Satan's Tail d-7

by Dale Brown

  Mortar, thought Danny. Before he had time to react, two of the Marines had begun firing in that direction and a third had used the grenade launcher on his rifle to obliterate the terrorist.

  A second Harpoon struck another ship in the water, this one farther from shore. There was a flash but no secondary explosion.

  "Jen, pull the Werewolves out," said Danny. "Let's take stock."

  "Clear sailing, Cap," said Boston ten or fifteen yards below.

  "Don't get too cocky," said Danny.

  "Hey, cocky's my middle name. Just ask the girls."

  As if in answer, a machine-gun began chewing up the rocks in Boston's general vicinity. Once more the Marines near Danny answered with a combination of rifle fire and grenades; the weapon fell silent.

  "Team One? Dancer, what are you doing?" Danny asked as the pandemonium subsided.

  "We're at the edge of the village," answered Sergeant Liu. "Lieutenant Dancer is preparing a team to begin a sweep."

  "All right. Dancer, are you on the circuit?"

  There was no reply.

  "She can't hear you, Cap. Another malfunction, I think. I'll pass the word along."

  "Listen, tell her we're moving ahead the way we drew it

  up."

  "Gotcha," said Liu.

  By now the rest of the team was moving in the direction of the caves and shoreline. The landing party from the Shark Boat had engaged a small force at the base of the cliff and was exchanging fire. Danny sent Pretty Boy and two of his Marines in that direction, telling them to try and get into a position where they could either use grenades to attack the pirates or lase them for the Werewolves. He and the others went down the hillside to join with Boston and the Marines, who were clearing the caves.

  "Back!" yelled Boston as he tossed a grenade inside one of the openings. The team ducked down as the weapon exploded, then immediately rose again and peppered the opening with gunfire. Despite the heavy onslaught, at least one of the pirates managed to survive long enough to fire back when the party started inside the cave. The earth itself seemed to erupt as the Americans returned fire, nearly everyone emptying their mags on the black hole.

  "Discipline! Discipline!" yelled someone as the gunfire died down.

  Good advice, thought Danny, though it had about as much effect as yelling stop at a runaway train.

  "I'm OK," said Boston, who apparently had been hit by the gunfire, fortunately in his boron vest. "Two grenades on the next one," he added, apparently talking to one of the Marines, not Danny. "One deep, one shallow."

  "And then a second wave," said Danny. "These bastards have nine lives."

  "Mo-fo's always do, Cap."

  Aboard the Abner Read

  0009

  The Abner Read was capable of launching torpedoes from either its vertical-launch tubes as missiles or its below-waterline tubes near the middle of the ship. The vertical-launched torpedoes had a somewhat longer range, adding approximately six miles to the seven that the torpedo alone could run. While the submarine was within range, the targeting system on the Abner Read had trouble picking it out.

  Storm waited impatiently as the Abner Read heaved around, paralleling the submarine and waiting for it to clear into an easier targeting area.

  "We have the target," said Eyes, relaying the message from Weapons to Storm, who was still on the bridge with Peanut and the bridge crew.

  "Fire."

  Two missiles popped from the vertical launching pods on the forward deck, their rocket motors igniting them and steering them unsteadily in the direction of the submarine. Launching torpedoes like this had always seemed to Storm an unnatural and awkward act, more so because the erupting rockets always appeared to lurch in the air, moving unsteadily as if the torpedo they propelled in the canister was literally a fish out of water. The ASROC system, however, had been perfected over several decades, and the idea of launching torpedoes from missile pods was little more than an extension of firing them from aircraft — an art perfected in World War II. Lengthening their effective range made excellent sense, allowing a surface ship to strike a submarine before it became vulnerable itself.

  The Abner Read's designers had planned for her to carry the latest weapons, and had accordingly designed both the vertical-launching system and torpedo tubes — along with their associated targeting and control systems — for the MK-50 and MK-54 torpedo. The MK-50 in particular was an excellent torpedo. Relatively slim at 12.75 inches in diameter, the torpedo — in its upgraded version — could avoid counter-measures, operate entirely on its own once fired, and strike virtually any ship or submarine operating in the world. The MK-54 was a lighter version of the MK-50, equipped with a more limited guidance system, in essence a poor man's version of the very expensive MK-50 tuned to operate in shallow water.

  Unfortunately, neither weapon was aboard the Abner Read. The MK-54—which probably would have been a good choice here — was still in development and not yet available. And the cost of the MK-50 had limited the Navy's purchases. Because it was in short supply, the powers-that-be had rationed it among the Navy ships and aircraft capable of carrying it. The Abner Read had not made the cut. Instead, its tubes were filled with old standbys, the MK-46.

  When they were first deployed in 1966, the MK-46 torpedoes were at least arguably the best of their class: lightweight, versatile killers with about a hundred pounds of explosives in their teeth. Thirty years and several upgrades later, they were problematic weapons in areas where the shallow water, other nearby contacts, and a system admittedly designed for different weapons, multiplied the confusion factor exponentially.

  One of the torpedoes failed completely after it entered the water; the reason wasn't clear. The other, however, made a beeline for the sub. Traveling at 45 knots, the torpedo needed nearly eight minutes to get to its target. By the fourth minute it became clear that it had lost its way; by the fifth, it had veered off course toward the shoreline. The operator couldn't tell what it was tracking, and Storm didn't particularly care.

  He gave the order for the ship to close in on the submarine, which was running in snorkel mode almost exactly due east about three-quarters of a mile from the coast.

  "Captain, that's going to take us out of the designated patrol area," said Peanut.

  "Are you questioning my orders?" barked Storm.

  "No, sir."

  "Then do it. Eyes!"

  "Cap?"

  "Target the submarine." "Weapons is working on it." "Active sonar. Find the bastards." "Yes, sir," said Eyes.

  The room fell silent for a moment. "Submarine is targeted," Eyes said finally. "Launch!"

  The weapons bolted from the launcher.

  "Patrol craft coming out from the east," reported Eyes. "Two miles."

  "Where'd he come from?" asked Storm. "Just popped in there."

  Storm barked out orders that the ship be sunk. Within seconds the Abner Read reverberated with the steady thud of the 155mm Advanced Gun System. It took a dozen shots to strike the pirate craft, but only two to sink it.

  "Torpedoes in the water!" warned the computer.

  "Evasive action," Storm said. "Use the Prairebot."

  "We're down to two, Cap," said Peanut.

  "Now or never."

  "Prairebot."

  The order was passed and Abner Read's forward torpedo tubes opened, expelling the devices. They swam about a quarter of a mile and began emitting their bubble fog. The two torpedoes were completely baffled, and circled back in the direction from which they'd been fired.

  Storm glanced at the hologram. He could only find one of his torpedoes tracking the submarine.

  "Weapons, how are we doing on that submarine?" he asked.

  "Torpedo three missed, sir. Another malfunction. Four is running true."

  "Fire torpedoes five and six."

  "That will empty the vertical launching system," said Peanut.

  "I can count."

  "Target acquired, target locked," said Weapons. "Fire, damn it! I wan
t the sharks picking over his bones before daybreak."

  "Firing ASROC torpedoes."

  "We better hit the damn thing this time," muttered Storm as the rockets whipped away from the ship.

  * * *

  While the two Werewolves were performing well, real-life combat was proving harder on resources than the test range. Werewolf Two was not only out of Hellfires, but down to its last hundred rounds of bullets, and borderline on fuel. Jennifer plotted a course for it to fly back to the Abner Read to reload and refuel; if the crews moved quickly enough, she could keep at least one aircraft over the battle area. She had to dial into the aircraft maintenance channel to talk to the mate there, but couldn't find the preset, and ended up resorting to the common intercom channel. Someone acknowledged anyway, and she told the computer to bring the Werewolf back to the deck of the ship, safing the weapons just in case it became rambunctious.

  "What are you doing with that aircraft?" demanded Storm.

  "There's a knot of pirates hiding in that building there by the water," Jennifer told him.

  "No, the other one, heading toward us."

  "I need to refuel and rearm."

  "We can't recover it now. We're in the middle of a battle."

  Jennifer twisted toward him ferociously. "What the hell do you want me to do with it? Crash it into the shoreline?"

  Storm's face went white. She thought for a moment that he would take a swing at her. But instead he turned, and she heard him ordering someone to prepare to recover the aircraft.

  Northern Somalia,

  on the ground

  11 November 1997

  0015

  Ali's son called to him from the pool, yelling to his father for help. They'd gone to visit his cousin Abdul, and the boy was playing in the back while the adults debated the obligations a man had to God and his family. Ali's cousin had just claimed that the family must come first — blasphemy, or close to it, Ali argued, for wasn't that the point of the story of Abraham?

  His son's cries shook him; there was something in his voice that he had never heard before, a kind of immediate terror that pulled Ali to action. The father sprang to help the son, bolting over the wall at the back of the yard.

  The pool was only a few yards away, yet with every step Ali took it moved no closer. He saw his son Abu go under. Ali ran faster, faster, ran with all his all might, yet got no closer to saving him, no closer to pulling him out.

  Lightning split the sky. Something pushed Ali's head into the dirt. He felt himself flying into the water, flying into the pool.

  This isn't happening, he thought. This is a dream, one of the dreams.

  I would never have withstood God's test. I would not have killed my son for the Lord's sake, even though I should have. I am not worthy to be a follower of the Prophet.

  The ground shook. Ali swallowed a mouthful of saltwater and grit. He began to choke uncontrollably. Somewhere in the middle of the fit he realized that he was lying at the edge of the water, his body twisted and his rifle in his hand.

  A dark shadow filled the water in front of him.

  Satan's Tail.

  I will be avenged. I cannot achieve my mission, but I will be avenged on Satan. Let me strangle the bastard demon with my bare hands and take him to hell with me.

  He pushed down, rising from the water. There were two, three, more of his men nearby.

  "The ship — the American ship is out there," he said, pointing. "I am going aboard and fighting them hand-to-hand."

  He started into the water. Two or three of his men followed and pulled him back.

  "Let me go!" he yelled. "Let me go!"

  "Captain, it's not Satan's Tail. It's one of their smaller ships," said Saed. "We've shot down one of their planes. They've sent a boat to look for survivors."

  In his fury, Ali had a hard time understanding the words. Finally, he understood what his lieutenant was trying to say.

  "Our patrol craft have gotten out, all but two," said Saed. He held up a satellite phone. "The submarine is gone. I've passed the order to the Sharia to attack the aircraft carrier. They will not fail."

  "Tell them instead to attack Satan's Tail," Ali told him.

  "But—"

  "Do it. Then gather every man you can find and get them into fishing boats. Quickly!" he yelled. "We have only a little time."

  * * *

  Danny selected full magnification in the visor, looking at the rocks.

  "Yeah, it's definitely booby-trapped," he told Boston, who'd first pointed it out. "Question is, why would they bother?"

  "Worth finding out, don't you think?" asked the sergeant.

  "All right, we'll come back." He turned to one of the Marines nearby and told him to watch the cave entrance. "It's booby-trapped, so stay back, and keep everybody else back," added Danny.

  "Captain, the lieutenant wants to talk to you," said Liu. "I'm giving her my helmet."

  "All right." "Captain?"

  "Yeah, Dancer, go ahead."

  "We think we've found the headquarters in Building Two here. I'm getting the demolition team to look at it now, with one of your men. You want to come and see?"

  The buildings were about two hundred yards to the east.

  "I'll be along in a few minutes, once we're sure we have this side of the camp secured. Have you heard from the Shark Boat on the Osprey rescue?"

  "Negative. My whole communication system is gone," she said. "Even the Marine unit."

  "I'll get back to you."

  "My best guess is they used it to store weapons and ammo, Cap," said Boston. "Couple of boxes of ammo for AK47s on the ground there. Might've grabbed them when we were coming."

  "All right. Take your team and hook up with the Navy shore party moving in from the west off the Shark Boat," Danny told him. "I'm going to go with Pretty Boy and see what Dancer has."

  "She's hot," said Boston. "For a Marine."

  "I'll forget you said that, Sergeant," snapped Danny.

  Aboard the Wisconsin

  0015

  As the situation on shore settled down, Zen turned his attention to the water and the spot where the Osprey had crashed, about a half mile west from the mooring area. He crisscrossed as slowly as possible overhead, hoping the infrared sensors would pick up something in the water he could direct the Shark Boat's crews to. The Navy craft had sent two small inflatable boats to the area; Zen could talk to them by communicating with the ship's commander via one of the portable Dreamland communication systems. He took a first pass at three thousand feet, circling back and dropping lower, working the Flighthawk down through two thousand. He activated the C3 search-and-rescue mode, directing the Flighthawk's computer to look for men in the water. The computer began beeping immediately, drawing a box about three hundred yards from the northernmost boat.

  Zen vectored the rescuers toward them and pushed the Flighthawk even lower, edging down close to five hundred feet. His airspeed bled off and he got a stall warning, C3 getting nervous.

  "Boat Two has recovered one body," reported the Shark Boat captain after he passed along the coordinates. "Pretty mangled."

  "Flighthawk leader."

  * * *

  Dog looked at the radar plot from Baker-Baker Two showing the two flights of Yemen MiGs. The aircraft had been flying on the same course for nearly five minutes; there seemed no doubt they were flying toward the assault area.

  "Baker-Baker Two, this is Wisconsin. Bree, intercept those MiGs. I don't want them in the assault area."

  "And if they don't turn back?"

  "Direct them to. If they arm their weapons, engage and shoot them down."

  "Baker-Baker. Will do."

  "You don't think that's too aggressive, Colonel?" asked the copilot.

  "I've already lost an aircraft and its crew," replied Dog. "I don't intend on losing any others."

  Northern Somalia,

  on the ground

  0021

  Dead bodies lay on both sides of the wooden planks on the rock-
strewn coastline. More than three dozen pirates had been killed, many by the bombardment. Several corpses were missing large parts of their anatomy. A head had landed on the rocks, eyes open, face contorted with pain, as if the man were emerging from hell below.

  Danny stared at it, not unnerved exactly, but arrested by the grotesqueness of war and death. The man was his enemy, and surely would have killed him without remorse. Yet Danny felt a stab of pity for him. The absurd futility captured by the man's death stare reached through the body armor Danny wore, reached past the tough shell he donned to do his job. The Air Force captain had seen much brutality in the past few years — he'd been in Bosnia and the former Yugoslavia before joining Whiplash, and had come to know the many ways a corpse could be mangled. But each time he faced death again, there was something fresh, something unexpected, something still capable of eliciting pity and even sorrow.

  He reminded himself what his job was and plunged on, following the Marine private across the wooden planks that formed a narrow and crude boardwalk to the main area of the compound. There were more bodies here, including two that belonged to Americans. Danny saw the young man who'd been ahead of him stop, then pitch forward to his hands and knees.

  Danny gave him a moment, then leaned down close to his ear.

  "Take a second," he told the young Marine. "But then you have to move on. For yourself. You can't do anything for them now. We'll grieve later."

  "Yes, sir," said the Marine, voice choked with tears.

  Danny rose and walked alone toward the corner of a nearby building, where another member of the team crouched with an M249 machine gun. Calling the structure a building was optimistic; it was more a hovel that leaned against the side of the hill.

  "Down here, Danny," said Dancer.

  He spotted her near the largest of the buildings, on the side overlooking one of the docks. He made his way down quickly.

  "We have no more resistance, or at least they've stopped firing," she said. "There are two speedboats, some other small open boats tied up in the water on that side there. The Abner Read has taken care of the hulks. There doesn't seem to be anyone in them." She turned and pointed to the boats in the water. "This building looks like a command post. There's radio equipment and other gear inside. We didn't see any booby traps."