Satan's Tail d-7

by Dale Brown

  Everything with this guy is a struggle, thought Storm. Everything.

  "Do what you have to do," he told Bastian.

  "I intend to."

  "Listen Bastian…Bastian? Are you still there?"

  "Still here."

  "We're losing the stinking communications satellite around four o'clock in the morning. We're going to have to find another way to communicate. Get those Dreamland communications things en route to me ASAP."

  "I'll have an Osprey launch within the hour."

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  2200

  "I can get three portable units out there right away, Colonel," Danny told Dog. "But that leaves me without the Osprey for over four hours."

  "You don't think the Werewolves are enough to keep you covered?"

  "They can, but I can't use the Werewolves to bug out if I have to."

  "All right, let's rethink this," said Dog.

  "What if we send one of the Werewolves?"

  "A round trip is over twelve hundred miles," said Dog. "It can't make it back without refueling."

  "Couldn't it refuel on the Abner Read?" asked Danny. "If they have a helipad, maybe they have fuel."

  "We can check," said Dog. "Talk to the technical people first about what they'd have to do to carry radio units. Make sure it's feasible before you talk to Storm. Is Peterson still

  sick?"

  "Afraid so. Fever of 102, last time I checked. I can fly it," added Danny.

  "No, you have too much to do. So does Jennifer. Is Zen around?"

  "Zen's right here," said Danny. "Put him on."

  Danny got up and walked into the conference area of the command post. "Boss wants to talk to you," he told Zen, who was playing poker with Spiderman and two of the Whiplash sergeants. "He's looking for a pilot for the Werewolf."

  "The Werewolf?"

  "I can do it," said Danny. "Jen's over working on the LADS connection and—"

  "Don't sweat it; I've flown them plenty of times," said Zen, wheeling himself backward to the communications area. "Piece of cake. Computer does all the work if you let it."

  The trailer rocked as Sergeant Ben "Boston" Rockland burst through the door.

  "Hey, Cap, we're being invaded, but I think they're friendly," he said. "The Marines have landed."

  Two burly Marine Corps sergeants followed Boston inside. They were followed by one of the slimmest Marines Danny had ever met.

  And by far the prettiest.

  "Lieutenant Emma Klacker, U.S. Marine Corps. No need to worry; you're secure now."

  Danny laughed. "Oh are we? What'd you do, bring a division?"

  "We don't need a division," said the lieutenant. "We're the Marines. Relax, Captain. Nobody's coming or going on this base without your approval."

  The Whiplash troopers sitting around the table smirked at each other.

  "Raise is two bucks to you, Zen," said Sergeant Kevin Bison. "Now that we're safe, I feel I can open up my game and bet the limit."

  "You making a joke, soldier?" said Klacker.

  "Oh, no, ma'am. I'm just feeling real warm and toasty now that the Marines are here to save my bacon."

  "Lieutenant, maybe you and I ought to discuss this outside," said Danny.

  Lieutenant Klacker glared at Bison, gave the evil eye to the rest of the trailer, then exited. As Danny passed the Marines, one of them said in a stage whisper, "No disrespect, sir, but I'd watch out. She's got one hell of a temper. And if she volunteers to scrimmage you in tae kwon do, don't do it."

  "That's all right," said Danny. "I never scrimmage. Or fight fair."

  Klacker was waiting for him outside. "Why are you letting your men disrespect the Corps?" "They're not," said Danny. "Disrespect is bullshit, Captain."

  "Whoa, hold on, Lieutenant. I agree. None of my people are going to disrespect the Corps. Whiplash has worked with the Corps before. We have nothing but respect."

  "What do you mean, Whiplash?"

  "That's who we are."

  The Marine officer looked at him suspiciously. "Bullshit, you are. We were told there was an Air Force survey team down here that needed help with some local rioters."

  Danny laughed.

  "What the hell's so funny, Captain?"

  "That must be the cover they were using up at CentCom or something. We're surveying, all right — we're hunting around the gulf for a Libyan submarine."

  "You're the guys who went into Iran? Whiplash from Dreamland?"

  "That's us."

  "You're Freah?"

  "That's what it says on the uniform."

  "I heard of you." She frowned, as if she still didn't believe him. "You're younger than I heard."

  Danny laughed. "I hope that's a compliment."

  "It is." She stuck out her hand. "My friends call me Dancer. Yes, Captain, I was one, in another lifetime. I have other nicknames, but I don't use them in polite company."

  "I'm Danny." He held out his hand. Based on what the Marine inside had said, he almost expected to be tossed over her shoulder. But she only shook it, gripping it firmly but not trying to crush his fingers the way some women officers did, trying to prove they were as tough as men. "I appreciate your coming down to help out," Danny told her.

  He explained that they had been ordered to leave, and were currently arranging to do just that. He covered a few administrative details, beginning with the fact that there was plenty of space in the building they'd been given if the Marines wanted to bunk out.

  "Saudis have been letting us eat over at the cafeteria," Danny added finally. "Base commander said additional troops wouldn't be a problem. I didn't tell him they were Marines."

  Dancer smiled. "Best to spring that on them at the last minute."

  Danny gave a brief overview of the defenses, showing her some of the nonlethal bullet panels and pointing out the general location of the blimp overhead. It couldn't be seen in the night sky, its skin of LEDs rendering it almost invisible.

  "Details about a lot of our systems are classified," Danny added. "Obviously, we're going to be working with you, and we'll be sharing what you need to know. But I'd ask that you emphasize the fact that they are classified to your people."

  "They're not people, they're Marines." Dancer smiled. "Don't worry. They won't tell anybody the secrets to your success. But if I were you, I'd check on that poker game right away. My guys can be ruthless when the stakes are high."

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  2350

  "What's Piranha's status?" Dog asked Delaford.

  "Still swimming merrily along," he said. "But we're going to have to drop another buoy soon."

  "You have a location for me?"

  "Same as before," said Delaford. "Here."

  The computer took the plot from Delaford's system and integrated it into the sitrep map on Dog's cockpit panel. The Megafortress was about fifty miles due north of Mayhd on the Somalian coast. To reach the next drop point he'd have to swing eastward about thirty miles, which would mean taking the Flighthawk with him. They could watch the two ships by radar easily enough.

  "We'll drop this buoy, but we may have to put the probe to sleep," Dog told Delaford.

  "I'd really prefer to avoid that if we can, Colonel," said Delaford. "We'd be better off putting it into autonomous mode and letting it go on its own to a rendezvous point."

  "Sleep mode" was just that — the probe turned most of its systems off and sat in the water until receiving a signal to reactivate. "Autonomous mode" meant that it would use its internal system to take it to a specific point in the ocean. The discussion on what to do mixed tactical considerations with technical ones — the probes failed to wake up from sleep mode about twenty-five percent of the time. On the other hand, autonomous mode wasn't foolproof either — the internal navigation system was prone to small errors, which multiplied into tens if not hundreds of miles over time.

  "All right, this is what we're going to do," Dog said finally. "We'll se
nd Piranha west and rendezvous with it somewhere north of Butyallo or Caluula, small towns on the Somalian coast. In the meantime, we'll drop one last buoy."

  "Sounds good," said Delaford.

  "Starship, hang back near the Oman ship as long as you can, then come east with me for the duration of the buoy drop," Dog told the Flighthawk pilot.

  "On it, Colonel."

  "Let's do it."

  Gulf of Aden

  8 November 1997

  0012

  Ali put down his glasses and checked his watch. They were more than a hundred miles from the rendezvous point for the submarine. They had made very poor progress for a number of reasons, including false reports on the radios that they monitored. Frustrated but resigned, Ali told the helmsman to slow the boat; there was no sense wasting their fuel or pushing their engines further. The other vessels in the flotilla slowed as well.

  A container ship was heading westward in the direction of the Red Sea. On another night, it would be an inviting target.

  "Captain, the radio," said one of the men below.

  Ali leaned down into the cabin, listening to the chatter over the shortwave radio. There had been talk of aircraft and ships all night, most of it false. Twice Ali had taken his boats toward hiding places because of radio reports of American destroyers; he'd had to use his satellite phone to call his own sources to see if these reports were true. He wondered if the Americans had realized that he used the radio calls as part of his intelligence network and decided to infiltrate it somehow. If so, they would have found people who spoke very good Arabic.

  "Near Sury Point," said one of the voices on the radio now. "Three ships low to the water. One large, the others small. Moving quickly."

  Satan's Tail, Ali realized, less than forty miles from him, back to the west.

  And within sixty of the Al Bushra gunboat the volunteers had taken from Oman. If it was a true report. Could he trust it?

  "Has Ghazala sent the signal that he met the submarine?" Ali asked the communications mate. Ghazala commanded the ship he had sent ahead to the rendezvous.

  "Not yet, sir."

  If Ali turned the ships around and raced west, they could engage Satan's Tail before two hours passed. At the same time, the Al Bushra could launch her missiles against it. The American would be caught between the two forces.

  If the American was where these reports said he was.

  The oiler would have to sail on alone. And the Sharia would have to return to its mooring. She was not ready to do

  battle.

  It was a gamble, based on possibly inaccurate information. But if he waited to verify it, the chance might slip through his fingers.

  Had God given him the Al Bushra for this attempt? It had not been required for the oiler, and seemed to have no other role — surely it was intended to attack the devil ship.

  "Signal the other boats," said Ali. "Satan's Tail awaits."

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  0020

  "Where are you?"

  "Fifty feet over Al Huwaymi, heading out toward the gulf," Zen told his wife Breanna. The control unit for the Werewolves had been housed in the hangar behind the Mega-fortress parking area. Zen sat surrounded by the large black carrying cases used to ship the equipment, a tangle of wires forming a nest around his wheelchair. The control unit had only two panels set up. Both were twenty-one-inch LCD flatscreens. The panel on the right showed a three-dimension simulation of where the Werewolf was, the area it flew over rendered as a wire model, with green and red lines delineating the topography. The Werewolf was a stubby yellow double cross that, if you squinted just right, looked a little like the aircraft itself. It reminded Zen of the first Flighthawk simulation — which wasn't coincidental, since the program was essentially the same one.

  Give or take five million lines of code…

  The panel on the left showed the video feed from the Werewolf's nose. The camera was not light-enhanced, and even though they were using the Dreamland satellite system, the transmission was choppy.

  "Doesn't it feel weird to be sitting here in a hangar, five hundred miles away, guiding an aircraft over hostile territory?" asked Breanna as she handed Zen an ice cold cola.

  "Four hundred and seventy-two miles away, and Yemen is not necessarily hostile territory," said Zen. "The computer is actually doing the flying. I just nudge the control stick every so often so it thinks I'm in control."

  "You know what I mean. I can see with the Flighthawks. I mean, you're in a plane. But this — it's like a computer game."

  "I guess," said Zen, taking the cola. "You used to say that."

  "I used to." He took a long sip from the soda. "I guess I've gotten used to it." "I guess."

  "Ten years from now, Bree, everything will be remote control."

  "I hope not."

  "Well, how did it feel flying the Unmanned Bomber?" he asked.

  "Too weird. That's why I gave it up." "Temporarily. For the deployment in the Pacific." "Permanently."

  Zen glanced up at her. Breanna had gone through a lengthy debate several months before when she was offered command of the Unmanned Bomber project. It was an important project and a very important position, especially for an ambitious female captain. The Unmanned Bomber was a hypersonic aircraft designed to be fitted with either a laser or a high-energy discharge weapon. There was no guarantee that the UMB, as it was known at Dreamland, would go into production, but even if it didn't, the project was likely to be the touchstone for a dozen future systems, from engines to weapons. Taking command of the project would surely put Breanna on the fast track for a general's star, and beyond.

  "You don't want the project?" Zen asked.

  "I like to fly when I fly," she said.

  "Well, some of us can't."

  "I don't mean it like that," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  "No harm, no foul," he said. He'd have to save the discussion about her future for another time. "I gotta do a cut here in thirty seconds," he added. "Then I have to contact Xray Pop and make sure the global positioning system is working properly. Okay?"

  "Never interrupt a pilot on a mission, even when he's sitting in a hangar 472 miles away."

  "Four hundred and eighty-five. These things move pretty quick."

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  0055

  "The Oman ship is now heading northeast," said Dish. "Still moving ahead."

  "What about the tanker?" Dog asked.

  "He's still more or less where he was. A little closer to the coast maybe. Definitely moving, just not very fast."

  "What do you think, Tommy?" Dog asked Delaford.

  "The Oman patrol boat, the Al Bushra ship, she's headed in Xray Pop's direction. Beyond that, though, I'm just not sure. He's at twenty knots or so. That's close to his top speed, if not right at it."

  "Still doesn't answer any hails," said McNamara.

  Dog banked the Megafortress. They were at 35,000 feet, twenty miles off the coast of Somalia. None of the Ethiopian aircraft they'd tussled with the night before had come out. Several radars in Yemen had switched on and off during the night, but they were too far away to find them.

  "Have a contact I think is the Abner Read" said Dish. "Just barely there. Very small radar return, now twenty miles to our east. Couple of other very small ships, very small, about ten miles farther east. The radar signature is so small we can't even ID the ship. Kind of like looking at a stealth bomber. I'd guess it's next to invisible to a surface radar until you're maybe inside five miles."

  "You sure about those locations?"

  "Locations? Absolutely."

  "Commander Delaford — the Shark Boats that patrol with the Abner Read …Would they be trailing him by ten miles?"

  "I'm not sure, Colonel. Why?" "Just two of them," said Dog.

  "Actually we have four now, Colonel. They're moving fast — faster than he is. About fifty knots."

  Dog reached to the communicati
ons panel, punching into the Dreamland circuit.

  "Zen, have you contacted the Abner Read?"

  "I'm supposed to radio the ship when I'm five miles away, about forty-five seconds from now," said Zen, piloting the Werewolf. "We're about ten miles due north of the last calculated rendezvous point."

  "We have some contacts to your east. Can you see them?"

  "Hang on."

  Dog watched the composite radar screen, which compiled the positions of both surface and ship contacts. The Werewolf was closer to the trailing ships than to the Abner Read.

  "Can't see them," said Zen. "I can change course."

  "Don't do that," said Dog. "You say you're only five miles from the Abner Read?"

  "Affirmative. They have to turn their lights on for me to land. The automated system can't interface with them, and they're a moving target."

  "All right. Contact them and arrange to drop those com units. I'm going to talk to Captain Gale and suggest you check out these contacts. How much fuel do you have aboard?"

  "Another thirty minutes worth. I was told they had fuel on the ship."

  "They do. Stand by."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  Gulf of Aden

  0100

  Storm could hear the aircraft approaching in the distance.

  "Lights," he said into his microphone.

  The landing deck of the destroyer glowed white. Storm looked upward, as much to shield his eyes as to look for the helicopter. The sound grew louder, the roar of a steam locomotive drowning out the sounds of the Abner Read; the hum of her engines and the high-pitched hiss of her lights.

  "There, Captain, there she is."

  The aircraft buzzed across the fantail, ten feet off the deck. It circled to the right, buzzing to the end of the glow and coming back. It looked more like an alien spaceship than a helicopter. It took another pass, and then spun smartly around, dropping into a hover and descending on the Abner Read's helicopter landing pad.

  Storm had never seen anything like it. The aircraft looked like a combination of an airplane and a helicopter. It was small, its body no bigger than a good-sized desk. And it had just executed a perfect landing on a destroyer moving at close to forty knots, all the while guided by someone hundreds of miles away.