Текст книги "Satan's Tail"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Invaders!”

That was the term they used, translated by the translation software in the Dreamland Command trailer. And they said it loudly enough for the microphones in the video camera to pick up, even though the Osprey hovered overhead.

“Invaders!”

“This is relatively calm,” Danny told him. “A half hour ago I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. At least now the Saudi police have the crowd cordoned off. The base itself is secure.”

“Until some jerk drives up in a truck full of explosives,”

said Dog.

“He won’t get past the gate. We’ve set up bullet panels on the approaches to our sector, along with tear-gas mortars.

We have the Osprey overhead. I’m keeping the Werewolves in reserve. But if they get past the tear gas and bullet panels and we have to shoot, it’ll get bloody. We can withstand an attack, but it won’t be pretty.”

The bullet panels were large rectangles filled with 9mm rubber bullets. They were considered nonlethal deterrents for use against a stampeding crowd; when triggered, they fired a hail of hard rubber in the air. Combined with the tear gas, they would turn back all but the most determined protesters.

The Osprey’s guns were loaded with live ammunition, as were the Werewolves. Danny’s assessment was an understatement—they’d slaughter whoever was in their path.

“This couldn’t have been spontaneous,” said Dog.

“No,” said Danny. “But I wouldn’t underestimate the emotions involved.”

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“I’ll talk to Washington. We have to relocate. Probably to Diego Garcia.”

“What about Captain Gale?”

“I’ll talk to him too. Though frankly I’d rather get my teeth pulled.” Dog glanced at his watch. Wisconsin was scheduled to launch at 2000, and he was slated to lead the mission. He hadn’t even started planning his brief for it.

“Starship is outside,” said Danny. “I think he thinks it’s all his fault.”

“Send him in.”

Dog got up from the video station and walked to the large common room at the front of the trailer. Starship flinched when he saw him.

“Colonel.”

“Lieutenant, I believe you forgot to ask if you had permission to go into town this afternoon,” said Dog.

“I thought it would be OK.”

“So what happened?”

“It didn’t seem like that big a deal. I went with a Saudi pilot. We were in the town and, uh, there was a mosque, and I asked if I could take a look.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. I was just—if I went to church, I mean it was the same thing. You know? I was looking around. I just want to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“I want to understand why Kick died and I didn’t.”

Starship’s eyes widened momentarily, as if he’d seen something passing behind them in the room. They held Dog’s for just a moment, then turned down, settling on the dark shadows at the base of the floor.

Dog wasn’t the kind of officer who could play father figure or priest, which he knew was what Starship really needed. He did understand, however, what the young man was going through. He’d experienced it himself, or at least something like it, much earlier in his career when he’d lost a SATAN’S TAIL

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friend. But now he felt powerless to help the lieutenant, to do anything more than tell him the riot wasn’t his fault, which it wasn’t.

“All right, Starship. I understand that you meant no harm.

The situation at the gate has nothing to do with you. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was organized before you went near the mosque.”

“I don’t think Bandar—the pilot—I don’t think he set me up,” said Starship. “I didn’t go inside or anything. I was just looking around.”

“It’s immaterial now. We’re supposed to fly in two hours.

Better get ready for your mission.”

Gulf of Aden

1830

ALI GRIPPED THE ROPE, PULLING HIMSELF UP THE SIDE OF THE

ship. His AK-47 clunked at his back as he clambered over the side of the tanker, helped by two of his men. The ship’s captain stood a few feet away, frowning in the dim light.

“I thought we were not to be stopped again,” said the captain as Ali approached. “You told me this yourself.”

“I am flattered that you remembered me, Captain,” said Ali. They had stopped the ship three months before, and Ali had, in fact, made that promise. “It is regrettable that circumstances made it necessary to engage you again.”

Bari, Ali’s second-in-command, approached from the side. Bari had led the first team over. “Plenty of fuel,” he told Ali. The tanker carried marine gas oil and marine diesel, the heavy grade of fuel oil commonly called “bunker oil,” which was used by large ships.

“Set the course,” Ali told him.

“Should we wait for the Al Bushra to come alongside?

The crew here seems compliant enough. They remember our last encounter, and most are Muslim brothers from Indone-

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sia and Pakistan, with a Turk or two for discipline. There were no weapons.”

“Good. Have the Al Bushra come about and stand by to assist if necessary. But if you judge the situation acceptable, don’t lose the time bringing more men aboard,” said Ali.

“Transmit the message telling the Sharia to sail. You should be able to meet them in six hours so they can fuel and return to the mooring before the Russian satellite passes. The boats will come with me. God has graced us and made things easy this evening.”

“What are you saying?” demanded the captain of the tanker.

Ali raised his rifle. “Pray,” he told the captain. The man made no sign to comply, and so he shot him where he stood.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2125

STARSHIP CHECKED HIS POSITION ON THE SITREP MAP, TRYING

to get a feel for the night’s mission. Xray Pop was located about twenty miles north of Bandar Murcaayo in the Gulf of Aden; the Piranha unit was exploring an area of the Somalian coast near Bullaxaar. They were supposed to bring the probe eastward toward the task force; this would take between six and eight hours. The realignment would allow the Dreamland team to cover Xray Pop and run Piranha at the same time. Colonel Bastian had ordered two more Megafortresses and additional Flighthawks to join them; once they arrived, the search for the submarine and support of Xray Pop could proceed independently.

“Ready for Flighthawk launch,” said Dog.

“Flighthawk launch ready,” said Starship. He authorized the launch verbally for C3, the Flighthawk control computer, then curled his fingers around the control stick. His heart pounded steadily as the Megafortress tipped forward and picked up mo-

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mentum. The big aircraft lifted upward as the release point was reached, using the wind sheer off the wing as well as gravity to push the Flighthawk out of its nest beneath the wing. The computer had already ignited the robot plane’s engine, and by the time Starship took over, he was zooming into a layer of clouds that seemed to last forever. The milky soup furled in all directions; he felt as if he were flying into someone’s dream.

Unlike Zen, Starship preferred using the computer screens at the control station to guide the plane, instead of the command helmet. He found it easier to tap the screen to change views and get data. He had a standard pilot’s helmet and mask, but often left them at the base of his ejection seat, resorting to them only during obvious combat situations.

Zen argued that a “normal” helmet made working the board difficult, but Starship disagreed; the weight of the control helmet tended to twist his neck and give him headaches if he wore it for more than an hour.

“Hawk One is launched and operating in the green,” he told Dog. “Coming through fifteen thousand feet, going to five thousand. On programmed course.”

“Good work, Starship,” said Dog. “Be advised we have a civilian merchant ship for you to check out, two miles due south of your present course.”

“On my way, Colonel.”

“Piranha control, we are in range for the handoff. Baker-Baker is standing by,” added Dog over the interphone.

“Piranha control is ready,” said Delaford, who was sitting next to Starship on the Flighthawk deck. “Initiating transfer procedure.”

WITH THE FLIGHTHAWK LAUNCHED AND THE PROBE NOW UNder Delaford’s control, Dog had a few moments to relax before lining up for a buoy drop about thirty miles to the east.

He checked back in with Danny at Khamis Mushait via the Dreamland Command frequency.

“Peaceful at the moment,” said Danny. His voice came over the circuit a half second before his image appeared on 160

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the screen on the left-hand side of Dog’s control panel.

“Base commander was over a little while ago, full of apologies and trying to be reassuring. He says this is being stirred up by bad elements.”

“That’s nice,” said Dog sarcastically. “Did they beef up security?”

“Claims it’s at the max now. Has Washington gotten back to you, Colonel?”

“Negative. But I can’t imagine that they’re going to tell us to stay around,” added Dog.

“We can bug out as soon you give the order,” said Danny.

“And as soon as we know where we’re going.”

“Probably Diego Garcia,” said Dog. “Unless somebody comes up with an alternative. Did you get the blimp up?”

“Half hour ago. We’re going to run a drill with the Werewolves around 2400, just to make sure the systems are all working together.”

“All right. But get some sleep at some point.”

“I will.”

“All right, Danny, I have to get into position to drop a buoy. Let me know if anything comes up.”

STARSHIP PUSHED THE FLIGHTHAWK OVER THE STERN OF THE

merchant ship, riding slow and low across its topside. The low-light video image appeared gray on his main screen.

Though slightly blurry, it was clear enough that there were no weapons aboard the ship.

“He’s probably a smuggler,” said Commander Delaford.

Starship was providing a video feed to one of the commander’s auxiliary screens so the Navy expert could offer his opinions. The Piranha’s onboard controls were more than adequate to take it to its new location on their own, and would alert Delaford automatically if it encountered anything suspicious or ran into a problem. The commander could easily divide his time between the probe and helping Starship.

“Why do you think he’s a smuggler?”

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161

“According to the database of area shipping we’ve compiled, he’s headed for South Africa,” Delaford explained.

“But he’s on a beeline for coastal waters, well out of the normal traffic area. If we follow him, my bet is we’ll see him rendezvous with some smaller boats just inside territorial waters where he knows he can’t be touched if Xray Pop comes calling.”

“Doesn’t the Navy force know what’s going on?”

“Absolutely.”

“So how can these guys get away with it?”

“Well, for one thing, you can’t just stop any ship on the high seas. International law permits inspections only in certain circumstances. So even if the ship were carrying weapons, you’d have to prove that some law was being broken.”

“Like smuggling guns?”

“Unfortunately, you can’t just stop and search a ship because you think it has guns,” said Delaford. “There are countries that we have treaties with, where the terms of the treaty might allow a search. But even there, you would need at the very least probable cause and some sort of OK or at least no-tification. The administration has tried negotiating that, mostly to stop smuggling of weapons-grade plutonium or ballistic missiles. But what we’re talking about here, pretty much the whole nature of the thing, we simply don’t have the authority to stop the ship and search it against its captain’s will. The UN and other international organizations are working on protocols to prevent certain types of smuggling and make it possible to take action, but they’ve been working on them for years. Most arrests are made in territorial waters where the local government is going to enforce its laws. At the moment, if you don’t catch them in the act, or you don’t find some very obvious problem with the ship manifest or something else, in the end you’re going to have to give the weapons back. In theory,” added Delaford. “Besides, Xray Pop can’t be everywhere at once. Stopping and searching a ship can take considerable time if you do it right.

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The Navy has specially trained teams to handle it, and let me tell you, it’s a dangerous job in a place like this. Thoroughly searching a vessel that size could take six, eight hours, even more.”

“What about the pirates?” said Starship. “Why aren’t we just blasting them? We know what they’re up to. They’re just terrorists.”

The same people who killed Kick, he thought, though he didn’t say it.

“The thing that sets us apart from pirates is that we follow the law,” said Delaford. “You have to remember that, Starship.”

“How does the law stop us? It shouldn’t.”

“It doesn’t, specifically. But what we can do depends on where they are,” said Delaford. “If they’re in international waters, we can defend anyone that they’re attacking—or to put it in your terms, blast them. But outside of international waters, an attack on another ship isn’t actually piracy. So an attack in coastal waters is subject to the laws of the country where it occurs.”

“Unless it’s Somalia, where there is no law.”

“There are laws. Whether they are enforced or not is another question.”

“But these guys attack in international waters. How come they’re free?”

“Again, because they’re in the territory of another country. They can also claim that they’re under the jurisdiction of Somalia or Yemen or wherever, and are entitled to the protection of their laws.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“Well, think of it this way. One of the things the War of 1812 was about was America’s rights to its territorial waters and the rights of its seamen. Britain was stopping American ships and impressing seamen. America said it had no right to do that.”

“That doesn’t sound like the same thing,” said Starship.

“It has to do with the law of the sea, and one country put-

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ting itself ahead of the law because it has the power to do so.”

“I don’t think we’re above the law,” said Starship. “But I don’t think these crazies should be shooting at us either.”

“Agreed. The fanatics don’t care how many people die,”

added Delaford. “They know they’re not going to win in the short term. This isn’t about a single battle for them, or even a short war. They see this as a hundred year struggle. They want us to invade Somalia—they want us to invade all of Africa, all of the Middle East. They think if that happens, Islam will rise up and there will be a new golden age. Those people back in Saudi Arabia who were protesting outside the gates, the people who threw stones at you because you were curious about a mosque—what do you think their reaction would be to an invasion?”

“But we’re not here to invade. We’re just trying to protect shipping in the Gulf of Aden.”

“Absolutely,” said Delaford. “That’s what we have to remember. That and the fact that no one’s going to thank us for it.”

Starship turned his full attention back to the Flighthawk, circling eastward to visually check the area where the control buoy would be dropped.

Whatever the law said, and whatever the geopolitical and religious implications were, Kick had been killed by fanatics.

They didn’t hate Kick specifically; they hated all westerners.

And Starship hated them.

STORM’S VOICE EXPLODED IN DOG’S EAR AS SOON AS HE

opened the circuit to the Abner Read. “You went over my head!”

“I didn’t go over your head, Captain. I informed the White House that we had a serious diplomatic situation. I need to relocate my people before things get uglier.”

“You went over my head! You instigated an incident—”

“Look, Storm, I don’t particularly like you, and it’s clear you don’t like me. But neither I nor my people instigated anything in Saudi Arabia. There was clearly a well-thought-

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out plot to provoke a riot at the entrance to the base. I reported the incident to Washington as commander of Dreamland– not as part of the Whiplash team working under your command.”

“Stop the legal bullshit, Bastian. The fact is, you talked to the White House without talking to me.”

“Actually, Storm, I did try to talk to you. You wouldn’t pick up the phone. Check with your communications officer.”

“I’m warning you, Bastian. Play by my rules.”

Dog checked his course on the navigation screen. They had to drop below three thousand feet to drop the buoy as configured, and they were still above the cloud cover at 25,000 feet.

“Are you there, Bastian?”

“I am here, Captain. As a matter of fact, I’m just double-checking where here is.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Colonel, we have a surface contact coming out of the coast near Karin, about fifty miles due south of us,” said Dish, who was operating the surface radar aboard the Wisconsin. “Thing is, I don’t have that marked as a major port, and this is a pretty big ship. Nothing in the database about a tanker or anything either.”

“Run that by Commander Delaford and see what he thinks about it,” said Dog. “Ask him if it’s worth jogging down in that direction for a look-see.”

“Bastian?”

Dog clicked his talk button. “Yes?”

“You’re to move your operation to Diego Garcia as soon as possible. Note I said possible, not convenient.”

Gee thanks, thought Dog.

“We’ll be there in twenty-four hours, if not sooner,” said Dog.

“When are you rendezvousing with my ship?”

“It’ll take us a few hours to get the probe close enough to get overhead.”

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“Make it here as quickly as you can.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Khamis Mushait Air Base

2130

WITH THINGS OUTSIDE THE GATE QUIET FOR THE MOMENT, Danny Freah decided to do two things he’d been putting off since arriving in Saudi Arabia: call his wife, and take a shower.

He did the latter first, scalding the desert sand out of his pores. By the time he got out he felt like a lobster—but a relaxed one. He got dressed and returned to the Dreamland Command trailer. After checking to make sure that nothing had changed outside—it hadn’t—he put through the call, trying her university office first.

“Dr. Freah.”

“Hi, Doc. I was wondering if you could cure my sore throat,” said Danny. It was an old joke between them—her Ph.D. was in black studies.

“Well, hello, stranger. Where have you been?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Have you talked to Rosenstein?”

“I’m fine, how are you?”

“Don’t duck the question.”

“I haven’t had a chance,” said Danny.

“There’s a party at the Guggenheim Museum two weeks from today that would be fantastic for you to attend,” said Jemma Freah. “All the important people are going to be there. It’s a cocktail party, mixing art with politics. A lot of bucks. Definitely a good place to press the flesh.”

Politics was the last thing Danny wanted to talk about. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs under the console carefully to avoid the stack of black boxes controlling the communications functions.

“How are you, Jem?”

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“Fine, but I have a class in two minutes. Can you make that party?”

Danny had no way of knowing how long the present deployment was going to last. It was conceivable that, if the Dreamland team moved to Diego Garcia, he’d be able to go home for a few days, maybe even an entire week, around Thanksgiving—Diego Garcia not only had its own security, it was at least arguably more secure than any base in the Continental United States because of its location. But about the last place in the world he wanted to even think about being was a political cocktail party.

Would he ever feel differently?

If not, then why run for office?

“I don’t know what I’ll be doing then,” said Danny.

“Why not?”

“You know I can’t go into details, Jem.”

“Yeah, well, look, I have to go to class. Send me an e-mail.”

“Good idea,” he said, though he really didn’t have anything to say. In fact, he wondered why he’d bothered to call at all.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2135

STARSHIP BROUGHT THE FLIGHTHAWK SOUTH, DROPPING

through two thousand feet as he approached the lumbering ship. There were two much smaller vessels moving in its wake, twenty-foot open boats. The infrared camera in the nose of the Flighthawk painted the ship a ghostly green in the display; the angle seemed odd—the bow looked as if it poked up out of the ocean. Starship thought there was something wrong with the camera or viewer, and hit the diagnostic section for a self-test.

The test showed no problem. The ship looked to Starship SATAN’S TAIL

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like an old oil tanker; it carried crates or something lashed to the deck.

“What do you have there?” asked Delaford.

“I don’t know. I’m getting some distortion from my infrared viewer. Bow’s kind of out of whack. I’m switching to the low light. Pretty dark, though.”

“Looks like an old amphibious vessel,” said Delaford.

“See how the bow sweeps up?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not in our database,” said Delaford. “Can you get closer?”

“I can just about land on his deck if you want.”

Starship tucked the Flighthawk into a roll, knifing down through one thousand feet. He continued to accelerate as he dropped toward the water. As the altimeter ladder ramped down through five hundred, he started to level off, getting a high g warning as he pushed the robot plane into an extremely sharp turn to take it over the ship. He leaned forward against his restraints, pushing the robot toward her limits.

For the first time on the deployment, and for one of the first times since he had started flying the U/MFs, he felt as if he were on board the tiny aircraft. He sensed the rush of gravity as he bent the wings to complete his turn. The aircraft took over 9 g’s; he could feel his body reacting, tensing and leaning against the forces the Flighthawk was encountering.

This is what Zen means, he thought to himself. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

“There used to be some sort of gun at the rear deck—at the forward area too,” said Delaford, somewhere far behind him.

Starship poured on the dinosaurs, accelerating back toward the Megafortress. He was still low, barely a hundred feet over the waves. He began another turn, banking much more gently, lining up for a run over the bow area for another angle.

Delaford was talking over the interphone, telling him about the ship: “The Somalians had a large Russian vessel that was designed as an amphibious ship. It was supposed to 168

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be used to transport tanks and equipment. Hasn’t been used in at least five years. This is probably it, patched up to be used as a freighter, or more likely being taken to a salvage operation. Stolen, maybe.”

This is how it’s supposed to feel, Starship thought again. The ship grew in his screen, its upturned bow on the right side. He realized he should slow down for a more detailed view, but by now it was too late; he was already beyond it.

“One more pass, low and slow,” he said aloud. He nudged his throttle back and took a breath, reminding himself to stay in control. He could feel his pulse thumping in his throat.

Get too excited and you lose it.

That was Kick’s saying, wasn’t it?

You with me, Kick?

Get too excited and you lose it.

Yeah.

Starship exhaled very slowly as he took the Flighthawk into a turn, trying to stay calm. But just as he reached the far point of the turn, the computer warned that he was at the far end of his control range.

“Three seconds to disconnect,” it said in his ear.

“Colonel, I need you to come east.”

“It’s unnecessary, Lieutenant. Get back to the Wisconsin.”

“I just need one more pass.”

“Back to the Wisconsin,” said Dog.

Starship opened his mouth to argue, then realized it was a moot point—the computer was counting down to disconnect on his screen. Reluctantly, he pulled it back toward its mothership.

“My bet would be it’s on its way to the scrap heap,” said Delaford, examining the video scans of the ship again. “A lot of metal.”

“What about the crates on deck?”

“Possibly more junk inside them,” said Delaford. “Or else like I said, someone’s trying to use it to bring cargo back and SATAN’S TAIL

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forth. I kind of doubt that but you never know out here. People can be very resourceful.”

“Maybe they’re going to invade someplace.”

“These warlords have enough trouble keeping control of their little spits of land,” said Delaford.

Starship reached for the steel coffee mug, draining the last bit of coffee. Flying circles around the sky for hours on end was bad enough, but doing it on such little sleep was sheer torture. He had some caffeine pills he could take—as well as stronger medicine if absolutely necessary—but he preferred to hold them in reserve.

“Hawk One, we have two ships approaching from the north,” said Dog. He gave him a heading and a GPS location about sixty-five miles ahead of the Megafortress.

“On my way, Colonel,” replied Starship. He nudged the Flighthawk’s control stick forward, descending gradually toward the two ships.

“Big one in front looks like an oiler,” said Delaford as he got close, “the sort of ship that carries diesel fuel for others.”

“Like a tanker?”

“More like a floating gas station. There are a few of these ships that were used by navies in the past, mostly the Russians, and then were sold off and used with very little conversion as transports. Database is working on it.”

The computer needed twenty points of reference to identify a ship and compare it to the database for identification.

The points could range from size measurements to mast and stack configurations.

An ID flashed on the screen as Starship’s Flighthawk closed to within two miles:

DUBNA CLASS, OIL

“Database is comparing it to a Finnish-built ship used by the Russians,” explained Delaford. “Carries a couple thousand tons of bunker oil and about the same of light diesel, 170

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some other supplies. I have it in the registry—it’s a Turkish ship, looks like it was bought from Ukraine two years ago.”

“What’s the other one?” asked Starship.

Before Delaford could answer, the computer gave its opinion:

BUSHRA CLASS PATROL BOAT

OMAN NAV

“That’s incredibly far from home. Couple of hundred miles,” said Delaford.

“Maybe they’re protecting them from the pirates.”

“Maybe.”

DOG LOOKED AT THE LOW-LIGHT VIDEO AS IT PLAYED IN THE

panel on the Megafortress’s “dashboard.”

“The Oman ship doesn’t look particularly hostile,” he told Delaford.

“Granted,” said the lieutenant commander. “But there are a couple of things out of place. There’s an Exocet missile launcher on the deck behind the smokestack. You can see it in the view of the starboard side. That’s not standard equipment on those boats. Oman does have Exocets, but they’re usually on their Dhofar missile boats, which are a little newer. There’s also an antiair battery, a missile system on the forward deck.”

“Doesn’t add up to pirates,” said Dog. “So they’ve updated the ship, so what? It might be protecting the other ship.”

“Very possibly. Or perhaps pirates have taken over the Oman ship and have used it to capture the oiler. It’s filled with fuel. It can fuel other ships at sea, or at least bring fuel supplies to ports.”

“But most of the patrol boats don’t use the heavy fuel it has.”

“Good point,” said Delaford. “I’m not saying I know what’s going on. Quite the opposite.”

“All right. Let’s try hailing them and find out what they’re SATAN’S TAIL

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up to,” said Dog. He turned to his copilot. “McNamara, ID

us as a Navy flight on a routine patrol. See if you can hail the Oman ship.”

“On it, Colonel.”

“How’s your fuel, Starship?”

“Going to need to tank in about twenty minutes,” said Starship.

“Get some close-ups of both of those ships,” said Dog.

“Then we’ll set up for a refuel.”

“Roger that.”

“Not acknowledging us,” said McNamara.

“Try the oiler.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Delaford, the Oman ship isn’t talking to us,” said Dog.

“Anything except the obvious occur to you?”

“No.”

“Radar,” said McNamara. The copilot was warning Dog that the Oman ship had just turned on an antiaircraft radar.

“Shouldn’t be able to see us at this range. Not sure about the Flighthawk as it goes over, but they don’t have a lock at the moment.”

STARSHIP PUSHED THE UM/F TOWARD THE OMAN VESSEL, accelerating for a quick fly-by.

“People moving on the deck of the second boat,” he told Dog. “Up near the, uh, front, the bow, near the gun.”

If they were fanatics, killers, he could erase them with a squeeze of his trigger. They deserved it—murderers. They’d killed Kick.

Would that bring him back?

Of course not.

Would it feel good?

Not really. Not in the way he wanted it to.

“What should I do, Colonel?”

“Just stand by,” said Dog. “Let me talk to my friend, Captain Gale.”

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Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

2150

STORM PRESSED THE BUTTON ON THE COMMUNICATION CONtrol, connecting through the satellite phone.

“What is it, Bastian?”

“Hold on, sir,” said a voice he didn’t recognize.

Bastian came on a second later.

“We have something that you may be interested in, Storm,” he said. “Some sort of tanker being trailed by a gunboat that’s supposed to belong to Oman. We’re not sure if it’s an escort or if it’s joined the pirates.”

“Hail them.”

“We’ve tried that. No answer from either ship. I’m going to patch you over to Commander Delaford,” said Dog. “He can fill you in on what the ships look like and what he thinks they may be up to. I’ll stand by. Using the satellite phone to connect isn’t working very well, Storm. Your voice blanks in and out.”

“And what do you propose instead?”

“As I tried to tell you earlier, we have mobile communications units that will let you tie into the Dreamland network.

If you work with me instead of against me, we might actually get something done.”

“I’m getting plenty done, Bastian. Put Delaford on.”

The line descended into static for so long that Storm was about to call in his communications expert to get the Dreamland people back when Delaford came on.

“Storm, we have a gunboat out of Oman trailing what looks to be an old oiler converted for use as a civilian tanker,”

Delaford explained. “It’s an Al Bushra, a large patrol boat originally built by France. They’ve mounted Exocets on it.”