by Dale Brown
“Screw it.”
Come on.
Something or someone seemed to take hold of the mask and center it on his face. Starship had his helmet and cinched it—when had he put it on?
He fumbled with the restraint buckle on the left side of his seat; when it finally cinched, he went to connect the right and found it already closed. The aircraft pushed back, leveling off—then shot back down, its nose pitched nearly perpendicular to the earth.
BREANNA SCRAMBLED TO COMPENSATE AS ENGINE FOUR WENT offline. The radar housing had been smashed all to hell, there were holes in the wing, and at least some of the control surfaces were no longer attached to the aircraft.
“Hang with me, Spiderman,” she yelled.
“I’m hanging.”
“We have engine one and engine three, that’s all we need,” she told him.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“I have the stick, I have the stick,” she told him. “We have to stay calm and straight.”
Not necessarily in that order either. Breanna managed to keep the aircraft from falling into a spin, but still had to struggle to quell the roller-coaster movements up and down, the plane riding the momentum toward the ocean. Each plunge got a little shallower and more controllable, and she finally managed to get the aircraft level. Pushing her shoulders back, she took a deep breath in celebration—then went back to work.
“First thing I want you to do,” she told Spiderman, “is get us a course to an airfield. See what the distance is to that place in India that the Ospreys used. That’s probably our best bet at this point. I’ll take stock of the damage. At some point we’ll see if we can bring engine four back online. Starship?”
“Sorry, Bree.”
“Wasn’t your fault—that MiG ducked our AMRAAM somehow. But I think next time, we may test the old saying about discretion being the better part of valor.” Breanna checked with the rest of the crew; no one had been hurt. The MiGs, meanwhile, had returned to Yemen—those that hadn’t been shot down. By their count, they had gunned down seven.
“Eight— Hawk Three got one more before it ran out of fuel. It did the honorable thing and blew itself up when it went dry,” said Starship, reviewing the computer file.
“Ark Royal is asking if we need assistance,” said Spiderman.
“Unless they want to add another four or five thousand feet to their landing deck, tell them thanks but no thanks,” said Breanna.
Aboard the Abner Read
0045
ACCORDING TO THE DREAMLAND PEOPLE, FOUR surface-to-surface missiles were coming at them. The problem was, the screens in the defensive weapons section said there were thirty.
Even the Abner Read‘s gun control system couldn’t take them all out.
“Target the first wave,” said Storm.
“You’re going to have to trust what Wisconsin tells you,” said Jennifer Gleason, standing up from her station. “They can use the infrared sensors and you can manually override the system to target the missiles one by one.”
“You’re damn sassy for a scientist.”
“And for someone who’s smart, you can be a real asshole.” Overcome with anger, Storm nearly grabbed her.
“You know I’m right,” she added.
She was, wasn’t she?
“Do it!” Storm said. “Do what Gleason says. Get the Dreamland people to ID each missile as it’s incoming, and manually take it out. Eyes? Weapons? Peanut?”
“Aye, Captain, we’re on it.”
“I was wrong,” he said. “And she’s right.”
Northern Somalia
0050
GOD GUIDED HIS HAND AND THE ENEMY DEVIL FELL TO THE deck, blood gurgling from his mouth. Ali spun around, following the other man, who was running through the hatch to the left. The man tripped and Ali leaped over him, running forward—there were two other men nearby, one with a gun at his belt. Ali slashed at him, striking so hard that his knife lodged deep in the man’s midsection. They fell together, crumpling against a table.
The space filled with Ali’s men. Ali saw a sidearm and grabbed for it; the man began to fight back, and his companion came to his aid. But God was on the side of the true believers—Ali felt his strength moving in his arms, and he wrestled the pistol from the holster. Before he could use it, however, the man fell back, limp; the blood he’d lost had robbed him of fight.
“Captain! The bridge is this way!” shouted one of his men.
Ali jumped up. There were now so many of his men aboard that he had trouble squeezing onto the bridge.
Two Americans lay at the side, one with his neck twisted at a grotesque angle. Ali stepped forward and shot him once in the head, even though he was clearly dead. He used two bullets on the other man, whose body continued to jerk for several long seconds after the final shot.
The ship’s captain stood near the wheel, pinned by four of Ali’s men.
“You—show me the boat,” said Ali, using his very limited English.
“I will die first.”
Ali raised the pistol to the man’s head.
“The boat.”
The man spit at him. Ali pulled the trigger. The bullet sped through the man’s skull and lodged in the glass of the bridge behind him.
“Throw them overboard. Quickly, search the rest of the ship,” said Ali. “Find the weapons lockers.” Ali scanned the bridge. The basic controls were here.
Moving the Shark Boat would not be difficult. But the displays and sensors and, most important, the weapons would take considerable amount of study. Even with his experience, Ali doubted he could master them.
But God would help, surely. He had given them the boat.
“Captain, we have the boat,” said Saed, taking him by the elbow.
Ali was surprised to find his lieutenant here.
“I had not realized you were here.”
“Until the end. There are fifteen of us, and yourself.”
“Take the helm. Where is Habib?”
“Outside.”
“Someone find Habib,” said Ali. “We need his computer skills.”
THE RUNABOUT TIED TO THE DOCK LOOKED LIKE A late-1950s eighteen-foot Thompson, crafted from wood and open to the air. A pair of large Johnson engines sat at the stern. A thick coat of varnish covered the pockmarked decking and wooden ribs at the side of the open craft.
Danny got in, steadying himself on the gunwale as the boat rocked back and forth. There was no question the craft had been used by the pirates—there were two AK47s and an ammo locker under the seat bench on the port side, and mountings for a grenade launcher bolted just below the port window.
The controls consisted of a large wheel and a throttle as-sembly that could be ganged to engage and work the motors together. There didn’t seem to be an ignition key; the only thing close was a simple push-button to the right of the wheel, mounted on a plastic plate that had been carefully fitted to the wooden dashboard.
Danny leaned on the button but nothing happened. He started to go back and check the engines, then saw a thick wire running along the decking up toward the dashboard.
Thinking there had to be a key or some sort of ignition system, he got to his knee and craned his neck under the old panel. One strand of wire was separated, with the two ends stripped and formed into hooks. He slipped them together, then got up and tried again. The engines coughed, but didn’t catch.
A small gauge on the dash indicated that there was a full tank of fuel. Danny guessed that he needed to choke the engines somehow, but he couldn’t find a switch or mechanism to do so. There was nothing obvious on the engine housings either; metal wire ran to them, but he couldn’t quite see where they connected. He went back and tried again; the motors coughed but still didn’t catch. The boat rocked unsteadily beneath him. He jerked his hand out against the dashboard, grabbing a decorative knob in the middle. A swell of the waves pushed him back, and as he tried to maintain his balance by holding onto the dash, the knob ca
me out. He’d found the choke.
It took two more tries to get the motors started. Once they came to life, the boat heaved forward. The line tugged taut; Danny backed off the power to idle, went back and cut the line. His performance wasn’t going to win him any honors in seamanship, but at least he had the craft working. There were a pair of lights on the bow; he found the switches and saw the thin beams play over the water as he moved away from the dock, getting a feel for the boat.
“Hey, Dancer, this is Whiplash leader. Where are you?”
“About five hundred yards from shore,” said the Marine lieutenant. “Roughly due north of the second landing. Very shallow here, maybe twenty feet deep. We’re working with a boat from Shark Boat One.”
“I see you. I’m in a runabout or something. I want to use it to bring whatever we take from the pirate command post out to the Shark Boat. I’m heading toward you.” Danny throttled slowly toward the wreckage area. The windscreen of the boat folded forward, and he managed to lean out and work the beam down so he could sweep the water. Debris covered the surface.
“Looks like we don’t have any survivors,” said Dancer, maneuvering her boat toward his. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“Two of the Navy men are certified as divers, and there’s diving equipment back on the Shark Boat,” she told him.
“So if you want to start a recovery—”
“That’s going to have to wait until we check on the cave where the sub is,” Danny told her. “Maybe they can dive in from the ocean side after our guys secure the land entrances.
The Shark Boat can support them. I want to check back in with the Abner Read and see what their situation is.” One of Shark Boat One‘s little boats came alongside and told Dancer that they were having trouble raising their ship on the radio. Danny went into the Dreamland circuit and tried to connect via the Abner Read, but also couldn’t get them.
“Abner Read is under fire,” Major Catsman said from Dreamland Command. “The ECM systems aboard the ship and the Megafortresses are degrading the radio communications. Going to be a few minutes, Danny.”
“Maybe I ought to just take a spin out there,” Danny told Dancer. “I have to talk to the captain myself, and it might be quicker face-to-face.”
“Ship seems to be moving,” said the Marine in Dancer’s boat. He pointed out to the horizon.
“I hope they’re not planning on leaving us here,” said Dancer.
“He’s moving pretty fast. Maybe there’s another pirate boat out there,” said Dancer.
Danny clicked his viewer into the sitrep screen, then into the infrared view supplied by Hawk Two, which was still orbiting overhead. Neither screen showed a threat. The Shark Boat had taken a turn in the water and was now heading directly north.
“Colonel Bastian, this is Whiplash leader.”
“Go ahead, Danny,” said Dog from the Megafortress.
“Can you contact the Shark Boat offshore?”
“Stand by. We’re countering a barrage of antiship missiles.”
“If you could give me the surface radar operator, I want to know about possible threats off the beachhead here.”
“There are no threats. Dish will get on the line with you in a second.”
“I think I want to go talk to their captain right now,” Danny told Dancer. “And I want a couple of Marines with me.”
“THIS IS A PASSIVE INFRARED RECEIVING SYSTEM. IT SHOWS heat sources in front of the ship,” said Habib. “This is an active radar, which is very limited, not much more powerful than ours. This screen, though, this gets inputs from some other source. I can’t tell whether it’s aboard this ship or not.”
Ali studied the suite of screens. If he was reading the legends correctly—which might not be the case—the external radar had a seventy-mile radius. Rather than putting this vessel in the center of the plot, it seemed to position it far off to the side. It seemed to him that the Americans had found some way to transmit radar information from another source—Satan’s Tail, he guessed. This would explain why they had never seen radar signals from the small patrol craft themselves.
“This looks like a radar plot too, but I don’t see how that can be,” added Habib, pointing to a large screen near the center of the console. “It has different modes, but what they mean is not clear.”
“This is our ship,” said Ali, pointing to a set of blue letters at the lower left of the screen. “That—that at the center—is the source of the information. Flip back to the first screen you started with.”
Habib did so. It was some sort of scale.
“The buttons below the screen change the scale; the ones at the right, they have something to do with the detection modes,” said Ali. “Go to the longest plot—the small scale.
There!” He pointed to the top of the screen. “That is the Ark Royal. That’s our target.”
It wasn’t clear from the screen what the distance was, but Ali guessed it was less than eighty miles.
“Helm, come five degrees to port,” he told Saed. “And then get as much from the engines as you can. Habib, you have done a good job. Now determine how to use the weapons systems.” He put his hand on his sailor’s shoulder.
“God is with us. He will help you see.”
IX
The Glory of God
Aboard the Abner Read
11 November 1997
0052
JENNIFER CRINGED AS THE ABNER READ‘S PHALANX antimissile system began firing. The fact that the cannon was shooting meant that the missiles they had launched at the Styx had missed, despite Wisconsin‘s help.
“Strike!” said the defensive systems operator over the shared communication channel. The gun swirled and began firing again; it stopped abruptly, the operator realizing belatedly that the system had fired at a shadow. “We’re losing track of the inputs!” the sailor said.
“Do your best,” said Storm calmly. “Fire at whatever you have.”
“I can help,” said Jennifer, placing Werewolf Two in a hover where the aircraft was, about five miles west of the Abner Read. “The Werewolf’s infrared sensors will show the missile.”
“I can’t safe it down to let you in,” said the system officer.
“No, I’ll use Wolf One,” she said, already punching into the controls for the aircraft, which had just been secured for refueling when the missile attack began. “Clear the deck!
Clear the deck!”
Someone shouted at her over the radio, but she couldn’t tell whether it was an acknowledgment or a warning. “Clear the deck!” she repeated. “I’m launching!”
“Do what she says,” snapped Eyes. He bent down next to her. “I trust you, but what the hell are you doing?”
“I can hover just above the ship and use the sensors to help sort the missiles,” Jennifer explained. The Phalanx guns rattled; she revved the counterrotating blades above the Werewolf’s body to life.
“The guns will shoot you down.”
“No, not if I stay right above the superstructure. As far as they’re concerned, the Werewolf is part of the radio mast.”
She had to override the computer to take off, since the aircraft had hardly any fuel left. It rose off the deck slowly, buffeted by the wind.
“I need my laptop open where I can see it,” she told Eyes.
“I’m going to put the aircraft plot there and look at the radar on the main screen. Come on! Get it!” Eyes pulled the laptop, which was already open, around so she could see it.
“Hold it for me,” she said, her fingers crashing on the key-board. “Just hold it.”
“All right.”
“Your contact M3—it’s real,” said Jennifer, her head swiveling back and forth from the screens. “M4—shit, no, M5! M5 is real. M5!”
“Missiles in the air!”
“M3 and M5.”
The ship’s guns rattled so harshly that the ship seemed to sink low in the waves. An explosion shook the Abner Read—there were shouts and screams.
“M8! M8!” yelled Jennifer.
“Got it!”
“M19!”
The rattle intensified, then stopped. In the silent moment, the ship rose at the bow and Jennifer felt herself thrown forward against the console. As she rebounded to the deck, she heard the warhead explode toward the rear of the ship.
Aboard the Wisconsin
0058
“ONE OF THE MISSILES STRUCK THE ABNER READ,” SAID DISH.
Dog didn’t reply. He had just heard from Breanna that everyone aboard Baker-Baker Two was fine. Though heavily damaged, she thought the aircraft would make it to India.
It was a good distance away. But Saudi Arabia, the most logical place to land, was out of bounds, and as Breanna had argued, if the plane could make it as far as Kuwait, it would make it to India as well.
Of course, by that logic, if it stayed in the air another ten seconds, it would fly for the rest of the week. She’d volunteered to try Diego Garcia, but he ruled that out.
Dog hooked into Dreamland Command and told them he wanted to arrange a landing in India. Major Catsman switched him over to Jed Barclay, who was at the White House. Jed’s face came up on the screen, a little pastier than normal.
“Jed, we need an emergency landing in India.”
“I heard, Colonel. The request has already been made and approved.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
Someone behind Jed started to say something, but Jed cut the connection.
Washington, D.C.
10 November
1658
“BASTIAN—GET OVER TO CAPTAIN GALE’S SHIP,” SAID BAL-boa. “Render all necessary assistance to him … Bastian?
Bastian?”
“Why isn’t he answering?” asked the Secretary of State.
“I killed the connection,” said Jed.
Balboa exploded. “What the hell did you do that for?
What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re not here to run the mission for them,” said Jed.
“I’m strictly observing and facilitating.”
“You are just an aide,” snapped Balboa. “You carry my orders out.”
“I’m the assistant National Security Advisor for Technology,” said Jed. “And I am responsible for interfacing with Dreamland.”
