by Dale Brown
Jed had arranged a dozen pictures and graphics in a PowerPoint program for the Security Council; they began with a map of the Gulf of Aden showing where the pirates had struck, documenting clearly that they were using coastal waters to hide. The last photo was a video capture from a Flighthawk; it showed the Oman gunship firing one of its missiles. The picture was shot from a distance and was grainy though provocative. Just as important, it didn't give anything about the Flighthawk away. Neither the robot plane nor the Megafortress would be mentioned in the presentation. From a security point of view, the only possibly dicey photo was a month-old satellite picture of a patrol boat tied up amid some civilian boats at a dock on the Somalian coast. The image had been taken by a KH-12 Improved Crystal satellite; Jed had reproduced it at a low resolution, but the image was still detailed enough to allow the identification of a goat in one of the yards. Three different people had already signed off on it, but Jed was still debating whether to blur it further.
"Here we are, Jed," said Secretary of State Hartman, entering the room he'd been given to work in. "You know Ambassador Ford."
"Yes, sir."
Stephen Ford was the U.S. ambassador to the UN. Jed had met him perhaps twice, but protocol insisted that they both act like longtime friends, or at least acquaintances, and they did so.
"Let's run through the slides, shall we? Then Stephen and I have to meet with the mayor of New York, Rudy Giuliani. Pretty colorful character."
"Insufferable Yankee fan," said Ford, who was from Boston. "Thank God they lost this year."
"Well, um, we begin with the area map and fade into a slide showing the pirates' strikes over time," said Jed. He maneuvered the laptop so the others could see, hitting the buttons at regular intervals.
"I have more statistics — tonnage lost, number of ships. The numbers are conservative," said Jed as he continued showing them the slides. "I kicked out anything that might have been questionable."
"Why?" asked Ford.
The question took Jed by surprise. "I just thought, uh, that, you know, the Secretary wouldn't want to be questioned on something."
"He'll always be questioned," said Ford. "You have to make the best case, Jed. Always lead with your best argument."
Jed nodded — though there was no chance in hell he was going back for other numbers or changing the presentation if he didn't have to. These were pretty damning in themselves, with an average of nearly a ship a week stopped or attacked.
"This is a missile boat?" asked Ford, looking at the last image.
"Actually, a patrol boat that was being outfitted to be a missile ship. Or upgraded — refitted, I guess would be the right word."
"Dreamland's involved in this?" Ford looked at the Secretary of State. "That might be worth mentioning, because it would persuade China."
"China has already agreed to remain neutral," said Hartman.
"A yes vote is better."
"There are, um, security issues," said Jed.
"Well, there can't be too many issues," said Ford cheerfully. "There's a book coming out about the China incident called Strike Zone. I may write the preface."
"Um, Dreamland still officially doesn't exist," said Jed. "It's not going to be in the book, is it?"
"Doesn't exist?" Ford laughed.
"I think we can get by without mentioning them," said the Secretary of State. "And that book should be vetted before you do a preface."
"Maybe I won't," said Ford. "But I can probably get an advanced copy, right?" He turned to Jed. "Do you have any better pictures?"
"I dulled that satellite picture down because I was worried that it gave too much detail about—"
"No, I mean, more graphic. The presentation has to grab you," said Ford. "Real pictures. People dying. We need a storyline."
Jed glanced at the Secretary of State. "I don't have any pictures of people dying."
"We have to sell this," said Ford. "That's what your slide show has to do."
"This is all I have."
"Put together a strong set, Jed. Work with what you have," said the Secretary. "I'll leave it to you."
"Tell a good story," said Ford, slapping Jed on the back as
they left.
Diego Garcia
9 November
0030
The uncomfortable military-style "cot" in Wisconsin's upper Flighthawk deck left Dog's neck twisted all out of whack when he awoke shortly after landing. He tried stretching it but it remained knotted until Jennifer found him in the office Mack had set aside for him in their new headquarters building. She began kneading his muscles, and he leaned back, feeling some of the knots untangle.
"Ahh," he said as the tension began to slip away.
"I can come back," said Mack Smith at the door.
"That's OK, Major. Come on in. I twisted my neck," said Dog.
"Sure," said Mack, rolling forward. "So, I have a list of ideas for you, Colonel. Thought you'd like to hear them."
"Thanks, Mack, but hold that thought for about thirty-six hours. Your first order of business is to get with Xray Pop and communicate our new patrol schedule. Also find an update on getting the Werewolves out to them. We have two problems — our pilot is sick with the flu, and they don't have enough range on their own. Second one's easier to deal with. There's a base in India we can use to stage them out of — we can take them there via the M/C-17 and run the Osprey over to refuel them en route, since it's already set up to be used as a tanker. Chief Parsons can get the Werewolves adapted— they need their nozzle sets reworked. He said it wouldn't take too long to work out."
"I can fly them," said Jennifer.
"Thanks for volunteering, but you're going to be plenty busy over there as it is. I'm going to get Fred Rosenzwieg in from Dreamland."
"That'll take a day at least," said Jennifer.
"Quicker than waiting for Culver to get better."
The Werewolves' lead pilot, Sandy Culver, had been evacked to Germany from Saudi Arabia because he'd lost so much fluids from the flu. It seemed to have been food poisoning — hopefully from something he'd eaten at home, not at Dreamland.
"Maybe I can fly them," said Mack. "They don't look that hard to learn."
Dog reached back to stop Jennifer, who'd continued her massage as they were talking. "This isn't a great time, Mack. I'm kind of tired. You must be too."
"Nope. Want to hear some of my ideas?"
"Tomorrow's much better. How are your legs?"
"Getting there. I'll be walking any day."
"Great. See you tomorrow."
"One thing we ought to do is come up with real names for the aircraft, the Megafortresses especially," said Mack. "Tell you what — why don't you handle that?" "Fine. I'll get right on it." "In the morning, Mack. People are tired." "Yes, sir."
Dog watched him wheel out.
"I'll fly the Werewolves until the replacement pilot arrives," said Jennifer. "I have to be on the ship anyway. And I'd be testing the system."
"You'll be too busy."
"They're not likely to use them in the next twenty-four hours, are they?"
Dog shrugged. It was the obvious solution, yet still he resisted it. Not because she was a civilian, he thought, and still less because she was a woman.
Then why?
Because he didn't want her to get hurt.
"All right, if you can stand Storm, you can handle the Werewolves until Rosenzwieg gets here," he told her. "Knowing Storm, he'll probably insist that you show him how to fly them so he can do it himself. Any chance of taking Mack with you?"
Jennifer rolled her eyes.
Dog took out the sheet he had used to write his air tasking order, which laid out the upcoming missions. Their four Megafortresses would be used on a straight rotation, one after the other, with only one over Xray Pop at a time. Because of the distances involved, each flight would spend roughly six hours going out to the gulf, six hours on patrol, and six hours returning. The arrangement called for three aircraft to be in the
air at any given moment — one on patrol, one coming home, and one going to relieve the other. That gave the maintainers twelve hours to turn each one around; it sounded like a decent interval, but in practice it could end up very tight. Fortunately, they had more leeway with the Flighthawks, since they had six and were only planning on flying one per mission. But there were only four Flighthawk pilots, and only two — Zen and Starship — had combat experience. Dog had tried to arrange the missions so Zen and Starship would be flying on the night patrols, which was when the pirates were most active. Complicating this immensely was the fact that there were only three Piranha operators, counting Delaford and English. If anyone got hurt or sick, they were in trouble. Zen and Starship were the only backups at the moment.
He needed more planes, more crews, more support, but he'd settle for a closer base of operations. Northern or central Africa would be perfect; northern India would do in a pinch.
"Penny for your thoughts," said Jennifer. "They're worth a quarter at least," said Dog. "But they're not about you."
"They ought to be."
"What time is it in New York?" Dog asked, looking at his watch, which was still set to gulf time: 2216.
"About two-fifteen in the afternoon," said Jennifer.
"Let me see if I can get a hold of Jed. Have you had a chance to look at those Navy systems?"
Jennifer leaned toward him and frowned. "Didn't you just tell Mack it was getting late?"
"That was to get rid of Mack," Dog said. "I have a lot of work to do."
Jennifer started to pout. Dog leaned up and gave her a kiss. "I do have to work." "I know."
"I love you."
"Yeah."
"Hey." He pressed her arm gently. "I do."
"I know." She smiled. "Don't stay up all night."
UN Building,
New York City
7 November 1997
1430
Jed stared at the picture of the Oman missile boat, replaying the conversation he'd had with Ford and the Secretary of State.
Tell a good story.
Put together a strong set of images.
Was he being told to lie? Or just do a good job?
He didn't have any pictures of people dying, as Ford had suggested. He did have a picture of the ship as it fired the missile — that looked pretty graphic. But beyond that?
A picture of the nearby oiler or tanker blowing up would be something.
Except that it hadn't blown up.
Jed brought up one of the photo editing programs on the computer and merged the shot with a blowup of the missile launch. At first it didn't look like much, but as he cropped it and played with the settings in the photo manipulation program, he got it to look pretty gruesome. He dappled and faded, played around some more — the ship appeared to be on fire in a shadowy image.
Was that what Ford wanted?
You couldn't fault the ambassador for wanting to make a strong message, thought Jed, and here it was, all in an easily disseminated jpg file: We have to stop these pirates. They're blowing up the world's oil supply.
And they were too. The message wasn't a lie. They were blowing up whatever they could, killing as many people as they could in the process.
Unfortunately, Jed Barclay didn't happen to have a picture of it.
Except for a phony one. Kind of artistic, though. And definitely dramatic.
His sat phone began to ring. He picked it up and turned it on.
"Mr. Barclay, stand by for Colonel Bastian."
Before he could say anything, Colonel Bastian's voice boomed onto the line.
"Thanks for helping us out on that situation today. What are the odds on us using that facility again?"
"Yeah, OK," said Jed. "The Navy, um, mentioned that you're supposed to work through them."
"Did I get you in trouble?"
"Not yet."
"We could use a base a lot closer to the gulf. Somewhere in Africa."
"I've tried, Colonel. No go."
"What about India?"
"Boss is opposed to that for a bunch of reasons," Jed
told Dog.
There was a knock on the door. "Your lunch is here, sir," said a voice in the hall. "OK, cool," said Jed. "Just leave it. Uh, Colonel, I gotta run."
"All right. If you can arrange for us to use that base again as a backup, though, I'd appreciate it." "I'll work on it."
He ended the call, then pulled over the laptop. He slid his finger on the touchpad and moved the pointer to the X at the top of the corner of the program window.
DO YOU WANT TO SAVE? asked the computer.
He hesitated, then pressed YES.
Diego Garcia
0400
Mack was too keyed-up and too time-lagged to sleep. He read some of the CD-ROM manuals on the Piranha and basic naval warfare tactics. By four a.m. he'd read his fill and was still restless. He pulled on a sweater and roamed out of the building. His wheels splashed through a deep puddle near the road.
"Hold on there," said an authoritative voice behind him. Mack turned around and recognized Boston, one of the Whiplash team members.
"Sergeant Rockland. Good morning." "Morning, Major. Out for a stroll?" "A roll more like it."
"Yeah." Ben Rockland — Boston to those who knew him — pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He had an M4 rifle with him, a shortened version of the M16 preferred by airborne and some special operations troops. "Want a
butt?"
"No. I didn't know you smoked."
"Out in the wilderness, there's nothing else to do." Boston lit up and took a drag. "How you doing with that thing?" "Chair? Pain in the ass. Literally."
"Yeah." Boston took a pensive smoke. "My brother is a paraplegic."
"No shit. Sorry." "Yeah. Sucks big-time." "It does."
"You're gonna be OK, though, right?"
He was. That's what everybody said. But he sure as hell didn't feel like he was going to be OK.
"Bet your ass," said Mack. That was what people wanted to hear.
"Good." Boston took a long puff on his cigarette. "Well, don't get run over by a bike. That's the main means of travel around here."
"I don't think there are too many people going to knock me over at this hour." "Probably not."
"What happened to him?" asked Mack. "My brother? Car accident." "No hope?"
"Nah. People, you know, they tell him to cheer up and shit, but, I mean some days he gives it a good show. He really does. But he ain't the same person. He played basketball in high school. Not like he was a star or nothing, but I mean, to go from that to this. Sucks."
"Yeah."
"You're going to get better, though." Am I, thought Mack. When?
"Hey, you need like a ride somewhere? We have two vehicles. We brought in a pair of gators, you know, the little ATV things."
"I don't really know where I'd go this time of night."
"Gym's open. Fitness center. It's over by the billeting office. Open 24/7. Come on. I'll just tell Nurse I'm taking you over."
"Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate that." "You can call me Boston. Everybody does." "Thanks, Boston."
UN Building,
New York City
7 November 1997
1830
The corridor seemed to close in around Jed as he walked with the Secretary of State and the rest of the American entourage toward the chamber where the Security Council meeting was to be held. They were running late; the meeting should have started a half hour ago. But the delay was well worth it. The Secretary had spent the time convincing Russia to vote in favor of the proposal. Britain was strongly in favor. China had already agreed to abstain. That left only France among the permanent members that could veto the measure. The French had been presented a draft of the proposal, but the Secretary had not been able to schedule a meeting with them. According to Ford, that wasn't a bad sign. He predicted that Egypt, one of the rotating Security Council members and a key regional ally, would agree because of pressure from Oman as w
ell as the U.S.
They reached the doorway. There were people ahead, murmuring. The Secretary paused, then swept right. Jed followed, and was suddenly inside the National Security Council hall. Along with the ambassador and Secretary of State, he moved to the U.S. spot at the table. Jed sat in one of the modernistic blue seats directly behind Ambassador Ford.
He'd seen the room on a tour as a kid and vaguely remembered it now — more for Rosie Crowe's hair than the awe he should have felt. He hadn't felt any awe at all then.
Now he did.
Security Council President Fernando Berrocal Soto of Costa Rica gaveled the session to order. The murmurs crescendoed and then there was silence.
Secretary of State Hartman leaned forward and began his speech.
"The international community cannot withstand the continued depredations of lawlessness in the Gulf of Aden, which escalate every day," he read. The words had looked good on paper — they had sounded great when the Secretary tried them out on Jed and some of the staff — but they came off flat here, a little off-key and hurried.
Jed thought of what a nightmare it would be if he had to speak — how terrible his stutter would be.
The ambassador cited some statistics and then spoke of the "horrible outrage" involved in the stealing of the Oman missile ship.
Jed saw the Kenyan representative frowning.
How could he frown? It was an outrage.
"Would someone dim the lights?" said the Secretary of State, moving to the final stage of the presentation, showing the evidence Jed had compiled.
There was a scramble at the side of the room as the lights were dimmed. They had given a CD-ROM with the presentation to one of the aides, who'd set up a projector and a screen. As the slide show began, Jed heard the ambassador reading the script he'd written, and cringed. He should have done a much better job, he thought, been more eloquent.
He glanced around and saw more frowns; mostly frowns. Ford was right: He should have gotten more narrative in. He should have used that slide of the ship exploding. No one would have frowned at that.
The lights came back on. The floor moved to the representative from Oman, who deplored the "action of brazen, misguided thieves and radicals." He called on the international community for action. Ford turned around and gave Jed a thumbs-up.
