by Dale Brown
"Hold on, Gordie. Let me deal with this." Storm went to his station in the Tactical Center. He punched the communications panel at the left. "Is this Colonel Bastian?"
"This is Technical Sergeant Mallack," said the man on the other line.
"This is Captain Gale. Give me your boss."
"Uh—"
"Now, mister."
There was a slight pause, but no click or discernible static on the line.
"This is Colonel Bastian."
"Colonel, you have surface contacts?"
"We have three fast patrol boats that are similar to Israeli Dvora II class. My radar operator has the specific locations. They're about fifty miles from your location, about seventeen miles offshore but heading toward coastal waters. I haven't had a chance—"
"Sink the bastards."
"Excuse me?"
"You're ordered to sink them."
There was a pause. "You're giving me an order?"
"Colonel, I'm sitting in the water next to a merchant whose crew they slaughtered. Sink them." "You know these are the ships?"
"What do you want? Pictures? If I'd been close enough to see them, I would have sunk them."
"Sorry, Captain, but my orders don't allow me to sink unidentified boats, or any boat for that matter," said Dog. "I can track them for you; that's the best I can offer."
"That's not good enough," said Storm. "They'll be in forbidden territory in a second. Sink them."
"Thanks for the advice." The line snapped dead.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
6 November 1997
2223
Dog shook his head, wondering why every Navy officer he ever dealt with had an ego larger than an aircraft carrier.
"Patrol craft are starting to move again," said Sergeant Mallack. He'd gotten his nickname, "Dish," not because he worked a radar, but because he always went back for seconds, and sometimes thirds and fourths, in the mess hall.
"Any hostile action?" Dog asked Zen.
"Negative. They manned their guns and got a missile ready, but didn't attack."
"Follow them at a distance."
"Flighthawk leader."
Aboard Baker-Baker Two,
over the Gulf of Aden
2224
"So what do you figure the Sudanese F-7Ms were up to?" asked Spiderman as they got ready to drop their second control buoy.
"Just a macho thing to show us that they're here," replied Breanna. "And to see what we were."
"They didn't go slow enough to see anything."
"Maybe they were too scared to slow down," said Bre-anna. "Piranha, how are we doing?"
"Probe's just humming along," said Commander Del-aford. "We have control from the second buoy. Proceeding on course as planned."
"All right. We're going to swing south and drop our next control buoy, then climb and take a look around."
"Roger that," acknowledged Delaford.
"You sleeping yet?" Breanna asked Starship.
"No ma'am," said the lieutenant. "Just wishing I'd had a Flighthawk to kick those two ragheads in the rear."
"All right, let's all just relax," said Breanna. "We're going to be out here for quite a while tonight. No sense using up all our adrenaline in one shot."
"Contacts, hot, Fishbeds!" said the radar operator. "From the southwest — Ethiopians. Just crossing Somalian territory."
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
6 November 1997
2225
Storm pounded the ledge at the base of the control console twice before he was able to corral his anger.
"Captain?"
Storm looked up at Eyes.
"Flyboys have found our bad guys. But they don't want to get their hands dirty." He went over to the display, dialing the range out so he could see the area where Bastian had located the pirates.
"We can get a Shark Boat over in a little more than an hour," said Eyes.
"They'll be gone," Storm said. He contemplated going into Somalian territory after them but knew he couldn't— Johnson would jump on it as an excuse to block his career forever.
He could, however, wait for them offshore. Spread a net and catch them when they tried to run.
"Maybe we can have Boat Three pick up the boarding party while we go up there," said Storm. "Have the two other Shark Boats come as well."
"Marcum's not going to like that," said Eyes.
"I wouldn't either. But I think it's our best bet here."
"Boat One is closest."
Storm reached to his belt and hit the preset, connecting him with the commander of Shark Boat. "Boat One, this is Captain Gale. I have a target for you. We'll get the position but you're to stay in international waters and wait until he gets there."
"Shit."
Storm punched the button to connect with the boarding party. "Still there, Gordie?" "Aye, Cap. What's going on?"
"Looks like the flyboys have found our bad guys. We may arrange for you to have another taxi pick you up. Can you handle that?"
"I can handle anything."
"Stand by. Commander Marcum will contact you directly." "Aye."
Storm took another look at the hologram, then decided to tell the ship's captain personally what he had in mind. He found Marcum out on the folding bridge, looking at the tanker alongside.
"Killed them all?" asked the ship's commander. The other ship was less than twenty feet away, a brooding hulk on the water.
"Looks like it," said Storm. "We have a possible location on our pirates. Very close to Laasgoray. They have a fifty-mile head start. I have Boat One heading there. I want Abner Read to help."
"What about the boarding party?"
"I'd prefer to have Boat Three stand by and pick them up if they need assistance. This way we can leave right away."
Storm could tell from the look in Marcum's eye that he didn't want to leave his men behind. It was a natural objection, and even though Xray Pop had been configured for exactly that sort of flexibility, Storm couldn't blame him.
"All right," said Marcum. "Tell me one thing, though."
"Yeah."
"Can we get these bastards?" "I want to. But not if they're close to shore." "Which they will be by the time we get there." "Very likely."
Marcum frowned. Storm turned to go back inside the ship. As he did, the world lit with a red glow and Storm felt himself flying through the air, propelled by a massive explosion.
III
Territorial Waters
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
2234
Storm smashed head first into the side of the captain's chair at the center of the bridge, rolling to the side as the force of explosion pummeled the Abner Read. He tried to stand but fell back against the helmsman. Acrid smoke filled the small space, and for a moment he feared the ship was on fire. That fear helped him find his balance, and as alarms began to sound around him, he gave his first orders, calling a fire control party to the bridge.
Scrambling on his hands and knees to the flying bridge, he found Marcum clinging to the damaged decking. He grabbed the lieutenant commander's arms and yelled at him to pull himself up, but Marcum didn't respond. A sailor ran over, leaping down across the deck to help pull the ship's captain inside; it was only then that Storm realized Mar-cum's grip had tightened around the deck piece in death. A thick piece of metal had buried itself in the back of Mar-cum's skull. If that hadn't killed him, he would have bled to death from the wounds caused by the shards of steel in his chest and side.
"God, protect him," said Storm, and then he turned to the business of helping the living.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
6 November 1997
2235
Dog listened as the chaotic conversation between the American ships continued on the radio channels they were monitoring. His reaction mixed outrage with impotence and shock.
"Should I
contact them and ask if they need assistance?" said his copilot, Captain Kevin McNamara.
"Give them a minute to sort things out," said Dog. "We'll continue our patrol in their direction so we can respond if they do require our help."
The task force's position was marked at the left-hand side of Dog's control panel screen. The Megafortress was already flying in their direction. It would take a little more than ten minutes to get there.
"Zen, there's been some sort of explosion on the ship Xray Pop boarded," Dog told the Flighthawk pilot over the interphone. "It's not clear exactly what's going on. I want to be prepared to assist if necessary. I'm taking us east in their direction until we have confirmation that we're not needed."
"What do you want to do about these patrol boats?" Zen asked. "They're splitting up."
"They're pretty clearly in Somalian waters." "Yeah."
"According to our orders, we can't touch them." "Copy that."
"And, frankly, we have no clear evidence that they're connected to that ship. We have their locations marked. We'll continue tracking them by radar as long as we can, but helping Xray Pop is going to be a priority. We may need the Flighthawk for search and rescue."
"Flighthawk leader," said Zen, acknowledging.
Dog nudged the throttle bar, bringing up his thrust to full military power. The weapons dispenser in the Mega-fortress's bomb bay included a pair of Harpoon missiles capable of obliterating the patrol craft. Hitting them would feel good, and it might even be justified. But he wasn't here to feel good, or even to avenge the death of American servicemen. He was here to accomplish a mission which, technically at least, had nothing to do with Xray Pop.
"I have Xray Pop," said the copilot.
"This is Colonel Bastian. What's your situation? Are you under fire?"
"Negative," said the voice on the other end of the radio. "There's been an explosion on a nearby ship. We're standing by to recover the wounded."
"I understand," said Dog. "Do you require assistance? We're about ten minutes flying time to your location. We can aid in search and rescue."
"I require you to sink those bastard patrol boats," said Storm, breaking into the line. "Sink them, damn it."
Dog took a second before responding. He'd been in the other commander's position; losing your people was a gut-wrenching experience.
"I'd like to sink them, Captain," said Dog. "But my orders are not to engage the enemy if at all possible, especially in Somalian waters. Do you require assistance?"
"Sink the bastards!"
"We can help with search and rescue. It'll take us a little under ten minutes to get there."
"If you show up, we'll shoot you down." Storm, or someone on his ship, killed the transmission.
"Wow," said McNamara, turning toward Dog.
That about sums it up, thought Dog, though he didn't say anything else.
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
2245
Fortunately, the bridge hadn't actually caught fire— the smoke was from the nearby freighter, which had. While some of the computer systems had been knocked off line, the automated damage control system presented in the holographic display when Storm tapped the controls showed that the ship was in good shape. Her engineering spaces had not been harmed, nor had the structural integrity of the hull been threatened. None of the "zebra" fittings — closures in overheads, decks, and bulkhead, as well as fittings such as valves, caps, and plugs normally secured during general quarters — had been damaged, and all of the ship's systems had green lights, indicating they were functioning properly. While the damage control teams and different departments of the ship began verifying the automated system's findings, Storm turned his attention to getting the boarding team rescued. The crew had already begun playing searchlights across the water, and manned the second boat for the effort. Shark Boat Three was contacted, and pulled out the stops to respond. Anyone without more pressing duties turned to topside, adding their eyes to the watchmen's to scour the water.
The merchant ship had reeled over onto her side, the stern sliding low in the water. Flames shot from part of the hull. The bastards had put a decent-sized bomb on it, and they knew a thing or two about maximizing their efforts.
Storm went out onto the deck over the helo hangar, scanning the waves with his infrared glasses. The wind and sea combined to form an angry howl in his ears — the sound of hell calling, an officer had told him once, on an equally dark and grim night years ago. A seaman had gone overboard during an Atlantic crossing. They never found the poor bastard, and the captain of the ship was never the same, haunted by the memory.
"Man in the water!" called a lookout.
Storm turned to the left, training his infrared glasses in that direction as the watchman yelled to a rescue party along the port side of the Abner Read. For a moment he felt the urge to leap over the side himself, and in fact he might have if he'd spotted the man. But he mastered his impulse, and in any event by the time he saw the man, one of the boats from the other ships was bearing down on him.
Back inside, Storm checked with the bridge crew and Tac, then headed down to the launching area at the stern of the ship, where the boat would be recovered. The medical team scrambled ahead of him as he came down the ladder to the landing deck — the U-shaped enclosure at the fantail of the destroyer where the rigid-hulled boats were brought in and out. He heard some of the crewmen shouting and quickened his pace, arriving just as the corpsmen were carrying the recovered man into the dry landing deck, then watched as the two men worked over the victim. Finally, one of the corps-men looked up and shook his head.
The dead man was Gordie, the officer who'd led the boarding party. His head and chest had been gashed by shrapnel. More than likely he had died before he hit the water.
The other corpsman leaned back, paralyzed, staring into space.
"You did your best," said Storm. "Come on now. Let's get ready for the next."
Aboard Baker-Baker Two,
over the Gulf of Aden
2245
"Four aircraft now, and they are on afterburners," said Spiderman. "Computer has them ID'd as MF-type, upgraded radar of Elta type. They are within twenty miles. Inside visual range within sixty seconds."
Breanna needed eighty seconds to get to the next drop point.
"Our friends are going to get fairly close," she told Delaford. "I'd prefer to hold off releasing the next buoy until they're past."
"There's no hurry, Captain," answered Delaford. "What are they up to?"
"Probably more intimidation," said Breanna. "These are Russian-made MiG-21s with updated avionics. No indication yet if these aircraft have air-to-air missiles, but in theory these are slightly more potent. We'll keep you advised."
"Still coming," said Spiderman.
"Wisconsin, this is Baker-Baker Two" Breanna said over the Dreamland radio circuit. "We have four aircraft approaching from Somalian territory. We peg them for Ethiopians."
"Copy that, Baker-Baker," Dog replied. "We see them."
"How do you want us to handle them? Should we hail them?"
"Negative. Maintain radio silence. We're changing course."
"Thought you were assisting Xray Pop."
"They don't want our help. We'll be in your neighborhood in about twelve minutes."
"MiGs have activated their weapons radars!" shouted Spi-derman before Breanna could acknowledge.
Dreamland
1145
Mack leaned back in the wheelchair, exasperated. Major Natalie Catsman, Dreamland's second-in-command, shrugged.
"I can't help you, Major. The Werewolves are not your program. And even if they were your program, we don't have resources for that work. Or the funding."
"What funding do you need?" said Mack. "You just heard Gleason say that the computer program is exactly the same. You could use the Werewolf to deploy Piranha."
"I didn't say that exactly," said Jennifer. "I said—"
"That's not the
point," said Catsman, raising her hand. "The point is, it's not your program. And even if it were, the units we have are already allocated. Two Werewolves are joining Captain Freah in Saudi Arabia for base security as well as additional testing. They're gone, as are their technical teams. That eliminates any possibility of testing the naval components this week, or next. Sorry."
"So we send the Navy modules over to Saudi Arabia, with me, and we test them there," said Mack. "Jennifer can come — she's the only decent pilot anyway."
"Sandy Culver is the lead pilot," said Jennifer.
"If you're angling to go to the Middle East, Major, it's not going to work," said Catsman. "Colonel Bastian wanted you here. That's good enough for me."
"He didn't say that specifically."
"Yes, he did. Don't you have a rehab or something to go
to?"
Exasperated, Mack pushed his wheels and attempted to sweep out of the office. His off-balance attempt nearly sent him into the doorjamb. He recovered at the last second, swiveling to the left and just barely clearing. He swore he heard snickering, but wouldn't give Catsman the satisfaction of turning around.
He was waiting at the elevator a minute or two later when Jennifer Gleason appeared.
"I made a shot to get you along, Jen," said Mack.
"Thanks."
"Catsman's a pain. I could do a better job than she could." Gleason didn't say anything.
Women always stuck together, Mack thought. But it was true — he was more qualified than Catsman to run the base.
Not that he wanted to run the base. He would, if it didn't mean sitting behind a desk in a chair all day.
Which, come to think of it, was what he was doing these days. God, he hated the wheelchair.
Aboard Baker-Baker Two,
over the Gulf of Aden
