Satan's Tail

IX The Glory of God

Jennifer cringed as the Abner Read's Phalanx antimissile system began firing. The fact that the cannon was shooting meant that the missiles they had launched at the Styx had missed, despite Wisconsin's help.

"Strike!" said the defensive systems operator over the shared communication channel. The gun swirled and began firing again; it stopped abruptly, the operator realizing belatedly that the system had fired at a shadow. "We're losing track of the inputs!" the sailor said.

"Do your best," said Storm calmly. "Fire at whatever you have."

"I can help," said Jennifer, placing Werewolf Two in a hover where the aircraft was, about five miles west of the Abner Read. "The Werewolf's infrared sensors will show the missile."

"I can't safe it down to let you in," said the system officer.

"No, I'll use Wolf One" she said, already punching into the controls for the aircraft, which had just been secured for refueling when the missile attack began. "Clear the deck! Clear the deck!"

Someone shouted at her over the radio, but she couldn't tell whether it was an acknowledgment or a warning. "Clear the deck!" she repeated. "I'm launching!"

"Do what she says," snapped Eyes. He bent down next to her. "I trust you, but what the hell are you doing?"

"I can hover just above the ship and use the sensors to help sort the missiles," Jennifer explained. The Phalanx guns rattled; she revved the counterrotating blades above the Werewolf's body to life.

"The guns will shoot you down."

"No, not if I stay right above the superstructure. As far as they're concerned, the Werewolf is part of the radio mast."

She had to override the computer to take off, since the aircraft had hardly any fuel left. It rose off the deck slowly, buffeted by the wind.

"I need my laptop open where I can see it," she told Eyes. "I'm going to put the aircraft plot there and look at the radar on the main screen. Come on! Get it!"

Eyes pulled the laptop, which was already open, around so she could see it.

"Hold it for me," she said, her fingers crashing on the keyboard. "Just hold it."

"All right."

"Your contact M3—it's real," said Jennifer, her head swiveling back and forth from the screens. "M4—shit, no, M5! M5 is real. M5!"

"Missiles in the air!"

"M3 and M5."

The ship's guns rattled so harshly that the ship seemed to sink low in the waves. An explosion shook the Abner Read—there were shouts and screams.

"M8! M8!" yelled Jennifer.

"Got it!"

"M19!"

The rattle intensified, then stopped. In the silent moment, the ship rose at the bow and Jennifer felt herself thrown forward against the console. As she rebounded to the deck, she heard the warhead explode toward the rear of the ship.

"One of the missiles struck the Abner Read," said Dish.

Dog didn't reply. He had just heard from Breanna that everyone aboard Baker-Baker Two was fine. Though heavily damaged, she thought the aircraft would make it to India.

It was a good distance away. But Saudi Arabia, the most logical place to land, was out of bounds, and as Breanna had argued, if the plane could make it as far as Kuwait, it would make it to India as well.

Of course, by that logic, if it stayed in the air another ten seconds, it would fly for the rest of the week. She'd volunteered to try Diego Garcia, but he ruled that out.

Dog hooked into Dreamland Command and told them he wanted to arrange a landing in India. Major Catsman switched him over to Jed Barclay, who was at the White House. Jed's face came up on the screen, a little pastier than normal.

"Jed, we need an emergency landing in India." "I heard, Colonel. The request has already been made and approved." "Thanks." "Good luck."

Someone behind Jed started to say something, but Jed cut the connection.

"Bastian — get over to Captain Gale's ship," said Balboa. "Render all necessary assistance to him…Bastian? Bastian?"

"Why isn't he answering?" asked the Secretary of State. "I killed the connection," said Jed.

Balboa exploded. "What the hell did you do that for? What the hell are you doing?"

"We're not here to run the mission for them," said Jed. "I'm strictly observing and facilitating."

"You are just an aide," snapped Balboa. "You carry my orders out."

"I'm the assistant National Security Advisor for Technology," said Jed. "And I am responsible for interfacing with Dreamland."

"This isn't a Dreamland mission. Get them back," said Balboa.

"Get them back, son," said Hartman. Jed stood up. "No."

Balboa turned to the lieutenant. "Get them back."

"Sir, I'm sorry, but for security purposes Mr. Barclay has to authorize the connection. The computer checks his voice pattern as well as his passwords. If he doesn't do it himself, it doesn't happen."

Secretary Hartman took hold of Jed's arm. "Come on now, Jed, be a good boy and do as you're told."

"Get bent," said Jed, starting out of the room.

Hartman grabbed him by the shirt outside in the corridor.

"Jed, you and I both know that you want to do as I say," Hartman said. "Now just calm down. You can't afford another screwup."

You can say that again, thought Jed, twisting away.

Mack Smith stepped back from the communications console in the Dreamland Command trailer, walking a few steps toward the center conference area and then walking back. Now that he could walk — and he could, though his muscles were stiff and sore and his back ached and his neck seemed ridiculously stiff — now that he could walk he wanted to be out there where the action was, not sitting here in the stinking trailer trying to figure out what was going on from the radio and the lousy sitrep display.

If he were out there, he'd be coordinating the aircraft better. They needed an aircraft coordinator in the Abner Read, directing the Megafortresses and the Flighthawks, and everything else, for that matter.

If they had, they probably wouldn't have lost the Osprey.

What he really wanted to do was be at the stick of an F-22, taking the MiGs down, two at a time.

Give Starship some points, though — the kid had nailed half the Yemen Air Force. Of course, he hadn't seen the MiG that nearly tore the Megafortress in two. That's what came from having Zen teach these kids how to fly.

Not that he had anything against Zen. He owed him a lot.

Did he, though? What had Zen done except be a jerk?

Well, he owed him that, then.

Mack sat down at the console. The Abner Read had been struck by a missile.

"Damn it," he said. "I ought to be there. I could have shot those damn things down."

The first report was not good. The missile had hit the hangar area, igniting the fuel there.

The next report was worse. A secondary explosion had ripped through part of the hull. They were taking on water and had to close down one of the sections below, even though there were men inside.

Most likely the men were dead, but there was no way to know.

The Abner Read listed toward starboard two or three degrees, and her bow had started to lift. Storm saw from the damage control graphic on the bridge hologram that a hatch to the compartment remained open. He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, picturing the sailors there, then moved forward to the weapons bay. He punched the code, but rather than the petty officer he expected to pick up, he found himself talking to a young sailor, Tommy Hall. He knew Hall a little better than the seaman would have wished — two days before they sailed, the boatswain's mate second class had been brought before him for discipline.

"Tommy, I need you to go to the engineering shop and find the emergency response team," Storm told him. "They're out of communication. Direct them to dog the hatch there, son. If they are not in sight, you have to do it yourself. You need to secure it, and you need to do it right now."

"Sir, there's water on the deck here, a foot of water."

Storm realized the situation was worse than he'd thought.

"Yes, I understand," he said calmly. "Go and dog the hatch while it can still be closed."

"I'm going to try, sir."

"No, son, you're going to do it. I know you're going to do it, because I'm counting on you. You're going to close that hatch and you're going to save our ship."

There was no answer. Storm felt the ship lurch; the list was getting worse.

A firefighting team reported that they were tackling a fire behind the main exhaust. The lights flickered, but came back on strong.

Storm looked at the hologram. If they didn't close off the compartment, the fuel ballast tanks and main diesel generator would be flooded. The damage done by the missile and the secondary explosion made it impossible to seal those compartments directly.

If he were the sailor, would he close the hatch, knowing his friends were inside? Even if he were sure they were dead? Even if he knew his own life depended on it?

Storm resisted the temptation to run down himself and se cure the hatch. His place was here, and besides, he knew he'd never make it in time.

Jennifer helped the corpsman carry the injured petty officer out of Tac into a small space used as an electrical shop. The corpsman checked the bandage she had used to stanch the bleeding from the man's neck.

"You did a good job, miss," said the corpsman, getting up.

"He'll live?"

"I don't know," said the sailor honestly. "If we abandon ship, I just don't know." "Are we abandoning ship?"

The man winced. "We've been hit pretty bad, and we're taking on water. But it's the captain's decision."

The voice was weak and punctuated by sobs. "I heard screaming," it said. "Did you secure the hatch?" "Yes, sir."

"Good work, Tommy. Secure the door to the compartment. Tighten it down, and come up here to the bridge."

"But—"

"I need you up here right away," added Storm. "Can you get up here?" "I'll try, sir."

"No, son, you come up here now because I need you, and because you're going to help save our ship. You're going to come here and save some lives."

"Yes, sir, I am," said the young man, just firmly enough to convince Storm that he would.

He glanced at the hologram, but already sensed that the ship had stopped settling. They were going to make it — but there was a hell of a lot of work to do.

Zen took Hawk One toward the Shark Boat, running at the craft from the east. There were two smaller craft tracking behind it — pirates chasing it off, or at least that was what it looked like.

"English, look at this screen and tell me what you see," said Zen, authorizing the feed from the Flighthawk's infrared.

"Well, if I didn't know any better," the ensign replied, "I'd say it was a Shark Boat running away from a battle. But that's impossible."

"Why?"

"For one thing, even if they had no weapons aboard, the Shark Boat could just turn around and run over them," said Ensign English. "Besides, there is no way that anyone working for Storm is going to run away from battle. The crews on those Shark Boats were handpicked, especially the captains. They'll fight to the bitter end."

"Wisconsin, this is Flighthawk leader. I have a strange situation I want to sort out. Can you reach the Shark

Boat?"

"Negative," said Dog. "Danny is going out to talk to him." "Where is Danny?" "Stand by."

The line clicked twice, and Danny Freah's voice exploded in Zen's ear.

"Something's going on with that Shark Boat," he said. "He's going out into the open water — I think he's running from us."

"I'll take a pass and put some shots across his bow."

"Hold on," said Dog. "The control buoy for Piranha was hit in the gun battle. We're going to have to drop another buoy or we'll lose it. Danny — can you wait five minutes, or is time critical?"

"Five minutes," repeated Danny. "That's OK. Yeah, all right, we need the submarine pen checked out, and the probe should go in ahead of the divers."

"All right. Give us five minutes," said Dog.

"Flighthawk leader," said Zen, agreeing.

"Two of our boats are following us, Commander," said Saed. "Should we stop for them?"

Ali stared into the blackness before him. The Ark Royal was roughly sixty miles away.

Habib had made a wondrous discovery — according to the computer, there were two American missiles aboard the ship, Harpoon missiles. Ali had not worked with the missiles himself; the Italian Navy's standard antiship missile was the Otomat, a more limited weapon. The Otomat's accuracy and effective range were affected by the radar capabilities, which limited its over-the-horizon range to roughly twenty-five miles. Ali was not sure what the range of the Harpoons would be, or whether the ship's low profile meant the reach of its radar wasn't as good.

It was all academic at the moment — Habib had not yet figured out how to use the weapon.

Better to simply take the ship into the side of the aircraft carrier and be done with it, Ali thought. Surely that was what God intended — the British would not fire on an American vessel. He would run close to it, launch the torpedoes from the forward hull tubes — those, at least, had a standard NATO command interface — and then ram the British ship, commending his soul to God.

Sixty miles — given their present speed as well as the aircraft carrier's toward them. It would be over in a half hour, perhaps less.

And then he would join his son Abu, finally at rest. Was it a sin to think of his son when God's sword was in his hand?

"Commander, should we stop for our men?"

"It serves no purpose," said Ali. "Keep on the present course, as fast as you can possibly go."

They were gaining on the Shark Boat, but very slowly. Danny's fuel gauge showed he was below a quarter tank; it was very possible he would run out of fuel before they reached it.

"Colonel, if the pirates hijacked the Shark Boat, we should just blow it out of the water," said Danny.

"I don't disagree," said Dog over the Dreamland frequency. "But we're out of Harpoons. We have no more weapons aboard."

"What about the Abner Read?"

"I have to check their status, but it wasn't good a few minutes ago. They're fighting to save their ship."

"I have bullets," said Zen. "I'll turn them into Swiss cheese if I have to."

"Slow them down, so we can get a boarding party on," said Danny. "We'll retake the ship."

"I think that's going to be too risky, Danny," said Dog.

"If you shoot up the ship, our people on it will die. There were five men aboard when the search parties left to search the area where the Osprey went down."

"I don't know if it makes sense to risk your lives to save people who already might be dead," said Dog.

When Jennifer made her way back to the Werewolf station, she found that Werewolf One had been taken down by the explosion. But Two remained in its orbit to the west, still circling in the holding pattern she'd given it. Roughly twenty minutes of fuel sat in its tanks, but there was no way it was going to get back down to the wrecked deck of the Ab-ner Read. In the meantime, the datalink into the Dreamland circuit was offline; she isolated the problem and decided she could fix it — maybe — with a simple reboot of the computer controlling the communications link.

She pulled on a headset and listened, waiting for a chance to ask Storm about it.

The captain sounded as calm as ever — more so, actually. The men responded quickly, and she realized that they thought they were going to make it.

How much of the credit for that belonged to Storm? Some, at least. His calm demeanor as well as his orders had helped steady them during the worst crisis.

"Captain, I have two questions," she said finally.

"Yes?"

Jennifer briefly explained the situation. "We've temporarily lost the connection to the Dreamland system, but I think I can get it back simply by rebooting and doing a new initialization. There's a slight risk that it'll wipe out everything, including your radio."

"How slight?"

"Two percent."

"Do it. Next question?"

"Werewolf Two is nearly out of fuel. If it would be useful to survey the ship, I can fly it overhead and try and get the infrared directly. Otherwise, I should try and land where it can be recovered later."

"Can you land it on the Shark Boat covering the operations?" Storm asked.

"Possibly. It depends on whether I can get the connection to the Wisconsin's radar back or not. I have a pretty limited viewer aboard the helo itself."

"Captain, Shark Boat One is the boat we're having trouble reaching," said Eyes.

Before Storm could answer, someone else broke onto the line, talking about damage to the ship, and Storm began talking to him. Jennifer went ahead with her reboot; rather than bothering with a full diagnostic, she tried plugging into Danny ashore.

"Whiplash leader, this is Werewolf. What's your status?"

"We're ten or fifteen miles from shore, pursuing the Shark Boat," said Danny, booming into her headset loud and clear. "What's going there?"

"We've been heavily damaged, but we're still afloat," she said. "Are you saying Shark Boat One has been taken by the pirates?"

"We're not sure, but it looks that way."

"I can get the Werewolf there," she said. She hit the feed — she had voice communications, but no visuals on the Dreamland channel. The missile must have partially damaged the satellite antennas, which had been placed in the hangar area. "I've lost the sitrep plot but I can follow the standard headings and interpret the GPS data."

"Could you buzz the ship and take a look at what's going on?" he asked.

"Yes. Give me your GPS reading so I know where I'm going."

"Stand by."

Zen checked on Hawk Two flying over the beach area in a preprogrammed mode, then went back to Hawk One, edging in the direction of Shark Boat One as the control buoy left Wisconsin's bomb bay.

"In the water," said Ensign English over the interphone. "We're good to go."

"Zen, let's take a look at that Shark Boat."

"Flighthawk leader."

Zen pushed Hawk One northwestward; he was roughly seven minutes from an intercept.

"Flighthawk leader, this is Werewolf."

"Go ahead, Werewolf."

"I'm headed toward the Shark Boat."

Zen smiled. "Race ya."

Danny could see the low fantail of the ship three hundred yards away. They were finally closing in on them.

Dog was right; risking the lives of the others to take the ship didn't make sense.

Still, he was boarding that ship.

He flipped the visor into the infrared scan from the Flighthawk, but the aircraft was too far to give him a useful image.

"What do you think, Danny?" asked Dancer over the team communication circuit.

"When the Flighthawk gets here, we see if we can figure out who's where on board. Then maybe we have the Flighthawk get their attention. We hop on. I don't think there's many people there — I can't see anyone on the rear deck."

"The rear deck would be pretty wet," said Dancer. "Going to be very slippery, even with no one shooting at us. Why do you think they haven't turned to fight?"

"I'm guessing they think we're on their side," said Danny. "But maybe they can't see us. Shit."

"Shit?"

"Hang on." Danny clicked back into the Dreamland frequency. "Jen — is the Shark Boat still getting signals from the Abner Read?"

"I don't know."

"Well, check. And have them cut if it is."

"Will do — look, I'm about ten minutes from you."

"We'll be here."

Ali looked at the screen.It seemed too good to be true — the target box squared and locked on the aircraft carrier.

The screen blanked, then came back.

It had to be the target.

"You're sure it's the aircraft carrier?" he asked Habib. "I think so, Commander." What did he have to lose?

The element of surprise. The Ark Royal showed no sign that it knew they were there. Ali knew from experience that the Shark Boat could probably avoid radar detection until the very last minute.

If he was interpreting what he saw properly, the Ark Royal had two aircraft aloft. They were flying north of the aircraft carrier near Yemen. They would probably spot him and respond if he fired the Harpoons. The British had only two escorts with her; Ali knew one would be primarily for air defense and the other antisubmarine warfare. More than likely, the Shark Boat would be a match for both in a surface encounter — but only if she were manned by a crew familiar with her weapons.

The American weapons would not miss. It was worth the risk.

There was another aircraft twenty miles to the east, close to the coast, and other icons they couldn't make out. But it was irrelevant — he had to act now. God willed it.

"Fire," he told Habib.

As his lieutenant reached for the button, the screen went blank again.

Zen slid the Flighthawk down toward the waves, riding the aircraft through two thousand feet, coming down to five hundred. The two speedboats were a hundred yards behind the Shark Boat; all three vessels were doing close to 52 knots.

The radar aboard the Shark Boat had not been activated. It had a limited antiaircraft capability — two banks of heat seeking missiles that were essentially seagoing versions of the shoulder-launched Stinger were mounted in the superstructure fore and aft. As long as the radar was off and he got in without warning, he would be out of range before the system was activated.

What he would do on the second pass remained to be seen.

"Hold on, Danny, here we go," Zen said, starting his run.

"Ark Royal hasn't picked them up, as far as I can tell," said Dish. "Hasn't picked us up, for that matter." "Let's talk to them," said Dog.

McNamara raised the British ship on the radio. The seaman on the Ark Royal was confused as to who they were.

"This is EB-52 Wisconsin," Dog explained. "Part of Xray Pop Combined Action Group."

"Are you the aircraft that was attacked by the Yemen planes?"

"Negative," said Dog. "We're pursuing an American craft that may have been taken over by pirates." "Pirates?"

There was a pause. A new voice came on the radio. "This is Captain Joyce. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?"

"Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian, U.S. Air Force. There's an American vessel approaching you that we believe may have been hijacked by terrorists." He checked the screen and read the coordinates.

"Impossible," said the captain. "I'm looking at the radar now. There's no ship there."

"You're going to have to believe me. If the Shark Boat has been hijacked, it's going to be very hostile. It may attempt to attack you."

"A dark day for him if he tries."

They were forty yards, maybe thirty, from the ship. Danny had slung one of the AK47s over his shoulder, and stuffed some extra magazines in his vest. He pulled himself up over the windscreen, steadying himself so he could jump onto the bow.

Suddenly he lurched forward, the boat slowing.

"Damn, we blew the engine," said the sailor at the wheel. "Damn."

No matter what Habib tried, he couldn't get the screen from the external source back on the display. Ali looked up and recognized the shadow as it leapt above the bow: It was one of the tiny aircraft that had buzzed them the other day in the gulf.

Satan's Tail had survived the attack somehow. He went to the side of the bridge, looking into the darkness.

If God willed it, he would prefer, greatly prefer, battling the American.

But only if God willed it.

"Can you get the screen back?" he asked Habib.

"I can't seem to."

"The missiles should have a direct mode," Ali told him. "A fail-safe."

"It would require the radar, if it works at all." "They must already know we're here. Turn it on."

Zen banked back toward the Shark Boat. There were people at the bow. As he approached, red lights began to flicker.

Automatic rifle fire, he realized after he passed. "I'd say they're definitely hostile," Zen told the others. "Even for the Navy."

"I can see the target, but the computer won't allow me to lock," said Habib, continuing to work on the problem.

"This line shows where it will lock," said Ali, guessing by comparing it to what he remembered — not from the Italian missile systems, but from some of the battle simulations. "This shows where the target will detect us. Clever."

"Five more miles, then, before we can launch."

"Yes. Fire when you are able," said Ali.

"The station controls other weapons," added Habib, switching the panel into something entirely different. "There's an air defense module."

"Use it."

Danny slammed his head against the dashboard of the speedboat. The Shark Boat was already pulling away.

"Werewolf inbound," said one of the Marines in the boat.

Danny turned around. The heavy whomp of the twin-bladed aircraft resonated against the wood of the ship.

"Werewolf, I have a problem here," said Danny.

"What's up?"

"I–Is your navigation gear back?" "Negative, but I can see you with the infrared." "I want you to pick me up and drop me on the rear deck of the Shark Boat."

Jennifer didn't answer. "Jen?"

"I don't know if I can, Whiplash."

"Sure you can. Hover overhead and I'll grab the skid. Hurry, we're only a couple hundred yards away." "Danny—"

"Come a little to your left," he said, moving out toward the stern.

"What are you doing?" Eyes asked Jennifer, looking over her shoulder.

"We're taking back the Shark Boat," she said, punching the code to override the safety protocol so the Werewolf would get close enough to Danny for him to grab it.

"I don't remember giving that order. Storm has to approve all action."

Jennifer looked up at him. "Does everyone who serves under him need orders to do the obvious?" Eyes took a deep breath, then turned away.

Danny hadn't counted on the wash from the Werewolf's propellers. The gust pushed him down and to the side of the boat. He swung his hands madly, finally grabbing one of the skids. He thought it was too late, felt himself sailing to his right and braced himself for an unwelcome bath. But then he realized he'd managed to grab the skid of the helo.

"I hope this works," he said to himself.

"I hope so too," said Dancer, hearing him over the communications channel. "We'll be right behind you."

The Shark Boat had a 25mm cannon on its forward deck, a devastating weapon against the two small boats, and Zen zeroed his sights into it as he made his run head-on to the bow. The gun began to fire as Zen came in, filling the air in front of him with titanium. Zen bore down, moving just fast enough to avoid the slugs. His stream of bullets blew out the gun housing just as the system began to catch up to the Flighthawk.

He took a quick shot at the sloped bridge of the Shark Boat as he passed, then started to bank, aiming to sweep around and rake the deck. But as he did, the Flighthawk yelped — the Shark Boat had launched surface-to-air missiles.

Zen dished flares and hung on, too low and slow to outrun the SAMs. He pushed the Flighthawk hard right; one of the missiles sailed past the aircraft.

Another exploded beneath his right wing.

As the deck slowly inched in his direction, the pain in Danny's shoulders became unbearable. He felt his grip slipping.

"Hang on," he said. "Hang on."

"I am," said Dancer.

He hadn't been talking to her — or anyone — but her voice encouraged him, and there was the Shark Boat, right below him.

"Jen, I need to get down."

"I can't get too much lower."

He let go. The first thing he felt was relief in his shoulder. Then he hit the deck hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Ali looked at the screen.

"Another mile," he told Habib. "God will bring us victory."

The Flighthawk spun in midair, going through two inverts before Zen could regain control.

Besides the other damage, the explosion had jammed the control surfaces of the wing, making it difficult to control. The weapons system was offline, as the aircraft was limited to its infrared camera.

"Danny, I'm going to get the other Flighthawk," Zen said. "It's going to take a bit."

Danny didn't answer. Zen explained the situation to Dog; they'd have to double back toward the coast to get into range to take control of Hawk Two.

"I think I can put Hawk One into a wide orbit over the camp area and continue feeding infrared down. It's useless otherwise," added Zen.

"All right. We're changing course."

"What's going on with the Ark Royal?"

"I'm not sure they believe us," said Dog. "They have two Harriers and a helicopter in the air."

"Is that enough to stop the Shark Boat?" Zen asked.

"It's never worked in the simulations," said Ensign English. "If they figure out how to fire the Harpoons, that carrier's going down. And I'll only give them even odds against the torpedoes."

Danny saw a red oblong in front of him — the doorway to the ship's interior.

He pushed forward, trying to stand and grab his MP-5 at the same time. He made it nearly to the opening before he lost his balance completely and fell to the left, sliding down and landing on his back. A shadow, two shadows, loomed out of the space. The shadows had pipes in their hands.

Pirates with guns.

Danny pressed the trigger on his submachine gun. The first shadow jumped back, pulled off the side of the Shark Boat by some mysterious force. The second whirled on him, and turned from shadow to man: Danny's bullets severed his neck.

Jennifer pulled the Werewolf across the low-slung superstructure. Green lights blinked at her — muzzle flashes. She picked the aircraft's tail up and pressed the trigger to fire.

Nothing happened. She'd forgotten she was out of bullets. "Son of a bitch," she said. The gunfire continued.

"Yeah — well, you can all go to hell," she said, pushing the joystick to send the aircraft into the crowd of men firing at her.

The helicopter plowed into the forward section of the ship, exploding in a burst of flames. Ali turned away as shrapnel shattered the windscreen and the bulkhead of the bridge crumpled.

"Fire the Harpoon now!" he told Habib.

His lieutenant didn't answer. Ali turned and found him on the deck, eyes gaping to heaven.

"God wills that I do it myself," said Ali. "It is an honor."

Danny threw himself inside.

A body lay on the deck, the man he'd killed.

Someone charged from the compartment ahead of him, firing a rifle. Danny shot back, even as the bullets hit his carbon-boron vest and smacked him back against the bulkhead.

Gunfire exploded around him. He lowered his rifle, then realized the cue in his helmet's visor indicated he was out of bullets.

He dropped the MP5 and swung up the AK47 he'd brought from the boat. After the submachine gun, the Russian weapon felt awkward and unbalanced. But its bullets put down the two men who had been firing at him. As they fell, Danny dropped to one knee and reloaded the MP5.

Something tapped him on the head. Danny looked up to find a terrorist holding a shotgun at his visor, grinning.

The man reared back to fire — then flew backward.

"I'm sure your armor's good," said Dancer behind him. "But I thought it better not to find out if it was that good."

Abu wavered on the bicycle. He looked back at his father doubtfully.

"You can do it," Ali told him. They were living in Naples, and it was a windless, perfect day. He held the boy gently. "You can. Go."

The seven-year-old hesitated, but then started to pedal.

"Go," said Ali.

Quivering, Abu pedaled, his pushes becoming stronger and stronger.

Ali removed his hand and watched his son ride the bicycle on his own. Abu glanced back. His confusion turned into a smile.

The happiest day of my life.

Ali pushed the memory away, pushed everything away. The cursor was locked on the aircraft. He pressed the button, then pressed the function key to lock the second missile.

The dashboard exploded. He pressed the button to fire anyway. Someone yelled, and he heard his son calling to him, singing his name, welcoming him with great joy to Paradise.

"I'm coming, Abu," he said, rising from the console. "I am here. The glory of God is everlasting."

And then he slumped to the floor, killed by a bullet to the brain.

"Harpoon is away," Dish told Dog. "Zen, can you get it?" said Dog. "I'm not close enough."

"All right. Hang with me," said Dog, throwing the Megafortress into a hard turn back to the north. The big aircraft groaned as somewhere over eight g's pounded her body. Dog felt the bladders in his pressure suit pressing at him; the world narrowed against the sides of his head, black unconsciousness threatening as gravity tried to extract her pound of flesh.

The Harpoon flew a bit over 500 miles an hour. The Megafortress could do close to 600, and he had several thousand feet of altitude he could use to his advantage. But the aircraft carrier was only ten miles away.

"I need an intercept angle on that Harpoon," Dog told Mc-Namara. "And we need it real fast."

"Working on it, Colonel."

The course plugged into his screen. Dog compensated— he needed to get ahead of the missile and use the Stinger air mines.

"Get on the horn to the Brits and tell them not to shoot us down," said Dog. "They might miss the Harpoon, but we're a hell of a lot bigger target."

The bodies lay where they fell — fifteen terrorists and five American sailors. The ship was theirs.

Danny pulled his helmet off and looked around the bridge. Blood was everywhere. What drove people to be so crazy?

"Tired, Captain?" asked Dancer. "A little," Danny admitted.

"That was something you did with that helicopter."

"Stupid, huh?"

"Yeah. But we couldn't have gotten on the ship if those men had made it onto the deck. You took them out just in time. We owe you a beer."

"Yeah, well, I owe you two. That shotgun would have penetrated the visor."

"I intend on collecting," said Dancer. She smiled at him. "Let's see about getting this thing back. Dad said I was supposed to be home before midnight, and he's got a hell of a temper."

Dog could see the Ark Royal in his windscreen as he pushed the stick of the Megafortress forward.

"Antiaircraft system is coming up," said McNamara.

"Tell them we're friendly."

"I keep telling them that."

"They're still not locked on the Harpoon," said Dish, disgusted.

"Stinger," Dog told McNamara. "Stinger ready. Seeking."

Dog pushed the Megafortress down. To strike the Harpoon he had to get almost right in front of it and pull up abruptly. The missile skimmed along the ocean only a few feet above the waves; Dog basically had to walk his air mines right in front of it.

The ocean loomed in front of the windscreen. The altimeter in the heads-up display tumbled lower and lower— nine hundred feet, eight hundred, six hundred, five hundred…

Even in a small aircraft, pulling up from a power dive at precisely the right spot at very low altitude was not as easy as it looked. It pitted two different forces — gravity and aerodynamic lift — against each other. Often gravity won. In fact, gravity never really lost; engineers and pilots just figured out a way to hold it at arm's length.

Four hundred feet, three hundred…

The Megafortress screamed a proximity warning.

"Got it! Locked!" shouted McNamara.

"Fire," said Dog calmly, pulling back on the stick.

The nose of the Megafortress scraped the waves and the rear of the aircraft rumbled — though whether from the sound of the tail smacking against the water or the air mines exploding in the face of the Harpoon missile, who could say? The B-52's toughness was legendary, and the Wisconsin added to the legend that day, pulling herself through the air like a pogo stick as the 215 pounds of explosives in the Harpoon detonated. Dog was so busy trying to hold the plane in the air that he didn't realize at first that the Ark Royal had begun firing her Goalkeeper antiaircraft weapon at them. "ECMs," he said, banking away.

Though adopted from the American Phalanx system, the British implementation fortunately was not yet as deadly as its cousin. The Megafortress managed to escape without serious harm.

"They're apologizing profusely," said McNamara as the Megafortress cleared the cloud of bullets. "They claim they didn't see us."

"Tell them we'll send them the repair bill," said Zen from the Flighthawk deck. "And if they care to say thank-you for saving their butts, I know a base that would greatly appreciate a lifetime supply of British ale."