End Game by Dale Brown

a Russian boat that had managed to evade the fleet— not the commandos, since Russia and India were allies.
    â€œSee if the captain of the tanker would honor a request to move off to the west,” said Storm. “Tell him that our helicopter has been tracking some mines in the area—get him scared and get him out of there.”
    â€œThe sub may follow.”
    â€œI doubt he’ll make it that easy for us, now that he knows we’re here,” said Storm. “Turn on our active sonar as well—let’s make sure he knows precisely how close to him we are.”
    Off the coast of Somalia
0216
    S ERGEANT I BN CAME UP TO THE BRIDGE TO REPORT TO S ATTARI while the tanker captain was talking to the Americans.
    â€œAll our men are back. No losses. Mission accomplished,” said the sergeant, his face as grim as ever.
    â€œThe success of the mission is entirely yours,” Sattari told him. “You trained everyone superbly—I for one benefited greatly from your drills.”
    The sergeant turned beet red, then bent his head.
    Had Sattari mistaken shyness for skepticism? No, he thought; Ibn—and most likely the others—were wary of an unproven commander whose experience was entirely in thecockpit. They must have felt, and with some justification, that he had only gotten his position because of his father, who still had some influence with the government. Or else they thought the entire scheme of equipping a special operations group with gear and machines any civilian—any rich civilian—could buy was preposterous.
    They would not think so now.
    Ibn remained at attention.
    â€œRelax, Sergeant,” Sattari told him. “See to the men.”
    â€œThank you, Captain.”
    Was there more respect in his voice? Less doubt?
    Perhaps. But more important, Sattari felt sure of himself. He had done it; he had succeeded. Tonight was only the start.
    â€œThe Americans want us to go west,” the tanker captain told him. “They say they have spotted some mines.”
    Had he not been so tired, Sattari would have burst out laughing.
    â€œComply. Make as much noise as you can.”
    â€œThe decoy will begin chattering any moment now.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” said Sattari. “They will think the submarine launched it. Combined with the sonar they heard—they won’t be able to piece the different parts together.”
    The ship’s commander was a short, sinewy man who had somehow managed to keep his face clear of wrinkles despite having spent his life at sea. He looked at Sattari as if he didn’t understand, and the commando leader felt compelled to explain further.
    â€œYou see,” Sattari said, “these Americans are clever people. They love puzzles, and they love to piece them together. In this case, the fact that the pieces don’t fit will confuse them. Their instincts will be to press ahead and attack. They will realize it’s a decoy soon enough, then they will look for the submarine in earnest.”
    â€œYou speak of the Americans as if you know them very well,” said the ship’s captain.
    â€œI speak from unfortunate experience.”
    Aboard the Abner Read ,
off the coast of Somalia
0218
    â€œS HIP IS TURNING TO PORT . I WOULDN ’ T SAY THEY ’ RE BURNING up the ocean,” reported Starship.
    â€œTake a run over them. Make sure they see you.”
    â€œHave to be blind not to,” said Starship. But he did as he was told, moving the Werewolf down toward the tanker. Again he passed so close that he could see a man on the ladder of the superstructure. Again he felt a chill and a moment of premonition, sure he was going to be shot down.
    I’m not even on the stinkin’ helicopter, he reminded himself as he circled away, unfired on. Relax.
    Â 
    â€œW E HAVE A DECOY IN THE WATER ,” E YES TOLD S TORM . “Loud. Imposter.”
    Imposter was a nickname for a Russian MG-74