Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“You sure you’re OK?”

“Hey, we’re Marines,” said Dancer. “Come on, Luke.”

The Marine had to scramble to keep up with the five-seven lieutenant as she strode toward the dock where the small boats were tied up.

“Just that old woman up here, Cap,” said Boston. “As far 360

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

as the sensors can tell, no mines anywhere. And no more booby traps.”

“All right. Sergeant Liu is organizing a team to take material out of the headquarters. If you’re secure up there and there’s manpower available, go down and help out. I’m going to see if I can find some sort of boat we can use to get the material out to the Shark Boat.”

A fresh set of explosions in the distance shook the ground.

“Sounds like we’re not the only ones having a party tonight,” said Boston.

Aboard Baker-Baker Two

0045

STARSHIP TURNED HAWK THREE TOWARD THE LEAD MIG THEN

jumped back into Hawk Four. He whirled the airplane toward the southeast, hunting for Baker-Baker Two.

“I have an idea, Bree,” he said. “I’ll hold them off with Three long enough to get a couple hundred pounds of juice into Four, then go back and finish them off.”

“I don’t know if we can complete a refuel under fire,” said Breanna.

“I think it’s worth a try,” said Starship. “It’s better than just running away and losing both U/MFs.”

“Agreed,” she snapped back. “Let’s try.”

Starship lined up Hawk Four, then told the computer to take the aircraft in for the refuel. The computer balked—its safety protocols would not allow it to refuel while the Megafortress was being targeted by the enemy. Both he and Breanna had to authorize the override. The extra step took only a few seconds, but by the time he got back into Hawk Three, the computer had missed its shot. Rather than breaking and going for the other aircraft in the pack—a human’s natural choice, since there were no less than four targets within spitting distance—C3 had stubbornly stayed on the SATAN’S TAIL

361

lead MiG. It led it to the very edge of the connection range with Baker-Baker Two. The computer backed off and banked around, taking itself out of the fight even though it had been ordered to stay with the other plane.

It was the first tactical flaw Starship had found in the programming. It disappointed him somehow, as if the computer should have known better.

He’d figure out how to use it in the next exercise to try and beat Zen, something no one had ever done.

Kick would have loved that. He was always talking about beating the master.

Starship pushed the memory of his friend away as he took control of the Flighthawk. The sky before him was studded with fighters. The MiGs stoked their engines, trying to close on the Megafortress—apparently they were all carrying short-range heat-seekers and needed to get up close to take a shot. He pulled to a half mile of the nearest aircraft and lit his cannon, tearing a long, jagged line through the fuselage and back into the tail plane. He kept moving forward, barely letting up on the trigger before finding his second target, another MiG-21. Before he could fire, a missile sprang from beneath the enemy’s wing. Cursing, Starship waited for the target cue to blink then go solid red.

“You better not hit me, you son of a bitch,” he said, dialing the enemy into oblivion.

“BREAK RIGHT, YOU HAVE TO TURN RIGHT!” SPIDERMAN YELLED

to Breanna.

“We need to stay straight for the refuel.”

“Bree! There’s a MiG closing from your left and two heat-seekers coming from behind.”

“Flares and Stinger,” said Breanna calmly.

The decoys shot out from the Megafortress as the air-to-air missiles sped toward it. The cascade of flares were too inviting a target for the antiquated missiles to ignore—both tucked downward, exploding more than a mile away.

Which left the MiG-29 that somehow managed to elude 362

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

everything else in the sky and was drawing a bead on their left flank.

“He’s taking a cannon run,” said Spiderman.

“Starship, how’s your fuel?”

“Two more minutes.”

“We don’t have two minutes,” said Breanna as the first slug from the MiG’s 30mm cannon began crashing into the fuselage.

“COMPUTER, MY CONTROL, HAWK FOUR,” SAID STARSHIP, and in a breath he was falling past the Megafortress. He tilted his wing slightly to the left, feeling his way, not seeing, blind in the dark night. Flashes of red sped overhead. He lifted himself and there was the enemy, dead-on in the middle of his screen.

“Now!” he yelled, and the black triangle hurling itself toward him turned golden orange. Starship flew through it, shuddering as debris rained in every direction. He climbed then circled back, looking for the Megafortress. As he turned he was jerked backward, away from his small plane.

Disoriented, he blinked—then saw the flames coming from the top of Baker-Baker Two in the screen.

“RADAR IS OFFLINE,” SPIDERMAN TOLD BREANNA.

“Least of our problems.”

“Thirty percent in engine two. We may lose her.”

“Fire control.”

“Fire control. Sounding warning.”

A klaxon began to sound in the aircraft. “Everybody, make sure your oxygen is on,” shouted Breanna over the automated warning.

The Megafortress had a system that flooded vulnerable areas of the aircraft to extinguish fires. It worked by denying the flames oxygen—which of course meant it would kill the crew as well.

“Do it,” she told the copilot.

SATAN’S TAIL

363

*

*

*

STARSHIP PUT HAWK FOUR INTO A PRESET TRAIL MANEUVER, pulled on his oxygen mask, then undid his restraints to check on Delaford.

“You really have to be tied in tight,” Starship told him, snapping and then snugging the restraints on his ejection seat.

“Thanks,” said Delaford. “We’re not going out, are we?”

“Nah, not today,” said Starship. He turned, then flew against the side of the seat as the Megafortress rolled hard on her right side.

The lights began to blink, indicating that the fire-suppression system had been activated. He pulled himself upright and slid in behind his controls as the Megafortress pitched forward. He tumbled against the bulkhead over the panel hard enough to rebound backward into the seat, and he lay there dazed for a moment, temporarily stunned.

Get your gear back on, dude. You’re coming undone. Mask is out and where the hell is your helmet?

“Screw yourself, Kick.”

You undid your mask. You can’t breathe right.

“Screw it.”

Come on.

Something or someone seemed to take hold of the mask and center it on his face. Starship had his helmet and cinched it—when had he put it on?

He fumbled with the restraint buckle on the left side of his seat; when it finally cinched, he went to connect the right and found it already closed. The aircraft pushed back, leveling off—then shot back down, its nose pitched nearly per-pendicular to the earth.

BREANNA SCRAMBLED TO COMPENSATE AS ENGINE FOUR WENT

offline. The radar housing had been smashed all to hell, there were holes in the wing, and at least some of the control surfaces were no longer attached to the aircraft.

“Hang with me, Spiderman,” she yelled.

364

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I’m hanging.”

“We have engine one and engine three, that’s all we need,” she told him.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“I have the stick, I have the stick,” she told him. “We have to stay calm and straight.”

Not necessarily in that order either. Breanna managed to keep the aircraft from falling into a spin, but still had to struggle to quell the roller-coaster movements up and down, the plane riding the momentum toward the ocean. Each plunge got a little shallower and more controllable, and she finally managed to get the aircraft level. Pushing her shoulders back, she took a deep breath in celebration—then went back to work.

“First thing I want you to do,” she told Spiderman, “is get us a course to an airfield. See what the distance is to that place in India that the Ospreys used. That’s probably our best bet at this point. I’ll take stock of the damage. At some point we’ll see if we can bring engine four back online. Starship?”

“Sorry, Bree.”

“Wasn’t your fault—that MiG ducked our AMRAAM

somehow. But I think next time, we may test the old saying about discretion being the better part of valor.”

Breanna checked with the rest of the crew; no one had been hurt. The MiGs, meanwhile, had returned to Yemen—those that hadn’t been shot down. By their count, they had gunned down seven.

“Eight– Hawk Three got one more before it ran out of fuel. It did the honorable thing and blew itself up when it went dry,” said Starship, reviewing the computer file.

“Ark Royal is asking if we need assistance,” said Spiderman.

“Unless they want to add another four or five thousand feet to their landing deck, tell them thanks but no thanks,”

said Breanna.

SATAN’S TAIL

365

Aboard the Abner Read

0045

ACCORDING TO THE DREAMLAND PEOPLE, FOUR SURFACE-TO-surface missiles were coming at them. The problem was, the screens in the defensive weapons section said there were thirty.

Even the Abner Read’s gun control system couldn’t take them all out.

“Target the first wave,” said Storm.

“You’re going to have to trust what Wisconsin tells you,”

said Jennifer Gleason, standing up from her station. “They can use the infrared sensors and you can manually override the system to target the missiles one by one.”

“You’re damn sassy for a scientist.”

“And for someone who’s smart, you can be a real asshole.”

Overcome with anger, Storm nearly grabbed her.

“You know I’m right,” she added.

She was, wasn’t she?

“Do it!” Storm said. “Do what Gleason says. Get the Dreamland people to ID each missile as it’s incoming, and manually take it out. Eyes? Weapons? Peanut?”

“Aye, Captain, we’re on it.”

“I was wrong,” he said. “And she’s right.”

Northern Somalia

0050

GOD GUIDED HIS HAND AND THE ENEMY DEVIL FELL TO THE

deck, blood gurgling from his mouth. Ali spun around, following the other man, who was running through the hatch to the left. The man tripped and Ali leaped over him, running forward—there were two other men nearby, one with a gun at his belt. Ali slashed at him, striking so hard that his knife lodged deep in the man’s midsection. They fell together, crumpling against a table.

366

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The space filled with Ali’s men. Ali saw a sidearm and grabbed for it; the man began to fight back, and his companion came to his aid. But God was on the side of the true believers—Ali felt his strength moving in his arms, and he wrestled the pistol from the holster. Before he could use it, however, the man fell back, limp; the blood he’d lost had robbed him of fight.

“Captain! The bridge is this way!” shouted one of his men.

Ali jumped up. There were now so many of his men aboard that he had trouble squeezing onto the bridge.

Two Americans lay at the side, one with his neck twisted at a grotesque angle. Ali stepped forward and shot him once in the head, even though he was clearly dead. He used two bullets on the other man, whose body continued to jerk for several long seconds after the final shot.

The ship’s captain stood near the wheel, pinned by four of Ali’s men.

“You—show me the boat,” said Ali, using his very limited English.

“I will die first.”

Ali raised the pistol to the man’s head.

“The boat.”

The man spit at him. Ali pulled the trigger. The bullet sped through the man’s skull and lodged in the glass of the bridge behind him.

“Throw them overboard. Quickly, search the rest of the ship,” said Ali. “Find the weapons lockers.”

Ali scanned the bridge. The basic controls were here.

Moving the Shark Boat would not be difficult. But the displays and sensors and, most important, the weapons would take considerable amount of study. Even with his experience, Ali doubted he could master them.

But God would help, surely. He had given them the boat.

“Captain, we have the boat,” said Saed, taking him by the elbow.

Ali was surprised to find his lieutenant here.

“I had not realized you were here.”

SATAN’S TAIL

367

“Until the end. There are fifteen of us, and yourself.”

“Take the helm. Where is Habib?”

“Outside.”

“Someone find Habib,” said Ali. “We need his computer skills.”

THE RUNABOUT TIED TO THE DOCK LOOKED LIKE A LATE-1950S

eighteen-foot Thompson, crafted from wood and open to the air. A pair of large Johnson engines sat at the stern. A thick coat of varnish covered the pockmarked decking and wooden ribs at the side of the open craft.

Danny got in, steadying himself on the gunwale as the boat rocked back and forth. There was no question the craft had been used by the pirates—there were two AK47s and an ammo locker under the seat bench on the port side, and mountings for a grenade launcher bolted just below the port window.

The controls consisted of a large wheel and a throttle as-sembly that could be ganged to engage and work the motors together. There didn’t seem to be an ignition key; the only thing close was a simple push-button to the right of the wheel, mounted on a plastic plate that had been carefully fitted to the wooden dashboard.

Danny leaned on the button but nothing happened. He started to go back and check the engines, then saw a thick wire running along the decking up toward the dashboard.

Thinking there had to be a key or some sort of ignition system, he got to his knee and craned his neck under the old panel. One strand of wire was separated, with the two ends stripped and formed into hooks. He slipped them together, then got up and tried again. The engines coughed, but didn’t catch.

A small gauge on the dash indicated that there was a full tank of fuel. Danny guessed that he needed to choke the engines somehow, but he couldn’t find a switch or mechanism to do so. There was nothing obvious on the engine housings either; metal wire ran to them, but he couldn’t quite see 368

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

where they connected. He went back and tried again; the motors coughed but still didn’t catch. The boat rocked unsteadily beneath him. He jerked his hand out against the dashboard, grabbing a decorative knob in the middle. A swell of the waves pushed him back, and as he tried to maintain his balance by holding onto the dash, the knob came out. He’d found the choke.

It took two more tries to get the motors started. Once they came to life, the boat heaved forward. The line tugged taut; Danny backed off the power to idle, went back and cut the line. His performance wasn’t going to win him any honors in seamanship, but at least he had the craft working. There were a pair of lights on the bow; he found the switches and saw the thin beams play over the water as he moved away from the dock, getting a feel for the boat.

“Hey, Dancer, this is Whiplash leader. Where are you?”

“About five hundred yards from shore,” said the Marine lieutenant. “Roughly due north of the second landing. Very shallow here, maybe twenty feet deep. We’re working with a boat from Shark Boat One.”

“I see you. I’m in a runabout or something. I want to use it to bring whatever we take from the pirate command post out to the Shark Boat. I’m heading toward you.”

Danny throttled slowly toward the wreckage area. The windscreen of the boat folded forward, and he managed to lean out and work the beam down so he could sweep the water. Debris covered the surface.

“Looks like we don’t have any survivors,” said Dancer, maneuvering her boat toward his. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“Two of the Navy men are certified as divers, and there’s diving equipment back on the Shark Boat,” she told him.

“So if you want to start a recovery—”

“That’s going to have to wait until we check on the cave where the sub is,” Danny told her. “Maybe they can dive in from the ocean side after our guys secure the land entrances.

The Shark Boat can support them. I want to check back in SATAN’S TAIL

369

with the Abner Read and see what their situation is.”

One of Shark Boat One’s little boats came alongside and told Dancer that they were having trouble raising their ship on the radio. Danny went into the Dreamland circuit and tried to connect via the Abner Read, but also couldn’t get them.

“Abner Read is under fire,” Major Catsman said from Dreamland Command. “The ECM systems aboard the ship and the Megafortresses are degrading the radio communications. Going to be a few minutes, Danny.”

“Maybe I ought to just take a spin out there,” Danny told Dancer. “I have to talk to the captain myself, and it might be quicker face-to-face.”

“Ship seems to be moving,” said the Marine in Dancer’s boat. He pointed out to the horizon.

“I hope they’re not planning on leaving us here,” said Dancer.

“He’s moving pretty fast. Maybe there’s another pirate boat out there,” said Dancer.

Danny clicked his viewer into the sitrep screen, then into the infrared view supplied by Hawk Two, which was still orbiting overhead. Neither screen showed a threat. The Shark Boat had taken a turn in the water and was now heading directly north.

“Colonel Bastian, this is Whiplash leader.”

“Go ahead, Danny,” said Dog from the Megafortress.

“Can you contact the Shark Boat offshore?”

“Stand by. We’re countering a barrage of antiship missiles.”

“If you could give me the surface radar operator, I want to know about possible threats off the beachhead here.”

“There are no threats. Dish will get on the line with you in a second.”

“I think I want to go talk to their captain right now,” Danny told Dancer. “And I want a couple of Marines with me.”

“THIS IS A PASSIVE INFRARED RECEIVING SYSTEM. IT SHOWS

heat sources in front of the ship,” said Habib. “This is an active radar, which is very limited, not much more power-

370

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

ful than ours. This screen, though, this gets inputs from some other source. I can’t tell whether it’s aboard this ship or not.”

Ali studied the suite of screens. If he was reading the legends correctly—which might not be the case—the external radar had a seventy-mile radius. Rather than putting this vessel in the center of the plot, it seemed to position it far off to the side. It seemed to him that the Americans had found some way to transmit radar information from another source—Satan’s Tail, he guessed. This would explain why they had never seen radar signals from the small patrol craft themselves.

“This looks like a radar plot too, but I don’t see how that can be,” added Habib, pointing to a large screen near the center of the console. “It has different modes, but what they mean is not clear.”

“This is our ship,” said Ali, pointing to a set of blue letters at the lower left of the screen. “That—that at the center—is the source of the information. Flip back to the first screen you started with.”

Habib did so. It was some sort of scale.

“The buttons below the screen change the scale; the ones at the right, they have something to do with the detection modes,” said Ali. “Go to the longest plot—the small scale.

There!” He pointed to the top of the screen. “That is the Ark Royal. That’s our target.”

It wasn’t clear from the screen what the distance was, but Ali guessed it was less than eighty miles.

“Helm, come five degrees to port,” he told Saed. “And then get as much from the engines as you can. Habib, you have done a good job. Now determine how to use the weapons systems.” He put his hand on his sailor’s shoulder.

“God is with us. He will help you see.”

IX

The Glory of God

Aboard the Abner Read

11 November 1997

0052

JENNIFER CRINGED AS THE ABNER READ’S PHALANX ANTIMISsile system began firing. The fact that the cannon was shooting meant that the missiles they had launched at the Styx had missed, despite Wisconsin’s help.

“Strike!” said the defensive systems operator over the shared communication channel. The gun swirled and began firing again; it stopped abruptly, the operator realizing belatedly that the system had fired at a shadow. “We’re losing track of the inputs!” the sailor said.

“Do your best,” said Storm calmly. “Fire at whatever you have.”

“I can help,” said Jennifer, placing Werewolf Two in a hover where the aircraft was, about five miles west of the Abner Read. “The Werewolf’s infrared sensors will show the missile.”

“I can’t safe it down to let you in,” said the system officer.

“No, I’ll use Wolf One,” she said, already punching into the controls for the aircraft, which had just been secured for refueling when the missile attack began. “Clear the deck!

Clear the deck!”

Someone shouted at her over the radio, but she couldn’t tell whether it was an acknowledgment or a warning. “Clear the deck!” she repeated. “I’m launching!”

“Do what she says,” snapped Eyes. He bent down next to her. “I trust you, but what the hell are you doing?”

374

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I can hover just above the ship and use the sensors to help sort the missiles,” Jennifer explained. The Phalanx guns rattled; she revved the counterrotating blades above the Werewolf’s body to life.

“The guns will shoot you down.”

“No, not if I stay right above the superstructure. As far as they’re concerned, the Werewolf is part of the radio mast.”

She had to override the computer to take off, since the aircraft had hardly any fuel left. It rose off the deck slowly, buffeted by the wind.

“I need my laptop open where I can see it,” she told Eyes.

“I’m going to put the aircraft plot there and look at the radar on the main screen. Come on! Get it!”

Eyes pulled the laptop, which was already open, around so she could see it.

“Hold it for me,” she said, her fingers crashing on the key-board. “Just hold it.”

“All right.”

“Your contact M3—it’s real,” said Jennifer, her head swiveling back and forth from the screens. “M4—shit, no, M5! M5 is real. M5!”

“Missiles in the air!”

“M3 and M5.”

The ship’s guns rattled so harshly that the ship seemed to sink low in the waves. An explosion shook the Abner Read—there were shouts and screams.

“M8! M8!” yelled Jennifer.

“Got it!”

“M19!”

The rattle intensified, then stopped. In the silent moment, the ship rose at the bow and Jennifer felt herself thrown forward against the console. As she rebounded to the deck, she heard the warhead explode toward the rear of the ship.

SATAN’S TAIL

375

Aboard the Wisconsin

0058

“ONE OF THE MISSILES STRUCK THE ABNER READ,” SAID DISH.

Dog didn’t reply. He had just heard from Breanna that everyone aboard Baker-Baker Two was fine. Though heavily damaged, she thought the aircraft would make it to India.

It was a good distance away. But Saudi Arabia, the most logical place to land, was out of bounds, and as Breanna had argued, if the plane could make it as far as Kuwait, it would make it to India as well.

Of course, by that logic, if it stayed in the air another ten seconds, it would fly for the rest of the week. She’d volunteered to try Diego Garcia, but he ruled that out.

Dog hooked into Dreamland Command and told them he wanted to arrange a landing in India. Major Catsman switched him over to Jed Barclay, who was at the White House. Jed’s face came up on the screen, a little pastier than normal.

“Jed, we need an emergency landing in India.”

“I heard, Colonel. The request has already been made and approved.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

Someone behind Jed started to say something, but Jed cut the connection.

Washington, D.C.

10 November

1658

“BASTIAN—GET OVER TO CAPTAIN GALE’S SHIP,” SAID BAL-boa. “Render all necessary assistance to him … Bastian?

Bastian?”

“Why isn’t he answering?” asked the Secretary of State.

“I killed the connection,” said Jed.

376

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Balboa exploded. “What the hell did you do that for?

What the hell are you doing?”

“We’re not here to run the mission for them,” said Jed.

“I’m strictly observing and facilitating.”

“You are just an aide,” snapped Balboa. “You carry my orders out.”

“I’m the assistant National Security Advisor for Technology,” said Jed. “And I am responsible for interfacing with Dreamland.”

“This isn’t a Dreamland mission. Get them back,” said Balboa.

“Get them back, son,” said Hartman.

Jed stood up. “No.”

Balboa turned to the lieutenant. “Get them back.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but for security purposes Mr. Barclay has to authorize the connection. The computer checks his voice pattern as well as his passwords. If he doesn’t do it himself, it doesn’t happen.”

Secretary Hartman took hold of Jed’s arm. “Come on now, Jed, be a good boy and do as you’re told.”

“Get bent,” said Jed, starting out of the room.

Hartman grabbed him by the shirt outside in the corridor.

“Jed, you and I both know that you want to do as I say,”

Hartman said. “Now just calm down. You can’t afford another screwup.”

You can say that again, thought Jed, twisting away.

Diego Garcia

0400

MACK SMITH STEPPED BACK FROM THE COMMUNICATIONS

console in the Dreamland Command trailer, walking a few steps toward the center conference area and then walking back. Now that he could walk—and he could, though his muscles were stiff and sore and his back ached and his neck seemed ridiculously stiff—now that he could walk he SATAN’S TAIL

377

wanted to be out there where the action was, not sitting here in the stinking trailer trying to figure out what was going on from the radio and the lousy sitrep display.

If he were out there, he’d be coordinating the aircraft better. They needed an aircraft coordinator in the Abner Read, directing the Megafortresses and the Flighthawks, and everything else, for that matter.

If they had, they probably wouldn’t have lost the Osprey.

What he really wanted to do was be at the stick of an F-22, taking the MiGs down, two at a time.

Give Starship some points, though—the kid had nailed half the Yemen Air Force. Of course, he hadn’t seen the MiG

that nearly tore the Megafortress in two. That’s what came from having Zen teach these kids how to fly.

Not that he had anything against Zen. He owed him a lot.

Did he, though? What had Zen done except be a jerk?

Well, he owed him that, then.

Mack sat down at the console. The Abner Read had been struck by a missile.

“Damn it,” he said. “I ought to be there. I could have shot those damn things down.”

Aboard the Abner Read

0102

THE FIRST REPORT WAS NOT GOOD. THE MISSILE HAD HIT THE

hangar area, igniting the fuel there.

The next report was worse. A secondary explosion had ripped through part of the hull. They were taking on water and had to close down one of the sections below, even though there were men inside.

Most likely the men were dead, but there was no way to know.

The Abner Read listed toward starboard two or three degrees, and her bow had started to lift. Storm saw from the damage control graphic on the bridge hologram that a 378

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

hatch to the compartment remained open. He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, picturing the sailors there, then moved forward to the weapons bay. He punched the code, but rather than the petty officer he expected to pick up, he found himself talking to a young sailor, Tommy Hall. He knew Hall a little better than the seaman would have wished—two days before they sailed, the boatswain’s mate second class had been brought before him for discipline.

“Tommy, I need you to go to the engineering shop and find the emergency response team,” Storm told him. “They’re out of communication. Direct them to dog the hatch there, son.

If they are not in sight, you have to do it yourself. You need to secure it, and you need to do it right now.”

“Sir, there’s water on the deck here, a foot of water.”

Storm realized the situation was worse than he’d thought.

“Yes, I understand,” he said calmly. “Go and dog the hatch while it can still be closed.”

“I’m going to try, sir.”

“No, son, you’re going to do it. I know you’re going to do it, because I’m counting on you. You’re going to close that hatch and you’re going to save our ship.”

There was no answer. Storm felt the ship lurch; the list was getting worse.

A firefighting team reported that they were tackling a fire behind the main exhaust. The lights flickered, but came back on strong.

Storm looked at the hologram. If they didn’t close off the compartment, the fuel ballast tanks and main diesel generator would be flooded. The damage done by the missile and the secondary explosion made it impossible to seal those compartments directly.

If he were the sailor, would he close the hatch, knowing his friends were inside? Even if he were sure they were dead? Even if he knew his own life depended on it?

Storm resisted the temptation to run down himself and se-

SATAN’S TAIL

379

cure the hatch. His place was here, and besides, he knew he’d never make it in time.

JENNIFER HELPED THE CORPSMAN CARRY THE INJURED PETTY

officer out of Tac into a small space used as an electrical shop. The corpsman checked the bandage she had used to stanch the bleeding from the man’s neck.

“You did a good job, miss,” said the corpsman, getting up.

“He’ll live?”

“I don’t know,” said the sailor honestly. “If we abandon ship, I just don’t know.”

“Are we abandoning ship?”

The man winced. “We’ve been hit pretty bad, and we’re taking on water. But it’s the captain’s decision.”

THE VOICE WAS WEAK AND PUNCTUATED BY SOBS.

“I heard screaming,” it said.

“Did you secure the hatch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good work, Tommy. Secure the door to the compart -

ment. Tighten it down, and come up here to the bridge.”

“But—”

“I need you up here right away,” added Storm. “Can you get up here?”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“No, son, you come up here now because I need you, and because you’re going to help save our ship. You’re going to come here and save some lives.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” said the young man, just firmly enough to convince Storm that he would.

He glanced at the hologram, but already sensed that the ship had stopped settling. They were going to make it—but there was a hell of a lot of work to do.

380

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Wisconsin

0102

ZEN TOOK HAWK ONE TOWARD THE SHARK BOAT, RUNNING AT

the craft from the east. There were two smaller craft tracking behind it—pirates chasing it off, or at least that was what it looked like.

“English, look at this screen and tell me what you see,” said Zen, authorizing the feed from the Flighthawk’s infrared.

“Well, if I didn’t know any better,” the ensign replied, “I’d say it was a Shark Boat running away from a battle. But that’s impossible.”