Satan's Tail d-7

by Dale Brown

  He didn't like Bastian, but he had to give the devil his due — his techno toys worked pretty damn well.

  Two of the Abner Read crewmen approached the helicopter as its rotors spun down. Because the Werewolf was so small, there was little clearance between the deck and the rotors, and they had to wait until the propellers stopped spinning. When they finally did, the men rushed forward, leaned in with big chain cutters, and snapped the wire restraints that held the case beneath the Werewolf's belly. The aircraft had landed on it; there was no way to retrieve it until the helo took off.

  "Go!" yelled Storm. "Go!"

  The rotors spun in opposite directions, making an eerie whirling sound. The first revolution seemed lazy, almost against its will; the second was a little faster; with the third, the aircraft sprung upward in a fury and was gone.

  "Lights!" yelled Storm.

  As the lights were doused, the voice of one of the men in the Tactical Center below yelled over the combat intercom system: "Here they come!"

  "Hard right rudder!" said Storm. "Weapons! Prepare to fire!"

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  0112

  A long streak of yellow flashed in the screen, mor-phing to white and then breaking back into yellow. Zen leaned on the control stick for the Werewolf, whipping the robot helicopter out of the line of fire. The computer opened a targeting window at the right side of his screen, boxing the cannon on the deck of the lead pirate ship. Zen reached forward and tapped the screen, manually designating the target and allowing the computer to fire as soon as it was locked. Unlike in the Flighthawk, he didn't have to line up head-on for a shot — the computer rotated the chain gun, firing to the right as the Werewolf flew nearly parallel to its target. The 30mm shells drew a thick line across the front of the small patrol craft, tearing through the gun, surrounding deck, and nearby superstructure. Zen banked sharply and took manual control of the gun to rake the rear of the patrol craft. The computer recorded the hits on a wire-model projection in the targeting screen, painting them as dark red flashes and estimating the damage: No critical systems had been hit, but the vessel's forward gun was out of action.

  A barrage of bullets erupted from a second patrol boat a half mile away. The Werewolf pirouetted in the sky as Zen lined up the new target. The target box painted the enemy ship's bridge; Zen stabbed the screen and concentrated on ducking the sudden burst of bullets from the enemy ship. The Werewolf fired several times, recording hits on the bridge, but the patrol boat continued to fire and Zen had to pull off.

  His control screen flashed red. Fuel state low, said a message in the middle of the screen.

  "Is that all?" he said, relieved, but as if in answer, the computer flashed a fresh message:

  Damage to rear stablizer fin. 25 percent.

  And then several others in rapid succession:

  Damage to hydraulic system 1. Offline.

  Damage to Hydraulic system 2. 24 percent.

  Damage to control system 1, CPU unit. 20 percent.

  "Now's where it starts to get interesting," said Zen, pushing the joystick to line up for another run at the pirate.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  Gulf of Aden

  0114

  "Missile away!"

  A Harpoon missile leapt from the vertical launcher on the forward deck. The flare from the lower stage of the rocket glared through the windscreen at the front of the bridge, painting the gear and crew an eerie yellow.

  "Where are my guns!" Storm barked into his microphone.

  At least three people answered, "Firing!" as the destroyer started to rock with the beat of six 155mm shells fired in rapid succession from the forward weapon. The crew on the bridge and in the Tactical Center cheered as the weapon hit home.

  "Target one is demolished!"

  "Target one sunk!"

  "We got the son of a bitch."

  "Take that for Commander Marcum, you bastards!"

  "Take out the rest of the boats," said Storm calmly. "Steady, gentlemen. Executive officer, Eyes, everyone, steady, now. We have not yet begun to fight."

  Gulf of Aden

  0115

  The sea around them erupted as the American ship began spitting its shells. A helicopter zipped above, firing a cannon at the lead vessel in Ali's flotilla. One of the crewmen began firing the machine gun at it, the barrage so close and loud that Ali had to put his mouth directly to his helmsman's ear to make himself be heard.

  "Continue the attack!" he shouted. "We need more time. Torpedoes!" he added. "Fire the torpedoes!"

  One of the shells from Satan's Tail landed in the water ten or fifteen yards away, sending a spray of salt water over the boat. The small vessel rocked back and forth, slapped by the waves and explosions.

  "Torpedoes! Fire!" yelled Ali. He reached down and picked up the flare gun. As the flare shot upward, he pulled the satellite phone from his pocket. "Fire on these coordinates!" he told his cousin Mabrukah aboard the Oman missile boat. "Fire! Fire! Fire!"

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  0115

  "Missile in the air!" yelled Starship, his voice so loud Dog probably could have heard him without the benefit of the interphone system. "Two missiles in the air!"

  "Exocet antiship missiles," said Dog's copilot, Kevin Mc-Namara, much more calmly. "Fired toward the Abner Read."

  "That's good enough for me," said Dog. "Target the Oman ship. Open bomb bay doors."

  "Bay," repeated the copilot.

  The Megafortress bucked as the large doors at the base of the rear fuselage swung open. Dog pushed his stick forward, nosing into a fifteen-degree angle toward the vessel that had just launched the missiles.

  "Vessel targeted," said McNamara.

  "Fire Harpoon."

  The missile clunked off the rotating dispenser, already on a direct line to the enemy ship. Four hundred eighty-eight pounds of high explosives were locked into the fat target less than eight miles away.

  Dog hit the preset button on the communications panel to open the radio channel to Storm. But the Abner Read's crew apparently had not been able to activate the communications unit yet.

  "Broadcast a missile warning to Abner Read," Dog told McNamara.

  "Already have. Harpoon two is ready to fire."

  "Fire Harpoon two."

  "Launching."

  The turbojet engine at the rear of the missiles ignited, ramping their airspeed toward five hundred knots. They had one more of the antiship weapons left.

  "Radar system on the missile boat is attempting to lock," said the copilot.

  "ECMs," said Dog, ordering electronic counter measures.

  "They're firing surface-to-air missiles! Radar-guided! Harpoon one missed," said McNamara, incredulous.

  "Target them again."

  "Targeting. Missile in the air! Coming for us."

  Dog held to his course, waiting for the copilot to lock the Harpoon's guidance system on the target. The missile that had been launched was identified as an SA-S-4; the Wisconsin was flying at the outer edge of its range, though that was no guarantee of safety. With the bomb bay doors open, the Megafortress's radar cross section was more than ample for the missile's guidance system to see. They were high but moving relatively slow, and except for the ECMs, which confused the missile's guidance systems, they would be an easy target.

  "We have a lock," said the copilot.

  "Fire Harpoon," said Dog.

  "Firing."

  "Crew, stand by for some jinking," said Dog. "Button us up, Kevin."

  As their last antiship missile dropped from the belly, the copilot closed the bomb bay, instantly making them less visible to radar. Dog pressed the chaff release button, sending bundles of metallic tinsel into the air. An old but still effective counterweapon, the chaff acted like a smoke screen, making it harder for the enemy to pick the Megafortress out of the sky. Dog jabbed the control stick to jerk the Megafortress in a new direction, a wide receiver giving the defensiv
e backs an open-field fake.

  Even so, it wasn't enough — a warning tone in Dog's headset told him the missile was closing in.

  Starship pointed the Flighthawk toward the ship, leaning toward the screen as he nosed into a forty-five-degree dive, plunging at the rectangular bridge at the center of his screen. A puff of smoke flashed at the left side of his screen, and black lines began to rise on the right.

  Starship felt the Megafortress lurch beneath him. He fought off the distraction. The targeting pipper danced left and right, the ship below seeming to slip back and forth as if it sensed he was coming. The screen blinked yellow and he pressed the trigger, even though he knew it was too early. The shells trailed downward and he let go, pulling up on the stick as the Flighthawk lost some of its momentum. He had no target now; he'd ruined his approach by firing too soon and was caught flatfooted in the air, flying toward a cloud of antiaircraft fire. Starship bit the side of his lip, angry but trying to control his emotions, knowing he wasn't that far off. He managed to duck right and pull around sharply enough to get a burst in, this time on target, but he was beyond the vessel before he could fire more than a handful of bullets.

  Starship leveled off, took a breath, then pushed the plane into a long, almost lackadaisical bank low over the ocean, trying to convince himself that this was just another of the hundred or two hundred simulations he had run with Zen and Kick during training a few months before. Kick had been better at the attack missions — he'd flown an A-10A Warthog, a real stick and rudder aircraft, and was used to using the cannon on surface targets. Starship had learned a lot just by watching his laid-back, no rush approach; it was a different head than the balls-out fighter jock Starship was used to.

  The Flighthawk had dropped below fifty feet, and the computer gave him a warning as he came out of the turn. "Thanks, Mama," he told it.

  A message flashed on the Flighthawk control screen:

  Indecipherable Command. Please repeat.

  "Never mind," Starship told the computer.

  The warship filled his viewer, the superstructure looming in the right quadrant. The cursor flashed yellow, then red.

  Starship pressed the trigger, watching as the bullets tore into the metal.

  * * *

  "Twenty seconds!" shouted the copilot as the enemy missile approached.

  Dog counted off five more, then yanked the stick and fired off more chaff, trying to roll the Megafortress out of the way.

  It worked — kind of. The missile sailed toward the spot the Megafortress had been, and then, sensing it had missed, ignited. The Wisconsin was far enough away to miss the main force of the explosion, though a ripple through the controls and a red warning light on the panel told Dog they hadn't escaped completely.

  "Damage to the right stabilizer," said McNamara, monitoring the system status screens at the copilot's station. "Not critical."

  Dog had his hands full for the moment, steadying the big plane as a fresh volley of missiles were launched upward from the amphibious vessel.

  "ECMs," he told the copilot. "Let's put a little more distance between us and them."

  "ECMs active. Harpoon one has its target — impact! We've got it."

  "Bastian, are you there?" asked Storm on the Dreamland circuit. His face appeared in the video screen; it was rounder than Dog had expected, younger as well, but the scowl seemed familiar.

  "Missiles headed your way," said Dog.

  "Yes, we're taking evasive action. Where are you?"

  "We've fired two Harpoon missiles at the Oman ship," said Dog. "He's fired surface-to-air missiles and we're taking evasive action."

  "Good," said Storm.

  He started to say something else but it was drowned out by an explosion. The image shook; Storm fell to the side and then the screen blanked.

  "We're flying east, Starship," Dog announced over the interphone. "Stay with me."

  "More missiles coming off the ship!" said Starship. "A whole barrage! Looks like they're launching everything they've got! The front of the ship's on fire!"

  "Exocets," said the copilot.

  "Better warn Storm," said Dog.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  Gulf of Aden

  0121

  As Storm felt himself falling backward he realized the close-in guns had somehow missed one of the Exocets. He hit the side of the holograph table before he could brace himself, and saw black as he fell to the deck of the bridge, floundering there for a moment before managing to roll over and get to his knees. He glanced across the bridge and saw that the helmsman had strapped himself into his seat and remained at his station.

  "Damage control, report," said Storm, pulling himself to his feet.

  There was no answer, or at least none that he could sort out through the cacophony of voices over the open intercom. He punched the control pane on the holographic display for the ship's system report. The Phalanx close-in gun had actually struck the missile, but it had done so very close to the ship and the explosion had sprayed the Abner Read with shrapnel from the warhead. They had taken several hits amidships and there was a fire in the seamen's quarters be-lowdecks. Propulsion, Weapons, and Guidance were all operating normally.

  "We're fighting a fire," said a garbled voice, presumably one of the firefighters.

  The damage wasn't that bad.

  Storm pulled the headset off his ears, still partly dazed. He tapped the hologram's controls, bringing the image back to the bird's-eye view. One of the forward guns began firing outside.

  There were three patrol boats, all running like hell toward the coast. The Abner Read was pointed in the other direction.

  "Helm, come about," said Storm. "Pursue those ships."

  "Captain, there are missiles in the air," said the ship's executive officer, who had come up from Tac to make sure Storm was all right.

  "Pursue those pirates!"

  "Aye, Captain. We're tracking incoming missiles."

  "Shoot them down, don't track them!" snapped Storm.

  "Cap, the Dreamland aircraft pilot is trying to contact you," said the communications officer. "They want to know if we need assistance."

  Storm went over to the captain's chair, pulling up the handset. "Bastian?"

  "We're en route. They've barrage-fired several missiles at you, firing everything they have. We've hit them twice. They're on fire."

  "Help me pursue these patrol boats. There are three of them left. They're beyond our radar range."

  Outside, the Phalanx close-in antimissile gun began clattering, trying to ward off the missiles.

  "We are en route. Be advised those patrol boats are in So-malian coastal waters."

  "You want me to call Washington and ask permission to sink them?"

  "I just want to make sure you know where everything is. Bastian out."

  Gulf of Aden

  8 November 1997

  0121

  Ali saw the shell land in the water a few hundred yards away. It streaked from over his shoulder, a ghost in the air.

  "To port," he told the helmsman. "You're steering closer to their fire."

  The helmsman didn't answer. The boat continued to run in the general direction of the shells. Ali turned and reached to physically move his helmsman's hand. It was only then that he realized the man had been killed and was being held up only because he had strapped himself in place.

  Ali took his knife and cut the belt, pushing the man aside so he could take the wheel himself. He angled toward the dark shadow of land to his right. Satan's Tail had never followed them this close to land before — but then, he'd never made such a bold attack before. They weren't going to give up now, territorial waters or no.

  The missiles must have missed. Another failure.

  He turned and shouted to his crewmen at the rear of the vessel. "The mines. Unleash the mines. Then the smoke. We will hide beyond the Prophet's Rocks. Signal the others."

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  Gulf of Aden

  0123
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  Built by France, the Exocet gained fame as an air-launched missile, but it was originally designed as a ship board weapon. The MM38 family — which included the versions launched at the Abner Read—had a range of sixty-five kilometers, or forty miles, and were designed to sink a good-sized warship. After launch, the missile entered what was called an inertial phase, flying in the general direction it had been aimed. A radar altimeter aboard the missile kept it at ten meters above the waves. The relatively low altitude made it difficult for some radars to detect and harder to intercept. As the Exocet neared its target, an active radar seeker in the head switched on, looking for the biggest bull's-eye it could find. At the same time, the missile tucked downward to about three meters above the waves, greatly increasing the difficulty of shooting it down. The MM38 had been superceded by newer designs, but the missile was still potent, especially when a number were used and programmed to attack from different directions.

  As the missiles approached the Abner Read, the ship's Advanced Close-In Weapons System (ACIWS) prioritized each missile and directed its Phalanx guns at the threat, opening fire at a little over fifteen hundred yards. The Abner Read's ACIWS succeeded the earlier Close-In Weapons System (CIWS) standard on most American vessels. Among other improvements, the ACIWS activated "hot," which meant that the system was ready to fire as soon as it was turned on, not needing the sixty-second activation time required by the CIWS. The ACIWS also did a better job identifying threats. Its guns, however, were exactly the same as those controlled by the older system — the venerable M61 Vulcan six-barrel Gatling design. The cannon had been used by American forces in one shape or another since 1958, when a pilot in an F-105 Thunderchief wrote his name on a test target with one. Despite a number of improvements in the associated systems and innovations like tungsten bullets, the gun itself had been virtually unchanged, a testimony to the hard work and solid engineering of its original inventors.