by Dale Brown
There is a three-story structure on the other side of the tank farm. It’s a little newer, but wouldn’t be as easy to secure.”
“I think this one’s fine,” said Mack, ignoring the musty odor as they continued down the hallway. There were small, simple offices and a large common room. As Mack surveyed the rooms, Liu told him that the Dreamland Command Trailer was due to arrive in a few hours; they would set it up outside. A secure communications system for the offices would be wired in, along with other gear as needed. Dog wasn’t due to come in until nighttime at the earliest; he was meeting with Captain Gale aboard the Abner Read, the flagship of Xray Pop.
“We’re three hours ahead of the base in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf of Aden, where the aircraft are patrolling,” added Liu, “so if it’s 1530 or three-thirty in the afternoon here, it’s twelve-thirty there; 1600 is 1300, and like that. And just to really confuse you, when it’s 1500 here and 1200 in the Gulf of Aden, it’s 0100 in Dreamland. Got it?”
“Basically, it’s party time somewhere in the world,” said Mack. “As long as you can stay awake to enjoy it.”
National Airport,
Washington, D.C.
0530
THEY HAD JUST ANNOUNCED THAT THE PLANE FOR NEW YORK was boarding when Jed’s encrypted cell phone rang back with the message that a refueling stop had been cleared for the Osprey at Dabolin in the province of Goa, India. He pulled out the sat phone and hot-keyed the number for the Dreamland Command Center.
“Yes?” answered an unfamiliar voice.
“Um, who is this?” said Jed. He’d been expecting Major Catsman, whom he’d spoken to a few minutes before.
“Who is this? “
Jed, thinking that he had somehow gotten a wrong number and dialed a residence, hit the end transmission button.
It should have been impossible to get a residence, he thought. Jed looked at the buttons, and hit the combination again.
“Yes?” sneered the same voice.
“This is Jed Barclay.”
“Yes, of course it is.”
“This is Dr. Ray, right?” said Jed, finally attaching the sneer to a face.
There was a pause, then Ray Rubeo cleared his throat very loudly. “This is Dr. Raymond Rubeo. What do you want, Mr. Barclay?”
“I was just kind of thrown off there. Usually an operator answers or maybe an officer.”
“We are shorthanded and I am pitching in at the Command Center,” said Rubeo, who sounded about as happy to be doing that as Jed was to be going to New York at five-thirty in the morning.
“Listen, pass the word that I got the approval. There’s an Indian Navy aviation base at Dabolin in India. It’s in Goa.
So you can tell them they can take off.”
“They took off fifteen minutes ago.”
“They did?”
“Colonel Bastian apparently believes you when you say you’ll take care of something,” said Rubeo. He cut the line on his end.
Aboard the Abner Read
1400
“RIGHT THERE, CAP. IT’S THREE MILES OFF THE COAST.”
Eyes pointed to the holographic display in the Tactical Warfare Center. Storm saw from the scale that they were fifteen miles from the submarine—a half hour’s sail at most. The Libyan submarine sat almost at a complete standstill. The patrol boat that had been escorting the sub lay another mile or so farther east in very shallow water close to the shore.
Four torpedoes, fired from the vertical launch tubes, and the submarine and patrol boat would be history. No one would ever know.
That wasn’t quite true. Bastian would know. The pirates would know. And eventually Johnson would find out and use it to scuttle his career.
He thought of his pledge to the sailor after his death that they would have justice.
Have it absolutely.
He stared at the image in the hologram, which had been synthesized by the computer from the sounds the array picked up—and the assumptions about those sounds that had been programmed into the system. The symbol of the sub flickered to the right, nudging northward.
Was he moving out from the protected waters?
God, let him come out to me. Let him come after someone.
Just get close to international waters.
He could always say they had opened their torpedo tubes, clearly indicating that they were going to fire. That would justify attacking.
No one would buy that, not completely. But it would give the people who liked him enough cover to protect him.
Balboa would probably believe it. But Balboa was known to have little if any leverage with the President. And Johnson would work relentlessly against him.
Storm looked back at the display. The submarine wasn’t moving northward at all. His eyes had seen what he wanted them to see—what his need for revenge dictated.
“We have a communication from the fleet about the approaching British carrier and her escorts, the Ark Royal,” said Eyes. “They ran into some sort of delay at the Suez Canal. One of their ships is coming ahead and will be out into the gulf by early tomorrow morning.”
“Very good,” said Storm.
The Ark Royal was en route to Asia to help Americans in the Philippines. It was more a gesture of allied solidarity—a useless one, in Storm’s opinion, though he was thankful that he hadn’t been told to work with the Brits.
He stared at the hologram. No, the submarine wasn’t moving at all. It would, though. It had to.
“Watch the submarine carefully,” he said. “If it starts moving toward the shipping lanes—if it starts moving at all—let me know.”
Aboard Baker-Baker Two,
approaching Diego Garcia
2232
“ALMOST THERE, CAPTAIN,” SPIDERMAN TOLD BREANNA.
Relieved by Charlie One in the Gulf of Aden shortly before 1400, they had flown for just about six hours to get to the airstrip at Diego Garcia. Except for a few short breaks, Breanna had flown the whole mission herself. She’d die rather than admitting it, but she was starting to feel the strain of not having had a full night’s sleep.
“I hear Diego Garcia is a pretty cool place,” continued the copilot. “Lots of partying. ‘Gilligan’s Island with guns’ some of the guys call it.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Breanna.
“It’s not fun?”
“It’s all right. To visit. You’ve never been there?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Interesting place,” said Breanna. “Lots of sun and sand.”
“As long as there’s a cot down there with my name on it, I’ll be happy,” said Spiderman.
“Amen to that.”
ZEN ROLLED ONTO THE CONCRETE IN FRONT OF THE HANGAR area, squinting from the glare of the nearby floodlights. There was a two and a half hour time difference between the Gulf of Aden and Diego Garcia, and it was now getting on towards eleven p.m. local time. But there were dozens of things to do before he could get to bed. He rolled over to the team that had swarmed around the Flighthawk to check on the aircraft’s status, and was surprised when Chief Master Sergeant Clyde “Greasy Hands” Parsons stepped away from the gaggle of maintainers and techies.
“Chief, what are you doing here?” said Zen.
“I wanted to personally kick the butt of the jerk who shot down my aircraft,” said Parsons. “Then I’m going to work on my tan.”
“Go easy on Starship, Chief.”
“I’m not talking about the lieutenant. He didn’t shoot it down. It’s the Navy I’m mad at.” Parsons looked out toward the runway, where a C-5A was just landing, undoubtedly with more of their gear. “Besides, he’s only a lieutenant.
Once you make chief, you let your underlings chew out louies. They’re too easy.”
Zen grinned.
“Although I may give you a good kick just to stay in practice, Major. You’ve been running this aircraft awful hard,” Greasy Hands added. “Due for an overhaul. Oughta be grounded until we get a new engine in.�
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“Can’t afford the downtime,” said Zen.
“Take ten minutes, if I’m watchin’ them.” Parsons smiled, a sure sign that he was going to make a joke. “What do you think about a Chevy small block V-8? Bore that sucker out and watch her rip.”
“You going to tell me about your Chevelle SS again?”
“That was a hell of a car, Zen. I’ll tell you, a hell of a car.
They do not make cars like that anymore.”
“Thank God.”
“Well, that aircraft really ought to set a spell until we get it overhauled. I’m not talking about a rinse and wax either.”
“Colonel’s not going to like that,” said Zen. “And the Navy captain we’re answering to isn’t going to like it either.”
“Back in the day, the Air Force didn’t take orders from the Navy,” said Greasy Hands. “The Navy gave us grief, we flew low and slow over one of their aircraft carriers. Admiral got the message real quick.”
“They had aircraft carriers when you were young, Chief?”
“They were just coming in when I made sergeant.”
“Storm’s not an admiral. And he’s just as stubborn as the colonel.”
“That I’d like to see.”
“Hey, Jeff, how’s it going?”
Zen turned around and saw Mack Smith wheeling toward him.
“What do you think of Paradise?” Mack asked.
“I think it’s damn hot for November,” said Zen.
“I have some idea on integrating the Flighthawks with CAG Xray Pop. We could make coordinated attacks with the microbombs, get them right onto the pilot bridge of the patrol boats. At the same time, the Shark Boats and Abner Read could launch torpedoes at them. So while they’re blinded, they’re also sitting ducks.”
“Why don’t we just nuke them and be done with it?” said Zen.
“I’m serious. You know, the chief was telling me that the replacement Flighthawk engine delivers more thrust, and I was playing with the numbers—I think we can get a lightweight torpedo on, as long as we were launching for a really short flight.”
“I’m going to go get something to eat,” said Zen. “See you later, Chief.”
“Don’t you think that’s a good idea?” said Mack.
“I think it’s so good you ought to join the Navy, gimp boy,” said Zen.
“Hey, give me a break, huh?”
“Which leg?”
“Ha, ha.”
“Where do we eat in Paradise, anyway?” said Zen. He saw one of the Whiplash troopers standing near a truck a short distance away and began rolling toward him. Breanna and the rest of the plane crew were walking in that direction as well.
“You don’t think those are good ideas?” asked Mack. He was trying to follow but couldn’t keep up with Zen.
“I told you, they’re great, gimp boy. Now leave me alone.”
“Hey, lay off the gimp stuff, huh?” Zen looked back. “Maybe you ought to get a motorized chair. If you’re planning on staying in that much longer.”
“Screw yourself, Zen.”
“You’re as witty as ever, Mack.”
“And you’re nastier than ever,” said Breanna, catching up.
Zen pushed his wheels toward the truck. All he wanted to do right now was get some food and go to sleep. For about three weeks.
UN Building,
New York City
1300
JED LOOKED AT THE GRAPHICS FILES AGAIN, MAKING SURE they were ordered properly. The Secretary of State wanted to go through the presentation at least once before meeting with the British and French ambassadors privately at two p.m. and the Saudi ambassador at four; the National Security Council’s special session was due to start at six p.m. There’d be no chance to go through the presentation with him if he didn’t get back soon.
Jed had arranged a dozen pictures and graphics in a Power-Point program for the Security Council; they began with a map of the Gulf of Aden showing where the pirates had struck, documenting clearly that they were using coastal waters to hide. The last photo was a video capture from a Flighthawk; it showed the Oman gunship firing one of its missiles. The picture was shot from a distance and was grainy though provocative. Just as important, it didn’t give anything about the Flighthawk away. Neither the robot plane nor the Megafortress would be mentioned in the presentation. From a security point of view, the only possibly dicey photo was a month-old satellite picture of a patrol boat tied up amid some civilian boats at a dock on the Somalian coast. The image had been taken by a KH-12 Improved Crystal satellite; Jed had reproduced it at a low resolution, but the image was still detailed enough to allow the identification of a goat in one of the yards.
Three different people had already signed off on it, but Jed was still debating whether to blur it further.
“Here we are, Jed,” said Secretary of State Hartman, entering the room he’d been given to work in. “You know Ambassador Ford.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stephen Ford was the U.S. ambassador to the UN. Jed had met him perhaps twice, but protocol insisted that they both act like longtime friends, or at least acquaintances, and they did so.
“Let’s run through the slides, shall we? Then Stephen and I have to meet with the mayor of New York, Rudy Giuliani.
Pretty colorful character.”
“Insufferable Yankee fan,” said Ford, who was from Boston. “Thank God they lost this year.”
“Well, um, we begin with the area map and fade into a slide showing the pirates’ strikes over time,” said Jed. He maneuvered the laptop so the others could see, hitting the buttons at regular intervals.
“I have more statistics—tonnage lost, number of ships.
The numbers are conservative,” said Jed as he continued showing them the slides. “I kicked out anything that might have been questionable.”
“Why?” asked Ford.
The question took Jed by surprise. “I just thought, uh, that, you know, the Secretary wouldn’t want to be questioned on something.”
“He’ll always be questioned,” said Ford. “You have to make the best case, Jed. Always lead with your best argument.” Jed nodded—though there was no chance in hell he was going back for other numbers or changing the presentation if he didn’t have to. These were pretty damning in themselves, with an average of nearly a ship a week stopped or attacked.
“This is a missile boat?” asked Ford, looking at the last image.
“Actually, a patrol boat that was being outfitted to be a missile ship. Or upgraded—refitted, I guess would be the right word.”
“Dreamland’s involved in this?” Ford looked at the Secretary of State. “That might be worth mentioning, because it would persuade China.”
“China has already agreed to remain neutral,” said Hartman.
“A yes vote is better.”
“There are, um, security issues,” said Jed.
“Well, there can’t be too many issues,” said Ford cheer-fully. “There’s a book coming out about the China incident called Strike Zone. I may write the preface.”
“Um, Dreamland still officially doesn’t exist,” said Jed.
“It’s not going to be in the book, is it?”
“Doesn’t exist?” Ford laughed.
“I think we can get by without mentioning them,” said the Secretary of State. “And that book should be vetted before you do a preface.”
“Maybe I won’t,” said Ford. “But I can probably get an advanced copy, right?” He turned to Jed. “Do you have any better pictures?”
“I dulled that satellite picture down because I was worried that it gave too much detail about—”
“No, I mean, more graphic. The presentation has to grab you,” said Ford. “Real pictures. People dying. We need a storyline.”
Jed glanced at the Secretary of State. “I don’t have any pictures of people dying.”
“We have to sell this,” said Ford. “That’s what your slide show has to do.”
&nbs
p; “This is all I have.”
“Put together a strong set, Jed. Work with what you have,” said the Secretary. “I’ll leave it to you.”
“Tell a good story,” said Ford, slapping Jed on the back as they left.
Diego Garcia
9 November
0030
THE UNCOMFORTABLE MILITARY-STYLE “COT” IN WISCONSIN‘S upper Flighthawk deck left Dog’s neck twisted all out of whack when he awoke shortly after landing. He tried stretching it but it remained knotted until Jennifer found him in the office Mack had set aside for him in their new headquarters building. She began kneading his muscles, and he leaned back, feeling some of the knots untangle.
“Ahh,” he said as the tension began to slip away.
“I can come back,” said Mack Smith at the door.
“That’s OK, Major. Come on in. I twisted my neck,” said Dog.
“Sure,” said Mack, rolling forward. “So, I have a list of ideas for you, Colonel. Thought you’d like to hear them.”
“Thanks, Mack, but hold that thought for about thirty-six hours. Your first order of business is to get with Xray Pop and communicate our new patrol schedule. Also find an update on getting the Werewolves out to them. We have two problems—our pilot is sick with the flu, and they don’t have enough range on their own. Second one’s easier to deal with.
There’s a base in India we can use to stage them out of—we can take them there via the M/C-17 and run the Osprey over to refuel them en route, since it’s already set up to be used as a tanker. Chief Parsons can get the Werewolves adapted—they need their nozzle sets reworked. He said it wouldn’t take too long to work out.”
“I can fly them,” said Jennifer.
“Thanks for volunteering, but you’re going to be plenty busy over there as it is. I’m going to get Fred Rosenzwieg in from Dreamland.”
“That’ll take a day at least,” said Jennifer.
“Quicker than waiting for Culver to get better.” The Werewolves’ lead pilot, Sandy Culver, had been evacked to Germany from Saudi Arabia because he’d lost so much fluids from the flu. It seemed to have been food poisoning—hopefully from something he’d eaten at home, not at Dreamland.
