Satan's Tail

by Dale Brown

  “This is Peanut,” said Storm, introducing another officer.

  “He’s the executive officer of the ship. We lost our captain in battle. A very good man. That’s Eyes. You’ve spoken to him.

  He’s tactical officer and my second-in-command. He runs the show down here.”

  Both men gave him grim smiles as they exchanged greetings.

  “The Abner Read is designed to act as a coordinator as well as a combatant in littoral zones,” said Storm. “Since combined action is still a new concept, we’re working some of this out as we go.”

  “I can relate to that,” said Dog. “We do that ourselves.” The other officers nodded, but Storm frowned. No one in the world could be as unique as he was.

  “The Tactical Center is the brain of the task force, the next generation combat information center,” said Storm. “All the systems are monitored here. That’s Radar, Active Sonar, our Array, which you can think of as a very sophisticated listening device. In the future we’ll integrate information from UAVs and underwater robot systems. We process the information and then deliver it to the other ships in the task group. It’s not unlike what would happen in a task force built around an aircraft carrier and advanced cruisers and the rest.

  The holographic display shows the changing tactical situation around us. It can be used for everything from plotting an ocean crossing with computerized charts to working out the best method of attack. Our weapons center is on the other side here. Eventually we’ll control robots as well as the ships’ own weapons. Eyes, Peanut, we’ll be in my quarters.” Storm abruptly turned on his heel and went back the way he came. At the top of the ladder he turned left, walking onto the bridge.

  Dog was surprised to find that there were only three men here. One sat in front of the wheel; a second had a large computer display. An ensign stood behind the captain’s chair at the center of the bridge, as stiff as if this were a port inspection by the fleet admiral.

  “This is the bridge,” said Storm.

  Dog nodded at the men, trying to will them into something approaching ease. He feared they had been told he was the enemy.

  Another holographic display stood at the right against the bulkhead; slightly smaller, this one currently showed a model of the ship and gave readings on the various engineering systems it used. Storm demonstrated that it had several different modes, including the ones he had seen in Tac.

  “How much longer?” Storm asked the ensign.

  “Another two and half hours, sir.”

  Storm nodded, but didn’t explain to Dog what they were talking about.

  “Are you in contact with my Megafortress?” Dog asked.

  “Of course. The submarine is that way.” Storm gestured dismissively toward the ship’s bow. “We’ll rendezvous with my Shark Boat and wait to see what happens. We have it under control, Bastian. Don’t worry.” Dog interpreted the conversation and Storm’s comments to mean that the Shark Boat trailing the submarine was still about two and half hours away. The submarine had remained submerged since their last pass; he didn’t expect it to move now until nightfall.

  “This way,” said Storm, walking to the other side. Dog followed through a hatchway to a cabin dominated by a large conference table. On the opposite side a hatch opened into the captain’s personal quarters. With his bunk on one side and his desk on the other, it would have fit in a good-sized closet at Dreamland.

  “We’ve had teething pains. Our biggest problem right now is radar coverage,” said Storm. He slid into a chair. “It’s nonexistent. You can sit.”

  “Thanks,” said Dog.

  Storm clearly didn’t realize he’d meant it sarcastically.

  The only other seat in the cabin was piled high with charts and papers.

  “We’re designed to rely on radar inputs from other assets,” explained Storm. “This way no one can use our radar to locate us. But like much of our gear, the data link isn’t ready for deployment. Nor is the robot helo that’s supposed to carry the radar. It’s probably two years from being ready to fly. As a stopgap, a version of the SPY-3 multifunction radar is supposed to be adapted for our use. That’s a joke—the customized version isn’t even off the drawing board because of funding issues.”

  Dog wasn’t familiar with the SPY-3 system, though he guessed it was a follow-up to the present generation of sensors used by the fleet. The Abner Read‘s unique design would surely complicate the radar’s development, as would the need to integrate it with other systems.

  All right, thought Dog; maybe some of Storm’s attitude came from the fact that he’d been given a job without the tools to do it. Didn’t make him any less of a jerk, though it at least might explain some of his behavior.

  “In the meantime, our only radar is a poorly modified version of the SPS-63. It’s an Italian design barely useful for navigating. According to the specifications, it’s supposed to cover out to about forty nautical miles. It doesn’t, not on our ship anyway. Has something to do with the antenna configuration and height. And contrary to advertising, the pirates have been able not only to spot it, but to use it to aim at us.”

  “We may be able to figure out a way to pipe you our radar coverage,” said Dog. “My technical people may have to modify some of the systems, but our airborne sensors were originally designed to interface with the combat information centers aboard aircraft carriers, so it ought to work. After some trial and error.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “Look, Storm: You and I don’t have to get along at all. But we can work together to accomplish this mission. You have gaps—”

  “What gaps?”

  “Let me finish: You have gaps in your capabilities because the technology is still new or hasn’t gotten out of the development stage. I’m used to dealing with that. That’s what Dreamland’s all about. We have some things that can help you. The Werewolves for starters. The communications system. We also have high-tech blimps that can carry radar—”

  “Blimps?”

  “They’re lighter-than-air ships that can be positioned over the gulf and monitor traffic. You could use them for radar coverage and not give your position away.”

  “Pirates will just shoot them down.”

  “They use a technology that makes them blend into the surrounding sky. They’re difficult to see. If the pirates don’t know they’re there and aren’t using radar, they probably would never see them. We used them in Brunei.”

  “Yes.”

  Dog recognized that particular “yes.” It meant: I heard that you kicked butt there, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to say anything that you might interpret as a compliment.

  “If we’re going to work together,” Dog said. “Then let me suggest—”

  “You’re going to work for me,” said Storm.

  “If we’re going to work together, there are some problems we have to fix,” said Dog. “First of all is communications. I can get more portable communications units so you can tie your Shark Boats into the network. Everyone can get the same information immediately, no bottlenecks. I’d like to bring some of my technical people in to figure out if we can give you the radar information and anything else.

  Maybe we can download target coordinates, or supply targeting data to the Harpoons once they’re launched. The Werewolves—running them from a base a few hundred miles away is doable, but it’s not the best solution. I can air-lift a mobile control unit in and put a pilot on board so you can fly them from here. And we have to do better about friendly fire.”

  Storm scowled, but then nodded. “Agreed.”

  “The fact is, my Flighthawk pilot didn’t understand about your defense system,” added Dog tactfully. “He got the idea that because the Werewolf was close, he could get close. He thought it was an on-off thing. That’s not going to happen again, but obviously we have to share procedures as well as information. Up and down the line.”

  “I agree with you, Bastian. We don’t have to be friends.” Gee, thanks, you SOB, thought Dog.

/>   STORM WATCHED THE OSPREY CIRCLE AWAY, TAKING BASTIAN back to his temporary base in Saudi Arabia. Bastian hadn’t been the most polite officer—and looked a bit unkempt; he could have used a shave.

  But he had at least said the right things. Whether he could deliver or not remained to be seen.

  “How are we, Peanut?” Storm asked the exec, who was now on the bridge.

  “Nothing yet, Cap. The Shark Boat is roughly forty miles dead ahead. We’re sure the sub is still there?”

  “Delaford knows what he’s talking about. I trust him,” said Storm.

  Tying the Dreamland people into his ships made a great deal of sense. The Werewolf gunships could help extend the task force’s power well over the horizon. He wasn’t necessarily convinced about the blimps—that seemed to him just a play to unhook the Megafortresses from the mission—but they might work down the road. Throw Piranha into the mix—the automated submarine probe was supposed to join the fleet within a year anyway—and the DD(L) warship and the Combined Action Group, or CAG, concept would begin to reach their potential.

  From the way Bastian was talking, Dreamland had plenty of other projects—and maybe development money—that might help them. The trick would be prying them out of the flyboy’s sticky fingers.

  It was unfortunate Bastian was such a jerk to deal with.

  Storm trusted Delaford to give him a straight story, at least, but clearly a Navy man wouldn’t have much say under Bastian’s command. If Bastian had trusted him at all, he would have brought him out to the ship with him.

  He would have to find someone else at Dreamland to cultivate, someone overly ambitious who might be manipulated, or if not manipulated, at least influenced to cooperate for a higher cause: like his promotion.

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  1238

  DOG SHOUTED A THANK YOU TO THE OSPREY CREW AS HE hopped down and headed toward the Dreamland Command trailer. He was extremely hungry—Storm hadn’t offered him lunch on the Abner Read, and he was damned if he was going to ask—but any thought of heading over to the cafeteria vanished when Danny Freah met him in front of the trailer.

  “Our friends are back at the gate,” said Danny.

  “I saw a dozen or so from the Osprey,” said Dog. “A lot less than yesterday.”

  “There are more on the way. In buses. Be here within an hour, according to the Saudis.”

  “How many people?”

  “There are twelve buses that the police saw coming from Mecca alone. Another ten or twelve from Jiddah, the city on the Red Sea. We seem to be a popular attraction. The, uh, base commander wants to talk to you about this.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Hands on hips, Dog surveyed the hangar area. The Wisconsin sat on the left, her Flighthawk mounted beneath her wing.

  The damage to the tail had been repaired; for once the computer had overestimated the extent of the injuries, and the maintainers confirmed there were no serious structural problems. The MC-17/W, her rear ramp open, sat to the right. Several large items had to be loaded into her: the LADS blimp, the Werewolves, the Dreamland Command trailer, and last but not least, the Osprey. It was a tight fit and would require at least two hours—much of it to get the Osprey in shape to be carried.

  Diego Garcia was too far for the tilt-rotor aircraft to travel without refueling, even if she were carrying just her crew.

  “If we didn’t pack the Osprey, how long would it take to get out of here?” Dog asked.

  “Hour,” said Danny. “Give or take.”

  “Let me get with Washington and see if I can land the Osprey somewhere midway and have her refueled.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to check with Storm?” said Danny.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  Washington, D.C.

  0450

  THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR OF THE CONDO CAME TEN MINUTES before Jed was expecting it—and more important, before the coffee started pouring through the filter of Mr. Coffee.

  “Jed Barclay? Are you ready?” said a gruff voice outside the door.

  “Um, almost,” said Jed.

  “Lot of traffic on the road, sir. If we’re going to make the airport we want to get moving.”

  “Yeah, all right. Like, I’m coming.” Jed shut off the cof-feepot. He swung his hand through the loop of his carry-on, grabbed his knapsack laptop bag, and opened the door. The driver was a Marine corporal assigned to the NSC; he wore a civilian suit and looked better dressed than Jed, whose tie didn’t quite go with his wrinkled gray jacket.

  “Mr. Barclay?” said the corporal, glancing down at Jed’s scuffed brown shoes.

  “Yeah. Aren’t you kind of early?”

  “No, sir.” The corporal studied his face for a moment.

  “Maybe we could grab some Joe on the way?”

  “Definitely a good idea,” said Jed. “There’s an all-night 7-Eleven on the corner.”

  As they got into the car, one of Jed’s phones began ringing. He had three with him—a secure NSC satellite phone, an encrypted cell phone, and a personal cell phone.

  It took a few moments for his caffeine-deprived brain to figure out that the call was on the encrypted line.

  “Jed,” he said, popping it open somewhat hesitantly.

  “Hello?”

  “Jed, this is Colonel Bastian. Sorry to wake you.”

  “Um, well, you’re not waking me, Colonel. As it happens.”

  “I need a favor. A pretty big one.”

  “Um, uh—personal favor?”

  “It is a personal favor to me, but it’s not of a personal nature. I need a place for one of my Ospreys to land where it can be refueled.”

  “Uh—”

  “I know I’m not going through channels, but there isn’t enough time,” said Dog.

  “Yeah, OK,” Jed replied. “What exactly do you need?”

  “Basically, I need someplace between Saudi Arabia and Diego Garcia to refuel the Osprey. India would be best.”

  “How soon?” Jed asked.

  “Ten minutes ago would be great,” said Dog.

  “Ten minutes ago I can’t do. But I can work something out, I think. Can I call you back?”

  “I’d kind of like to get this solved right now,” said Dog.

  “What I’d like you to do is talk to my people back home and set it up with them. But I want to know whether it’s doable or not.”

  “Um, hang on,” said Jed as they pulled up in front of the convenience store.

  “How do you want your coffee?” asked the driver.

  “Plenty of milk and two sugars. Better make it the biggest they got—three sugars.”

  The driver got out.

  “I think it’s probably doable,” Jed told Dog. “I have to talk to State anyway.”

  “Probably’s not good enough for me, Jed. I need to count on you.”

  “You can count on me, Colonel, soon as I get my coffee.”

  Diego Garcia

  1530

  IT WAS NOT THE WORST FLIGHT MACK SMITH HAD EVER BEEN on—but it had certainly been close. He spent the entire fifteen hours, twelve minutes, and thirteen seconds strapped into the stiff Flighthawk control seat on the lower deck of Megafortress Charlie One. He’d been so bored that he even took a few tries at the training simulations for Piranha that Lieutenant Cly Dai was flying at his station next to him. But you could only play computer games for so long.

  It wasn’t bad enough that he was a passenger on an airplane, instead of a pilot; he was an immobile one, strapped to his stinking ejection seat and unable to move without considerable help. The newly minted EB-52 had a temporary bunk area on the upper deck, along with a galley, restroom, and a VCR. But he’d have had to crawl up the steps to get to it, and the humiliation simply wasn’t worth it. Getting down out of the aircraft was its own adventure. All of the EB-52s were equipped with an attachment on the ladder that allowed a wheelchair to be mechanically lowered by a pair of small electric motors. Though it doubled as
a way to ease the loading and unloading of heavy computer gear, it had been designed specifically for Zen, and it certainly beat being carried down to the tarmac. But it involved a great deal of faith; the angle was precarious, and Mack was sure he would topple out of his seat the whole way down.

  “I’ve got your bags, Major,” said Lieutenant Dai cheer-fully as Mack wheeled away from the belly of the plane. He paused to let Dai load the bags onto his lap. The extra weight and awkwardness made it difficult to work the wheels, and when Dai started pushing him, Mack didn’t object.

  Sergeant Lee Liu, a member of the Whiplash action team, stood in front of a battered pickup truck nearby, waiting for them.

  “Major, welcome to Paradise,” said the sergeant. “Hop aboard.”

  “I’m not hopping anywhere,” said Mack. “And I’m not getting in the back of that truck. I’ll ride up front.”

  “Just a figure of speech, Major,” said the sergeant.

  Liu helped him into the cab and they drove to a small building overlooking the ocean. Two airmen met them there, members of a security team flown in to provide security until the rest of the Whiplash team arrived. In truth, Diego Garcia was probably as secure as any American base in the world, and the local Navy contingent could have done an adequate job guarding two or three full squadrons. Located on a small island atoll in the ocean below India, the only people here were either military or contract workers for the military. Completely isolated, the base was self-contained, an entire world unto itself. Depending on your perspective, it could be either Paradise, or hell—or maybe a little of both.

  Mack tried to lower himself from the truck to the waiting wheelchair, but couldn’t manage the maneuver; he finally gave in and asked for help. The airmen craned him upward and deposited him gently in the chair.

  “Thanks, guys,” he said. “I hope not to be in this sucker too long. Get my legs back any day now.”

  “Yes, sir,” said one of the airmen.

  The cement-block building wasn’t much to look at, but Mack realized that it had two major assets: There was no step or curb to the front door, and the rooms were all on one level.

  “This isn’t the most comfortable facility,” said Liu, coming in behind him. “But it’s isolated from the rest of the base.