End Game

IV Monkeys in the Middle

Jed Barclay took the steps two at a time, running up to his boss's office in the West Wing of the White House. He made the landing and charged through the hall, barely managing to put on the brakes as he came to Philip Freeman's door.

The National Security Advisor's secretary looked up from her desk in the outer office. "Jed, this isn't high school." "I have to talk to Mr. Freeman." "Catch your breath first."

Jed nodded, but walked immediately to the door to Freeman's inner office. He knocked, then went inside.

"An Indian airplane was shot down," he told Freeman, huffing. "By one of our Megafortresses. Others were damaged."

"You ran all the way up here from the situation room downstairs?" said the National Security Advisor.

"You said to bring you the details immediately and in person," said Jed, still catching his breath.

Freeman motioned with his hand. "I didn't mean you had to run. Sit down, Jed. Fill me in."

Jed began recounting what Colonel Bastian had told him about the encounter, then added the information he had gleaned from the Pentagon report and the intercepts the NSA had provided at his request.

"It happened less than twenty minutes ago," said Jed. "There's some information on the DoD network."

"Yes, I was just looking at the Defense Department report," said Freeman. He reached to the phone behind his desk.

Five minutes later Jed and his boss were shown into the Oval Office. President Kevin Martindale stood in front of his desk, phone in hand. He motioned for Freeman and Jed to take seats at the side, then continued his conversation, walking back and forth as he spoke. He quickly wrapped up the conversation, telling his caller — clearly a congressman — that he would talk to him before the State of the Union address later that month.

"Good evening, Philip, young Jed." Martindale replaced the phone on its cradle and sat on the edge of the desk. "So what's going on in the Arabian Sea?"

"The Indians' new aircraft carrier just destroyed an unarmed Pakistani oil tanker," the National Security Advisor said. "One of our Dreamland aircraft was in the area and warned them not to fire. Four Indian aircraft attacked our plane. We shot one down. The others may have been damaged."

"We're sure the oil tanker was unarmed?"

Freeman turned to Jed. "It's the same tanker the Abner Read stopped the other day," he said. "They searched it pretty thoroughly."

There was a knock at the door. Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman was ushered into the room by one of the President's aides. As he took his seat, he gave Jed the sort of glare one gave a new puppy who'd messed on a rug. Jed and the Secretary had had a serious run-in a few weeks back over information given to the UN; if it had been up to Hartman, Jed would be down in the Antarctic conducting penguin surveys. Fortunately, Jed's boss couldn't stand Hartman, and the incident had actually helped Jed rather than hurt him.

"Dreamland, again," said Hartman after the President summarized what had happened. "And this clown Gale. Where's Chastain?"

He was referring to Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain.

"He left the Pentagon a short while ago and should be here shortly," said the President. "The question I have for you, Mr. Secretary, is what will Pakistan do about the tanker?"

"Immediate mobilization," predicted Hartman. "And India will step up its mobilization as well. The Chinese will use that to justify their own saber rattling. Where's their new aircraft carrier?"

"The Deng Xiaoping and its escorts are already in the Gulf of Aden," said Jed.

Hartman scowled in his general direction, then turned to the President. "Did the Indians at least have a reason for the attack?"

"I think they, um, they thought the tanker was connected to the attack on the Calcutta. They wanted to inspect it."

"With what? Deep sea divers?" said the President, snorting in derision. Martindale didn't make many jokes, but when he did they tended to be acerbic.

"Who was involved in the Calcutta attack?" said the Secretary of State.

"Possibly a submarine," said Freeman. "The Abner Read has been chasing one."

"Um, Colonel Bastian has a theory that the Indian destroyer that was hit by a torpedo the other night was attacked by a small aircraft," said Jed. "We've been trying to track it down. We think it may have come from Iran."

"Iran? Why would they attack India?" said Hartman.

"Oil m-m-money, maybe," said Jed, his tongue tripping over itself. He struggled to get past the stutter, forcing himself to complete his thought. "Th-The Indians have been setting up new deals with African nations to have enough supply. That's what Port Somalia was all about."

"Bastian has proof of this?" asked Hartman.

"Just a theory," said Jed.

"It would be just like the Ayatollah and his black robes to stir the pot," said President Martindale. "They'd love to see the Indians and Chinese go at it. They don't particularly like the Pakistanis either, since they didn't support their Greater Islam Alliance. But does the colonel have proof?" Jed shook his head.

"Talk to the Indians. Find out why they fired on the tanker — and on us," Martindale told the Secretary of State.

"What should I say about their plane?" asked Hartman.

"I'm tempted to say we're launching a full investigation into why we only shot down one out of four," said the President.

"You have a helluva lot of explaining to do this time, Captain Stockard. A helluvalot."

Storm looked at the pilot's image in the video screen. She had her helmet and crash shield on — typical Dreamland arrogance.

"I did what I thought was best under the circumstances," Breanna told him. "Or would you have preferred that my aircraft be shot down?"

"I would have preferred that you kept your nose clean. You went back toward that tanker deliberately, even though you were ordered away. That's insubordination, mister. At the very least."

The pilot didn't answer. Belatedly, Storm remembered he was talking to a ma'am, not a mister. But he wasn't about to apologize or change the subject.

"Resume your normal patrol," he told her.

"I have."

"Good." He killed the transmission. His headset buzzed, indicating that Lieutenant Commander "Eyes" Eisenberg wanted to talk with him.

"Aircraft from the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping are approaching, Storm," the tactical commander told him when he switched into the circuit. "The carrier is fifty miles north of us, just exiting the Gulf of Aden."

Storm had hoped to get a look at the new Chinese carrier, if only to find out what all the fuss was about. But he'd never get that far north fast enough.

The Werewolf could, though. If the Chinese could fly over him, he could fly over them.

Hell, he could do better than that.

"Very well," said Storm. "Where's the Werewolf?"

"Routine patrol overhead, Captain," said Eyes.

"Get Airforce on the line. I want him to go tell our Chinese friends we think of the world of them."

The first ship Starship saw as he flew Werewolf Two toward the Chinese flotilla was a destroyer of the Jingwei class, whose forward deck was dominated by a twin 100mm gun. More important to Starship was the battery of HQ-7 surface-to-air missiles. The HQ-7 was a Chinese version of the French Crotale Modulaire, an excellent short-range an-tiair system with a range of roughly six miles. Starship had flown the Werewolf against Crotales in field exercises and done very poorly; in fact, it was the only system he'd consistently failed to get past. Though ostensibly in the same class as the Russian SA-8B Gecko, Starship had found the Crotale's guidance system harder to fool and the missile more maneuverable and persistent.

"Ship in sight," he told Eyes. "Hull number 525—frigate."

"Good. Copy. Be advised, aircraft are approaching you."

Starship could see two black streaks in the dim sky to his right. The threat identifier gave them captions: J-13s.

"Aircraft approaching — flying over," said Starship. The J-13 was a Chinese-made two-seat fighter based on the Russian Sukhoi Su-27, but at least two generations more advanced. Capable of carrying a wide array of missiles and equipped with the latest Russian avionics and radar, the plane was considered on a par with the F-18 Super Hornet — and might even be superior in some respects. These seagoing versions were still being studied by the West; they had not yet seen combat.

Starship frowned at them as they rolled through inverts while rocketing past. Pointy-nose zippersuits were all alike — always showing off.

Not that he wouldn't have done the same thing if he were flying an F-15.

Another warship loomed to his right, three miles ahead. From the distance it looked as if it were the size of a battleship, and in many respects it was as powerful as a World War II battlewagon. But the ship was actually a destroyer— the Fu Zhou, which carried four-packs of cruise missiles on each side. The cruise missiles were 3M-80 Moskits — SS-N-22 "Sunburns" in NATO parlance, supersonic antiship missiles with a larger warhead and greater range than the American Harpoon. With a top speed of Mach 2.5, the missile was extremely difficult to defend against, even for a state-of-the-art warship like the Abner Read.

Updated by the Chinese, the vessel had been laid down as a Russian Sovremennyy destroyer. As they often did, the Chinese had built on Russian technology, adding improvements and funding weapons purchases the cash-strapped Russians could only dream of. The result was a ship that was not quite state-of-the-art, but was nonetheless an awesome power.

A half mile beyond the destroyer was a vessel that was state-of-the-art, as advanced as anything on the water, including the Abner Read: the People's Liberation Army Navy's pride and joy, the aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping.

The nickname "flattop" fit Deng Xiaoping perfectly. Unlike nearly every other aircraft carrier in the world since the CV-1 Langley, the Deng Xiaoping did not have an island. Her surface and antiair radars were located at the sides of the craft, adjacent to but not on the flight-deck surface.

The Deng Xiaopings flat deck was shaped like a fat V, with elevated ramps placed at each head. The arrangement allowed the carrier to launch two J-13s almost simultaneously, and still have space to land planes behind them. Besides thirty-six J-13 fighters, Deng carried four KA-27 Helix helicopters for antisubmarine warfare and six Z-8 helicopters, which were Chinese versions of the French Super Frelon, equipped with uprated engines and avionics systems. Four Z-8s had large radar units that hung off the side of the aircraft like a large water pail; when airborne, they provided radar coverage for the carrier. The other two were used for search and rescue operations.

"American helicopter, this is the People's Liberation Army Navy Aircraft Carrier Deng Xiaoping. Identify yourself."

"Dreamland Werewolf Two from the Littoral Warship Abner Read," said Starship. "Captain Gale extends his compliments to the captain of the vessel, and wishes to present a token of his admiration. Requesting permission to land."

"Dreamland?" said the carrier radioman, his voice losing its businesslike snap.

"Affirmative. This aircraft is currently assigned to the Abner Read."

"You know Colonel Dog Bastian?"

"He's my commander."

"American helicopter, you will change course," said the controller. He directed the Werewolf to proceed west for a mile, then to fall into a landing pattern approaching from the ship's stern.

"I believe they've given me permission to land," Starship told Eyes.

"Good. What was that business about Dreamland?" "Got me."

Starship followed the controller's directions, angling toward the carrier as if he were one of its aircraft. The approach gave him — and the Abner Read's crew — a good look at the side of the ship, which was faceted to lower its radar profile. It was somewhat lower to the water than an

American carrier would have been, though it still towered over the Abner Read, whose deck was always awash with the sea.

"There's a J-13 on deck, ready to launch," he told Eyes. "I'll get good video of it." "Keep the cameras rolling."

After operating off the Abner Read for the last several weeks, the Deng Xiaoping's deck looked like the entire state of Kansas spread out in front of him. As Starship skipped in over the stern, he saw a dozen sailors race from the port side, parallel to the landing area. Unsure what was going on, he slowed down, barely moving forward.

"I got a dozen guys with guns running onto the deck," Starship told Eyes. "You think they don't understand I'm a robot and they're trying to kidnap the crew or something?"

"Be ready to get out of there."

Starship reached the third white circle on the deck, where he'd been directed to stop. As he settled onto the flattop he finally realized what the sailors were doing — they were an honor guard.

"The People's Liberation Army Navy Aircraft Carrier Deng Xiaoping welcomes Dreamland," said the controller. "It is an honor and a pleasure to host you."

"Same to you," said Starship. "There…um, when the rotors stop, remove the case from the area between the skids. Just cut the ropes."

There was a bottle of scotch in the case. Starship watched as two sailors — not part of the honor guard — approached. Even though the rotors had stopped spinning, they crawled toward the aircraft on their hands and knees, cut away the case, and took Storm's present away.

"Dreamland Werewolf, you are cleared to take off. Our compliments to your commander, Captain Gale. And please remember us to the colonel, Dog Bastian."

"Roger that, Deng. Pleasure's all mine," said Starship, revving the Werewolf for takeoff.

The master of the Deng Xiaoping, Captain Yaun Hongwu, smiled when he saw the bottle. Americans were fond of such gestures. He would have to think of something appropriate in return.

Hongwu knew of Captain Gale's ship, the Abner Read. Like his own, it belonged more to the twenty-first century than the twentieth. Though it was the size of a coastal corvette, he would not like to have to take it on.

The aircraft had been something new all together. It looked like a miniaturized version of the Russian Hokum; undoubtedly it would be several times as powerful, coming from Dreamland.

All China knew of Dreamland. Barely a year before, the brave crew of a Dreamland Megafortress had saved Beijing from certain annihilation by intercepting a rogue nuclear missile a few miles from the city, dodging Chinese war-planes and missiles to do so. The man who had commanded the flight, Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh "Dog" Bastian, was a hero to Hongwu personally — his actions had saved Hongwu's mother and father, his younger sister, and countless aunts, uncles, and cousins.

Perhaps in the future he would have a chance to thank the colonel personally.

The time differences could drive you nuts. When it was six p.m., or 1800 in Nevada, it was seven a.m. in Karachi— tomorrow. Today was already yesterday there.

Six p.m. was also time for Zen to talk to Breanna, the best part of his day.

And the worst. He missed her incredibly. Separation was a fact of life in the military, but the truth was, they'd never been separated on a deployment since their marriage. If one was in danger, the other was. He'd never even thought about it before.

"Dreamland Command," answered Danny Freah when Zen dialed the special 800 number that connected with the Dreamland Command trailer. The line allowed family members to stay in contact during missions.

"Hey, Danny. Bree around?"

"No, uh, tied up."

The line was not secure, and both men had to be careful what they said.

"Running late?" asked Zen. "Late and hairy."

Zen felt as if he'd been punched in the gut.

"Hairy?"

"She's OK," said Danny quickly. "What's going on?"

"Jeff, I can't get into details here. I'm sorry. I'll have her call you, OK?"

No, it wasn't OK. Not at all.

He should be there. Rather than getting himself stuck in the back with needles that weren't doing anything and wouldn't do anything.

"Yeah, sure. Have her call me when she gets a chance."

"I wouldn't wait by the phone, if you get my drift. Could be hours," asked Danny.

"I'm easy," lied Zen.

"You were under orders to get out of that area, Bre-anna. Why didn't you follow them?"

Breanna looked at her father. She'd worked with him now for more than a year and a half, and yet she still felt awkward.

"Innocent people were being attacked," said Breanna. "I couldn't turn away."

Some commanders might have told her that her first duty was to her own crew and country; others might have reminded her that lawful orders were to obeyed. But the colonel only frowned and said nothing.

"My mistake was not acting right away," Breanna told him. "If I'd acted right away, then maybe I could have prevented the attack. I second-guessed myself, and I don't know why."

"You honestly think that's the problem?"

She nodded.

"Breanna, the situation here is extremely volatile. The Indians are pressing for a formal investigation. If that happens, you're not going to be on very firm ground. You were given an order, started to comply, then changed your mind for no good reason that I can see."

"I'll deal with that if I have to," she said.

"If I had more Megafortress pilots, I'd put you on furlough. I really would."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"Daddy, you would have done the same thing."

His face blanched as soon as she said Daddy.

"I did what I thought was right. I'm willing to deal with the consequences if I have to."

"I wonder if you really are," said the colonel. "Dismissed."

The words wounded her more deeply than any criticism of the mission. Walking back to her room, Breanna felt hot tears slipping from her eyes.

Dog had finally managed to make his way to his temporary quarters and was just taking off his clothes to catch a nap when a sharp rap at the door interrupted him.

"Go away, Danny," he said, recognizing the knock instantly.

"Colonel, I will if you want me to, but Storm is looking for you on the Dreamland channel and claims it's urgent."

"I'll be right there," grumbled Bastian.

He tucked his shirt back in, rubbed his eyes and opened the door. Captain Danny Freah stood in the hallway, shifting his weight from one foot to another, looking a little sheepish.

"I'm sorry," said Danny.

"Not your fault," said Dog.

"Haven't had much sleep, huh?" asked Danny, following as Dog walked toward the door. "No rest for the wicked."

"You ought to get another pilot to sit in for you," suggested Danny.

"I look that tired?"

"You do."

Dog laughed. "I respect your honesty, Captain." "Just telling it like it is." "How's security?"

"Pakistanis have been cooperative. They have close to three companies on our perimeter, along with two armored vehicles. Politicians are protesting, but the people here are OK. Hasn't been stirring in town about us, and of course everybody's been keeping a low profile. I thought I ought to mention — the Levitow's encounter with the Indian carrier aircraft has gotten back to the base commander. He wants to host the crew for lunch."

"Just what we need," said Dog.

The bright noonday sun hit him in the face as they went outside the building and crossed to the Dreamland trailer. Sergeant Kurt "Jonesy" Jones snapped to attention outside the trailer; inside, Sergeant Ben "Boston" Rockland got up from the console as the colonel and Freah came in.

"At ease, Boston," Dog told the sergeant. "How are things?"

"All quiet, Colonel."

Dog slipped in behind the communications console. He put on the headset, then authorized the encrypted communication. Storm's face immediately appeared in the screen.

"I hope you're happy, Bastian," said the Navy captain. "Now we're peacekeepers." "I'm not sure I follow."

"The President wants Xray Pop to sail east into the Arabian Sea. We're supposed to help encourage the Indians and the Pakistanis to make peace."

"All right."

"You talked to the NSC about that loony theory that a plane dropped the torpedo that attacked the Indian destroyer?"

"It's not a loony theory, Storm. It's the only explanation for what happened."

"So where'd the plane go?"

"I don't know for sure. My guess, though, is somewhere in Iran."

"We'll need to set up new patrol grids. Eyes will contact you with the information when we have the plan worked out."

"What exactly are we supposed to do?"

"Damned if I know. Maybe Washington thinks the Indians and Pakistanis will run away if we show our faces," said Storm. "We're to patrol in the Arabian Sea. I need around-the-clock air cover as well as radar surveillance, airborne and on the surface. Not only are the Indians there, but the Chinese aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping is on a course due east. It'll be in the Arabian Sea no later than twenty-four hours from now. The Chinese don't like the Indians."

"What about whoever it is who's attacking the Indians?"

"We watch for them. But — and let me make this as absolutely crystal clear as I possibly can — under no circumstance, absolutely no circumstance, are you to engage anyone without a specific order from me personally. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal."

"Make sure all your people get the word. And knock some sense through your daughter's thick skull before she ends up being court-martialed — if it isn't already too late for that."

The screen blanked.

Breanna wanted to talk to Zen, but she didn't want to go back to the Dreamland Command trailer. So she hiked over to the Pakistani side of the base, found a pay phone, and used her international phone card to make the call.

It was a bit past eleven p.m. back in Nevada, and she wasn't sure that Zen would still be up, but her husband grabbed the phone before the first ring ended.

"Yeah," he snapped.

"Jeff?"

"Bree, God, are you OK?" "Sure. Why?" "I was worried."

"I'm fine." Breanna ran her finger down the metal wire connecting the handpiece to the phone. "How did everything go today?"

"Same old, same old. Boring."

"Are you doing well?"

"Doc says so. I don't feel bupkus. And still no beer." He laughed, but she could tell his heart wasn't in it. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. You shouldn't worry." "Hey, I'm not worried."

Among the many things she loved about her husband was the fact that he was a terrible liar. But she let this one go, and matched it with her own.

"We're doing fine out here. I'm doing great. Piece of cake," she told him. "I want you to get better. OK?"

"Getting better every day. You're OK?"

"Yes." Breanna glanced to the side and saw two other people waiting to use the phone. "I do have to go, though. Take care, OK?"

"Roger that."

"I love you."

"Me too, babe."

Mack walked sullenly to the Dreamland Command trailer, where Dog had just convened a meeting with all of the flight crews and officers. He'd spent the last hour reviewing the tapes of his encounters. He'd severely damaged at least one of the planes, and managed to get lead into everything he tangoed with. But he hadn't shot anybody down, and as far as he was concerned, that was as bad as missing completely.

"Hey, Major, heard you had some fun," shouted Cantor, trotting up behind him.

"Yeah," muttered Mack.

"Got pieces of three of them?"

"Don't rub it in," snapped Mack, pushing through the small crowd at the door of the trailer.

A five-handed poker game made the command trailer seem crowded. With nearly two dozen people crammed inside, it felt like the mosh pit of a rock concert. The air conditioner couldn't keep up with the load, and the place smelled sweaty. Mack managed to squeeze to the far side of table at the center of the room, standing behind Stewart, who'd gotten there early enough to snag a seat.

"All right, I think we're all here," said Colonel Bast-ian, standing near a large map of the Arabian Sea. "Thanks for coming over. I know some of you were sleeping. If it's any consolation, so was I. Or I should say, I was about to."

Mack listened as Dog laid out the change in orders and their mission.

"More peacekeeping crap," Mack groused.

"That'll do, Major," said Dog.

"Aw, come on, Colonel. You know this is garbage. They're sending the Abner Read to stand between two aircraft carriers? That's like sending a canoe to tow the Titanic into port."

Everyone laughed, or at least snickered — except for Bastian.

"Then start thinking of yourself as an iceberg, Mack," said the colonel. "And shut up."

Mack clamped his teeth together as Dog laid out the change in patrol areas and schedules. They would continue to have two Megafortresses in the air at all times. One would orbit in the eastern Arabian Sea. The other would patrol to the west — first near the coast of Iran, then eastward, following the Abner Read as it made its way to the northern Arabian Sea.

"I want to still look for that airplane," said Dog. "The one we believe fired the torpedo."

"Waste of time," said Mack under his breath — or so he thought.

"Excuse me, Major?"

"Nothing."

"Out with it, Mack."

"I looked at those images and the intercepts. I have to tell you, Colonel, no disrespect to the eggheads and Dr. Ray, but there's just no way, no way, that little plane carried a torpedo, let alone fired it."

"Then who did?"

"Either the oil tanker or a submarine. My money's on a Chinese sub, probably doing some advance scouting for the Deng Xiaoping. He saw his shot, knew he could get away with it. The Indians couldn't find a lit Christmas tree in a bathtub at night. And the Abner Read—well, no offense to our Navy friends, but they're in the Navy for a reason, if you know what I mean."

"Fortunately for you Mack, I don't. Dismissed. Everybody go get some sleep. A few of us are so sleep deprived we're starting to become delusional."

The guard snapped to attention, recognizing Zen as soon as he got off the elevator.

Then again, how many people on the base were in wheelchairs?

"Major Catsman inside?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

Zen locked his wheelchair and raised himself up to look into the retina scan. The doors to the Dreamland Command Center flew open, and Zen wheeled himself into the arena-style situation room that helped coordinate Whiplash missions.

"Zen, what are you doing here?" Catsman's eyes were even more droopy than normal.

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd find out what's going on over there."

"Officially, you should be back home in bed."

"I am. Off the record, tell me what you can."

Catsman gave him an abbreviated version of the day's events.

"It's only going to get worse," she added, with uncharacteristic pessimism. "Now we're just monkeys in the middle out there."

Zen knew he should be there. He could feel it, a magnetic force pulling him. The hell with the experiments — the hell with everything but Breanna.

Maybe the dreams were omens. He couldn't lose her, not for anything.

"I wouldn't worry about her."

"Huh? About Bree? I'm not worried," said Zen.

"She's a hell of a pilot."

"Damn straight. Only pilot I trust." Zen forced himself to smile. "I just wanted to know, you know, what was up. Thanks for telling me."

He was a bit too nervous for her, wasn't he? It wasn't that he didn't think she knew what she was doing, or that she couldn't take care of herself.

Maybe it was time to go back home, get some rest. Clear his head.

"How are the treatments going?" Catsman asked. "They're going," Zen said, wheeling himself back up the ramp.

Captain Sattari eyed the big aircraft on the nearby ramp, waiting for the last gear to be loaded aboard. Already, two of his submarines had been loaded into its belly through a bay originally intended to hold search and rescue boats. Their crewmen and ten of Sattari's guerrillas waited inside.

At nearly 150 feet long, the A-40 Albatross was one of the biggest flying boats ever made, and the only jet-powered one to enter regular service. This particular aircraft had been sold by the Russians as surplus, and according to all the official records had been scrapped a year ago.

"We're ready, Captain," said Sergeant Ibn. "The pilot would like to take off as soon as possible."

Their destination was a point exactly thirteen miles south of Omara, a small city on the western Pakistani coast. The submarines would disembark and proceed to another point thirty miles away, rendezvousing with the other two subs, which had been deposited the day before. Together, they would proceed to their next target — an oil terminal in the port of Karachi.

"Yes, we should go," said Sattari, but he didn't move. He wasn't afraid of the Indians, let alone the Pakistanis. But the Americans — the Americans were waiting for him. He'd cheated them the other night, hadn't he? Now they would want revenge.

They had undone his father, stripping him of the weapon that would have made him the most powerful man in Iran. Now he was a mere toady of the black robes.

That was unfair. He hadn't been their messenger the other day — more like a father shielding his son. And in truth, the imams had not done wrong by Sattari personally — their slanderous lies behind his back excepted.

"Let us go," said Sattari, shouldering his rifle. "Fate awaits us."

Memon woke to a series of loud raps at the cabin door. Disoriented, he could not interpret the sound or even remember where he was. Then a voice from behind the door called his name.

"Deputy Minister Memon? Sir, are you awake?"

"Yes," said Memon.

"The admiral had me call for you."

Memon pushed himself upright. "I'm awake," he said.

"Aircraft from the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping have been spotted," said the man. "The admiral wanted you to know. He's on the bridge."

"I'm coming," said Memon.

The sitrep screen made the situation below look almost placid. That was the strength and weakness of sensors, Colonel Bastian thought as he surveyed the scene; they couldn't quite account for the spitting and hissing.

The Deng Xiaoping had sailed day and night at top speed; it was now within fifty miles of the Indian carrier Shiva. Dish, working the surface radar, added that the ships were both turned into the wind, making it easier for them to launch and recover aircraft.

"Thanks, Dish," said Dog. "T-Bone, we have all their aircraft?"

"Roger that, Colonel. Four J-13s from the Deng, split into two orbits, one roughly five miles and the other fifteen from the carrier in the direction of the Shiva. There's another two-ship of J-13s over the carrier as an air patrol, and a helicopter with airborne radar. Indians have two Su-33s riding out to meet them. They have two other aircraft over their carrier. The two Pakistani F-16s I told you about earlier are well to the east now; they should be running home soon to refuel. Haven't spotted their replacements yet."

"Cantor, you see those Indian Flankers?" Dog asked.

"Just coming into range now, Colonel."

"Keep your distance, but don't let them get between you and the Wisconsin"

"Copy that, Wisconsin"

Dog checked the sitrep. They were to the west of both carriers and their aircraft. He tapped the Dreamland Command channel and updated Eyes. The Abner Read's executive officer once more reminded him that he was not to interfere with the other ships "no matter what."

"I get the message," said Dog.

Cantor watched the Su-33 grow in his view screen, waiting until the aircraft was exactly three miles away to start his turn. By watching Mack's mission tapes as well as those from his own encounters, he'd determined that was the sweet spot — far enough away so the Sukhoi pilot couldn't detect him, but close enough so that no last second maneuver could get him free. The Flighthawk swung through a tight arc, crossing behind the Sukhoi. The separation at the end of the turn was about a mile — close enough for a sustained burst from the Flighthawk cannon.

And it had to be sustained. Mack had gotten bullets into all of the fighters he'd faced, but taken none of them down. The Russian-made craft were even tougher than advertised.

But the Sukhoi pilot had no idea the Flighthawk was tagging along right behind it. It had a dead spot behind its tail, and unless his wingman flew very close, the Flighthawk was almost impossible to detect. Mack figured he could stay there all night.

"American aircraft, you are ordered to remove yourself from our vicinity," said the Indian carrier, broadcasting over all frequencies. The transmission was directed at the Wisconsin, not Hawk One, which couldn't be seen by the carrier from this distance, a little over fifty miles away. Cantor heard Jazz tell the carrier blandly that they were in international waters and were on a routine patrol. He drew out his words matter-of-factly; Cantor thought he could be telling his wife that he'd bring home a bottle of milk.

Cantor nudged his throttle, easing toward the Su-33 as he continued to probe its weaknesses. By relying solely on the Megafortress's radar, he was depriving the Indians of any indication that he was there.

The problem wasn't shooting one of the Flankers down — he could do that easily. The difficulty was taking two. The Su-33 could easily outaccelerate the Flighthawk because of its larger engines. So the trick would be to get ridiculously close before starting the first attack.

And to fire without using the radar. Because once he turned the weapons radar on, they would know something was there.

The Flighthawk cannon could fire in a pure bore-sight mode — basically, point the nose and shoot — though in a three-dimensional knife fight it made little sense to give up the advantage of having the computer help aim the shots. But get this close — under a hundred yards — he couldn't miss, especially if he took the aircraft from below. Counterintuitive — it meant he had to climb against an aircraft that could easily outclimb him. But doable maybe, if he got off at least two long bursts before jabbing his radar on and gunning for the other plane, which would be over to his right. By the time the second plane caught on, it would be flying right into his aiming cue.

Cantor glanced at the sitrep and saw that the Mega-fortress was nearing the end of its patrol orbit. He tilted his wing down and slid away, still undetected by Indian radar or eyeballs.

"Until we meet again," he told the Flankers as they rumbled on.

The blood sample was the last straw.

They'd spent all morning taking scans whose results Zen could tell from the faces of the technicians were disappointing. Vasin appeared briefly, asked for some blood samples, then went off to a meeting.

The nurse tasked to get the sample kept muttering that she couldn't find the vein, then jabbing him and apologizing as she came up empty.

"It's right there," Zen told her.

"I'm trying," she said, jabbing him again. "I'm sorry."

What the hell was he doing here when Breanna needed him on the other side of the world?

The nurse finally managed to get the needle in correctly and filled up three test tubes. Zen made up his mind as he watched the third tube fill up. The nurse pulled out the needle, taped a gauze in place, then apologized for having had so many problems.

"It's OK." Zen waited for her to leave, then began changing from the gown to his civilian clothes.

"Jeff, what are doing?" asked Dr. Vasin.

"Getting dressed. I thought you were at a meeting."

"It was just postponed. Why are you getting dressed?"

"I'm not sure this is working—"

"You're doing fine."

"Yeah, but—" Zen stopped himself. He couldn't tell Vasin why he was worried about his wife; the mission was classified. "I'm just getting bored."

"At this stage in the process — a very difficult time," said Vasin. "But you don't want to stop now."

"Why?"

"As I explained, once the process begins—" "Nothing's happened." "Of course not."

"The tests aren't going well. I could tell from everyone's reactions."

"We must give it time. Once the process begins, stopping in the middle — it is worse than rolling the clock back. Come — let's go have a little lunch, you and I. A little change of pace. They're having chicken pilaf in the cafeteria. A very good dish."

"All right," agreed Zen finally. "All right."

Captain Sattari unfolded himself from his seat and made his way to the rear of the midget submarine, trying to stretch out the cramps in his leg.

His men had been remarkably quiet for the past twenty-four hours. It seemed to him that traveling in the midget submarine was by far the hardest task they had. The rest would be simplicity itself compared to this.

He tapped each man's shoulder as he walked, nodding. They were professionals, these men; he couldn't see their anticipation in the dim light, much less their fears or apprehensions. The faces they showed to their commander — to the world, if it looked — were of hard stone. Warriors' faces.

As was his.

"We have to surface to check our position," said the submarine commander when he returned to his seat at the front of the small sub. "There are no ships nearby. I suggest we do so now."

"Yes," said Sattari. He sat in his seat as the midget submarine's bow began nosing gently upward. Originally designed as a pleasure boat for sightseeing trips, the Parvaneh could make no abrupt moves. But this helped her in her mission. Rapid movement in the sea translated into sound, and the louder a vessel, the more vulnerable it was to detection.

The helmsman leveled the boat off three meters below the surface. The periscope went up slowly. The screen at the control station showed an image so dark that at first the captain thought there was something wrong with the tiny video camera mounted on the telescoping rod.

"Nothing," said the captain to Sattari. "Just blackness."

Sattari nodded. Next the submarine captain raised a radio mast. Three triangular antennas were mounted on the wand. Two were used to pick up GPS, global positioning signals, from satellites. The third scanned for nearby radio signals, a warning device that would let them know if a ship or aircraft was nearby.

"We are three miles from Karachi," announced the submarine commander. "We're ahead of schedule."

"Very good," said Sattari.

"There are no ships near us. Would you like to surface?"

A short respite on the surface would be welcome. To breathe fresh air, if only for a moment — Sattari was tempted to say yes, and felt the eyes of the others staring at him, hoping.

But it would increase the risk of being spotted. They were too close now, too close.

"No. We will have fresh air soon enough. Push on," Sat-tari said.

Breanna ignored the challenge from the Chinese aircraft, staying on course in Pakistani coastal waters. She had to drop a buoy soon or risk losing the inputs from the Piranha, which was trailing the submarine following the Chinese aircraft carrier. But she didn't want to drop the buoy while the J-13s were nearby; it might tip off the Chinese to the fact that the submarine was being followed.

"Levitow, this is Piranha," said Ensign English. "Bree, I can't stay with the submarine much longer. I'm slowing the Piranha down, but the submarine will sail out of range within a half hour."

"All right, I have an idea," Breanna told her. "Flighthawk leader, can you run Hawk Three south about eighteen miles and pickle a flare?"

"Repeat?" said Mack.

"I want to get the J-13s off my back. They'll shoot over to check out the flares, don't you think?" "Yeah, I guess."

"Throw some chaff, too, so their radars know something's there. Let's do it quick — we don't have much time."

"I'm going, Captain. Keep your blouse on."

Breanna shook her head, then glanced at her copilot. Stewart was doing a little better than she had the other day, keeping track of the Chinese patrols as well as a flight of Pakistani F-16s that were roughly twenty minutes flying time to their north. But Stewart still had a ways to go. The copilot in the EB-52 had a great deal to do; in some respects her job was actually harder than the pilot's. In a B-52 four crewmen worked the navigational and weapons systems. Computers aboard the EB-52 might have taken over a great deal of their work, but someone still had to supervise the computers.

"How you doing, Jan?"

"I'm with you."

"I'm going to have Mack toss some flares south of us. Hopefully the J-13s will go in that direction and we can drop a buoy."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm going to take us down through three thousand feet so we're ready to drop the buoy. When I give you the signal, I want you to hit the ECMs — I'm going to make it look like we're reacting to the flares that Mack lights, as if we're worried about being under attack. Then you launch. All right?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Are you all right, Captain?" "I'm all right!"

Breanna turned her attention back to the sky in front of her, lining up for the buoy drop.

Mack pointed his nose toward the sky and rode the Flighthawk south. Neither of the Chinese J-13s dogging the Megafortress followed. The Chinese navy had encountered Flighthawks before, and referred to them as "Lei Gong"—

the name of an ancient Chinese thunder god, which Mack supposed was a compliment. But it wasn't clear from the J-13s' actions whether they knew he was there.

Mack continued to climb, meanwhile plotting out what he would do. The Chinese aircraft carrier was thirty-two miles away, off his right wing as he flew south. Karachi was ten miles almost directly opposite his left wing. The Indian aircraft carrier was about fifty miles south from the Chinese carrier. An assortment of small escorts were scattered between them, including the Chinese submarine, which was submerged south of Karachi in Pakistani waters.

"All right, Bree, light show begins in ten seconds," he said, reaching his mark. "Get ready."

"Make it a good one."

"Sukhois — I mean, J-13s, the Chinese planes — they're biting for it. They're going south," said Stewart, eyes pasted to the radar plot.

"Buoys!" said Breanna.

Stewart tapped the panel to ready a control buoy for the Piranha. She missed the box and had to tap it again.

Why was everything so hard on this deployment? Back at Dreamland she'd done this sort of thing with her eyes closed. She'd driven B-1s through sandstorms and everything else without a single problem. But she was all thumbs now.

Maybe it was Captain Stockard, breathing down her neck. Breanna just didn't like her for some reason. Maybe she resented working for another woman.

"Buoy!"

Stewart put her forefinger on the release button and pushed. A control buoy spun out of the rear fuselage, deploying from a special compartment behind the bomb bay, added to the planes after the Piranha had become part of the Dreamland tool set.

"ECMs," said Breanna. "I'll take the chaff."

Stewart realized she'd forgotten the stinking ECMs. They should have already been fuzzing the airwaves.

"I'm trying, I'm trying," she said, hands fumbling against the controls.

Mack jerked the little Flighthawk to the west, leaving a trail of fire and tinsel behind him. He tucked the plane into a roll and then put its nose down, flying it so hard that the tail threatened to pull over on him in a cartwheel. The Flighthawk didn't peep about it, merely trying to keep up with the dictates of the control stick.

The J-13s were racing toward him, wondering what was going on.

If he pushed the nose of the fighter down right now, and slammed the aircraft exactly ninety degrees due east, slammed max power and went for broke, he could take a shot at one of the Chinese planes. If he timed it properly— and if C³ worked out the angle right — he would slash the fighter across its wings.

This was not the sort of attack you'd make in an F-15. For one thing, you'd never get close enough to use your guns. For another, the g forces as you changed direction to bring the attack would slam you so hard you'd have to struggle to keep your head clear. And…

Mack remembered something Cantor had told him during their sortie over the Gulf of Aden: You're not flying an F-15. He felt a twinge of anger, and then, far worse, embarrassment.

The punk kid was right. If he really wanted to fly the stinking Flighthawk, he would have to forget everything he knew about flying F-15s or anything other than the Flighthawk. He was going to have to live with its limits— and take advantage of its assets.

And, umpteen kills to his credit or not, he was going to have to face the fact that he had a lot to learn. He was a new-bie when it came to the Flighthawk.

"No more F-15s," he told the plane. "Just U/MF-3s."

"Repeat command," answered the flight computer.

"It's you and me, babe. Just you and me."

Breanna jerked the Megafortress back and forth across the water, shimmying and shaking as if she thought she was being followed by an SA-6 antiair missile. Finally she eased up, putting the plane into a banking climb and heading back to the west.

"English, how are we looking?" she said to the ensign.

"Buoy is good. I have control."

"Great."

"But… " "But?"

"I have a contact at long range, submerged, unknown source. There's another sub out there," explained English. "Except that the sound profile doesn't match anything I know. Which is almost impossible."

"Did the Chinese sub launch a decoy?"

"We would have caught that. It's not a known Pakistani sub either. I'd like to follow it, but I can't watch the Chinese submarine and this at the same time."

"Stand by," Breanna told her. "I'll talk to Captain Gale."

Storm studied the hologram. The Chinese aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping and the Indian carrier Shiva were pointing their bows at each other, boxers jutting out their chins and daring their opponent to start something. The Indian carrier had eight planes in the air, along with two ASW; antisubmarine helicopters. The Chinese had twelve planes up, plus two helicopters supplying long-range radar and three on ASW duty.

Two destroyers and one frigate accompanied the Chinese vessel, along with a submarine being tracked by Dreamland's Piranha. The Indians had one destroyer, an old frigate, and two coastal corvettes, which were a little smaller than frigates but were packed with ship-to-ship missiles. The edge went to the Chinese, whose gear was newer and, though largely untested, probably more potent. But at a range of fifty miles, where both task forces could rely on antiship missiles as well as their aircraft, the battle would be ferocious.

And if both navies were to turn on him, rather than each other?

The problem would not be hitting them — he was thirty-five miles to the west of the two carriers, well within range of his Harpoon ship-to-ship missiles; the ship-to-air SM-2 missiles, packed in a Vertical Launching System at the forward deck, could take down an airplane at roughly ninety miles and hit a ship at the same distance. The problem was that there were simply too many targets — the Abner Read had only sixteen vertical launch tubes on her forward deck, and while they could be loaded with torpedoes, antiair or antiship missiles, the weapons mix had to be preselected before battle. Reloading was a laborious undertaking and could not be done during a fight.

Storm had eight Harpoons and eight antiaircraft missiles loaded.

Precisely how many missiles it would take to sink either of the carriers was a matter of immense debate and countless computer simulations. According to the intel experts back at the Pentagon, precise hits by four Harpoons should be enough to disable the Indian carrier; the Chinese ship could be crippled with three. In neither case would the ships be sunk — the Indian vessel was known to have been up-armored at the waterline — but the hits would disable enough of their systems to take them out of a battle and leave them highly vulnerable to a second round of attacks to take them to the bottom.

None of the so-called experts had been in battle, however; Storm had, and he suspected their estimates were optimistic. Two months ago it had taken four Harpoons to sink an old Russian amphibious warfare ship that had light defenses and no appreciable armor. Storm and his officers had concluded that it would take at least six very well-placed missile hits to permanently disable either one of the vessels. The real question was how many missiles it would take to get six hits. The answer depended not only on the proficiency of the people firing the missiles and the defenses they faced, but sheer luck. The intel officer threw around some fancy mathematics he called regression analysis and claimed that seven launches would yield six hits, but Storm knew he was just guessing like everyone else.

Missiles were not the Abner Read's only weapon. Storm could use his below-waterline tubes to fire torpedoes at a submarine, and his 155mm gun to hit a surface ship that came within twenty-two miles. His accompanying Shark-boat had four Harpoons and a much more limited 25mm gun. And then there were the Megafortresses…

"Tac to bridge — Storm, Dreamland Levitow needs to talk to you right away. Piranha's picked up another submarine contact."

Storm hit the switch on his belt and opened the com channel. "Talk to me, Dreamland."

"The Piranha operator has an unknown contact near Karachi," said Breanna Stockard. "I'm going to let her fill you in."

"Do it."

Another voice came on the line — Ensign Gloria English, who'd been assigned to wipe the Dreamland team's noses.

"Captain Gale, we have an unknown contact near the Karachi port, two miles south of the oil terminal. It appears to be headed toward shore. I can't follow it and the Chinese submarine at the same time."

"It's going toward shore?"

"Affirmative. I'm going to punch in the coordinates through the shared-information system. They should be there — now."

Storm looked at the holographic table. A small yellow dot appeared near the coast, roughly twenty miles from the Chinese submarine. Given the direction it was heading, he knew it might be a Pakistani vessel.

Or an Indian boat preparing an attack?

It seemed too far for that.

"Ensign English — what sort of submarine is it?" asked Storm.

"Sir, I can only tell you what it isn't. It's not a Kilo boat, it's not anything the Pakistanis have, at least that we know of. Same with the Indians."

"You're sure it's not Indian?"

"I tried matching against German Type 209s, Kilos, and Foxtrots," she said, naming the three types of submarines in the Indian fleet. "No match. I even tried comparing the profile to the Italian CE-f/X1000s. Nada."

"Help me out here, Ensign. What are those Italian boats?"

"Two-man special forces craft, submersibles. They only have a range of twenty-five miles, but I thought I better be sure. I checked comparable Russian craft as well."

Was this the boat that had launched the torpedo at the Indian destroyer and taken the special forces teams in and out of Port Somalia?

If so, it was a Pakistani vessel, returning to port.

Not port, exactly. Storm looked at the hologram. There was no submarine docking area anywhere near Karachi.

That he knew about. Which made the sub worth following.

But if Piranha turned off, he'd lose track of the Chinese submarine. That might put his own ship in danger; it was out of range of his sonar array.

It had to be a Pakistani sub. In the end, English would be wasting her time following it — he couldn't do anything about the Paks.

"Stay with the Chinese Kilo. That has to be your priority," Storm told her. "Get as much data on this as you can. We'll want to look into it."

"Aye aye, sir."

Storm hit the switch on his com unit, tapping the small buttons to contact Colonel Bastian.

"Bastian, this is Storm," he said when the colonel's face appeared on the bridge communications screen. "Piranha has an unidentified contact near Karachi. It can't stay with it. But I'd like to figure out just what the hell it is."

"What'd you have in mind?"

"Since your Megafortress can't be in two places at the same time, I want you to get another one out there. The sub will have to surface soon, and you can catch it on your radar."

"Can't do that, Storm. We're on a very tight rotation as it is. If you want coverage—"

"Damn it, Bastian. Find a way to make it happen." He killed the connection with an angry slap at the control unit.

Captain Sattari looped the wire from the explosive pack around the terminals, then strung it across the metal girder to the base of the stanchion below the massive tank. The explosives were rigged to ignite the collector unit at the Karachi oil terminal complex. Designed to capture fumes from the storage tanks and prevent them from leaking into the environment, the system was the terminal's weak link— blow it up, and the resulting backforce would rip through the pipes and cause fires and explosions in the storage tanks themselves.

Or at least the engineer who had analyzed the terminal believed that to be the case.

Sattari climbed over the long concrete barrier, letting the wire roll out of its spool as he went. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back and the sides of his body. He welcomed it — the poison was running from his body, the poison of fear.

The terminal consisted of several different tank farms, connected by a vast network of piping. Three different docks were used by ships loading and unloading. The gas collection system was at the extreme eastern end, located on a man-made pennisula with a rock jetty that extended to the sea.

The team's demolition expert waited near the rocks. Sattari was glad to find he was not the last man to bring back the wire; two more men had yet to report back. He held up the wire for the man's cutters.

"Thank you, Captain," said the man, quickly stripping the strands and attaching them to his unit.

There were backup timers on each of the explosives, all set for the same time, but to do maximum damage to the tanks the explosives all had to go off at once, and the best way to guarantee that was by igniting them together. The signal would be received here by short-range radio, then instantly transmitted to the units.

Sergeant Ibn climbed up over the nearby rocks. "The next to last boat is leaving," he told the captain. "You should go."

"No," said Sattari. "Two more men."

"Captain." The rocks were covered in shadow, but even in the dim light Sattari knew that his captain was looking at him reproachfully. "You should be back aboard the submarine, sir. I will wait for them."

"Thank you, but I will not leave my men," said Sattari. "We will come when we have ignited the tanks."

"Very good, Captain. Very good."

Ibn put his hand to his head and snapped off a salute. How much had changed in just a few short days; the aches and bruises, the sweat, even the fear, they were all worth it.

Sattari returned the salute, then turned back to look for the others.

Memon felt his chest catch as he read the message:

He handed the message to Captain Adri, who smirked but said nothing before giving the paper back to Admiral Kala.

"We will recover the aircraft," the admiral said in a tone that suggested he was talking to himself rather than giving orders. "Then we will sail south, and farther out to sea."

"We've been cheated," said Memon as the others went silently to their tasks.

"Hey, Colonel, what can we do for you?" said Danny Freah, rubbing his eyes as he sat down in front of the communications console in the Dreamland Command trailer. Sergeant Rockland, known as Boston, was on duty as the communications specialist. He walked to the other end of the trailer and began making some fresh coffee.

"Sorry to wake you up, Danny," said Dog, talking from the Wisconsin. "But Piranha has an odd submarine contact near the Karachi port. Storm thinks it may be his mysterious submarine and he wants to see where it surfaces. If it surfaces."

"You want me to take Whiplash Osprey up and reconnoiter?"

"That's exactly what I want you to do."

"Question — do I tell the Pakistanis what I'm up to?"

"No. He thinks this is their submarine, the same one that attacked the Calcutta. Run it as a training mission."

"Will do." Danny got up from the console. "Yo, Boston — go wake up Pretty Boy."

"Action, Cap?"

"Not really. Just a midnight joy ride. But it'll have to do for now. Roust the Osprey crew on your way."

Fifteen minutes later, Danny, Boston, and Sergeant Jack "Pretty Boy" Floyd peered from the side windows of Dreamland's MV-22 Osprey, using their Mk1 eyeballs to augment the craft's search and air rescue radar and infrared sensors. They were less than fifty feet above the churning gray waves, heading south toward the spot where the Piranha had lost contact with the vessel.

"Gotta be an underwater cave, Cap," said Boston. "I say we dive in and find the sucker."

"Go for it," said Pretty Boy. "That water's a stinking sewer."

"You comin' with me, dude," joshed Boston. "You my swimmin' buddy."

Danny peered out the window, using the night-vision gear embedded in his smart helmet to look at the shoreline. There was a small marina just ahead; pleasure boats bobbed at their moorings. Beyond them a channel led to a set of docks used by container ships. A little farther south sat a large oil terminal, where tankers unloaded their cargo.

It seemed to him this would be a particularly bad place to hide a submarine base. While an enemy might not look for it here, there were so many small boats and commercial vessels that someone was bound to stumble across you sooner or later.

"Whiplash leader to Levitow. Bree, can you spare me some attention?"

"What do you need?"

"Punch me through to Ensign English, would you? I want to pick her brain for a second." "Stand by."

"English here."

"Ensign, this is Danny Freah. Help me out here — why do we think this submarine is Pakistani?"

"We're not really sure. The only thing we know is that it's not similar to known submarines operating in any fleet nearby, nor a Russian or American, for that matter. It could be anyone's."

"How about a special operations craft?"

"Possible, Captain. I wouldn't rule anything out. It may even be a noisemaker."

Before Danny could thank her, the aircraft was buffeted by a shock wave.

"Holy shit!" yelled Boston. "Something just blew up half of Karachi!"