by Dale Brown
A large crowd had gathered near the gate of the airport. Surprised, Starship at first didn't realize that they were protesters, and it wasn't until a group began running toward the car that he realized what was going on.
"Troublemakers," said Bandar.
Starship slid down in the seat, eyes pasted ahead as people surged against the side of the car. Saudi police ran toward them. Bandar managed to get inside the gate without hitting anyone.
"Wow," said Starship.
"Troublemakers," repeated Bandar. "I'm sorry." "It's all right." "Ignorant troublemakers."
V
Invaders
Gulf of Aden,
north of Xiis
1810
The wind bit at Ali's face, snapping at his eyes and nose as they sped toward the looming shadow of the tanker three miles away. Ali welcomed the bite; it took his mind off his son.
The Saudi had been as good as his word: Offers of help were pouring in from brothers throughout the Middle East. Two ships had joined him tonight: a large, Al Bushra-class patrol boat from Oman, liberated from unrighteous rulers by true believers, and a patrol boat from Eritrea roughly similar to the patrol craft he was already using. An additional thirty men had volunteered beyond the two dozen needed to crew both vessels; most were raw youths, but seemed willing to follow his orders without question.
Though classified as a patrol boat, the Al Bushra dwarfed his other ships, measuring nearly 180 feet. A pair of Exocet missile launchers had been installed on the deck behind the superstructure, giving the ship considerable firepower. Surface-to-air missiles had replaced the 76mm cannon on the forward deck. The ship could make only 24.5 knots, too slow to keep up with the faster boats, but she had room for a large boarding party. Most of Ali's new recruits were aboard her; they were unlikely to see real action but would learn a great deal from tonight's encounter.
She was running about a mile behind him, commanded by his cousin Mabrukah. The captain who had brought her bristled at being put under another man, and Ali knew he would have to alter the arrangement eventually, but tonight he had no time to devote to personalities, and needed someone who knew his ways without needing to question them.
God had brought him additional volunteers for a purpose. He had two difficult tasks to achieve tonight. Not only was he to meet the submarine at midnight, but his best chance for capturing a vessel that could fuel his fleet would occur a few hours before, as an old oiler now used as a fuel transport sailed through the gulf. Unfortunately, the oiler was more than 250 miles from the rendezvous point with the submarine. According to the spies, it had come down past Saudi Arabia already and would be passing near this spot sometime within the next few hours.
Ali had decided capturing the oiler was more critical, and thus decided to lead that mission personally. He had sent one of his patrol boats with a pilot to meet the submarine. If the takeover went well, he would head east and link up with the submarine.
Perhaps Allah intended that he accomplish both — a gray shadow appeared on the horizon ahead: their target.
"Signal the others," Ali told Bari, his second-in-command for the operation.
The flotilla of pirates spread out on the water, a pack of wolves stalking their prey. Ali set a course for his vessel that brought her toward the stern of the slow-moving target. He stood in the open wheelhouse of his patrol boat, staring at the shadow as it grew. The wind sucked the heat from his face, turning it to a mask of cold bones.
A light blinked at the oiler's fantail.
Ali turned to Bari. "Our people aboard have secured the radio. Pass the signal — begin the attack."
Khamis Mushait Air Base
1810
Dog bent down to look at the video display. Four or five hundred Saudis were gathered on the main road to the airport, fists raised, chanting in Arabic that the invaders must go home.
"Invaders!"
That was the term they used, translated by the translation software in the Dreamland Command trailer. And they said it loudly enough for the microphones in the video camera to pick up, even though the Osprey hovered overhead.
"Invaders!"
"This is relatively calm," Danny told him. "A half hour ago I wasn't sure what was going to happen. At least now the Saudi police have the crowd cordoned off. The base itself is secure."
"Until some jerk drives up in a truck full of explosives," said Dog.
"He won't get past the gate. We've set up bullet panels on the approaches to our sector, along with tear-gas mortars. We have the Osprey overhead. I'm keeping the Werewolves in reserve. But if they get past the tear gas and bullet panels and we have to shoot, it'll get bloody. We can withstand an attack, but it won't be pretty."
The bullet panels were large rectangles filled with 9mm rubber bullets. They were considered nonlethal deterrents for use against a stampeding crowd; when triggered, they fired a hail of hard rubber in the air. Combined with the tear gas, they would turn back all but the most determined protesters.
The Osprey's guns were loaded with live ammunition, as were the Werewolves. Danny's assessment was an understatement — they'd slaughter whoever was in their path.
"This couldn't have been spontaneous," said Dog.
"No," said Danny. "But I wouldn't underestimate the emotions involved."
"I'll talk to Washington. We have to relocate. Probably to Diego Garcia."
"What about Captain Gale?"
"I'll talk to him too. Though frankly I'd rather get my teeth pulled." Dog glanced at his watch. Wisconsin was scheduled to launch at 2000, and he was slated to lead the mission. He hadn't even started planning his brief for it.
"Starship is outside," said Danny. "I think he thinks it's all his fault."
"Send him in."
Dog got up from the video station and walked to the large common room at the front of the trailer. Starship flinched when he saw him.
"Colonel."
"Lieutenant, I believe you forgot to ask if you had permission to go into town this afternoon," said Dog. "I thought it would be OK." "So what happened?"
"It didn't seem like that big a deal. I went with a Saudi pilot. We were in the town and, uh, there was a mosque, and I asked if I could take a look."
"Why?"
"I wasn't trying to be disrespectful. I was just — if I went to church, I mean it was the same thing. You know? I was looking around. I just want to understand."
"Understand what?"
"I want to understand why Kick died and I didn't."
Starship's eyes widened momentarily, as if he'd seen something passing behind them in the room. They held Dog's for just a moment, then turned down, settling on the dark shadows at the base of the floor.
Dog wasn't the kind of officer who could play father figure or priest, which he knew was what Starship really needed. He did understand, however, what the young man was going through. He'd experienced it himself, or at least something like it, much earlier in his career when he'd lost a friend. But now he felt powerless to help the lieutenant, to do anything more than tell him the riot wasn't his fault, which it wasn't.
"All right, Starship. I understand that you meant no harm. The situation at the gate has nothing to do with you. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was organized before you went near the mosque."
"I don't think Bandar — the pilot — I don't think he set me up," said Starship. "I didn't go inside or anything. I was just looking around."
"It's immaterial now. We're supposed to fly in two hours. Better get ready for your mission."
Gulf of Aden
1830
Ali gripped the rope, pulling himself up the side of the ship. His AK-47 clunked at his back as he clambered over the side of the tanker, helped by two of his men. The ship's captain stood a few feet away, frowning in the dim light.
"I thought we were not to be stopped again," said the captain as Ali approached. "You told me this yourself."
"I am flattered that you remembe
red me, Captain," said Ali. They had stopped the ship three months before, and Ali had, in fact, made that promise. "It is regrettable that circumstances made it necessary to engage you again."
Bari, Ali's second-in-command, approached from the side. Bari had led the first team over. "Plenty of fuel," he told Ali. The tanker carried marine gas oil and marine diesel, the heavy grade of fuel oil commonly called "bunker oil," which was used by large ships.
"Set the course," Ali told him.
"Should we wait for the Al Bushra to come alongside? The crew here seems compliant enough. They remember our last encounter, and most are Muslim brothers from Indonesia and Pakistan, with a Turk or two for discipline. There were no weapons."
"Good. Have the Al Bushra come about and stand by to assist if necessary. But if you judge the situation acceptable, don't lose the time bringing more men aboard," said Ali. "Transmit the message telling the Sharia to sail. You should be able to meet them in six hours so they can fuel and return to the mooring before the Russian satellite passes. The boats will come with me. God has graced us and made things easy this evening."
"What are you saying?" demanded the captain of the tanker.
Ali raised his rifle. "Pray," he told the captain. The man made no sign to comply, and so he shot him where he stood.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
2125
Starship checked his position on the sitrep map, trying to get a feel for the night's mission. Xray Pop was located about twenty miles north of Bandar Murcaayo in the Gulf of Aden; the Piranha unit was exploring an area of the Soma-lian coast near Bullaxaar. They were supposed to bring the probe eastward toward the task force; this would take between six and eight hours. The realignment would allow the Dreamland team to cover Xray Pop and run Piranha at the same time. Colonel Bastian had ordered two more Mega-fortresses and additional Flighthawks to join them; once they arrived, the search for the submarine and support of Xray Pop could proceed independently.
"Ready for Flighthawk launch," said Dog.
"Flighthawk launch ready," said Starship. He authorized the launch verbally for C3, the Flighthawk control computer, then curled his fingers around the control stick. His heart pounded steadily as the Megafortress tipped forward and picked up momentum. The big aircraft lifted upward as the release point was reached, using the wind sheer off the wing as well as gravity to push the Flighthawk out of its nest beneath the wing. The computer had already ignited the robot plane's engine, and by the time Starship took over, he was zooming into a layer of clouds that seemed to last forever. The milky soup furled in all directions; he felt as if he were flying into someone's dream.
Unlike Zen, Starship preferred using the computer screens at the control station to guide the plane, instead of the command helmet. He found it easier to tap the screen to change views and get data. He had a standard pilot's helmet and mask, but often left them at the base of his ejection seat, resorting to them only during obvious combat situations. Zen argued that a "normal" helmet made working the board difficult, but Starship disagreed; the weight of the control helmet tended to twist his neck and give him headaches if he wore it for more than an hour.
"Hawk One is launched and operating in the green," he told Dog. "Coming through fifteen thousand feet, going to five thousand. On programmed course."
"Good work, Starship," said Dog. "Be advised we have a civilian merchant ship for you to check out, two miles due south of your present course."
"On my way, Colonel."
"Piranha control, we are in range for the handoff. Baker-Baker is standing by," added Dog over the interphone.
"Piranha control is ready," said Delaford, who was sitting next to Starship on the Flighthawk deck. "Initiating transfer procedure."
* * *
With the Flighthawk launched and the probe now under Delaford's control, Dog had a few moments to relax before lining up for a buoy drop about thirty miles to the east. He checked back in with Danny at Khamis Mushait via the Dreamland Command frequency.
"Peaceful at the moment," said Danny. His voice came over the circuit a half second before his image appeared on the screen on the left-hand side of Dog's control panel. "Base commander was over a little while ago, full of apologies and trying to be reassuring. He says this is being stirred up by bad elements."
"That's nice," said Dog sarcastically. "Did they beef up security?"
"Claims it's at the max now. Has Washington gotten back to you, Colonel?"
"Negative. But I can't imagine that they're going to tell us to stay around," added Dog.
"We can bug out as soon you give the order," said Danny. "And as soon as we know where we're going."
"Probably Diego Garcia," said Dog. "Unless somebody comes up with an alternative. Did you get the blimp up?"
"Half hour ago. We're going to run a drill with the Werewolves around 2400, just to make sure the systems are all working together."
"All right. But get some sleep at some point."
"I will."
"All right, Danny, I have to get into position to drop a buoy. Let me know if anything comes up."
* * *
Starship pushed the Flighthawk over the stern of the merchant ship, riding slow and low across its topside. The low-light video image appeared gray on his main screen. Though slightly blurry, it was clear enough that there were no weapons aboard the ship.
"He's probably a smuggler," said Commander Delaford. Starship was providing a video feed to one of the commander's auxiliary screens so the Navy expert could offer his opinions. The Piranha's onboard controls were more than adequate to take it to its new location on their own, and would alert Delaford automatically if it encountered anything suspicious or ran into a problem. The commander could easily divide his time between the probe and helping Starship.
"Why do you think he's a smuggler?"
"According to the database of area shipping we've compiled, he's headed for South Africa," Delaford explained. "But he's on a beeline for coastal waters, well out of the normal traffic area. If we follow him, my bet is we'll see him rendezvous with some smaller boats just inside territorial waters where he knows he can't be touched if Xray Pop comes calling."
"Doesn't the Navy force know what's going on?"
"Absolutely."
"So how can these guys get away with it?"
"Well, for one thing, you can't just stop any ship on the high seas. International law permits inspections only in certain circumstances. So even if the ship were carrying weapons, you'd have to prove that some law was being broken."
"Like smuggling guns?"
"Unfortunately, you can't just stop and search a ship because you think it has guns," said Delaford. "There are countries that we have treaties with, where the terms of the treaty might allow a search. But even there, you would need at the very least probable cause and some sort of OK or at least notification. The administration has tried negotiating that, mostly to stop smuggling of weapons-grade plutonium or ballistic missiles. But what we're talking about here, pretty much the whole nature of the thing, we simply don't have the authority to stop the ship and search it against its captain's will. The UN and other international organizations are working on protocols to prevent certain types of smuggling and make it possible to take action, but they've been working on them for years. Most arrests are made in territorial waters where the local government is going to enforce its laws. At the moment, if you don't catch them in the act, or you don't find some very obvious problem with the ship manifest or something else, in the end you're going to have to give the weapons back. In theory," added Delaford. "Besides, Xray Pop can't be everywhere at once. Stopping and searching a ship can take considerable time if you do it right.
The Navy has specially trained teams to handle it, and let me tell you, it's a dangerous job in a place like this. Thoroughly searching a vessel that size could take six, eight hours, even more."
"What about the pirates?" said Starship. "Why aren't we
just blasting them? We know what they're up to. They're just terrorists."
The same people who killed Kick, he thought, though he didn't say it.
"The thing that sets us apart from pirates is that we follow the law," said Delaford. "You have to remember that, Starship."
"How does the law stop us? It shouldn't."
"It doesn't, specifically. But what we can do depends on where they are," said Delaford. "If they're in international waters, we can defend anyone that they're attacking — or to put it in your terms, blast them. But outside of international waters, an attack on another ship isn't actually piracy. So an attack in coastal waters is subject to the laws of the country where it occurs."
"Unless it's Somalia, where there is no law."
"There are laws. Whether they are enforced or not is another question."
"But these guys attack in international waters. How come they're free?"
"Again, because they're in the territory of another country. They can also claim that they're under the jurisdiction of Somalia or Yemen or wherever, and are entitled to the protection of their laws."
"Sounds like bullshit to me."
"Well, think of it this way. One of the things the War of 1812 was about was America's rights to its territorial waters and the rights of its seamen. Britain was stopping American ships and impressing seamen. America said it had no right to
do that."
"That doesn't sound like the same thing," said Starship. "It has to do with the law of the sea, and one country putting itself ahead of the law because it has the power to do so."
"I don't think we're above the law," said Starship. "But I don't think these crazies should be shooting at us either."
"Agreed. The fanatics don't care how many people die," added Delaford. "They know they're not going to win in the short term. This isn't about a single battle for them, or even a short war. They see this as a hundred year struggle. They want us to invade Somalia — they want us to invade all of Africa, all of the Middle East. They think if that happens, Islam will rise up and there will be a new golden age. Those people back in Saudi Arabia who were protesting outside the gates, the people who threw stones at you because you were curious about a mosque — what do you think their reaction would be to an invasion?"
