End Game

VI Catastrophic Events

Zen flipped through the television stations as he rested between dumbbell sets. He wished it were baseball season; baseball was the perfect sport to watch when you were only half paying attention.

He stopped on CNN, put down the remote control and reached back for the weights. He took a long breath and then brought the dumbbells forward, doing a straight pullover.

"A CNN special report — breaking news," blared the television.

Zen ignored it, pulling the weight over his head. He'd let his workout routines slip because of the procedures. He hadn't swum since last Saturday, and the weights felt heavy and awkward.

"We have a live report from Stephen Densmore in Delhi, India," said the television announcer.

Zen, concentrating on the exercise, lowered the dumbbells toward his waist, then pulled them back overhead. As he brought the bars back behind him to the floor, the newsman began talking.

"Over a hundred people were reported killed and at least that number are missing following the early morning clash between Indian and Chinese naval vessels off the Pakistani coastline. An oil terminal in Karachi was said to have been destroyed in the fighting."

"Karachi?" said Zen. He let the weights drop and rolled over to his stomach. The screen showed a still photo of an Indian naval vessel said to have been sunk.

"Where was this?" Zen asked the TV. "Where?"

But the network cut to a commercial. Zen waited patiently through a spot for Folger's coffee, but instead of adding more details when they returned, the anchor cued the weatherman. Zen crawled toward the end table and reached for his phone.

"Airforce, why did you put the Werewolf down into that ship?"

Starship shifted uneasily. He'd actually forgotten all about that, sure that Storm was going to ball him out for losing the Werewolf to the Indian missile.

"I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, sir."

Lame, completely lame, but what else could he say?

Storm shook his head. "Do you realize the Chinese could have grabbed the Werewolf at any moment?"

"That might be a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, they weren't expecting anything and I was only there for a minute. Not even. I was always right under the opening for the elevator. I could just escape straight up."

"That's not the point."

"Yes, sir."

"You took a big risk, mister. A huge risk." Starship nodded.

"Officially, you're on report," said Storm. "That was a foolish thing to do."

The furrows in the captain's brow deepened; he looked like a gargoyle about to spit stone.

"Unofficially," added Storm, "that was the ballsiest thing I've ever seen anyone ever do."

Starship was confused, but he was even more confounded as Storm formed his hand into a fist and hit his shoulder with a roundhouse so powerful he was nearly knocked off his feet. The captain wore a grin that covered half his face.

"Way to go, Airforce," Storm told him. "The intelligence geeks back at the Pentagon are going apeshit over this. It's the coup of the year. You keep this up and you'll be a permanent member of the team."

"Thanks, sir," said Starship, rubbing his shoulder.

Jed Barclay knew one of his phones was ringing, but couldn't figure out which one it was until the third trill. Then he pulled his personal cell phone out of his pocket.

"Uh, Jed," he said, unsure who would be calling on the seldom used line.

"Jed, it's your cousin Jeff."

"Hey, Zen. How's it goin'?"

"What's going on in India?"

"Oh — jeez. All hell's breaking loose."

"Karachi was attacked. Breanna's there," Zen added. "I figured you could give me some background."

"Listen, cuz, I really can't talk about that on this line, you know?"

"Is Bree going to be OK?"

"Well, none of our people have been, uh, hurt that I know of."

"I know that. I just talked to the base. That's not what I'm asking."

"Yeah. Um. I still can't talk on this line."

"What if I call you back from Dreamland?"

Jed knew that the Dreamland contingent was being pulled out of Karachi because of the volatile situation there. But not only couldn't he say so on a phone line that could be tapped, it wasn't his place to be handing out that information.

"Maybe. You don't sound like yourself," Jed told his cousin. "You, like, worried about Breanna?" "Damn straight."

"She can take care of herself, though. I mean, Bree's been—"

"I'll call you in an hour."

Zen hung up before Jed could warn him that he might be hard to reach; the National Security Council was setting up a meeting, and he expected to be called upstairs to help his boss prepare a presidential briefing any second.

Jed went back to his computer, looking at the images that had been forwarded from the Abner Read following the battle. The conflict had provided a wealth of tactical and strategic intelligence, but right now he just wanted something he could show the President to illustrate both the damage and the firepower of the ships involved.

The Abner Read had obtained particularly interesting video of the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping, thanks to the exploits of its Werewolf. Among the images Jed paged through were clear shots of the hangar deck, showing a number of planes in storage and even what looked like a weapons area. Wondering if the information might change the Pentagon's assessment of the relative power of the two fleets — the analysts had been calling the Deng Xiaoping and Shiva about even — Jed picked up the phone and called the Pentagon.

The Navy intelligence officer he wanted to talk to was away from his desk. So were two other people he called. He was about to try someone at the CIA who specialized in weapons assessments when his friend at the Navy called him back.

"You're wondering about the Deng?" said the lieutenant commander.

"I'm wondering if these images are going to change your assessment that the two task groups are evenly matched, or if the battle did," Jed told him.

"Too early to say for sure, but it looks like the Chinese have a new anticruise missile weapon. There's something else even more interesting about the Deng, though."

"More interesting?"

"You got W-AB73-20 there?" asked the officer, referring to one of the image's index numbers.

"Hang tight," said Jed, swinging around in his chair to the keyboard. He cradled the phone against his neck as he found the photo.

One of the series taken of the Deng Xiaoping's hangar deck, it showed a pair of J-13 fighters, wings folded, roped off a short distance from the camera. There were two men near it; both had automatic rifles.

"OK, so I'm looking at it."

"See those jets? They're guarded."

"Yeah, I know."

"Kind of strange, don't you think?"

"Yeah, definitely." Jed zeroed in and hit the zoom. "Are these guards? Or are these guys running up to the fight?"

"Jed, they're in the hangar of an aircraft carrier. They're guarding the plane."

Oh, wow.

"Tai-shan?"

"That's the guess. We're studying the planes now. But, I'd say that's a real good guess. Plane types are right. We're digging into the equipment right now."

"I'm not familiar with Tai-shan," the National Security Advisor admitted to Jed when he took the news to his office a few minutes later.

"Two years ago, the Chinese navy conducted a series of tests in the Gulf of Tonkin, using what was then a prototype of the J-13," said Jed. "They operated from a base that had been mocked up so it was similar to an aircraft carrier — the dimensions were later shown to fit one of the Deng Xiao-ping's arms. The aircraft dropped practice bombs over the water. One of the mock missions was tracked, and from the bombing pattern, it seemed pretty clear that it was dropping a nuclear weapon. If you recall, this was right around the time the Xia, their only ballistic missile submarine, was taken out of service. But—"

"Wait, Jed," said Freeman, nearly jumping from his seat. "You're telling me there's a nuke on that ship?"

"Maybe two. There are two planes."

"Let's go talk to the President right now," said Freeman, already in full stride.

The President was entertaining a delegation of church youth leaders from Minnesota on a postdinner tour of the White House when Jed and Freeman were ushered into the Oval Office. Entertaining was the right word — he was demonstrating a sleight of hand trick he'd learned on a recent trip to Florida. The President was particularly fond of the trick, and was taking obvious glee in making a silver dollar appear in various ears of his visitors.

"But I see, ladies and gentlemen, that duty is calling, and I'm late for my next meeting," said the President. "We're always burning the midnight oil here."

He glad-handed the visitors as they left, mixing in variations of his silver dollar trick.

"Everybody loves magic," said Martindale after they left. "Now if I could only find a way to pull silver dollars from congressmen's ears, I'd have no problem getting my budget passed."

"There's a new twist in the north Arabian Sea," the National Security Advisor told the President. "It's going to complicate things tremendously."

Martindale's smile faded quickly as Jed told him about the images from the carrier and their implications.

"You're sure this is correct?" asked Martindale.

"The intelligence agencies are preparing a formal estimate," said Jed. "But I checked the original intelligence on the program. It's a real match. A Chinese agent provided photos and a procedural manual."

"The Chinese showed restraint by not using the planes when they were attacked," said Freeman. "But can we count on that in the future? Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that the carrier is off the coast of India. China could be planning a first strike against the Indian leadership."

"Are you suggesting we alert the Indians?" asked the President. "That could backfire — they might use that as an excuse to fire nukes at the carrier. They've already tried to sink it."

Martindale got up from his desk. He still had the dollar coin in his hand. He played with it absentmindedly, twirling it between his fingers.

"India is not our ally," said Freeman. "But then neither is China."

"We can't allow a nuclear war in Asia. The consequences would be devastating," said the President. "Even a conventional war. We need to get some distance between the two sides, work up something diplomatically, either in the UN or on our own."

"Neither side trusts us," said Freeman bitterly.

"See, they have something in common," said the President sardonically. "How long will it take to get the Nimitz and its battle group into the area?"

"Two weeks," said Jed.

"What if we sent a private message to the Chinese, telling them we know they have the weapon, and that if they try to use it, we'll sink their ship?" Martindale asked Freeman.

"For one thing, we'll be taking sides. For another, we'll be giving away intelligence that may help us down the road."

"If they don't use the weapon." "True."

"I'd rather sink it here than off Taiwan. We could blame the Indians somehow."

"Maybe the Indians will sink it for us," said Freeman. "It may not be that easy to sink," said Jed. "It came through the battle with the Indians." "We can sink it," said Freeman.

"What if we positioned ourselves to attack the carrier once the planes appear on deck, and attack then? Could Dreamland and the Abner Read handle that sort of attack on their own?"

"I don't think that's wise," said Freeman. "We're going to risk our own people for India?"

"India and China, and the rest of southern Asia," said the President. "Is it feasible?"

Freeman turned to Jed.

"Um, they might. Another thing, um, they might be able to shoot down the planes."

"All right. That might work," said Martindale. "We'll discuss it with the cabinet."

He picked up the phone and told the operator to contact the other cabinet members, along with Joint Chiefs of Staff, for an emergency meeting.

"I want Bastian in charge of this," he said when he got off the phone.

"He's attached to Xray Pop, and Captain Gale on the Ab-ner Read outranks him," said Freeman.

"Captain Gale has lived up to his nickname 'Storm' once too often for my taste. Bastian is the one I trust out there. I'll talk to them personally."

Dog clambered down the EB-52's ladder, his throat parched and his legs aching from the long flight. Diego Garcia was a small atoll in the Indian Ocean, south of India. Among the most secure American bases in the world—

surrounded by miles and miles of open ocean — it was also a four hour flight from their patrol area. Dog did not relish the idea of operating from here for very long.

"Hey, good to see you, Colonel," yelled Mack Smith, hopping off a small "gator" vehicle as it pulled to a stop. A pair of maintainers got off the golf-cart-sized vehicle, which they used to ferry tools and supplies around while working on the big aircraft. "How was the flight?"

"Long," Dog told him, getting his bearings.

"So was mine. I'll tell you, nothing's changed, Colonel— place looks just like we left it last week."

Actually it had been almost two months now, back before Thanksgiving. But Diego Garcia did have something of a timeless quality to it, at least to the occasional visitor. The sand and trees and old ruins belonged to the British; everything else here was operated by the U.S. Navy. A small administrative building had already been set aside for the Dreamland force, as had six dugout revetments for the aircraft. More carport than hangar, the parking areas were more important for the shade they provided than the protection against terror attack; the closest thing to a terrorist on the island was the constable who handed tickets out to bicyclists exceeding the speed limit.

"Since I was ranking officer, I took it upon myself to contact the natives," Mack told Dog as he walked toward a Navy jeep that had been sent to meet him. "Base commander is Mr. Cooperation."

"That's nice, Mack," said Dog, who'd already spoken to the commander twice while en route.

"Got our old digs, everything's shipshape."

"Great."

"I hear my pupil Cantor shot down two J-13s when they wouldn't turn back," added Mack. "Chip off the old block." "Your pupil?"

"He's coming along, isn't he?" said Mack, without a trace of irony.

Dog started to climb into the jeep when a bicycle ridden by a man dressed in camo fatigues appeared on the roadway in front of them. The colonel told the driver to wait a moment, realizing that the bicyclist was one of his Whiplash troopers; during their earlier stay they'd found that mountain bikes were the most effective way of getting around the base. The rider was Danny Freah, who sported a wide bandage on his left hand but otherwise showed no signs of wear from his recent ordeal.

"I thought you were going to get some rest," Dog said.

"So'd I. You have a high-level call at the trailer."

"Hop in," Dog told him.

"Nah," said the Whiplash captain, grinning as he whipped his bicycle around. "I'll race ya."

Breanna paused in front of the door, rehearsing what she had to say one last time. Then she sighed and raised her hand to knock. At the first rap, the door flew open.

"Captain," said Jan Stewart, startled. "I was just going to get something to eat."

"Oh, good," said Breanna. "I'll go with you."

Stewart shrugged, pulling the door closed behind her. Breanna realized the suggestion had been a mistake, but she was stuck with it now. She led Stewart out of the dormitory building they'd been assigned, and didn't speak until they were outside. The mess — or galley, in Navy talk — was several hundred yards away.

"I wanted to talk to you," Breanna said. "I've been noticing some problems you're having."

"What problems?" snapped Stewart.

"Little things," said Breanna. "But a lot of them. You're having trouble processing all the systems in combat."

Stewart stopped and turned toward her. "Are you unhappy with my performance, Captain?"

"Yes," said Breanna. The word blurted out; Breanna had meant to approach the topic with much more tact.

Stewart's face reddened. "Well, thank you for your honesty," she said, turning and continuing toward the cafeteria.

Well, that went well, Breanna thought. And now I can't even go and eat without getting the evil eye.

"Dog, it's good to talk to you under any circumstance," President Martindale told Colonel Bastian after the call was put through. "I hope you're well." "I am, sir. Thank you."

"I'm going to let Jed Barclay fill in the details, as he has so often in the past," said the President. "But I want to emphasize two things. Number one: You are taking your orders directly from me. No one and nothing are to interfere with this mission. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Number Two: You are in command. As such, you are representing me. Your judgment is my judgment. The stakes are extremely high, but I trust you. Follow your instincts."

Before Dog could say anything else, Jed Barclay came on the line. "Are you there, Colonel?"

"I'm here, Jed," said Dog.

"I, um, I'm going to start with some background. I don't think you know about Tai-shan, right?"

Dog listened as Jed described the Chinese naval nuclear program and explained what the Werewolf had found.

"We're not sure whether the fact that there are two aircraft means that there are two bombs, or whether one is intended as a backup," Jed told him. "Navy Intelligence is preparing a dossier that will help you identify the aircraft."

The recent showdown notwithstanding, the Megafortress was not the weapon of choice for shooting down J-13s, or any frontline fighter for that matter.

"The Abner Read is subordinate to you for this mission," added Jed.

"Does Captain Gale know that?"

"The President will be telling him shortly."

Dog could only imagine the fallout from that conversation.

"You have to be in a position to stop the strike if it appears imminent," reiterated Jed, making his instructions ab solutely clear. "Whatever you have to do to accomplish that, you're authorized to do. I, um, we'll have a twenty-four-hour link set up to provide you with intelligence on the situation. I'm working on it now."

Storm listened incredulously as the President continued. He had no problem with attacking the Chinese aircraft — he told the President that he would sink the carrier if he wanted — but putting Bastian in charge? A lieutenant colonel over a Navy captain?

An Air Force zippersuit over a sea captain?

"Sir, with respect, with due respect — I outrank Bastian."

"Will it make you happy if I demote you to commander?" answered the President.

"No, sir."

"Stand by for a briefing from Jed Barclay of the NSC."

"I can sink that damn carrier now," insisted Storm when Jed came on the line. "Bam. It's down. Six missiles. All I need."

"Um, uh, sir, um, you can't do that."

"Don't tell me what I can't do," snapped Storm, slamming the handset into its receiver.

The petty officer manning communications looked over warily from his station at the other side of the small room. "Get me Fleet — no, get me Admiral Balboa."

"The head of the Joint of Chiefs of Staff?"

"You got it. Get him."

"Yes, sir. Incoming communication on the Dreamland channel. Colonel Bastian."

Gloating already?

I'm a new man, Storm told himself. I don't get angry. "I don't like this any more than you do, Storm," said

Dog, coming on the line. "But we have to make the best of it. Let's come up with a plan—"

"Here's the plan, Bastian. Spot the planes on their deck, and I'll launch the missiles."

"Listen, Storm. We don't have to be friends, but—"

"We're not."

"But we have the same goal."

"As long as you remember that, we'll be fine."

Memon stared at the ceiling of the ship's medical center. His head pounded and he wanted to sleep, but he dared not; every time he closed his eyes he saw the severed limb on the deck before him.

Thirty-three Indian men had been killed in the brief engagement, most of them aboard the corvette that was sunk by two C-601 missiles, air-launched Chinese weapons similar to the Russian Styx. Another hundred or so had been wounded; twenty were missing and almost certainly dead. The toll aboard the Shiva was relatively small — seven dead, eighteen wounded. Kevlar armor at the belt line of the ship where the first missile struck had prevented serious damage. But the missile that struck the bridge area had wiped out part of the bridge and, more important, deprived the ship of many of its most important officers, including the admiral.

The list of the dead did not stun Memon anywhere near as much as the news that they had sunk only one of the Chinese ships, a frigate. The aircraft carrier Deng Xiaoping continued operations, and even had the audacity to send a high-speed reconnaissance flight in their direction. The Shiva's fighters responded, supposedly shooting down the craft.

Memon did not trust the report. He no longer trusted anything, not even his own judgment.

He saw the blood of the victims everywhere he looked. Every spot on the wall, every shadow on the ceiling, appeared to him to be blood. His hands were free of it, but how long would that last?

"Deputy Minister?"

Memon looked to his right and found a sailor standing there.

"A message from the Defense minister, sir." Memon sat up. He slit the tape holding the folded piece of paper together, then read slowly.

Memon got to his feet, then sat back down, realizing belatedly that he had taken his shoes off. The blood rushed from his head, and he had to wait for the wave to subside.

"Take me to Captain Adri," he told the messenger.

"He's on the backup bridge."

"Take me there."

"Yes, sir."

Adri was reviewing the course with the helmsman when Memon arrived.

"A note," said Memon, holding it out. His head no longer hurt, but he still felt somewhat dazed. His eyes burned, and he saw a pattern before them when he stared at the floor.

The pattern of the explosion flash? Or of the blood surrounding the dead man's arm?

"We can't retreat," said Captain Adri, giving him the note back. "You have to tell him. We have to show our resolve, or they'll attack again."

"The admiral is right. We should withdraw farther."

"You're a coward," said Adri. "As soon as you see blood, you want to cut and run. You urged Admiral Kala to attack, and now you can't face the consequences."

Dismiss him, Memon thought. That is the only option. A subordinate cannot be allowed to question orders so publicly, let alone use insults to do so.

But Memon knew he was not a sailor. He couldn't run the ship without Adri. And if he ordered someone to take Adri's place, the sailors might mutiny.

Insurrection was better than indecision. And yet he stood frozen in place, unable to say anything.

So he was a coward, then, wasn't he? A disgrace to the country.

Adri pushed his face next to Memon's. "This is no way to win a war. We have to attack. Attack."

Memon shuddered. Adri's voice sounded like his own just a day before.

"You must obey the minister's orders," managed Memon.

"I answer to the chief of the naval staff, not the defense minister. I will follow my instincts, not yours."

Twenty-three crewmen aboard the Deng Xiaoping had been killed in the attack. It was Captain Hongwu's duty to write to each man's family. And so, after the damage was assessed and repairs begun, after the wounded were cared for, after the battle's success and failures were toted, he retreated to his wardroom suite. For his bottom desk drawer he removed a small wooden box and then unwrapped his calligrapher's pen and nubs. He took some rice paper and ink, commemorating each man to his family with a few well-chosen but simple words.

The Indian attack had been warded off quite success fully, due to the success of the Pili batteries. The weapons had struck all but two of the dozen missiles launched at the ship. It helped that the Indian attack had not been well-coordinated. Still, Captain Hongwu was now confident that the Thunderbolt could protect him from an even more intense attack; he would say so in his report to Beijing.

The overflight by the American aircraft of his deck was another question entirely. The audaciousness of the flight astounded Hongwu almost as much as its success. His ship's radar systems had tracked the aircraft intermittently when it was ten miles from the ship, but never any closer.

Both his intelligence and radar officers blamed programming in the units that controlled the radar, believing that the helicopter's slow speed had somehow confused it. Hongwu was inclined toward human error — though he had to admit that the operators had done extremely well in every other respect. Whatever the problem, it would have to be studied and fixed.

Should he report it to Beijing? If he did, his victory today would be overshadowed.

No, there was no reason to do so, at least not until the failure had been properly analyzed. He had already risked Beijing's disapproval by noting that two of his aircraft had mistaken the Abner Read for an Indian ship, apparently believing the radar it was using belonged to an Indian frigate. The mistake was understandable given the chaos of battle, but his superiors disapproved nonetheless.

Perhaps it would have been better if the planes had sunk the ship, he thought.

Hongwu dipped his pen and began to write:

He shuddered at the memory, then signed his name.

Ray Rubeo rubbed his face with his hands, then looked back at the screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.

"We're months away from testing the long-range version of the Scorpion missile, Colonel. I can't even give you a mockup at this point," said Rubeo. "And the airborne version of the Razor is even further off. Funding—"

"I realize you can't perform miracles, Ray. I'm just looking for anything that can give the Megafortresses an edge here. They're not interceptors."

"I'm well aware of their capabilities, Colonel. Now, if you want to bomb the carrier, the weapons people have studied that matter as well," added Rubeo. "The general consensus is that you would require nine well-placed strikes on the carrier to guarantee sinking it. Assume the Chinese weapon operates near its same efficiency, and its close-in weapon works as it has in the past: 17.3 missile launches, a minimum."

"Or eighteen," said Colonel Bastian.

"Yes. Eighteen would be the practical number."

"I'm not looking to sink the carrier."

"I have another suggestion," said Rubeo. "Use the EEMWBs against the planes."

"The weapon needs further tests."

"They'll work. You'll disable the bombs completely, without even shooting down the planes. The only drawback," added Rubeo, "is that the versions we currently have ready will wipe every piece of electronics within five hundred miles."

"How many would it take?"

"One. However, I would launch two in case of the unforeseen. The weapons were due to be relocated at the end of the week in preparation for the tests anyway. We can ship them and technicians to Diego Garcia. The tests can be conducted from there following your mission."

"How soon can you get the weapons over here?"

For Zen, it was a vibrating fever inside his chest and head, a dread and a desire — an imperative to be with his wife, to help her, save her, simply to be there. It was more important than food, more important than his legs, certainly; everything would be meaningless without her. He had to go. He had to be there. Only then would the dreams stop; only if he was with her would the fever break.

He wanted to walk — he would walk — but first he had to go and be with her.

He'd left a phone message for Vasin. The doctor would understand. And if he didn't — well, that was the way it had to be.

Zen rolled down the ramp of the Megafortress hangar, heading toward the door that led to the bunkers below. The doors whisked open before he reached them.

"Dr. Rubeo, just who I'm looking for."

"Major. Can I help you?"

"I hear you're putting together a flight to Crete."

"I am sending some items to support the Whiplash deployment," said Rubeo discreetly.

"I'm going."

"Going where?"

"To Crete. And then Diego Garcia. I'm joining the deployment."

Rubeo gave him a typical Rubeo look — a kind of mock be-fuddlement that the world was not as intellectual as he was.

"I was given to understand that you were involved in an experiment relating to your walking again," said Rubeo.

"Yeah, well, that's on hold right now," said Zen. "This is more important. I need to be there."

"I'm sure I'm not the one to say this to you, Major, but were I in your position—"

"You're not."

"I'll tell the MC-17 pilots you're on the way. The aircraft is nearly ready to leave, so you'd best hurry."

"What do these eggheads know about naval warfare?" thundered Storm. "Eighteen missile launches? Absurd. The Pentagon people tell us we can do it with three. Well, all right, that's ridiculous, too. We figure six hits, which at most calls for eight launches. Eighteen? That's ridiculous."

Storm glanced at Eyes and his weapons officers as he waited for Colonel Bastian to respond via the communications system, which was being piped over the small conference speaker on his desk. His quarters was the most convenient place for the secure conference, but if there had been one more person in the cabin, they wouldn't have been able to move.

"I'm just telling you what their simulations showed," said Dog. His face jerked in the video feed, not quite in sync with the sound. "I thought you'd appreciate knowing."

"Well, let's get on with it," said Storm. "Where are we to position ourselves for this intercept?"

"I need you to sail west."

"West?"

"Two hundred miles west." "Two hundred miles west?"

"We're going to use a weapon that will fry their electronics. It'll affect yours as well. The radius is roughly five hundred miles, but to be safe—"

"No way, Bastian. No way."

"Listen, Storm—"

"I can understand you wanting to grab all the glory for yourself. I really can. You're ambitious, and you have the track record to prove it. But telling us to leave the area when we have a mission here? No way."

"I'm telling you for your own protection." "Our vital systems are shielded against magnetic pulses," said Eyes. "Not like this."

"I'm not moving, Bastian. You can take that to the bank." Storm folded his arms and scowled at the screen. As soon as this call was over, he was calling Balboa personally, before Bastian got his version of the story in.

"I can't guarantee that we can detonate the weapons far enough away from you not to harm you," the colonel told him.

"I'm not looking for guarantees. I'm telling you: I'm not moving."

Captain Sattari climbed onto the deck of the Parvaneh submarine, legs wobbly from the long day and night below the water. A breeze struck the side of his face, tingling it; his scalp bristled, and his lungs — his lungs luxuriated as they sucked in real air. The rest of his men crowded up behind him, anxious to breathe and move freely after hours of drowsy confinement. A few dropped to their knees, praying in thanksgiving. Sattari did not remind them that they were very far from being safe.

"Boat Four, dead ahead," said the Parvaneh's mate. He held up the signal lamp.

Captain Sattari pulled up his night glasses to scan the ocean around them. Between the darkness and the fog, he could see only a short distance; the shoreline, barely four miles to the north, was invisible, as were the towering mountains beyond.

The Parvaneh had sailed roughly 140 miles, but they were still in Pakistani waters; Iran lay another 150 miles to the west, and their home port was three hundred miles beyond that. The Parvanehs carried enough fuel to reach Iran ian territory, but only if they traveled mostly on the surface, where they would be easy to detect. Rather than taking that risk, Sattari had arranged a rendezvous with the Mitra, the tanker that had been altered to take them into its womb. It was to meet them twenty miles southwest of here in exactly three hours; they had barely enough time to put a small charge back in the batteries before setting out again.

Sattari continued to hunt for Boat Two and Three. They had started before his; surely they must be lurking nearby.

And yet, neither had been found twenty minutes later. A light rain started to fall, making Sattari's infrared glasses nearly useless. He paced along the narrow deck, weaving around his men. To make their rendezvous with the oil tanker, they would have to leave within a half hour.

Ten more minutes passed. Sattari spent them thinking of the soldiers in the midget submarines. He saw each of their faces; remembered what they had done by his side.

The submarine commander came up from below.

"Twenty minutes more, Captain. Then we must leave."

"Have you heard anything on the radio?"

The commander shook his head. They were far from the world here.

Five minutes passed, then ten.

"Signal Boat Two to start," Sattari told one of his men. "We will follow shortly."

The signal given, Sattari scanned the waters once again. He saw nothing.

"Sound the horn," he told one of his men.

"A risk."

"It is." The captain folded his arms in front of his chest, listening as the handheld horn bellowed.

A light flickered to the west. One of his soldiers spotted it and shouted, "There!"

The mate signaled frantically with his light. The light in the distance blinked back and began to grow. It was Boat Four. Signals were passed; the submarine turned and began to descend, heading toward the rendezvous.

Three was still missing; Sergeant Ibn's boat.

Sattari ordered the horn sounded again. Two more times they tried, without response.

"Time to go below," the captain told his men. They got up reluctantly, walking unsteadily to the mock wheelhouse that held the hatchway and airlock. The last man began folding the wire rail downward. Sattari helped him.

"The horn once more."

A forlorn ba-hrnnn broke the stillness. Sattari listened until he heard only the rhythmic lapping of water against the Parvaneh's hull.

"With God's help, they will meet us at the Mitra," he told the submarine captain below. "But we can wait no longer."

"Still no sign of the Piranha, Colonel," Cantor told Dog as they reached the end of the first search grid. "Sorry."

"Not your fault, son. All right, crew; get ready to drop the second buoy. Mack, stay with me this time."

"I was with you the whole way, Colonel."

Cantor's attempt to stifle a laugh was unsuccessful.

"Concentrate on your tinfish, kid," snapped Mack.

"Trying."

Cantor had been pressed into service as an operator for the robot undersea probe so the Megafortresses could extend their patrol times. Gloria English and Levitow were en route to Crete to pick up EEMWBs before starting their patrol. The Wisconsin would go to Crete at the end of this patrol as well so that it, too, could pick up the weapons.

Cantor didn't mind "driving" the Piranha, though until now he had done so only in simulations. The hardest part of controlling the robot probe was reminding yourself not to expect too much. It moved very slowly compared to the Flighthawk; top speed was just under forty knots.

The question was whether they would find it. The probe hadn't been heard from since English put it into autonomous mode. The last patrol had taken advantage of a lull in the fighting between the Indians and Chinese to drop buoys south of Karachi, without any luck. The Wisconsin had flown back through that area, up the Indian and then Pakistani coasts and around to the west before dropping its own buoys. Batteries aboard the buoys allowed them to be used for twenty-four hours; after that they were programmed to sink themselves into the ocean. Their limited contact range with the Piranha was their one drawback, a by-product of the almost undetectable underwater communications system the devices used to communicate.

Gravity gave Cantor a tug as the Megafortress began an abrupt climb after dropping the fresh buoy.

"See, I'm just about right on top of him," said Mack.

"Sure," mumbled Cantor.

"I know what you were trying to tell me the other day," Mack added. "And you know what — I appreciate it."

Cantor was so taken by surprise by Mack's comment that he thought he was being set up for some sort of joke.

"I was thinking about these suckers all wrong. I have the hang of it now," said Mack. "I'm on top of the game."

"Good," said Cantor, not sure what to say.

"You were right. I was wrong."

An apology? From Major Mack "the Knife" Smith? Cantor wondered if he should record the date for posterity.

"If we have to tango and you're watching Piranha, don't sweat it," added Mack. "I can take two."

Flighthawk Two was on Wisconsin's wing, ready to be launched in an emergency.

"It's a lot easier one at a time," said Cantor.

"Ah, I can handle it. Piece of cake," said Mack.

Before Cantor could consider what, if anything, to say, he got an alert from his console. He turned his head back to the screen and saw a message: piranha connection established.

"I've got Piranha!" he shouted. He flipped from the master control screen to the sensor view, which synthesized the sensor data and presented it to the screen as an image, much the way the sensors on the Flighthawk were used to give the pilot an image. The Piranha carried two different sensors in its nose. One was an extremely sensitive passive sonar; the other made use of temperature differences to paint a picture of what was around it. An operator could choose one or the other; passive was generally easier to steer by, and that was where Cantor started, flipping the switch at the side of the console. A sharp black object appeared dead ahead, marked on the range scale at five hundred yards.

"Piranha has got a target, dead in the water. I'm transferring the coordinates to you now."

Dog double-checked his position, then hailed the Ab-ner Read on the Dreamland Command circuit. Storm came on the line almost immediately.

"We've reestablished a connection with Piranha," Dog told him. "We think we found that special operations submarine. It's fifteen miles off the Pakistani coast, about a hundred miles from Karachi. It's about eighty miles north of you."

"Excellent. I'll send the Sharkboat to trail it." "How long will that take?" "About three hours."

"Good. Listen, Storm, about your position—" "I've spoken to Admiral Balboa. He agrees that there's no reason for me to move that far west. In fact, he wants me to keep the carrier within range of my Harpoon missiles, just in case it becomes necessary for us to sink it. Backing you up," added Storm.

"Do not attack the carrier."

"I didn't say I was going to, did I?"

Dog bit his cheek to keep from responding.

Cantor eased Piranha closer to its target, moving as slowly as he could. The probe literally swam through the water, using a series of expandable joints to wag its body back and forth as a fish would. The sound and wave patterns that the movement created would seem to all but the most discerning observer to belong a medium-size shark— assuming they were detected at all. But Cantor was loath to take chances. At a dead stop, a submarine could generally hear quite well, and it was preferable that it did not know it was being observed.

When he had eased to two hundred meters, Cantor eased Piranha into a hover and changed his sensor selection. A blur of colors appeared before him; the computer then adjusted the colors, shaping them into an image of a small, odd-looking vessel. The computer analyzed the object, giving its approximate dimensions: twenty meters long, and only 2.65 wide, or at beam, according to the nautical term. Its height was 2.2 meters. It looked more like a sunken pleasure cruiser than a sub.

The smallest non-American military submarine listed in the computer reference for Piranha was the Russian Project 865, a special operations craft. The 865 had a crew of nine and carried only two torpedoes. It was 28.2 meters long, 4.2 at beam, and looked very much like a down-sized conventional sub.

Cantor wasn't sure how well the image corresponded to the actual vessel. He started to move again, circling the sub to get a fuller view. When Piranha had gone about two-thirds of the way around the submarine, the computer made a light clicking noise — the sub was starting to move.

Upward.

"Piranha to Wisconsin," said Cantor. "Looks like he's headed toward the surface."

"Roger that. Thank you, Piranha. Mack, stand by."

Aided by a strong jet stream and powerful Dreamland-modified supercruise engines, the MC-17D "Fastmover" carrying Zen took just under eight hours to get from Dreamland to Crete, but every minute seemed an hour to him. He was so happy to finally get there that he didn't mind being carried ignobly down the ramp to the runway. Two sailors— the base was a Navy supply facility — carried him between their arms. After the humiliation of the past week involving the tests, it was a minor annoyance. They even set him down gently in his wheelchair. "Jeff?"

"Hey, babe, how's it going?" he said as Breanna came toward him.

"I can't believe you're here." "Believe it."

"You're supposed to be at the medical center."

"This is more important." She got a funny look on her face, so he added, "It wasn't working. They need more research. And you guys need me right now."

"But… "

Zen rolled his wheelchair forward. "Can we get some chow? I'm starving. And if there's any coffee on this base, I want to start an IV."

Dreamland was a developmental laboratory, not an intelligence center. Still, they had access to some of the most brilliant minds in the country, as well as experts in just about every weapon or potential weapon imaginable — and it still took more than an hour for them to tell Dog what they had found.

"Civilian submarine. Nautilus Adventure 2000. Heavily modified," said Ray Rubeo. "But hardly cutting edge."

"I've never heard of civilian submarines," said Dog.

"Yes." Rubeo's tone implied that everyone else in the world had. "It's a small market. Primarily for tour boats, though for the well-heeled it's a status symbol. I suppose you can park it next to the yacht. This would seem to be from a German firm. We'll have to rely on the CIA for additional data, but we have a spec sheet of the base model for you. It's powered by batteries and diesel."

"Have you tried to trace it?"

"Colonel—"

"I realize you have a lot to do, Ray. Pass the information along to the NSC. I'll tell Jed to expect it." "Very good."

"Sub is moving again, Colonel," said Cantor. "On the surface."

"Thanks, Cantor."

"Jazz, get hold of that Sharkboat and find out how long it's going to be before they get up here. And tell them the sub's moving."

"Just did, Colonel. He's five miles due south. Roughly ten minutes away."

"Making sounds like it might be starting to submerge," said Cantor. "Taking on water."

"Mack, see if you can get some close-ups and maybe distract them."

"I'll land on them if you want."

"Just annoy them," said Dog. "You ought to be good at that."

Mack brought the Flighthawk down through the clouds, clearing a knot of rain as he headed for the midget submarine. The vessel was about a half mile away, gliding across the surface at two or three knots. He swung to his left, arcing around so he could approach it head-on. He took the Flighthawk down to five hundred feet and saw figures near the wedge-shaped conning tower.

"Smile down there, kiddies," said Mack, passing overhead.

He looped back, pushing Hawk One down through three hundred feet, passing two hundred and still descending. He leveled off fifty feet above the waves as he began his second run. Two men were still on the deck of the sub as he approached. The submarine seemed to have stopped descending.

"Stand still and I'll give you a haircut," he told them.

One of the figures on the submarine jerked something out of the tower structure. Instantly, Mack hit the throttle and reached for his decoy flares.

"Missile launch!" warned the Flighthawk's computer.

Jan Stewart climbed up onto the darkened flight deck of the Levitow, her way lit only by the glow of the standby power lights and a few instruments. She was just approaching her seat when something moved beside it. She leapt back before realizing it was Breanna Stockard, sitting alone in the airplane.

"Just me," said Breanna.

"Jesus, you scared me," said Stewart. Annoyed, she pulled herself into her seat. "I thought you were with your husband."

Breanna didn't answer. Stewart glanced at her, then took a longer, more careful look. Even in the dim light, she could tell Breanna's eyes were red.

The Iron Bitch crying?

Stewart put her mission card — a flash memory unit with recorded data about their mission — into its slot and powered up her station. She couldn't imagine Breanna Stockard crying about anything, and surely with her husband here— but those weren't tears of happiness.

The copilot busied herself with checking the computer data on the flight computer. Breanna made no pretense of working, continuing to sit silently and stare out the windscreen.

"We could go to the checklist on the engine start, even though it's a little early," said Stewart when she ran out of things to do.

"I can't believe he gave up."

"Who?" asked Stewart.

"Zen."

"What did he give up?"

A tear slipped from Breanna's eye as she turned toward her. Stewart felt not only shocked but afraid. Breanna's pain somehow made her feel vulnerable.

"Zen left — he was in a program to rebuild his spinal cord. He left it because he thought we were in trouble."

Stewart, still not understanding, said nothing.

"He's always wanted to walk again," explained Breanna. "He's fought for it. Now he's giving up. For me. He shouldn't give that up. He shouldn't be afraid for me."

"Maybe he just wants to do his job," said Stewart, not knowing what else to say.

Another tear slipped from Breanna's eye. How difficult — how impossible—it must have been for her to see her husband crippled, thought Stewart. How impossible it must be every day to live through it.

"The tests they're doing or whatever," said Stewart. "They're going to make him walk?"

"They're a long shot at best. Really a long shot. But walking or not walking — it's not as important as who he is. He can't surrender. That's not who he is. I don't want him to give himself up for me. It's not a trade I'd take."

To her surprise, Stewart realized her own cheek was wet. "I'm sorry," she told Breanna.

Not because of Zen, but because of everything — bad mouthing her, grousing, resisting her attempts to help.

And not being able to handle the job in the stress of combat. That especially.

"We should get moving. You're right," said Breanna suddenly, as if Stewart had suggested it.

"Hey." Stewart reached over and touched Breanna's shoulder. "If you need anything."

Breanna turned back to her. Her eyes glistened in the reflected light and she gave a forced smile. "Just the checklist for now. Thanks. Thanks."

Mack let out a long string of curses — a very long string of curses — as he fought to outrun and outfox the shoulder-launched SAM. Caught at low altitude and low speed, there wasn't that much he could do, and his response would have been the same no matter what he was flying: toss decoy flares, jink back and forth, hit the throttle for all it was worth.

And pray, though Mack Smith had never found that particularly effective.

The missile sniffed one of the flares and rode off to the right, exploding more than half a mile away when it realized its mistake. Not entirely sure he was safe, Mack continued to the south until he saw the Sharkboat ahead.

"Hawk One to Wisconsin—that scumbag just tried to shoot me down."

"Copy that, we saw it Mack."

"Permission to give him his just reward," said Mack, pulling up the weapons screen. "I'll send him to the bottom."

"Hold on, Mack. We want him disabled, not sunk. Stand by so we can coordinate with the Sharkboat. We want those people alive if at all possible. They're very valuable."

"Sharkboat has them in sight," said Jazz. "Radioing to them to surrender."

"Mack, take a pass," Dog added. "Fire into the water near the bow. Don't hit them."

"Jeez, Colonel. I don't know if I can miss."

"Not very funny, Mack."

Actually, he wasn't making a joke. Mack had never tried not to hit something when flying a Flighthawk.

"Warning fire," Cantor said. "Designate the target, then give a verbal command. Computer will make sure you miss."

"Thanks, kid."

Still a little dubious, Mack accelerated back toward the submarine. Sure enough, after giving the verbal command, the bullets sailed near the vessel's path.

"Got their attention," said Mack.

The submarine had stopped moving; it was still half submerged, with water lapping over the deck.

"Colonel, something's going on with the sub," said Cantor. "Strange noises — bubbling like they're taking on water."

"Mack, did you hit them?"

"Negative."

"It's going down, almost straight down," said Cantor.

Mack banked back. Sure enough, the submarine had sunk below the waves.

"I think they're trying to make a run for it," said Mack.

"Big explosion!" reported Cantor. "Wow — they're going down straight to the bottom!"