End Game

V Fires of Hell

The explosion was so immense that it blew one of the men into Captain Sattari, and they tumbled backward into the water. Sattari found himself on his back under the waves, surrounded by darkness. He tried to push himself upright but was paralyzed. I'm going to die, he thought.

Rather than panic, the idea filled him with a kind of peace. He felt his arms and legs relax; he thought of his triumph now, another mission executed with complete precision.

Then he felt himself being pulled upward. One of his men had grabbed him and was hauling him out of the water.

The man who had fallen on top of him struggled to his knees as Sattari coughed the water from his lungs.

"The boat, Captain," said his man. "Into the boat."

Sattari pushed himself in the direction of the raft. He found one of the gunwales with his hand and flopped forward, landing in the bottom like a seal flipping itself out of the water. He got upright as the others entered the craft. In a moment they were heading out to sea.

A mountain of fire had erupted from the collection system, setting off a tank of light fuel about fifty yards away. The heat was so warm he could feel it here, more than a quarter mile away. There were rumbles, more explosions— the entire terminal would burn, and burn for hours.

The Pakistanis would have no choice now but to attack. The Indians would retaliate. The Chinese would come to Pakistan's aid. The Indians would be destroyed, and with luck, the Chinese would be severely bloodied as well. Iran would be free of her two rivals — and the price of oil would soar.

Sattari picked up his oar and began helping the others, each stroke pushing them farther out to sea.

There was an aircraft nearby; he heard the loud drone, something like a helicopter, or two perhaps, very close.

"The sub is there, she's there," said one of the men, spotting a blinking light in the distance.

"Strong strokes!" said Sattari. "We are almost home, men."

It was a wildly optimistic lie — they had another thirty-six hours of submerged sailing to do before reaching their next rendezvous — but the men responded with a flurry of strokes.

"A huge fireball — I can see it from here. Someone must have set the entire oil terminal on fire."

Memon watched the admiral as the pilot's report continued over the loudspeaker.

"The Pakistanis have set their oil tanks on fire as an excuse to attack us," Memon told the admiral when the report ended. "We should strike before the Chinese can."

"Our orders say to do nothing to provoke the Chinese," said Captain Bhaskar. "Admiral Skandar himself directed us to withdraw."

"The hell with Skandar — he's not here."

"You're supposed to be representing him, aren't you?" said Adri.

Memon pressed his lips together. Captain Adri was nothing but a coward. "The circumstances have changed. If Ad miral Skandar were here, he would order the attack himself."

"Aircraft from the Deng Xiaoping have changed course and are heading in our direction," reported the radar officer.

"Will we wait until their missiles hit us to fire back?" Memon asked.

"Prepare for missile launch," said the admiral. "Air commander — shoot those fighters down."

Danny grabbed hold of one of the restraining straps at the side of the Osprey as the aircraft wheeled around to head toward the terminal. The pilots had flipped on the Os-prey's searchlights, but the towering flames from the explosion were more than enough to illuminate the facility and surrounding water. The force of the explosion probably meant that at least one of the two liquefied natural gas tanks at the terminal had been detonated. Geysers of flame shot up, as if competing with each other for brilliance.

Danny reached to the back of his smart helmet and hit the circuit to tie into the Dreamland Command channel.

"Danny Freah for Colonel Bastian. Colonel?"

The software smart agent that controlled the communications channels buzzed the colonel, whose voice soon boomed in Danny's ear.

"What's going on?"

"An attack on the Karachi port oil terminal. Big attack— has to be sabotage. My bet is that submarine we were looking for wasn't Pakistani at all."

"Stand by, Danny."

The Osprey drew parallel to the conflagration, then veered away, the fire and secondary explosions so intense that the pilot feared for his aircraft.

"Danny, we're going to swing Levitow over that way to use its radar to search for periscopes," said Dog. "In the meantime, search the immediate area for small boats, anything that might be used by a spec-op team to get away. You know the drill. And if you see any survivors who need help—"

"Yeah, we're on that, Colonel," Danny told him, moving forward to confer with the pilots.

"Coming to new course," Breanna told Stewart. "We should be within visual range of the terminal in less than five minutes."

"Roger that," said Stewart.

Breanna heard a tremble in her copilot's voice. There wasn't much she could do about it now, so she ignored it, quickly checking the panels on the configurable "dashboard" in front of her.

"Piranha to Levitow" said Ensign English over the interphone. "Captain, I've put the Piranha into a circle pattern around our last buoy. The Chinese submarine is twenty miles from the buoy. At most, we have an hour before we'll lose contact."

"Roger that, Piranha. Thanks, Gloria. That vessel did not launch or have any contact with the one we've been trailing?"

"Affirmative. We would have heard it. These are two unrelated boats."

The radar warning receiver began buzzing. Without waiting for her copilot, Breanna hit a preset to display the threat panel at her station. One of the Chinese escort vessels had activated the targeting radar for its antiaircraft batteries.

They were outside its effective range, though of course that might not keep them from firing.

"Jan — ECMS," said Breanna, deciding not to take any chances.

"ECMS, yes. Communication on the guard frequency," added the copilot. "All aircraft are being warned to stay away from the Chinese fleet or be shot down."

"How far away?"

"Not specific. Pakistanis are declaring an emergency— they're saying the same thing." "To us?"

"Um, not specifically."

"J-13s heading our way," broke in the airborne radar operator.

"All right, everyone, let's take this step by step," Breanna told her crew. "We're proceeding on course to look for a possible submarine. Be prepared for evasive maneuvers. We will defend ourselves if necessary."

"Indian aircraft are approaching Chinese task force at a high rate of speed!" said the radar operator, shouting now. "Two J-13s going to meet them. They're gunning for each other, Bree."

The radar warning receiver lit up with a new threat — a Pakistani antiaircraft battery northeast of Karachi was trying to get a fix on them. The missiles associated with the radar were American Hawks, early generation antiaircraft weapons still potent against low and medium altitude aircraft out to about twenty-five miles. The weapons' aim could be disrupted with a specific ECM program stored in the Megafortress's computer; they represented a low threat. Even so, the sky was starting to get a bit crowded.

"Jan, see if you can get word to the PAF that we're a friendly. Broadcast an alert — see if you can make contact with one of their patrols."

"F-16s scrambling in our direction," answered Stewart.

Crowded indeed. "Surface radar — Smitty, you have any periscopes yet?" "Looking, Captain."

"J-13s are goosing their jets," said Stewart. "They'll be within range to fire their missiles in zero-one minutes."

"Indian and Chinese planes are mixing it up, Colonel," said T-Bone. "This is going to get ugly fast."

Dog hit the preset to connect with the Abner Read. "Eyes, this is Bastian. The Indian and Chinese aircraft are firing at each other. There may be an attack under way against that Chinese carrier."

Storm came on the line. "Get your aircraft out of there," he told Dog. "Stay just close enough to get radar pictures of what's going on if you can. But if there's any doubt—"

"The contact we had earlier must have been some sort of special operations craft that dropped off commandos," Dog continued. "If you want us to look for it—"

"Pull back, Bastian. For your own good. I don't want any casualties. They're not worth it."

"Roger that," Dog told him.

Mack continued to climb, pulling the Flighthawk five thousand feet over the Megafortress's tail. The Flighthawk's threat panel showed that the two J-13s were armed with Chinese versions of the radar-guided AMRAAMski. He'd make his attack as the first plane closed to nineteen miles; if he played it right, he would be able to jerk back and take a quick shot at the other, which was riding about a quarter mile behind and to the east. And if he played it wrong, Bre-anna would still have some space to take evasive action. Played it wrong?

He had to admit it was a possibility.

"Hawk Three, we're under orders to break contact with the Chinese and Indian forces," said Breanna. "We're breaking off the search."

"Repeat?"

"I'm changing course and going north, Mack. Stay with me."

"Don't worry about these guys," Mack told her. "I'll dust them."

"Negative, Mack," said Breanna. "Stay with me!"

"Can we send one of those Flighthawks close enough to the Chinese fleet to get infrared images?" asked Eyes. "This an intelligence bonanza. If these idiots are stupid enough to fight each other, we might as well benefit."

Storm thought that was an excellent idea — except that as Bastian was fond of pointing out, the Flighthawks had to stay close to the Megafortresses, and they had to stay a good distance away from the Chinese or risk getting shot down.

But he had an asset that could get as close as he wanted it to. Best of all, he didn't have to deal with Bastian's people to get it done.

Or maybe more accurately, the person who he had to talk to no longer belonged to Bastian.

"Eyes, get the second Werewolf airborne. I'm going to talk to Airforce personally," Storm added, flipping into the communications channel. "Starship? You hear me?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Listen carefully, Airforce. Take Werewolf One and head toward the Indian task force. I want pictures of that carrier and everything it does. Get Two airborne and hustle it over toward the Chinese. Same thing there."

"That's going to leave us naked."

"Do I have to explain every single detail of what I'm thinking to you, son?"

"Yes, sir. I mean no. Werewolf One en route."

"Hey, Cap, is that a wake down there? Some sort of wave?" said Boston, pointing out the window.

Danny went to the left side of the aircraft and peered out at the water about twelve feet below.

"I'm not sure what you're looking at, Boston."

"Let's get lower. Can we get lower?"

Before Danny could hit the interphone line on the communications system to talk to the pilots, the Osprey veered sharply to his right.

"Chinese aircraft is challenging us, and trying to lock with weapons radar," said the pilot. "I have to get out of here."

"Go ahead, go!" Danny told him. And before the word was out of his mouth, the Osprey had settled her tilt-rotors and jerked back toward shore.

Breanna acknowledged the Karachi tower's instructions, telling the Pakistani flight controller that they were clearing out of its airspace. The transmission was overrun by a radio call from another group of aircraft.

"Dreamland Levitow, this is Whiplash leader," said Danny on the Dreamland channel.

"Levitow."

"Bree, we're being targeted by some Chinese aircraft."

Breanna glanced at the sitrep. The Levitow was thirty miles due west of Karachi, over Pakistan. Whiplash Osprey was three miles south of the city, close to the oil terminal. Apparently the J-13s that had been following them had broken off once the Megafortress changed course. They were now approaching the Osprey.

"Hang on, Danny," she said, jerking the control stick to turn the big aircraft around. "Cavalry's on its way."

The first missile left the Shiva with a thunk and hiss, steam furrowing from the rear. Two more quickly followed. The missiles seemed to stutter in the sky, as if unsure of where they were going, but their noses straightened as they reached the black edge of the night beyond the darkened ship. All three were P-700 Granits — known to NATO as SS-N-19 Shipwrecks. The Russian-designed weapons were potent, long-range cruise missiles with thousand-kilogram explosive warheads.

Memon watched as their shadows disappeared, oblivious to the chaos behind him. The carrier was simultaneously maneuvering to launch another set of fighters and to fire a round of missiles. These were P-120 Malakhits, better known as SS-N-9 Sirens. The weapons required mid-course guidance to strike their target; this would be provided by a data link with a specially designated Su-33.

"The Chinese aircraft are attempting to lock their weapons radars on us!" warned one of the officers on the bridge.

Memon felt himself strangely at peace. India's new age was beginning; the future held great promise.

Captain Sattari gripped the seat restraint as the submarine sank. At every second, he expected an attack. The Parvaneh was not armored at all; a few bullets through the hull would cause serious damage.

"There are many aircraft above," the submarine captain told him. "It may be difficult to take the course as planned."

"What do you suggest?"

"We move farther offshore, and remain submerged for a few hours before proceeding. The nearby ships will launch a search, you see. The more we move, the easier we will be to find."

The other submarines were already moving toward the rendezvous point. If they waited, they might miss them and the A-40 that was to pick them up in two days.

"No," said Sattari. "The chaos will help us escape. The Indians and Chinese will be concerned with each other. Allah is with us. Let us place ourselves in His hands."

Mack had to scramble to stay with the Megafortress as it twisted back toward Karachi. A pair of Pakistani F-16s were flying out of the east on a collision course, but the J-13s targeting the Whiplash aircraft were his priority. He pushed his nose down, accelerating as he aimed to get between the Chinese fighters and the Osprey.

"Fighters are still not acknowledging," said Stewart over the interphone.

"Tell them I'm going to shoot them down if they fire on my people," snapped Mack, jamming the throttle for more speed.

Danny Freah flew against the bulkhead to the cockpit as the Osprey veered downward, trying to duck the Chinese fighters. The gyrations spun the Whiplash captain around like a pinball, slapping him against one of the benches and bouncing him back toward the cockpit. Danny grabbed for one of the strap handles near the opening, checking his momentum like a cowboy busting a bronc.

"Tell them we're Americans, damn it," Danny said to the pilot.

"I keep trying, Captain. They're not listening." Flames leapt up in front of them.

"I'm going to stay near the fire," said the pilot. "They won't be able to use their heat-seekers."

"Don't burn us up in the meantime," said Danny, nearly losing his balance as the Osprey veered hard to the left.

Captain Hongwu counted the enemy's missile launches as they were announced, listening with a Buddhalike patience that would have impressed his ancestors, though

Hongwu himself did not put much stock in the religion's basic beliefs. He was surprised by the Indians' attack, but not caught off guard; tensions between the two countries had been increasing for years, and ships from the two nations had engaged in a bloody battle in the Pacific months before. The Chinese had not done particularly well in that battle, but Hongwu had carefully studied it, and planned now to apply its lessons.

He had another advantage besides knowledge: a considerably improved anti-cruise-missile system. The Pili, or Thunderbolt, had been developed from the LY-60 Falcon, with insights gained from the Italian Aspide. The weapon flew at Mach 4 and could strike a cruise missile at twenty kilometers.

Or so it had on the testing range. It was about to be put through a much more grueling trial.

Listening to the reports, Hongwu grasped the Indian commander's mistake; rather than concentrating his attack, he was launching small salvos against the entire fleet.

"Prepare to defend the ship," said Captain Hongwu. "And then answer the attack. Have Squadron One attack the Shiva. Direct the others to attack any target they see south of us."

"Any ship, Captain?"

"Any ship. There are only Indian warships south of our fleet."

Starship mistook the vessel that loomed ahead in his screen for the Deng Xiaoping, even though he knew from the sitrep that he should be at least five miles from the Chinese aircraft carrier. A flood of tracers erupted from midships, a fountain of green sparks in the screen. He started to veer away before realizing the gunfire wasn't aimed at him; it leapt far off to his left, extending toward a dark shadow that rose from the sea like a shark. Lightning flashed; the ship, fully illuminated for a moment, seemed to be pushed back in his screen. Another flood of tracers began firing, and a missile launched from the forward deck near the superstructure of the ship, which he now knew must be one of the Chinese destroyers.

Two seconds later there was another white flash, this one partially blocked by the ship. A geyser of light erupted near the destroyer's funnel. Two, three, fireballs rocketed above the ship.

"I see two missile strikes," Starship told Eyes, "on the Chinese destroyer — it's UNK-C-1 on my screen," he added, using the computer's designation for the contact.

"We see it. Good work. Get over to the carrier," said Eyes.

"Working on it," said Starship.

"Hawk Three is thirty seconds from the intercept," Stewart told Breanna. "What do you want him to do?"

"He's going to shoot the Chinese planes down if they don't break off," said Breanna.

Stewart nodded to herself. How could Breanna be so calm? All hell was breaking loose — besides the two J-13s, another pair of jets had just taken off from the Chinese carrier and were turning in their direction. There were all sorts of missiles in the air, radars, aircraft — Stewart couldn't keep track of any of it.

She had dealt with just this sort of chaos dozens of times in simulations. But this was exponentially different.

"Try the Chinese one more time," said Breanna.

As Stewart went to push the communication button to broadcast simultaneously on all-known frequencies, she re alized she already had set the unit to do so. "Dreamland Levitow to Chinese J-13s following the Osprey aircraft— that's one of ours. He's on a rescue mission. Don't fire on him, damn you. Acknowledge. Or else we're shooting you down!"

She pressed the button on the next panel down, rebroad-casting the radio transmission in Chinese. Then, trying to anticipate what Bree would want to do, she went to the weapons screen and got ready to launch an AMRAAM-plus.

Mack saw the Osprey in the long-range scan, dancing over the burning tank farm. The pilot seemed to be using the fire as a way to deke any missiles launched at him. It seemed like a good idea, though it sure looked dangerous— the aircraft dipped and disappeared in the flames, bobbing upward only to zip down again.

The J-13 appeared on his screen, coming in from the right about three miles ahead of him. Mack began angling toward its tail, his heart starting to race as the targeting bar blinked yellow. He was going to nail this sucker, and it was going to feel good.

Just as the targeting bar began blinking red, the J-13 stretched in his screen. It was an optical illusion — the plane was veering hard to the right. Mack hung with it; the bar went solid red.

"He's turning off, Mack," said Breanna. "The Chinese aircraft is turning off."

Too late, thought Mack. He's dead.

But he lifted his finger off the trigger.

The guns immediately below the bridge began to fire, their steady staccato the sound of a jackhammer tearing through thin concrete. Memon stared in the direction of the steam of bullets but couldn't see their target. Then yellow light rose from below. Memon saw the shadow of a man loom before him, then heaved over, the deck suddenly cut away. He felt hot and wet, surrounded by screams, and a curtain of pain stunned his vision black.

"Two J-13s heading in the direction of the Abner Read," T-Bone told Dog, reading the screens at his airborne radar station. "Twenty-five feet above sea level. Not clear that they have the ship ID'd as a target. Approximately twenty-five miles from the Abner Read. Computer says they have very large missiles aboard, Colonel — Chinese variation of Styx, designation C-106."

"Bay," Dog told Jazz, changing course to intercept them.

The copilot acknowledged and the bomb bay door swung open.

"Dreamland Wisconsin to Abner Read. Two aircraft are heading in your direction. They appear equipped with versions of the Russian Styx."

"Bastian, what do you have?" said Eyes.

"J-13s coming at you hot. Each has a Styx cruise missile. I can take them out, but you have to decide right now."

"Stand by."

The com line went silent. Almost a full minute passed before Storm came back on the line.

"They're homing in on our radar," said Storm. "They may think we're one of the Indian screening ships. We've broadcast a warning and they haven't responded. If they don't turn back in sixty seconds, shoot them down."

"Copy that."

A wall of flames appeared directly in front of the Osprey. Before Danny could blink, they'd flown into them. The aircraft shot sideways, shimmying and shaking and jerking like a train that had suddenly come off its tracks. Finally, the nose moved upward in a gentle tilt and they climbed away from the raging fires.

Danny saw figures running along a pier near the northern side of the terminal. The water around them seemed to be on fire.

"Let's see if we can rescue them," he told the pilot. "We'll break out the rescue basket and winch it down." "The whole place is on fire," said the pilot. "Which means we better hurry."

Danny ran to the rear of the aircraft and told Boston and Pretty Boy that they were going to try and pull the people off the pier. As they pulled the stretcher basket out from its compartment below the web seats, Danny clicked back into the Dreamland command line.

"Whiplash leader to Dreamland Levitow—Bree, you there?"

"Go ahead, Danny."

"Listen, there are some people stranded on a pier here and we're going to try helping them. In the meantime, we saw a wake west of the oil farm about ten minutes ago. We didn't see anything on the surface, and then those fighters started chasing us. Maybe it's your submarine."

"Roger that. Thanks."

A thousand demons roared in Memon's ears, cursing the sun, swearing that it would never rise again. Shiva, the Hindu god of war, leered before him. The god's tongue was pure fire; the flames licked at Memon's eyes, burning through the sockets.

Memon rolled away. He found himself facedown on the deck, hands so hot they seemed to be on fire. He pushed upright and struggled to his knees.

A man's body lay next to him. It seemed to have grown another arm in the middle of its chest, fingers curled around a knife. Memon struggled to comprehend what he was seeing — a sailor impaled by a huge piece of metal.

"Deputy Minister Memon! Help the deputy minister!"

Memon felt himself being pulled to his feet. A klaxon horn sounded nearby. There were shouts. Memon heard a sound like water running into a tub, then realized it was the whimper of a man dying nearby. His right arm had been sheered two-thirds off and he lay in a pool of blood.

Memon looked away. A hole had been blown in the side of the ship's island, and the compartment next to them obliterated. He could see stars in the distance, twinkling white above the red-tinged sea.

"The admiral is dead," said a sailor.

Memon shook his head, as if he might shake away the chaos and confusion. Someone was talking to him— Captain Adri — but he could not process the words. Memon tried to force himself to understand, but could not. The captain seemed very insistent, repeating whatever he was saying over and over. Finally, not sure what he was agreeing to, Memon nodded his head to make Adri go away.

Starship split his main screen into two views, one with the image of the Chinese carrier and the other focused on the Indian. The antiaircraft systems of both ships picked him up, but in neither case was he targeted, possibly because the human operators aboard the ships thought any helicopter this close had to be on their side. Starship knew this wouldn't last — sooner or later, he thought, he'd be shot down — but he figured that until then he'd get as good a view of what was going on as possible. He bobbed and wove, hovering for a bit and then flitting off, trying to pay equal attention to each aircraft. Two missiles had hit the Indian carrier, one just below the forward deck where its main missile batteries were located, the other, more devastatingly, at the forward part of the carrier's island, about where the bridge should be. The ship's guns had shot down several other missiles.

The Chinese carrier had been hit once, almost straight on the starboard arm of its V-shaped flight deck. Two of its helicopters were hovering above the damage, preparing to conduct a rescue mission or otherwise render assistance.

"Werewolf, see if you can get closer to the Chinese ship," said Eyes.

"They're tracking me. If I get much closer they may fire." "Just do it."

Starship put Werewolf Two into an orbit around the Indian ship and gave it to the computer to control. That done, he pushed Werewolf One forward, zigging in the direction of the Chinese carrier's stern. The carrier had a pair of twin 37mm close-in weapons and a larger caliber 57mm weapon mounted on deck bulges just below the flight deck on either side of the stern, but they were positioned in a way that made it difficult for them to strike anything approaching directly at the flight deck. Like most aircraft carriers, protection was meant to come from the escorts and the ships' planes; anything that actually made it through the screen faced relatively light defenses.

But not impotent ones — the 57mm gun on the port side began firing its large shells as the Werewolf skipped around. The stream of lead passed over the aircraft; Star-ship knew he was lucky. Now lined up perfectly with the stern, he took the aircraft up to fifty feet above the waves, then had a sudden inspiration: Why not fly directly over the flight deck?

"Hope this is close enough for you, Navy," he said, pushing the robot aircraft forward.

The J-13s were flying from the northeast toward the Abner Read. To get them with the AMRAAM-plus Scorpions, Dog had to change course and close down the angle the missiles would have to take. Doing so, he'd make the Megafortress itself an easier target.

The real problem was that he had only two Scorpions. They'd filled the other slots on the rotating bomb dispenser with additional sonar and Piranha buoys.

"Start the turn now," said Jazz, cuing him with the help of the flight computers.

"Wisconsin, I can take these guys," said Cantor.

"There's two of them."

"Yeah, but I can get them."

"Do it," said Dog.

Cantor swung Flighthawk One away from the Mega-fortress's wing, pirouetting around the bigger aircraft as it maneuvered to put itself into a firing position to attack the J-13s. The nose of the robot aircraft was now on a parallel plane to the approaching enemy fighters. The J-13s were moving very quickly; as soon as he made his first turn, the computer told him he had to turn again. He did, and found himself slightly ahead of the lead bogey. The J-13 was going so fast that it slipped right up under him in the blink of an eye; Cantor barely had time to press the trigger.

The 20mm slugs that poured from the belly of the U/MF were not the largest bullets in the world, but scattered artfully around the Chinese jet, they tore it to shreds. The outer third of the J-13's right wing seemed to fold away; the aircraft turned into an unguided missile, its nose pushing toward the sea.

So far the intercept had played out perfectly; in fact, it followed to the millimeter a training simulation based on several of Zen's real-life encounters. But the similarity to the exercise had a downside: As he recovered, Cantor expected the other aircraft to come up on his right, just as it did in the computer program. But as he edged in that direction, the display showed that the plane had already cut left. Belatedly changing course, he failed to anticipate another cut by the J-13 and sailed past the plane without a chance for a shot.

Cantor corrected, twisting back toward the weaving aircraft. The Chinese plane turned in his direction, and even though he knew he didn't have a good shot — the targeting bar was yellow — Cantor pressed his trigger.

The bullets trailed off to the left but got the J-13 pilot's attention; worried about whoever it was behind him, the Chinese pilot pulled hard left. The turn was a mistake, taking away the bigger plane's speed advantage. Cantor, with his much smaller turning radius, cut inside the other plane, narrowing the distance enough to get on his tail as he cut back. The bogey flew into the sweet spot in his targeting screen. Cantor pressed the trigger.

His bullets shot like a thick sword into his target's heart. Parts flew from the aircraft; Cantor pulled off as it exploded.

"Missile away," said T-Bone, the airborne radar operator on the deck above. The Chinese pilot had managed to target and fire his missile, probably at the cost of his own life.

Storm saw the warning on the holographic map table before he heard the alarm. A second later the ship's defensive weapons operator reported they were tracking a Styx missile headed in their direction.

"Distance to ship, twelve miles. Tracking. Missile does not appear to have locked onto target."

The Chinese-made missile guided itself to the general vicinity of the target via an internal navigational system; once it got close, on-board radar would take over. The missile would descend to about twenty-five feet above the water, aiming not only to strike as low as possible but avoiding shipboard defenses. The Abner Read's stealthy radar profile made it a difficult target for the missile, though anytime five hundred kilos of explosives were flying at you, it could not be taken lightly.

The missile covered roughly a third of a mile in a second. Before thirty seconds had passed, the Phalanx close-in 25mm cannon battery had zeroed in on the approaching missile and was ready to take it down. The missile had not yet found the Abner Read; it was tracking off to the west and still relatively high. This wasn't a problem, however: The Chinese missile flew into a cloud of nickel, cobalt, and tungsten, immolating itself about a mile from the ship.

By inclination and instinct, Storm wanted to retaliate against the Chinese. In his mind, he'd be completely justified sinking the aircraft carrier that had launched the plane. But his orders were very clear; he was to avoid conflict at all cost.

Still.

Still.

"Communications — get that Chinese carrier. I want to find out why the hell we were attacked. If they don't apologize… "

He let his voice trail off. If they didn't apologize, he'd sink the damn ship, consequences be damned.

"Excellent work, Weapons," said Storm, switching into their circuit. "Dreamland owes us one."

Starship spun the Werewolf directly over the split in the Deng Xiaopings flight deck, the aircraft's cameras recording the scramble of the crew as it prepared to recover two of its aircraft. He felt as if he were a voyeur who'd snuck into a foreign palace. A J-13 slammed to a stop at the far side of the deck; men swarmed over it, wrestling it off the arrestor cables and wheeling it forward to an elevator.

A second J-13 appeared in the distance, making its approach.

"Werewolf, check out the escort ships in the Chinese group," said Eyes. "Look for the frigate. We have enough on the carrier now. Stand by for coordinates."

The J-13 landed, and once more the crew swarmed over her. A notion seized Starship as they began pushing the plane forward: Why not get a look at the hangar deck of the carrier? Just hover right over the other aircraft as it went down, spin around, then shoot the hell out of there.

Before he fully considered the idea, Starship had pushed the Werewolf forward, skittering across the flat surface of the Chinese vessel about eight feet from the deck. The ship's lights threw a crosshatch of white and black in his face. The J-13 had just been secured on the elevator; as he approached, he saw the startled face of one of the deck crew diving for cover.

Starship thought he'd made his move too soon — the J-13 sat below him, not moving. Two figures were crouched near the folded-up wings. He spun the Werewolf around, picking up his tail slightly to give the forward camera a better view. Disappointed, he was just about to hit the gas and get out of there when the elevator began cranking downward.

Starship descended as well. He moved a little too fast— the skids smacked against the J-13. He jerked upward, then settled back down, hitting his floodlights. When the elevator stopped at hangar level, he was just above the airplane, with maybe four or five feet worth of clearance between him and the roof. He spun around once as slowly as he dared, glimpsing aircraft, people, machinery, all in a blur. Then he jerked the Werewolf straight up, praying that he was still in the same position as when he'd descended.

"What the hell are you doing?" yelled Eyes.

"Taking a look inside the sardine box," Starship told him. "What were those coordinates?"

The doctor held his small penlight up and told Memon he had received a mild concussion.

"You should rest," he said.

"The ship," said Memon. "I'm responsible."

"Captain Adri is in charge."

"Adri, yes. Where is he?"

"You just came from him."

"Someone take me to him."

Memon pushed himself off the cot. The doctor grabbed his arm to help steady him, then passed him gently to a sailor, who led him back through the corridor, up a flight of stairs, then through another passage to the combat center. Adri and several other officers were stooped over a set of charts, discussing something.

"We have to strike them again," said Adri, his voice rising above the din in the low-ceiling room. "We must drive home our gains."

Adri? Adri was talking of attack?

Memon was amazed. Adri had opposed him earlier. He and Bhaskar had done everything they could to avoid a fight.

And they'd been right.

They'd been right!

"We should not attack," said Memon, approaching them. Adri looked up. "What?" "We should withdraw." "You? You're saying that?"

"Yes. You were right earlier. We should withdraw." "It's too late for that."

The flash had done something to his vision, Memon thought — the world had shaded deep red. Even the lights appeared to be crimson rather than yellowish white.

"Thank you for your advice," sneered Adri. "Someone please take Mr. Memon back to sickbay."

The wind whipped through the open door as the Osprey lowered itself toward the three men on the pier. Light petroleum or fuel from one of the nearby tanks had spread onto the water and caught fire; blue flames curled across the dark surface, looking like tumbleweeds in a fantasy Wild West show. But the flames were very real — when they reached the small bobbing boats nearby, they erupted in red volcanoes, consuming the vessels and everything aboard. Danny tried not to think of the possibility that there were people on some of the boats.

"One of us has to go down there," said Boston, pulling gloves from his tactical vest. "These guys ain't doing it themselves. Look — they're burnt to shit and scared besides. In shock."

"Let them grab the basket," said Pretty Boy. "Faster." "Yeah, but they're not gonna." Boston had already climbed half inside it. He had his radio unit but no wet suit, just the standard combat fatigues they'd turned out in earlier. "You drop me, Pretty Boy, and I'm getting you back."

Pretty Boy cursed at him but began working the controls to the winch, lowering the line as the Osprey continued to descend. Danny pulled out some blankets and the medical chest, getting burn packets ready.

The tanks were still burning nearby, and it took considerable work to keep the aircraft in a stable hover. Every so often it would twitch right or left, but they always got it back.

"Number one coming up!" shouted Boston, his voice blaring in Danny's smart helmet. He went to the door and waited as the cable cranked upward. When the basket finally appeared, the man inside forgot about the belts Boston had secured and tried to leap into the cabin. As he did, the Osprey tilted with a sudden updraft. The stretcher lurched out of Danny's reach, then swung back so hard it nearly knocked him over. Danny grappled the stretcher to a stop as Pretty Boy grabbed hold; they pulled the panic-stricken man inside and rolled him to the floor.

First degree burns covered the man's right arm. His face was putty white, and his pulse raced; he was in shock and pain, but in a relative sense not that badly off. Danny cut away his shirt and part of his pants leg, making sure there were no further injuries. Then he put a pair of ice packs on the burns and covered the man with a blanket. Color had already started to return to his face.

"Need help here, Cap," said Pretty Boy.

Danny reached the door as the basket returned. The man inside was unconscious. Danny pulled at the stretcher but it didn't budge. Pretty Boy jumped up to help as the Osprey lurched once more. He tumbled against Danny, his head pounding him in the ribs, but he managed at the same time to pull the stretcher inside.

Danny took the man in his arms and carried him to the rear, stumbling as the Osprey continued to buck.

"Getting wicked down there," said the pilot. "We can't hold this much longer!"

"Just one more," said Danny. "Boston? Come up with this load."

Boston's response was garbled. Danny concentrated on the new patient, whose charred clothes disintegrated as he examined them. Motley patches of crinkled black skin alternated with white blotches on the Pakistani's chest and left hand; third degree burns. Danny pulled a bottle of distilled water from the burn kit and irrigated as much of the wounds as he could. He wrapped a burn dressing over them, wincing as he worked, though his patient didn't react. He was definitely breathing, though; Danny left him to help Pretty Boy with their final rescuee.

Pretty Boy was two-thirds of the way out of the cabin, trying to secure the stretcher. The Osprey had started to revolve slowly, as if it were twisting at the end of a string, and the momentum of the aircraft seemed to be pitching the stretcher away from the cabin. One of Pretty Boy's legs disappeared. Danny leapt at the other, trying to keep his trooper inside the craft. The shoestring tackle would have made his old high school football coach proud; Pretty Boy sailed back into the cabin, along with the stretcher.

The occupant, who had to weigh close to three hundred pounds, filled the entire stretcher. Fortunately, he was conscious and seemingly not badly hurt, with a small patch of red on his cheek and a large stretch on both arms. Coughing violently, he got up slowly and made his way to the rear of the cabin.

The Osprey lifted straight up with a jerk, then began moving forward.

"Boston? Where the hell is Boston?" yelled Danny, scrambling toward the door.

The pier was now surrounded by red flames. Boston stood near the end, waving his arms.

"Get us back down there!" Danny told the pilot. "Can't do it, Captain." "You got to."

"The wind and flames are too intense. And we're getting torched."

Exasperated, Danny went to the equipment locker and pulled out two LAR-V rebreather setups — underwater scuba gear intended for clandestine insertions. He pulled on the vest and fasted the small tank under his belt, still wearing his smart helmet.

"Drop me as close to the pier as you can. Meet us out beyond the fire."

"Captain!"

Danny hooked his arm through the second bundle of gear. They were about thirty yards from the pier, up at least thirty feet. Flames covered the surface of the water.

"Take care of number two — he's got third degree burns," Danny yelled to Pretty Boy as he threw off his helmet and jumped into the water.

Breanna studied the map Ensign English had just sent to her station, showing where she proposed that Piranha control buoys be dropped. Worried about losing touch with the probe, she'd ordered it back east when the port was attacked. Now they were trying to locate the earlier contact, but hadn't had any luck. English wanted to look farther south in the direction of the Indian fleet, but that wasn't going to happen while the two sides were throwing stones at each other.

"Good map, Ensign," she told her, "but it's going to be a while. Put Piranha in autonomous mode if you have to."

"I have to."

"Two more PAF F-16s querying us," interrupted Stewart, her voice shrill. "They're challenging us."

"Tell them who we are," said Breanna. She turned inland toward Karachi at about twenty thousand feet. Even from that altitude she could see the fire at the terminal.

The Dreamland communications channel buzzed with an incoming message from the Wisconsin. Breanna snapped it on and her father's helmeted face appeared on her screen.

"Breanna, what are you doing that far east?"

"We're trying to get back control of the Piranha and look for that submarine," she said. "And I want to stay close to Danny and the Osprey."

"As soon as the Osprey is out of there, return to base," he told her. "Refuel, and then get back on station. Be prepared to relocate to Diego Garcia."

"We're bugging out?"

"The Pentagon thinks Karachi is being targeted. They want us out of there. I checked with Jed; the President agrees we should relocate. Jed's helping work out the details."

"Just like that?" said Breanna. Using either Crete or Diego Garcia as a base would add several hours to the patrol time.

"The Pakistani defenses around Karachi won't do much against a concentrated attack," said the colonel. "We're sitting ducks there."

"Dreamland Levitow acknowledges."

"Our two other crews are in the process of bugging out as well," Dog told her. "I'll keep you advised."

"Roger that."

Starship had never seen a ship sink before. Now he saw it twice, on both halves of his screen, almost in stereo — the Chinese frigate, and one of the Indian corvettes, both hit by multiple missiles, gave themselves up to the water.

The frigate went first. A good hunk of her bow had been blown away. She bent to the waves, settling like an old woman easing into a bath. The radar above the antenna mast continued to turn as the ship sank, adamantly remaining at its post. A boat pushed off from the deck near the funnel. Then the ship's downward progression stopped, as if it changed its mind about sinking; the forward section rose slightly.

Starship glanced at the Indian vessel, which was listing heavily toward its wounded starboard side. When he glanced back at the Chinese frigate, its bow had gone back down and its stern had risen from the water. The helicopter flight deck looked like a fly swatter. Men jumped from the sides, swimming toward rafts and small boats as the ship's rear continued to rise. When the angle reached about sixty degrees, the stricken vessel plunged downward, a knife stabbing the vast ocean. Steam curdled up, and then there was nothing.

Two helicopters approached from the distance. Starship fired off flares to show them where the shipwrecked survivors were, then wheeled the Werewolf around and instructed the computer to take it back to the Abner Read.

The Indian corvette had an angular forward deck and a blocky midship, so that as her list increased she looked more and more like a large cardboard box that had fallen into the water. A sister ship stood nearby, pulling men from the water with the help of small boats. At least twenty men clung to the stricken vessel, waiting to be saved.

Thinking he could help the rescue operations, Starship moved Werewolf Two out of its orbit about a mile to the east. He lit his searchlights as he came near the stricken ship, dropping into a hover and illuminating the water. Almost immediately his RWR buzzed with a warning that he was being targeted by the radar for an SA-N-4 antiaircraft system. Starship doused his lights and throttled away as two missiles launched.

The SA-N-4s had about a ten kilometer range, and Werewolf Two had a two kilometer head start. Starship zigged right and left, bobbing up and then jamming back toward the waves, trying to confuse the missile's guidance system. He thought he'd made it when the Werewolf suddenly flew upward, uncontrolled; before he could regain control the screen blanked.

Danny pushed his legs together and covered his face as he fell from the Osprey, plunging toward a black hole in the red flickering ocean. The flames swelled up around him, then disappeared as he sank into the water. Once below the surface, he leaned forward and began stroking. He'd gone out in the direction of the pier, and figured that so long as he pushed himself forward he would eventually come to it.

The water was so dark that he couldn't see anything in front of him. After what he thought must be five minutes, he raised his hand to clear some of the oil from the surface above and went up to get his bearings. But all he could see was heavy smoke and thin red curls of flame.

Danny pushed back under the water, determined to find the pier and get Boston out of there. He still had his boots on; their weight and that of the gear he was carrying for Boston tired him as he swam. When he surfaced, flames shot over him and he quickly ducked back, swimming blindly ahead. His arms began to ache.

Finally, his hand struck something hard. Thinking it was the pier, Danny surfaced and began hauling himself upward. When he got up he realized he'd climbed on a submerged concrete pillar, part of an older pier that had been removed some years before. The pier Boston was on sat ten yards behind him, barely visible in the smoke.

Flames ran out of a long pipe about thirty yards to the north; the pipe led back to the tank farm, a roaring inferno that showed no sign of subsiding.

"Boston! Yo Boston!" he yelled as shadows danced around him. "Boston, you hear me?"

The wind howled. Danny took a breath, ready to dive in, then remembered his boots. He doffed them and dove back into the water, the stink of oil and kerosene stinging his nose.

In three strokes he reached his hand to the metal rail at the base of the pier — then jerked it off and dove back down below the water.

By the time the pain came, a wall of flames had passed overhead. Smarting from the burn, Danny worked his way to his right, in the direction he thought Boston would be. About five yards down he had to push around another underwater pillar before reaching the wooden surface of the pier. Tired, he didn't have enough energy or leverage to make it up and fell back into the water.

"Boston!" he yelled, trying to jerk the LAR-V rebreather gear he was carrying onto the pier. "Boston!"

A hand grabbed him from behind.

"Here, Cap," said Boston, in the water behind him.

Danny pulled the breathing gear back down between them.

"Damn hot up there," said Boston. "Whole place is on fire."

"We have to swim out beyond the fire," Danny told him. "So the Osprey can pick us up."

"They told me," shouted Boston in his ear.

"This way," said Danny, pointing before plunging down.

"Looks like both navies are withdrawing," T-Bone told Dog. "The aircraft are staying over the ships. The Chinese have three J-13s and one helicopter over the Deng. Three helos west, doing search and rescue on the frigate that sunk. The Indians have two planes over their carrier. Nothing else in the air."

Less than an hour had passed since the first shot had been fired. Two ships had been sunk, one by each navy. Each side had lost four jets; the Chinese had also lost a helicopter. Considerable damage had been done to the remaining ships and aircraft.

And then there was the oil terminal, still burning, sure to be completely destroyed before the fires were out.

"Thanks, T-Bone. Dish, you have anything to add?"

"Just that I could use some breakfast."

"I'll take your order," volunteered Jazz. "As long as it's coffee and microwaved muffins."

Dog, not quite in the mood to laugh, nudged his stick to take the Megafortress a little higher.

Toasted by the Indian ship, Starship turned his attention to the other Werewolf. The aircraft was circling alone over the survivors of the Chinese ship. The water seemed absurdly peaceful.

"Werewolf One heading back to the ship," he told Eyes. "Two is gone."

"You lost the aircraft?"

What the hell did you expect? thought Starship. But he kept his mouth shut, not even bothering to acknowledge.

"A thousand pardons?" screamed Storm into his mouthpiece. "A thousand pardons?"

"That's what he said, Captain." The radioman's voice was nearly as incredulous as Storm's. "That was their message from their captain."

"He sends his airplanes to sink my ship, and he says a thousand pardons?"

"They say he didn't send them. They must have mistaken us for an Indian vessel."

"Oh, that's believable." Storm shook his head. "Did you tell him the two airplanes that made the attack were shot down?"

"I said they required assistance. He asked if we could render it."

"Gladly," said Storm. "As soon as hell freezes over."

When Danny broke water after ten minutes of solid swimming, he had cleared the worst of the smoke. Large pieces of wood bobbed in the water nearby. The first one was too small to support him; the second, a plastic milk crate or something similar, sank beneath his weight. As he was searching for something else, Boston popped up nearby.

"There, over there," shouted Boston, pointing to the west. "Those lights are the Osprey's."

Danny turned and saw two beams extending down to the water. Reaching into a pocket sewn under the Draeger vest, he took out a small waterproof pouch. Inside the pouch was a pencil flare, a small signaling device intended for emergency pickups like this. The flare was designed to work even in the water, but getting it ready was not the easiest thing in the world. He took in a mouthful of foul seawater before managing to set it off.

Boston flipped onto his back and paddled nearby.

"You look like you're in a goddamn pool," said Danny, his teeth starting to chatter.

The Osprey's rotors kicked up a strong downdraft, and a swell pushed Danny under. He had to fight to the surface.

"Grab on, grab on!" yelled Boston, who'd already gotten hold of the cable. "Come on, Cap."

Danny threw himself at his sergeant, thrashing around until he managed to hook his arm around the other man's. He got another mouthful of water before the cable began winching upward.

"They told me you were out of your mind," Boston repeated. "Damn good thing!"

"Damn good thing," Danny said to himself, twisting as the cable hauled them to safety.