Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“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.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The wind howled around his ears.

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

“Quickly now,” he 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,”

SATAN’S TAIL

215

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.”

“I’ll get permission,” said Storm. He’d been ready to bury the hatchet with the Air Force lieutenant colonel—after all, his men had performed well—but the tone in his voice stoked Storm’s resentment all over again.

“Permission or not, I think rather than sinking him, we should follow him, at least for a while,” said Dog. “My guess is that he’s going toward an important pirate base. If we follow him, he’ll lead us right there.”

Storm realized that made sense, especially since the only weapon Bastian had was designed to strike a surface ship, not a submerged submarine.

On the other hand, the way Bastian suggested it—with a sneer in his voice for anyone who wasn’t thinking as quickly as he was—nearly forced him to dismiss the idea out of hand.

Bastian is a real jerk, Storm thought, but not a stupid jerk.

He happens to be right.

“Captain?” said Bastian.

A real jerk, though.

“All right, that’s not a bad idea. Hold on.”

He went over to the holographic display. The damaged 216

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Shark Boat could not make it to the rendezvous without the Abner Read; the ship would be lost.

Which would have a greater impact on his career? Sinking the Libyan ship? Or losing a damaged ship to do so?

Probably the latter. In an ideal world—in an ideal navy—the objective would be the most important. But even the U.S.

Navy was far from ideal.

At present. It would be better in the future.

“Storm?”

“Unlike you, Bastian, I try not to shoot from the hip. If we could slow him down, it would be an easier decision.”

“I have a way we might do that,” said Delaford. “There’s a patrol boat near him, a few miles away. It’s possible he’s trailing him, communicating somehow. If the Megafortress buzzed the surface boat, they might warn the submarine. If the sub dove deeper, he’d have to slow down, or least run on batteries for a while.”

“I think it’s worth a try,” said Bastian.

“Yes. It is a good idea,” said Storm, glad that it had come from a Navy officer and not the insufferable flyboy.

Storm could order a Shark Boat to help trail the submarine at a distance; if it made an attack, the boat would be in a position to combat it. By the afternoon, the Abner Read and Boat One would meet the tug. He could have Boat Two escort the tug and head back.

A haul—he had three hundred miles to the tug rendezvous, another four hundred back, at least, even if they slowed it down. More than twelve hours, getting back and forth. But the Shark Boat could stay nearby, ready to strike if it looked like the sub was going to get away. It had lightweight torpedoes designed for undersea warfare. They’d be much more effective than lobbing a Harpoon and praying that the sub stayed near the surface.

“All right, Bastian, let’s do it your way this time. I’ll send a Shark Boat to shadow them, and have them stay just over the horizon.”

“I’m going to bring another Megafortress in to relieve me SATAN’S TAIL

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in a few hours. Not only do we have only one Harpoon aboard, we have no Flighthawks.”

A criticism of his ship?

Even Storm had to admit it would have been justified.

“Do it. Keep me posted,” said Storm. “I’ll expect a full report when you come to the ship tomorrow.”

“Out.”

The screen went dead.

Aboard the Wisconsin

0312

“WELL, HE WAS ALMOST HUMAN THAT TIME,” DOG TOLD DEL-aford.

“I think you’re just being too hard on him, Colonel. He’s lost a bunch of men, and one of his ships is pretty battered.”

“We’ll see. I’ll run ahead and make a buoy drop, then come back and harass the gunboat.”

“Ready whenever you are.”

THE CONTROL SETUP FOR THE PIRANHA ALLOWED STARSHIP

to see the synthesized sensor view on his number two auxiliary screen. The submarine appeared as a reddish flicker at about nine o’clock on the rectangular screen; a row of yellow, orange, and blue flames made waves behind it, descending toward the bottom of the screen. Piranha swam about three hundred yards behind the Libyan submarine, a little less than a quarter mile. The sub didn’t know it was there.

“We’re going to say hello to the surface craft,” said Dog.

“We don’t think the patrol boat has any antiair missiles, but there’s only one way to find out. Hang on.”

Starship slapped against his seat restraints as the EB-52

powered toward the waves. The aircraft tilted left, then right, taking a wide turn before climbing back out.

“Didn’t shoot at us,” reported Dog.

“Sub is still moving forward,” said Delaford.

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“Patrol craft has stopped,” said Dish, watching on the radar above. “Maybe that’s the signal.”

The submarine continued toward the patrol boat for another half mile or so, then began to submerge.

“We got their attention,” Delaford told Dog. “He’s going down.”

“How did he know?” asked Starship.

“Either they were listening as the engines cut out or they’re using a light or something to communicate. At snorkel depth the submarine can use its periscope to watch the surface.”

“Are they blind when they go down?”

“No. They can use either passive or even active sonar to follow the patrol boat. He’s probably going to dive for a bit, hang out there. When nothing happens, he’ll come back up and proceed again. My guess is, the submarine captain is pretty cautious.”

“Why?”

“He could have made better time on the surface earlier.

Rather than using his snorkel, he could have surfaced. It was night, and more than likely he wouldn’t have been seen.”

“We would have seen him on radar.”

“True enough.”

“You try and psych him out so you know how he’ll be when you fight him,” said Starship.

“You don’t do that with the Flighthawks in air combat?”

“The situations are usually so fluid, you don’t have time.

It sounds good, but in real life it’s just bang-bang-bang. For me, anyway.”

“Zen says he does it.”

“Zen’s different. That’s why he’s Zen.”

Delaford laughed. Starship shrugged. It was true; Zen wasn’t like most other pilots—he was Zen.

“He’s stopped,” said Delaford, looking back at his screen.

“Hundred and fifty-five feet. I give him only a few minutes.”

Sure enough, the submarine began moving again ten minutes later, gliding upward. Within a half hour it had begun snorkeling again. They let it proceed for twenty minutes, SATAN’S TAIL

219

then Dog brought the Megafortress in for another run—this one at five hundred feet and directly over the submarine’s wake. The patrol boat veered hard toward the coastline.

“He’s going down. Fast,” said Delaford. “He’s nervous.”

“Good for him,” said Dog.

“Fifty feet … seventy-five,” said Delaford. Excitement snuck into his voice. “He’s got his nose down. Angle is fifteen degrees. He’s moving—he’s in trouble here. Twenty degrees. Still growing. He may hit the bottom!”

The water the submarine was moving through was about 1,200 feet deep. But once the submarine built up downward momentum, it could be hard to stop. The pitch was important as well as its speed: The boat was designed to descend horizontally; if the nose of the sub pitched greater than thirty degrees, the vessel became virtually uncontrollable.

Starship watched the screen, which had become a fren-zied mass of purple and red funneling lines—the computer’s representation of the sound the submarine was making. The lines fluttered, breaking in the middle.

“Four hundred feet … four fifty,” said Delaford.

Starship watched the colors dancing on the screen. Was it this easy to kill your enemy? There were about seventy-five men aboard the average sub of this class—could you kill them by scaring them to death? Was war really that easy?

“Four seventy-five. He’s slowing. Angle is less than fifteen. He’s under control.” Delaford sounded disappointed. “I may have misinterpreted his movement a bit.”

Starship wasn’t entirely sure why, but he felt relieved.

White House

7 November

1910

“THIS IS BEYOND PIRACY,” THE PRESIDENT TOLD THE OTHERS

gathered in his study next to the Oval Office. “What does Oman say?”

220

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“They claim the ship was stolen,” said Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman.

“They’re probably telling the truth,” said Robert Plank, the CIA director.

Jed’s boss, Philip Freeman, looked at Jed, who nodded.

“I agree,” said Freeman. “It may have been attempting to hijack a civilian ship, an old tanker type, when we came across it.”

“You’re sure it’s been sunk?” the President said, directing the question to Jed, who’d gotten data on the battle from Dreamland and supplied it to the others.

“Yes, sir. Another ship picked up some of its crew.

They’re holding them for Oman. They, uh, had to be subdued. So I think the story the Oman government is telling is probably true.”

“What happened to the tanker?”

“The owners haven’t reported any trouble but we’re still trying to get a definitive word.”

The President turned to Admiral Balboa. “What was the latest on the submarine?”

Balboa looked at Jed. “Mr. Barclay seems to have the best information here.”

Jed felt his face flush. It was hard to tell whether Balboa was trying to put him on the spot or actually trying to be nice.

“Just that it’s still under surveillance,” Jed said. “It’s definitely the Libyan boat. Some improvements. Last time I checked, just before coming here, it had moved closer to the coast, but was within a few miles of where it was originally spotted. It can’t go very fast on battery power, and the thinking was that it might wait a few hours and then try to move again.”

“Xray Pop can sink it within an hour of getting the order,”

said Balboa. “Let’s go in there and sink the submarine before this gets worse.”

“Wait until we get the vote in the UN,” said Secretary SATAN’S TAIL

221

Hartman. “We’ll have it easily now. The session is Tuesday.

It’s only a few days.”

“What if they vote it down?” asked Chastain.

“They won’t.”

“I think this new attack, with the Oman ship and the submarine, will cinch things,” said Freeman.

“Then let’s push for an earlier vote,” said the President.

“That will emphasize how serious we think things are. We make the Oman ship the center of the presentation. The pirates are so bold they’re stealing warships. No one’s safe.

It’s a pretty strong argument. We can leave the submarine unmentioned for now. Frankly, if we can’t convince them using the Oman ship, then we can’t convince them at all.”

“The French will pull their usual bullshit,” said Chastain.

“They’ll want pictures.”

“So we’ll give them pictures,” said the President. “Jed, can we use the photos you showed us?”

“Um, the security implications—”

“Everybody knows we were there,” said Hartman, suddenly warming to the idea. “We could use some of the distance shots, just leave out details about the aircraft that took them. Call it a UAV.”

“I think that would work,” said Freeman.

Jed nodded. The President looked over at Balboa. The admiral nodded.

“Let’s get moving. I’d like another update by midnight,”

said the President. He turned to CIA Director Plank.

“Robert, Jed will run his material by you as well as Colonel Bastian’s people to make sure nothing sensitive is released.

All right, Jed? Nothing too sensitive, just what we need to show them we have the goods. I hope you didn’t have any plans for the weekend,” he added.

“Um, just like, uh, water the plants.”

Everyone in the room laughed, though Jed hadn’t meant it as a joke.

222

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Khamis Mushait Air Base

0528

BREANNA ROLLED OVER ONTO HER SIDE, PUSHING TOWARD

the weight of her husband.

Except he wasn’t there.

“Jeff?” she murmured.

No answer.

She pushed deeper into the blankets, still swimming in the haze of fatigue.

“Where are you?” she said. When he still didn’t answer, she put her hand out, then woke. “Hey?”

His wheelchair was gone. She glanced at the clock—it wasn’t quite five-thirty a.m.

“All right,” she said, more to herself than her absent husband. “Where are you?”

Breanna pushed her legs out of bed and pulled on her clothes. Out in the hallway, the scent of fresh brewed coffee drew her toward the reception area, where Boston presided over a huge tray of doughnuts.

Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Sergeant! Are these real, live Dunkin’ Donuts?” ex-claimed Breanna, the last vestiges of sleep whisked away by the scents. “In Saudi Arabia?”

Boston beamed.

“You are going to be a chief master sergeant someday,”

said Breanna, taking a strawberry jelly doughnut. “Oh, Sergeant, you may be President of the United States if you keep this up.”

“Chiefs have more power,” growled Danny Freah, appearing from around the corner. “Boston, where did you get these doughnuts?”

The Whiplash sergeant’s smile widened, but he said nothing.

“You see Zen anywhere?” she asked Danny as she tried the coffee.

SATAN’S TAIL

223

“Prepping for his next mission.”

“He is? Already?”

“Colonel Bastian wanted to move around the mission schedules because we’re heading over to Diego Garcia. The maintainers have the plane fueled and ready to go. Loaded up with missiles and a Flighthawk.”

“He can’t fly without a pilot,” said Breanna.

“I think Spiderman was going to command the mission and Dayton was going to take the copilot’s slot.”

“That’s my plane. And my mission.”

“Zen said something about you needing all the beauty rest you can get.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” said Breanna. “Where are they?”

ZEN HAD JUST FINISHED READING THE WEATHER REPORT—clear and dry, light wind—when the door of the trailer flew open. Breanna stormed in, a befuddled Marine behind her.

“Gentlemen,” she said, with a tone that was outlawed as a lethal weapon in twenty-eight states.

“Hey, Captain,” said Spiderman.

“Don’t ‘Hey, Captain,’ me. What’s the story here?”

“Um, we’re getting ready for the mission?” said the pilot, backing away slightly.

Breanna leaned over the table and looked at Zen. “Beauty rest? Beauty rest?”

Zen started laughing. The others backed away from the table.

“Um, sirs?” said the Marine.

“It’s OK. She belongs to us,” said Zen.

“I will see all of you on the plane,” said Breanna, straightening. “Dayton, you can come and spell Spiderman—the copilot—if you want. I expect you all on board and ready to go in ten minutes.”

She spun and left the trailer.

“Looks like this mission’s briefed,” said Zen.

224

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Approaching the Abner Read

1110

DOG HAD DONE MANY DIFFICULT THINGS IN HIS LIFE, BUT ON

the trip out to meet with Storm, he accomplished the near impossible: He fell asleep on an Osprey.

The jolt as the tilt-rotor MV-22 veered into a landing pattern over the DD(L) shook him awake. Dog caught a glimpse of the ship as they descended. It didn’t look like a ship, at least not one that sailed on the ocean. The angled gun enclosure and superstructure reminded Dog of something from the Star Wars series of movies. Low to the water and painted matte black, the ship looked a great deal more like a pirate vessel than the ones they’d fought the night before.

A whistle greeted Dog as he stepped down the ladder from the Osprey. A petty officer took a step forward and snapped a precise salute. Two sailors with M4s, shortened versions of M16s, stood a short distance away.

“Colonel Bastian, welcome aboard, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Bastian.

“Do you have a bag or aides, sir?”

“No, I’m it.”

“Captain Gale is this way, sir.”

Dog followed the petty officer through a door at the side of a large hangar opening. They walked through the empty hangar space to a set of metal steps. They walked down the steps—a “ladder” in Navy terms—and across an enclosed gangway to another passage or hallway that opened onto a metal walkway across a large mechanical area. A huge network of pipes ran from below, connecting a series of what looked like large tanks to a thick, round aluminum tube.

This was the heart of the ship’s exhaust system, designed to lower the temperature of the exhaust as it left the gas turbines at the right. The low-heat signature of the exhaust made it more difficult for infrared detectors and missiles to

“see” it. The room itself, though, seemed no warmer or cooler than the hangar had been, at least to Dog.

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225

“This way, Colonel,” said the petty officer, stepping through another hatchway. This led to a section of the ship filled by offices; with some slight adjustments for the location and decor, they might have been in an industrial park.

“Captain’s quarters ahead, sir.”

A short, heavyset man stepped from the hatchway just as they approached.

“Bastian?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m just going down to the Tactical Center. It’s this ship’s version of a CIC, or Combat Information Center,” said Storm. “Come.”

Dog started to put out his hand, but Storm turned in the other direction. Dog followed down a ladder to a large room filled with computer work stations set into metal desks and cabinets. Most but not all of the stations were manned; a large, weary-eyed Navy lieutenant commander stood in the open area at one side, talking into a headset. This was

“Eyes,” Dog guessed; the man gave him a weary smile and went back to what he was doing.

A large glass table stood at the right side, slicing off part of the room from the rest. At first glance it looked like an area display, or re-creation one would find in a museum. It took Dog a few seconds of staring at it to realize it was a holographic computer display showing the Abner Read’s position and that of the other ships in the area.

“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.”

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“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.”

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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 228

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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.”

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“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 230

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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.