by Dale Brown
The points could range from size measurements to mast and stack configurations.
An ID flashed on the screen as Starship’s Flighthawk closed to within two miles:
DUBNA CLASS, OIL
“Database is comparing it to a Finnish-built ship used by the Russians,” explained Delaford. “Carries a couple thousand tons of bunker oil and about the same of light diesel, some other supplies. I have it in the registry—it’s a Turkish ship, looks like it was bought from Ukraine two years ago.”
“What’s the other one?” asked Starship.
Before Delaford could answer, the computer gave its opinion:
BUSHRA CLASS PATROL BOAT
OMAN NAV
“That’s incredibly far from home. Couple of hundred miles,” said Delaford.
“Maybe they’re protecting them from the pirates.”
“Maybe.”
DOG LOOKED AT THE LOW-LIGHT VIDEO AS IT PLAYED IN THE panel on the Megafortress’s “dashboard.”
“The Oman ship doesn’t look particularly hostile,” he told Delaford.
“Granted,” said the lieutenant commander. “But there are a couple of things out of place. There’s an Exocet missile launcher on the deck behind the smokestack. You can see it in the view of the starboard side. That’s not standard equipment on those boats. Oman does have Exocets, but they’re usually on their Dhofar missile boats, which are a little newer. There’s also an antiair battery, a missile system on the forward deck.”
“Doesn’t add up to pirates,” said Dog. “So they’ve updated the ship, so what? It might be protecting the other ship.”
“Very possibly. Or perhaps pirates have taken over the Oman ship and have used it to capture the oiler. It’s filled with fuel. It can fuel other ships at sea, or at least bring fuel supplies to ports.”
“But most of the patrol boats don’t use the heavy fuel it has.”
“Good point,” said Delaford. “I’m not saying I know what’s going on. Quite the opposite.”
“All right. Let’s try hailing them and find out what they’re up to,” said Dog. He turned to his copilot. “McNamara, ID us as a Navy flight on a routine patrol. See if you can hail the Oman ship.”
“On it, Colonel.”
“How’s your fuel, Starship?”
“Going to need to tank in about twenty minutes,” said Starship.
“Get some close-ups of both of those ships,” said Dog.
“Then we’ll set up for a refuel.”
“Roger that.”
“Not acknowledging us,” said McNamara.
“Try the oiler.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Delaford, the Oman ship isn’t talking to us,” said Dog.
“Anything except the obvious occur to you?”
“No.”
“Radar,” said McNamara. The copilot was warning Dog that the Oman ship had just turned on an antiaircraft radar.
“Shouldn’t be able to see us at this range. Not sure about the Flighthawk as it goes over, but they don’t have a lock at the moment.”
STARSHIP PUSHED THE UM/F TOWARD THE OMAN VESSEL, accelerating for a quick fly-by.
“People moving on the deck of the second boat,” he told Dog. “Up near the, uh, front, the bow, near the gun.” If they were fanatics, killers, he could erase them with a squeeze of his trigger. They deserved it—murderers. They’d killed Kick.
Would that bring him back?
Of course not.
Would it feel good?
Not really. Not in the way he wanted it to.
“What should I do, Colonel?”
“Just stand by,” said Dog. “Let me talk to my friend, Captain Gale.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
2150
STORM PRESSED THE BUTTON ON THE COMMUNICATION control, connecting through the satellite phone.
“What is it, Bastian?”
“Hold on, sir,” said a voice he didn’t recognize.
Bastian came on a second later.
“We have something that you may be interested in, Storm,” he said. “Some sort of tanker being trailed by a gunboat that’s supposed to belong to Oman. We’re not sure if it’s an escort or if it’s joined the pirates.”
“Hail them.”
“We’ve tried that. No answer from either ship. I’m going to patch you over to Commander Delaford,” said Dog. “He can fill you in on what the ships look like and what he thinks they may be up to. I’ll stand by. Using the satellite phone to connect isn’t working very well, Storm. Your voice blanks in and out.”
“And what do you propose instead?”
“As I tried to tell you earlier, we have mobile communications units that will let you tie into the Dreamland network.
If you work with me instead of against me, we might actually get something done.”
“I’m getting plenty done, Bastian. Put Delaford on.” The line descended into static for so long that Storm was about to call in his communications expert to get the Dreamland people back when Delaford came on.
“Storm, we have a gunboat out of Oman trailing what looks to be an old oiler converted for use as a civilian tanker,” Delaford explained. “It’s an Al Bushra, a large patrol boat originally built by France. They’ve mounted Exocets on it.”
“Exocets?”
“Absolutely. I can’t tell whether they’ve taken them off one of their missile boats or what, but they’re definitely there.”
“He’s pretty far from where he belongs,” said Storm. He hadn’t encountered any Oman ships during their patrol; they usually stayed close to port, where the government could keep a close watch on them.
“He’s escorting an oiler that’s been converted to civilian use as a tanker,” said Delaford. “We have the oiler in the database registered to a Cameroon company. It took on fuel in Turkey and does a regular route, mostly bunker oil, over to the East African coast, sometimes to Asia. Never to Oman.”
“And they’re not answering radio calls?”
“No. They’re headed in the direction of Somalia, though they’re in international waters. It looks weird, but there’s no proof of anything.”
“You sure Bastian’s not making this up?” There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Captain, we have a bum connection I think. I’m not sure what you said.”
“You’re sure this is for real?” said Storm.
“It’s real. I’m looking at a video of it now.”
“All right. It’s definitely worth checking into.” Storm looked at the holographic display. The two ships were over two hundred nautical miles to the southwest. It would take six hours, at least, to get there. But the addition of an Oman ship to the pirate fleet would be a major development.
Eyes looked at him expectantly. Storm put up his forefin-ger, signaling that he would explain in a moment.
“It’ll take us several hours to get out there,” Storm told Delaford. “Do you think the Dreamland people can track him until then?”
“With their eyes closed.”
“Give me Bastian.”
“I’m here,” said Bastian.
Just like him to eavesdrop, thought Storm. “Trail the ship.
See where it goes. We’re going to come east and board them.”
“I can do that, but I may have to put the Piranha into sleep mode,” said the Air Force flier.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m uncomfortable discussing it in detail,” said Dog.
“The satellite line is encrypted.”
“I’m still uncomfortable talking about details of the system. You’re going to have to take my word for it.” Everything with this guy is a struggle, thought Storm.
Everything.
“Do what you have to do,” he told Bastian.
“I intend to.”
“Listen Bastian … Bastian? Are you still there?”
“Still here.”
“We’re losing the stinking communications satellite around
four o’clock in the morning. We’re going to have to find another way to communicate. Get those Dreamland communications things en route to me ASAP.”
“I’ll have an Osprey launch within the hour.”
Khamis Mushait Air Base
2200
“I CAN GET THREE PORTABLE UNITS OUT THERE RIGHT AWAY, Colonel,” Danny told Dog. “But that leaves me without the Osprey for over four hours.”
“You don’t think the Werewolves are enough to keep you covered?”
“They can, but I can’t use the Werewolves to bug out if I have to.”
“All right, let’s rethink this,” said Dog.
“What if we send one of the Werewolves?”
“A round trip is over twelve hundred miles,” said Dog. “It can’t make it back without refueling.”
“Couldn’t it refuel on the Abner Read?” asked Danny. “If they have a helipad, maybe they have fuel.”
“We can check,” said Dog. “Talk to the technical people first about what they’d have to do to carry radio units. Make sure it’s feasible before you talk to Storm. Is Peterson still sick?”
“Afraid so. Fever of 102, last time I checked. I can fly it,” added Danny.
“No, you have too much to do. So does Jennifer. Is Zen around?”
“Zen’s right here,” said Danny.
“Put him on.”
Danny got up and walked into the conference area of the command post. “Boss wants to talk to you,” he told Zen, who was playing poker with Spiderman and two of the Whiplash sergeants. “He’s looking for a pilot for the Werewolf.”
“The Werewolf?”
“I can do it,” said Danny. “Jen’s over working on the LADS connection and—”
“Don’t sweat it; I’ve flown them plenty of times,” said Zen, wheeling himself backward to the communications area.
“Piece of cake. Computer does all the work if you let it.” The trailer rocked as Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland burst through the door.
“Hey, Cap, we’re being invaded, but I think they’re friendly,” he said. “The Marines have landed.” Two burly Marine Corps sergeants followed Boston inside. They were followed by one of the slimmest Marines Danny had ever met.
And by far the prettiest.
“Lieutenant Emma Klacker, U.S. Marine Corps. No need to worry; you’re secure now.”
Danny laughed. “Oh are we? What’d you do, bring a division?”
“We don’t need a division,” said the lieutenant. “We’re the Marines. Relax, Captain. Nobody’s coming or going on this base without your approval.”
The Whiplash troopers sitting around the table smirked at each other.
“Raise is two bucks to you, Zen,” said Sergeant Kevin Bison. “Now that we’re safe, I feel I can open up my game and bet the limit.”
“You making a joke, soldier?” said Klacker.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m just feeling real warm and toasty now that the Marines are here to save my bacon.”
“Lieutenant, maybe you and I ought to discuss this outside,” said Danny.
Lieutenant Klacker glared at Bison, gave the evil eye to the rest of the trailer, then exited. As Danny passed the Marines, one of them said in a stage whisper, “No disrespect, sir, but I’d watch out. She’s got one hell of a temper.
And if she volunteers to scrimmage you in tae kwon do, don’t do it.”
“That’s all right,” said Danny. “I never scrimmage. Or fight fair.”
Klacker was waiting for him outside. “Why are you letting your men disrespect the Corps?”
“They’re not,” said Danny.
“Disrespect is bullshit, Captain.”
“Whoa, hold on, Lieutenant. I agree. None of my people are going to disrespect the Corps. Whiplash has worked with the Corps before. We have nothing but respect.”
“What do you mean, Whiplash?”
“That’s who we are.”
The Marine officer looked at him suspiciously. “Bullshit, you are. We were told there was an Air Force survey team down here that needed help with some local rioters.” Danny laughed.
“What the hell’s so funny, Captain?”
“That must be the cover they were using up at CentCom or something. We’re surveying, all right—we’re hunting around the gulf for a Libyan submarine.”
“You’re the guys who went into Iran? Whiplash from Dreamland?”
“That’s us.”
“You’re Freah?”
“That’s what it says on the uniform.”
“I heard of you.” She frowned, as if she still didn’t believe him. “You’re younger than I heard.” Danny laughed. “I hope that’s a compliment.”
“It is.” She stuck out her hand. “My friends call me Dancer. Yes, Captain, I was one, in another lifetime. I have other nicknames, but I don’t use them in polite company.”
“I’m Danny.” He held out his hand. Based on what the Marine inside had said, he almost expected to be tossed over her shoulder. But she only shook it, gripping it firmly but not trying to crush his fingers the way some women officers did, trying to prove they were as tough as men. “I appreciate your coming down to help out,” Danny told her.
He explained that they had been ordered to leave, and were currently arranging to do just that. He covered a few administrative details, beginning with the fact that there was plenty of space in the building they’d been given if the Marines wanted to bunk out.
“Saudis have been letting us eat over at the cafeteria,” Danny added finally. “Base commander said additional troops wouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t tell him they were Marines.”
Dancer smiled. “Best to spring that on them at the last minute.”
Danny gave a brief overview of the defenses, showing her some of the nonlethal bullet panels and pointing out the general location of the blimp overhead. It couldn’t be seen in the night sky, its skin of LEDs rendering it almost invisible.
“Details about a lot of our systems are classified,” Danny added. “Obviously, we’re going to be working with you, and we’ll be sharing what you need to know. But I’d ask that you emphasize the fact that they are classified to your people.”
“They’re not people, they’re Marines.” Dancer smiled.
“Don’t worry. They won’t tell anybody the secrets to your success. But if I were you, I’d check on that poker game right away. My guys can be ruthless when the stakes are high.”
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
2350
“WHAT’S PIRANHA’S STATUS?” DOG ASKED DELAFORD.
“Still swimming merrily along,” he said. “But we’re going to have to drop another buoy soon.”
“You have a location for me?”
“Same as before,” said Delaford. “Here.” The computer took the plot from Delaford’s system and integrated it into the sitrep map on Dog’s cockpit panel. The Megafortress was about fifty miles due north of Mayhd on the Somalian coast. To reach the next drop point he’d have to swing eastward about thirty miles, which would mean taking the Flighthawk with him. They could watch the two ships by radar easily enough.
“We’ll drop this buoy, but we may have to put the probe to sleep,” Dog told Delaford.
“I’d really prefer to avoid that if we can, Colonel,” said Delaford. “We’d be better off putting it into autonomous mode and letting it go on its own to a rendezvous point.”
“Sleep mode” was just that—the probe turned most of its systems off and sat in the water until receiving a signal to re-activate. “Autonomous mode” meant that it would use its internal system to take it to a specific point in the ocean. The discussion on what to do mixed tactical considerations with technical ones—the probes failed to wake up from sleep mode about twenty-five percent of the time. On the other hand, autonomous mode wasn’t foolproof either—the internal navigation system was prone to small errors, which multiplied into tens if not hundreds of miles over time.
“All right, this is what we’re going to do,” Dog said finally. “We’ll send Piranha west and rendezvous with it somewhere north of Butyallo or Caluula, small towns on the Somalian coast. In the meantime, we’ll drop one last buoy.”
“Sounds good,” said Delaford.
“Starship, hang back near the Oman ship as long as you can, then come east with me for the duration of the buoy drop,” Dog told the Flighthawk pilot.
“On it, Colonel.”
“Let’s do it.”
Gulf of Aden
8 November 1997
0012
ALI PUT DOWN HIS GLASSES AND CHECKED HIS WATCH. THEY were more than a hundred miles from the rendezvous point for the submarine. They had made very poor progress for a number of reasons, including false reports on the radios that they monitored. Frustrated but resigned, Ali told the helmsman to slow the boat; there was no sense wasting their fuel or pushing their engines further. The other vessels in the flotilla slowed as well.
A container ship was heading westward in the direction of the Red Sea. On another night, it would be an inviting target.
“Captain, the radio,” said one of the men below.
Ali leaned down into the cabin, listening to the chatter over the shortwave radio. There had been talk of aircraft and ships all night, most of it false. Twice Ali had taken his boats toward hiding places because of radio reports of American destroyers; he’d had to use his satellite phone to call his own sources to see if these reports were true. He wondered if the Americans had realized that he used the radio calls as part of his intelligence network and decided to infiltrate it somehow. If so, they would have found people who spoke very good Arabic.
“Near Sury Point,” said one of the voices on the radio now. “Three ships low to the water. One large, the others small. Moving quickly.”
Satan’s Tail, Ali realized, less than forty miles from him, back to the west.
And within sixty of the Al Bushra gunboat the volunteers had taken from Oman.
If it was a true report. Could he trust it?
“Has Ghazala sent the signal that he met the submarine?” Ali asked the communications mate. Ghazala commanded the ship he had sent ahead to the rendezvous.
