End Game by Dale Brown Page B

is now fifty kilometers away,” said the copilot. Their target, an oil tanker bound for India, was being tracked by the largest aircraft under Sattari’s command, an ancient but serviceable A-40 Beriev seaplane sold as surplus by the Russians some years before. The aircraft had just passed overhead at eighteen thousand feet, flying a course generally taken by a transport to India from Greece.
    â€œBegin turn to target in ten seconds.”
    Captain Sattari grunted. He was still angry over the meeting with the oil minister and his father earlier—so mad, in fact, that he had bumped the pilot from the mission and taken it himself. Not because he felt he needed to prove his courage or ability, but to help him master his rage.
    Flying had always helped him in this way. It had nothing to do with the romance of the wind lifting you into the sky. No, what settled Sattari was the need for concentration, the utter surrender of your mind and senses to the job at hand. Planning the mission, checking the plan, then flying it as precisely as possible—the process freed him, chasing the demons of anger and envy and frustration from his back, where they hovered.
    â€œThe A-40 reports that there is a warship south of the tanker,” reported the copilot. “Heading northward—three miles south of him. An Indian destroyer.”
    A destroyer?
    â€œAre they sure it’s Indian?”
    â€œThey’ve overheard transmissions.”
    The tanker was a more important target, but if the black robes wanted to provoke a war, striking a destroyer would certainly make them angrier.
    And no one could call him a coward then.
    â€œCompute a new course,” said Sattari. “See if it’s possible to strike the destroyer if we use the tanker as a screen. We can always drop back to our original prey.”
    Aboard the Wisconsin ,
over the Gulf of Aden
2010
    â€œM I G S ARE SCRAMBLING OFF THE NEW FIELD AT A L G HAYDA ,” T-Bone warned Colonel Bastian. “Two aircraft, MiG-29s. Just about one hundred miles from us, Colonel.”
    â€œMack, Cantor, you hear that?”
    â€œRoger that, Colonel. We’ll meet them.”
    Dog keyed in the Dreamland communications channel to alert the Abner Read .
    â€œ Abner Read , this is Wisconsin . We have two MiG-29s coming off an airfield in Yemen. We expect them to be heading in our direction.”
    â€œBastian, this is Storm. What are you doing?”
    â€œMinding our p’s and q’s, Captain. As normal.”
    The Navy commander snorted. “Are you where you’re supposed to be?”
    Dog fought the urge to say something sarcastic, and instead answered that they were on the patrol route agreed to earlier. “I would expect that you can see that on the radar plot we’re providing,” he added. “Is it working?”
    â€œIt’s working,” snapped the Navy captain. “What’s with those airplanes?”
    â€œI assume they’re coming to check us out. The Yemenis gave us quite a bit of trouble when we were out here a few months back.”
    â€œIf they get in your way, shoot them down.”
    â€œI may just do that,” said Dog. “ Wisconsin out.”
    â€œSounded kind of cranky,” said Jazz.
    â€œMost pleasant conversation I’ve ever had with him,” Dog told his copilot.
    Â 
    C ANTOR GLANCED AT THE SITREP PANEL IN THE LOWER LEFT-HAND corner of his screen, making sure the Flighthawks were positioned properly for the intercept.
    â€œFifty miles and closing,” Cantor told Mack. “Weapons radar is off.”
    â€œYeah, I can see that,” said Mack. “You’re lagging behind me, cowboy.”
    â€œWe’re going to do this like we rehearsed,” said Cantor. “I’m going to swing out. You get in their face.”
    â€œFlying wing isn’t the most efficient strategy.”
    â€œWe’re not flying F-15s, Major. This is the way Zen teaches