Satan's Tail

VII Friends and Enemies

The submarine had barely moved since the last patrol, but now that night was falling, Delaford predicted it would come up to periscope depth, take a look around, then proceed.

And sure enough, as the Megafortress circled to the north to get a better look at the British ship that had come through the gulf earlier in the day, the Libyan sub began nudging upward.

"Here we go, Colonel," said Delaford, monitoring it with the Piranha.

"Good. Zen, you hear that?"

"Flighthawk leader," said Zen, acknowledging.

Dog was about to hook into the Abner Read when the Dreamland communications channel buzzed with an incoming Eyes Only message. Dog gave his verbal password, then tapped the keypad at the right side of the screen, clearing the transmission in. Major Catsman's face came on the screen.

"Colonel, the UN has just authorized the pursuit of pirates in territorial waters in the Gulf of Aden."

Good, thought Dog.

And bad.

"Thank you, Major. I'll talk to Captain Gale."

"Go ahead," the Dreamland techie told Storm. "It'sa channel on your com system. You're always connected now."

Storm looked down and pressed the button on the box on his belt. "Captain Gale."

"The UN is approving the resolution allowing us to attack in territorial waters," Dog told him. "We should get the official word in a few hours. I thought you'd like a heads-up."

A peace offering? Between that and sending the world's most beautiful woman to his ship, Bastian might yet prove human.

"Good. We'll move in and get this bastard," said Storm. "No. Too soon."

"Why do you have to disagree with everything I say, Bastian?"

"I don't disagree with everything you say. Just things that need to be disagreed with."

"Explain yourself," said Storm tightly.

"If we attack now, we just get the submarine, and the patrol boat," continued Dog. "You want their base. Nothing's changed — except that in a few hours we'll be able to do something about them, once and for all."

"We have some places we think are likely candidates," said Storm. "We can hit them one by one, after we take out the sub."

"Or we can follow it to the candidate," said Dog. "And, as an extra bonus, if we wait, we can do it right. By tomorrow night we can have two Megafortresses, each with two Flighthawks. And more important, rested crews. We can bring my Whiplash people up during the day, and they can spearhead the land attack, along with your shipboard tactical teams."

"The SITT people are good to go now," said Storm, using the abbreviation for the specially trained teams of sailors who specialized in boarding ships and dealing with difficult situations on land. The letters stood for Shipboard Integrated Tactical Team. "But I don't have enough of them. I'm bringing in Marines."

"All the better."

Storm looked down at the deck. Once again Bastian was right. Attacking now might be bold, but it was also likely to be rash. Wait twenty-four hours, and they'd have more firepower. More important, they'd have a coherent plan, rather than reacting ad hoc.

Of course. That was the decision he would have made himself once he'd thought it out. He was resisting only because it was Bastian who'd suggested it.

"Be ready to act if something changes," Storm told him.

"I always am."

Jennifer watched Storm as he ended the conversation with Dog. His whole manner had changed as soon as he started talking with the colonel. She had seen the type before: fine, even supportive, when dealing with subordinates who didn't threaten them by questioning their decisions; but come on too strong, and they reacted like an elephant protecting its place in the herd.

She picked up a headset and plugged into the circuit.

"Dog?"

"Hey, Jen."

"We're set to try connecting into the Megafortress's radar system. But I'm worried that we'll throw you off if something goes wrong here."

"So what do we do?"

"It might be best to run it when Wisconsin is coming off patrol. We can isolate it to that system, then bring it up. Worst case then, we just blind one aircraft."

"Means you're going to have to wait another four or five hours there."

"There's plenty to do. I still have the Werewolves to get ready. I'm training a new pilot."

"You are?"

"Storm wants one of his crew handling them." "I warned you. How's Danny?"

"He's fine. The Marines that have been chopped to Xray Pop are the same ones who were at Khamis Mushait, so he's having a good time."

"Oh?"

If she didn't know Danny was married, she would say he had a serious crush on Lieutenant Klacker, aka Dancer. But this wasn't the place for gossip.

"All right," said Dog when she didn't answer. "We'll contact you when we're ready. Take care."

"Love you."

As always, he hesitated before responding. "Me too."

Under any other circumstances the UN session would have been a highlight of Jed's life. It certainly was a success: The council voted to authorize the use of force against "international outlaw pirates" in the Gulf of Aden, "wherever they may be found." A coalition team was authorized to stop the pirates before more civilians were harmed.

"Coalition" was a face-saving way for the others to admit that the U.S. was going to bail them out again.

But Jed didn't feel all that triumphant as the American delegation left the chamber and headed for the press conference. In fact, he felt exactly the opposite. As Ford and the others moved quickly down the hall, he found himself alone with Secretary of State Hartman.

"The picture," Jed told him.

"Which one?" asked Hartman. He nodded at someone ahead, and Jed said nothing until they were alone again. "The one on the cover of the Sunday News." "I'm not sure I saw it."

"This one," said Jed, pulling out the newspaper. The Secretary of State stopped. "That wasn't in the presentation."

"It was just — as I put it together, I made it."

"Ah, don't worry about forgetting it. The presentation was fine without it. You can't do any better than we did today, Jed. Don't worry. We got the vote. We got it. This is the way things should go — persuasion and consensus. I know you're more a force guy, but this is the future. Coalitions. You'll look back on this and be proud."

"No, I mean the photo shouldn't been part of the presentation. Or printed."

"Was it classified, Jed?" Once sleek, Hartman's face was now a series of puffy lines drawn close together.

"No. I put it together from two different pictures. It's not a real picture."

"What? You put it together?"

Two delegates were walking down the hall. The Secretary nodded at them, then gestured for Jed to step to the side with him. Jed felt as if he were shrinking as the others passed through the hall.

"What happened?" asked Hartman. The lines had formed massive blots at the sides of his face.

"I was just fooling around. I don't know how it could have gotten on the disk I gave Jake. I must've left it in the folder of the jpgs that were part of the presentation. When I dumped the folder onto the disk, it must've come with the others. It was just a number; I didn't have a thumbnail or anything."

"You have the original?"

"There is no original. I just fiddled with the shot of the tanker."

"Fiddled? Give me your laptop." "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" "It's against security procedures. I—" "Jed." The Secretary held out his hand.

"OK," said Jed. "Yeah. You're a cabinet officer. Right." He handed it over.

"You should say nothing about this until I tell you what to say. Go back to D.C. Talk to no one. Go. Now."

"Yes, sir."

Since it was Sunday, the traffic to LaGuardia Airport was relatively light. The car whisked over the Triburough Bridge, bounding over the metal work plates so roughly that Jed was jostled against the door. As they passed from the bridge to the Grand Central Parkway, he glanced at the elevated tracks above the road; a set of red subway cars were just arriving. He felt envious of the people who'd be getting aboard — whatever their day held, it was bound to be better than his.

Not that he had set out to deceive anyone. On the contrary. But obviously, inadvertently, he had. And in a big way — a big, potentially embarrassing and scandalous way.

Jed saw the picture on the front page of the newspaper at a stand as he walked inside the airport. At first he quickened his pace; then he went back and bought a copy. He bought the Daily News and another local paper as well, Long Island Newsday.

He found a spot in the terminal to sit and read through the story in both papers. Newsday, a more sedate tabloid than the Daily News, didn't have a picture at all. The News story was more sensational, but if it weren't for the photo, it would have been accurate.

A big if, admittedly.

The caption to the picture said merely that the attack was the work of pirates in the Gulf of Aden. The ship was not identified, nor was the attack dated.

Well, there had been attacks on ships, and at least two had been sunk that Jed knew of. Another had exploded and killed men aboard the Abner Read. So it wasn't that wrong.

Except for the fact that it was completely made up.

Jed looked at the picture. Between his fiddling and the newspaper's reproduction, it was barely possible to tell that it was a ship. There was no way of getting any identifiable details from it, no name or even enough of a silhouette to ID it with.

"Pretty wild, huh? Pirates on the high seas in 1997?"

Jed looked up. A man had sat down next to him and was pointing at the newspaper. He appeared to be in his forties.

"Yeah," said Jed.

"You think that really goes on?"

"They wouldn't make it up, would they?"

"The government does that all the time. But I guess they couldn't make up pictures, right?"

"No," said Jed, his voice hoarse. "No, they couldn't."

Fatigue hounded Ali's every step as he climbed down the ladder of the submarine. He'd had terrible dreams when he tried to sleep, dreams that kept him awake: Abu Qaed as a babe sucking at his mother's breast; Abu Qaed following him down a street as a young man in Cairo; Abu Qaed with him in Mecca.

The dreams all ended the same way — his son faded into a milky oblivion, and Ali lay wide awake for the rest of the night, sweating profusely.

To sleep once and for all, to lie in oblivion — that would be his paradise. To join his son, his cousin Mabrukah, countless others — that would be reward beyond all measure.

"Captain!" shouted the Libyan commander who had brought the submarine to the base. He told Ali in Arabic that he was honored to be a soldier of God.

"As are we all," said Ali.

The commander began showing Ali around the submarine, a Project 641 ship known as a "Foxtrot" in the NATO reporting system. The craft's basic design was dated; the type had first joined the Russian fleet at the very end of the 1950s, though this particular submarine had slipped into the ocean in 1966. Just a few inches shy of three hundred feet, the sub displaced 2,475 tons once submerged; she could dive to at least 985 feet and make about fifteen knots while submerged. She could run submerged for as many as five days, though her range was extremely limited beneath the water — at two knots, she could go perhaps three hundred miles before her batteries gave out completely. Her range on the surface, however, was an impressive twenty thousand miles, a good distance for a diesel-powered submarine. The craft also had snorkeling gear, which allowed it to run its engines while submerged; the captain referred to it as a "low observable" mode.

The captain showed Ali to the sonar room, boasting that the submarine had been updated with a full range of Russian equipment, including gear found in much newer boats. The batteries were the same as those used in the improved version of the class, the Project 641B, and a variety of techniques were employed to decrease its sound, from an improved propeller system to the sound-deadening material that covered nearly every visible surface.

Ali paused at the steering station of the submarine. To the uninitiated, which included him, the control area was a jumble of boxes and controls, wheels, levers, and dials seemingly arranged in an incoherent jumble. But that was nothing compared to the jungle of wheels nearby that controlled the valves for the high pressure air and trim manifolds. These controls were necessary for stabilizing the submarine, allowing it to dive or surface. The blue and red valve handles looked like intertwined spider nests.

"The small size of our crew gave us some difficulty on the voyage," said the captain. "If we could have two dozen more men to train—"

"How many men do you have?"

"We made the sail with thirty-eight. It was very difficult at times. Ordinarily, seventy-eight men take the craft into battle. We can do with a few less, but—"

"If you made it all that way with only thirty-eight men, you will be able to do the same here. Besides, there is no time to train them. By this time tomorrow you will be under way. The cruise will not require a relief crew, I assure you."

"We would value action," said the captain finally.

"You will have plenty. An aircraft carrier is making its way down from the Suez Canal. It will be in the Gulf of Aden at dawn the day after tomorrow."

They moved to the chart table, where the Libyan captain brought out a chart of the gulf area. The maps were not very good — surely another sign that Allah had guided the man here.

"I will get you another set before we sail," Ali assured him. "But for now, these will do — we will sail to the eastern end of the gulf as swiftly as possible. It is several hundred miles." He pointed to 'Abd al Kuri, a small island roughly seventy miles east of the tip of Somalia. Allah had given him a plan overnight — in compensation for the dreams, perhaps. They would strike where the carrier least expected it: at the end of the passage through the gulf. The other ships would lure the carrier to an attack, allowing the submarine to close in with its torpedoes. Sharia would launch its missiles at the same time — the Ark Royal would be overwhelmed.

"I have spies all along both coasts, and among the traffic in the gulf," Ali told the submarine captain. "They will give us his location without trouble. We will then make an attack."

He described the three-tiered attack he had mapped out in general terms, giving the submarine commander enough information so he would know his duty, but not enough to scuttle the missions of the other ships if he was captured. The Sharia, fueled and disguised as a benign pile of junk ready for the salvagers' blowtorches, would put out to sea at dusk on its slow trek eastward. The rest of the fleet would slip out a few hours afterward. The entire flotilla would be gone within thirty-six hours.

"It is mostly a matter of timing," added Ali. "Once things begin, it follows the clock. There will be no need for communications. And no possibility of it. But we will succeed."

"God willing," said the captain.

"I have no doubt that he is willing."

"Nor do I." The captain looked at the chart. "We will be sailing more than five hundred miles."

"It will be somewhat more," said Ali.

"We will have to go on the surface during the night to accomplish this. It is a risk we must take now," said the captain.

Ali folded his arms, studying the captain's face. His assessments were correct, and he seemed aggressive. His passage here, however, had demonstrated caution in the extreme.

Which was the true man?

The answer could be seen in the gaze at a chart or the knitting of a brow. Ali would have to trust that the man who spoke of God's will was the truer — or that God would take a hand when necessary.

"There is an American force in the waters. They are a serious concern, far more than the British," said Ali. He showed the submarine captain where Satan's Tail normally patrolled. "He cannot go into the coastal waters," said Ali. "As long as you stay close to the coast, he cannot attack you. He may follow, though. We will use that to our advantage if it happens."

Ali outlined his plan. Tomorrow afternoon a pair of patrol boats would head a few miles to the west and then cut directly north across the gulf toward Yemen. The submarine would sail at dusk, followed by two other patrol boats that would shadow him. A few hours later a second group of patrol boats would go across the gulf, with the Sharia following roughly the same route the submarine did. Ali would follow in the large amphibian ship's path.

Most likely the Americans would attack the first group of patrol boats as they headed toward Yemen or soon afterward. If this happened, the submarine would have clear sailing. The next possibility was that those boats and the submarine would be missed; the second wave of patrol craft would draw the Americans' attention. The third possibility was that the Americans would detect the submarine and follow it.

"Their sensors are not very good in the shallow water," boasted the submarine captain. "I have sailed right past American ships in the Mediterranean many times."

"This is not the Mediterranean, and you have not dealt with this ship and its commander before," said Ali. "Do not be overconfident. Satan's Tail is a ship like no other you have ever seen. The other day one of my vessels fired eight Exocet missiles at it, and it survived."

"We will do better if we come up against it."

"No. You must stay near the coast. Keep in the shadow of the Karkaar Mountains. Do not give them a reason to come for you."

"If they attack me?"

"If they attack you and you have no other choice, then you may engage. But your first mission is to get away." Ali looked down at the chart. "I will get them if they interfere. I will find a way."

"Let me show you the rest of the boat," said the Libyan.

They went through the forward spaces. Some of the equipment had been updated; even the older gear was clean and freshly painted, a sign of discipline that pleased Ali, for to him it meant not simply that the captain paid attention to details, but that the crew paid attention to the captain. This was another of the lessons he saw from the Italians, in going from ship to ship in their fleet — one could measure the crew by the captain, and vice versa.

The tour continued to the forward torpedo room, where the large tube openings protruded from the wall like the stubby teats of a goat. There were six firing tubes, three to a side.

"Only six torpedoes?" asked Ali. "I was told you would supply more," said the captain. "I do not have Russian torpedoes. Nor anything large enough for these tubes."

The submarine used a standard Russian design, twenty one inches, or 533mm, in diameter. The torpedoes that Ali had were Italian A244s — a very versatile weapon, as its adaptation to his boats and tactics had shown, but at 12.75 inches, a much smaller and lighter torpedo.

"Perhaps we can modify the tubes," suggested the captain. "The Russians have done so."

He is optimistic by nature, thought Ali. That would be useful in battle.

"There isn't time for that," said Ali. "Six will have to suffice."

Jed took the Metro from the airport and walked the five blocks from the Metro, stopping first to grab the Washington Post—no picture on the front or inside the newspaper, where the story played at the top of the international section.

Standing at the register waiting to pay, he glanced sideways toward the coolers at the six-packs of beer.

"Maybe later," he said out loud. He wasn't much of a drinker.

"Later?" asked the clerk.

"Just the paper," said Jed. He took his change and walked the five blocks home. His mood swung from anger at himself to depressed disbelief.

How could he have been so stupid?

Why the hell had he made the picture in the first place? He was an assistant to the National Security Advisor of the United States, not a member of the Harvard Lampoon.

Damn, I'm a jerk, he told himself. I deserve to get booted across the Potomac.

And I will be. Probably by the President himself.

The answering machine was blinking at him when he got in: twelve calls.

That wasn't a record, but it was close for a Sunday. He hadn't turned on his phones since he'd left the UN; he did now, and saw that each had nearly as many calls.

Jed put them down on his bed and stood over them.

I'm either going to deal with this, he thought, or I'm not.

I am going to deal with this.

His house phone rang and he jumped, but made no effort to get it.

Man, what are my parents going to say? And Colonel Bastian? And Zen? What is my cousin Zen going to say?

He's going to say I'm a jackass.

Whoever called hung up without leaving a message.

Zen would sit there in his wheelchair, shake his head. Then he'd mutter something like, "Little Jed, Little Jed, Little Jed."

Then he took me out to shoot some hoops…

It really had happened that way, when Jed got in trouble as a senior in high school, caught smoking a marijuana cigarette in the school bathroom — only his second time ever smoking dope, and of course he got caught. He'd thought that was the end of the world.

It was, then. Zen's appearance in his uniform, fresh from the Gulf War — God, he was a sight, standing in the door. Standing…

What would Zen say now?

He'd say get off your ass and deal with it. If I can deal with being in the f-in' wheelchair, you can deal with this, asshole.

Jed picked up the sat phone and started checking his messages.

"There's a mooring area for abandoned ships at the western end of the little inlet there," said Dog, talking to the crew of Megafortress Delta One as he prepared to hand off the patrol to the other crew. "The submarine is across the arm of the bay, in this area here. It looks like a manmade cave, with just enough clearance for a small vessel to get in. According to what we've been able to dig up at Dreamland, the Italians found it in 1940 or 1941 and began modifying it for use as a submarine pen. Eventually it was abandoned. The submarine is there along with two patrol boats. Piranha is right here, about a hundred feet from the mouth of the cave. At least one patrol boat is sitting with these civilian boats in this area, and one of the moored ships isn't a wreck. We'll have fresh satellite intelligence in a few hours, but from old snaps, we think the headquarters area is over here, below the cliffs."

Dog added that there was a legitimate port nearer to Karin, a few miles away; at least one patrol craft was hiding there as well.

"More than likely there are ships and patrol craft hidden in different spots all along the coast," he added. "But I don't want to send a Flighthawk over, on the chance it'll tip them off. We'll wait until we're ready to deal with whatever is going on. Your job tonight is to stay far enough away that they can't see you, but close enough so you can react if something happens. No overflights, no combat if at all possible."

Dog continued, passing along the frequencies that were being used by the Abner Read and the other ships, emergency landing fields, and the other necessary minutiae of a successful mission.

Zen swept the Flighthawk toward the coast as Dog finished up his brief with the crew of the Delta One. The Flighthawk pilot aboard Delta One, Captain Eric "Guitar-man" Mulvus, had seen action as an Army helicopter pilot in Panama and the Gulf War, left the regular Army, somehow managed to get into the Air Force Reserve, hopscotched into an ROTC program, and emerged as an F-16 pilot. Clearly a finagler, Guitarman's real claim to fame was lead guitarist in a pickup band known as the Dream Makers. He was a decent Flighthawk pilot, though this was his first mission in a combat zone.

Zen slid down to fifteen hundred feet, gliding along the coastline. While they were giving the submarine base a wide swath and avoiding any chance of tipping the pirates off, Dog had decided there was nothing wrong with surveying the coastline well to the east as they went off duty. Starting about fifty miles from the cave where the sub was hidden, the Flighthawk would survey the coastline to the Indian Ocean with its infrared video camera. Even if they didn't spot anything, the survey would form a baseline for future operations; the computer would review the recorded images and flag what had changed.

Zen settled onto a path about a quarter of a mile north of the coast. During the sixteenth century, Somalia was a flashpoint for Christian and Islamic cultures. Islam dominated the cities and areas on the coast where Zen flew, and Christians dominated the interior. The severe terrain kept relations between the two religions manageable, isolating the communities and weakening the appetite for conquest. Still, there had been many fights over the centuries; domination by one group or the other had not halted the flow of blood, nor, to be fair, did the sharing of a common religion prevent murder or depredation.

Somalia had been divided in two during the nineteenth century, with the British dominating the northern coast and Italy the eastern, including the tip of the Horn of Africa. In the early days of World War II, Italy had seized British Somaliland; in 1941 the British took it and the rest back. The country's history after the war was partly cruel and partly confused, with the UN Security Council placing Italy in charge of the southern portion and Britain retaining the north, against the wishes of both the people and the UN. Unification, revolution, alliance with the Russian communists, chaos, hunger, and disaster had been the lot of the people ever since. The UN's effort to fight starvation in the early 1990s had ended in disaster for the U.S. when an Army unit tried to arrest followers of a warlord; the bungled politics surrounding the affair was one of many issues that had helped President Martindale win election. But the incident also convinced the UN to pull out, making ordinary Somalians victims once more.

That's always the way it is, thought Zen. The little guy takes it in the ear.

His father used to say that all the time. That's why you don't want to be a little guy.

Zen hoped that wasn't the real lesson to be drawn, though sometimes it was hard to argue against.

The Flighthawk chugged along, not caring a whit for history or injustice. A large vessel sat in the water off the left wing. The infrared image seemed a little off as Zen passed. It took him a moment to realize that the ship's image had been fairly uniform; there were no hot spots, which you'd expect if the engines were running.

"Wisconsin, this is Flighthawk leader," said Zen. "Looks like I found that converted oiler we saw the other night. It's dead in the water. I'm going to take a close-up look at it."

"Roger that, Flighthawk leader. Something up?"

"Not sure."

The ship seemed dead cold, the only heat the lingering warmth of the sun. And it was high in the water.

"Maybe we didn't save it after all," said Zen after a second pass. "Maybe they had already taken it, got the fuel off, then brought it here. I think we ought to have somebody check it out."

"Agreed," said Dog. "I'll dial it into Storm. Stand by."

Danny stared at the hologram, which showed the likely location of the pirate camp near a village on the coast and just below a sharp cliff. A sequence of satellite photos had been used to form the basic layout, focusing on three old buildings across from a mooring where there had been occasional activity over the past several weeks. The old ships in the harbor gave the pirates good hiding places and made it difficult to flush them out if they managed to take positions there. While none were visible from the photos, the Abner Read would begin the engagement by pummeling the old hulks and neutralizing the possibility. The ship would wait for the submarine to come out of the cave; the shallow water as well as a breakwater and two old wrecks near the entrance prevented an easy torpedo shot.

The ground team would prevent escape by land and secure whatever the pirates had onshore. The old village had been largely abandoned and could be isolated by capturing a small bridge at the southern end accessible from the water; with that out of the way, the main force could concentrate on the buildings directly across from the mooring. The Marines and Danny Freah's Whiplash team would land at the top of the cliff and rappel down from two different points to press home the attack. The troops could be deposited as the Werewolves blazed in from the oceanside. Between the high-pitched whine of the robot helos' rotors and the Abner Read's exploding shells, the Osprey's approach would be difficult to hear.

"They most likely have at least a token watch in this area up here," said Danny, pointing to a ridge just behind the point of the cliff. "We have to find out before we attack. We can send a Flighthawk over shortly before the attack and look at the infrared camera. That'll show us where everything is. We can have it orbit during the operation, showing us what's going on."

"We need at least a token force to come in off the shore to the west," said Dancer. "Otherwise they can just filter down here and get away. And just for good measure, we should put people on this side of the village to the east as well. We're looking at three heavily armed teams, lots of firepower, support from those robot helos. If there are two hundred pirates in there—"

"I doubt there are two hundred," said Danny. "Not even a hundred."

"We still need more people," said the Marine lieutenant. Danny found himself admiring her professional skepticism. Too often junior officers simply parroted what their superiors drew up.

And she was good-looking when she was skeptical.

"We can always use more people," said Danny. "But the technology will let us leverage what we have."

"I'll take two boots on the ground over a silicon chip any day," said Dancer.

"We can use the SITT teams onshore," said Storm. "In a pinch we can make a shore party from some of the people on Shark Boat One. They should be able to handle the western escape route. The Shark Boat can be operated with a minimal crew and still provide fire support."

They worked the changes into the computer driving the holographic display. The elements snapped in: a dozen men down each side of the cliff, with a team at the top of the cliff to keep them secure; two fire teams on the shore below, a Flighthawk for reconnaissance, the Werewolves for pinpoint fire support, the Shark Boat to provide support and cut off any retreat, the Abner Read to methodically wipe out the wrecks and any other defenses that turned up.

It looked like it would work. But it was a complicated plan, and Danny would have much preferred to rehearse it a few dozen times before the main event, especially given the fact that his men and the Marines had never worked together before.

"What are you thinking, Captain?" asked Dancer.

"I'm thinking I'd like a chance to work with you guys before we do this, just to make sure we're all on the same page," he said.

"I wouldn't mind that," answered Dancer. "But I don't think we can tell the pirates to hold in place for six months."

"I'll settle for three days." Danny turned to Jennifer Glea-son, who was standing at the side of the room, working on one of the computing units. "The Werewolves will be operational in time, right, Jen?"

"Oh, yeah," she told him, in a voice that clearly indicated she was not happy. "I have some tests to run, and then we'll finish training our pilot."

"You're not flying them yourself?"

"Captain, if you want to discuss tasking, I'll be available following our planning session," said Storm.

"Captain Gale, there's an urgent communication from the Dreamland aircraft Wisconsin for you, sir," a sailor said.

They turned toward one of the screens at the front of the room, where Dog's helmeted head appeared.

"Storm, this is Bastian. We have a ship dead in the water that looks as if it's been abandoned. It's the oiler we spotted the night of the battle. We think you should send somebody to check it out."

Danny watched Storm scowl. The Navy captain went to the holographic display without saying anything.

"Hey, Colonel," said Danny.

"Danny."

"Where exactly is it?" snapped Storm.

Jennifer glanced at the hologram, then tapped something on her laptop. A black box appeared near the coast about fifty miles west of the pirates' camp; it blinked yellow for a few seconds, then turned red. It was about a hundred miles east of them, in territorial waters.

"That's it," she said.

"I'll send one of the Shark Boats," said Storm. "OK, Bas-tian. Good work."

"Jen, we're ready for that diagnostic series," said Dog without acknowledging Storm's comments.

"Coming up," she said, pulling a seat over. "But the fact that I was able to add that information to the display means we're going to come through with a hundred percent. The Megafortress sensor data is now available on the Abner Read's network."

"Let's run the tests anyway."

"Ready whenever you are."

"I have an idea," Danny told Storm. "What if Sergeant Rockland and I take some of the Marines and your SITT unit out in the Osprey and run an operation to board the ship? It's not exactly a dress rehearsal, but we'll be able to work together for a little, see if we're going to have any major problems. It would at least let us get our feet wet together before the main event."

"I like that idea," said Dancer.

"So do I," said Storm. "Good idea, Captain."

"What do you think, Colonel?" asked Danny, turning to the screen.

"Sounds good to me, but it's not my show."

"That's right," said Storm. "I call the shots."

Dog cleared his throat. "And Delta One is the aircraft that will be on patrol. You'll have to alert them. I'm turning you over to the copilot, Jen; I've got some things to take care of here."

"I can't believe you did that," said Freeman over the scrambled line.

"I know it was stupid, sir. It was idiotic and childish and I have no defense. I should not have made the image."

"You shouldn't have given your laptop to the Secretary of State," said Freeman.

"He kind of demanded it," said Jed, surprised that Freeman was focusing on that. "I made sure the drive was totally wiped before I left for New York. I always run the shredder program. You know, in case something screws up and it gets, um, like lost. The only stuff on there was the presentation."

"You should not have handed over your laptop."

"He was pretty adamant. I guess you could say he was ticked."

"Jed, when you get that laptop back — if you get it back— anything could be on it. Anything. You'd have no proof of anything."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Look, you're a bright kid. You know technology and you know a lot about how countries can use it, and you deal with the people at Dreamland and the other military pretty well. General Clearwater down at CentCom was asking about you just the other day. But you have to understand, son — this is Washington. You cannot trust anybody. Do you understand?"

Including you? thought Jed, but he kept his mouth shut.

"As for the picture," continued Freeman, "as for the picture… "

"I know, I know."

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"Should I write up my resignation?" Jed asked finally. "Should I, like, make a statement about what happened or something?"

"That would be the worst thing to do," snapped Freeman. "Especially with the Senate hearings coming up. They'll subpoena you for sure."

"But if I just said what happened, maybe said it now before the hearings—"

"It'll call attention to it, people will question the Security Council decision, the vote may be reversed — frankly, at this point, I'm not sure anyone would believe that it was innocent."

"It was."

"I don't want you to talk to anyone," said Freeman. "Let's do this — you're on vacation right now, until further notice. OK? Vacation? Which means, talk to no one. No one. Be in my office tomorrow morning at seven. We'll figure out what we have to do."

"Should I–I mean, I have to tell the President, right?"

Freeman didn't answer.

"I should tell the President, right?" said Jed.

"Talk to no one, until you talk to me. Be in my office. Seven sharp. Get some sleep, Jed," he added, softening his tone. "Get some sleep, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're not going to do anything rash, right, Jed? This isn't — it's not that bad." "What would I do?"

"Just be in my office. Relax, don't talk to anyone, and be in my office. We'll work it out. Seven a.m. You understand?" "Yes. I'll be there."

Boston steadied himself at the side of the ramp at the rear of the Dreamland-modified Osprey, waiting for the go-ahead.

"Figure the water's going to be warm?" he asked.

"As warm as Lake Michigan in July," answered Danny.

"That's what I was afraid of," said Boston.

A tone sounded in their headsets. The jumpmaster took a step forward and pushed out the uninflated raft package. Boston and the Marine who was going out with him followed, stepping off into the water.

The Osprey lifted upward as the rear panel began to close. Danny went back and joined the team waiting to rappel to the deck of the oiler. As he reached the door where the rap-pelling lines had been prepared, Danny saw a Werewolf whip toward the side of the ship. The two gunships were providing cover as the team descended to the open deck a few yards from the bow.

"Marines — let's make your mothers proud," said Dancer.

Make your mothers proud? Women certainly brought a different perspective to operations, thought Danny as he waited for his turn to rappel down to the deck.

It came quickly. They weren't as high over the ship as he thought, and he hit the deck about a half second early, stumbling but then catching his balance. The ship rolled ever so slightly to his right, and Danny trotted after the others who were racing toward the superstructure. The Marines had radios, but couldn't tie into the Dreamland discrete-burst system. Danny and Boston got around this by using Marine headsets to talk with the Marines and relay messages through their Dreamland system back to the Osprey and the Abner Read. The ship could monitor everything that was going on through the video and infrared cameras in the Osprey. Danny could even give Storm a ground-level view by punching the switch at the bottom of his smart helmet.

Make that a ship-level view.

Dancer had told Danny that the Marines had practiced ship boarding "once or twice," but it looked to him like they did it every day. They had already swarmed the deck area and were now taking over the superstructure, a rectangular collection of spaces that rose about four stories over the main deck. The men said very little, using grunts more than words. The earpiece Danny had been given was impossible to wear comfortably beneath his smart helmet, and he finally had to take it off, wedging it at the back in a position that was only marginally better. He couldn't hear much of what was being said.

A pair of muffled explosions announced that the team tasked to take over the bridge had just done their thing, crashing in with the aid of a small amount of explosives and flash-bangs. Danny turned around to make sure the rest of the team had gotten on safely, then ran along the side of the ship, leaning against the rail, his MP-5 ready, its crosshair a dot in his visor.

Something blared in his headset. He pulled the Marine unit out, and after fiddling with it a few minutes, realized it had malfunctioned. He pulled the smart helmet back on and stood tensely near the rail as the rest of the team went about its business. Finally, a Marine came nearby and Danny gestured for him to stay close so he could communicate with the rest of the team. He pushed the helmet back on his head, an awkward compromise.

"Dancer has a communication for you, sir," said the Marine, holding out his headset.

"Bridge is secure," said Dancer. "No one here. No wonder they didn't answer the radio — it's gone. Blood all over the place," she added before he could acknowledge.

"Remember the booby-traps," Danny reminded the others. "Go slow, go slow."

The first rushes of adrenaline fading, the boarding party moved through the ship methodically.

"Looks pretty boring up there," said Boston on the Dreamland circuit.

"Not as boring as down there," Danny replied, pulling the helmet down.

"I figure I want it boring. Say, they ought to see if they can get a more powerful motor," added Boston. "This little putt-putt barely goes two knots."

"You thinking of doing some waterskiing?"

"I had a mind to it, Cap. Maybe I'll lasso one of the Werewolves and let it pull me around."

Danny moved around to the stern, looking at the darkened coast in the distance. They'd be there tomorrow.

He worked to focus on the job at hand, walking with his new communications aide toward the stern of the ship. Two young Marines had taken posts there. They were both very young — nineteen, if that — kids trying to act nonchalant on what was probably the closest they'd come to real action in their brief military careers.

He nodded to them, saw their tight smiles. He began seeking out the rest of the team, intending to make personal contact with as many as possible. It wasn't important tonight, but it would seem like a luxury tomorrow. He wanted the people working with him to know who he was, to remember they could count on him — and to do what he needed them to do when people were shooting at them.

Danny worked his way all the way around the ship and up to the bow before Dancer called in from below.

"We found some of the crew," she told him. "Down in the engineering space. They're all dead, Skipper. Blood everywhere. Been dead a while. Smells like hell down here."

"All right. Take some pictures, see if you can find the log, take pictures of its entries, then let's saddle up. Nothing more for us to do here."

So why did the photo only appear in the Daily News?

And why was it no longer on their Web page?

Jed got up from his desk, rubbing his eyes as he walked to the kitchen. He'd been surfing the net for the last four or five hours. The picture had all but disappeared — if you didn't count the million or so print versions that featured it on the front page.

He reached into the refrigerator and took out a large bottle of Nestle's strawberry milk. He took a slug and went back to the computer, deciding to write his letter of resignation. He sat down, called up the word processor, then stared at the blank screen for a few minutes. When nothing inspired him, he moused down to the browser and got a weather site from his favorites' tab.

It figured.

His sat phone rang, and he picked it up without thinking.

"Jed, this is Colonel Bastian. I wonder if you can get me some data on a ship… I also need better maps of the coastal area. One weird thing we're looking for is something from 1940 or 1941 that might help. See, the Italians started to build a base in British Somaliland around the end of 1940—"

"Um, I'm kind of on, uh, like on a leave thing," Jed said. "I shouldn't even have answered the phone." "Vacation?"

"It's hard to explain. I'm kind of on…leave." "What do you mean 'leave'?"

Oh, hell, thought Jed. "I screwed something up. So, I'm kind of on ice." "Like what?"

"I'm not supposed to talk about it, and I really can't. You or the people at Dreamland Command can call over to the White House and get the military liaison's office. They'll help out."

"Are you in real trouble?"

"Yeah."

Dog didn't say anything. "You want some advice?"

"I do, but — I know I can trust you, Colonel, but things are so screwed up right now."

"I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, and I don't want you to tell me, not if it'll make things worse. But in Washington it can be really hard to know who's on your side and who isn't. If you're really in trouble — and I mean real trouble — you find a lawyer. All right?"

"Yeah. That's probably good advice."

"Look, can you help me? I don't have time to spend trying to run this stuff down."

Jed sighed. "What exactly is it that you need?"

Starship told himself he was just going into the chapel because he was bored. Inside, the minister was wrapping up a sermon about David in the lion's den. Starship took a seat and listened. The minister wasn't a particularly good speaker, and the sermon itself wasn't much better.

Starship rose with the rest of the congregation, joining in a hymn, eyes wandering. When he was a teenager and used to go to church with the family on Sundays, he'd spent a lot of services this way, checking out the women nearby. There were only two in the sparse crowd, and neither would have earned higher than a four on his old scale of one to ten.

As he stood there, he realized everyone else had a hymnal. Belatedly, he reached for one and began thumbing through it. But before he could find the song it was over.

Everyone started walking out. Starship put the book down and waited for the others to pass, then shambled out behind them, bemused — church, it seemed to him, hadn't changed all that much in the few years since he'd stopped going regularly, or semiregularly.

"Welcome to our congregation," said the minister in a vaguely Australian accent. He had stationed himself near the door.

"Uh, thanks. Nice sermon," said Starship. "You only heard the tail end." "Yeah, that's true."

"It wasn't really that good, was it?" said the minister.

His honesty surprised Starship, who wasn't sure how to respond. He shrugged, then started to walk away, but something in the minister's face made him want to say something — anything — to let the poor guy know he didn't think he was a failure. "I got a question. Is it true that Muslims and Jews use the Bible too?"

"What Christians call the Old Testament. Absolutely," said the minister. "Is that your question?"

"Yeah."

"Come back and pray with us again." "Thanks," said Starship, making his escape.

"We will open Operation Bloodthirst at 2350 with the Flighthawk overflight of the base area," said Storm. He gestured to the hologram, where a simulation of the operation had begun to play. "We analyze the video feeds, then get a go/no go on the operation. Assuming a green light, Shark Boat One moves forward at 2410 and puts the first shore party into the insertion raft. The party splits up, one watching the small bridge to the village and the other moving farther east along the coast as a backstop to prevent anyone from escaping. Bombardment begins from the Abner Read. The Werewolves appear at 2415. The Osprey approaches from the south. Werewolves attack. Second shore team comes off the Shark Boat. Shark Boat One moves offshore and monitors the situation. Osprey disgorges the combined teams of Marines and Whiplash troopers."

Danny watched as the captain continued the briefing. Storm relished the spotlight; there was no doubt about that. He was the kind of guy who should be a congressman.

I'm not going to run for Congress, Danny realized. It doesn't fit with who I am. And that means it's not my duty, no matter what other people say.

He glanced across the room at Dancer, noticing her intent gaze as Storm moved to the exfiltration.

I'm not sure exactly who I am, but I'm not a congressman.

"Shark Boat Two stays in this area to the east, watching for additional boats and mopping up anything that manages to get by the Abner Read and Boat One" continued Storm. "Are we all on board?"

One by one the different commanders checked in. Dog, who was participating by video back in the Dreamland Command trailer, grunted. The colonel seemed more tired than Danny remembered seeing him, worn down by the long missions.

That'll be me in what, ten years?

Unlikely. Oh, he might make lieutenant colonel — given his record, he ought to do so easily. But then what? The general idea would be to stick around and make full bird colonel, then go for general. But that wasn't as easy as it seemed. There was a real numbers squeeze on, and there were going to be less and less slots available at the higher ranks, especially after the Martindale administration, which was generally considered pro-military. Even now, getting the star on your shoulder could be tricky for someone who wasn't a pilot. It wasn't a written thing, and there were plenty of exceptions—plenty—but if you wanted to go to the top in the Air Force, it helped a lot to be part of the mafia.

Dog would argue that. Danny knew plenty of guys who would argue that. And hell, his record could make him a general right now, assuming he kept his nose clean and more or less played by the rules.

But did he want to be a general? Talk about being a politician.

So what would he do?

"Captain?" said Storm, looking at him.

"I think it's going to work," said Danny.

"Is Ms. O'Day there?"

"Excuse me, what?"

"This is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian," Dog told the man who had answered the phone. "Is Ms. O'Day there?" "Do you know what time it is?"

"I'm afraid it's very early," said Dog. "Unfortunately, a good friend of hers is in trouble, and I have only a limited time to talk to her about it."

"Hold on."

Dog hadn't spoken to Deborah O'Day since she left the administration. The former National Security Advisor was now a college professor in Maine. Contrary to what he had told the man who answered the phone, Dog did know what time it was there — five-thirty a.m. — but it seemed more tactful to feign ignorance.

"Colonel Bastian, Auld Lang Syne."

"Ms. O'Day. How are you?"

"Well, I'm OK, Dog. I'm guessing you're not. What's wrong?"

"A friend of ours is in some sort of trouble. Something serious enough for him not to want to talk about it."

"Who?"

"Jed Barclay." "Jed Barclay. Jed?" "He's still at the NSC."

"Oh, I know where Jed is. He's doing very well. I keep track of all my boys — even you, Tecumseh. I remember the first time I brought him into a meeting with the President at the White House. God, what an awful tie he wore." She laughed. "As I remember, Dog, you didn't have a particularly high opinion of him."

"Well, he kind of grows on you. And maybe I was wrong. You might give him a call. I happen to know he's in his apartment."

"Same number?"

"I'm just guessing, but I'd say yes." "I'll talk to him." "I appreciate that."

"How are you, Dog? How's Martindale treating you?" "Fine."

"Be careful of him, Tecumseh."

"I will." Dog had a different opinion of the President than O'Day did, but this wasn't the time or place to discuss it.

"I'm sorry about the memorial service. I couldn't have made it through. He was a great, great man." Her voice choked up. "I loved him."

"We all miss the general," said Dog. Neither of them had to mention Brad Elliott by name. Ms. O'Day had not attended the service, even though the two had been very close prior to his death.

"I'll watch out for Jed."

"So will I."

"Auld Lang Syne," said O'Day. "Auld Lang Syne."

From the point of view of the Dreamland flight crews, the mission was straightforward. They'd get to the area around 2300. Zen, aboard the Wisconsin, would handle the Flighthawk flyover of the pirate area and cover the landing. One of the two Flighthawks would be "parked" in an orbit above the battlefield, providing real-time visuals for the ground team commander, Danny Freah. The other would provide fire support. Baker-Baker would patrol farther north, watching for ships that might launch an attack from the Yemen side of the Gulf. Each Megafortress would have a Piranha operator aboard: Delaford in Baker-Baker and Ensign English in Wisconsin. The Megafortress closest to the probe would control it; at the start of the mission that would be English. Once the submarine was destroyed, the probe could be recovered, either by Danny Freah and the Whiplash team or Shark Boat One. The Megafortress weapons bays would carry Harpoon missiles exclusively. The Ethiopians had been quiet since losing their planes, and between the Flighthawks and the air defenses aboard the Abner Read, they would have plenty of cover.

"I'd put Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses in as well," said Mack, interrupting Zen as he discussed the capabilities of the other air forces in the region.

"Yeah." Zen rolled his eyes. Everyone involved in the mission — and a lot of people who weren't — had gathered for the brief, so they'd had to hold it in the common room in the administration building. "As I was saying, Yemen has been putting its aircraft on alert and turning its radar systems on and off, but they don't seem like they're interested in doing more than that. Did I mention that the Flighthawks aboard Wisconsin will be Hawk One and Hawk Two?" "I wouldn't take Yemen too lightly," said Mack. Zen ignored him.

"Hawk One and Two are mine. Starship, flying in Baker-Baker Two, will have Hawk Three and Hawk Four."

"The MiGs are pretty capable," said Mack.

"Yemen does have MiG-29s," said Zen. "The radar operators will be on the alert for that — as they have every mission."

"Pays to be alert," said Mack.

"And we will watch them carefully," said Zen. "Because of the length of the mission, we've arranged for a tanker to accompany us. We'll run the usual routine. We'll tank, gas up, head out. Tanker will come up for a second top-off after the mission concludes, or obviously if we need it earlier. Baker-Baker Two—"

"When are we going to get real names for the Megafortresses?" said Mack. "Baker-Baker Two sounds like a racehorse or something."

"We'll get new names when you start walking again," snapped Zen.

There was a hush in the room, and Zen realized he'd gone too far. But he was damned if he was going to apologize. Mack was quiet for the rest of the brief.

"All right," said Dog when they were done. "Let's clear the seas of these scum."

"I can handle the two Flighthawks, no sweat," said Star-ship, coming over to Zen as the meeting broke up.

"Do it like it's a simulation," Zen told him, gathering his papers.

"No, it's a little different," said the lieutenant. "It's like— it's different. A simulation, I mean it looks the same, but it's not. You can't really feel it."

"Don't get philosophical on me," said Zen, though he thought he knew what he meant. There was a difference, as hard as it was to put into words. "Just fly."

"I will."

"When are you going to give it up?" said Mack behind him.

Zen ignored him, snapping his bag closed. He started to wheel away, but Mack — with what must have been a superhuman effort for him — managed to cut in front of the door and block his way.

"When are you going to stop?" said Mack.

"Stop what, Mack?" asked Zen.

"Stop riding me. As soon as I say one thing—"

"You make stupid comments, Mack. It's pretty much all you ever do."

"Because I'm in a wheelchair."

"No. That's about the only good thing that's ever happened to you."

"You're an asshole."

"Excuse me, I have a mission to run," Zen told him. "Why don't you get off your ass and do something valuable?"

Starship put his hand on the back of Zen's wheelchair. "Say, Zen?"

Zen brushed his hand away. There were about a half-dozen other people still in the room, standing back uncomfortably.

"I'd walk if I could," said Mack. "I'm not faking it."

"I gotta go," said Zen, trying to squeeze by.

"Why the hell are you riding my case?" demanded Mack.

"Because you can walk, asshole." Zen spun back into the room so he could face him. "Get your butt out of that chair and walk."

"The hell with you."

"Walk!"

"You think I'm faking this?"

"It's all in your stinking ass mind. The doctors all told you — you bruised your spinal column. Nothing more. It's better now. You can walk."

"Like hell I can."

"Come on, you wimp."

Mack reared back as if to punch him.

"Go ahead," said Zen. "Hit me."

"I oughta, you bastard. You blame me for making you a cripple."

"You bet your ass I do, chickenshit. Hit me."

"Screw yourself." Mack started to turn his chair to go through the door.

Zen pushed forward and grabbed the wheel. "Hit me, you coward. Go ahead — hit me."

Mack spun around and took a swing. Though surprised, Zen ducked it easily.

"That the best you can do?"

"If you weren't a cripple I'd beat the crap out of you."

"Try it. I ain't a cripple. I ain't a fucking cripple at all. My legs don't work but I ain't no goddamn cripple. Not like you. I could crawl over there and strangle you if I wanted."

Zen saw Mack's glare tighten. He pushed his chair backward just in time as Mack threw a roundhouse — and missed, falling from the wheelchair face first on the ground.

"Lie there like the coward wimp you are," said Zen.

Mack bolted upright with a scream, launching himself on Zen so ferociously that Zen just barely kept the wheelchair upright, darting backward under the weight of Mack's blows. Strengthened by more than two years of regular, strenuous workouts, Zen's upper body was more than a match for Mack's, but even so, he had a hard time fending off Mack's blows, and the chair backed all the way to the wall, slamming against it with a teeth-jarring smash. Mack flailed and punched as Zen grabbed for a handhold. Only as Mack's fury began to exhaust itself did Zen manage to hold him upright and off him.

"You're standing, asshole. You're standing," Zen told him.

Mack looked down at his legs. He was standing, though in fact Zen was holding most of his weight. Slowly, Zen pushed him further upright. He let go with his right hand, then, looking at Mack, he let go with his left.

Tears streamed down Mack's face. He took a step— unsteady, trembling, but it was a real step.

"You're still a fucking asshole, Mack," said Zen, turning and rolling from the room, leaving Mack Smith standing on his own two feet for the first time in more than a month.