Satan's Tail

X Conspiracy Theories

It wasn't hard for Jed to see the President — he and the entire cabinet wanted a briefing on the gulf situation. The trick was to talk to him alone.

Jed could feel Balboa and Hartman staring at him during the whole briefing. He expected them to mention that he had pulled the plug on them, but they didn't. The Secretary of State seemed subdued, and while Balboa blustered as usual, it was more about the combined group concept and how the Navy had shown the way once again. Jed knew that wasn't exactly true — but he did think the idea of the littoral warfare craft working together with cutting-edge technology, whether from Dreamland or somewhere else, was a good one, and had been validated by the mission.

The pirate operation that had supported terrorists in the Gulf of Aden had been smashed completely. The funds to overthrow the government in Eritrea and wreak more havoc in Somalia were gone, at least temporarily. Ethiopia had been chastised. Yemen declared that the air force had mutinied and "appropriate steps" would be taken. The response was about the only comic relief the situation provided.

Unfortunately, as Hartman pointed out, a large number of people in the Horn of Africa were starving and weren't likely to get aid anytime soon. The UN didn't want to get involved; without them, organizations such as the Red Cross and UNICEF were also reluctant. No one in the room could blame them, not after what had happened in Mogadishu a few years before.

"The choices are never good choices in places like these," said Freeman, but even he couldn't make a case for mounting a major relief effort in the Horn of Africa, especially not with the situation in China and Korea still incredibly tense.

"We'll have to deal with it, sooner or later," said Martin-dale finally. "I want a plan, at least."

"We'll draw up something," said Hartman.

Jed didn't say much as the discussion turned to India and Pakistan, the next exploding hot spot. He felt tired, ready for a vacation — a long one. Very long.

And he was about to get one.

"I wonder if I could talk to you, Mr. President," he said as the others started to leave the cabinet room.

"As a matter of fact, I'd like to talk to you, young Jed," said Martindale. "In my study."

Freeman gave Jed a warning glance, but Jed ignored it. He'd made up his mind, and for better or worse, he was going to do the right thing.

That was all you could do in the end — the right thing as you saw it. Then face the consequences.

"So is it true that you told Balboa to get bent?" said the President as he sank into his leather chair.

"Um…"

Martindale laughed. "I didn't think you had it in you, Jed. You surprise me every day." "I wrote a letter, sir."

Jed reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his resignation. Martindale smiled at the envelope but didn't open it. Instead he reached into his desk and took out a copy of the Sunday Daily News.

"Tell me about this photo," said the President. "It looks like a real work of art."

"It is," said Jed, and he explained what had happened.

"You don't know the entire story, I imagine," said Martindale when Jed finished. "You know how the photo came to be on the disk — it was in your folder with the others — but I'll bet you're wondering why just the Daily News printed it." "I am."

"Ambassador Ford would like very much to be the Secretary of State." "I don't get it."

"You gave the disk to one of Ford's assistants. He printed it out, and noticed the photo that hadn't been part of the presentation. He took it to the ambassador, who decided to give his friends at the News an exclusive. A favor that he can call in later."

"Really?"

"That's his version. And I don't lie — about that." Martin-dale folded his arms. "Why were Hartman and Balboa together in the Situation Room yesterday?"

"I was wondering that myself."

"Admiral Balboa and the majority in the Senate are best friends. Which doesn't make them my enemy." Martindale smiled. "But I suppose it doesn't make them my friends, does it?"

"But Secretary Hartman?"

"Depending on whose story you believe, he's trying to keep tabs on the enemy or he's cultivating the other side because he wants to position himself for a primary."

"Which is it?"

"I'm not sure, Jed. Both, probably. This is Washington. I suspect that the story line Mr. Hartman was hoping for was that we played by the rules and actually achieved something important. A storyline I can't argue with. Especially since it worked. In this case, anyway."

Martindale reached to his desk and took out a cigarette lighter. Jed watched as he burned the letter. "I really can't afford to lose you, son."

"But—"

"Ambassador Ford made it clear to his friends at the News that the picture was classified and that giving it out was a mistake."

"That's not the truth."

"Actually, it is the truth, it's just not the whole truth," said Martindale. "If you can't live with it, then yes, you can resign. And if you want to go public and tell everyone what you did, I can't stop you and I won't. But I wish you wouldn't. I don't think you should. I don't think it was particularly smart of you to fiddle around with those photos, but…Well, let's say we all make mistakes." Martindale smiled, brushing the two curls of gray hair from his forehead. "I wish yours were the sort of mistakes I made when I was your age, let me tell you."

Jed thought that was supposed to be a compliment, but wasn't quite sure.

"Take a couple of days off, Jed, you deserve them."

"Yes, sir."

"And never, ever turn your laptop over to anyone," said the President. He reached beneath the desk and pulled it up. "Never. Not even the President. Not in Washington."

Storm made it out to the deck as the Osprey Approached. The tug had tied up next to them, but the Abner Read was in no danger of sinking. Six brave men had died in the section of the ship that flooded after the missile hit; at least one gave his life so the others aboard could live.

Jennifer Gleason stood near the landing area, waiting for the Osprey to land.

"I have to say, I misjudged you," Storm told her. "You did a hell of a job for us. Sure you don't have any Navy blood in you?"

She flicked her short hair with her hand. "Afraid not."

Storm suddenly felt awkward and tongue-tied. He grabbed her hand. "I hope to see you again." She shrugged. "Maybe. Good luck." And then she was gone.

"I think that's it for now," said Dog, wrapping up the postmission brief. "We'll stand down for the next twenty-four hours, take a little breather, relax. One thing I have to mention — there are a number of difficult situations in Asia. We may not be going directly home."

He looked around the small conference table in the Command trailer. He'd expected disappointment — but all he saw was fatigue.

"All right, then, I think that wraps it up," he told them. "Wait, Colonel, I had one thing I wanted to discuss."

"What is it, Mack?"

"Naming the Megafortresses. You put me in charge of that, remember?"

"This is not the time to play the name game," said Zen.

"I have an idea that I think everyone will agree with," said Mack. "Even Zen."

"Right," muttered Zen, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Dog looked at Mack. He was glad the pilot could walk again — but still, he wished Mack didn't always have to be Mack.

"So? Want to hear it?" asked Mack.

"Come on, I'm starving," said Breanna.

"Medal of Honor winners," said Mack. "We name the airplanes after Air Force Medal of Honor winners."

Dog looked around the room. The other officers were speechless. It was an historic moment.

"I think it's a great idea Mack," said Dog. "There's only one problem."

"What's that?"

"You thought of it." "I still don't get it." Everyone else started to laugh. "Dismissed," said Dog.

Starship found his way back to the chapel after lunch. The minister wasn't there, but the door was unlocked. He took a step inside. A Bible sat on a chair a few feet away.

Was it wrong to steal a Bible?

Starship hesitated, then took the book.

"Listen, I owe you an apology. You were right and I got mad at you. For getting on Mack's case. I was being a jerk. You were right," Zen told Breanna, pushing the wheelchair along the path. "I got way out of line."

"I don't know," said Bree. "Everybody's saying how you made him walk again."

"No, you were right. He didn't walk because of me. He would have walked sooner or later."

"Maybe he needed a kick in the butt from you to get going."

"Oh, he needs a kick in the butt. Definitely. But I was out of line. I've always been mad at him — it was when I got mad at you that I realized I was out of control."

Should he tell her that he had almost hit her? He wanted to — but he couldn't. It was too terrible.

"I know it sucks," she said, coming over. Her fingers on his neck tickled his whole body — or what still worked on his body.

Yeah, he thought. It sucks. Every day. That's the way it is.

That night, Zen lay in bed for more than an hour after Breanna had fallen asleep. A wind whipped up and a light rain tapped at the window; whether it was the sounds or the memory of the mission the day before or just too much coffee that afternoon, he couldn't sleep. He got up and made his way over to the Dreamland Command trailer, hoping to find a card game. But the Whiplash troopers had only just returned from Africa, and the only person there was Sergeant Liu. Things were so slow, he was practicing his tae kwon do while standing watch.

Liu let Zen use the computer tie-in to check his e-mail.

As it happened, he had only one item. It was from Dr. Martha Geraldo, a psychiatrist who had led the Nerve Center project, an experiment that used brain waves to help control aircraft. Zen had been one of the subjects — and almost gone insane from the drugs and experimental procedures.

Zen wheeled back from the display.

When he leaned back to write a response, his fingers trembled so badly that he had to stop twice, though all he wrote was a simple sentence: