End Game

STARSHIP SPUN THE WEREWOLF DIRECTLY OVER THE SPLIT IN

the Deng Xiaoping’s flight deck, the aircraft’s cameras recording the scramble of the crew as it prepared to recover two of its aircraft. He felt as if he were a voyeur who’d snuck into a foreign palace. A J-13 slammed to a stop at the far side of the deck; men swarmed over it, wrestling it off the arrestor cables and wheeling it forward to an elevator.

A second J-13 appeared in the distance, making its approach.

“Werewolf, check out the escort ships in the Chinese group,” said Eyes. “Look for the frigate. We have enough on the carrier now. Stand by for coordinates.”

The J-13 landed, and once more the crew swarmed over her. A notion seized Starship as they began pushing the plane forward: Why not get a look at the hangar deck of the carrier? Just hover right over the other aircraft as it went down, spin around, then shoot the hell out of there.

Before he fully considered the idea, Starship had pushed the Werewolf forward, skittering across the flat surface of the Chinese vessel about eight feet from the deck. The ship’s lights threw a crosshatch of white and black in his face. The J-13 had just been secured on the elevator; as he approached, he saw the startled face of one of the deck crew diving for cover.

Starship thought he’d made his move too soon—the J-13

sat below him, not moving. Two figures were crouched near the folded-up wings. He spun the Werewolf around, picking up his tail slightly to give the forward camera a better view.

Disappointed, he was just about to hit the gas and get out of there when the elevator began cranking downward.

END GAME

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Starship descended as well. He moved a little too fast—the skids smacked against the J-13. He jerked upward, then settled back down, hitting his floodlights. When the elevator stopped at hangar level, he was just above the airplane, with maybe four or five feet worth of clearance between him and the roof. He spun around once as slowly as he dared, glimpsing aircraft, people, machinery, all in a blur. Then he jerked the Werewolf straight up, praying that he was still in the same position as when he’d descended.

“What the hell are you doing?” yelled Eyes.

“Taking a look inside the sardine box,” Starship told him.

“What were those coordinates?”

Aboard the Shiva,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0345

THE DOCTOR HELD HIS SMALL PENLIGHT UP AND TOLD

Memon he had received a mild concussion.

“You should rest,” he said.

“The ship,” said Memon. “I’m responsible.”

“Captain Adri is in charge.”

“Adri, yes. Where is he?”

“You just came from him.”

“Someone take me to him.”

Memon pushed himself off the cot. The doctor grabbed his arm to help steady him, then passed him gently to a sailor, who led him back through the corridor, up a flight of stairs, then through another passage to the combat center.

Adri and several other officers were stooped over a set of charts, discussing something.

“We have to strike them again,” said Adri, his voice rising above the din in the low-ceiling room. “We must drive home our gains.”

Adri? Adri was talking of attack?

Memon was amazed. Adri had opposed him earlier. He 208

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

and Bhaskar had done everything they could to avoid a fight.

And they’d been right.

They’d been right!

“We should not attack,” said Memon, approaching them.

Adri looked up. “What?”

“We should withdraw.”

“You? You’re saying that?”

“Yes. You were right earlier. We should withdraw.”

“It’s too late for that.”

The flash had done something to his vision, Memon thought—the world had shaded deep red. Even the lights appeared to be crimson rather than yellowish white.

“Thank you for your advice,” sneered Adri. “Someone please take Mr. Memon back to sickbay.”

Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

near Karachi

0345

THE WIND WHIPPED THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR AS THE OSPREY

lowered itself toward the three men on the pier. Light petro-leum or fuel from one of the nearby tanks had spread onto the water and caught fire; blue flames curled across the dark surface, looking like tumbleweeds in a fantasy Wild West show. But the flames were very real—when they reached the small bobbing boats nearby, they erupted in red volca-noes, consuming the vessels and everything aboard. Da

“One of us has to go down there,” said Boston, pulling gloves from his tactical vest. “These guys ain’t doing it themselves. Look—they’re burnt to shit and scared besides.

In shock.”

“Let them grab the basket,” said Pretty Boy. “Faster.”

“Yeah, but they’re not go

209

climbed half inside it. He had his radio unit but no wet suit, just the standard combat fatigues they’d turned out in earlier. “You drop me, Pretty Boy, and I’m getting you back.”

Pretty Boy cursed at him but began working the controls to the winch, lowering the line as the Osprey continued to descend. Da

The tanks were still burning nearby, and it took considerable work to keep the aircraft in a stable hover. Every so often it would twitch right or left, but they always got it back.

“Number one coming up!” shouted Boston, his voice blaring in Da

First degree burns covered the man’s right arm. His face was putty white, and his pulse raced; he was in shock and pain, but in a relative sense not that badly off. Da

“Need help here, Cap,” said Pretty Boy.

Da

Da

210

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Getting wicked down there,” said the pilot. “We can’t hold this much longer!”

“Just one more,” said Da

Boston’s response was garbled. Da

Pretty Boy was two-thirds of the way out of the cabin, trying to secure the stretcher. The Osprey had started to revolve slowly, as if it were twisting at the end of a string, and the momentum of the aircraft seemed to be pitching the stretcher away from the cabin. One of Pretty Boy’s legs disappeared. Da