Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“I appreciate that.”

“YOU TALKED TO DREAMLAND, AND TO XRAY POP,” SAID

Freeman as soon as Jed entered his office a few minutes before seven. “Why?”

Primed to be fired, the question actually caught him off guard.

“Colonel Bastian asked for some stuff, and I—I just figured it made more sense to straighten it out for them on my own. Otherwise the whole thing, I mean, I didn’t want to make it more complicated than it was.”

“Sit down, Jed.” Freeman sighed. “Let me ask you one question before we continue.”

Here it comes, thought Jed. “OK.”

“Do you believe in President Martindale?”

“Well, sure.”

Believe in him? He agreed with his positions, or most of them at least, but believe in him? What did that mean, exactly?

“Look, Mr. Freeman, I didn’t do it on purpose, but I un-

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derstand it’s huge,” said Jed. “I’m ready to resign. It’s OK.

You don’t have to let me down easy.”

“Resigning now would not be a good idea, Jed. It’ll only make things much more complicated. It won’t help the President, and it certainly won’t help you. Senator Finegold will crucify you if she has the chance.”

Surprised—definitely relieved, but mostly surprised—Jed nodded.

“The photo hasn’t appeared anywhere else, has it?” asked Freeman.

“No, sir. I was kind of wondering about that.”

“The press will move on, and this will be forgotten.”

“What if it’s not?” asked Jed.

“Then we’ll deal with that then. The Secretary of State still has your laptop?”

“Yes.”

Freeman frowned. “Jeff Hartman is very ambitious, Jed.

Don’t forget that. He’s a member of this administration—but he’s also very ambitious.”

“What does that have to do with my laptop?”

“Hopefully, nothing.”

“What should I tell the President?”

“You should tell him nothing.”

Jed frowned, and Freeman repeated, “Nothing.”

“Wouldn’t it be better—”

“Nothing.”

“But he’s the President.”

“Do you trust me, Jed?”

No, thought Jed. I don’t trust anyone. Not even myself. But he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Tell you what. Let’s get some coffee and head over to the Pentagon. I’d like to hear what Captain Gale is planning before it happens. You can tell me what Colonel Bastian told you on the way.”

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Aboard the Abner Read

2300

DANNY FREAH’S STOMACH FLUTTERED AS THE DREAMLAND

Osprey dipped a few yards from the deck of the Abner Read.

Weighed down by the troops in her belly, the nose of the craft dipped forward and her tail pitched sharply left, an unexpected burst of wind trying to wrestle control of the craft from the pilot. The waves snapped at the wheels of the aircraft, and the fantail of the littoral warship loomed in the window.

Danny saw Dancer’s face across the cabin as the aircraft leaned hard to its right. The red hue of the interior lights softened her frown; he saw how beautiful she was under the Marine BDUs.

If I die, this is the last thing I’m going to see, he thought.

Beauty.

The Osprey lurched backward, buffeted by another burst of wind. The tail pushed downward and the aircraft shot right.

Danny grabbed for the strap near his head, pitching against one of the Marines. The aircraft sank again, but it was a more subtle, controlled maneuver, a steadying; the Osprey seemed to hiccup in the air and then hopped forward, finally stable.

“Whoa,” said one of the Marines next to him.

Whoa is right, thought Danny.

STORM SAW THE OSPREY DIP DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO THE

waves then jerk back upright, as if the aircraft had paused to take a sip of water.

Months and years of work hung in the air for a moment, stuttering there on the fragile metal wings of the aircraft. He folded his fingers into a fist and punched the air.

“Go!” he yelled from the flying bridge at the side of the superstructure atop the Abner Read. “Go!”

The aircraft stumbled again. This was a real weakness of the mission plan: They had to rely on a single aircraft to transport the assault team. That couldn’t be helped—there was only one Osprey available.

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Storm’s stomach turned as the plane faltered. I’ve put too much into this to fail now, he thought. Go.

It moved sideways for a moment longer, then lurched forward, more in control. Storm lowered his night optical device and took one last long breath of the night air. If Operation Bloodthirst succeeded– when Operation Bloodthirst succeeded—the future of Combined Action Groups based around littoral warships like the Abner Read would be assured. As would his own career.

And if the operation failed, so would he. There’d be no admiralship, no hope of advance beyond captain. He’d be relieved in a heartbeat, given some obscure job counting toilet seats on the Great Lakes. Everything he’d worked for was now on the line.

On the hangar deck below, the Werewolf UAVs were pulled forward on their skids, ready for launch. The aircraft were equipped with Hellfire missiles and extra cannon pods; they looked like the beasts of the Apocalypse, ready for blood. The crews made a few last second adjustments to the weapons loads, then moved back to the hangar area as the rotors began to spin. The loud whirl made an eerie sound in the night, more a growl than a buzz; the Werewolves picked up their tails and leapt into the air, more sure-footed than the heavily loaded Osprey had been.

A half dozen of them flying with each Combined Action Group would more than fulfill the need for airborne defenses. The first thing he would do when this was over was get with Balboa and tell him the Werewolves had to be a Navy program. As long as this mission went well, Balboa would be easy to convince.

As long as this mission went well.

“Good takeoff, Ensign,” said Storm, lauding the officer he’d assigned to fly the robot aircraft.

“Thank you, sir, but, uh, Miss Gleason handled the takeoff.”

“Why? I directed you to. I don’t want her in the Tactical 310

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Warfare Center at all unless absolutely necessary. I don’t want any of the techies there while we’re in combat.

They’re civilians.”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled the ensign.

“Give me Miss Gleason.”

“Stand by, Cap.”

“I’ve been in combat more than anyone on your crew,”

said Jennifer Gleason, coming on the line so quickly that Storm realized she must have been listening.

Clearly there was something in the water at that damn Air Force base that made these people so disagreeable, thought Storm.

“I’m not going to argue with you, Miss Gleason.”

“Ms. Gleason.”

“Ms. Gleason, yes. I’m not going to argue. Combat spaces are off-limits during—”

“If something goes wrong, do you want it fixed right away, or do you want to waste ten or fifteen minutes finding me before it gets attended to?”

And it didn’t help that they were always right.

“Very well, Ms. Gleason,” said Storm. “Stay out of the way.”

“With pleasure.”

Gulf of Aden

2300

HIS SON CRIED FOR HIM. ALI STRUGGLED FROM THE BED, THE

blankets weighing him down. As he walked in the direction of the room, the hallway lengthened. His son’s cries intensified and he tried to walk faster, still stumbling against sleep.

One of the blankets had wrapped itself around his midsection and tripped him as he tried to hurry; he fell against the wall and the house gave way.

I have to reach my son, he thought.

And then he woke up.

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Someone was standing over his bed. For a moment, a terrible moment, he thought it was Abu.

“The Saudi sent me,” said the man. Ali’s guards were standing behind him.

“All right,” said Ali. He rolled over and put his feet on the floor, legs trembling from the dream.

“You asked to be woken, Captain,” said one of the men.

“Yes,” said Ali. “Leave us.”

“I have this,” said the messenger. He took a small card from his pocket. A set of numbers were written on the back.

Ali led the man to the chart table at the side and took a ruler, using the figures to measure in centimeters from Mecca the location of the aircraft carrier.

It had come ahead of schedule. It was already in the gulf.

They would have to leave now if they were to get out to the Indian Ocean before it did. It might even be too late.

The submarine could leave instantly. Some of the boats as well.

The Yemenis had been told to fly their planes to confuse the carrier’s air cover as soon as it reached the gulf. That perhaps would buy him some time, but not much.

Nor could the Yemenis be truly counted on. But this was what God willed.

“There is also this,” said the messenger. He pulled open his shirt. For a split second Ali thought that the man was wearing an explosive belt and had been sent by his enemies to kill him. His breath caught, and he cursed God for robbing him of the duty to avenge his son and wife.

In the next moment Ali felt ashamed for his blasphemy.

But the man was as he claimed. He took a small video from the belt, handing it to Ali. The captain took the camera off the shelf and put the cartridge inside. He pulled open the viewer at the side of the camera.

“Ali Qaed Abu Al-Harthi, may the Lord God and the Prophet Muhammad be with you,” said Osama bin Laden.

“Your blow will be the first in a long battle against the unbelievers. The Holy will rise with you and trample the infidel 312

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in the final battle. I commend you to him who sees and knows all, whose hand guides the heavens, whose wisdom illuminates the tiniest snail.”

The screen flickered and then went blank. Ali took the tape from the camera and put it into his pocket. He walked to the door.

“Help me wake the others,” he told his guards. “We must leave right away.”

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the Gulf of Aden

2310

THE COMPUTER BEEPED, ANNOUNCING THAT THE REFUEL WAS

complete. Zen took the stick, rolling Hawk One out from under the big black aircraft. He rode it down a moment, flying ahead of the Wisconsin to a preplanned course ahead of the mothership.

“Two,” he told the computer, and the view in his screen changed; he saw the Megafortress’s tail, as if he were in Hawk Two, about a mile and a half behind the mothership.

The verbal command was all the computer required to change positions with him, giving him direct control of Hawk Two while taking the stick in Hawk One.

He pushed Hawk Two in for the refuel, guided by a set of cues in the middle of his view screen. He locked in, then, as the fuel began to flow, turned Hawk Two over to the computer again, jumping into the cockpit of Hawk One.

“How are you doing, Hawk Three?” he asked Starship over the Dreamland radio circuit.

“Looking good,” said the other pilot. “Quiet up here.”

“Well, don’t fall asleep.”

“Commander Delaford keeps poking me to keep me awake,” said Starship. His voice suddenly became serious.

“You got a Bible, Major?”

Zen couldn’t have been more surprised if Starship had SATAN’S TAIL

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come in and asked for—well, he didn’t know. “A Bible?”

“Is that too weird a question?”

“It’s not weird, it’s just—no offense, Starship, but you never struck me as the Bible type.”

“I’m not. I just—I wanted to read it. You know what I mean.”

The only thing Zen could remember Starship reading, outside of tech manuals, was along the lines of Penthouse—though generally with less words.

“Maybe you should check out the Navy chaplain when we get back to Diego Garcia. Or, you know, one of the British ministry types. They have a couple.”

“Yeah. I’ll probably do that.” Starship paused a second, then added, “You believe in God?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think I do.”

“Good,” said Zen.

“You blame him for losing your legs?”

“I didn’t lose them,” Zen snapped. “No, I know what you mean. Probably. Sometimes I do. Yeah.”

Sometimes. Though more often he blamed Mack.

Mack mostly.

Which wasn’t fair either.

How many times had he told himself that, and yet he still blamed him, didn’t he? He still—did he want revenge? He remembered the screaming match, the fight that had finally gotten the asshole to walk.

Jackass.

Zen did still want revenge. Or rather, he wanted something, anything—he wanted …

He wanted what he could never have. And everytime he thought he could make peace with it, everytime he came up to—not accepting it, but at least willing or able to live with it—to let it sleep—it came back and bit him.

He didn’t want revenge. Seeing Mack in the wheelchair hadn’t felt good at all. And the proof of the damn thing was that he’d helped the idiot walk again.

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The lucky SOB.

Zen was still mad, just not as mad as he had been. Or not mad in the same way. Because he couldn’t blame Mack Smith, much as he wanted to. And blaming God—well, you didn’t blame God. That wasn’t the way it worked. If you blamed God, if you thought God did it, well then logically the next thought, the next question was: Why? If God did it, he must have had a reason.

So maybe it was God and there was a purpose, or maybe it wasn’t—one way or the other, getting angry with him didn’t mean zip. It left you back at square one, having to deal with it.

Which was what he did. Again and again and again.

But he didn’t blame Mack anymore. Not in the same way.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” said Starship.

“This isn’t a good place for this kind of discussion,”

said Zen.

“I’m going to get a Bible, I think, and read it,” said Starship. “I haven’t read it really.”

“Go for it,” said Zen. “Let’s get to work, OK?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Zen—the submarine is moving!” said Ensign English, breaking into the circuit.

White House Situation Room

1515

JED PACED THE LENGTH OF THE OUTER CONFERENCE ROOM, waiting as the duty officers and a technician tried to clear the foul-up preventing them from tying into the Dreamland network. The secure connection had been designed to display whatever was on the main screen at Dreamland Command, but there was a glitch in the software and hardware units that did the encryption, and the screen was completely blank.

The President and Freeman were en route to North Carolina, and Jed was to provide updates every fifteen minutes.

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“The submarine is moving,” said Major Catsman over the speakerphone. They’d dedicated a phone line as a backup until the glitch was solved.

“Here we go,” said the technician.

A sitrep map of the northern African coast popped onto the main screen.

“No audio,” said the technician. “That’ll take another minute. I have to reboot the backup system so I can clear it.”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” said Jed.

“Admiral Balboa!” said the officer who’d been sitting at the control station, jumping to his feet as Balboa and the Secretary of State walked into the room, along with two aides and the head of the CIA.

“Hello, Jed,” said Secretary of State Hartman.

“Mr. Secretary, Admiral.”

“Jed.” Balboa’s pronunciation of his name made it sound almost like a curse.

Jed wondered why Balboa wasn’t at the Pentagon. He guessed it had something to do with Hartman, who wasn’t particularly welcome there.

Then again, the same might be said of Balboa here. Jed couldn’t remember the Secretary of State ever being friendly with the admiral.

“You have an image from the Gulf of Aden operation?”

asked the Secretary of State.

“It’s actually a plot of the area synthesized from different sensor views, like radar and infrared,” Jed explained. “It’s usually called a sitrep or a ‘situational representation.’ The computer imposes it on a satellite photo as its base image. In theory it’s what God would see if he were looking down at the earth. But of course we’re only seeing what the sensors can pick up. It’s in long-range view now, with the forces represented by bars and dots.”

“Which one of those dots is the Abner Read?” Balboa asked.

“That would be the rectangle to the right,” said the lieutenant.

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He might have added that it was the rectangle with the abbreviation abnr rd under it.

“That’s the target area?” asked Balboa.

“That’s the village near it. It’s empty, according to the infrared. These are the buildings they think the pirates are using,” said Jed. “There are two docks, two patrol craft twenty yards from shore, some other smaller boats all in this cluster here. Only some are probably used by the pirates. There are some defenses along the ridge, and there has to be some sort of entrance to the submarine area from the land, though we haven’t found it yet. They haven’t found it yet,” added Jed, correcting himself. “The submarine is moving. We can’t see it yet on this screen but the Piranha probe is tracking it. It’s roughly here. They’ll update the view at some point once they get all the sensors on line properly. They have some problems because of the connection with Xray Pop, which wasn’t designed specifically to interface with the Dreamland system.”

“What kind of problems?” said Balboa.

“I don’t have all the technical details,” said Jed. “But part of the problem is probably the encryption system and the bandwidth the Abner Read uses. It’s apparently more, um, limited, than that used by Dreamland.”

Balboa frowned. “Inferior?”

Probably, thought Jed, but he didn’t say it.

“Worried?” Hartman asked.

“No, sir.” Jed shifted on his feet awkwardly.

“Jed, we’ve got the sound,” the technician told him. “You can select the circuits.”

“Thanks,” said Jed. He turned off the speakerphone and pulled the headset on.

“This is going to go well tonight?” said Hartman. He tried to smile, but his tone was less than optimistic.

Everybody in the room looked at Jed.

“I don’t know,” said Jed. “They’ll do their best.”

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Aboard the Wisconsin

2330

ZEN SLID THE FLIGHTHAWK TOWARD THE COASTLINE, LETTING

his speed drop below 300 knots. The infrared viewer painted the craggy cliffs different shades of green and black, a placid mottle. But as he approached the camp, a jagged set of sticks appeared in a black triangle on the left—a lookout post with three rifles positioned to fire. The men who belonged to the rifles weren’t nearby, nor was anyone in a similar post about a quarter mile on.

Two figures were moving down the cliff a few hundred yards away. Two patrol boats were idling their engines near the shore, and a third had started out of the harbor. The submarine wasn’t visible on the IR scan as Zen passed.

“Positions are open, Whiplash leader,” Zen told Danny.

“I’ve handed over the GPS data on the emplacements they have.”

“Roger that,” Danny replied. “We’re go. Bloodthirst Command, commence firing. Ground teams are ten minutes from touching down.”

Zen took Hawk One higher to avoid any stray incoming shells from the Abner Read. Then he settled the aircraft into an orbit over the camp so it could provide real-time images to the landing team and turned it over to the computer. Back in Hawk Two, he took a run to the east, making sure the teams securing the village area didn’t need any assistance.

Aboard the Abner Read

2335

THE SHUDDER OF THE GUN RATTLED STORM’S TEETH AS THE

155mm shells left the ship, beginning the bombardment of the hulks in the harbor eight miles away.

The shake relaxed him completely: It was all in play now, the attack under way. Storm put his hand over his ear, filtering 318

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out the sounds around him as he listened to the action on the Dreamland Command channel. The landing area was clear; the Osprey on its way in; the submarine was moving. Thanks to the connections made by the Dreamland wizards, his Weapons people had pinpoint locations for the patrol craft at the base.

“Ready, Cap,” said Eyes.

“Target the surface craft moving from the base. We’ll take them first.”

“Craft One is targeted,” reported Weapons. “Craft Two is targeted.”

“Fire Harpoons,” said Storm.

The missiles tore away from the destroyer, popping upward from their vertical launcher. Storm saw them appear in the holographic display; their targets bore tiny initials, literally marked for death.

“Let’s get these bastards,” he said. He punched the communications unit at his belt. “All hands—all personnel involved in Operation Bloodthirst—hostilities are now under way. I promise you, we will revenge the deaths of our comrades who fell in action on November 6, 1997. Each one of their deaths will be avenged tenfold.”

Gulf of Aden

2338

THE FIRST SHELL LANDED ON THE SUNKEN TRAWLER NEAREST

to the shore just as Ali got down to the dockside. Water and shrapnel sprayed only a few feet away. A second shell exploded, this one on another hulk farther out in the harbor.

The loud boom emptied the air of the noise around him. Ali felt as if he had been lifted physically away from the earth, pulled into a place above what was happening. The connection between the present and his thought was severed momentarily, and he felt as if he were independent not simply from his body, but from everything around him.

The Americans are attacking.

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Satan’s Tail must be offshore.

I will strangle them with my bare hands.

Another explosion, this one on the nearby wreck close to shore, shook him back to reality.

“Quickly!” he shouted. “The Americans are attacking us!

We will not lay down for them! Quickly.”

As he reached into his pocket for the phone to pass the orders along, another volley from the American guns landed, this time on the land nearby. Dust and dirt flew everywhere; he just barely managed to touch the quick-dial sequence that would signal that he was under an all-out attack. He looked at the phone, not sure if the call went through.

Send all the hell you can, he thought. There was no need to say it, however; the fact that the number was dialed and that he did not answer when called back would be enough.

Ali steadied his fingers to make a second call, alerting his crews farther west. A fresh shell burst near the shoreline, shaking the ground so severely that he dropped the phone.

As he bent to grab it, another shell landed directly behind him, and the force of the explosion pushed him down the embankment toward the water. He managed to grab a large stone pillar to stop his fall.

He spit the dirt and rocks from his mouth. He’d lost the phone somewhere along the way and had to scramble back up the hill for it. Another shell landed below, near the water.

Ali sensed it before he heard the explosion, and in that small space of time realized he’d been lifted upward by the force.

He started to scream, but before a sound could come from his mouth, the world turned black.

Aboard Dreamland

Osprey, approaching northern Somalia 2340

DANNY SAW THE OBLITERATED GUARD POSTS AS THE FEED

from the Flighthawk played on the visor screen of his smart 320

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helmet. Several figures were coming from the caves near the water; another dozen were moving from the village buildings just to the east. But the top of the cliff was unprotected and he zoomed in to it, focusing on landing zone one and then two.

“Abner Read, be advised we are inbound to LZ. Do not shell the cliff,” said the pilot over the Dreamland circuit.

“Repeat. We’re inbound and will arrive in sixty seconds.”

Someone on the Abner Read acknowledged. The shelling of the wrecked ships in the harbor continued; the Navy gun-nery experts had predicted it would take a little more than twelve minutes to obliterate them all. As incredible as it seemed, the awesome torrent of shells made it seem like they might do it even quicker. The Werewolves had been unable to keep up with the Osprey and the accelerated schedule; they were running behind him by about ten minutes.

He’d make the landings without them.

“Team One is up!” shouted Geraldo “Blow” Hernandez, who was acting as jumpmaster, supervising the exit of the aircraft via the ropes. “Team One is up!”

The Marines and three of Danny’s men moved toward the door as the Osprey revved into hover mode, its tilt-wing swinging around as the craft arced to the disembarkation point. Danny’s men were used to the jolt of weightlessness that this induced, but the Marines weren’t, and even the men who had been with them on the mission the night before jerked against their straps and each other.

“Go! Go! Hit the ropes, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” yelled Boston.

“Do it, men!” yelled Dancer. “Make your mamas proud!”

Danny watched her grab a rope and go down with the rest of the team. They’d given up trying to use the Marine systems with the smart helmets and Dreamland circuit; instead, Danny had given her a backup short-range radio-only headset so she could talk directly to him. His people had been split up to work with different knots of Marines.

“Team Two coming up! Team Two coming up!” yelled Boston.

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Danny moved with the rest of them. The Osprey swung around to get into position. One of the chain guns beneath the front of the aircraft began to rotate, spitting bullets at the lip of the crag. Danny thought they were probably shooting at ghosts, but there wasn’t time to question the pilots—he put his gloved hands onto the rope, pulled his feet into place, and fast-roped down.

The Osprey stuttered backward as he descended, shuddering under the weight of bullets it was firing. But he got on the ground solidly, pushing to the left as the rest of the team came out.

“Incoming!” yelled someone as Danny jumped from the aircraft. Something flashed thirty yards ahead; it was a rocket-launched grenade fired nearly point-blank, but fortunately without much of an aim. Running forward, Danny peppered the area where it had come from with his MP5 before sliding down to one knee. There was no answering fire.

He swiveled his head back and forth as he took stock of the situation. More gunfire erupted to his right; three members of his team, all Marines, were engaged with someone at the very edge of the cliff.

“Grenade!” someone yelled.

It could have been a warning or a suggestion; in any event, nothing exploded. Two muzzles flashed from the direction of the sea to Danny’s extreme left; more terrorists coming up to the defense.The gunfire was answered by someone behind him.

Men were still coming off the Osprey, easy targets.

“Get the machine guns up!” yelled Danny. “Get the bastards on the cliff down! Go!”

More pirates came up the cliff and began to fire, bullets blazing everywhere. Something exploded behind him; as he turned to look, he saw the right wing of the Osprey break apart, struck by a mortar shell that had the incredibly bad luck to land on the engine housing and detonate. The aircraft veered sideways, spun forward, then sailed toward the water.

“Son of a bitch!” yelled Boston into his open mike.

Danny threw one of his grenades toward the cliff where he’d 322

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seen the muzzle flashes. Someone else had the same idea, and their grenade exploded first, followed quickly by Danny’s.

Jumping to his feet, Danny ran forward, emptying the MP5 before diving flat on the ground, next to a Marine. He slapped a new magazine into his weapon and fired a few rounds. There was no return fire, but just to be sure, he threw another grenade.

“Come on, Marine, come on!” he yelled, jumping to his feet after it exploded. As Danny took a step, a fresh burst of automatic rifle fire stoked up from the right and he threw himself back down. He didn’t fire back; he had people in that direction and in the scramble now couldn’t be positive who was where. He tried crawling forward but the ground began percolating with gunfire.

“Let’s get that machine gun over here!” Danny yelled at the Marine he’d just left. The man lay a few feet behind him, still hugging the ground. “Yo, Marine, come on,” said Danny pushing back toward him. He grabbed for the man’s shoulder; it came without resistance. It was only then that he realized the man had been killed.

Aboard the Wisconsin

2350

ZEN STARED AT THE OSPREY AS IT FLEW OVER THE CLIFF, UNsure exactly what was going on for a moment. Then he realized that the wing and engine had broken off and the aircraft was going down. The left rotor tried valiantly to hold the doomed MV-22 upright, but within a second or so the fuselage sagged to the right. The Osprey veered backward and then into a wide arc, slinging down toward the water. A fire-ball erupted from the aircraft, spitting in the direction of the terrorist village, as if the Osprey had spit at its enemy, a final insult before diving into the grave.

The screen flared as the rest of the MV-22 caught fire. It hit the water a moment later, debris, fire, and steam erupting as if from a volcano. Zen had already started to bring Hawk SATAN’S TAIL

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Two over the area; he pressed the throttle against its stop, trying to accelerate.

“We have a downed aircraft,” he said. “Osprey. Bad. No chance of survivors.”

“Acknowledged,” said Dog.

“I’m bringing Hawk Two overhead and then will provide fire support for the landing team,” said Zen. “Where the hell are those Werewolves?”

“Werewolves are still three minutes out,” said Dog.

“They’re doing their best, Zen.”

“They’re going to have to do better.”

Aboard the Abner Read

2351

STORM STOOD OVER THE NEWLY INSTALLED WEREWOLF CONsole in the Tactical Warfare Center. “Let’s move it, let’s move it,” he told Ensign Young.

“I’m doing the best I can, sir.”

Best wasn’t good enough, Storm realized.

“Dreamland,” he said, turning to Jennifer Gleason. “Can you do anything with this or not?”

“Damn straight, if you let me,” she told him.

“Well do it. Go. Go, do it.”

She moved toward the console. The ensign hesitated, glancing back at Storm, then quickly jumped up.

“WEREWOLF CONTROL COMPUTER, OVERRIDE ESTABLISHED

programming, authorization JenJen4356,” said Jennifer, pulling on the headset.

She got a tone and instructions on the main screen: OVERRIDE.

DESIGNATE NEW ORDERS.

W1 & W2 WILL CONTINUE ON PRESENT COURSE UNTIL NEW ORDERS ENTERED.

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“Auto designate mode, full pilot command, disregard safety protocols, authorization JenJen4356. Disregard tactical encyclopedia, authorization JenJen4356.”

As soon as the computer acknowledged, Jennifer punched the function key to designate targets. The computer didn’t beep for some reason, failing to accept the command.

“Free-form mode,” she told the computer. “Sitrep on main screen,” she added, asking for a bird’s-eye view of the aircraft and the battlefield.

The sitrep failed to come up.

All right, she told herself, you’re not thinking clearly because your adrenaline is blasting. Take a deep breath and go back to the beginning.