Satan's Tail

by Dale Brown

  “Bastian.”

  “This is Captain Gale.”

  “Captain, good afternoon,” Dog said evenly. “I’m sorry for the loss of your men.”

  “Yes. That won’t happen again. I understand you’ve been looking for a submarine with a Piranha probe.”

  “That’s right, Captain.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Colonel. Let’s cut the bullshit here.”

  “Gladly.”

  “I’ve heard about you. You have a reputation for getting things done. I appreciate that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also have heard that you’re a cowboy. You don’t take orders from anyone.”

  “On the contrary, I take orders very seriously,” said Dog.

  “As long as you follow mine, we’ll have no trouble. You can call me Storm.”

  Is that supposed to make me feel warm and fuzzy inside?

  Dog wondered.

  “What areas have you searched?” Storm asked.

  “The Somalian coast from the Eritrean border east about fifty miles. We’ve only just started.”

  “Well, the search has secondary priority now,” said Storm. “You’re working for me now and we’re going after the pirates.”

  “Understood.”

  “When I give you an order to sink someone, I want them sunk.”

  Dog said nothing.

  “The pirates work both sides of the Gulf,” the Navy captain continued. “They use hit and run tactics and then retreat.

  Because of our rules of engagement, they know they’re safe near the coast. So I have to catch them in international waters. You spot them, vector me toward them, and I’ll attack.”

  “It would be just as easy for me to attack them myself, then,” said Dog.

  “You didn’t last night.”

  “I was following my orders.”

  “Well, you have new orders now. You spot the pirates, and I’ll take care of them.”

  Dog thought Storm was a jerk, but that didn’t mean his frustration wasn’t justified. He’d been given a difficult job to do, then had his hands tied behind his back.

  “Listen, Storm,” said Dog, deciding to offer an olive branch. “We can do a lot more for you than just fly around the ocean spotting patrol boats. For one thing, the sort of surveillance you’re asking for can be conducted by lighter-than-air blimps. I can have a dozen flown in from Dreamland; we can post them around the gulf and give the control units to your ships. You’ll have around-the-clock coverage of the entire gulf. And we can get you some better communications systems. I understand that you had a lot of difficulty communicating with my aircraft earlier. I know there was some sort of foul-up with your antiair missiles and you missed a MiG you were aiming at; one of my specialists believed it had to do with the radar link to the guidance system.

  Maybe I can get some of my radar people—”

  “Just get your aircraft working with my intelligence officers by 2000 hours, Bastian. I’m in charge. Not you.” The line went dead.

  Khamis Mushait

  1621

  BANDAR’S TOUR OF KHAMIS MUSHAIT STARTED WITH WHAT seemed to be an old fort, but according to the Saudi pilot was just an old building at the edge of the original city.

  Khamis Mushait had once been a popular trading and rest spot for desert caravans. It still had an impressive market, as Starship saw when he and his guide walked through an open-air bazaar that appeared to stretch for acres and acres.

  Among the displays were elaborately decorated china and furniture. Bandar found a vendor and bought some fruit juice for them, refusing to let Starship pay. Then he pointed in the distance at the large white castle, relating a ghost story about Bedouins who had roamed the desert a thousand years ago. One of the band had been killed out of jealousy and his body left to rot; as punishment, the men were turned into eternal ghosts and forced to wander until the man’s body was given its rightful honors. Since this could never happen—it had been devoured by beasts and birds of prey—they wandered to this very day. Bandar finished the story by claiming that he had heard their camels thundering across the plains several times.

  Starship laughed and asked if Bandar truly believed in ghosts.

  “You don’t?” The Saudi laughed.

  “Nah.”

  “Nothing you can’t see?”

  “Something like that.”

  The tour led back toward the mosque. Starship suddenly felt curious about the interior and asked if he might look inside. Bandar started to make a face, clearly uncomfortable.

  “It’s OK,” said Starship. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone.” Before Bandar could answer, someone nearby began yelling at them in Arabic. Bandar spun around, and then began answering the man as he continued to yell.

  “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it,” said Starship. He took a step backward. Two or three other men who’d been nearby walked closer.

  “No, he’s wrong,” said Bandar. “You are a guest in our country.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t want any trouble or anything,” said Starship. “I have to get back anyway.” Bandar turned and said something to the other man, who unleashed another tirade. A few more people came up. Starship touched his guide’s arm, trying to get him to come, but Bandar waved his hand dismissively.

  “I’m sorry,” said Starship.

  “Go home,” said one of the other men in English. “Go away. We don’t want you.”

  “I didn’t mean any offense,” said Starship. “Really, I’m leaving.”

  “Go away,” said another.

  By the time Bandar stopped arguing, a thick crowd had gathered. They trailed Starship and the Saudi pilot back to the car. Most of the people simply looked curious, but they made it hard for Bandar to go without hitting them. Something or someone hit the back of the car as they cleared the crowd. Starship turned around; the road was cluttered with angry people, fists raised in the air.

  “I really didn’t mean any trouble,” said Starship.

  “People forget their manners,” said Bandar.

  “It’s all right.”

  As they drove back toward the airport, Starship tried to think of something to say. “It’s a really nice city,” he said finally. Bandar grunted something, and Starship thought it best to keep his mouth shut.

  A large crowd had gathered near the gate of the airport.

  Surprised, Starship at first didn’t realize that they were protesters, and it wasn’t until a group began running toward the car that he realized what was going on.

  “Troublemakers,” said Bandar.

  Starship slid down in the seat, eyes pasted ahead as people surged against the side of the car. Saudi police ran toward them. Bandar managed to get inside the gate without hitting anyone.

  “Wow,” said Starship.

  “Troublemakers,” repeated Bandar. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Ignorant troublemakers.”

  V

  Invaders

  Gulf of Aden,

  north of Xiis

  1810

  THE WIND BIT AT ALI’S FACE, SNAPPING AT HIS EYES AND nose as they sped toward the looming shadow of the tanker three miles away. Ali welcomed the bite; it took his mind off his son.

  The Saudi had been as good as his word: Offers of help were pouring in from brothers throughout the Middle East.

  Two ships had joined him tonight: a large, Al Bushra-class patrol boat from Oman, liberated from unrighteous rulers by true believers, and a patrol boat from Eritrea roughly similar to the patrol craft he was already using. An additional thirty men had volunteered beyond the two dozen needed to crew both vessels; most were raw youths, but seemed willing to follow his orders without question.

  Though classified as a patrol boat, the Al Bushra dwarfed his other ships, measuring nearly 180 feet. A pair of Exocet missile launchers had been installed on the deck behind the superstructure, giving the ship considerable firepower.

  Surface-to-air
missiles had replaced the 76mm cannon on the forward deck. The ship could make only 24.5 knots, too slow to keep up with the faster boats, but she had room for a large boarding party. Most of Ali’s new recruits were aboard her; they were unlikely to see real action but would learn a great deal from tonight’s encounter.

  She was running about a mile behind him, commanded by his cousin Mabrukah. The captain who had brought her bristled at being put under another man, and Ali knew he would have to alter the arrangement eventually, but tonight he had no time to devote to personalities, and needed someone who knew his ways without needing to question them.

  God had brought him additional volunteers for a purpose.

  He had two difficult tasks to achieve tonight. Not only was he to meet the submarine at midnight, but his best chance for capturing a vessel that could fuel his fleet would occur a few hours before, as an old oiler now used as a fuel transport sailed through the gulf. Unfortunately, the oiler was more than 250 miles from the rendezvous point with the submarine. According to the spies, it had come down past Saudi Arabia already and would be passing near this spot sometime within the next few hours.

  Ali had decided capturing the oiler was more critical, and thus decided to lead that mission personally. He had sent one of his patrol boats with a pilot to meet the submarine. If the takeover went well, he would head east and link up with the submarine.

  Perhaps Allah intended that he accomplish both—a gray shadow appeared on the horizon ahead: their target.

  “Signal the others,” Ali told Bari, his second-in-command for the operation.

  The flotilla of pirates spread out on the water, a pack of wolves stalking their prey. Ali set a course for his vessel that brought her toward the stern of the slow-moving target. He stood in the open wheelhouse of his patrol boat, staring at the shadow as it grew. The wind sucked the heat from his face, turning it to a mask of cold bones.

  A light blinked at the oiler’s fantail.

  Ali turned to Bari. “Our people aboard have secured the radio. Pass the signal—begin the attack.”

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  1810

  DOG BENT DOWN TO LOOK AT THE VIDEO DISPLAY. FOUR OR five hundred Saudis were gathered on the main road to the airport, fists raised, chanting in Arabic that the invaders must go home.

  “Invaders!”

  That was the term they used, translated by the translation software in the Dreamland Command trailer. And they said it loudly enough for the microphones in the video camera to pick up, even though the Osprey hovered overhead.

  “Invaders!”

  “This is relatively calm,” Danny told him. “A half hour ago I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. At least now the Saudi police have the crowd cordoned off. The base itself is secure.”

  “Until some jerk drives up in a truck full of explosives,” said Dog.

  “He won’t get past the gate. We’ve set up bullet panels on the approaches to our sector, along with tear-gas mortars.

  We have the Osprey overhead. I’m keeping the Werewolves in reserve. But if they get past the tear gas and bullet panels and we have to shoot, it’ll get bloody. We can withstand an attack, but it won’t be pretty.”

  The bullet panels were large rectangles filled with 9mm rubber bullets. They were considered nonlethal deterrents for use against a stampeding crowd; when triggered, they fired a hail of hard rubber in the air. Combined with the tear gas, they would turn back all but the most determined protesters.

  The Osprey’s guns were loaded with live ammunition, as were the Werewolves. Danny’s assessment was an understatement—they’d slaughter whoever was in their path.

  “This couldn’t have been spontaneous,” said Dog.

  “No,” said Danny. “But I wouldn’t underestimate the emotions involved.”

  “I’ll talk to Washington. We have to relocate. Probably to Diego Garcia.”

  “What about Captain Gale?”

  “I’ll talk to him too. Though frankly I’d rather get my teeth pulled.” Dog glanced at his watch. Wisconsin was scheduled to launch at 2000, and he was slated to lead the mission. He hadn’t even started planning his brief for it.

  “Starship is outside,” said Danny. “I think he thinks it’s all his fault.”

  “Send him in.”

  Dog got up from the video station and walked to the large common room at the front of the trailer. Starship flinched when he saw him.

  “Colonel.”

  “Lieutenant, I believe you forgot to ask if you had permission to go into town this afternoon,” said Dog.

  “I thought it would be OK.”

  “So what happened?”

  “It didn’t seem like that big a deal. I went with a Saudi pilot. We were in the town and, uh, there was a mosque, and I asked if I could take a look.”

  “Why?”

  “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. I was just—if I went to church, I mean it was the same thing. You know? I was looking around. I just want to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “I want to understand why Kick died and I didn’t.” Starship’s eyes widened momentarily, as if he’d seen something passing behind them in the room. They held Dog’s for just a moment, then turned down, settling on the dark shadows at the base of the floor.

  Dog wasn’t the kind of officer who could play father figure or priest, which he knew was what Starship really needed. He did understand, however, what the young man was going through. He’d experienced it himself, or at least something like it, much earlier in his career when he’d lost a friend. But now he felt powerless to help the lieutenant, to do anything more than tell him the riot wasn’t his fault, which it wasn’t.

  “All right, Starship. I understand that you meant no harm.

  The situation at the gate has nothing to do with you. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was organized before you went near the mosque.”

  “I don’t think Bandar—the pilot—I don’t think he set me up,” said Starship. “I didn’t go inside or anything. I was just looking around.”

  “It’s immaterial now. We’re supposed to fly in two hours.

  Better get ready for your mission.”

  Gulf of Aden

  1830

  ALI GRIPPED THE ROPE, PULLING HIMSELF UP THE SIDE OF THE ship. His AK-47 clunked at his back as he clambered over the side of the tanker, helped by two of his men. The ship’s captain stood a few feet away, frowning in the dim light.

  “I thought we were not to be stopped again,” said the captain as Ali approached. “You told me this yourself.”

  “I am flattered that you remembered me, Captain,” said Ali. They had stopped the ship three months before, and Ali had, in fact, made that promise. “It is regrettable that circumstances made it necessary to engage you again.” Bari, Ali’s second-in-command, approached from the side. Bari had led the first team over. “Plenty of fuel,” he told Ali. The tanker carried marine gas oil and marine diesel, the heavy grade of fuel oil commonly called “bunker oil,” which was used by large ships.

  “Set the course,” Ali told him.

  “Should we wait for the Al Bushra to come alongside?

  The crew here seems compliant enough. They remember our last encounter, and most are Muslim brothers from Indonesia and Pakistan, with a Turk or two for discipline. There were no weapons.”

  “Good. Have the Al Bushra come about and stand by to assist if necessary. But if you judge the situation acceptable, don’t lose the time bringing more men aboard,” said Ali.

  “Transmit the message telling the Sharia to sail. You should be able to meet them in six hours so they can fuel and return to the mooring before the Russian satellite passes. The boats will come with me. God has graced us and made things easy this evening.”

  “What are you saying?” demanded the captain of the tanker.

  Ali raised his rifle. “Pray,” he told the captain. The man made no sign to comply, and so he shot him
where he stood.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  2125

  STARSHIP CHECKED HIS POSITION ON THE SITREP MAP, TRYING to get a feel for the night’s mission. Xray Pop was located about twenty miles north of Bandar Murcaayo in the Gulf of Aden; the Piranha unit was exploring an area of the Somalian coast near Bullaxaar. They were supposed to bring the probe eastward toward the task force; this would take between six and eight hours. The realignment would allow the Dreamland team to cover Xray Pop and run Piranha at the same time. Colonel Bastian had ordered two more Megafortresses and additional Flighthawks to join them; once they arrived, the search for the submarine and support of Xray Pop could proceed independently.

  “Ready for Flighthawk launch,” said Dog.

  “Flighthawk launch ready,” said Starship. He authorized the launch verbally for C3, the Flighthawk control computer, then curled his fingers around the control stick. His heart pounded steadily as the Megafortress tipped forward and picked up momentum. The big aircraft lifted upward as the release point was reached, using the wind sheer off the wing as well as gravity to push the Flighthawk out of its nest beneath the wing. The computer had already ignited the robot plane’s engine, and by the time Starship took over, he was zooming into a layer of clouds that seemed to last forever. The milky soup furled in all directions; he felt as if he were flying into someone’s dream.

  Unlike Zen, Starship preferred using the computer screens at the control station to guide the plane, instead of the command helmet. He found it easier to tap the screen to change views and get data. He had a standard pilot’s helmet and mask, but often left them at the base of his ejection seat, resorting to them only during obvious combat situations.

  Zen argued that a “normal” helmet made working the board difficult, but Starship disagreed; the weight of the control helmet tended to twist his neck and give him headaches if he wore it for more than an hour.

  “Hawk One is launched and operating in the green,” he told Dog. “Coming through fifteen thousand feet, going to five thousand. On programmed course.”

  “Good work, Starship,” said Dog. “Be advised we have a civilian merchant ship for you to check out, two miles due south of your present course.”