Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Better warn them. I’m on it,” said Zen, plunging the Flighthawk in their direction.

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

1416

THE EXCITED SHOUTS OVER THE SHIP’S BATTLE CIRCUITS

revved Storm’s heart as he glanced at the graphic rendering of the approaching MiGs in his hologram. The two aircraft were just crossing from the land to the water fifteen miles away, sweeping in their general direction.

“We have them targeted.”

“Stand by,” said Storm. The Abner Read had SM-2 missiles in its Vertical Launching System; the missiles could knock out a target at roughly ninety miles.

The MiGs weren’t coming on an exact intercept, but they 134

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

were well within range to launch antiship missiles. Neither, however, had turned on a targeting radar, and thus had not committed a hostile act—which his orders required before he was allowed to shoot them down.

Orders he didn’t particularly care for, orders that put him and his ships in danger—but orders which, if disobeyed, would be used by his enemies to derail his career.

“Communication from a Dreamland aircraft, warning us that two MiGs are approaching.”

“About time,” scoffed Storm. “Connect me.”

“It’s not easy cutting that circuit in, sir. There’s a technical glitch on our side that—”

“Connect me.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

1417

“THEY’RE BOTH MIG-23BNS,” ZEN TOLD THE NAVY CAPTAIN.

“Computer says they don’t have antiship missiles. Repeat, no missiles.”

“Bombs?”

“Appear to have no weapons of any kind,” said Zen. “I think they’re just up for their jollies. They’re not reacting to your ship. I don’t think they know you’re there.”

“They must be up to something. The Ethiopians typically don’t come over Somalian territory.”

“They did last night.”

The two Ethiopian warplanes were now ten miles off the Flighthawk’s nose. Zen began a turn to the east, planning to bring the Flighthawk in an arc behind the MiGs. Wisconsin, meanwhile, had already begun tacking in that direction to stay close to the Piranha probe.

“Have a small patrol craft moving out of the port,” said Ensign English, who was commanding the probe.

“Feed me the location,” said Zen. The plot merged into SATAN’S TAIL

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the sitrep screen in Zen’s helmet. The MiG fighter-bombers, meanwhile, continued northward.

“It’s a sucker play,” said Zen. “They sent the MiGs out to get everyone’s attention while the patrol boat sneaks off in broad daylight.”

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

1426

“MIGS SEE US,” EYES TOLD STORM. “CHANGING COURSE.

Heading toward us.”

“Do we have a lock?”

“Having some trouble,” said Eyes.

The missiles themselves were dependable weapons, but were designed to work with a different targeting system.

Sometimes they were locked even though the weapons panel indicated they weren’t—and vice versa. The experts promised a fix … but by the time that happened, the new system would probably be ready.

“Weapons, can you target those planes?” Storm asked.

“Ready to fire at your command,” said the weapons officer. “I can’t guarantee a hit, because of the glitch.”

“I’m not asking you to, son.”

“Dreamland aircraft is back on the line,” said the communications officer. “They say it’s urgent.”

“Tell them to take a ticket,” said Storm. “Have the Ethiopian aircraft been warned?”

“Affirmative.”

“Eyes, are those aircraft in Somalian territory?”

“Negative, sir. They have crossed into international airspace. They have not answered hails. I believe they show hostile intent. They are a bombing run, and we’re in their crosshairs.”

“Noted. Engage the enemy.”

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Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

1428

ZEN SAW THE FIRST MISSILE FLASH FROM THE DESK OF THE

Abner Read and shook his head.

“Missile in the air!” warned Dish. “RIM-67, Navy Standard Missile Two in ship-to-antiaircraft mode, targeted at the Ethiopian MiG.”

“He’s a dead pony,” said Zen. He pushed the Flighthawk closer to the water. The patrol boat had her throttle open full bore and was kicking over the waves at close to fifty knots. It was crossing out of Somalian waters, heading for the open sea.

“Dish, have you advised Xray Pop? The patrol boat’s getting away.”

“Told me to hold on,” said Dish. “Second missile launched. Same deal, targeting the second MiG.”

“Flighthawk leader, we have to get into position to make another buoy drop,” said the Wisconsin’s pilot.

“I copy. I’m coming back,” said Zen. He changed the display from the optical camera to the sitrep, and was surprised to see that the two MiGs were still in the air, hightailing it back over the Somalian coast. “Don’t tell me Navy missed,”

said Zen.

“Shanked to the right,” said Dish. “My guess is there’s a problem with the Abner Read’s radar—their signal is very degraded. Looks like the MiGs selected afterburners before the Abner Read got her first shot off,” added the radar operator.

“Storm’s not going to be happy about that,” said English.

“You know him?” asked Zen.

“Only from what Commander Delaford has told me. They served together. Storm’s a hothead.”

“And not a very good shot either,” said Zen. “But at least he scared the pants off those Ethiopians. Idiots are still in afterburner. Probably run out of fuel halfway home.”

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137

White House

0706

ADMIRAL BALBOA HAD CALMED DOWN CONSIDERABLY IN THE

few hours since Jed had seen him, but that was only relative; he was still frowning and clearly irritable as they waited upstairs in the White House residence for the President. It was just after seven a.m. The President was supposed to leave no later than seven-thirty from the back lawn for a round of visits to the Midwest. The early morning session had been called primarily to update him on the situation in China, where a U.S. plane had been forced down by hostile action, but the Gulf of Aden was nearly as volatile. The Ethiopian Air Force claimed that two of their aircraft had been shot down without provocation, and had filed a protest with the UN. Meanwhile, the Navy was demanding more resources for Xray Pop, which had lost several men after boarding a pirated ship.

Jed realized that if the last administration hadn’t cut the funding for weapons development, the task group would have had a much easier time of things; at the very least, it would have had more Shark Boats, working UAVs, and competent radar. But no one wanted to hear that, least of all Admiral Balboa, who seemed to think the last President walked on water, with an aircraft carrier to guide him.

“Young Jed, good to see you this morning,” said President Martindale, springing into the Treaty Room at the center of the upstairs floor of the presidential mansion. The President liked to have small, intimate sessions in the residence; he thought they were much more informal and likely to yield “real” advice than sessions in the West Wing. Jed, though, thought that the history of the place intimidated some people—you were sitting where Abraham Lincoln walked his sick son to sleep, where FDR poured cocktails and shared off-color gossip, where Kennedy sized up his conquests.

“Admiral, Mr. Freeman, Jeffrey, Jerrod—everyone have 138

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coffee except me?” The President went to the large urn that had been wheeled into the room and helped himself. “Let’s hear what the Seventh Fleet’s story is,” he said as he poured.

“I think we should talk about the Gulf of Aden first,” said Freeman. “And get that out of the way.”

“Xray Pop lost twelve men last night,” said Balboa, launching into a short summary of what had happened.

Martindale nodded solemnly, and Jed guessed that he already knew everything Balboa was telling him. The White House military liaison would most likely have woken him with the news.

“There was also an attack on a Dreamland aircraft by Ethiopia,” Balboa went on. “Provoked by the Dreamland aircraft.”

“That’s not true,” blurted Jed.

Everyone looked at him. Jed felt his face shade red. He glanced at Freeman, who was frowning.

“Go ahead, Jed,” said the President. “What happened?”

“First of all, there were two encounters, one early in the evening with the Sudanese, and then several hours later with the Ethiopians. The Sudanese did a fly-by; it’s not clear how they knew that the Megafortresses were in the area, or even if they were military aircraft as opposed to, say, uh, civilians. They went away without incident. Several hours later the Ethiopians approached. They demanded that the Megafortresses identify themselves or be fired on. Since their mission was covert, they maintained radio silence.

Four MiGs then engaged the Megafortress that was commanding the Piranha probe. Two were shot down, one by the Megafortress and the other by a Flighthawk.”

“They could have identified themselves as a civilian aircraft if they wanted to avoid trouble,” said Balboa.

“Well, no, because no civilian aircraft is supposed to be in that area,” said Jed.

“I thought the Megafortresses are invisible to radar,” said Jerrod Hale, the President’s Chief of Staff.

“They’re not completely invisible,” said Jed. He explained SATAN’S TAIL

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that the low-radar profile simply made the aircraft “look”

smaller to the radar, which meant it couldn’t be detected at long range. But that profile grew exponentially when the bomb bay doors were opened, which would have happened when the Piranha buoys were dropped. In addition, the other Megafortress was using its radars to scan the surface and air; these could be detected and even used as a beacon by approaching hostiles.

“The, uh, the question is …” Jed couldn’t get his tongue untangled and stopped speaking for a moment. His stuttering had become an increasing problem over the past several months, growing in tandem with his responsibilities.

“Who—Who told the Sudanese planes they were there in the first place? Because they’d flown pretty far from their bases. Once they see the Megafortress, they might tell the Ethiopians, but who told them? C-C-Colonel Bastian thinks there may be a spy at the Saudi air base. Someone who’s passing information along. The same thing is probably happening with the pirates.”

“It’s definitely happening with the pirates,” said Balboa.

“They see all these small boats watching them from territorial waters. Every move they make is observed. What’s the use of a stealth design when there are spies everywhere?”

“Why are the Ethiopians and Sudanese cooperating with pirates?” the President asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman. His tone suggested that the Secretary had ordered the countries to interfere.

“They claim they were on routine patrols,” said Hartman.

“That’s not good enough,” said Martindale.

“I didn’t say it was. Internal problems may be leading them to try and appease some of the more radical elements in their countries. That’s why we have to work with the UN.”

“The hell with that,” said Secretary of Defense Chastain.

“We should have sank these bastards a week ago.”

“Xray Pop needs more resources,” said Balboa. “And orders that allow them into the coastal areas.”

“What resources?” asked Chastain. Though in theory he 140

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

was Balboa’s boss, the two men didn’t get along and hardly spoke.

“Give them the Dreamland people,” said Balboa, “and some Marines to work as boarding parties.”

“What good are the Marines going to do against pirates?”

Chastain asked.

“Board their ships. And attack their bases.”

“Wait now, let’s not put the cart before the horse,” said Hartman. “We need a UN resolution to operate and attack in territorial waters. Let’s be very clear about that. This is a small part of a larger picture. If we don’t work with the UN

here, we’ll never get the China issue settled. Or Korea. And that’s where the real problems are.”

“Your big picture is killing our people,” said Balboa.

“The issues at stake here are immense,” said Hartman.

“We have to handle this delicately. Which I have to say is not being done.”

“Then you shouldn’t have sent I-Take-Orders-from-No-Man Bastian out there,” said Balboa.

“Colonel Bastian takes orders from me,” said President Martindale, looking up from his coffee cup. “I think we have to cut him some slack here. I doubt he instigated the attack.”

“It’s important to get UN backing before we go into coastal waters,” Hartman told the President. “If we don’t, everything else will fall apart. And Congress will be all over you.”

“Congress is all over me already.” Martindale smiled faintly.

“We won’t be able to count on getting a UN peacekeeping force in Taiwan,” said Hartman.

“We can’t count on that now,” said Freeman. “China won’t accept it.”

“The hell with peacekeeping,” said Chastain. “I say blow the bastards up and let’s be done with it. We should have wiped the Chinese military out completely when we had the chance. With all due respect to the late General Elliott and his sacrifice—”

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“Let’s focus on the Gulf of Aden, shall we?” said Martindale. It wasn’t a question. “I have to agree with the Secretary of State. I want the UN resolution if at all possible before we act. That was the idea behind sending the Dreamland team to look for the submarine. They are doing that, aren’t they, Jed?”

“They’ve started. They haven’t found it yet. It may take quite a while.”

“It won’t be found, because it doesn’t exist,” said Balboa.

“It sank somewhere in the Atlantic off the coast of Africa.”

“The evidence was pretty persuasive that it was the same sub that was heard in the Indian Ocean,” said Jed.

“You’re not going to start lecturing me on submarines now, are you, son?” asked Balboa.

“No, sir.”

“Philip, what do you think of Dreamland working with Xray Pop?” the President asked National Security Advisor Freeman.

“It might work. It would give them an over-the-horizon capability and air support that they don’t have. It would make it easier to deal with the pirates, even in international waters. But I don’t know if they could do both missions at once. Finding the sub, I mean.”

“There is no sub,” said Balboa.

“It would be useful to find the submarine,” said Hartman.

“The more evidence that we can gather to convince the Security Council—”

“The fact that the terrorists killed a civilian crew and blew up their ship won’t do it?” asked Martindale.

“Similar incidents haven’t in the past,” said Hartman.

“Jed, can Dreamland support Xray Pop and look for the submarine at the same time?” asked the President.

“I don’t know. I’d have to check with Colonel Bastian.”

“The support mission has to be given priority,” said Balboa. “That task has to be rolled into Xray Pop’s mission, and the commander at the scene should make the final call on which resources go where.”

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“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Freeman.

“What’s the alternative? Put Bastian in charge of Xray Pop?” asked Balboa. “That won’t work—Captain Gale out-ranks him.”

“Knowing the Dreamland people, my guess is that they can find a way to do both jobs,” said Martindale. “The Whiplash team is just providing service, along the same lines as it did in Iraq and Iran when Razor was raising such havoc,” said the President. “Supporting Xray Pop will take top priority if push comes to shove.”

“And Captain Gale will be in charge,” said Balboa.

Martindale took a sip from his coffee cup and seemed surprised to find that it was empty. He went back over to the urn.

“Let’s talk about China,” said Freeman.

“Is Gale in charge or not?” said Balboa.

“Yes,” said the President, pouring his coffee. “And now on to other disagreeable matters.”

Khamis Mushait Air Base,

southwestern Saudi Arabia

1610

DANNY FREAH WATCHED THE C-17 ROLL TOWARD THE

Dreamland side of the base. It had circled above for over forty-five minutes, ostensibly waiting for an inbound Saudi aircraft that had declared an engine emergency. The Saudi airplane failed to materialize, and it wasn’t because it had crashed—the pilots in the C-17 told the tower several times that there were no other aircraft anywhere in the vicinity.

Danny had heard the entire exchange over the Dreamland circuit. It hadn’t exactly filled him with confidence about base security.

As allies, the Saudis were a very ambivalent group. Most of the pilots were friendly enough, and the head of base security couldn’t have been more helpful. But a few officers—obviously including people in the control tower—were SATAN’S TAIL

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openly hostile. The enlisted people were at best split down the middle, and the contracted workers, most of whom were either Palestinians or Pakistani, refused to go anywhere near the Americans. Which was just as well.

DOG HAD JUST SAT DOWN AT THE COMMUNICATIONS CONSOLE

in the Command trailer to get an update from Dreamland Command when the screen flashed with an incoming communication marked EYES ONLY, DREAM COMMANDER.

“Bastian,” he said after clearing the security procedures to allow the connection.

“Uh, Colonel, didn’t expect to get you so quick,” said Jed Barclay. “I, uh, just came out of a marathon National Security session. President and Admiral Balboa and Mr. Freeman, Defense Secretary Chastain—”

“I don’t need the roll call,” said Dog. “Give me the bad news.”

“How do you know it’s bad news?”

“Because you always beat around the bush when it’s bad news.”

“They want to beef up Xray Pop,” said Jed. “Under ideal circumstances—”

“We’re being assigned to work with Xray Pop?”

“That would be it, Colonel. Under Captain Storm’s command.”

Dog didn’t respond.

“The orders will be cut I’d say pretty quickly. Um, they’ll come through—”

“It’s all right. We’ll figure it out.”

“I, um, I know it’s going to be kind of a—not a good situation,” said Jed. “But—”

“Thanks.”

He killed the connection.

Dog leaned back from the console. The last time he’d been under a Navy commander, he’d been sent home within twenty-four hours. He’d probably beat that this time around.

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“Hey!”

Dog turned around, surprised to see Jennifer standing in the trailer. She’d come in with the technical teams to work on the Werewolf and LADS lighter than air detection systems.

“Hey, yourself,” he said, getting up. She hugged him, and he gave her a kiss, trying not to seem too distracted.

Not that it worked.

“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” she said.

“I am, Jennifer, I am,” Dog told her. “But right now I have a dozen different things to sort through, and then I have to brief a mission.”

“I was just looking for a kiss,” she said, pressing against him.

“I did kiss you.”

“My grandma gives better kisses.”

Dog clasped her in his arms and gave her a “regulation”

kiss, melting his lips into hers. It was long and it was delicious and it was dangerously tempting.

“I do have to get to work,” he told her finally, pulling back.

“I know,” she said.

Somehow the tone of her voice made him want her even more. But before he could suggest that they leave the trailer and find a place where he could give in to temptation, two members of the Whiplash security team who’d been checking on the C-17 and its gear came inside.

Sergeant Lee “Nurse” Liu, the senior NCO on the Whiplash team, gave him an update on the security situation, along with the prediction that the Werewolves would be operational within an hour.

“There’s only one problem—Sandy Culver, the Werewolf pilot, is sick,” said Liu.

“How?” Dog turned to Jennifer, who had been on the flight with Culver.

“He has the flu or something,” said Jennifer. “He didn’t look too good when he got on the plane. And he started throwing up about an hour before he landed.”

SATAN’S TAIL

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“Captain Freah is checked out on the aircraft,” said Liu.

“So am I,” said Jennifer. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I understood you were here to work on their systems, not to fly them,” said Dog.

“I can do both.”

“We’re going to need you on the LADS system,” said Dog. “You can’t do everything.”

“I can if I have to.”

“Danny can fly them,” said Dog. “Or Zen in an emergency. When you’re finished with everything else, we’ll talk about it.”

“Colonel, you have a call on the satellite telephone system,” said Sergeant Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd, who had taken over the communications station. “It’s from the Navy.”

“That’ll be the new boss, wondering when we’re going to genuflect,” said Dog. “Excuse me.”

He walked to the back of the trailer and waited until Pretty Boy stepped aside before clearing the communication in.

“Bastian.”

“This is Captain Gale.”

“Captain, good afternoon,” Dog said evenly. “I’m sorry for the loss of your men.”

“Yes. That won’t happen again. I understand you’ve been looking for a submarine with a Piranha probe.”

“That’s right, Captain.”

“I’ll tell you what, Colonel. Let’s cut the bullshit here.”

“Gladly.”

“I’ve heard about you. You have a reputation for getting things done. I appreciate that.”

“Thank you.”

“I also have heard that you’re a cowboy. You don’t take orders from anyone.”

“On the contrary, I take orders very seriously,” said Dog.

“As long as you follow mine, we’ll have no trouble. You can call me Storm.”

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Is that supposed to make me feel warm and fuzzy inside?

Dog wondered.

“What areas have you searched?” Storm asked.

“The Somalian coast from the Eritrean border east about fifty miles. We’ve only just started.”

“Well, the search has secondary priority now,” said Storm. “You’re working for me now and we’re going after the pirates.”

“Understood.”

“When I give you an order to sink someone, I want them sunk.”

Dog said nothing.

“The pirates work both sides of the Gulf,” the Navy captain continued. “They use hit and run tactics and then retreat.

Because of our rules of engagement, they know they’re safe near the coast. So I have to catch them in international waters. You spot them, vector me toward them, and I’ll attack.”

“It would be just as easy for me to attack them myself, then,” said Dog.

“You didn’t last night.”

“I was following my orders.”

“Well, you have new orders now. You spot the pirates, and I’ll take care of them.”

Dog thought Storm was a jerk, but that didn’t mean his frustration wasn’t justified. He’d been given a difficult job to do, then had his hands tied behind his back.

“Listen, Storm,” said Dog, deciding to offer an olive branch. “We can do a lot more for you than just fly around the ocean spotting patrol boats. For one thing, the sort of surveillance you’re asking for can be conducted by lighter-than-air blimps. I can have a dozen flown in from Dreamland; we can post them around the gulf and give the control units to your ships. You’ll have around-the-clock coverage of the entire gulf. And we can get you some better communications systems. I understand that you had a lot of difficulty communicating with my aircraft earlier. I know there was SATAN’S TAIL

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some sort of foul-up with your antiair missiles and you missed a MiG you were aiming at; one of my specialists believed it had to do with the radar link to the guidance system.

Maybe I can get some of my radar people—”

“Just get your aircraft working with my intelligence officers by 2000 hours, Bastian. I’m in charge. Not you.”

The line went dead.

Khamis Mushait

1621

BANDAR’S TOUR OF KHAMIS MUSHAIT STARTED WITH WHAT

seemed to be an old fort, but according to the Saudi pilot was just an old building at the edge of the original city.

Khamis Mushait had once been a popular trading and rest spot for desert caravans. It still had an impressive market, as Starship saw when he and his guide walked through an open-air bazaar that appeared to stretch for acres and acres.

Among the displays were elaborately decorated china and furniture. Bandar found a vendor and bought some fruit juice for them, refusing to let Starship pay. Then he pointed in the distance at the large white castle, relating a ghost story about Bedouins who had roamed the desert a thousand years ago. One of the band had been killed out of jealousy and his body left to rot; as punishment, the men were turned into eternal ghosts and forced to wander until the man’s body was given its rightful honors. Since this could never happen—it had been devoured by beasts and birds of prey—they wandered to this very day. Bandar finished the story by claiming that he had heard their camels thundering across the plains several times.

Starship laughed and asked if Bandar truly believed in ghosts.

“You don’t?” The Saudi laughed.

“Nah.”

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“Nothing you can’t see?”

“Something like that.”

The tour led back toward the mosque. Starship suddenly felt curious about the interior and asked if he might look inside. Bandar started to make a face, clearly uncomfortable.

“It’s OK,” said Starship. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone.”

Before Bandar could answer, someone nearby began yelling at them in Arabic. Bandar spun around, and then began answering the man as he continued to yell.

“It’s all right. Don’t worry about it,” said Starship. He took a step backward. Two or three other men who’d been nearby walked closer.

“No, he’s wrong,” said Bandar. “You are a guest in our country.”

“It’s all right. I don’t want any trouble or anything,” said Starship. “I have to get back anyway.”

Bandar turned and said something to the other man, who unleashed another tirade. A few more people came up. Starship touched his guide’s arm, trying to get him to come, but Bandar waved his hand dismissively.

“I’m sorry,” said Starship.

“Go home,” said one of the other men in English. “Go away. We don’t want you.”

“I didn’t mean any offense,” said Starship. “Really, I’m leaving.”

“Go away,” said another.

By the time Bandar stopped arguing, a thick crowd had gathered. They trailed Starship and the Saudi pilot back to the car. Most of the people simply looked curious, but they made it hard for Bandar to go without hitting them. Something or someone hit the back of the car as they cleared the crowd. Starship turned around; the road was cluttered with angry people, fists raised in the air.

“I really didn’t mean any trouble,” said Starship.

“People forget their manners,” said Bandar.

“It’s all right.”

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As they drove back toward the airport, Starship tried to think of something to say. “It’s a really nice city,” he said finally. Bandar grunted something, and Starship thought it best to keep his mouth shut.

A large crowd had gathered near the gate of the airport.

Surprised, Starship at first didn’t realize that they were protesters, and it wasn’t until a group began running toward the car that he realized what was going on.

“Troublemakers,” said Bandar.

Starship slid down in the seat, eyes pasted ahead as people surged against the side of the car. Saudi police ran toward them. Bandar managed to get inside the gate without hitting anyone.

“Wow,” said Starship.

“Troublemakers,” repeated Bandar. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“Ignorant troublemakers.”

V

Invaders

Gulf of Aden,

north of Xiis

1810

THE WIND BIT AT ALI’S FACE, SNAPPING AT HIS EYES AND

nose as they sped toward the looming shadow of the tanker three miles away. Ali welcomed the bite; it took his mind off his son.

The Saudi had been as good as his word: Offers of help were pouring in from brothers throughout the Middle East.

Two ships had joined him tonight: a large, Al Bushra–class patrol boat from Oman, liberated from unrighteous rulers by true believers, and a patrol boat from Eritrea roughly similar to the patrol craft he was already using. An additional thirty men had volunteered beyond the two dozen needed to crew both vessels; most were raw youths, but seemed willing to follow his orders without question.

Though classified as a patrol boat, the Al Bushra dwarfed his other ships, measuring nearly 180 feet. A pair of Exocet missile launchers had been installed on the deck behind the superstructure, giving the ship considerable firepower.

Surface-to-air missiles had replaced the 76mm cannon on the forward deck. The ship could make only 24.5 knots, too slow to keep up with the faster boats, but she had room for a large boarding party. Most of Ali’s new recruits were aboard her; they were unlikely to see real action but would learn a great deal from tonight’s encounter.

She was running about a mile behind him, commanded by his cousin Mabrukah. The captain who had brought her 154

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bristled at being put under another man, and Ali knew he would have to alter the arrangement eventually, but tonight he had no time to devote to personalities, and needed someone who knew his ways without needing to question them.

God had brought him additional volunteers for a purpose.

He had two difficult tasks to achieve tonight. Not only was he to meet the submarine at midnight, but his best chance for capturing a vessel that could fuel his fleet would occur a few hours before, as an old oiler now used as a fuel transport sailed through the gulf. Unfortunately, the oiler was more than 250 miles from the rendezvous point with the submarine. According to the spies, it had come down past Saudi Arabia already and would be passing near this spot sometime within the next few hours.

Ali had decided capturing the oiler was more critical, and thus decided to lead that mission personally. He had sent one of his patrol boats with a pilot to meet the submarine. If the takeover went well, he would head east and link up with the submarine.

Perhaps Allah intended that he accomplish both—a gray shadow appeared on the horizon ahead: their target.

“Signal the others,” Ali told Bari, his second-in-command for the operation.

The flotilla of pirates spread out on the water, a pack of wolves stalking their prey. Ali set a course for his vessel that brought her toward the stern of the slow-moving target. He stood in the open wheelhouse of his patrol boat, staring at the shadow as it grew. The wind sucked the heat from his face, turning it to a mask of cold bones.

A light blinked at the oiler’s fantail.

Ali turned to Bari. “Our people aboard have secured the radio. Pass the signal—begin the attack.”

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Khamis Mushait Air Base

1810

DOG BENT DOWN TO LOOK AT THE VIDEO DISPLAY. FOUR OR

five hundred Saudis were gathered on the main road to the airport, fists raised, chanting in Arabic that the invaders must go home.