Satan's Tail

by Dale Brown

  “There’s a lot of solace in the Old Testament,” said the minister.

  Starship realized that the reverend was struggling to find the right words to say. Which surprised him. Weren’t ministers supposed to have this stuff down cold?

  “Did you know Kick well, Lieutenant?” asked the cousin.

  “Uh, we were in the same unit. We were together—” Starship stopped short of telling them how Kick had died. Partly it was for official reasons: Details of the mission remained classified. But mostly he didn’t want to talk about it—didn’t want to describe how he’d pulled his friend from the wreck, only to discover he was dead.

  Everyone stared.

  “He was a heck of a pilot,” said Starship finally. He could talk about this—this was easy, nothing but facts and no interpretation; easy, straightforward facts. “I’ll tell you, I saw him fly an A-10A once. We, uh, we had one at the base.” He checked himself again, knowing he couldn’t mention Dreamland, much less what aircraft were there. “Had that A-10A turning on a dime. Ugly plane.” One of the friends mumbled something in agreement, then ventured that Kick had always liked to fix cars when he was in high school. Starship downed the rest of the beer, then slipped out as quickly as he could.

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  off the Horn of Africa

  3 November 1997

  2042

  STORM ADJUSTED THE LOOP AT HIS BELT, EASING THE BRAKE on the safety rope system so he could move more freely on the deck of the ship. Angled and faceted to lessen its radar profile, the ship’s topside was not particularly easy to walk on, even in relatively calm seas, and with no railing along the sides of the ship, the safety rope was an absolute necessity. He walked forward along the starboard side, steadying himself on the gun housing.

  The Abner Read had sent its two rigid-hulled inflatable boats from the stern to search through the floating debris to the northwest. The two men on deck had seen something near the ship and, with bad weather approaching and the boats a good distance away, had worked together to pick it up before it was lost. One of the men had actually gone over the side, using his safety gear to climb down the knifelike bow area, perching on the side and fishing for the debris with a long pole.

  Another commander would have probably considered this a foolhardy move, and very possibly had their captain discipline the men—if he didn’t do so himself. But Storm wasn’t another commander. While the man who had gotten down on the side of the ship had been dashed against the hull rather severely by the waves, in Storm’s opinion he had shown precisely the sort of can-do attitude the Navy ought to encourage.

  “A jacket, sir,” said one of the sailors, handing him the dark blue cloth that had been retrieved.

  More precisely, it was half a jacket. There was something in one of the pockets—a folded rial.

  Yemeni currency. Hard proof that the Yemenis were involved, just in case anyone doubted him.

  “Damn good work,” said Storm. He put the jacket under his arm. “Damn good work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” shouted the men.

  “Carry on,” said Storm. He paused. “And don’t drown.” The sailors laughed. “Yes, sir.”

  Storm turned to go back. This was the Navy at its best—filled with sailors who weren’t afraid to show initiative, and whose voices carried the proper tone of respect even in casual conversation. He’d selected the best men and women for Xray Pop, knowing the plank owners of the littoral warfare ships would be the seed of the new Navy. They were what the entire Navy ought to be, and it damn well would be when he ran the fleet.

  “Captain, you have an eyes-only message waiting, sir,” said the seaman who met him at the hatchway. Storm followed the man to the communications department, where the crew snapped to as he came in.

  “Gentlemen. Where’s my message?”

  “Right here, sir,” said the ensign in charge. He stepped back to let Storm sit at the computer terminal. The message had been transmitted through a secure text system. The ensign made a point of going to the radioman at the other station as Storm typed in his password and brought the message onto the screen.

  REQUEST FOR RULES CHANGE DENIED. YOU ARE TO PROCEED AS DIRECTED.

  I EXPECT A FULL BRIEFING SOONEST.

  ADMIRAL WOODS

  Hardly worth the effort of encoding, thought Storm. But then, his opinion of Admiral Woods was hardly a high one.

  Admiral Woods—CINCPACFLT, or Commander of the Pacific Fleet—had made such a mash of the so-called Piranha episode that the Air Force— the U.S. Air Force! —had to step in and save the day.

  Not that a war between India and China was worth heading off. Like ninety percent of the Navy, Storm would have preferred to watch the two powers slug it out in the Pacific and Indian Oceans until all they had left between them were a pair of rubber dinghies. Still, if it had to be broken up, it would have been much better if the Navy had done the job.

  Woods was currently aboard the John C. Stennis, which was steaming with her battle group in the eastern Indian Ocean, where the U.S. had recently prevented a war between India and China. The situation remained tense, and the only thing keeping the two countries from launching nukes at each other were two U.S. carrier groups: the Stennis and its Carrier Group Seven, and the Carl Vinson and Carrier Group Three, off the Chinese coast. A number of other Pacific Fleet assets were near Taiwan, encouraging new peace talks that would result in a permanent free China—just so long as the words “free” and “permanent” weren’t used anywhere in the treaty.

  Storm had asked Woods to change his rules of engagement to allow him to attack the pirates in their home waters and on land. Woods was his second strike—he’d already received a no from the head of the Fifth Fleet, Admiral P. T.

  “Barnum” Keelor. Technically, Keelor was his boss—but only technically. Based at Manama in Bahrain, the admiral had the unenviable position of trying to run a fleet with no ships, or at least no permanently assigned warships. Aside from a mine countermeasure vessel and some support craft, all of his assets were rotated in and out from the Atlantic and Pacific fleets. Most of his main force—two Arleigh Burke destroyers from the Seventh Fleet—had been sent to the waters off Yugoslavia to assist the Sixth Fleet as it tried to stop a war there. The other had its hands full in the Persian Gulf.

  Though Xray Pop operated in his territory, Storm’s orders had come directly from the Pentagon via Woods. He hadn’t even met Keelor, and wouldn’t before the end of his mission.

  Keelor was too busy trying to keep the Persian Gulf clear of Iranian mines to deal with him, which was just fine with Storm.

  Woods ought to be twice as busy, Storm thought, but he seemed to relish harassing him.

  “Arrange a secure video conference with the admiral for tomorrow some time, at his convenience,” Storm told his communications specialist. He checked some routine matters, then made his way back to Tac. In the meantime, the rigid-hull inflatable boat they had sent to look for survivors from the missile gunboat had returned empty-handed. The gunboat had sunk without a trace. The Shark Boats had reported no further contacts.

  “We’ll let the Abner Read recover her boats and spend the night here, ride out the storm,” he told Eyes. “Then we’ll go south as planned. Let’s see if these bastards have the balls to take another shot at us.”

  “I’d like to see them try,” blurted one of the men nearby.

  “Did you have a comment, mister?” said Storm, looking over.

  “No, sir,” said the man, eyes now pasted on the display screen in front of him.

  Storm smiled and winked at Eyes. He had the best damn ships and the best damn crews in the whole Navy.

  Dreamland

  3 November 1997

  1331

  THE SESSION IN THE POOL HAD DONE ENOUGH OF A NUMBER on his ego that Mack Smith decided he would eat lunch by himself, resorting to one of Dreamland’s vending machines. This was a challenge in itself—it was impossible to reach the coin slot without dramatic contorti
ons. Fortunately, one of the civilian workers happened by as Mack was just about to give up; she took his change and even punched the buttons for him, and her perfume softened a bit of the sting.

  Mack had been offered the option of using a motorized wheelchair but had declined, largely because Zen didn’t use one. The advantages were obvious now as he struggled to build momentum up the ramp to the office he’d been assigned. Working a wheelchair efficiently required a certain rhythm as well as upper-body strength, and he hadn’t acquired either yet.

  He hoped he never did. He wanted more than anything to get the hell out of this damn thing.

  Ray Rubeo was waiting for him inside the office. The scientist stood staring at an empty computer screen on the worktable at the side of the room, a deep frown on his face.

  Mack couldn’t recall a time when the scientist hadn’t worn the frown; Dreamland’s senior scientist seemed to think scowling was part of his job description.

  “You were looking to talk to me, Major?”

  “Pull up a chair, Doc. I’m already sitting.”

  “I’m fine.”

  One thing in Rubeo’s favor, thought Mack as he pushed around to the large table that was supposed to serve as his work area: He didn’t give him a look of sympathy.

  The table was about two inches too high to be comfortable to work at. Mack leaned forward and unwrapped his sandwich, which was some sort of processed ham and mayo on whole wheat.

  “So?” asked Rubeo.

  “So what, Doc?”

  “You wanted to talk to me. In person. I am here.”

  “Yeah, I do. I’m taking over Piranha.”

  “Taking over Piranha? How? That’s a Navy project.”

  “I don’t mean taking it over, exactly. I’m, you know, liaisoning. So I’m getting up to speed.” Rubeo’s frown deepened. Mack ignored it.

  “I was looking at the reports and it seems to me there’s one constant. You need more people.”

  “I would say that is a constant, yes.”

  “So the first thing we have to do is get you more people.”

  “And?”

  This was not exactly the response Mack had anticipated.

  While he knew that the scientist didn’t have it in him to jump up and down in thanks, he had hoped that by acknowledging that the staff was overworked he might show from the start that he was on the team’s side. This, of course, would pay dividends down the line, when he had to pressure them for more results.

  “And I’m going to try to get you more people.”

  “Thank you, Major,” said Rubeo, in a tone that suggested thanks was the last thing he had on his mind. The scientist started to walk from the room.

  “Hey, Doc, where are you going?”

  “Was there something else?”

  “I thought maybe you could run down where we were with some of the related programs. It seems to me that the real potential here—”

  “You haven’t been given the reports?”

  “What’re these tactical UAV things, the Littoral Combat Intrinsic Air Multiplier Systems? Now those are pretty interesting.”

  “Piffle,” said Rubeo.

  “Piffle?”

  “A worthless Navy project. We’re not involved. They want to run the tests here—assuming they ever get the project out of their CAD programs.” Rubeo wrinkled his nose, as if he’d caught a whiff of sulfur. “You might try informing them that there’s very little water in the middle of the Nevada desert.”

  “I thought they were just adaptations of the unmanned helicopter system,” said Mack. “I thought the project only got bagged because of the budget.”

  “UHS was a Dreamland project, that is correct,” said the scientist, referring to the program by its initials. “This is different. If the Navy would deign to use a design that was originally done for the Army—as UHS was—then there would be no problem.”

  “They won’t use it?”

  Rubeo rolled his eyes.

  “These Navy things look like the Werewolves,” said Mack.

  “Hardly. The Werewolf works.” Rubeo started away. Mack wheeled forward and grabbed his shirtsleeve.

  “What about the Integrated Warfare Computing System?” asked Mack. “It’s already installed in their littoral combat ships. We have some interfaces for it.” The scientist snorted.

  “Problems?” asked Mack.

  “The Navy’s computer code reminds me of the programs that were part of the TRS-80,” said Rubeo. “Without the benefit of being compact.”

  “I assume that’s some sort of put-down, right?”

  “The TRS-80 was a Radio Shack computer dating from the 1970s. Yes, Major, it was a put-down. We have interfaces, though to be honest, why anyone would want to use them is beyond me. Their systems crash every eighteen to twenty-four hours.”

  “So why don’t they just bag the crappy computer and use one of ours? Or even something off-the-shelf?”

  “You haven’t dealt with the Navy much, have you?”

  “I’ll just straighten them out, then.” A faint glimmer of a smile came to Rubeo’s lips. “I hope you do, Major. Can I go now?”

  “Sure,” said Mack. “We should have lunch sometime. I really want to get to know you better.”

  “Yes,” said Rubeo, leaving.

  McCarran International Airport,

  Las Vegas

  1630

  CAPTAIN DANNY FREAH WALKED PAST THE ROW OF VIDEO SLOT machines and turned left into the large baggage claim area.

  The flight from New York had landed a few minutes ago, and passengers were just starting to filter in. As Danny walked toward the carousel, a short man in a gray suit approached him from the side.

  “You’re Captain Freah, I’ll bet,” said the man.

  “Danny Freah, yes,” said Freah. “Lee?”

  “That’s me,” said the man, Lee Rosenstein, pumping Danny’s hand. “I thought you’d be in uniform.”

  “I’m off-duty,” Danny told him.

  “Well, good. You deserve some time off after all you’ve been through,” said Rosenstein. “Let me just grab my suiter.

  I see it coming around the bend.”

  Rosenstein darted toward an opening in the crowd and grabbed a black suitcase with a multicolored twist of yarn around the handle.

  “Clever,” said Danny, pointing at the identifier as they walked toward the exit.

  “Until it falls off,” said Rosenstein. “Usually I get to carry it on, but the gate person couldn’t be bribed.” He smiled, which Danny figured meant he was kidding about the bribe. Without breaking stride, Rosenstein reached to the outer pocket of the suitcase, zipped it open, and retrieved a Mets cap, plopping it on his head. It clashed a bit with the black suit.

  “Been a while since I was in Vegas,” added Rosenstein as they reached the hallway. “Not since March or April.”

  “I took a taxi. They’re this way,” said Danny. Rosenstein had already started to the right, where a line snaked around a set of ribbons on the sidewalk.

  “Man, it’s beautiful weather. Was raining and about thirty-six when I left New York this afternoon.”

  “It’s a little warm for this time of year,” said Danny.

  “Let’s go right to Venezia,” suggested Rosenstein. “I’ll check in, then we’ll catch some dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I was thinking of Delaman’s to eat. Supposed to be the best restaurant between San Francisco and New York,” said Rosenstein. “I don’t know if that’s true, but the last time I was there it was pretty good. Hey, don’t worry about paying, Captain—this is on my dime.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” said Danny. He wouldn’t have known Delaman’s from a diner, but now felt embarrassed at the other man’s suggestion that he would pay. “We’ll go fifty-fifty.”

  “First thing you have to learn as a candidate for Congress,” said Rosenstein, “is when to let other people pay for your dinner and when not. This is a time you let other people pay. En
joy it while it lasts.”

  “I don’t know that I’m running for Congress,” said Danny.

  “Everybody says that.” Rosenstein smiled. “All the more reason to let me pay.”

  Dreamland

  1713

  ZEN HUNCHED OVER THE CONTROL PANEL, WATCHING THE computer simulation of the small aircraft’s maneuvers as it ran through a mock bombing run. Flown entirely by the computer, the aircraft managed to duck two antiair laser shots as well as an old-fashioned but still deadly flak barrage as it approached the enemy radar station. It then took a very hard cut right—the angle looked to be nearly forty-five degrees—as it tossed the five hundred pound bomb. The bomb, loosened from the underside of the robot aircraft just at the start of the maneuver, skipped through the air and landed about two meters from its target, the radar van that had been controlling the antiaircraft installation. As the simulation continued, the robot aircraft spun back down toward the ground, recording the damage its bomb had done.

  “The concept definitely works,” said Zen, pushing back from the panel. “In the computer, at least.”

  “If it works on the computer, it’ll work in real life,” said Jennifer Gleason.

  “I’m not debating that,” said Zen. “I just don’t see how it’s worth it moneywise to turn the U/MFs into bombers. A guidance kit on a dumb bomb is a heck of a lot cheaper. And having a real airplane gives you a heck of a lot more flexibility.”

  “I don’t do philosophy,” said Jennifer. “Just computers.” Zen was in charge of the Flighthawk U/MF-3 project, a responsibility that included not only the present generation of high-speed robot interceptors but also the next generation U/MF-4, which had just flown the simulation. The U/MF-4

  was a small, slightly faster aircraft that incorporated everything they’d learned from using the Flighthawk in combat over the past two years. It could remain airborne at least twice as long without refueling, and would be able to operate approximately fifty miles from its mother plane. Its autonomous mode—the developers’ fancy word for flying on its own—was much improved, thanks largely to the refined onboard tactics library developed from the battles Zen had flown with the U/MF-3s. It could also carry a heavier payload, a capacity intended not for bombs but rather a lightweight though powerful chemical laser, which so far had not made it past the conceptual stage.