Читать книгу End Game - Dale Brown - Страница 32

‘What do you have for me, Airforce?’ asked Storm as Starship stepped onto the bridge.

‘I was hoping I might have a word in private.’

‘This 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.

‘Captain, 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 –’

‘You angling to leave us, mister?’

‘I 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.’

‘Request 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.

‘Don’t thank me,’ added Storm. ‘Just do your job.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Starship snapped off a quick, confused salute and left. Storm went back to studying the holographic display. They were two miles north of ’Abd Al-Kūrī, 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.

‘Eyes, what’s the status of the Dreamland patrols?’

‘Due 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.

‘Have them report to me as soon as possible,’ Storm said.

‘Aye, 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.’

‘If the circumstances allow, be my guest.’