Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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MACK LEANED BACK IN THE WHEELCHAIR, EXASPERATED. MAjor Natalie Catsman, Dreamland’s second-in-command, shrugged.

“I can’t help you, Major. The Werewolves are not your program. And even if they were your program, we don’t have resources for that work. Or the funding.”

“What funding do you need?” said Mack. “You just heard Gleason say that the computer program is exactly the same.

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You could use the Werewolf to deploy Piranha.”

“I didn’t say that exactly,” said Jennifer. “I said—”

“That’s not the point,” said Catsman, raising her hand.

“The point is, it’s not your program. And even if it were, the units we have are already allocated. Two Werewolves are joining Captain Freah in Saudi Arabia for base security as well as additional testing. They’re gone, as are their technical teams. That eliminates any possibility of testing the naval components this week, or next. Sorry.”

“So we send the Navy modules over to Saudi Arabia, with me, and we test them there,” said Mack. “Jennifer can come—she’s the only decent pilot anyway.”

“Sandy Culver is the lead pilot,” said Jennifer.

“If you’re angling to go to the Middle East, Major, it’s not going to work,” said Catsman. “Colonel Bastian wanted you here. That’s good enough for me.”

“He didn’t say that specifically.”

“Yes, he did. Don’t you have a rehab or something to go to?”

Exasperated, Mack pushed his wheels and attempted to sweep out of the office. His off-balance attempt nearly sent him into the doorjamb. He recovered at the last second, swiveling to the left and just barely clearing. He swore he heard snickering, but wouldn’t give Catsman the satisfaction of turning around.

He was waiting at the elevator a minute or two later when Jennifer Gleason appeared.

“I made a shot to get you along, Jen,” said Mack.

“Thanks.”

“Catsman’s a pain. I could do a better job than she could.”

Gleason didn’t say anything.

Women always stuck together, Mack thought. But it was true—he was more qualified than Catsman to run the base.

Not that he wanted to run the base. He would, if it didn’t mean sitting behind a desk in a chair all day.

Which, come to think of it, was what he was doing these days. God, he hated the wheelchair.

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Aboard Baker-Baker Two , over the Gulf of Aden

2250

THE ETHIOPIAN PILOT REPEATED HIS WARNING: THE AIRCRAFT

must identify itself or be considered hostile and be shot down.

Breanna bristled. Baker-Baker Two’s belly was loaded with Piranha guidance buoys; she had no offensive weapons. If the Ethiopian MiG fired, all she would be able to do was duck.

“Computer has weapons ID’d as AA-12 Adders,” said Spiderman, referring to the NATO designation of the antiair missiles the lead aircraft was packing. Known in Russia as the R-77, the missile was commonly referred to as the “AMRAAMski.” It had an effective range of perhaps one hundred kilometers; when it came within twenty kilometers of its target, it turned on an active radar guidance system that was difficult to break. The aircraft probably also carried R-73s, known in the West as AA-11s. These were shorter range heat-seeking weapons, mean suckers in a knife fight.

“Radar is locked,” warned the copilot. “They’re firing at us!”

“Countermeasures. Hold on everyone—this may get ugly.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2252

“THEY’RE FIRING AT THEM!” WARNED MCNAMARA.

Dog already had the throttle at the last stop, but leaned on the slider anyway.

“They’re taking evasive action,” said McNamara, monitoring the radar at the copilot station. “ECMs, ducking away.

The Ethiopians split into twos, Colonel—looks like they’re trying to get them from both sides.”

“Prepare our Scorpions,” he told him. “Zen, the Ethiopians SATAN’S TAIL

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have opened fire. Two AA-12 Adders have been launched.”

“Flighthawk leader,” said Zen. “Still zero-five from intercept on the southernmost group.”

Aboard Baker-Baker Two , over the Gulf of Aden

2253

THE MEGAFORTRESS ROLLED ON HER LEFT WING, PIROUETTING

in the air as a cloud of metal chaff blossomed above her, an enticing target for the Russian-made air-to-air missile. Between the decoy and the electronic fuzz broadcast by Baker-Baker Two’s electronic countermeasures, Breanna had no doubt she would avoid the enemy missile. She was concerned about the follow-up attack. The lead MiG had swung sharply east and then cut north, undoubtedly hoping to swing back around while her attention was on his wing-man’s missiles. At the same time, he dove closer to the waves, hoping to go so low that her radar couldn’t find him.

If his maneuvers succeeded, he’d end up behind her, in perfect position to fire his closer-range heat seekers. Meanwhile, the second element of MiGs would close from the south, preventing her from running away.

The tactics would have been effective against another aircraft, but the Megafortress’s radar had no trouble keeping track of the enemy plane’s position, and unlike other aircraft, it had a stinger in its tail—literally.

As the first AMRAAMski sucked the decoy and exploded a mile and a half away, the MiG began accelerating, trying to close the gap between them.

“Stinger air mines,” Breanna told her copilot.

“Stinger is up,” said Spiderman.

“He’s closing. Firing two heat seekers!”

“Relax, Spiderman, I’ve done this before,” said Breanna.

The Russian-made missiles had been fired from roughly five miles away, too far to guarantee a hit against any aircraft, let 116

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alone the Megafortress. Breanna waited a beat, then tossed flares out as decoys and tucked hard right. But rather than cutting into a sharp zigzag and losing her pursuer, she stayed with the turn, inviting the MiG to close and take another shot. A cue in her heads-up display warned her that he had switched to his gun radar, but he was not yet in range. Breanna started a cut back, again just enough to keep her quarry thinking that he was the hunter.

“Firing,” warned Spiderman.

“Boy, he is a slow learner,” said Breanna. The MiG was roughly three and a half miles off, too far for his bullets to strike the Megafortress.

“Two more contacts closing,” warned Spiderman.

“Hang in there,” said Breanna. She nudged left, lining her adversary up. “Stinger ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Now!” she told the copilot, slamming the throttles and using the Megafortress’s control surfaces as air brakes to dramatically lower her airspeed. The Stinger air mines exploded practically in the face of the following MiG pilot. By the time he realized what was going on, his Tumansky turbojet had sucked in enough tungsten to open a salvage yard—which was about all his jet was useful for.

“He’s down! He’s ejecting!” shouted Spiderman. “Way to go, Captain!”

Breanna’s answer was to sleek her wings and mash the throttle back to military power, then tuck the Megafortress into a roll—two more radar-guided missiles were headed their way.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2255

ZEN CURSED AS THE MISSILE FLARED BENEATH THE WING OF

the MiG-21 closest to the Flighthawk—he hadn’t quite made it in time.

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“Weapon is an AA-12,” said the computer. “Target is Baker-Baker Two. Hawk One remains undetected. Time to target engagement, thirty seconds.”

Zen leaned forward as he flew, keeping an even pressure on the joystick controlling the Flighthawk, referred to as Hawk One by the computer. He couldn’t worry about the missile now, even though it had been aimed at an aircraft flown by his wife; he had to concentrate on the MiG, three miles dead ahead of him.

Or rather, dead ahead of the Flighthawk. He was nearly twenty miles to the southeast. But when he flew the robot, it was as if he were sitting in its nose, rushing toward the enemy plane.

The rectangular aiming cue in his main screen began blinking yellow, indicating that he was approaching firing range. He nudged left slightly, putting the MiG’s tailpipe in the middle of the screen, which was actually a holographic projection in the visor of his helmet. The aiming cue turned solid red; Zen waited another second, then pressed the trigger. A dotted black line appeared in front of the Flighthawk.

Zen nudged the stick left, pushing the line through the rear tail plane and then up through the wing of his target. The MiG’s right wing flipped upward, then pushed hard down.

Black smoke appeared at the center of the Ethiopian plane, and then the aircraft veered right.

Zen didn’t bother to follow. He tucked left, hunting for a second target.

Aboard Baker-Baker Two , over the Gulf of Aden

2256

BREANNA HAD NO TROUBLE DUCKING THE FIRST AIR-TO-AIR

missile; she could actually see it in the enhanced view screen. But the second AA-12 managed to get almost under the Megafortress’s wings and exploded close enough for her 118

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to feel the rumble. The emergency light panel lit immediately; even without checking, she could tell she’d taken a hit in engine three.

“Three’s losing oil!” said Spiderman.

“Roger that. Let’s shut her down. Compensate.”

Breanna checked her position as the copilot took the engine offline. They were seventy-five miles north of the Somalian coast, at only three thousand feet. The closest MiG

was five miles to the south, running away.

“Trimming,” said Spiderman.

The two pilots worked together for several minutes, adjusting the power settings in the remaining engines and fine-tuning the flight-control surfaces to compensate for the loss of the engine. The computer actually did most of the work, computing the complex forces acting on the airplane and suggesting solutions that would allow it to function nearly as well as if it had all four power plants—or as the flight control computer calculated, “eighty-five percent efficiency.”

“MiGs have broken off and are heading back toward their base,” said the radar operator.

“Acknowledged,” said Breanna. “Commander Delaford?”

“We’re here.”

“How’s Piranha?”

“On course and on schedule.”

“We’ll drop the second control buoy in zero-five minutes,” said Breanna. “Everybody catch your breath.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2256

ZEN PRESSED THE THROTTLE SLIDER TO MAXIMUM POWER, closing on the Ethiopian MiG. The other aircraft had fired its last missile and cut south toward home, inadvertently turning in the direction of the Flighthawk, which apparently had not been picked up by its radar.

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Zen’s screen flashed yellow.

“Flighthawk leader, the MiGs have broken off contact and are returning to base,” said Dog. “They’re no longer a threat.”

Zen’s finger jammed against the throttle, urging the robot plane closer. His screen went to red, but he knew he didn’t have a perfect shot yet, despite what the computer said. He nudged slightly to the right, willing the enemy tailpipe into the cue.

“Flighthawk leader, break contact,” said Dog.

He could squeeze the trigger now and splash the bastard.

Zen wanted to—there was no reason, in his opinion, to let any of the Ethiopians escape.

“Zen?”

“Flighthawk leader,” said Zen, pulling off.

DOG NUDGED WISCONSIN CLOSER TO THE OTHER MEGA-fortress. The starlight video camera—it worked by magnifying the available light, which in this case was primarily from the moon rather than the stars—showed some nicks in the rear housing of engine three. The wing, however, looked un-damaged, which jibed with what Breanna had said.

“I think your damage is confined to that wing,” he told her. “What’s your assessment?”

“I continue with my mission as directed. I have another buoy ready to go. I’ve already talked to Greasy Hands back at Dreamland. They’ll have a replacement engine tuned and waiting at Khamis Mushait when we land.”

“Where did the chief steal that?” asked Dog. Greasy Hands was the top NCO and unofficial godfather of the Dreamland technical crew, or “maintainers,” the men and women who kept the aircraft aloft. He knew more about the planes than the people who designed them.

“He had two shipped in from Dreamland with the ground crew,” said Breanna. “Depending on the damage to the skin, he claims the plane will be ready for its next flight. I tend to agree with him. We’ve flown with much worse. I can deal with it.”

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“All right,” said Dog. “Launch the control buoy. We’ll continue to monitor. Did you track the Ethiopian pilots who bailed out?”

“We have global positioning coordinates on one, and an approximate location on the other chute,” said Breanna.

“What do you want to do?”

If the MV-22 had been in Saudi Arabia, Dog would have ordered Danny Freah to recover them so they could be questioned. Since that wasn’t possible, his options were limited.

He could alert Xray Pop, but the squadron already had its hands full and was unlikely to be in a position to mount a rescue much before dawn, if then. As a humanitarian gesture, Dog probably ought to alert the authorities in Djibouti, which was about fifty miles from the crash site.

Should he show mercy to a man who had tried to kill his people?

“Give me the location,” said Dog. “We’ll see if we can reach someone to pick them up.”

IV

My Way or No Way

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

7 November 1997

0800

STORM WATCHED THE RIGID HULL INFLATABLE BOAT PULL INTO

the landing area at the stern of Abner Read. Two more bodies had been recovered from the destroyed freighter, which had sunk during the night. Three men had not yet been recovered.

He would get the bastards for this. He would get them and he would see personally that they paid.

As for Bastian …

“Captain?”

Storm ignored the seaman who had approached him, snapping to attention and bringing his hand up in a stiff salute as one of his dead sailors was lifted from the boat. A light rain made the work all the more grim; several members of the party helping recover the remains slipped on the wet deck as they carried their fallen comrades about the destroyer. They struggled to hold the dead bodies up off the deck until they reached the litters that had been laid out for them, determined to spare them one final indignity. Only when the last body was laid down did Storm turn and give the seaman his attention.

“Sorry, sir,” said the sailor.

Storm noted that the man’s eyes were welled with tears.

“They’ll be avenged,” Storm told him. “We’ll have justice.”

The young man nodded.

“What did you want to tell me?”

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“Commander Eisenberg sent me to tell you that Communications has that transmission you needed,” said the young man. “He also said to mention that your communications unit has given out, sir. He can hear you but apparently you can’t hear him.”

Storm looked down at his belt. Somewhere during the long night he had pulled the wires of the unit out and broken part of the connection. The sailor was holding a replacement unit.

“Thanks,” said Storm. “I’ll take the transmission in my cabin.”

As he walked to his quarters, he pulled the old com unit off his head. Some of his blood had scabbed under the unit, and he winced as he pulled it off. Not much pain, he thought; just enough to remind him he was alive.

Admiral Johnson’s face filled the screen when he flipped on the secure communications line. Storm told him what had happened; for once the admiral listened without comment.

“There were three patrol boats that fled the scene,” Storm told him. “The Dreamland team tracked them to a harbor in Somalia, then lost them when a group of Ethiopians showed up. They had time to shoot down two planes, but they couldn’t lift a finger to help us.”

“Did the Dreamland people understand what was at stake here?” asked Johnson.

“Admiral, I can’t begin to understand or speak for what was going on in their minds. I requested that they engage the boats and they refused. As for the Ethiopians—I think if we don’t put our foot down, things are going to get a lot worse over here.”

“Bastian thinks he’s the Lone Ranger,” said Johnson.

“He’s not used to being part of a team.”

Finally, thought Storm, he and Admiral Johnson actually agreed on something.

“Have you recovered your dead?” asked Johnson.

“We’re working on it. We will accomplish that. I’ve taken temporary command as captain of the ship as well as the SATAN’S TAIL

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task group. It seemed the most expedient and efficient way to proceed.”

Johnson didn’t argue, and Storm didn’t give him the chance, pushing on quickly.

“We will accomplish the rest of the mission, sir.”

“You damn well better.”

“I intend to, Admiral.”

The screen blanked. Storm reached to turn it off, but the voice of a communications specialist aboard the admiral’s flagship stopped him.

“Captain Gale, Captain McGowan requests to speak to you, sir.”

“Put him on.”

The screen flashed. Captain Red McGowan, his face tired and drawn, appeared on the screen.

“Sorry for your troubles,” said Red. “Sorry to hear your men were lost.”

“Thanks, Red.”

“Marcum too?”

“I’m sorry to say, yes.”

“Bastards.”

“I hate those mothers.”

Storm released a string of curses. His friend nodded as he continued, making no effort to calm him as he vented.

“I’ll get them,” Storm said softly when his breath, but not his anger, had finally drained.

“What happened with the Dreamland aircraft? They were fired on?”

“Apparently, Bastian claims to have shot down two MiGs.

They couldn’t lift a finger against the patrol boats that were killing my people, but they could go out of their way to take out the Ethiopians. Ethiopians—I question whether they were even armed. The country doesn’t have an air force worthy of the name.”

“You’re going overboard, Storm.”

“In the two weeks plus that we’ve been here, they haven’t 126

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attacked us once. Dreamland comes out here and all of a sudden the Ethiopians are flying miles away from their air bases and, bang bang, splashing into the gulf. I wish I could get away with that.”

“Bastian’s not going to get away with anything,” answered Red.

“Do I get the Belleau Wood or what?”

“That’s not going to happen, Storm. There’s just no way.”

“Then untie my hands! I have the assets I need—let me use them.”

Red winced. “If it were up to me.”

“Yeah, all right. Later.” Storm punched the button on the panel, ending the transmission. He went and washed some of the dirt and dried blood off his face, then changed into a fresh uniform. Calmer, he dialed into Communications.

“See if you can find Admiral Balboa for me,” Storm told the officer. “Call the Joint Chiefs personnel office and ask them where Pinkie is—he’s a lieutenant commander who owes me a favor. Better yet, call the Pentagon, OK? And Joint Chiefs, ask for Lou Milelo. He’s a chief petty officer.

Be respectful, very respectful, and tell him I need a personal favor. Then get me on the line. I’ll be on the bridge.”

Near Boosaaso, Somalia,

on the Gulf of Aden

0810

ALI FOLDED THE PAPER CAREFULLY IN HALF, THEN TOOK THE

lighter from his pocket and set it on fire. He watched intently as the flames consumed it, waiting until his fingers were singed to drop it into the nearby surf.

The message it contained had been disappointing. The Ethiopian Air Force had attacked an American warplane with predictable results: Two of their pilots had been shot down.

They were hoping he could look for the men in the gulf.

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The Ethiopians might be brave, but they were also foolhardy. It wasn’t clear from the message what sort of plane it had been, though Ali doubted it was an Orion or any similar radar or surveillance craft; such planes were typically un-equipped for air-to-air combat. And any single American warplane was more than a match for the entire Ethiopian Air Force. Brave men foolishly led to their deaths by misguided leaders—this was not God’s wish.

There was slim hope of finding the pilots, but he had been called on as a brother in religion, and could not turn down such a request. In exchange, perhaps the Ethiopians would have to help him. He needed a diversion so he could get the last of his patrol boats out of the port near Laasgoray, where it had spent the night being repaired. He needed it to join him in an attack on a fuel carrier tonight; if the attack went well, they would have more than enough diesel fuel for the Sharia, and the boats as well.

He took a pen from his pocket and wrote down a time and place.

“Take this message back,” he told the man who had come from town. “Tell them we will do what they wish. But they must also try to have airplanes at this place and time. It would be very useful as a diversion. Let them use their courage to its best effect.”

Khamis Mushait Air Base,

southwestern Saudi Arabia

0900

STARSHIP BROUGHT THE FLIGHTHAWK ONTO THE RUNWAY AFter the Megafortress had turned onto the ramp, taxiing around so the U/MF-3 trailed the big airplane like a dog following its master. He had definitely drawn the short stick on the mission. After the excitement with the Ethiopians, Baker-Baker Two hadn’t been challenged. He’d spent most 128

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of the six hours since Zen handed off the Flighthawk flying crazy eights at twenty thousand feet, and hadn’t so much as buzzed a dhow during the entire time.

Dreamland’s MC-17 sat near the ramp area, along with an MV-22 Osprey. A pack of maintainers met Baker-Baker Two as she trundled to a stop. They were already working on the damaged engine when Starship came down the ladder.

Starship got out of his flight gear and debriefed the mission. Too keyed-up to hit the sack, he decided to get a late breakfast. The Saudis had a cafeteria-style grill on their side of the base; a whiteboard at the door welcomed u.s. fliers and announced a special of hamburgers and fries in their honor, the words presented in both Arabic and English.

Starship wasn’t sure why burgers were being presented as breakfast fare, but wasn’t about to argue. He took his to a table near a group of Saudis who were dressed in flight suits.

One of the men smiled at him as he sat down, then came over and introduced himself as Major Bandar, inviting Starship to join him and the others. Well into their thirties, the men were all F-15 jocks who’d spent time in the States and had flown during the Gulf War. When they asked Starship what he flew, he answered by saying he used to fly F-15s himself.

“And now what do you fly?” asked Bandar. “Megafortress?”

Starship held out his hands. “Can’t say.”

The others jeered good-naturedly.

“Oh, oh, top secret,” laughed Bandar.

“You fly the robot,” guessed one of the others. “The midget with wings.”

“He doesn’t look small enough.”

“What is it like? Is it difficult?”

Starship tried changing the subject, and finally got them to talk about the F-15s and their own routine. Bandar lamented that they were restricted to a flight a week, and that the missions were little more than hops north and back, barely enough to get the turbines spinning.

“Maybe we can work an exercise out with you sometime,”

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said Starship as the Saudis got up for a meeting. “A little dis-similar aircraft tactics.”

“That would be very good,” said Bandar.

“I’d like to shoot down a Megafortress,” said the officer across from Bandar.

Starship started to smile but the pilot’s expression made it clear he wasn’t joking.

Now it was Bandar’s turn to change the subject. “If you are interested in seeing the town,” he said, “let me know. I will be your guide.”

“Yeah? I wouldn’t mind a tour,” said Starship.

“Meet me at the gate at 1400,” said Bandar. “Two p.m.”

Starship hesitated. He was supposed to fly tonight and had been planning on sleeping.

“Two p.m.,” repeated Bandar. “You’ll be there?”

“Sure,” said Starship.

White House

0600

THE CHAIRMAN OF THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF, ADMIRAL

George Balboa, spent much of his time at the White House angry, but Jed Barclay had never heard him quite this angry.

Then again, he’d never heard his boss this angry either.

The walls of the Executive Office Building were practically shaking as the two men shouted at each other. Fortunately, because of the early hour, there were few people in the West Wing to hear them—though given how loud they were shouting, Jed wouldn’t have been surprised to find that they woke half the city.

“You’re trying to create your own private army, Freeman.

That’s what Dreamland is—a private army.”

“That’s baloney and you know it. It’s slander.”

“You tell me what to call a deployment of military units that ignores the normal chain of command. And ignores international law.”

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“I’d like to see proof of that. That aircraft was attacked.

They have proof.”

“Manufactured by them, no doubt.”

“You’re way out of line, Balboa. And for the record, Whiplash has always operated at the President’s specific command—legally, per the law. It’s the President’s prerog-ative as commander in chief to direct units and set their missions.”

“Does the President know about it?”

“Ask him yourself.”

“I damn well will,” said Balboa.

Jed literally threw himself back against the wall as Balboa stormed from the office. Balboa’s face was red, and the admiral’s stubby legs and arms pumped like the rods in an overworked V-8 car motor. Jed held his breath as the admiral passed. Just as he exhaled, Balboa swung around.

“And you,” he shouted at Jed. “You better wake up and smell the coffee here, kid. I thought you had a brain in your head.”

“I have a brain,” snapped Jed.

“You’re a dupe. You better watch yourself, Barclay, or you’re going to end up like Ollie North—if you’re lucky.

More like Dean and Erlichmann.”

He stomped away, disappearing around the corner. Jed walked into Freeman’s suite, where he found his boss picking up files from the floor.

“Sorry about that, Jed,” said Freeman. “The Chairman is a little upset.”

Jed nodded and began to help. “Who’s Dean and Erlichmann?”

“John Dean and John Erlichmann. They were in the Nixon administration. They went to prison because they lied for the President.”

“Oh,” said Jed, sitting in the chair in the corner.

“That’s just Balboa being Balboa. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why would I be like one of those guys?”

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“You’re not. Balboa is throwing his usual smoke. He’s still angry about the strike on China by Brad Elliott and company,” said Freeman. “He’d love to prove that Dreamland was behind it.”

“Dreamland had nothing to do with it,” said Jed.

They were referring to the so-called Fatal Terrain episode, which had been pulled off by a semiprivate group operating on behalf of the Taiwan government—or at least that was the public version. Even Jed wasn’t privy to all the details. But he did know that the Dreamland people weren’t involved. Or at least he thought he did.

“Balboa apparently thinks that Dreamland and Whiplash should be placed back in the military chain of command,” said Freeman. “Or I should say, under his chain of command.”

There had been various plans to bring Dreamland back “online” as a regular command, but the President was ambivalent about doing so. Jed had always believed this was because, as the President had said, he didn’t want to stifle the creativity there. But in light of what Balboa had just said, he had to admit there might be other reasons as well. Lieutenant General Terill Samson had been tapped to head nearby Brad Elliott Air Force Base, which on paper was supposed to have included Dreamland. But Dreamland’s funding line was specifically excluded from the command, and no one in the Air Force—not even the formidable General Samson—had direct authority over Colonel Bastian and his people. Once a Whiplash order designated a mission, Bastian answered only to the President.

Usually through Jed. Which put him in the middle …

maybe in the same place Erlichmann and the others had been.

“Among his other goals,” continued Freeman, “Admiral Balboa is angling to have the Dreamland team in the Gulf of Aden placed under Captain Gale. Xray Pop could use help.

There’s no question about that.”

“But that would change their focus from the submarine to the pirates,” said Jed.

“They may end up being the same mission. Balboa is 132

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claiming the Dreamland people provoked the attack on their aircraft.”

“I heard, but that’s ridiculous. Colonel Bastian wouldn’t do that. Besides, Ethiopia has scrambled planes before.”

“Mmmm.”

Jed could tell that Freeman wasn’t entirely sure. “I can get the mission tapes,” he said.

“No, that’s all right. Like I said, it’s just Balboa being Balboa.” Freeman rose. “It may make sense to have the Megafortresses work with Xray Pop. The only problem is that Gale and Bastian will spend so much time spitting at each other they’ll forget who the enemy is.”

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

1414

THEY WERE EXACTLY FIFTEEN MILES OFFSHORE, DIRECTLY

north of the port where the Dreamland people had tracked the Somalian pirates. Storm had ordered the radars turned on so they knew the Abner Read was there, hoping that would provoke a response. Thus far it hadn’t.

If he wanted to, he could unleash a barrage from his gun and obliterate the town just above the tiny port where the pirates had taken refuge. A dozen shells would erase it.

Two or three hundred years ago, when sails ruled the sea, that’s what they would have done. There’d be no political niceties, no worry about a peace process or the UN.

“Captain, we have two unidentified aircraft approaching from the south at high speed,” said Eyes. “Just popped up over the mountains, coming toward the coast.”

“Very good,” Storm said. “Weapons, track them and prepare to fire.”

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Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

1414

ZEN TAPPED THE COMMAND TO SHARE THE VIDEO FEED WITH

Ensign Gloria English, who was operating the Piranha at the other Flighthawk station.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“That, Major, is the future of the Navy. The DD(L)-01

Abner Read. A littoral warfare destroyer. It’s the naval equivalent of a Megafortress, in terms of cutting-edge equipment.

That’s Captain Storm Gale’s flagship.”

“Looks like a Popsicle with a couple of sugar cubes on it.”

“Be interesting to see what it could do in a tangle.”

“Zen, those Ethiopian MiG-23s are continuing north,”

warned Dish, who had been tracking them on radar. “They have activated their attack radars. Looks to me like they’re going to attack the Abner Read.”