End Game. Dale Brown
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general beamed. A servant came with sparkling water, setting down a large glass for the visitors.
‘A great success,’ Pevars said. ‘You have proven the concept. Now it is time to push the Indians further.’
‘We are prepared.’
‘Are you?’ said the oil minister. ‘There have been questions.’
‘Questions?’ said Sattari. He glanced at his father. Was that why he was here? Did the general doubt his own son?
‘Some of the black robes are demanding a return on the investment,’ said Pevars. ‘The price of oil has sunk so quickly lately that they are becoming concerned. The timetable –’
‘We’re completely ready.’
‘The sooner you can press the attacks and instigate the conflict, the better,’ added Pevars. ‘The commodities market shrugged off the attack.’
‘They will not be able to ignore the next one.’
‘My son is wondering why I am here,’ the general told Pevars. ‘And I should explain to him. Some of the imams in the council want to make sure the Indians are punished. And they want the war between the Indians and Pakistan to show that the Chinese cannot be trusted.’
‘I can’t guarantee a war,’ said Sattari. ‘The idea was to affect oil prices, not start a war. I have only a small force, four small aircraft and one large one, all primarily transports. I have one old ship, a hulk that just today we have covered with new paint. My four midget submarines are useful as transports but carry no weapons besides what a man can hold. I have thirty-six commandos. All brave men, all ready to die for Allah and Iran. That is the sum of my force.’
‘You were chased by the Americans,’ said his father.
‘Yes. They complicated our escape.’
The Americans were a great enemy of Sattari’s father. A year before, a small force of commandos and aircraft had attacked one of the general’s installations in the North, destroying a secret antiaircraft laser he had developed. The strike had lessened his influence in the government; naturally, he wanted revenge.
‘There was a rumor that you ran from them,’ said Pevars.
‘Who said that?’
‘One of the black robes,’ said his father.
So that was what this was about. Sattari guessed that the imam had a spy aboard the Mitra who had radioed back a report of the action before they reached port.
To be called a coward after the success of his mission! That was typical of those fellows. It was a favorite tactic, to tear down everyone else.
But did his father think he was a coward? That was an entirely different matter.
‘I did not run,’ Sattari said. ‘Exposing our force would have been idiocy. Worse than cowardice.’
‘I’m sure,’ said the general. ‘Do not let lies depress you.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Some sweets,’ said the oil minister. He clapped his hands for the servant.
Aboard the Abner Read, off the coast of Somalia 1538
‘What do you have for me, Airforce?’ asked Storm as Starship stepped onto the bridge.
‘I was hoping I might have a word in private.’
‘This is private enough,’ said Storm, glancing around the bridge. There were only two other men on the bridge, one manning the wheel and the other the bridge navigation system. But as far as Storm was concerned, the entire ship’s company could be here. He expected everyone aboard to show discretion where it was appropriate, but otherwise there was no place for secrets. The Abner Read was a small vessel. Everyone eventually ended up knowing everyone’s business anyway.
‘Captain, I was going to ask, considering that we now have two other men trained to handle the Werewolf, and that the Dreamland people are going to be based at Karachi –’
‘You angling to leave us, mister?’
‘I was thinking I might be more useful working with the Whiplash ground team, providing security. They can’t deploy the Werewolves there without another pilot because of commitments at the base.’
‘Request denied. We need you out here, Airforce. You’re the only pilot worth a shit on this ship.’
The young man’s face shaded red.
‘Don’t thank me,’ added Storm. ‘Just do your job.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Starship snapped off a quick, confused salute and left. Storm went back to studying the holographic display. They were two miles north of ’Abd Al-Kūrī, an island off the tip of Somalia. The submarine they had chased the other night had not reappeared. Nor, for that matter, had the guerrillas.
The intelligence people back in Washington had no idea who had launched the attack. The Indians were blaming the Pakistanis, but as far as anyone could tell, they had no evidence except for decades’ worth of animosities. Storm – who also had no evidence beyond the faint submarine contact – thought the Chinese were behind it. They were rivals for dominance of Asia, and it was possible they wanted to tweak the Indians’ noses while the world was preoccupied elsewhere.
‘Eyes, what’s the status of the Dreamland patrols?’
‘Due to start at 1800 hours. Looks like your old friend Colonel Bastian is taking the first patrol himself.’
Storm gritted his teeth. Bastian had proven himself a decent pilot and a good commander, but he was also a jerk.
Better that than the other way around, though.
‘Have them report to me as soon as possible,’ Storm said.
‘Aye, Skipper. The Indian destroyer Calcutta is about a hundred miles east of Port Somalia. They should reach it in three or four hours. I thought we might send the Werewolf down to greet them. Let them know we’re here.’
‘If the circumstances allow, be my guest.’
Aboard the Wisconsin, taking off from Drigh Road, Pakistani naval air base 1600
Colonel Bastian put his hand on the throttle glide and brought the engines up to full takeoff power. The Megafortress rolled forward, quickly gaining momentum. As the plane touched 200 knots, the flight computer gave Dog a cue to rotate or pull the nose of the aircraft upward. He did so, pushing the plane up sharply to minimize the noise for the surrounding area, much the same way a 747 or similar jet would when taking off from an urban area.
Passing through three thousand feet, the colonel trimmed the aircraft and began flying her like a warplane rather than an airliner trying to be a good neighbor. His copilot, Lieutenant Sergio ‘Jazz’ Jackson, had already checked the systems; everything was in the green.
The ocean spread itself out before the aircraft as Dog banked the Megafortress westward. A cluster of small boats floated near the port; a pair of freighters chugged slowly away. A Pakistani gunboat sailed to the south, its course marked by a white curve cut into the blue paper of the sea.
Starting with his copilot, Dog checked with the crew members to make sure the computer’s impressions of the aircraft jibed with their experience. Immediately behind the two pilots on the flight deck, two radar operators manned a series of panels against each side of the fuselage. The specialist on the right, Sergeant Peter ‘Dish’ Mallack, handled surface contacts; the operator on the left, Technical Sergeant Thomas ‘T-Bone’ Boone, watched aircraft.
The Megafortress’s array of radars allowed