End Game by Dale Brown

his hands for the servant.
    Aboard the Abner Read ,
off the coast of Somalia
1538
    â€œW HAT DO YOU HAVE FOR ME , A IRFORCE ?” ASKED S TORM AS Starship stepped onto the bridge.
    â€œI was hoping I might have a word in private.”
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œCaptain, 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—”
    â€œYou angling to leave us, mister?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œRequest 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.
    â€œDon’t thank me,” added Storm. “Just do your job.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Starship snapped off a quick, confused salute and left. Storm went back to studying the holographic display. Theywere two miles north of ’Abd Al-KÅ«rÄ«, 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.
    â€œEyes, what’s the status of the Dreamland patrols?”
    â€œDue 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.
    â€œHave them report to me as soon as possible,” Storm said.
    â€œAye, 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.”
    â€œIf the circumstances allow, be my guest.”
    Aboard the Wisconsin ,
taking off from Drigh Road,
Pakistani naval air base
1600
    C OLONEL B ASTIAN 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