Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Yes, sir,” said the Marine, voice choked with tears.

Danny rose and walked alone toward the corner of a nearby building, where another member of the team crouched with an M249 machine gun. Calling the structure a building was optimistic; it was more a hovel that leaned against the side of the hill.

“Down here, Danny,” said Dancer.

He spotted her near the largest of the buildings, on the side overlooking one of the docks. He made his way down quickly.

“We have no more resistance, or at least they’ve stopped firing,” she said. “There are two speedboats, some other small open boats tied up in the water on that side there. The Abner Read has taken care of the hulks. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in them.” She turned and pointed to the boats in the water. “This building looks like a command post. There’s radio equipment and other gear inside. We didn’t see any booby traps.”

“It’s clean,” Liu said behind her.

“All right,” said Danny. “Next objective is the cave where the submarine was, beyond that dock and the breakwater there.

Piranha reports no vessels inside, but there may be people.”

“I’d like a chance to help in the search for our people on the Osprey,” said Dancer. “I think we should do that first.”

“I think we can assist the search while we’re looking for SATAN’S TAIL

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an entrance to the pen,” Danny told her. “We need to get the divers in before we take on the cave. The Shark Boat too. I don’t want to start an assault, or a possible assault, until we have all the possible entrances covered anyway. I’ll check on what the possibilities are while you take charge of the search. Why don’t you take Sergeant Liu and two of your Marines with you?”

“Thank you, I will,” said Dancer. “And I’m holding on to your sergeant’s hat. Does this thing get baseball games?”

“Only Yankee games.”

“Those are the only ones I watch.”

“Hey, Captain! I got people! Up here in the second tier of hovels.”

Dancer and a Marine trailed Danny as he trotted up the hill and then climbed a short set of rock steps to Boston. The sergeant was holding his M4 on a pair of frail-looking women. One was middle-aged, the other in her early twenties. They wore heavy black clothes with veils drawn over their faces.

“I have a couple of civilians,” Danny said over the Dreamland Command circuit. “I need the Arabic translator.”

“He’s on the line,” said Major Catsman.

As Danny started to ask for the words “We mean no harm,” the younger woman jumped up.

“Grenade!” yelled Boston.

Without thinking, Danny threw himself at the woman.

Boston tried to grab the grenade, which flew up into the air.

Twisting back, Danny saw it hover a few inches above his head, an old Russian-style weapon.

He also saw very clearly that its pin had been pulled.

Aboard Baker-Baker Two

0025

STARSHIP TOOK HAWK THREE DOWN TO 25,000 FEET, RUNning head-on at the first element of MiG-29s. The aircraft 344

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were moving fairly quickly, around 600 knots. They were fifty miles away from his nose; the combined speeds of the aircraft meant they’d run through each other’s windshields in a little more than three minutes if nothing changed.

Hawk Four paralleled Three by two and a half miles. Starship took control of the plane directly and started a slight turn farther east. “Intercept doublet pattern Zen-Two,” he told the computer, naming a preset tactical maneuver that Zen used so often it had been named after him. While the contingencies of the encounter could immensely complicate what happened, the outline of the plan was simple: Hawk Three would engage the flight nearly head-on, attacking the lead plane, which was running a bit farther west and higher than the second MiG. Hawk Four would angle in from the east, aiming for a tail attack on the second MiG as it broke and ran or moved to help its mate.

“Real” pilots probably wouldn’t have chosen the attack—for one thing, they’d be flying aircraft with missiles capable of engaging the enemy at long range—but the plan took advantage of the Flighthawk’s strengths. The computer was much better at making close-quarter rear-end attacks than it was at any other angle; in fact, it was probably as good as Starship was, so letting C3 take the plane and follow that attack plan gave it a high chance of success. The small profile of the aircraft meant that neither plane would be detected by the MiGs’ radar until practically the moment that Starship began firing. He’d not only be able to begin the engagement on his terms, but probably fire and be beyond the enemy fighter before it even knew he was there.

If he missed and both Yemen aircraft went after Hawk Three—the aggressive and logical action—Starship could easily turn and continue to concentrate on his original target, even if the enemy’s wingmate maneuvered to get on his tail. That’s what he wanted it to do, since it would give Hawk Four an easier and more predictable target. And if both planes turned to run away, they would be sitting ducks, SATAN’S TAIL

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at least until their afterburners helped them regain momentum.

Ironically, the strongest answer to Zen-Two was to split and take each Flighthawk head-on—then go for afterburners and cruise home at a couple of times the speed of sound.

While it was unlikely to yield a kill for the MiGs, it also presented the Flighthawks with the least amount of tango time—and the higher the tango time for the Flighthawks, the higher the tomb time for the opponents.

One of Kick’s favorite sayings.

Kick’s not here, Starship thought. Time to let him rest.

“Hawk Three? What’s your situation?” asked Breanna.

“Lining up for an intercept. Weapons are ready.”

“Roger that,” said Breanna. He heard her switch over to the frequency the Yemen pilots were using and broadcast a prerecorded warning in Arabic that they were approaching a U.S. aircraft and were to turn back.

“No acknowledgment,” said Spiderman after a few seconds.

“All channels,” said Breanna.

The warning was repeated, again without an acknowledgment. Just for good measure, Spiderman repeated it in English.

“They certainly know we’re here,” said Telly, the airborne radar warning operator. “Their fuzz busters are probably hotter than a toaster in a boardinghouse.”

“Intercept in zero-two minutes,” said Starship. “What’s your call, Captain?”

“They’re activating weapons radars!” said Spiderman.

“Trying to lock on us!”

“Hawk Three and Four, engage enemy aircraft,” said Breanna.

“Roger that,” said Starship, leaning closer to the screen.

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Northern Somalia,

on the ground

0023

THE WOMAN’S GRENADE FLOATED IN THE AIR TEN INCHES FROM

Danny’s head. As he started to cringe, his body bracing for the shock, an ebony-shaded hand appeared from nowhere, grabbing the grenade and in the same motion throwing it out toward the sea.

A blackness filled his eyes in the next second. He became blind.

Then he was falling, crashing against the rocks, pulling the woman who’d tried to kill them against the ground.

The grenade exploded somewhere below. Danny rolled and pushed upright, his only thought for his pistol, loose in his holster. He gripped the woman unsteadily, then managed to throw her to the left, away from his gun. She continued to struggle, grabbing something from her body. Three shots rang out and she fell back, then tumbled down the hill.

Danny rolled to his feet. “Thanks, Boston,” he said.

“The lieutenant grabbed the grenade and threw it,” said Boston. He pointed to Dancer. “She shot the bitch too.”

“She had another grenade in her dress there,” said Dancer, motioning with the gun. Her voice had a tinge of regret.

“Fortunately she couldn’t pull the pin. Crazy.”

“You better search this one,” Danny said, pointing to the older woman on the side. She’d either fainted or been knocked unconscious. “Let’s make sure we’re secure here before you go anywhere else,” he told Dancer. “And thanks.”

“My pleasure, Captain.”

Aboard Baker-Baker Two

0023

THE THING STARSHIP COULDN’T FIGURE WAS: WHY MAKE IT SO

easy for us?

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Why attack at all? We’re just going to shoot you down.

The lead MiG did not see the Flighthawk, either on radar or visually, until the computer turned Starship’s firing cue yellow. By then it was too late for the MiG to do much of anything. Undecided about whether to fight or flee, the Yemen pilot attempted to do both, launching an all-aspect R-73 heat-seeker at the Flighthawk and trying to tuck hard on his right wing and roll away.

The R-73—known to NATO as an AA-11 Archer—was an excellent weapon, able to accelerate to Mach 2.5 and guided by an extraordinarily sensitive infrared seeker in its nose. But even the best infrared seeker—and the R-73 certainly was in the running for consideration—had trouble picking out a relatively small target like the Flighthawk head-on, especially in an encounter where seconds loomed like hours. Starship flicked left as the enemy started to turn, only vaguely aware of the air-to-air weapon’s flash. His cue turned red; he counted “one-two” to himself and then fired, sliding the nose of the Flighthawk down slightly to keep the stream of bullets on the MiG’s wings. By the time the R-73

missile flew past the Flighthawk, the MiG that launched it had burst into a U-shaped ring of red flames.

Starship pulled off abruptly, afraid the explosion would spray debris in the U/MF-3’s path. He cleared without getting hit, and corrected slightly north to line up an intercept on the second group of aircraft, some thirty miles away.

He wanted to execute the same plan, but Hawk Four was having trouble with the MiG it was assigned to nail. The Yemen pilot turned toward the Flighthawk’s path before Hawk Four was in range to fire, and the computer changed its attack pattern. It managed a few shots as the two planes passed, the MiG heading farther west. By the time Hawk Four came around and got on the Yemeni plane’s tail, it had launched a pair of R-27R radar missiles—not at the Flighthawk, but at the Megafortress guiding her.

Starship blocked out the sounds of the crew responding in his headset, taking control of Hawk Four himself to press 348

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the attack. Anticipating that the MiG would try to run home, he cut back north, slamming the throttle—and sure enough, the MiG swept back, accelerating so fast that even though he’d expected it, Starship nearly missed the shot.

Nearly wasn’t good enough for the MiG driver, though—Starship punched two dozen slugs through the rear engine housing, crippling the aircraft as surely as a knife slicing a horse’s knee tendons. The pilot bailed a few seconds later.

Starship turned back north, trying to get into position to take the run on the second element of Yemen aircraft. But Hawk Three was now too far ahead to pull the same maneuver; he had to settle for what they called Train Attack One—one ship in a deep trail, reacting to whatever was left after the lead aircraft made its attack. He jumped into Hawk Three just as the computer closed in for the kill; he got a red in the target screen and pressed the trigger. The computer was too optimistic—his bullets trailed downward, and the MiG

jinked hard to Starship’s right. This element of aircraft was flying parallel, and Starship flew through without another shot. He banked to get behind the flight, turning as sharply as he could, the small plane recording more than eight g’s on her air frame.

Flown by the computer, Hawk Four lined up for a head-on shot at the easternmost MiG, which hadn’t changed course. Starship let the computer hold onto the Flighthawk and angled toward the other plane, which had begun to dive to the west.

“Hawk Three, we’re going to take those MiGs out with missiles,” said Breanna. “We have another group of four MiGs taking off from Yemen. Meet them.”

“Hawk Four is engaging,” said Starship.

“Pull off,” said Breanna.

“Roger that,” he said reluctantly, overriding the computer.

BREANNA WAITED UNTIL SPIDERMAN GOT A LOCK ON THE SECond aircraft to give the order to fire. The AMRAAM-pluses SATAN’S TAIL

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clunked off the launcher, whipping forward from beneath the Megafortress’s belly.

“Close it up,” she told her copilot.

“They’re locking—launching the Alamos.”

“ECMs.”

“Jesus, Captain, they’re scrambling their whole air force,”

said Telly. “I have that group of four MiG-29s, and now two MiG-21s, four MiG-21s coming out of the north. They’re going for broke.”

“So are we.”

STARSHIP HAD HIS PICK OF TARGETS—FOUR MIG-29S AND

six MiG-21s had joined the playing field. The MiG-29s were more serious threats to the Megafortress, and closer besides—he set the two Flighthawks up for a run at their front quarters from the east. This time the attack was a no-brainer, with the enemy planes spread out at easy intervals.

Despite the two earlier encounters, they were unaware of the Flighthawks and took no evasive maneuvers as Starship approached.

The cockpit of one of the MiGs materialized in the center of his firing screen, the image complete with the bobbing head of the pilot. Starship hesitated—it seemed inhumane for some reason to target the man flying the plane rather than the metal itself—but then squeezed the trigger. The rain of lead flowed across the aircraft for perhaps two whole seconds, twice as long as the Flighthawk’s cannon needed to obliterate the Russian-built machine.

A second aircraft appeared almost immediately. Starting to ride the adrenaline high of the encounter, Starship fired even though the gear showed he didn’t have a shot. He scolded himself and turned right, just in time to witness the computer’s first score of the night with Hawk Four—a screaming attack from above that tore off the right wing of one of the MiGs.

As Starship hunted for his own target, he got a warning from the radar warning receiver—one of the MiGs had man-

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aged to turn and was on his tail. He pulled the MiG with him in a dive and then a tuck to the right, weaving back to the left and then pulling up with a twist to the left. The MiG hung with the smaller plane, very close to its tail but not quite lined up for a shot. Sweat rode down Starship’s back as he ducked left then right, then left again. The Flighthawk flicked in the sky, changing course so sharply that a live pilot would have been knocked senseless by the heavy g’s. Finally the MiG shot past. Starship waited a second for his wings to steady, then zeroed out his opponent with a steady burst.

As the plane exploded, a second fighter came into view; Starship immediately turned to close for an attack. But he’d lost so much airspeed already that he got a stall warning—it was a wonder, between his maneuvers and the effect of the cannon, that he wasn’t moving backward. Feeling cocky, he slammed his wing down and circled in the direction he figured the MiG would take. The Flighthawk moved sideways and down, more brick than anything approaching a controllable aircraft. Part of it was luck, but Starship managed to put the Flighthawk on the tail of the MiG and begin firing.

He was too flatfooted to get more than a few bullets into the other aircraft, and when the MiG pulled away, he had to let it go.

He turned to check the sitrep screen to reorient himself when he got a warning buzzer from C3—he was low on fuel.

Very low—ten minutes.

“MiG-21s are moving to engage us,” Spiderman told him.

“Eight of them. They’re five minutes from missile range.”

“I need to gas up,” Starship said. “Both planes.”

“This isn’t a good time,” Breanna told him.

“It’s a lousy time,” said Starship. “But I’m almost bone dry.”

“We’re being tracked by a surface radar,” added Spiderman. “SAMs—we’re spiked! They’re firing!”

SATAN’S TAIL

351

Aboard the Abner Read

0030

“HIT ON SONAR CONTACT ONE!” SAID WEAPONS, RELAYING

the news that one of their torpedoes had struck the Libyan submarine.

“It’s about time,” said Storm. “Eyes—status of that submarine?”

“Still trying to determine, sir.”

“Weapons—torpedoes five and six?”

“En route and true.”

Hallelujah, thought Storm.

“The submarine is dead in the water,” said Eyes.

“Time to impact on torpedo five is three minutes,” said Peanut. “Six is right behind.”

“Stay on him.”

“I’m trying, Storm,” said the executive officer. Storm detected some of his pique at being bypassed creeping into his voice but didn’t comment on it; he’d take care of the man later on, reward him for his patience.

He’d reward all the crew members—best damn crew in the Navy, bar none.

Storm turned his attention to the rest of the battle. All of the vessels coming from the targeted base area had been struck, but there were other ships in the vicinity, which he guessed must be part of the pirate fleet. They would have to neutralize as many as they could.

His move against the submarine had taken him in the direction of three ships identified as small patrol boats by the Megafortress; these were heading out from the coastline to his west about eight miles away. Shark Boat Two had engaged a similar-sized craft three miles beyond them. Storm decided that since the Abner Read was already headed in that direction and the land objective had been secured, they would cut off the three patrol craft and stand by to render assistance to the Shark Boat. He told Bastian to remain over at the pirate camp, supporting the landing team and Shark Boat One.

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The rules of engagement required the ships to positively identify any craft not at the landing site as a pirate before opening fire, unless they were fired on first or represented an immediate threat. Storm had communications issue a warning to the three patrol craft, telling them that they were interfering with a UN-sponsored operation and were to return to their ports.

“No answer,” said the communications officer.

“Peanut, target the patrol craft identified as Surface Contacts Fourteen, Fifteen, and Sixteen.”

Peanut issued the command. As it was being passed along, Eyes reported that the Libyan submarine had opened its torpedo tubes.

“Weapons, what’s the status of the torpedoes?” said Storm.

“Five is sixty seconds away.”

“Torpedoes in the water!” warned the computerized threat indicator.

The twenty-one-inch torpedoes carried by the enemy submarine were heavier and deadlier than those Storm’s ship had launched and in theory had a longer range—as much as fifty kilometers. As the crew began to respond, Eyes reported that torpedo five had detonated prematurely, too far from the submarine to damage it.

Storm stifled a curse, struggling to control his anger. He would get the bastard—he would get all of the bastards—but to do that he had to remain calm.

But remaining calm was not his strong suit.

“Dreamland EB-52 Wisconsin to CAG Tactical Command,” said Bastian over the Dreamland circuit. “The other Megafortress is engaging fighters from Yemen. We’d like to go to their assistance.”

“We need you to stand by,” said Eyes. “All of our forces are engaged with the enemy.”

“They’re under heavy attack.”

“I know what they’re doing,” said Storm, butting in.

“They’ve shot down half the Yemen Air Force. They don’t need any help. Do you have Harpoons left?”

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“Affirmative,” said Dog.

“Eyes, give them a target.”

“That amphibious ship they saw the other day is about thirty miles north of us. It has another craft alongside it, possibly as a tug.”

“Sink the bastard,” cut in Storm.

“Your orders covering engagement prohibit me from doing that,” replied the colonel coldly. “They’ve been in international waters since before the start of the engagement.

And besides, I can’t get close enough for a visual without leaving this area.”

How could the Air Force flyboy remain so stinking calm when he had just lost several men?

“Damn it, Bastian—find a way to engage him. Your people in the other Megafortress don’t seem to be having any problem.”

“They were threatened and had to defend themselves.”

“A good plan for you. We’re going after the submarine.”

“Wisconsin out.” The feed snapped clean.

“What’s going on with those torpedoes that were launched at us?” said Storm.

“Two are still tracking, Captain.”

The voices came in rapid succession as the different elements of the battle were processed.

“Bingo! We have another strike on the submarine!” said Weapons.

“One of the Libyan torpedoes has self-detonated.”

“We have the patrol craft zeroed in.”

“Second Libyan torpedo is going off course. We’re in the clear.”

Suddenly, one of the sonar operators shouted so loud his voice echoed in the space:

“I have sounds of a submarine breaking up!”

“Put them over the loudspeaker,” said Storm. “Crew, we have sunk the Tango sub. We have routed the pirates from their base. We are in the process of breaking the terrorists’

backs.”

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The crew began to cheer. This is what revenge sounds like, Storm thought.

The celebration was interrupted by a new warning, this one from the Dreamland EB-52 over the battle area.

“Missiles in the air—four—eight Styx missiles!

Launched in the direction of the Abner Read.”

Aboard the Wisconsin

0040

DOG HAD JUST TOLD ZEN TO TAKE HAWK TWO TOWARD THE

amphibious ship when the barrage of missiles sprang from it.

“Multiple launches,” reported Dish. “They’re all Styx missiles. We’re confirmed on that.”

“I have three of the missiles in view,” said Zen.

“Can you take them out?” asked Dog.

“Not all of them,” said Zen.

“Dish—can you ID guidance or the missile types?”

“Working on it, Colonel. S1 and S2 have MS-2A seekers—radar, capable of home on jam. Active. Others are similar—may be a P-22 in there as well. That would default to an infrared if jammed. Guess here is that they had a location or at least an approximate location based on the Abner Read’s radar and fired.”

“I have S5 and S6,” said Zen, singling out two of the missiles Dish had ID’d as having heat-seeking heads.

“McNamara, target the two closest to Abner Read with Scorpions,” Dog said. “Once the air-to-air missiles are off, we’ll sink the ship with the rest of our Harpoons.”

“Working on it, Colonel. Going to need you to come to a new course.”

“Lay it in.”

“I’m engaging,” said Zen.

Dog swung the aircraft into a better position for McNamara, shortening the distance the AMRAAM-pluses would SATAN’S TAIL

355

need to take to intercept the missiles. No matter how it was guided, the Russian-made Styx was at its heart a flying bomb, a set of wings and an engine that could take its 480-kilogram warhead just over the speed of sound. In its most recent version, it could travel about fifty-four nautical miles.

“Opening bomb bay doors,” said Dog as he swung into position. The aircraft shuddered as she opened her belly to the elements, exposing the antiair missile on her revolving dispenser.

“Locked on S3,” said the copilot.

“Fire.”

“Firing. Locked on S4.”

“Fire.”

The missiles clunked off the rack, their sleek bodies accelerating rapidly. The standard AMRAAM could top Mach 4; the AMRAAM-plus Scorpion, a Dreamland special, went a hair faster but carried a heavier warhead, which, as on the standard version, sat just forward of the middle of the missile.

“Baker-Baker, this is Wisconsin—I’m afraid we have our hands full for the moment,” he told Breanna, not wanting to let her think he’d forgotten about her. “We’re engaging Styx missiles.”

“We have it under control, Daddy.”

He hated her calling him Daddy.

“Wisconsin, I need you to come west with me,” said Zen.

“Missiles are away,” said McNamara. “Tracking.”

“Button up,” Dog told him. “And hang on.”

ZEN PUSHED HAWK THREE INTO A DIVE AT THE COURSE THE

computer plotted for the Styx missile. In some ways, the ship-to-ship projectile was an easy target—it flew in a predictable path and couldn’t defend itself. On the other hand, it was fast enough that he had only one real shot at it; if he missed, he’d never be able to turn and get another shot.

The computer showed the course perfectly. Zen was mov-

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ing exactly onto his mark. There was only one problem—the missile wasn’t there.

Zen slid the throttle back, cutting down his speed. According to the sitrep plot at the bottom right of his visor, the Styx missile should be right in front of him. But neither the synthesized radar view nor the low-light video showed it.

Confused, he tucked the Flighthawk into a bank. The computer had Hawk Two—the control screen showed that it was nearly ready to fire. Realizing that he was unlikely to do any better than the computer in the encounter, Zen stayed with Hawk One.

“Strike on S3,” reported McNamara, watching the AMRAAM-plus.

“Hey, Dish, they’re foxing us somehow, confusing the radar with false returns,” said Zen. “I just chased a nonexistent missile.”

“Working on it—sorry, we haven’t seen these ECMs before. More missiles in the air!”

Zen selected his infrared feed and saw two missiles within striking distance; he went for the closer one, putting several cannon shells into the rear and sending it spinning out of control. He glanced briefly at the radar and saw three other missiles there—all phony.

“They’re still tricking us,” he told Dish.

“Yeah,” said the radar operator. “I’m trying to narrow down the units that have the counter-ECMs. Whatever they’re using is good—maybe Indian modifications or something new out of Russia.”

“Better alert the Abner Read to the false signals.”

“Already have.”

Northern Somalia

0045

THE VESSEL LOOMED AHEAD, MORE A SHADOW ON THE WATER

than a ship.

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“Come,” Ali told the others who had joined him. “Commend yourselves to God, and follow.”

He stripped off his shirt and pants and slipped into the water, his only weapon the knife at his belt. Six others followed him, the best swimmers of his small force.

And then more—another dozen, eighteen, all of the men who had survived.

But after a few strokes, Ali faltered; the water was too cold and his arms too old to reach his destination.

Let me die if it is your will, he told his Lord.

Water swelled into his nose. He felt himself going down and thought of his son.

And then he was there, his hand touching the side of the ship—it felt like hard rubber, as if the entire craft were sheathed in a diver’s suit. Ali didn’t know where to put his hands. He had found his way to the flank of the enemy’s craft, propelled entirely by God’s will.

Allah had delivered this vessel so he could strike the Ark Royal. He wanted the devil’s own sword wielded in the name of justice.

No one was topside. The ship was about as long as his own patrol boats, sitting low in the water on two knife-shaped arms. The deck held a small cannon forward of a sloped and angled wheelhouse, the broad fantail at the rear dominated by two long rectangular boxes.

A hand grasped him. The others had arrived.

“Wait until we are all aboard,” said Ali. “God has brought us and will provide. We are in his hands and fight a holy war.”

DANNY WALKED DOWN TO THE WATER, HEART POUNDING HEAVily, afraid the grenade meant for him had killed or wounded the Marine hunched on the ground ahead. But the man wasn’t hurt, at least not physically—he was throwing up.

Danny knelt beside him and recognized the young man he’d been with earlier.

“I saw a head,” mumbled the kid. “Oh, God.” The Marine leaned over and puked again.

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Danny gripped the jacket of the bulletproof vest. After a few more heaves the Marine straightened, and Danny helped him to his feet.

“I’m OK, sir. I’m OK.”

“I know you are, guy. It sucks.”

The Marine looked at him for a second. “Does it get easier?”

Danny thought back to the first man he’d seen die—or rather, the first one he’d realized was a man, not a faceless enemy in the distance. He’d puked too.

In one sense, it did get easier—he didn’t throw up anymore. But in all the important ways, it didn’t get easier at all.

“You’ll get through it, kid. You’re doing your job.”

“Thank you, sir,” snapped the Marine, a bit of his strength returning.

Danny rapped his arm gently with his fist, then went to check on the others.

THE GUN AT THE FRONT OF THE ENEMY SHIP BEGAN TO FIRE.

The deck shook with it, and the boat started to roll.

The dark hatchway to the interior lay a few feet ahead. Ali could see the men moving inside, two of them—devil men with horns and spikes at their heads.

The knife burned hot in his hand.

“For the Glory of God!” he yelled, plunging into the darkness.

“HAVE SERGEANT LIU TAKE CHARGE OF SECURING ANY

documents and equipment from the headquarters building,”

Danny told Dancer over the team circuit. “We ought to try to evacuate it out to the Shark Boat as soon as we can, just in case the natives get restless. We’ll use the Navy SITT teams to conduct searches of the other buildings. They’re trained for that stuff. But I want them to go slow. There’s no sense tripping over more booby traps in the dark.”

“Agreed, Captain.”

Something flashed in the sky overhead. A loud clap of SATAN’S TAIL

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thunder followed. There were two more bursts in rapid succession.

“Missiles,” Danny told the Marine lieutenant. “Being intercepted. Big ones.”

“Cap, Werewolf is trying to get ahold of you on the Dreamland circuit,” said Boston. “The most beautiful woman in the world wants to sing in your ear.”

“Boston, you would joke on the doorstep of hell,” said Danny.

“Aw, been there, done that, Captain.”

Danny clicked into the line. “Whiplash leader.”

“Danny, I have to pull Werewolf Two back to refuel. It’s going to be at least twenty minutes before I get back to you.

Werewolf One is being refueled but it may take a while to get back in the air.”

He could hear a lot of voices behind her on the ship, rushed, calm, nearly hysterical—the adrenaline-soaked sounds of battle.

“It’s OK, Jen. We’re secure here. What’s your situation?”

“We’ve sunk the submarine, but we’ve been targeted by missiles. Gonna be a few minutes before it sorts out and I can land to refuel—have to go.”

“Go.”

Dancer had climbed down the cliffside and was standing before him with one of her Marines—the one who had just emptied the contents of his stomach on the beach.

“Danny, I’m going to take Luke here and check on the search of the Osprey wreckage as we’d planned. I think it’s better to leave Liu and the others to help Boston sort out the situation in the hovel and then bring the papers or whatever’s in the headquarters’ stash down.”