Satan's Tail

Prelude: Lost Comrades

The shock of light from the rising sun stopped Jennifer Gleason as she rounded the mountain. She raised her arm to ward off the glare, standing at the edge of the trail as her companion, Lt. Colonel Tecumseh "Dog" Bastian, continued to the pile of rocks. Dreamland — the United States Air Force High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center— stretched out before them on the floor of an ancient lake, its desert surface glowing as the pink fingers of the sun brushed back the shadows of the night. It was an awe-inspiring moment, the sort of thing that made you appreciate the enormity of creation and man's small place in God's scheme. Jennifer shuddered, humbled by the view.

The past few months had been a struggle for her, personally and professionally; they had shaken everyone at Dreamland. But standing here as the new day dawned, the scientist felt her hope and faith in the future renewed. She had come through a difficult storm, and if she was not the same person she had been before her troubles began, she was wiser and stronger in many ways.

She glanced upward, watching Dog scramble the last twenty feet to the monument they'd come to visit. It was a simple, polished stone, etched with the names of those who had died while serving at Dreamland. All were friends of hers.

Dog reached into his pocket for a small stone he'd taken from in front of his hut before they started their hike — a token, he said, of remembrance, not a fancy or formal thing, just a sign to the dead that he remembered their sacrifice. Important to him, which was what mattered.

Not a fancy or formal thing: That was Dog.

Jennifer watched as he placed the small stone in the pile at the base of the monument. His eyes had welled up, and she saw something she thought no one else in the world was privileged to see: a single tear slipping down his cheek.

Jennifer turned back to look at the base in case he glanced around and caught her staring. After a while he came over and put his arm around her waist.

"Beautiful view," he said softly.

Jennifer went to the monument and paid her own respects, tracing each name with her finger. As they started down, they talked about breakfast and how hungry they were, but soon fell silent again. The long spells of quiet walking, both of them scrambling in the same direction, apart and yet together, were her favorite part of the trips they took.

When they rounded a curve about two-thirds of the way down, a pair of robot helicopter gunships undergoing tests at one of the test ranges a mile away roared into view. The small aircraft had stubby wings and counterrotating rotors; at rest, they looked like miniaturized Russian-made Kamov Ka-50 Hokums, with wing-mounted small jet engines and a stabilizer a good distance forward of the rear tail. In flight, however, they looked like spiders with bird-shaped beaks, flitting over the desert. Because of their similarity to the Russian gunship, the aircraft had been dubbed Werewolves, the English translation of Hokum.

Dog pulled up behind her, scanning the horizon before realizing what she was watching. The aircraft began unleashing a coordinated attack on an enemy "tank" — a plywood box in a dugout ravine. Rockets spit from the pods under their forward wings—"arms," as the designers called them. The tank disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

"Good shots," muttered Dog.

"Decent," said Jennifer, whose team had helped develop the attack programs. "I could have done better."

"You're telling me you can beat the computer?"

"As if that were an accomplishment," she said. "I wrote most of the program."

"Ray Rubeo says no human can beat it."

"That's just Ray. I kind of like flying the Werewolf, to be honest," she said. "Maybe I should quit being a scientist and become a pilot full-time."

He folded his arms and smirked. "Take real flying lessons first. Then we'll talk about it."

"I may. Then that smirk will be on the other side of your face."

His smile grew wider. He leaned forward and kissed her, then started walking again.

"Good aircraft," he said. "Would've been useful in Brunei."

Jennifer turned and followed him down the trail. She could tell he was brooding on the men he had lost, in Brunei and elsewhere.

"You want to strangle the people who killed them, don't you?" said Jennifer when they paused for a rest.

"Wouldn't we all?"

"Seriously, don't you want to?"

"Of course," said Dog. He swung his upper body left, then right, loosening up his back and shoulder muscles. "But I can't. I don't have the luxury of revenge."

"It's a luxury?"

"Maybe that's not the right word," he said.

"Would you if you could? Take revenge?"

"I don't know what I'd do if I could," he said. He stared in the distance, gazing at the Werewolves; but probably not seeing them, she thought. "I've taken revenge at times," he added. "I've pulled the trigger on people. As a pilot. You go after someone who shot at your friend, your wingmate. That's revenge."

"Is it?"

"It's not enough, that's the problem," said Dog. "I could strangle each of the terrorists who fired the mortar that killed Kick, and it wouldn't be enough. You can't get enough. That's the problem, Jen. You can strangle them and pummel them and blast them to bits. It's not enough. That's the thing that gets you in the end. It's just not even—it's still lopsided."

He started walking again. Jennifer watched him, wanting to know more but sensing she couldn't, or at least that she wasn't going to learn anything more by asking questions. When they came to the ledge above the road where they'd parked, she waited as he climbed down ahead of her, watching as he found the foot- and handholds. He stared at the rocks intently, but his hands seemed to move independently, the fingers nudging into the proper spots by touch.

"I love you," she whispered, before descending on her own.