Satan's Tail

by Dale Brown

“This system was adapted from the airborne system and optimized for large ships on the open sea. Coastlines bring all sorts of other problems. There are three or four dozen places they could be.”

  “Agreed, Sergeant.”

  “And no offense, sir, but, uh, if we coordinated better—working with Xray Pop instead of against them—we might have started with a better profile for the computer to use on its tracking. One of the difficulties of this all being automated.”

  “Can’t argue with you, Dish.”

  One of these days, thought Dog, I’m going to sit down and write the collected common sense of Air Force sergeants. It’ll be a best seller—though since it would come from sergeants, no officer would take it seriously.

  Dog tracked out to the Indian Ocean, sweeping the gulf just in case the patrol craft had managed somehow to get this far. As he circled back he told Storm the pirates had slipped away.

  “Figures,” snapped Storm.

  “We should talk,” said Dog.

  “I have my hands full right now, Bastian,” said the Navy captain, snapping the line dead.

  Dog made a report to the lieutenant commander in the Tactical Center, who was considerably more cooperative, and even upbeat. The Oman ship they targeted had sunk soon after the battle, struck by two Harpoons from the Wisconsin and one from the Abner Read.

  “We monitored a communication from a Liberian tanker a few miles away,” said Dog. “They believed they saw some survivors.”

  “Stay on top of that,” said the Tac commander, whose nickname was Eyes. “What happened to that oiler?”

  “We lost track of it. We’ll look for it as soon as we swing back.”

  “You probably saved their butts,” said Eyes.

  “You figure the Oman government sent the ship to help the pirates?” asked Dog.

  “Your guess is as good as mine out here, Colonel. It’s the Wild West with speedboats.”

  And Exocet missiles, thought Dog.

  As they continued westward, he checked back in with the team at Khamis Mushait. Danny had gone off to bed; Sergeant Bison gave him the rundown. There were no protesters to be seen, and the Marines were now holding positions around the base. The technical teams were tearing things down and packing so they could relocate to Diego Garcia. The two Megafortresses Dog had ordered in from Dreamland were already en route there. Dog decided that he would have Baker-Baker take a short mission tomorrow, then head to the island directly, once they could work out the relief schedule. How long Wisconsin stayed in Saudi Arabia depended on the damage it had sustained; if it was minimal, he’d gas up and head out ASAP.

  “Scientist wants to talk to you, Colonel,” said Bison.

  “Put her on,” said Dog.

  Bison moved away from the console. Jennifer’s tired face came into view.

  “You oughta be in bed, lady,” said Dog.

  “Is that an offer?”

  “I wish.”

  “Me too.” She frowned. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  “Take a number.”

  “I could have flown the Werewolf.”

  “Command decision.” Dog didn’t feel like arguing with her.

  “Because I’m a woman, or because I’m a civilian?”

  “Because you’ve got a lot of other things to do, like make the LADS blimps work.”

  “They’re working.”

  “And get ready to get over to Diego Garcia.”

  “We’re getting ready.”

  “Zen’s got more combat experience,” he told her.

  “I can beat him in a Werewolf.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Dog.

  “Command decision?” She frowned, but then smiled. “All right. Sorry to bust your chops.”

  “At least you apologize,” Dog told her.

  “I miss you.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’m going to bed now.”

  Dog stared at the blank screen a few seconds, distracted in a way he knew he couldn’t afford to be.

  “We miss you back here, Colonel,” said Major Catsman at Dreamland when he checked in there. “Mack Smith especially.”

  “Mack?”

  “He’s telling everyone who’ll listen and most of those who won’t how he ought to be out there doing real work. He spends all day dreaming up schemes to get more projects under his control. Then he goes and harangues the people involved to try to get them to agree it’s a good idea. Yesterday or the day before, it was naval warfare modules for the Werewolves. Today it was a ship-tracking system for the Unmanned Bomber. He may come up with a flying aircraft carrier tomorrow.”

  Dog laughed.

  “I’m serious, Colonel. He’s driving everybody nuts. I see where he got his reputation.”

  “Trust me, this is the new and improved Mack Smith,” said Dog. “What naval warfare modules is he talking about?”

  “I don’t recall the specifics. He has studies and tests and things. I don’t know if it’s any actual programming. To be honest, I’m not paying much attention to most of what he’s saying—there’s too much to do here.”

  “It occurs to me that Whiplash is currently interfacing with the Navy on a full-time basis,” Dog told Catsman. “And the person designated to handle the interface is Mack Smith.”

  “God bless you, Colonel.”

  Dog laughed. “Send him over to Diego Garcia. Clear it with the doctors first.”

  “They’ll carry him aboard the plane.” Dog went over a few administrative things with Catsman, then signed off. With his copilot flying the plane, he got up and took a stroll around the flight deck, checking the radar operators and stretching—surely one of the pleasures of flying an aircraft whose basic design dated from another era.

  He went down the ladder to the Flighthawk deck, where Starship sat slumped back in his seat and Delaford reviewed the database of ship traffic.

  “Wasn’t your fault, Starship. Their system should have picked up on the identifier and it didn’t,” Dog told the lieutenant.

  “I know.”

  There had been much worse accidents involving friendly fire; this involved only the loss of a robot, not a life. But Dog didn’t think pointing that out would console his lieutenant.

  Instead he tried changing the subject.

  “You ever been to Diego Garcia, Starship?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s a pretty nice place.”

  “We’re relocating because of me?”

  “No. Not because of you. Because some of the Saudis don’t understand what it is we’re about. Orders from the White House and our current mission commander.” Dog tried to hold his face neutral as he mentioned Storm. “Nothing to do with you. Lighten up, Starship. Maybe you should try taking a nap.”

  “I’m OK, Colonel,” said the pilot.

  “Don’t get morose. You did a good job with that ship back there. Watch the tape. You did a good job.” Delaford looked over at him. “Got a second, Colonel?”

  “Plenty of them.”

  “I was looking at our patrol route. I have a couple of places we can drop a buoy and recover the Piranha from automated mode ahead of schedule.”

  “Sounds good. Transfer them to my station. We’ll do it, assuming our tail holds up and Storm doesn’t come up with something else for us to do.”

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  0228

  ZEN PUSHED THE DOOR TO THE ROOM OPEN AS QUIETLY AS possible, but it had a spring on the hinge and there was no way to keep it open and get inside without a sound. The light snapped on just as he stopped to let it close behind him.

  “Hey,” said his wife from the bed.

  “Hey back.”

  The room was set up like an oversized hotel room, with the bathroom and a closet off a very narrow hall near the door to the outside. This made it hard to get into the bathroom with his wheelchair, and Zen’s maneuvering was complicated by an inch-high piece of marble at the doorway. The marble looked real pretty, unless you had to r
oll over it.

  “How’d it go?” asked Breanna, coming over in her robe.

  “We ran into some trouble.” He slid the chair near the toilet seat and levered himself over. Tired, he nearly flopped into the space between his chair and the commode, but managed to lean forward just enough to plop onto the porcelain seat.

  “Communications system didn’t work?” asked Bree.

  She stayed just outside the door, giving him privacy after a quick glance to make sure he was all right. It was one of the many dances they’d perfected since the accident.

  “The communications worked. Dog spotted some fast patrol boats trying to sneak up on them from the east. While Xray Pop was dealing with that, an Oman ship launched missiles.”

  “Oman?”

  “Yeah. Supposed to be friendly to the West. Haven’t figured that one out yet. One of the Shark Boats got hit by a missile that the Abner Read was shooting down. They crossed too close because of the attack or something. Anyway, ship’s still afloat but it’s pretty badly beat up. They lost three guys. Then, just for good measure, Abner Read shot down Starship’s Flighthawk.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish. Their automated ship protection system thought it was a cruise missile. Starship thought he could get close to the ship because Werewolf was. Their system’s more sophisticated than that, though. Lucky for him.”

  “What happened to the pirates?”

  “Dog got the missile ship. We got some hits in—Navy battered one of the little boats pretty well, and I know I hit two—but as far as I could tell, they all got away. They were moving pretty fast. You can’t get much on the Werewolf radar beyond five or six miles, and the hook-in from the Megafortress isn’t operational.”

  Breanna put her hands on Zen’s shoulders as he came out of the bathroom, kneading his muscles.

  “Keep going,” he urged when she stopped. “My neck is all whacked out. I had to stoop over the display.”

  “Hop into bed and I’ll give you a full body massage.” It was more a dive than a hop. Zen pulled himself over the mattress, sinking in. His wife’s hands felt fantastic.

  “Admiral Storm still a jerk?” asked Breanna.

  “Captain Storm. No worse than your dad.”

  “My father isn’t a jerk.”

  “Demanding.”

  “Oh, he is not. He has standards.”

  “He can be a prick.”

  Breanna smacked him, semiplayfully.

  “I meant that in a good way,” said Zen. “It’s OK to be tough.”

  “I doubt that Storm is anything like my father.”

  “Probably not,” said Zen.

  Breanna went back to giving him a massage. “Maybe I should take this bathrobe off and you could give me a massage,” she suggested.

  “Good idea,” said Zen. He felt his eyes closing.

  “Jeff?”

  “Good idea,” he mumbled, sliding into a dream.

  Aboard the Wisconsin

  0250

  STARSHIP LOOKED AT THE MAIN SCREEN AS THE COMPUTER replayed his flyover of the Oman missile boat, watching it as if it were a training video, not his own engagement. He saw someone standing on the upper deck of the missile boat, aiming at the ship with a gun. The gun sparkled as the Flighthawk passed.

  He hit pause and backed up to the beginning of the run, going through it in slow motion this time as he tried to gauge the impact of his 20mm cannon shells. The bullets were relatively small, designed primarily for use against other aircraft; in retrospect, he thought he should have been more selective in targeting the ship, looking for a vulnerable spot.

  He slowed the action down, watching the line of slugs slant-ing into the hull as the attack continued. The holes were nothing more than specks on the screen.

  The man stood there again. What he’d thought was a gun turned out just to be a shadow.

  Starship saw the flash again, and this time realized that the man on the deck hadn’t been firing at him at all; he’d simply been running. The flash came from one of the Flighthawk’s bullets as it struck the rail or perhaps the bulkhead behind him.

  The man lay on the deck in the next pass. If his Flighthawk had done any other damage, it wasn’t visible.

  So I killed him, thought Starship. He leaned back in the seat.

  Good. Revenge for Kick.

  He leaned forward, hit the button to play the rest of the encounter. Midway through he backed up and again ran through the attack where he had shot the man.

  “Good,” he whispered, but he didn’t feel good at all.

  DOG LET MCNAMARA HANDLE THE BUOY LAUNCH, double-checking the plotted course and feeding him vital signs, but otherwise staying in the background as the copilot flew the plane. They slapped out the buoy and buttoned up, continuing their patrol. The Tac officer on the Abner Read gave them an update a short while later. A fleet ocean tug—basically an oceangoing tugboat large enough to pull an aircraft carrier by herself—had been dispatched from Bahrain to take the damaged Shark Boat under tow. The Navy was still undecided about where the Shark Boat would be taken for repairs.

  “I’d like to have a word with Captain Gale,” said Dog when the update was done.

  “All right,” said the Tac officer, with a tone that implied he was asking for trouble.

  “What is it, Bastian?”

  “We should rendezvous to discuss the situation tomorrow,” suggested Dog.

  “Rendezvous?”

  “I think we can do things better.”

  “You’ll have to come to me. I have no way of getting to you,” said Storm.

  “Not a problem,” said Dog. “I should be able to get there late in the afternoon, depending on what’s going on in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Good.”

  “Good,” said Dog. He clicked off the circuit. Clearly the best time to talk to Storm was when he was too tired to argue.

  On the other hand, the same was probably true of himself.

  He glanced at his watch. They had more than six hours scheduled on patrol. And by the time he got to the Abner Read, he’d be even more exhausted.

  “Colonel,” said Delaford. “I have contact with the Piranha. It’s about a hundred miles south of us, just passing out of range of the buoy we dropped. It’s headed west.”

  “West? Didn’t you point it east?”

  “I put it in autonomous mode, which means it can change its mind if something comes up,” said Delaford. “Looks like it found the sub.”

  VI

  Paradise

  Gulf of Aden

  8 November 1997

  0301

  TWO OF THE PATROL BOATS WERE DAMAGED BEYOND REPAIR. Ali took a last look around their decks, making sure his men had salvaged everything possible. He hated to lose the heavy guns, but they didn’t have the wrenches needed to take the bolts from the decks. One of the men had tried to cut away the deck with a chain saw—a creative idea, thought Ali, until the chain snapped and the man got a slashing wound on his arm for it. They settled for the ammunition.

  Ten men had died, and some of their blood stained Ali’s hand and shirt. He saw it when he waded back to his own craft, noticing the stain on his hand.

  He wished it were his enemy’s blood.

  He had lost the Oman ship, and with her, his cousin Mabrukah and several other men he knew very well. Satan’s Tail had escaped. Ali knew because his spies had heard its radio transmissions, or at least some. One of the boats that accompanied it had been damaged, apparently by one of the missiles. A fisherman and his brother were making their way toward the area now in a small boat; he would know by morning how much damage they had done.

  It wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would be enough until he sank the large ship.

  To do that, he had to return west. The Sharia and the others would have to be rallied. He would regroup, attack again.

  The wind howled around his ears.

  It sounded like Abu Qaed’s voice, calling him.

  “Quickly now,” h
e told his crew. “Signal the others. We have a great distance to go.”

  Aboard the Abner Read

  0310

  FOLLOWING DIRECTIONS FROM THE DREAMLAND TECHNICAL team, Storm’s communications specialists had managed to plug the portable communications system into the Abner Read‘s own system, even allowing visuals. So when Colonel Bastian signaled that he had to speak to the captain immediately, the specialists called up to the bridge and told Storm he could see the man who’d become such a thorn in his side.

  Storm told them to make the connection and stepped to the video screen.

  An image snapped in. He saw the side of a helmet, and waited as the head turned toward the camera. The visor was up and the oxygen mask hung down, revealing a face softer than Storm had expected. The eyes were pensive, searching, and expressive.

  The voice was as belligerent as ever.

  “We found the submarine,” Bastian told Storm.

  “What?”

  “The Libyan submarine. About forty miles southwest of your present location, just barely in Somalian territorial waters. It’s going west. Commander Delaford is on the circuit with the technical details. Tommy?”

  “Hi, Storm. The submarine is definitely a Foxtrot, Project 641, Russian sub. May have been upgraded—the engines are quieter than the specs say they should be. It’s definitely not a Kilo.”

  “How do you know?” said Storm.

  “Because we worked with a Kilo to develop Piranha,” snapped Bastian. “And we sank one in the South China Sea.”

  “Two,” said Delaford. “This is the first time we’ve come across a Foxtrot. He’s snorkeling right now, making about eight knots, a little slower. That’s close to his best speed using the snorkel. He can go twice that fast on the surface, though he wouldn’t be able to sustain it very long. If he goes deeper and just runs on his battery, he’s not going to go much over two knots unless he really has to. If his batteries were in good shape he could probably do fifteen knots on them, but that would run them down pretty quickly.”

  “Can you sink him?”

  “We’re not authorized to,” said Bastian. The eyes flashed.

  Then he added, “I have one Harpoon left aboard. I can sink him on the surface, and maybe when he’s snorkeling. As long as I have authorization.”