End Game (11 page)

“You were near the Indian destroyer when it was struck by a torpedo,” said Storm, dispensing with the preliminaries. “Why didn't you stop?”

“They did not ask for our assistance.” The Pakistani's English was good, his accent thin and readily understandable.

“You saw the submarine?” asked Storm.

“No. We did not understand what happened. It was only your man here who told me that the ship had been fired on. From our viewpoint, we thought they were simply testing their weapons. The explosion was in the water.”

“Perhaps we could speak in private, Captain,” suggested Storm.

“As you wish.”

The tanker captain led him off the bridge, down a short flight of stairs to a small cabin nearby. A desk sat opposite a bunk at least a foot too short for its owner; the space in between was barely enough for two chairs.

“Drink?” asked the Pakistani. He produced a bottle of scotch from the drawer of the desk

“No, thank you,” said Storm.

“Then I won't either,” said the other captain. He smiled and put the bottle back.

“The Indian destroyer was hit by a torpedo. I'm sure it made quite an explosion.”

“We were a few miles away.” The captain spoke softly, and it was not possible to tell if he was lying or not. It seemed unlikely to Storm that he didn't realize what had happened, though if he had no experience with warfare, he might have been confused at first. “The Indians do not generally regard ships flying the Pakistani flag as friends,” added the man. “They did not ask us for assistance.”

“Would you have stopped if they did?”

“Absolutely.” The captain leaned back in his chair. “Who fired the torpedo?”

“Possibly a submarine. Though it would have been possible for you to fire it as well.”

The captain jerked upright. “Impossible.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Search my ship.”

“I intend to.”

The Pakistani captain frowned. “The Indians no doubt accused us. Probably they invented the submarine, and the torpedo. A hoax to cover their own incompetence. I would not be surprised if they blew up themselves by accident.”

“There was an aircraft in the area,” said Storm. “It was spotted after the attack. Did you see it?”

“I don't recall.”

“What was he smuggling?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Come on, Captain. Don't make me order my men to tear your ship apart piece by piece. Was the airplane picking up medicine? Or was it delivering something?”

The Pakistani wore a pained expression.

“I know that many ship captains are poorly paid,” said Storm. “In this region, one earns what one can.”

“I am not a smuggler, Captain.”

“Fine. We will search your ship.”

“You have the guns. Do as you will.”

Storm, frustrated but determined, got up. He paused at the doorway. “Information about the submarine would be very helpful.”

“If I had any to give, I would.”

“Search the ship,” Storm told his ensign on the bridge.

“We've already gone over the deck, Captain. We haven't found any sign that they fired a torpedo, no launch tube, no sign of bolts or anything where it could have been mounted.”

“All right. Keep looking. Find out what they smuggle. They must do more than run oil over to Pakistan. I want a full inventory, down to the last toothpick.”

Aboard the
Wisconsin
,
over the Gulf of Aden
0445

D
OG UNDID HIS RESTRAINTS AND SQUEEZED OUT FROM BEHIND
the stick of the Megafortress, taking a moment to stretch his
legs before they began the trek back to their base. It had been a frustrating sortie. Not only had they failed to locate the submarine, but Major Smith proved himself an extremely annoying Flighthawk pilot, refusing to let the computer handle the robot during refuelings. The procedure was notoriously difficult; the Megafortress's large and irregular shape left a great deal of turbulence immediately behind and below it, and even Zen occasionally had trouble making the connection. For that reason, the routine had been hard-wired into both the Megafortress's flight control computer and C
³
, which directed the U/MFs. But Mack insisted on trying it himself—even though it took no less than five approaches for him to get in. Dog found himself becoming so short-tempered that he nearly let Jazz take the stick.

Mack and Storm. Between them, he was going to end up in an insane asylum.

Dog walked to the end of the flight deck, where a small galley complete with a refrigerator and a microwave had been installed. He ducked down to the fridge and found a small milk container, then reached into a nearby cabinet for a pack of oatmeal cookies. The techies complained about the crumbs, but there was something comforting about the old-fashioned snack, especially when you were having it aboard one of the most advanced warplanes in the world.

“Captain Gale for you, Colonel,” said Jazz.

Dog sighed and flipped on the communications unit at the auxiliary station next to one of the radars where Dish was working.

“Bastian here.”

“You have anything new?”

“Negative, Storm. I'd surely have told you if I did.”

“We just finished turning that tanker inside out. Nothing.” Storm squinted toward the camera. “I think it has to be some sort of Chinese sub.”

“Why Chinese?”

“They hate the Indians. I'm going to return to the Indian
destroyer. They have the damage under control. They're heading back east at sunrise. There's an Indian task group supposedly setting sail. I assume they'll meet up.”

“All right.”

“Tell your people—this task force is headed by a small battle carrier. It's a combination aircraft carrier and missile ship. It used to belong to the Russians. The Indians have fixed it up considerably. We'll have a full briefing for you. They have an air arm aboard—a dozen Su-33 Sukhois.”

“We can handle them.”

“Don't shoot them down,” said Storm quickly. “I know you people are light on the trigger.”

“Anything else?”

“That's it.”

“We're going off station in a few minutes.
Levitow
will continue controlling Piranha.”

“Good,” said Storm, his sharp tone suggesting the opposite as the communication screen blanked.

Dog straightened. He glanced over Dish's shoulder. The sergeant was busy fine-tuning the large screen in front of him, which showed that there were two ships, a cargo container carrier and a garbage scow, sailing twenty miles to their south.

On the other side of the aisle, T-Bone was tracking a pair of civilian airliners heading toward India, and a cargo craft flying south along the African coast. Except for their Flighthawks and the
Levitow
, the sky in their immediate vicinity was clear.

“Say, T-Bone, can you give me more information about that civilian plane we tracked?” Dog asked. “The one that was near the oil tanker.”

“Don't have that much to give you, Colonel.” T-Bone reached to a set of switches at the right of his console, fingers tapping quickly over the elongated keyboard. A radar plot appeared on the auxiliary screen to the right of T-Bone's station.

“This is the first solid long-distance contact we had.”
T-Bone's fingers danced again. A new image appeared, showing Dog an enhanced radar view. T-Bone did a double tap on the lower keyboard at his right. A window opened on the screen.

“This is the spec screen where the computer—and me—tried to figure out what the hell it was,” explained the sergeant. The computer used the radar return to analyze the aircraft's structure, identifying its type and capabilities. Depending on the range, it could also identify weapons the plane carried, which could also be done by analyzing the radars emanating from the plane. Knowing an enemy plane's type and capabilities before engaging it was an enormous advantage, and much of the work that went into perfecting the Dreamland radar system had been aimed at doing that. The onboard computer library had data on nearly everything that had ever flown, right back to the Army's Wright Model A.

“No hit in the library, see?” said T-Bone, pointing to the screen. “Light aircraft, civilian type, two engines far back on the fuselage. Looks like a small seaplane, with the engines up there to stay out of the spray. Hull is boat-shaped.”

“Definitely makes sense,” said Dog. “Why wouldn't we have seen him earlier?”

“Two possibilities. One, he was outside our range, flying in from the east. Two, he was on the surface of the water, probably at that oil tanker. If he's a smuggler—”

“Far south for that.”

“Maybe they're changing tactics because the
Abner Read
has done such a good job farther north.”

“Maybe.”

It wasn't that he didn't think Storm was doing a good job; clearly they were missing something.

“Get Dreamland Control. Send this information back. I want Dr. Rubeo to get some of his people on this. I want to know what type of aircraft this is, what's it's capable of. Dish…”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, turning around.

“Get as much data as you can on the torpedo that damaged the Indian ship. Size, that sort of thing. Give that to Dreamland Command as well. I think this little aircraft is more of a problem than we know.”

Aboard the
Shiva,
in the Indian Ocean
10 January 1998
0800

A
NIL
M
EMON ZIPPED HIS WINDBREAKER AS HE STEPPED OUT
onto the observation deck of the
Shiva
. India's deputy defense minister immediately grabbed for the railing, thrown off balance not by the rolling of the ship but the roar of one of her Su-33s charging off the ramped runway below. The warplane lurched into the sky, her left wing bucking down for a brief moment before the thrust from her two massive engines muscled her upward.

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

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

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

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

Memon adjusted his view and saw the mast.

“I was aboard the
Calcutta
last year,” Memon said. “I
can't imagine she was struck by a torpedo from a submarine. She would have heard the vessel before the attack.”

“We will know the answer soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captain—”

“Frankly, sir, I don't know you from Adam. And I'm not going to listen to slander.”

The line went dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drigh Road
10 January 1998
2000

C
ANTOR STEADIED THE POOL CUE AGAINST HIS FINGERS
, pulling it back and forth as he lined up the shot at the far end of the table. He had to hit the cue ball straight and hard.

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

“Eight ball in the corner,” he told Jan Stewart, watching from the nearby couch.

“Never.”

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

“You've been practicing,” said Stewart, getting up.

“Just found the proper motivation.”

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

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

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

“Chief Parsons will make sure the planes are ready.”

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

“Isn't that Mack's job?”

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

“'Nuff said.”

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

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

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

“You're up in two hours,” said Mack.

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

“Nice shot, junior,” said Mack.

“You got something you need me to do, Major?”

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

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

“Which side did you call?” Stewart asked.

“No, your shot.”

“Guts is sick, so I'm going in
Levitow
,” added Mack.
“I'm going to tell Breanna to load two Flighthawks on the plane.”

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

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

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

“I just think you could use a little more practice.”

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

“But not the Flighthawk.”

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

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

“You can't do two. No.”

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

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

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

Throwing the second punch would be a different story.

They stared at each other. Then Mack snorted in contempt and walked out of the room.

“Whoa,” said Stewart on the other side of the table.

“Yeah,” said Cantor. “I wish he'd taken a swing.”

 

C
OLONEL
B
ASTIAN SHIFTED IN HIS SEAT IN FRONT OF THE SECURE
video screen, listening as Ray Rubeo described what the Dreamland scientists had done with the radar intercepts of the aircraft.

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

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

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

“How can we find out if there were any? Can we call the CIA?”

Deep dimples appeared in Rubeo's cheeks.

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

“And?”

“I can give you a very good deal on one, Colonel. Less than half a million dollars.”

“Could it carry a torpedo?”

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

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

“Precisely.”

“How far could the plane go on the surface?”

Something foreign creaked into the corner of Rubeo's mouth—a smile.

“Very far, Colonel. Several hundred miles.”

“So he's the culprit.”

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

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

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

“You know, Ray, you're almost becoming human.”

“I take it that was a joke, Colonel?”

“Along those lines,” said Dog. “Keep me updated.”

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