Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Starship pressed the trigger, watching as the bullets tore into the metal.

“TWENTY SECONDS!” SHOUTED THE COPILOT AS THE ENEMY

missile approached.

Dog counted off five more, then yanked the stick and fired off more chaff, trying to roll the Megafortress out of the way.

It worked—kind of. The missile sailed toward the spot the Megafortress had been, and then, sensing it had missed, ignited. The Wisconsin was far enough away to miss the main force of the explosion, though a ripple through the controls and a red warning light on the panel told Dog they hadn’t escaped completely.

“Damage to the right stabilizer,” said McNamara, monitoring the system status screens at the copilot’s station. “Not critical.”

Dog had his hands full for the moment, steadying the big plane as a fresh volley of missiles were launched upward from the amphibious vessel.

“ECMs,” he told the copilot. “Let’s put a little more distance between us and them.”

“ECMs active. Harpoon one has its target—impact!

We’ve got it.”

“Bastian, are you there?” asked Storm on the Dreamland circuit. His face appeared in the video screen; it was rounder than Dog had expected, younger as well, but the scowl seemed familiar.

“Missiles headed your way,” said Dog.

192

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Yes, we’re taking evasive action. Where are you?”

“We’ve fired two Harpoon missiles at the Oman ship,”

said Dog. “He’s fired surface-to-air missiles and we’re taking evasive action.”

“Good,” said Storm.

He started to say something else but it was drowned out by an explosion. The image shook; Storm fell to the side and then the screen blanked.

“We’re flying east, Starship,” Dog announced over the interphone. “Stay with me.”

“More missiles coming off the ship!” said Starship. “A whole barrage! Looks like they’re launching everything they’ve got! The front of the ship’s on fire!”

“Exocets,” said the copilot.

“Better warn Storm,” said Dog.

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

0121

AS STORM FELT HIMSELF FALLING BACKWARD HE REALIZED THE

close-in guns had somehow missed one of the Exocets. He hit the side of the holograph table before he could brace himself, and saw black as he fell to the deck of the bridge, floundering there for a moment before managing to roll over and get to his knees. He glanced across the bridge and saw that the helmsman had strapped himself into his seat and remained at his station.

“Damage control, report,” said Storm, pulling himself to his feet.

There was no answer, or at least none that he could sort out through the cacophony of voices over the open intercom.

He punched the control pane on the holographic display for the ship’s system report. The Phalanx close-in gun had actually struck the missile, but it had done so very close to the SATAN’S TAIL

193

ship and the explosion had sprayed the Abner Read with shrapnel from the warhead. They had taken several hits amidships and there was a fire in the seamen’s quarters be-lowdecks. Propulsion, Weapons, and Guidance were all operating normally.

“We’re fighting a fire,” said a garbled voice, presumably one of the firefighters.

The damage wasn’t that bad.

Storm pulled the headset off his ears, still partly dazed.

He tapped the hologram’s controls, bringing the image back to the bird’s-eye view. One of the forward guns began firing outside.

There were three patrol boats, all running like hell toward the coast. The Abner Read was pointed in the other direction.

“Helm, come about,” said Storm. “Pursue those ships.”

“Captain, there are missiles in the air,” said the ship’s executive officer, who had come up from Tac to make sure Storm was all right.

“Pursue those pirates!”

“Aye, Captain. We’re tracking incoming missiles.”

“Shoot them down, don’t track them!” snapped Storm.

“Cap, the Dreamland aircraft pilot is trying to contact you,” said the communications officer. “They want to know if we need assistance.”

Storm went over to the captain’s chair, pulling up the handset. “Bastian?”

“We’re en route. They’ve barrage-fired several missiles at you, firing everything they have. We’ve hit them twice.

They’re on fire.”

“Help me pursue these patrol boats. There are three of them left. They’re beyond our radar range.”

Outside, the Phalanx close-in antimissile gun began clat-tering, trying to ward off the missiles.

“We are en route. Be advised those patrol boats are in Somalian coastal waters.”

194

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“You want me to call Washington and ask permission to sink them?”

“I just want to make sure you know where everything is.

Bastian out.”

Gulf of Aden

8 November 1997

0121

ALI SAW THE SHELL LAND IN THE WATER A FEW HUNDRED

yards away. It streaked from over his shoulder, a ghost in the air.

“To port,” he told the helmsman. “You’re steering closer to their fire.”

The helmsman didn’t answer. The boat continued to run in the general direction of the shells. Ali turned and reached to physically move his helmsman’s hand. It was only then that he realized the man had been killed and was being held up only because he had strapped himself in place.

Ali took his knife and cut the belt, pushing the man aside so he could take the wheel himself. He angled toward the dark shadow of land to his right. Satan’s Tail had never followed them this close to land before—but then, he’d never made such a bold attack before. They weren’t going to give up now, territorial waters or no.

The missiles must have missed. Another failure.

He turned and shouted to his crewmen at the rear of the vessel. “The mines. Unleash the mines. Then the smoke. We will hide beyond the Prophet’s Rocks. Signal the others.”

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

0123

BUILT BY FRANCE, THE EXOCET GAINED FAME AS AN AIR-launched missile, but it was originally designed as a ship-

SATAN’S TAIL

195

board weapon. The MM38 family—which included the versions launched at the Abner Read—had a range of sixty-five kilometers, or forty miles, and were designed to sink a good-sized warship. After launch, the missile entered what was called an inertial phase, flying in the general direction it had been aimed. A radar altimeter aboard the missile kept it at ten meters above the waves. The relatively low altitude made it difficult for some radars to detect and harder to intercept.

As the Exocet neared its target, an active radar seeker in the head switched on, looking for the biggest bull’s-eye it could find. At the same time, the missile tucked downward to about three meters above the waves, greatly increasing the difficulty of shooting it down. The MM38 had been superceded by newer designs, but the missile was still potent, especially when a number were used and programmed to attack from different directions.

As the missiles approached the Abner Read, the ship’s Advanced Close-In Weapons System (ACIWS) prioritized each missile and directed its Phalanx guns at the threat, opening fire at a little over fifteen hundred yards. The Abner Read’s ACIWS succeeded the earlier Close-In Weapons System (CIWS) standard on most American vessels. Among other improvements, the ACIWS activated “hot,” which meant that the system was ready to fire as soon as it was turned on, not needing the sixty-second activation time required by the CIWS. The ACIWS also did a better job identifying threats. Its guns, however, were exactly the same as those controlled by the older system—the venerable M61

Vulcan six-barrel Gatling design. The cannon had been used by American forces in one shape or another since 1958, when a pilot in an F-105 Thunderchief wrote his name on a test target with one. Despite a number of improvements in the associated systems and innovations like tungsten bullets, the gun itself had been virtually unchanged, a testimony to the hard work and solid engineering of its original inventors.

A stream of bullets spit into the air toward the first Exocet, hosing the missile down into the water. As a cannon ro-

196

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

tated toward a second missile, the Exocet disappeared from the radar system, swallowed by the waves as its guidance system malfunctioned. The ACIWS interpreted this as some sort of electronic trick and rallied its weapons into the space it thought the missile was hiding in. The hiccup caused the system a second or two of hesitation before it could focus on the third and fourth missiles, which were skimming toward the destroyer’s stern. One was destroyed at approximately five hundred meters from the ship; the last, however, was less than a hundred yards away when it detonated. This was of little consequence to the Abner Read, but it was very close to one of the Shark Boats, which had inadvertently maneuvered close to the mothership. Part of the missile smashed through the superstructure of the small vessel, destroying the embedded radio mast and a good portion of the baffling system that lowered the infrared heat signature coming from the smokestack. It also killed three of the Shark Boat’s crew and sent one overboard, the ship stumbling in a spray of steam and smoke.

Storm couldn’t see the strike from the bridge, but Eyes saw it on the board in the Tac Center, and immediately lost contact with the craft.

“Three’s been hit,” he told Storm.

Storm clicked into his preset. “Boat Three, this is Storm.

Kelly, what’s going on over there. Kelly?”

“Radio’s out, Cap,” said Eyes.

“How bad are they hit?”

“System’s still evaluating.”

Unsure what the damage was, Storm realized his people were his top priority. The pirates would get away once more.

He slammed the side of the holographic display in frustration.

“Bring us into position to help Boat Three,” he ordered.

“Eyes!”

“Yes, Captain.”

SATAN’S TAIL

197

“Where are those pirates?”

“We’ve lost them close to shore, Cap.”

“Dreamland, I need you now,” Storm said, punching into the Dreamland line. “Where are those patrol boats?”

“We can give you headings from the last-known GPS locations, but at the moment they’re hidden in the clutter of the shoreline,” said McNamara, the copilot aboard the Megafortress.

“Give my weapons people whatever you have,” he said.

“Eyes—get with the flyboys and target these pirates. I want them sunk! Get Boat One into position to follow them. Have Boat Two stand by with us to render assistance to Shark Boat Three. We’ll join One once we’re sure of the situation here.”

“Mines ahead,” warned the computer, giving the helmsman a verbal warning as well as flashing it on his heads-up screen. Storm turned around and looked at the hologram, where the mines were popping up as small red triangles. The detection system could “paint” the location of the mines in the HUD, but the Abner Read had to slow down for the system to work properly. And the Shark Boat could not proceed on its own through a minefield.

“Eyes! Some sort of minefield ahead. Warn the Shark Boat.”

“Sent a warning to them already, Cap.”

“Do you have the target data?” asked Storm.

“Working on it, sir.”

“Bastian, it’s now or never,” Storm said, though he was not hooked into the Dreamland line. “Now or never.”

Khamis Mushait Air Base

0128

ZEN EMPTIED HIS CHAIN GUN ON THE LAST OF THE PATROL

boats. He was now into his fuel reserves, and had to land or risk losing the Werewolf. He spun the aircraft back in the di-

198

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

rection of the American ships, which were now nearly forty miles to the west.

“I’m out of fuel and out of lead,” he said over the Dreamland circuit, hoping the Abner Read had tied into the circuit by now. “I have to land.”

“Who are you?” asked a voice.

“This is Major Stockard. I’m flying the Werewolf. It’s the helo that brought the communications gear to the Abner Read. I’ve been shooting at your pirates for you but I’m running on fumes. I need to land.”

“What assistance do you need?”

Landing lights would be nice, thought Zen, but under the circumstances that was a bit much to ask.

“I don’t need anything,” he said. “I just want you to know.

Don’t fire on me. I don’t want the hassle of trying to duck your Phalanx gun system.”

“OK, we understand. We understand. You’re inbound. We see you on the radar. We’re passing the word.”

The words FUEL EMERGENCY flashed on the screen.

Pass it quick, thought Zen, settling into a hover over the ship.

Aboard the Wisconsin

0133

STARSHIP COULD SEE A LIGHT GLOWING IN THE DISTANCE AS

he approached, and realized it was the Werewolf Zen had been flying.

“Hawk One to Dreamland Werewolf,” he said. “Hey, Zen, I’m approaching you from the northwest.”

“Werewolf,” acknowledged Zen. “Starship, they have a Shark Boat that’s been struck by a missile. They may have people in the water.”

“Roger that, Werewolf. I’ll do a low and slow and turn with the infrared cameras.”

SATAN’S TAIL

199

“Werewolf. Be advised, I’m into my fuel reserves.”

Dog broke into the circuit. “Dreamland Werewolf, are you landing aboard the Abner Read?”

“That’s my intention, Colonel.”

“All right. Starship, take the circuit around the stricken boat and assist with the rescue efforts. Then continue east and help us locate the pirates.”

“Roger that.”

Starship could see the robot helicopter veering to his left, skimming in an arc and landing on the nearby ship.

“Starship, do you have the location?” asked Zen.

“Roger that, Werewolf. I’m coming– Shit!”

The air in front of him erupted with 20mm shells. Starship hit the throttle and pushed the Flighthawk’s nose toward the water, but he’d been caught entirely by surprise. The left wing of the robot aircraft had been chewed severely by the Phalanx’s 20mm cannon.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” yelled Zen.

“Friendly fire! Friendly fire! I’m on your side! I’m on your side!” screamed Starship.

His systems screen lit, showing so many problems that the display looked like a solid splotch of red. Starship struggled to compensate for the mangled wing surface, leaning to the right with the joystick, as if his body might somehow help keep the tiny aircraft alive. He leveled off for a few seconds, but the Flighthawk’s forward airspeed had dropped below one hundred knots and wouldn’t come up. The computer began to push up the forward leading edge on the left wing for some bizarre reason. Starship had to override it with a direct voice command. He got an altitude warning but stayed with the aircraft, starting to build momentum. Then a second hail of bullets swarmed in front of him and the Flighthawk screen went dead.

He was so angry he smashed his fist in the middle of the control panel, breaking several of the keys.

200

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

0134

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!” DEMANDED STORM. “WHERE

did that missile come from!”

“No missile—it was the Dreamland flight,” said Eyes.

“What? The Megafortress?”

“No, Storm, a Flighthawk. He was trying to locate our people in the water. The ACIWS read it as a missile.”

“Turn it off, damn it!”

“I did, sir, I did,” said the defensive weapons operator.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Rescue party, prepare to render assistance as needed,”

Storm said.

“Cap, you’re being hailed on the Dreamland channel by Colonel Bastian,” said the communications officer.

Storm switched over to the Dreamland circuit. “Bastian?”

“You hit one of my planes.”

“I’m sorry. What the hell was it doing that low?”

“Taking a low level run to look for survivors from your boat damaged by the missile.”

“Do you need assistance?”

“It’s an unmanned flight.”

“Right. Find those pirates.”

Aboard the Wisconsin

0145

DOG RAN THROUGH THE DIAGNOSTICS AGAIN, REASSESSING

the damage to the Wisconsin’s tail. According to the computer, shrapnel had ripped up the skin of about a fifth of the starboard stabilizer but its structural integrity had not been threatened. The damage did not appreciably limit the aircraft’s maneuverability, though Dog knew he should be gentle until the plane was inspected on the ground.

SATAN’S TAIL

201

Unlike a standard B-52, the Megafortresses had a V-shaped tail. The leading and trailing edges of the tail surface were adjusted by the flight computer automatically to improve the aircraft’s flight characteristics. The adjustments were “transparent,” or invisible to the pilot, with the computer interpreting what he wanted to do and adjusting all of the plane’s control surfaces to do it. The flight control computer had no trouble compensating for the damage to the control surfaces on the tail; it also prepared an assessment of how much trouble it would have in more demanding circumstances, deciding that the Megafortress could perform at

“ninety-four percent efficiency.” Dog smiled at the assessment—computers, and the engineers who made them work, always wanted to put a number on things.

“We just can’t find the patrol boats, Colonel,” said Dish.

“Faded into the coastline.”

“All right,” said Dog.

“We have to work on the systems recognizing those ships and filtering out the clutter from the coast,” added Dish.

“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.

202

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“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.

SATAN’S TAIL

203

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 Un-

204

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

manned 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.

SATAN’S TAIL

205

“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 roll over it.

206

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“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.

SATAN’S TAIL

207

“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 rel-

208

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

atively 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 slanting 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.

SATAN’S TAIL

209

“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.”