Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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

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

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

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

SATAN’S TAIL

231

Khamis Mushait Air Base

1238

DOG SHOUTED A THANK YOU TO THE OSPREY CREW AS HE

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

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

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

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

“How many people?”

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

“I can imagine.”

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

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

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

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

“Hour,” said Danny. “Give or take.”

“Let me get with Washington and see if I can land the Os-

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prey somewhere midway and have her refueled.”

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

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

Washington, D.C.

0450

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR OF THE CONDO CAME TEN MINUTES

before Jed was expecting it—and more important, before the coffee started pouring through the filter of Mr. Coffee.

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

“Um, almost,” said Jed.

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

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

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

“Yeah. Aren’t you kind of early?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

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

SATAN’S TAIL

233

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

“I need a favor. A pretty big one.”

“Um, uh—personal favor?”

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

“Uh—”

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

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

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

“How soon?” Jed asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The driver got out.

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

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

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

Diego Garcia

1530

IT WAS NOT THE WORST FLIGHT MACK SMITH HAD EVER BEEN

on—but it had certainly been close. He spent the entire fif-

234

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teen hours, twelve minutes, and thirteen seconds strapped into the stiff Flighthawk control seat on the lower deck of Megafortress Charlie One. He’d been so bored that he even took a few tries at the training simulations for Piranha that Lieutenant Cly Dai was flying at his station next to him. But you could only play computer games for so long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liu helped him into the cab and they drove to a small SATAN’S TAIL

235

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

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

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

“Yes, sir,” said one of the airmen.

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

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

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.

236

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“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?”

SATAN’S TAIL

237

“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 238

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

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.”

SATAN’S TAIL

239

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.”

240

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“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.”

“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.

SATAN’S TAIL

241

“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 242

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

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.”

SATAN’S TAIL

243

“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.

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“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.”

“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 SATAN’S TAIL

245

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.

“Maybe I can fly them,” said Mack. “They don’t look that hard to learn.”

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Dog reached back to stop Jennifer, who’d continued her massage as they were talking. “This isn’t a great time, Mack.

I’m kind of tired. You must be too.”

“Nope. Want to hear some of my ideas?”

“Tomorrow’s much better. How are your legs?”

“Getting there. I’ll be walking any day.”

“Great. See you tomorrow.”

“One thing we ought to do is come up with real names for the aircraft, the Megafortresses especially,” said Mack.

“Tell you what—why don’t you handle that?”

“Fine. I’ll get right on it.”

“In the morning, Mack. People are tired.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dog watched him wheel out.

“I’ll fly the Werewolves until the replacement pilot arrives,” said Jennifer. “I have to be on the ship anyway. And I’d be testing the system.”

“You’ll be too busy.”

“They’re not likely to use them in the next twenty-four hours, are they?”

Dog shrugged. It was the obvious solution, yet still he resisted it. Not because she was a civilian, he thought, and still less because she was a woman.

Then why?

Because he didn’t want her to get hurt.

“All right, if you can stand Storm, you can handle the Werewolves until Rosenzwieg gets here,” he told her.

“Knowing Storm, he’ll probably insist that you show him how to fly them so he can do it himself. Any chance of taking Mack with you?”

Jennifer rolled her eyes.

Dog took out the sheet he had used to write his air tasking order, which laid out the upcoming missions. Their four Megafortresses would be used on a straight rotation, one after the other, with only one over Xray Pop at a time.

Because of the distances involved, each flight would spend roughly six hours going out to the gulf, six hours on pa-

SATAN’S TAIL

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trol, and six hours returning. The arrangement called for three aircraft to be in the air at any given moment—one on patrol, one coming home, and one going to relieve the other. That gave the maintainers twelve hours to turn each one around; it sounded like a decent interval, but in practice it could end up very tight. Fortunately, they had more leeway with the Flighthawks, since they had six and were only planning on flying one per mission. But there were only four Flighthawk pilots, and only two—Zen and Starship—had combat experience. Dog had tried to arrange the missions so Zen and Starship would be flying on the night patrols, which was when the pirates were most active. Complicating this immensely was the fact that there were only three Piranha operators, counting Delaford and English. If anyone got hurt or sick, they were in trouble. Zen and Starship were the only backups at the moment.

He needed more planes, more crews, more support, but he’d settle for a closer base of operations. Northern or central Africa would be perfect; northern India would do in a pinch.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Jennifer.

“They’re worth a quarter at least,” said Dog. “But they’re not about you.”

“They ought to be.”

“What time is it in New York?” Dog asked, looking at his watch, which was still set to gulf time: 2216.

“About two-fifteen in the afternoon,” said Jennifer.

“Let me see if I can get a hold of Jed. Have you had a chance to look at those Navy systems?”

Jennifer leaned toward him and frowned. “Didn’t you just tell Mack it was getting late?”

“That was to get rid of Mack,” Dog said. “I have a lot of work to do.”

Jennifer started to pout. Dog leaned up and gave her a kiss. “I do have to work.”

“I know.”

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“I love you.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey.” He pressed her arm gently. “I do.”

“I know.” She smiled. “Don’t stay up all night.”

UN Building,

New York City

7 November 1997

1430

JED STARED AT THE PICTURE OF THE OMAN MISSILE BOAT, REplaying the conversation he’d had with Ford and the Secretary of State.

Tell a good story.

Put together a strong set of images.

Was he being told to lie? Or just do a good job?

He didn’t have any pictures of people dying, as Ford had suggested. He did have a picture of the ship as it fired the missile—that looked pretty graphic. But beyond that?

A picture of the nearby oiler or tanker blowing up would be something.

Except that it hadn’t blown up.

Jed brought up one of the photo editing programs on the computer and merged the shot with a blowup of the missile launch. At first it didn’t look like much, but as he cropped it and played with the settings in the photo manipulation program, he got it to look pretty gruesome. He dappled and faded, played around some more—the ship appeared to be on fire in a shadowy image.