EB-52 stayed on its present course and speed.

"The Indian aircraft carrier is preparing to launch more aircraft," English added. "I'll bet they're going to launch another set of fighters and send the ones providing air cover over the ship to intercept us. The ones you chased away were equipped for surface combat, not air-to-air. They only had two short-range missiles."

"How do you know they're going to launch?" asked Mack.

"They're maneuvering to get into the wind. They don't know what they're doing yet," added English. "Their procedures are awkward. The ship is still brand new and they're learning. They also may not be as well-equipped as we are. Things we take for granted, they're working through."

"Yeah, I can understand that," said Mack, tapping his fingers against the still useless control stick.

Breanna banked into a turn to the west, angry with herself for flying north and then taking so long to change her mind. She'd accomplished absolutely nothing.

The tanker was on fire and the crew was abandoning ship. The Sukhois that had chased them earlier were about thirty-five miles to the northeast, at the border of Pakistani territory. One of the two planes patrolling over the Indian carrier was moving northward in their direction.

"ID weapons on that Su-33 coming for us," she told Stewart.

"Uh—"

"Heat-seekers only or AMRAAMskis?" "No weapons radar for—"

"Go to weapon query mode," said Breanna. "The W3 button at the left side of the screen. Box the target, then tap the button."

"Heat-seekers," said Stewart. "Four AA-11s. That's it."

"Levitow, this is Flighthawk leader. Bree, we have to launch the second Flighthawk."

"Negative, Mack. Colonel Bastian said you're only supposed to fly one at a time."

"Hawk Three is not under my control. It'll be four minutes before it'll catch up to us. The Indian aircraft carrier is getting ready to launch more planes; I say we launch Hawk Four."

"If we launch it now, it'll stay up for the entire flight." "We need to launch," insisted Mack. "I'll let the computer fly it," he added in a calmer voice. "Come on." "Stand by."

Breanna looked at the sitrep plot. At their present course and speed, Hawk Three would catch up with them three and a half minutes from now; by then the Sukhoi would be all over them. Any maneuvering she did would delay the Flighthawk even longer, unless she went back in the direction of the other Indian airplanes.

No brainer.

"Jan, we're going to launch the second Flighthawk," she told her copilot. "Emergency launch."

"OK," said Stewart. "Single aircraft taking off from the Indian carrier."

Mack let the computer run through the abbreviated takeoff checklist, watching the screens flash by. The Mega-fortress tilted and swung upward, the Flighthawk powering away.

A single Flanker was accelerating from the southeast, pedal to the metal. What Mack wanted to do was swing back and intercept him before he launched his missiles. If everyone else had been standing still this would be a difficult task, but with all three planes moving well over 500 knots, the calculus was tortuous. And Mack didn't want to chance losing another aircraft.

The tactics section of C³ studied its library of similar situations and suggested a basic intercept scheme. With no time to argue, Mack tapped the screen, accepting the computer's suggestion as a template for his plan.

"Flighthawk leader to Levitow—Bree, I'm going to shoot this sucker down."

"Orders are still no."

"Bullshit. He'll fire those heat-seekers as soon as he's in range." "Mack—"

"I don't feel like walking home." "We'll take him with the Stinger air mines." "He can fire from five miles out, long before the Stinger can target him." Breanna hesitated.

"If he doesn't break off in sixty seconds, take him," she said abruptly. "As you attack, we'll cut north." "Roger that."

The Wisconsin was more than a thousand miles away from the Levitow, so there was no possibility of seeing it, even with the powerful array of radars in the aircraft. But Dog sensed things weren't going well — Breanna hadn't checked back with him since their earlier communication.

"Dreamland Wisconsin to Dreamland Levitow," he said, using the Dreamland communications channel. "Breanna, what's your situation?"

"We're being pursued by a hostile Indian aircraft," she said. Her helmeted face appeared on the com screen. "We're going to shoot him down if he doesn't break off."

"I thought you were ordered to get out of there."

"We're trying, Daddy. But at this point I don't think we have any other options."

The word Daddy caught him off guard; he felt a flash of emotion he couldn't afford in a combat situation.

"Do what you think best," Dog told her.

"I am."

Her image lingered on the screen. Dog stared at it for a moment, then hit one of the presets to contact Storm.

Stewart tried the hail again, this time simultaneously broadcasting on all radio frequencies the Indians were known to use.

"Dreamland Levitow to Indian flight pursuing us. We will consider you hostile if you continue on your present course. This is your last warning."

She waited for thirty seconds. Something blipped on the right screen — a fresh radar contact.

"Nothing, Captain," she told Breanna. "Another aircraft is taking off from the carrier."

Mack dipped his wing at the exact moment he got the cue from the computer. The Flighthawk peeled down and away from the Megafortress, arcing back toward the approaching Sukhoi. The Indian was seven miles away, technically within range to fire the Russian-made air-to-air missiles; the closer he got, the better his odds of a hit. Mack activated the weapon screen; a gray bar across the center of his main view told him he had no shot.

"Flighthawk leader, this is Levitow," said Breanna.

"Don't try and talk me out of this, Bree. You know I'm right."

"Flighthawk leader, you are ordered to engage the plane pursuing us and take it down. It has refused to answer hails. It poses an imminent threat to my plane and crew."

About time you got religion, Mack thought.

"Flighthawk leader, please acknowledge for the record," she added.

"Trying to get me off the hook later on, huh?"

"Please acknowledge for the record."

"We're all in this together, hon. Now watch me write my name in this asshole's front end."

Mack pushed his stick forward. The targeting bar began blinking yellow, even though the enemy aircraft was not yet in sight. The triangular aim cue at the center of the bar began blinking red, and Mack pressed the trigger. As he did, the Sukhoi flew in from the right side of the screen. His first few shots missed, but the next dozen or so blew through the nose and then the cobraesque cowl that led to the forward edge of the wing.

In an instant Mack was beyond the Sukhoi. He turned back to the west, trying to find both the Megafortress and the aircraft he'd just shot at.

He saw the Sukhoi first, its outline synthesized at the left of his screen. It was moving away, but still moving — he hadn't taken it down.

How the hell could that be?

The Megafortress, which was supposed to have turned north after he made his attack so he could sweep in behind her, was still moving west. Before he could ask her about it, Stewart gave him a direction to cut to a western course. Bre-anna followed with an explanation.

"Hawk Four, the plane that took off from the aircraft carrier has activated radar indicating AA-12 AMRAAMskis. We want to get as much air between us as we can. Catch up to me."

"All right, yeah," said Mack, pushing the throttle slide to max.

The Flanker that had taken off from the carrier had at least two Russian-made Vympell R-77 air-to-air missiles, better known in the West as the AA-12 Adder, or, more colloquially, an "AMRAAMski." The weapon was the best non-American-made air-to-air missile in the world at medium range. Very similar to the American AMRAAM for which it had been nicknamed, it could strike another airplane at about forty nautical miles in a head-on confrontation; from the rear its effective range was roughly a third of that, depending on the speed and ability of the plane it was chasing.

Breanna had about forty nautical miles between her and the aircraft, but her advantage was quickly diminishing. And she had to worry not only about the Su-33 that Mack had just tangled with — the plane was moving southwest, its status unclear — but the two jets that had gone north earlier. They'd changed course again and were now headed in her direction.

"Broadcast another warning to the Indians," Breanna told her copilot. "Tell them that if they take any more aggressive action, we will shoot them down."

"Working on it."

Breanna glanced at the sitrep. "Mack, you have to catch up to me."

"I'm at max power."

"Bogey Four is forty miles and gaining," said Stewart. "That's the one with the AMRAAMskis." "ECMs."

"Countermeasures," said Stewart, confirming that she had begun filling the air with fuzz and fake signals. Though state of the art, the electronic countermeasures employed by the Megafortress did not make it invulnerable to radar-guided missiles, which had a number of techniques of their own to see through the haze. Breanna's basic strategy at the moment was to make it more difficult for the Indian aircraft to lock onto her and fire, essentially playing for time. In the best-case scenario, her pursuer would give up or receive orders from the aircraft carrier to return.

It didn't look like that was going to happen.

Bogey Four was closing the gap at roughly five miles a minute; Breanna decided her best defense was an aggressive offense.

"Mack, I'm going to swing south and try for a nose-to-nose attack."

"You're going to take on the fighter?"

"I'm going to get into a position to fire the Scorpions. You cut east as I make the turn and catch those two bozos coming down from the north."

Mack didn't answer right away. Breanna guessed that he was having trouble translating what she wanted to do into a plan; the Flighthawk's twenty-mile tether complicated everything.

"Yeah, roger. I got it," he said finally.

"Hawk Three will come under your control about the time I'm going to fire the AMRAAMs. Stay with Hawk Four—the computer will bring her close to me and we'll be all right."

"Yeah, yeah, OK."

"No, Mack — do as I'm telling you."

"Jeez, relax, will you? I got it."

"Stewart, you got that?" said Breanna, turning to her copilot.

"It's 'In Your Face,' " said the copilot, using the slang for a simulation exercise that followed the same attack pattern on a long-range pursuer.

"Yeah, that's it exactly. Two missiles. Wait for a lock."

"Roger that."

"Everybody, hang on," said Breanna, powering the Megafortress into a turn.

Mack had never truly appreciated the difficulty of flying the Flighthawk in air-to-air combat before. It was like trying to hit a home run when the baseball was tied to an elastic band.

As for Breanna's tactics — well, they were aggressive. But if he'd been the jock in the Su-33, he'd be salivating right now: The Megafortress made herself a huge target less than forty miles in front of him.

Apparently the Indian jock thought the same thing — he fired two radar missiles almost immediately.

Mack tried to zone out the blare of the crew's conversation and the bucking of the Megafortress around him as the others responded. The Flanker continued toward the Megafortress. If its radar missiles somehow missed the big plane, he'd use his heat-seekers or cannon to down what he thought was a fat target.

Mack turned his attention to the two airplanes he'd encountered earlier. They were flying at warp speed toward him, closing to within twenty miles. He began a turn, easing up on his throttle as he made sure he was parallel to the path the Megafortress was going to take. He needed to anticipate Breanna's next move as well as his targets'; when they saw her moving, they would slide farther west. He wanted to come at them over their wings, lacing them as he flew north and then with luck getting in behind them if they escaped and drove toward the Megafortress.

"Fire Fox One!" said Stewart, warning that the Megafortress had just fired a radar missile.

The Megafortress jerked hard to the left, taking evasive maneuvers to avoid the enemy missiles. Disoriented, Mack caught himself as he started to move the Flighthawk stick as if to correct.

The Sukhois didn't realize where the Megafortress was going, and instead kept on their earlier course. Ironically, this took them closer to Mack quicker, and the targeting bar began blinking yellow.

Then the computer flashed a warning: disconnect in three seconds.

"Son of a bitch!" yelled Mack. The screen went red and he fired, figuring it was too late to worry about where he was.

"First AA-12 off the screen — into the water. We're clear. Second is tracking," said Stewart. She punched the button to eject more chaff. Everyone else in the airplane seemed to be yelling at her, telling her what to do. Her stomach leapt toward her mouth, and her heart felt like a thoroughbred racing up and down her chest.

"Closing, AA-12 is closing," she warned. She felt like her head was about to explode.

An American AMRAAM would have been fatal at forty miles head-on, but Breanna had escaped AMRAAMski shots at ten. Still, the one homing in on her now seemed particularly tenacious, doggedly sniffing her out despite her maneuvers and the countermeasures. Breanna wanted to stay close to the Flighthawk and yet not make herself an easy target for either the missile or the two Flankers closing from the north. That was at least one too many goals, and as the AA-12 continued to close, she had to concentrate on the missile. She jerked hard left, pushing the Megafortress down on its left wing and ejecting chaff as she went. It was roughly two miles away.

It's either going to hit us or sail by in two seconds, she thought.

She was too busy holding the aircraft out of a spin to count.

Mack saw his first bullets hit the target dead-on.

Then the screen blanked. He'd lost the Flighthawk connection again.

As the air-to-air missile closed in, Stewart did something she had never done in all her days as a pilot in a cockpit: She closed her eyes and prayed.

When she opened them, she saw something red trailing through the sky about two miles away; it looked like a ribbon flying in the wind.

"Get me a location on the two Flankers out of the north," Breanna said.

"Bogey Four—"

"We shot Bogey Four down," said Breanna. "His missiles missed. The other planes are our priority now."

Mack pounded the side of his console in frustration. Then he remembered Hawk Three.

The Flighthawk's on-board computer had brought the air craft back to the mother ship while he was tangling with the Sukhoi. Mack reconnected by voice command; the main screen blinked, and he was back in command. He had to stare at the sitrep for a moment before he could figure out exactly where everyone was. The Megafortress was eighteen miles southwest, flying west. The Indian Flanker he had just attacked had broken from its pursuit and was heading southeast. The other was several miles behind him. Hawk Four was to the north, turning back in the direction of the Megafortress.

"Levitow, this is Flighthawk leader. I have Hawk Three. Bogey Two is three miles behind me. Come up north and I'll slice and dice him as he turns."

"Yeah, roger that, Mack."

The Megafortress icon began pointing to the right. Mack slid his finger against the throttle, slowing to let his opponent catch up. The Indian aircraft couldn't see him, thanks to the Flighthawk's diminutive size and radar-evading shape; as long as Mack could correctly predict his course, he'd soon have the plane in the sweet spot of his targeting pipper.

The other aircraft lost some speed turning to intercept the Megafortress, but within a few seconds it was steaming over Mack's left wing. Mack slammed his throttle as it came close, then pointed his nose down to get a shot. The red band told him he was dead-on; he squeezed the trigger. His first three or four bullets caught the center fuselage behind the cockpit; the next dozen riddled through the engine.

The enemy aircraft tucked off to the left, damaged. Mack struggled to stay with it; if he'd been wheeling an F-15 across the sky he'd have overshot by several miles. But the Flighthawk forgave him, shoving its stubby little airframe into a tighter turn than Mack could have hoped. The rear end of the Sukhoi sailed back and forth in front of him; Mack started to fire, then lost the shot.

"Come west, Mack," said Breanna.

"I have to finish this guy off first."

"West."

The targeting bar went red. Mack nailed the finger on the trigger. The Flanker dove straight down; Mack got a warning that he was almost out of range. This time he leveled off and headed for the mother ship.

Breanna blew a slow breath into her face mask, forcing her lungs to completely empty themselves before taking another breath. They were finally clear.

"Bogey Four is down — hit by our Scorpion," said Stewart. "Bogey Three is circling back in its vicinity. Bogey Two, unknown damage."

"Was there a parachute?" Breanna asked.

The airborne radar operator answered that he hadn't detected one.

"Helicopters launching from the carrier," he added.

They would be search and air rescue aircraft. Even though he'd been trying to shoot her down, Breanna hoped they'd find the pilot.

She glanced at the communications panel. She had to tell Storm what had happened. He wasn't going to like it.

"All right. Everybody take a deep breath," she told her crew. "Flighthawk leader, we can refuel if you want."

"Roger that. Three's getting thirsty. What was my score there? I get one or two?"

"I hate to be the one to break this to you, Major, but all of your aircraft are still in the air."

"You're kidding."

"Check the long-range plot on the sitrep." "They didn't ditch on the way back to the carrier?" "Apparently not." Mack cursed.

"I'm sure you did decent damage to them," Breanna said. "The important thing is, you kept them from getting us."

"Yeah," said Mack, clearly deflated. "Roger that. Lining up for a tank."

Memon felt tears brimming in his eyes as the executive officer and the flight operations commander reported to the admiral. One of their Sukhois had been shot down; its pilot was missing. The three other Flankers had been severely damaged. None would be available for the rest of the cruise.

The decision to challenge the American aircraft had been a foolish one. But what was the alternative?

The Americans had just proven where they stood. It was very possible that they were behind the strike on the Calcutta, despite all of their claims and supposedly peaceful gestures.

So be it. They would pay for this.

"I will make the report to the Chief of Naval Operations," said Memon. "Coming from me—"

The admiral shook his head. "No. It's my job. The decision was mine. The consequences are mine. I will talk to the admiral myself."

"The crew of the tanker will be taken aboard shortly. Their ship has been abandoned," said Captain Bhaskar, the executive officer. "The boarding party saw no sign of torpedo launching stations or targeting equipment. It has not been an auspicious day."

"Tomorrow will be a better one," said Memon defiantly.