“Do it.” Dog guessed that the Chinese were monitoring the emergency frequency and didn’t want them listening in.

“I’m on, Colonel.”

“The Chinese frigate is heading toward Mack and the others. How close is the Abner Read?”

“Roughly an hour and a half,” said Starship.

“Are you armed?”

“Only with .50 caliber bullets.”

The bullets were fired from machine guns in the Were-

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wolf ’s skids. The weapon wouldn’t do much against the frigate, and to use it Starship would have to fly well within range of the Chinese ship’s missiles.

“Wisconsin, he’s activated targeting radars,” warned Starship.

“Yeah, roger that,” said Dog. He took a hard turn, hoping to “beam” the radar, flying in the direction of the waves, where it was more difficult to be detected.

“Still targeting you.”

“Just tell me if he fires.”

“Werewolf,” said Starship, acknowledging.

Dog began a bank, aiming to circle in front of the destroyer and make himself a more inviting target.

It was hopeless, wasn’t it? Sooner or later the captain of the frigate was going to figure out what he was up to, if he hadn’t already. And by now he’d have realized that the Megafortress was unarmed and impotent.

Well, he was weaponless, but was he impotent?

An hour and a half before, he’d been willing to give his life to keep the Chinese from launching a nuclear weapon and involving the world in a nuclear war.

He could do that now, he thought. If he hit the frigate right, he’d sink it.

He’d have to stay at the stick to do it.

Dog hesitated, then pushed the stick back toward the frigate. He reached for the throttle glide, ready to put the engines to the wall.

“Missile launch!” screamed Starship. And as he did, Dog saw two thick bursts of white foam erupt from the forward section of the Chinese ship.

Northern Arabian Sea

0908

MACK SAW THE MISSILES STREAK FROM THE CHINESE destroyer but couldn’t tell what they were firing at. The Wis-

40

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

consin, he guessed, though he couldn’t see it in the sky.

The Werewolf was skittering around two miles to the east.

Cantor groaned.

“Maybe the chopper can take him back to the ship,” said Dish.

“Maybe,” said Mack, though he knew that the small helicopter wasn’t normally equipped with rescue equipment.

“Hey, kid, you still up there? Werewolf?”

“Werewolf.”

“We got an injured airman here. It’s Jazz—you think we can rig a stretcher up or something?”

“Uh, negative, Major. I have a line running down from the bird and there’s a collar attached, but I don’t know about hooking up a stretcher. It’s a long way back, and he’d have to hold on. I don’t think he could make it.”

“That’s it, kid. You just gave me a great idea. Get overhead right now,” he added, as two more missiles flew from the destroyer.

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0908

ONE HAND ON THE POWER CONTROLS AND THE OTHER ON

the stick, Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian goaded the Wisconsin to the southeast, urging her away from the missiles. The weapons were smaller and faster than the Megafortress, and didn’t have to worry about dealing with holes in their fuselage. On the other hand, the Megafortress had a five-mile head start and a human pilot guiding her.

Dog pushed the Megafortress toward the waves, trying to get as low as possible without turning his plane into a submarine. The radar in the Chinese destroyer, originally intended for tracking targets tens of thousands of feet higher, lost the aircraft at about a hundred feet, leaving both missiles to use their onboard infrared detectors to find the target.

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The first missile, either incorrectly believing it was near the Megafortress or simply deciding it had had enough of the chase, imploded a good mile from the Wisconsin, harmlessly showering the sea with shrapnel.

The second missile continued in the right direction. The launch trajectory had sent it climbing over the Megafortress by a few thousand feet. As it corrected, Dog pushed hard to the south, taking his juicy heat signature away from the missile’s sensor. The radar on the frigate picked up the plane as it turned, then lost it again, though not before its fitful guidance beam sent the missile into a half loop back toward the target.

Dog didn’t know what was going on behind him; he only knew that the farther he flew, the better the odds of survival.

He’d been chased by countless missiles, some radar guided, some infrared, a few like this one—a combination of the two. Even with countermeasures, it was always a question of outrunning the thing—“getting where the missile ain’t,” as an instructor had taught him a million years ago. Jink, thrash the pedals, lean on the throttle—just go.

Drenched in sweat, Dog felt the water rolling down his arms, saturating the palms of his hands. He slid his left hand farther down the stick, worried that his fingers would slip right off.

As he did, there was a low clunk behind him and the plane jerked forward, its tail threatening to rise. He used both his hands to keep control, but even as he did, he felt a surge of relief—the shock had undoubtedly come from the warhead’s explosion, and while it must have been close enough to shake the plane, he could tell it hadn’t done serious damage.

Leveling out, Dog took a moment to wipe the sweat from the palms of his hands, then pulled back to climb. He glanced over his left shoulder, looking for the frigate in the distance.

He didn’t see the ship. But he did see a silvery baseball bat, headed straight for him.

It was another HQ-7 antiair missile, and it was gaining fast.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Northern Arabian Sea

0912

THOUGH IT WAS SMALL, THE WEREWOLF KICKED UP A PRETTY

good amount of wind from its props and engines. Mack had trouble keeping his eyes clear as the robo-helo edged in, its rope and sling swinging below.

What Starship had called a collar looked like a limp rubber band—a wet, slimy one that packed the wallop of a wrecking ball. As Mack reached for it, a swell pushed him forward faster than he expected and he was whacked in the neck. He grabbed for the rope but couldn’t quite reach it.

“Get that mother!” he yelled.

He put his left hand on the raft and lurched forward, jumping across the tiny boat for the collar. He managed to spear his arm through it and immediately began to spin to the right. T-Bone jumped at the same time and also grabbed part of the collar. Dish reached but missed, grabbing T-Bone instead. The three men crashed together, none of them daring to let go. The tied-together rafts twirled beneath them, one of them nearly swamping.

“I got it, I got it!” yelled Mack. He hung on as the rope bucked back and forth. “Just grab me. Grab onto me and hold onto the rafts. Stabilize them!”

Starship was trying to tell him something, but Mack couldn’t hear. He felt the helicopter pulling him upward and tried locking his grip by grabbing his flight suit, so that the sling was tucked under his arm. His right leg tangled in the line they’d used to lash the two rafts together, and he felt as if he was being pulled apart at the groin.

“Hold me and the raft! Hold me and the raft!” he shouted, though by now his voice was hoarse.

They were moving, though he had no idea in what direction.

It wasn’t exactly what he’d in mind, but it was something.

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Aboard the Abner Read,

northern Arabian Sea

0916

STARSHIP DIDN’T KNOW FOR SURE WHETHER THE MEN IN

the raft had snagged the line until he had to struggle to correct for a shift in the wind. He nudged the Werewolf forward and the rafts came with her, pulling through the water at about four knots.