End Game by Dale Brown Read Free Book Online

speed was roughly ten knots, slower if the batteries were being charged. The midgets were strictly transport vessels, and it would be laughable to compare them to frontline submarines used by the American or Russian navies. But they were perfect as far as Sattari was concerned.
    He called them Parvanehs: Butterflies.
    The captain glanced back at the rest of the team, strapped into the boats. Among the interior items that had been retained as delivered were the deep-cushioned seats, which helped absorb and dampen interior sounds. Three of the men were making good use of them now, sleeping after their mission.
    Sattari turned to the submarine commander.
    â€œAnother hour, Captain Sattari,” the man said without prompting. “You can rest if you wish. I’ll wake you when we’re close.”
    â€œThank you. But I don’t believe I could sleep. Are you sure we’re not being followed?”
    â€œWe would hear the propellers of a nearby ship with the hydrophone. As I said, the Indian ship has very limited capabilities. We are in the clear.”
    Sattari sat back against his seat. His father the general would be proud. More important, his men would respect him.
    â€œNot bad for a broken-down fighter pilot, blacklisted andpassed up for promotion,” he whispered to himself. “Not bad, Captain Sattari. Thirty-nine is not old at all.”
    Aboard the Abner Read ,
off the coast of Somalia
0128
    â€œW HAT KIND OF SUBMARINE ? A P AKISTANI SUBMARINE ?”
    â€œI’m not close enough to tell yet, Admiral,” Storm told Johnson over the secure video-communications network. “We’re still at least twenty miles north of it. There are two surface ships between us and the submarine, and another oil tanker beyond it. They may be masking the boat’s sound somewhat. I’ll know more about it in an hour.”
    â€œYou have evidence that it picked up the saboteurs?”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” admitted Storm.
    Johnson’s face puckered. “Pakistan, at least in theory, is our ally. India is not.”
    Storm didn’t answer.
    â€œAnd there are no known submarines in this area?” said Johnson.
    â€œWe’ve checked with fleet twice,” said Storm, referring to the command charged with keeping track of submarine movements through the oceans.
    â€œI find it hard to believe that a submarine could have slipped by them,” said Johnson.
    â€œWhich is why I found this submarine so interesting,” said Storm. While it was a rare boat that slipped by the forces—and sensors—assigned to watch them, it was not impossible. And Storm’s intel officer had a candidate—a Pak sub reported about seven hundred miles due east in the Indian Ocean twenty-eight hours ago. It was an Augusta-class boat.
    â€œAll right, Storm. You have a point. See what you can determine. Do not—repeat, do not —fire on him.”
    â€œUnless he fires on me.”
    â€œSee that he doesn’t.”
    Off the coast of Somalia
0158
    S ATTARI LEANED OVER AND TOOK THE HEADSET FROM THE submarine captain, cupping his hands over his ears as he pushed them over his head. He heard a loud rushing sound, more like the steady static of a mistuned radio than the noise he would associate with a ship.
    â€œThis is the Mitra ?” he asked.
    â€œYes, Captain. We’re right on course, within two kilometers. You’ll be able to see the lights at the bottom of the tanker in a few minutes. I believe we’re the first in line.”
    Sattari handed the headphones back, shifting to look over the helmsman’s shoulder. A small video camera in the nose of the midget submarine showed the murky ocean ahead.
    From the waterline up, the Mitra appeared to be a standard oil tanker. Old, slow, but freshly painted and with a willing crew, she was one of the vast army of blue-collar tankers the world relied on for its energy needs. Registered to a company based in