End Game. Dale Brown
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‘Operation still on for tomorrow?’
‘Not much of an operation,’ he told her. ‘They just inject me with crap. Don’t even knock me out.’
‘Crap,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Let’s go grab something to eat, OK? I’m fasting from seven P.M. After that, no food until tomorrow night. I want to have a beer. I can’t have any during the two weeks of injections. No coffee, either.’
‘No beer or coffee? You sure this is worth it?’ Breanna laughed.
‘Hope so.’
Navy Ministry Building, New Delhi, India 6 January 1998 0900
Deputy Defense Minister Anil Memon stared at the table, trying to master his rage as India’s Prime Minister continued to speak about the need for a ‘measured response’ to the latest provocation. The minister claimed that there was no obvious link between the attack at Port Somalia and the Pakistanis – an absurd claim in Memon’s opinion. Memon knew that he should hold his tongue, but finally he could not.
‘Who else would have launched the attack?’ he said. ‘Who else has connections to these pirates?’
‘We have no proof of connections,’ said the Prime Minister.
‘They are Muslims. What other proof do you wish?’ Memon ignored the disapproving stare from his boss, Defense Minister Pita Skandar. ‘They will attack again and again. They will strike our ships. They do not wish to see us prosper. Anyone who does not realize that is a fool.’
‘You haven’t proven your case,’ said the Prime Minister.
‘How many of my sailors must die before you consider it proven?’ said Memon.
‘They are my sailors too, Deputy Minister,’ said the Prime Minister, his anger finally rising. ‘More mine than yours.’
‘Then let us act. Mobilize. Send the new carrier to blockade the Pakistani ports.’
‘My deputy speaks with passion,’ said Minister Skandar softly. ‘Take into account that he is young.’
‘I assumed he spoke for you,’ said the Prime Minister.
‘He goes further than I. I would not block the Pakistani ports quite yet. But the Shiva should set out immediately. Its trials are complete. We must show that we are resolved.’
The Prime Minister nodded, then turned to the Chief of the Naval Staff for his opinion. The discussion continued for a few minutes more, but Skandar’s recommendations had clearly set the course, and within a half hour the meeting concluded.
Memon, feeling defeated and frustrated, sat in his seat as the others began filing out. When he finally rose, Skandar touched his sleeve, signaling that he should stay. Cheeks flushing, Memon sat back down.
‘You win no points by being too fiery in the cabinet room,’ said Skandar.
‘The Muslims must be behind this,’ said Memon. ‘They are the only ones who benefit. The intelligence services simply are inept in gathering evidence.’
‘We must examine everything in context.’
A large man, with a shaved head and an emotionless smile, Skandar appeared almost godlike. But of late Memon had begun to wonder if the man generally referred to as the ‘Admiral’ was simply old. Not quite thirty years before, he had distinguished himself as a young officer in charge of a raiding party in the 1971 war with Pakistan. Promotions quickly followed. In time, Skandar became the head of the Naval Staff, the highest uniform post in the navy.
In 1994, Skandar retired to run for congress. Winning election easily, he had been asked to join the Prime Minister’s government as the Defense minister. The old admiral at first demurred, but soon was persuaded that he could do much to help the services.
Memon had been among those who helped persuade him. The admiral’s ‘price’ for agreeing was that Memon would join him as deputy minister. He’d done so, despite the fact that he had hoped for his own minister’s portfolio. Like many other young Indians, he saw Skandar as the one man in the government with enough stature to bring India’s military into the twenty-first century.
The admiral had done better than any one of them, Memon included, might have hoped, adding aircraft to the air force, tanks to the army, and above all ships to the navy. It thrilled Memon, who wished India to take her rightful place in the world. But of late Skandar had seemed only an old man, talking of abstractions rather than actions.
‘Admiral, the context is before our eyes,’ Memon told him. ‘We are being attacked.’
‘In the next century, who will be the superpowers of Asia? Russia is a shadow of herself. We pick over her bones to build our own forces. The United States? They are preoccupied with Europe, Taiwan, and Japan, spread so thin that they cannot afford to send more than a token force to the Gulf of Aden.’
‘China is our ultimate enemy. I realize that,’ said Memon. ‘But you’re worrying about fifty years from now. I’m worrying about today.’
‘Our actions today will determine what happens in fifty years.’ Skandar smiled. ‘You’re still young. Full of fire. That is admirable.’
At thirty-eight, Memon did not consider himself particularly young. But since he was half Skandar’s age, the comment was not meant unkindly.
‘What do you think of joining the Shiva?’ added Skandar.
Memon had been instrumental in the conversion of the ship from the Russian, Tiazholyi Avianesushchiy Kreyser, or Heavy Aircraft-Carrying Cruiser, Kiev. To Memon, the Shiva epitomized India’s new aggressiveness, and he would love to be aboard her. Its captain, Admiral Asad Kala, was an old acquaintance.
But why was Skandar suggesting it? To get him out of New Delhi?
‘I would like nothing better than to join the Shiva,’ said Memon warily. ‘If you can spare me.’
‘Good, then.’ Skandar rose. ‘You should make your plans immediately.’
Dreamland 6 January 1998 1140
‘This isn’t a B-1, Captain. You’re not going to get up over that mountain unless you start pulling the stick back now.’
Jan Stewart clenched her teeth together but did as she was told, jerking the control yoke toward her. The EB-52 Megafortress lifted her nose upward, shrugging off a wave of turbulence as she rose over Glass Mountain at the northern edge of Dreamland’s Test Range 4. As soon as she cleared the jagged peak, Stewart pressed the stick forward, aiming to stay as close to the mountain as possible. But it was no good – though a vast improvement over the B-52H she had been converted from, the Megafortress was still considerably more comfortable cruising in the stratosphere than hugging the earth. Her four P&W power plants strained as Stewart tried to force gravity, momentum, and lift into an equation that would get the plane across the ridge without being seen by the nearby radar sentry, a blimp hovering two miles to the west.
The computer buzzed a warning:
DETECTED. BEING TARGETED.
Stewart sensed her copilot’s smirk. If only it had been Jazz, or anyone other than Breanna Stockard.
‘Defense – evade – ah, shit,’ Stewart said, temporarily