End Game. Dale Brown
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Air Force Medal of Honor winner. A crewman in an AC-47 gunship during the Vietnam War, Sergeant Levitow had thrown himself on a live flare inside the hold of his damaged aircraft following a mortar hit. Despite numerous wounds, he managed to toss the flare outside of the aircraft before it ignited, saving the entire plane.
Rubeo renewed his pitch as the plane passed overhead. ‘Colonel – we need more people.’
‘If the EEMWB project gets funding, we’ll have more slots.’
‘Only if it’s approved as part of the Anti-Ballistic Missile Program, which it shouldn’t be.’
Rubeo had made this point before: The EEMWB was not a good ABM weapon, since the lead in technology would last, by his estimate, no longer than five years. And it was not selective – everything in the area was disabled, not just the target. Dog didn’t disagree, but he didn’t see that as an argument against proceeding with the weapon, which would provide a decent solution until other technologies matured. And he especially thought this was a good idea since it would help him get the people Rubeo needed.
‘We have to be practical,’ said Dog.
‘Colonel, I’m the most practical scientist I know.’
‘That isn’t saying much, Ray,’ Dog told him, climbing into the truck.
Near Port Somalia 5 January 1998 2304
Captain Sattari felt the slight burn at the top of his shoulders as he paddled in unison with the others, propelling the small boat toward their target. The wind came at them from the west, trying to push them off course. They compensated for it as they stroked, but the boat still drew a jagged line forward.
Sattari allowed himself a glance to the other three craft, gauging his performance; it seemed to him that their boat was doing better than two of the others, and not much worse than Sergeant Ibn’s, which was in the lead.
The raft lurched with a sudden swell. Sattari gripped his oar firmly and dug at the water, stroking hard and smooth. His instructor had claimed propelling a boat was a matter of finesse, not strength, but the man had rowed every day of his life for years, and surely took strength for granted. Sattari’s chest rose and fell with the roll of his shoulders, as if he were part of a large machine. He heard the hard, short breaths of the men around him, and tried to match them.
A light blinked ahead. Ibn’s boat had stopped a few meters away. They changed their paddling and surged next to the other raft with a well-practiced flare. First test passed, thought Sattari. He reached for his night glasses and scanned around them as the other boats drew up.
Sergeant Ibn moved in the other raft until he was alongside his commander.
‘No sign of the Indian warship,’ said Ibn.
‘No. Nor the helicopter.’
A helicopter had nearly run into one of the airplanes roughly seventy miles from shore. Captain Sattari was not sure where it had come from. It seemed too far from Port Somalia to belong to the small Indian force there, nor had the spies reported one. The Somalian air force had no aircraft this far north, and it seemed unlikely that it had come from Yemen.
‘The helicopter most likely belonged to a smuggler,’ said Ibn.
‘Perhaps,’ said Captain Sattari. ‘In any event, let us proceed.’
‘God is great.’
Sattari put his glasses back in their pouch and began helping the four men on his boat who would descend to the pipes below them to plant their explosive charges. The charges they carried were slightly bigger than a large suitcase, and each team had to place two on the thick pipes below.
Sattari positioned his knee against the side of the raft, but cautioned himself against hoping it would brace him; he’d already seen in their drills that the raft would easily capsize. The trick was to use only one hand to help the others balance their loads; this was a heavy strain, but the team he was assisting managed to slip into the water without a splash or upsetting the raft.
The men on the raft on the other side of him did not. The little boat capsized.
Sattari picked up his paddle, as did the other man on his raft. They turned forty-five degrees, positioning themselves to help if necessary. But the two men on the other boat recovered quickly; within seconds they had their vessel righted and were back aboard.
‘Good work,’ Sattari told them.
He turned back toward Ibn’s raft. The sergeant had gone below with the others, but one of the two men still aboard had a radio scanner, which he was using to monitor local broadcasts. As Sattari picked up his oar to get closer, the coxswain did the same. They pushed over silently.
‘Anything, Corporal?’ Sattari asked the radioman.
‘All quiet, Captain.’
‘There was nothing from the Indian warship?’
‘No, sir. Not a peep.’
Sattari scanned the artificial island, roughly two miles away. Aside from a few dim warning lights on the seaward side, it was completely in shadow. It slumbered, unsuspecting.
‘We will proceed,’ Sattari said. ‘God is great.’
Aboard the Abner Read, off the coast of Somalia 2340
Storm took Admiral Johnson’s communication in his cabin. The admiral’s blotchy face was rendered even redder by the LCD screen. Johnson was aboard his flagship, the Nimitz, sailing in the waters north of Taiwan.
‘What’s going on out there, Storm?’
‘Good evening, Admiral. I’m about to send a boarding party over to a boat I suspect is a smuggler.’
‘That’s what you called me about?’
‘No,’ said Storm. ‘About an hour ago we spotted four aircraft flying very low and fast toward northeastern Somalia. We were not able to identify the aircraft. Given the size of the force, they may have been terrorists going ashore to a camp we don’t know about. Since they were flying in the direction of Port Somalia, I tried to contact the Indian force there, but could not. I wanted to send –’
‘Port Somalia? The Indian tanker station? What is your exact location?’
‘We’re about eighty nautical miles –’
‘Exact location.’
Storm looked over to the small computer screen near the video display, then read off the GPS coordinates.
‘What are you doing so close to that end of the gulf?’ said Johnson. ‘You’re supposed to be chasing pirates.’
‘With all due respect, Admiral, that’s what I’m doing. I have a smuggler in sight, and we’re preparing to board her. I called to alert you to these aircraft, so a message could be sent through the normal channels. I don’t know whether their radio –’
‘You know as well as I do that you’re a good deal east of the area we discussed two days ago. A good deal east.’
‘I’m within the parameters of my patrol area. I’m not in coastal waters.’
When Johnson was displeased – as he was just about every time Storm talked to him – his cheeks puffed slightly and his eyes narrowed at the corners, so that he looked like the mask of an Asian sea devil. When he became really angry – which happened often – his forehead grew red and he had difficulty speaking. Storm saw the space above his eyebrows tint, and decided it was time to return the conversation to its point.
‘Should I attempt to contact the Pentagon to alert the Indians at Port Somalia?’ he asked.
‘No, you should not.’