Satan's Tail d-7

by Dale Brown

A stream of bullets spit into the air toward the first Exo-cet, hosing the missile down into the water. As a cannon rotated toward a second missile, the Exocet disappeared from the radar system, swallowed by the waves as its guidance system malfunctioned. The ACIWS interpreted this as some sort of electronic trick and rallied its weapons into the space it thought the missile was hiding in. The hiccup caused the system a second or two of hesitation before it could focus on the third and fourth missiles, which were skimming toward the destroyer's stern. One was destroyed at approximately five hundred meters from the ship; the last, however, was less than a hundred yards away when it detonated. This was of little consequence to the Abner Read, but it was very close to one of the Shark Boats, which had inadvertently maneuvered close to the mother-ship. Part of the missile smashed through the superstructure of the small vessel, destroying the embedded radio mast and a good portion of the baffling system that lowered the infrared heat signature coming from the smokestack. It also killed three of the Shark Boat's crew and sent one overboard, the ship stumbling in a spray of steam and smoke.

  Storm couldn't see the strike from the bridge, but Eyes saw it on the board in the Tac Center, and immediately lost contact with the craft.

  "Three's been hit," he told Storm.

  Storm clicked into his preset. "Boat Three, this is Storm. Kelly, what's going on over there. Kelly?" "Radio's out, Cap," said Eyes. "How bad are they hit?" "System's still evaluating."

  Unsure what the damage was, Storm realized his people were his top priority. The pirates would get away once more.

  He slammed the side of the holographic display in frustration.

  "Bring us into position to help Boat Three," he ordered. "Eyes!"

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Where are those pirates?"

  "We've lost them close to shore, Cap."

  "Dreamland, I need you now," Storm said, punching into the Dreamland line. "Where are those patrol boats?"

  "We can give you headings from the last-known GPS locations, but at the moment they're hidden in the clutter of the shoreline," said McNamara, the copilot aboard the Megafortress.

  "Give my weapons people whatever you have," he said. "Eyes — get with the flyboys and target these pirates. I want them sunk! Get Boat One into position to follow them. Have Boat Two stand by with us to render assistance to Shark Boat Three. We'll join One once we're sure of the situation here."

  "Mines ahead," warned the computer, giving the helmsman a verbal warning as well as flashing it on his heads-up screen. Storm turned around and looked at the hologram, where the mines were popping up as small red triangles. The detection system could "paint" the location of the mines in the HUD, but the Abner Read had to slow down for the system to work properly. And the Shark Boat could not proceed on its own through a minefield.

  "Eyes! Some sort of minefield ahead. Warn the Shark

  Boat."

  "Sent a warning to them already, Cap." "Do you have the target data?" asked Storm. "Working on it, sir."

  "Bastian, it's now or never," Storm said, though he was not hooked into the Dreamland line. "Now or never."

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  0128

  Zen emptied his chain gun on the last of the patrol boats. He was now into his fuel reserves, and had to land or risk losing the Werewolf. He spun the aircraft back in the direction of the American ships, which were now nearly forty miles to the west.

  "I'm out of fuel and out of lead," he said over the Dreamland circuit, hoping the Abner Read had tied into the circuit by now. "I have to land."

  "Who are you?" asked a voice.

  "This is Major Stockard. I'm flying the Werewolf. It's the helo that brought the communications gear to the Abner Read. I've been shooting at your pirates for you but I'm running on fumes. I need to land."

  "What assistance do you need?"

  Landing lights would be nice, thought Zen, but under the circumstances that was a bit much to ask.

  "I don't need anything," he said. "I just want you to know. Don't fire on me. I don't want the hassle of trying to duck your Phalanx gun system."

  "OK, we understand. We understand. You're inbound. We see you on the radar. We're passing the word."

  The words FUEL EMERGENCY flashed on the screen.

  Pass it quick, thought Zen, settling into a hover over the ship.

  Aboard the Wisconsin

  0133

  Starship could see a light glowing in the distance as he approached, and realized it was the Werewolf Zen had been flying.

  "Hawk One to Dreamland Werewolf," he said. "Hey, Zen, I'm approaching you from the northwest."

  "Werewolf," acknowledged Zen. "Starship, they have a Shark Boat that's been struck by a missile. They may have people in the water."

  "Roger that, Werewolf. I'll do a low and slow and turn with the infrared cameras."

  "Werewolf. Be advised, I'm into my fuel reserves." Dog broke into the circuit. "Dreamland Werewolf, are you landing aboard the Abner Read?" "That's my intention, Colonel."

  "All right. Starship, take the circuit around the stricken boat and assist with the rescue efforts. Then continue east and help us locate the pirates."

  "Roger that."

  Starship could see the robot helicopter veering to his left, skimming in an arc and landing on the nearby ship.

  "Starship, do you have the location?" asked Zen.

  "Roger that, Werewolf. I'm coming— Shit!"

  The air in front of him erupted with 20mm shells. Star-ship hit the throttle and pushed the Flighthawk's nose toward the water, but he'd been caught entirely by surprise. The left wing of the robot aircraft had been chewed severely by the Phalanx's 20mm cannon.

  "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" yelled Zen.

  "Friendly fire! Friendly fire! I'm on your side! I'm on your side!" screamed Starship.

  His systems screen lit, showing so many problems that the display looked like a solid splotch of red. Starship struggled to compensate for the mangled wing surface, leaning to the right with the joystick, as if his body might somehow help keep the tiny aircraft alive. He leveled off for a few seconds, but the Flighthawk's forward airspeed had dropped below one hundred knots and wouldn't come up. The computer began to push up the forward leading edge on the left wing for some bizarre reason. Starship had to override it with a direct voice command. He got an altitude warning but stayed with the aircraft, starting to build momentum. Then a second hail of bullets swarmed in front of him and the Flighthawk screen went dead.

  He was so angry he smashed his fist in the middle of the control panel, breaking several of the keys.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  Gulf of Aden

  0134

  "What the hell is going on!" demanded Storm. "Where did that missile come from!"

  "No missile — it was the Dreamland flight," said Eyes.

  "What? The Megafortress?"

  "No, Storm, a Flighthawk. He was trying to locate our people in the water. The ACIWS read it as a missile." "Turn it off, damn it!"

  "I did, sir, I did," said the defensive weapons operator. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

  "Rescue party, prepare to render assistance as needed," Storm said.

  "Cap, you're being hailed on the Dreamland channel by Colonel Bastian," said the communications officer.

  Storm switched over to the Dreamland circuit. "Bastian?"

  "You hit one of my planes."

  "I'm sorry. What the hell was it doing that low?"

  "Taking a low level run to look for survivors from your boat damaged by the missile."

  "Do you need assistance?"

  "It's an unmanned flight."

  "Right. Find those pirates."

  Aboard the Wisconsin

  0145

  Dog ran through the diagnostics again, reassessing the damage to the Wisconsin's tail. According to the computer, shrapnel had ripped up the skin of about a fifth of the starboard stabilizer but its structural integrity had not been threatened. The damage did not appr
eciably limit the aircraft's maneuverability, though Dog knew he should be gentle until the plane was inspected on the ground.

  Unlike a standard B-52, the Megafortresses had a V-shaped tail. The leading and trailing edges of the tail surface were adjusted by the flight computer automatically to improve the aircraft's flight characteristics. The adjustments were "transparent," or invisible to the pilot, with the computer interpreting what he wanted to do and adjusting all of the plane's control surfaces to do it. The flight control computer had no trouble compensating for the damage to the control surfaces on the tail; it also prepared an assessment of how much trouble it would have in more demanding circumstances, deciding that the Megafortress could perform at "ninety-four percent efficiency." Dog smiled at the assessment — computers, and the engineers who made them work, always wanted to put a number on things.

  "We just can't find the patrol boats, Colonel," said Dish. "Faded into the coastline."

  "All right," said Dog.

  "We have to work on the systems recognizing those ships and filtering out the clutter from the coast," added Dish. "This system was adapted from the airborne system and optimized for large ships on the open sea. Coastlines bring all sorts of other problems. There are three or four dozen places they could be."

  "Agreed, Sergeant."

  "And no offense, sir, but, uh, if we coordinated better— working with Xray Pop instead of against them — we might have started with a better profile for the computer to use on its tracking. One of the difficulties of this all being automated."

  "Can't argue with you, Dish."

  One of these days, thought Dog, I'm going to sit down and write the collected common sense of Air Force sergeants. It'll be a best seller — though since it would come from sergeants, no officer would take it seriously.

  Dog tracked out to the Indian Ocean, sweeping the gulf just in case the patrol craft had managed somehow to get this far. As he circled back he told Storm the pirates had slipped away.

  "Figures," snapped Storm. "We should talk," said Dog.

  "I have my hands full right now, Bastian," said the Navy captain, snapping the line dead.

  Dog made a report to the lieutenant commander in the Tactical Center, who was considerably more cooperative, and even upbeat. The Oman ship they targeted had sunk soon after the battle, struck by two Harpoons from the Wisconsin and one from the Abner Read.

  "We monitored a communication from a Liberian tanker a few miles away," said Dog. "They believed they saw some survivors."

  "Stay on top of that," said the Tac commander, whose nickname was Eyes. "What happened to that oiler?"

  "We lost track of it. We'll look for it as soon as we swing back."

  "You probably saved their butts," said Eyes.

  "You figure the Oman government sent the ship to help the pirates?" asked Dog.

  "Your guess is as good as mine out here, Colonel. It's the Wild West with speedboats."

  And Exocet missiles, thought Dog.

  As they continued westward, he checked back in with the team at Khamis Mushait. Danny had gone off to bed; Sergeant Bison gave him the rundown. There were no protesters to be seen, and the Marines were now holding positions around the base. The technical teams were tearing things down and packing so they could relocate to Diego Garcia. The two Megafortresses Dog had ordered in from Dreamland were already en route there. Dog decided that he would have Baker-Baker take a short mission tomorrow, then head to the island directly, once they could work out the relief schedule. How long Wisconsin stayed in Saudi Arabia depended on the damage it had sustained; if it was minimal, he'd gas up and head out ASAP.

  "Scientist wants to talk to you, Colonel," said Bison.

  "Put her on," said Dog.

  Bison moved away from the console. Jennifer's tired face came into view.

  "You oughta be in bed, lady," said Dog. "Is that an offer?" "I wish."

  "Me too." She frowned. "I have a bone to pick with you." "Take a number."

  "I could have flown the Werewolf." "Command decision." Dog didn't feel like arguing with her. "Because I'm a woman, or because I'm a civilian?" "Because you've got a lot of other things to do, like make the LADS blimps work." "They're working."

  "And get ready to get over to Diego Garcia." "We're getting ready."

  "Zen's got more combat experience," he told her. "I can beat him in a Werewolf." "Be that as it may," said Dog.

  "Command decision?" She frowned, but then smiled. "All right. Sorry to bust your chops."

  "At least you apologize," Dog told her. "I miss you." "Me too."

  "I'm going to bed now."

  Dog stared at the blank screen a few seconds, distracted in a way he knew he couldn't afford to be.

  "We miss you back here, Colonel," said Major Catsman at Dreamland when he checked in there. "Mack Smith especially."

  "Mack?"

  "He's telling everyone who'll listen and most of those who won't how he ought to be out there doing real work. He spends all day dreaming up schemes to get more projects under his control. Then he goes and harangues the people involved to try to get them to agree it's a good idea. Yesterday or the day before, it was naval warfare modules for the Werewolves. Today it was a ship-tracking system for the Unmanned Bomber. He may come up with a flying aircraft carrier tomorrow." Dog laughed.

  "I'm serious, Colonel. He's driving everybody nuts. I see where he got his reputation."

  "Trust me, this is the new and improved Mack Smith," said Dog. "What naval warfare modules is he talking about?"

  "I don't recall the specifics. He has studies and tests and things. I don't know if it's any actual programming. To be honest, I'm not paying much attention to most of what he's saying — there's too much to do here."

  "It occurs to me that Whiplash is currently interfacing with the Navy on a full-time basis," Dog told Catsman. "And the person designated to handle the interface is Mack

  Smith."

  "God bless you, Colonel."

  Dog laughed. "Send him over to Diego Garcia. Clear it with the doctors first."

  "They'll carry him aboard the plane."

  Dog went over a few administrative things with Catsman, then signed off. With his copilot flying the plane, he got up and took a stroll around the flight deck, checking the radar operators and stretching — surely one of the pleasures of flying an aircraft whose basic design dated from another era. He went down the ladder to the Flighthawk deck, where Starship sat slumped back in his seat and Delaford reviewed the database of ship traffic.

  "Wasn't your fault, Starship. Their system should have picked up on the identifier and it didn't," Dog told the lieutenant.

  "I know."

  There had been much worse accidents involving friendly fire; this involved only the loss of a robot, not a life. But Dog didn't think pointing that out would console his lieutenant. Instead he tried changing the subject.

  "You ever been to Diego Garcia, Starship?" he asked.

  "No, sir."

  "It's a pretty nice place."

  "We're relocating because of me?"

  "No. Not because of you. Because some of the Saudis don't understand what it is we're about. Orders from the White House and our current mission commander." Dog tried to hold his face neutral as he mentioned Storm. "Nothing to do with you. Lighten up, Starship. Maybe you should try taking a nap."

  "I'm OK, Colonel," said the pilot.

  "Don't get morose. You did a good job with that ship back there. Watch the tape. You did a good job."

  Delaford looked over at him. "Got a second, Colonel?" "Plenty of them."

  "I was looking at our patrol route. I have a couple of places we can drop a buoy and recover the Piranha from automated mode ahead of schedule."

  "Sounds good. Transfer them to my station. We'll do it, assuming our tail holds up and Storm doesn't come up with something else for us to do."

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  0228

  Zen pushed the door to the room open as quietly as
possible, but it had a spring on the hinge and there was no way to keep it open and get inside without a sound. The light snapped on just as he stopped to let it close behind him.

  "Hey," said his wife from the bed.

  "Hey back."

  The room was set up like an oversized hotel room, with the bathroom and a closet off a very narrow hall near the door to the outside. This made it hard to get into the bathroom with his wheelchair, and Zen's maneuvering was complicated by an inch-high piece of marble at the doorway. The marble looked real pretty, unless you had to roll over it.

  "How'd it go?" asked Breanna, coming over in her robe.

  "We ran into some trouble." He slid the chair near the toilet seat and levered himself over. Tired, he nearly flopped into the space between his chair and the commode, but managed to lean forward just enough to plop onto the porcelain seat.

  "Communications system didn't work?" asked Bree.

  She stayed just outside the door, giving him privacy after a quick glance to make sure he was all right. It was one of the many dances they'd perfected since the accident.

  "The communications worked. Dog spotted some fast patrol boats trying to sneak up on them from the east. While Xray Pop was dealing with that, an Oman ship launched missiles."

  "Oman?"

  "Yeah. Supposed to be friendly to the West. Haven't figured that one out yet. One of the Shark Boats got hit by a missile that the Abner Read was shooting down. They crossed too close because of the attack or something. Anyway, ship's still afloat but it's pretty badly beat up. They lost three guys. Then, just for good measure, Abner Read shot down Starship's Flighthawk."

  "You're kidding."

  "I wish. Their automated ship protection system thought it was a cruise missile. Starship thought he could get close to the ship because Werewolf was. Their system's more sophisticated than that, though. Lucky for him."

  "What happened to the pirates?"

  "Dog got the missile ship. We got some hits in — Navy battered one of the little boats pretty well, and I know I hit two — but as far as I could tell, they all got away. They were moving pretty fast. You can't get much on the Werewolf radar beyond five or six miles, and the hook-in from the Megafortress isn't operational."