End Game

Zen’s quick roll had taken him below the MiG-21. He turned into the enemy plane and began firing despite the 362

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computer’s warning that he didn’t have a shot. The hail of bullets broke the MiG’s attack; he pushed off to the right, jerking hard and pulling at least six g’s. No conventional fighter could have stayed with him, but the Flighthawk wasn’t a conventional fighter. The MiG’s tailpipe grew fat in the middle of his screen. He leaned on the trigger, giving the Indian craft a 20mm enema. The canopy flew off in short order, the pilot hitting the silk.

“Splash Bandit Three,” said Zen, looking for the Megafortress.

STEWART STARED AT THE MESSAGE IN HER SCREEN: TARGET

ONE DESTROYED.

She’d got it! The bastard was dead.

But where was the other plane?

Still flying, six miles ahead. The other missile?

She’d missed.

“Bandit One is hit,” she told Brea

“All right,” said Brea

“Should I fire another?”

“Just stand by.”

Stewart felt a wave of resentment come over her. But then she realized they weren’t in a good position to fire. The pilot wasn’t criticizing her; she preferred to stay on course and keep her missiles if she could. It made more sense to at least check first with the Flighthawk pilot to see if he could take the plane.

“Standing by,” said Stewart.

“I CAN JUST GET THERE IF BANDIT TWO STAYS ON HIS PRESent course and speed,” Zen told Brea

“Try. We’re two minutes to launch point.”

“Got it.”

Zen accelerated ahead, climbing to meet the MiG. The other aircraft was three thousand feet above him.

“Fuel warning,” said the computer.

END GAME

363

Zen called up the fuel panel. Sure enough, the Flighthawk was into its reserves, well ahead of schedule.

The tanks must have been damaged, though the status board claimed that they were OK.

There was nothing he could do about it now—the Indian fighter loomed at the top of his screen. Zen pulled his nose up and took a shot as the plane passed, getting the MiG to break south. Knowing that he hadn’t put enough bullets into him to shoot him down, Zen started to follow. Brea

“Fuel emergency,” declared C3.

Zen glanced at the fuel screen. The tanks were nearly drained—he had under five minutes’ worth of juice.

“How did I use fifteen minutes’ worth of jet fuel in thirty seconds?” he asked the computer.

“Unknown command,” it replied.

Was the problem simply with the gauge? Zen hoped so.

He pressed his nose down as the targeting bar began to blink yellow. The MiG was starting a turn to his left, banking to get behind the Megafortress.

“Fuel emergency,” repeated the computer.

“Yup.” Zen leaned the Flighthawk onto its left wing, pushing his enemy into the sweet spot of his target zone. He pressed the trigger; bullets began flying from the nose.

Then the Flighthawk veered down.

“Engine has lost power. Fuel emergency. No fuel. No fuel,” sang the computer.

Zen slapped the computer’s audible warning system off.

“Hawk Three to Levitow—Bree, I’m out of fuel. Something must have hit the Flighthawk and caused a breach in the tanks. Didn’t show on the damage panel. That MiG is still out there.”

“Acknowledged,” said Brea

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Aboard the Abner Read,

in the northern Arabian Sea

0619

STARSHIP TOOK THE WEREWOLF OVER THE SHARKBOAT, CIRcling as the last of the submarine’s survivors were taken aboard. The Sharkboat was preparing to tow the vessel back to the Abner Read, some sixty miles to the west.

Sixty perilous miles between the Chinese and the Indian forces.

Starship headed west, scouting the area. The closest vessel was a Chinese destroyer, fifteen miles away. It had been hit by two Indian missiles, and had a gaping hole at the bow; it was unlikely to come for them. More problematic was the guided missile cruiser rushing to its aid.

“Werewolf to Tac. I have an update on the two Chinese vessels closest to the Sharkboat,” said Starship. “Destroyer looks pretty badly damaged. Cruiser’s going to help it. I’d say go now while the going is good.”

“Acknowledged. We have a contact for you to check out five miles north of us—we think it’s a downed pilot in the water. Can you get there?”

“On my way.”

THE MEGAFORTRESS THAT DROPPED THE MANPOD HAD TURNED

on its surface radar, giving the Abner Read and Storm a good picture of the battle. The Indian carrier appeared to be sixty miles southeast of them—in range of his Harpoon missiles.

And the Standards. He’d use a mix; it was the only way to guarantee he could take out the Chinese carrier as well.

And he was going to get them.

The two fleets were repositioning themselves after the first wave of attacks. Two Chinese escorts had been severely damaged, and it appeared that one Indian vessel was sunk. The Deng Xiaoping’s radar helicopters and two of its fighters had been shot down, but only one of the Indian mis-

END GAME

365

siles managed to reach the ship, and it had not done enough damage to impede air operations. The Indian ship Shiva had not been hit and was begi

“Weapons, target the Indian carrier Shiva,” Storm said. “I want a mix of Harpoons and Standards. Use the plan we established earlier.”

“You want me to target the carrier, sir?”

“Am I speaking English? Target the Shiva with enough weapons to sink her.” Storm pounded the side of the holographic display. He looked down at the table. A pool of water disrupted the projection.

Was it water? Or blood?

His head felt as if it was going to lift off from his head.

“Captain,” said Eyes. “Storm—we can’t sink the Indian ship.”

“Like hell I can’t. Our orders said that we were allowed to defend ourselves. The Indian ship is regrouping for an attack.”

“The planes on the Chinese carrier—we’re already out of position to act as backup against them, and—”

“Don’t second-guess me, Eyes. No one’s going to attack us and not get a fistful of explosives back in their face.

Weapons—use a mix of missiles. Keep enough to sink the Chinese carrier if we have to, but you lock on that damn Indian ship and sink the bastard!”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over India

0619

CHU, THE PILOT OF DREAMLAND FISHER, BEGAN SPEAKING AS

soon as Dog cleared the communication.

“I have two Chinese aircraft on my wingtips telling me to get out of the area or face the consequences, Colonel.

They’re not specifying what the consequences are.”

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“I assume you’ve told them you’re in international air space?”

“I told them in English and in Chinese, Colonel. They weren’t impressed.”

“All right, Chu, stand by.” Dog hot-buttoned to the cha

“I’m here, Colonel.”

“What’s the status on the Deng Xiaoping?”

“Tai-shan aircraft have not appeared on the deck. NSA has not yet picked up the command to launch.”

Well, that was something at least, thought Dog. But it might be only a matter of time—the Chinese might not have picked up the Indian launch yet.

“The Chinese are challenging Dreamland Fisher, which is supplying radar information to the Abner Read. I’m going to have the pilot back off a little bit to avoid provocation.”