End Game (32 page)

“I'll explain it to Varitok,” he added. “It's nothing personal. Have him come up to the bridge as soon as Airforce has taken over.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Dwārka Early Warning Radar Platform One,
off the coast of India
0510

C
APTAIN
S
ATTARI
'
S OAR STRUCK THE ROCKS ABOUT MID-STROKE
. The jolt threw him forward so abruptly he nearly fell out of the raft. He pulled himself back, aware that his mistake had thrown off everyone else in the boat.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, pushing the oar more gingerly this time. It hit the rocks about a third of the way down this time, and he was able to push forward, half paddling, half poling.

Two more strokes and the bottom of the raft ran up on something sharp—a wire fence just under the waterline. Before Sattari could react, the water lapped over his legs. He could feel the rocks under his knees.

“Wire,” said the man at the bow in a hushed whisper. “I need the cutters.”

“Push the boat forward and use it to get over the wire onto the rocks,” said Sattari. “We can just go from here.”

The man at the bow stood upright in the raft. Holding his AK-47 above his head, he stepped over onto the nearby rocks, then reached back to help Sattari. The captain fished the grenade launcher that had been next to him from the water and then got up, stumbling but managing to keep his balance.

The others splashed toward him, carrying their waterproof rucks with explosives. The legs of the platform loomed in the darkness just ahead. At any moment Sattari expected to hear gunfire and shouts; it seemed a miracle that the Indians had not detected them so far.

“The ladder is here,” said someone, not bothering to whisper.

Sattari moved toward the voice, slipping on the rocks but keeping his balance. He reached a set of metal bars that had been planted in the rocks to hold part of the gridwork of a ladder. The captain grabbed the rail with his right hand and
pulled himself up. He still clutched the grenade launcher with his left hand.

Eight feet above the rocks, the ladder reached a platform. A set of metal stairs sat at one end; the other opened to a catwalk that extended around the legs.

“Place a signal for the other boats,” Sattari told the men who clambered up behind him. He did not single the men out as he spoke, trusting that they would divvy up the duties on their own. “Place your charges on the leg posts, then follow me.”

As he pushed toward the metal stairway, he heard a shout from above, then a round of gunfire.

Finally, he thought. It hadn't seemed real until he heard the gunfire.

Aboard the
Wisconsin,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0515

M
ACK
S
MITH THROTTLED
H
AWK
O
NE
BACK TOWARD THE
Megafortress, banking in the direction of the MiGs. If they were looking to play chicken, he was ready for them; he'd have them breaking for cover in a few minutes.

Ten miles from the Megafortress he began another turn, aiming to put himself between the two bogies and the mother ship at roughly the distance they could fire their radar-guided missiles. As he got into position, Jazz gave an update.

“
MiG One
is breaking off,” reported the copilot. “Heading east.
MiG Two
—Whoa! Watch out!
MiG Two
is firing.”

“He's mine,” said Mack, checking the sitrep. The Indian plane was three miles behind his left wing, closing fast. Mack brought up his weapons screen, readying his cannon.

 

B
ESIDES THE MIDGET SUBMARINE THEY
'
D FOUND ON THE SURFACE
, there were two others, still submerged, but rising.
They were about three miles northeast of the radar platform, within fifty yards of each other. Cantor put the Piranha into the underwater robot's version of a hover, its motor pushing just hard enough to keep the current at bay and stay in position.

He got a connection warning that the Megafortress was going outside the range of the control buoy.

“Piranha to
Wisconsin
—Colonel, we have a total of three submarines, one on the surface and two more coming up. Should be on the surface in less than a minute. But we're coming up to the edge of communications range with the buoy.”

“Roger that, Piranha, but I have other priorities—we have a missile on our tail and two apparently hostile aircraft pursuing us. Can you hand off to
Wisconsin
?”

“Negative. They're not close enough.”

“Park it,” Dog told him. “Prepare to launch
Hawk Two
as soon as you can.”

 

U
NTIL NOW
,
ALL OF THE AIRCRAFT
M
ACK HAD ENCOUNTERED
while flying the Flighthawks had acted as if he wasn't there. The small planes were invisible to their radar except at very close range, and in the dark they were almost impossible to see. Mack planned his move against the Indian MiG as if that were the case now, expecting the aircraft to clear right after firing a second missile, at which point he could tuck into a tighter turn and get
Hawk Two
on its back. Alternatively, he might continue behind the Megafortress, positioning himself to fire heat-seekers if the radar-guided missiles failed to hit.

But the MiG didn't fire another missile, nor did it turn off or even speed past him. Instead Mack found himself roughly a half mile in front of the MiG, well within range of its 30mm cannon. Seconds later tracers flew past
Hawk Two
's nose.

Mack pickled flares as decoys and swung the Flighthawk into a shallow dive to his right. When he realized the MiG hadn't followed, he tried to pull back up and come up behind it. As he started to accelerate, the Indian pilot fired another AMRAAMski at the
Wisconsin,
then pulled hard to
the right. Mack finally had his shot, but it was fleeting and at a terrible angle; he spit a few shells at the MiG's fat tailfin, but lost the target in a turn. He tucked a little too hard to the right trying to stay with him and within seconds lost the plane completely and had to swing back in the direction of the Megafortress to keep from losing his connection.

Not exactly auspicious. But as he glanced at the sitrep, he saw that
MiG One
was flying almost directly at him.

If you've been handed a lemon, make lemonade, he thought, setting up for an intercept.

Aboard the
Shiva
0516

M
EMON
'
S LEGS TREMBLED AS HE STEPPED ONTO THE DECK OF
the
Shiva
's backup bridge, a space at the seaward side of the carrier's island that had not been damaged by the earlier attack. Even though it bore only a passing resemblance to the main bridge, Memon felt as if it were inhabited by ghosts. The fear that had hovered around him earlier pressed close to his ribs.

“A message, Admiral!” one of the men on watch shouted to Admiral Skandar. “From the radar platform!”

A commando team had been spotted trying to make an attack. A small American patrol craft was sailing in the general vicinity, and a flight of Indian landborne fighters were engaging the Megafortress nearby. It was assumed that the Americans had launched the attack.

“You see, I was quite correct about where the true danger lay,” Skandar told Memon. “They are honoring their commitments to Pakistan. This is the prelude to an attack by their aircraft on our bases.”

He picked up the phone connecting him to the ship's combat center. “Launch the attack. Do not neglect the American ship.”

Aboard the
Wisconsin,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0517

T
HE
I
NDIAN
'
S FIRST MISSILE HAD BEEN FIRED FROM EXTREMELY
long range, so far in fact that Dog knew from experience that he could simply outrun it. But the second missile was a different matter. He jerked the Megafortress's stick sharply, turning the bomber to the east. The radar tracking the Megafortress lost its slippery profile, and the missile flew on blind for several miles, vainly hoping that the ghost it was chasing would materialize in front of it when it used its own radar for terminal guidance.

The sharp maneuver took Dog into Indian territory, where a host of ground radars that had been tracking them at long range suddenly sharpened their eyes and ears.

“That SA-10 battery inland is trying to get a lock,” said Jazz.

“Tell these idiots we were in international airspace and are not hostile.”

“I've broadcasted that six ways to Sunday. I'll try again.”

“Cantor, you ready to launch?”

“Booting the command sequences now, Colonel. Screens are just finishing their diagnostics.”

“Emergency launch of
Hawk Two
in sixty seconds.”

“
MiG One
is turning toward us from the east, roughly forty miles away,” warned Jazz.

“I've been expecting him,” said Dog. “Get ready to launch.”

 

C
ANTOR TOOK CONTROL OF
H
AWK
T
WO
AND IMMEDIATELY
pushed east, figuring he could cut off the Indian fighter
MiG One.
But a glance at the sitrep showed that Mack and
Hawk Two
had gone in that direction, leaving the other plane free—and much closer to the
Wisconsin
.

“I have
Hawk Two
,” Cantor told Mack. “I'll get
MiG One.
You concentrate on
MiG Two
. He's off your left wing, two miles.”

“No, I have
MiG One,
” said Mack.

There was no point in arguing. Cantor immediately changed course, dipping his wing and plotting an intercept.

 

D
OG SWUNG THE
W
ISCONSIN
OUT TO SEA
,
STILL PURSUED BY
the AMRAAMski. The missile had a finite load of fuel; by rights it should have crashed into the sea by now.

Or maybe time just seemed to be moving at light speed. Dog pitched his big aircraft on its wing in another sharp cut, trying to take advantage of one set of physical principles—those governing radio or radar waves—while defying another—those governing motion, mass, and momentum. In this case radio won out—the missile shot wide right and immolated itself.

“
MiG Two
is swinging south,” said Jazz. “Looks like he and his partner are going to try and sandwich us.”

“They can try if they want,” said Dog.

“At what point do we go to the Scorpions, Colonel?”

“I'd rather hold on to them as long as we can,” he told the copilot. “We may need them.”

And pretty soon too. This looked suspiciously like the start of all-out war.

Dog turned back to the communications screen, activating the link with Jed Barclay in the NSC's Situation Room.

“Jed, we've been fired on here by Indian MiGs,” he told the NSC deputy as soon as his face appeared in the screen. “We've detected three submarines that we believe are trying to launch a commando attack on an Indian early warning radar platform near the border with Pakistan.”

“Are they Pakistani submarines? Or Chinese?”

“We haven't identified them, but they match the sound profile Piranha recorded for the submarine that scuttled itself, which we believe was involved in the attack on Karachi.”

“Understood, Colonel. We're starting to get some alerts here now.”

Jazz broke in to tell Dog that there were four F-16 Pakistanis coming from the east.

“Jed, things are getting a little crowded at the moment. I'll check back with you in a few minutes.”

“I'll be here, Colonel.”

“
MiG One
is launching missiles,” warned Jazz. “AMRAAMskis! Long range—sixteen, seventeen miles. Guess these guys believe the advertising.”

“ECMs. Stand by for evasive maneuvers. Mack, I thought you said you had this guy.”

 

M
ACK HAD JUST MADE A TURN AND STARTED TO CLOSE ON THE
MiG's tail when he saw the flare under its wings. Two large missiles ignited, steaming off in the direction of the
Wisconsin
. Mack's weapons screen indicated that he was not in range to fire; all he could do was wait for the tail of the Indian warplane to grow larger at the center of his screen. The targeting bar went yellow, then flickered red before turning back to yellow; the MiG pilot had punched his afterburner for more speed.

Mack cursed as the aircraft steadily pulled away.

“
Hawk One
, I'm turning back south,” said Dog.

“Yeah, OK,” said Mack. He started to follow, then realized that if he kept his present heading he could catch the MiG when it made its own turn to follow the Megafortress. Sure enough, a few seconds later the Indian aircraft appeared at the top corner of his screen. He closed in, then just as the targeting bar turned red—indicating he had a shot—the computer warned that he was going to lose his connection. Mack fired anyway, putting two long bursts into the underside of the MiG's fuselage. There was no doubt that he got a hit this time—flames poured out of the aircraft. Mack jerked his stick back just in time to keep the link with the
Wisconsin
.

“Splash one MiG. Finally,” he said. “And about time, if I do say so myself.”

 

“O
NE OF THOSE MISSILES IS STILL COMING FOR US
, C
OLONEL
.”

Dog pulled the Megafortress into a tight turn, trying to beam the guidance radar by flying parallel to the radar waves. The tactic didn't work this time; the missile continued to close. They threw chaff and sent a wave of electronic countermeasures into the air to scramble the missile's brains. Dog, sensing he was still being pursued, rolled the big plane onto its wing, dropping and twisting behind the fog created by the countermeasures. This finally did the trick; the missile sailed overhead, exploding a mile away.