by Dale Brown
“Have you recovered your dead?” asked Johnson.
“We’re working on it. We will accomplish that. I’ve taken temporary command as captain of the ship as well as the task group. It seemed the most expedient and efficient way to proceed.”
Johnson didn’t argue, and Storm didn’t give him the chance, pushing on quickly.
“We will accomplish the rest of the mission, sir.”
“You damn well better.”
“I intend to, Admiral.”
The screen blanked. Storm reached to turn it off, but the voice of a communications specialist aboard the admiral’s flagship stopped him.
“Captain Gale, Captain McGowan requests to speak to you, sir.”
“Put him on.”
The screen flashed. Captain Red McGowan, his face tired and drawn, appeared on the screen.
“Sorry for your troubles,” said Red. “Sorry to hear your men were lost.”
“Thanks, Red.”
“Marcum too?”
“I’m sorry to say, yes.”
“Bastards.”
“I hate those mothers.”
Storm released a string of curses. His friend nodded as he continued, making no effort to calm him as he vented.
“I’ll get them,” Storm said softly when his breath, but not his anger, had finally drained.
“What happened with the Dreamland aircraft? They were fired on?”
“Apparently, Bastian claims to have shot down two MiGs.
They couldn’t lift a finger against the patrol boats that were killing my people, but they could go out of their way to take out the Ethiopians. Ethiopians—I question whether they were even armed. The country doesn’t have an air force worthy of the name.”
“You’re going overboard, Storm.”
“In the two weeks plus that we’ve been here, they haven’t attacked us once. Dreamland comes out here and all of a sudden the Ethiopians are flying miles away from their air bases and, bang bang, splashing into the gulf. I wish I could get away with that.”
“Bastian’s not going to get away with anything,” answered Red.
“Do I get the Belleau Wood or what?”
“That’s not going to happen, Storm. There’s just no way.”
“Then untie my hands! I have the assets I need—let me use them.”
Red winced. “If it were up to me.”
“Yeah, all right. Later.” Storm punched the button on the panel, ending the transmission. He went and washed some of the dirt and dried blood off his face, then changed into a fresh uniform. Calmer, he dialed into Communications.
“See if you can find Admiral Balboa for me,” Storm told the officer. “Call the Joint Chiefs personnel office and ask them where Pinkie is—he’s a lieutenant commander who owes me a favor. Better yet, call the Pentagon, OK? And Joint Chiefs, ask for Lou Milelo. He’s a chief petty officer.
Be respectful, very respectful, and tell him I need a personal favor. Then get me on the line. I’ll be on the bridge.”
Near Boosaaso, Somalia,
on the Gulf of Aden
0810
ALI FOLDED THE PAPER CAREFULLY IN HALF, THEN TOOK THE lighter from his pocket and set it on fire. He watched intently as the flames consumed it, waiting until his fingers were singed to drop it into the nearby surf.
The message it contained had been disappointing. The Ethiopian Air Force had attacked an American warplane with predictable results: Two of their pilots had been shot down.
They were hoping he could look for the men in the gulf.
The Ethiopians might be brave, but they were also foolhardy. It wasn’t clear from the message what sort of plane it had been, though Ali doubted it was an Orion or any similar radar or surveillance craft; such planes were typically un-equipped for air-to-air combat. And any single American warplane was more than a match for the entire Ethiopian Air Force. Brave men foolishly led to their deaths by misguided leaders—this was not God’s wish.
There was slim hope of finding the pilots, but he had been called on as a brother in religion, and could not turn down such a request. In exchange, perhaps the Ethiopians would have to help him. He needed a diversion so he could get the last of his patrol boats out of the port near Laasgoray, where it had spent the night being repaired. He needed it to join him in an attack on a fuel carrier tonight; if the attack went well, they would have more than enough diesel fuel for the Sharia, and the boats as well.
He took a pen from his pocket and wrote down a time and place.
“Take this message back,” he told the man who had come from town. “Tell them we will do what they wish. But they must also try to have airplanes at this place and time. It would be very useful as a diversion. Let them use their courage to its best effect.”
Khamis Mushait Air Base,
southwestern Saudi Arabia
0900
STARSHIP BROUGHT THE FLIGHTHAWK ONTO THE RUNWAY after the Megafortress had turned onto the ramp, taxiing around so the U/MF-3 trailed the big airplane like a dog following its master. He had definitely drawn the short stick on the mission. After the excitement with the Ethiopians, Baker-Baker Two hadn’t been challenged. He’d spent most of the six hours since Zen handed off the Flighthawk flying crazy eights at twenty thousand feet, and hadn’t so much as buzzed a dhow during the entire time.
Dreamland’s MC-17 sat near the ramp area, along with an MV-22 Osprey. A pack of maintainers met Baker-Baker Two as she trundled to a stop. They were already working on the damaged engine when Starship came down the ladder.
Starship got out of his flight gear and debriefed the mission. Too keyed-up to hit the sack, he decided to get a late breakfast. The Saudis had a cafeteria-style grill on their side of the base; a whiteboard at the door welcomed U.S. fliers and announced a special of hamburgers and fries in their honor, the words presented in both Arabic and English.
Starship wasn’t sure why burgers were being presented as breakfast fare, but wasn’t about to argue. He took his to a table near a group of Saudis who were dressed in flight suits.
One of the men smiled at him as he sat down, then came over and introduced himself as Major Bandar, inviting Starship to join him and the others. Well into their thirties, the men were all F-15 jocks who’d spent time in the States and had flown during the Gulf War. When they asked Starship what he flew, he answered by saying he used to fly F-15s himself.
“And now what do you fly?” asked Bandar. “Megafortress?”
Starship held out his hands. “Can’t say.” The others jeered good-naturedly.
“Oh, oh, top secret,” laughed Bandar.
“You fly the robot,” guessed one of the others. “The midget with wings.”
“He doesn’t look small enough.”
“What is it like? Is it difficult?” Starship tried changing the subject, and finally got them to talk about the F-15s and their own routine. Bandar lamented that they were restricted to a flight a week, and that the missions were little more than hops north and back, barely enough to get the turbines spinning.
“Maybe we can work an exercise out with you sometime,” said Starship as the Saudis got up for a meeting. “A little dissimilar aircraft tactics.”
“That would be very good,” said Bandar.
“I’d like to shoot down a Megafortress,” said the officer across from Bandar.
Starship started to smile but the pilot’s expression made it clear he wasn’t joking.
Now it was Bandar’s turn to change the subject. “If you are interested in seeing the town,” he said, “let me know. I will be your guide.”
“Yeah? I wouldn’t mind a tour,” said Starship.
“Meet me at the gate at 1400,” said Bandar. “Two p.m.” Starship hesitated. He was supposed to fly tonight and had been planning on sleeping.
“Two p.m.,” repeated Bandar. “You’ll be there?”
“Sure,” said Starship.
White House
0600
THE CHAIRMAN OF THE
JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF, ADMIRAL George Balboa, spent much of his time at the White House angry, but Jed Barclay had never heard him quite this angry.
Then again, he’d never heard his boss this angry either.
The walls of the Executive Office Building were practically shaking as the two men shouted at each other. Fortunately, because of the early hour, there were few people in the West Wing to hear them—though given how loud they were shouting, Jed wouldn’t have been surprised to find that they woke half the city.
“You’re trying to create your own private army, Freeman.
That’s what Dreamland is—a private army.”
“That’s baloney and you know it. It’s slander.”
“You tell me what to call a deployment of military units that ignores the normal chain of command. And ignores international law.”
“I’d like to see proof of that. That aircraft was attacked.
They have proof.”
“Manufactured by them, no doubt.”
“You’re way out of line, Balboa. And for the record, Whiplash has always operated at the President’s specific command—legally, per the law. It’s the President’s prerog-ative as commander in chief to direct units and set their missions.”
“Does the President know about it?”
“Ask him yourself.”
“I damn well will,” said Balboa.
Jed literally threw himself back against the wall as Balboa stormed from the office. Balboa’s face was red, and the admiral’s stubby legs and arms pumped like the rods in an overworked V-8 car motor. Jed held his breath as the admiral passed. Just as he exhaled, Balboa swung around.
“And you,” he shouted at Jed. “You better wake up and smell the coffee here, kid. I thought you had a brain in your head.”
“I have a brain,” snapped Jed.
“You’re a dupe. You better watch yourself, Barclay, or you’re going to end up like Ollie North—if you’re lucky.
More like Dean and Erlichmann.”
He stomped away, disappearing around the corner. Jed walked into Freeman’s suite, where he found his boss picking up files from the floor.
“Sorry about that, Jed,” said Freeman. “The Chairman is a little upset.”
Jed nodded and began to help. “Who’s Dean and Erlichmann?”
“John Dean and John Erlichmann. They were in the Nixon administration. They went to prison because they lied for the President.”
“Oh,” said Jed, sitting in the chair in the corner.
“That’s just Balboa being Balboa. Don’t worry about it.”
“Why would I be like one of those guys?”
“You’re not. Balboa is throwing his usual smoke. He’s still angry about the strike on China by Brad Elliott and company,” said Freeman. “He’d love to prove that Dreamland was behind it.”
“Dreamland had nothing to do with it,” said Jed.
They were referring to the so-called Fatal Terrain episode, which had been pulled off by a semiprivate group operating on behalf of the Taiwan government—or at least that was the public version. Even Jed wasn’t privy to all the details. But he did know that the Dreamland people weren’t involved. Or at least he thought he did.
“Balboa apparently thinks that Dreamland and Whiplash should be placed back in the military chain of command,” said Freeman. “Or I should say, under his chain of command.” There had been various plans to bring Dreamland back “online” as a regular command, but the President was ambivalent about doing so. Jed had always believed this was because, as the President had said, he didn’t want to stifle the creativity there. But in light of what Balboa had just said, he had to admit there might be other reasons as well. Lieutenant General Terill Samson had been tapped to head nearby Brad Elliott Air Force Base, which on paper was supposed to have included Dreamland. But Dreamland’s funding line was specifically excluded from the command, and no one in the Air Force—not even the formidable General Samson—had direct authority over Colonel Bastian and his people. Once a Whiplash order designated a mission, Bastian answered only to the President.
Usually through Jed. Which put him in the middle …
maybe in the same place Erlichmann and the others had been.
“Among his other goals,” continued Freeman, “Admiral Balboa is angling to have the Dreamland team in the Gulf of Aden placed under Captain Gale. Xray Pop could use help.
There’s no question about that.”
“But that would change their focus from the submarine to the pirates,” said Jed.
“They may end up being the same mission. Balboa is claiming the Dreamland people provoked the attack on their aircraft.”
“I heard, but that’s ridiculous. Colonel Bastian wouldn’t do that. Besides, Ethiopia has scrambled planes before.”
“Mmmm.”
Jed could tell that Freeman wasn’t entirely sure. “I can get the mission tapes,” he said.
“No, that’s all right. Like I said, it’s just Balboa being Balboa.” Freeman rose. “It may make sense to have the Megafortresses work with Xray Pop. The only problem is that Gale and Bastian will spend so much time spitting at each other they’ll forget who the enemy is.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
1414
THEY WERE EXACTLY FIFTEEN MILES OFFSHORE, DIRECTLY north of the port where the Dreamland people had tracked the Somalian pirates. Storm had ordered the radars turned on so they knew the Abner Read was there, hoping that would provoke a response. Thus far it hadn’t.
If he wanted to, he could unleash a barrage from his gun and obliterate the town just above the tiny port where the pirates had taken refuge. A dozen shells would erase it.
Two or three hundred years ago, when sails ruled the sea, that’s what they would have done. There’d be no political niceties, no worry about a peace process or the UN.
“Captain, we have two unidentified aircraft approaching from the south at high speed,” said Eyes. “Just popped up over the mountains, coming toward the coast.”
“Very good,” Storm said. “Weapons, track them and prepare to fire.”
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
1414
ZEN TAPPED THE COMMAND TO SHARE THE VIDEO FEED WITH Ensign Gloria English, who was operating the Piranha at the other Flighthawk station.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“That, Major, is the future of the Navy. The DD(L)-01
Abner Read. A littoral warfare destroyer. It’s the naval equivalent of a Megafortress, in terms of cutting-edge equipment.
That’s Captain Storm Gale’s flagship.”
“Looks like a Popsicle with a couple of sugar cubes on it.”
“Be interesting to see what it could do in a tangle.”
“Zen, those Ethiopian MiG-23s are continuing north,” warned Dish, who had been tracking them on radar. “They have activated their attack radars. Looks to me like they’re going to attack the Abner Read.”
“Better warn them. I’m on it,” said Zen, plunging the Flighthawk in their direction.
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
1416
THE EXCITED SHOUTS OVER THE SHIP’S BATTLE CIRCUITS revved Storm’s heart as he glanced at the graphic rendering of the approaching MiGs in his hologram. The two aircraft were just crossing from the land to the water fifteen miles away, sweeping in their general direction.
“We have them targeted.”
“Stand by,” said Storm. The Abner Read had SM-2 missiles in its Vertical Launching System; the missiles could knock out a target at roughly ninety miles.
The MiGs weren’t coming on an exact intercept, but they were well within range to launch antiship missiles. Neither, however, had turned on a targeting radar, and thus had not committed a hostile act—which his orders required before he was allowed to shoot them down.
Orders he didn’t particularly care for, orders that put him and his ships in d
anger—but orders which, if disobeyed, would be used by his enemies to derail his career.
“Communication from a Dreamland aircraft, warning us that two MiGs are approaching.”
“About time,” scoffed Storm. “Connect me.”
“It’s not easy cutting that circuit in, sir. There’s a technical glitch on our side that—”
“Connect me.”
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
1417
“THEY’RE BOTH MIG-23BNS,” ZEN TOLD THE NAVY CAPTAIN. “Computer says they don’t have antiship missiles. Repeat, no missiles.”
“Bombs?”
“Appear to have no weapons of any kind,” said Zen. “I think they’re just up for their jollies. They’re not reacting to your ship. I don’t think they know you’re there.”
“They must be up to something. The Ethiopians typically don’t come over Somalian territory.”
“They did last night.”
The two Ethiopian warplanes were now ten miles off the Flighthawk’s nose. Zen began a turn to the east, planning to bring the Flighthawk in an arc behind the MiGs. Wisconsin, meanwhile, had already begun tacking in that direction to stay close to the Piranha probe.
“Have a small patrol craft moving out of the port,” said Ensign English, who was commanding the probe.
“Feed me the location,” said Zen. The plot merged into the sitrep screen in Zen’s helmet. The MiG fighter-bombers, meanwhile, continued northward.
“It’s a sucker play,” said Zen. “They sent the MiGs out to get everyone’s attention while the patrol boat sneaks off in broad daylight.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
1426
“MIGS SEE US,” EYES TOLD STORM. “CHANGING COURSE. Heading toward us.”
“Do we have a lock?”
“Having some trouble,” said Eyes.
The missiles themselves were dependable weapons, but were designed to work with a different targeting system.
Sometimes they were locked even though the weapons panel indicated they weren’t—and vice versa. The experts promised a fix … but by the time that happened, the new system would probably be ready.
“Weapons, can you target those planes?” Storm asked.
