Satan's Tail

I Gimp Boy

"Hey, gimp boy!"

Major Mack Smith stared straight ahead at Dreamland's administrative building, known as the "Taj Mahal," ignoring the razzing. He'd expected this sort of greeting, and after considerable thought decided there was only one thing to do: ignore it. Still, it wasn't easy.

Worse, though, was the indignity of being wheeled into the Taj by an airman who'd been detailed euphemistically as his bodyguard.

"Can't even push yourself up the ramp, huh? A wimp as well as a gimp."

The concrete ramp to the entrance of the low-slung Taj had been poured in several sections, and there was about a three-quarter-inch rise between the first and second. It wasn't the sort of thing someone walking would notice, but for someone in a wheelchair — especially if, like Mack, they weren't used to it — three-quarters of an inch rattled the teeth. He grimaced as the wheels cleared the curb.

"Sorry, sir," said the airman, so flustered he stopped dead on the ramp.

Mack curled his fingers around the armrests of the chair, pressing out his anger. "Not a problem."

"Sorry," said the poor kid, pushing again.

Mack's tormentor, sitting by the door to the building, laughed. "Bumpy ride, gimp boy?" he said as Mack neared.

"Good morning, Zen," said Mack. "How's it feel?"

"It feels good to be back at Dreamland," said Mack.

"How's the wheelchair feel?" said Zen.

The automatic doors flew open, but Mack's airman, thinking that Mack wanted to talk to Major Jeff "Zen" Stockard, remained stationary. Mack glanced back at the airman. Pimples and all, the kid was looking at him with pity.

He felt sorry for him.

Sorry for Major Mack "the Knife" Smith, holder of not one, but two stinking Air Force crosses. Mack Smith, who had shot down more stinking MiGs than any man since the Vietnam War. Mack Smith, who had run a small country's air force and saved Las Vegas from nuclear catastrophe.

Mack stinking Smith, now in a wheelchair because of some maniac crazy terrorist in Brunei.

A wheelchair that the doctors agreed he'd be getting out of any day now…

The kid felt sorry for him.

Sorry!

Well the hell with that.

"I can take it from here, airman. Thank you for your time," said Mack. He put his hands on the wheels of his chair and pushed himself forward.

Just as he did, the doors started to close. For a moment Mack thought he was going to crash into them, which would perhaps have been the ultimate embarrassment. Fortunately, they slid back and he made it inside without a crash.

"Don't tire yourself out," called Zen after him. "I want to race you later."

"That was a bit over the top."

Zen whirled his head around, surprised by his wife's voice. Breanna had come out from the building while he was watching Mack make his maiden progression in a wheelchair.

Zen shifted his wheelchair around to face her. "Somebody's got to put him in his place." "You're being way too cruel, Zen." "Turnaround is fair play." "He never tormented you like that." "No, he just made me a cripple."

Zen, controlling two robot aircraft as well as his own, had been engaged in a mock dogfight with Mack nearly two years before, when one of the robots clipped his wing at very low altitude. The ensuing crash had cost Zen the use of his legs. Technically, Mack had not caused the crash — but in every other way, he had, egging him on, doing much the same thing that Zen had just done to him, and cheating on the accepted rules for the engagement.

"I never thought there would be a day when Mack Smith outclassed Zen Stockard," said Bree.

"You going for breakfast?" Zen asked, changing the subject.

Breanna frowned at him, but then said, "I have an hour to kill before prepping for my test flight. I thought I'd get some breakfast over at the Red Room. I haven't had a good omelet since Brunei."

"I'll walk with you. No, wait." He put his hands on the wheels and pulled back for a launch. "I'll race you."

Captain Harold "Storm" Gale put the binoculars down and folded his arms across his chest. The sea ahead of Abner Read was mottled and gray; the sun had just set, and an unusually thick storm front sent a light mist across his bow, obscuring not just his sailor's vision, but the long-range infrared sensors that were looking for telltale signs of ships in the distance.

Perfect conditions for pirates. And perfect conditions for hunting them.

"Two boats," said the Abner Read's captain, Commander Robert Marcum. He was looking over the shoulder of the petty officer manning the integrated imaging system on the bridge to Storm's left. The screen synthesized data from several different sensors, presenting them in an easy-to-read format. "Just closing to five thousand meters."

"Adjust our course," said Storm. He walked from the window at the front of the bridge to the holographic display, where data from the Tactical Warfare Center — his ship's version of a combat information center — was projected, showing the Abner Read's position and that of the oil tanker they had been shadowing. The holographic display presented a real-time view of the ocean created from ship's sensors, complete with a computerized version of the surrounding geographic features and a rundown of threats within sensor range. The display could show everything from standard chart data to the range and likelihood of one of the Abner Read's Harpoon missiles hitting a target; it was one of three aboard the ship, allowing the group commander to choose whether to be in the Tactical Warfare Center or on the bridge during the engagement. (It also allowed the Navy to designate a ship's captain as overall group commander, a plan contemplated for the future.) Storm spent most of his time in Tac, which would have been the "traditional" place for a group warfare commander to station himself; tonight, the lure of the hunt had drawn him here so he might actually see his prey.

Storm studied the three-dimensional image, gauging his location and that of the other ships. The contacts were identified by the sensors as fast patrol boats — small, light ships equipped with a deck gun, grenade launchers, and possibly torpedoes. They were the modern-day equivalent of the PT boats that America had used to help turn the tide in Guadalcanal and other fierce, shallow-water conflicts in the Pacific during World War II.

The question was: Whose boats were they? One of Oman's or Egypt's accompanying local merchants, in which case they were friendly? One of four known to be operated by Somalian fanatics turned pirates, in which case they were hostile? Or one of the half dozen belonging to Yemen, in which case they were somewhere in the middle?

The three other vessels in Littoral Surface Action Group XP One were several nautical miles to the south, too far away to help if these turned out to be the pirates he was hunting. This was the Abner Read's fight to win or lose.

Storm reached to his belt and keyed his mike to talk to Lt. Commander Jack "Eyes" Eisenberg, who was in the Tactical Warfare Center one deck below the bridge. His wireless headset and its controller were linked to a shipboard fiber-optics network that could instantly connect him not only with all the sailors on the Abner Read, but the commanders of the vessels in the rest of his task group. With the touch of a button, he could click into one of several preset confer-enced channels, allowing all of his war fighters to speak to each other and with him in battle.

"Eyes, what do we have?"

"Two boats. Roughly the size of Super Dvoras. They should be our pirates."

"If they are, there'll be at least two more."

"We're looking. Should we go to active radar?"

"No, let's hold off. No sense telling them we're here."

Past experience told them that the small boats could detect radar; more than likely they would run away, as they had several times before.

The contacts had been found by a towed array equipped with a passive sonar system to listen to the sea around it. Designed for use in the comparatively shallow waters, the system compiled data on surface as well as submarine vessels. Like devices such as the AN/SQR-18A (V) Sonar Tactical Towed Array System — used on the Knox-class frigates from the late 1970s on — the Littoral Towed Array System, or LITAS, was built around a series of hydrophones that listened for different sounds in the water. These were then interpreted and translated into ship contacts.

In theory, LITAS could hear anything within a twelve-mile radius of the ship, even in littoral waters where sounds were plentiful and easily altered by the shallow floor of the ocean. But like much else aboard the Abner Read and its companion vessels, the new technology still needed some adjustments; five miles had proven the average effective range thus far on the voyage, and the presence of a very loud vessel such as the oil tanker tended to mask noises very close to it. The approaching storm would also limit the range.

The four-ship war group Storm headed was as much about testing new technology as she was about catching the pirates. And the Abner Read was the centerpiece of both the task group and the tests. Named for a World War II destroyer that fought bravely in the Pacific until being sunk by kamikazes, the new ship had all the spirit of her predecessor but looked nothing like her. In fact, though she was called a destroyer, she bore little resemblance to other destroyers in the U.S. Navy — or any other navy.

It had often been said that the U.S. Navy's Arleigh Burke destroyers represented the culmination of nearly one hundred years of warship design. Truly, the Arleigh Burkes were the head of the class, in many ways as powerful as World War II battleships and as self-sufficient. The Abner Read showed what the next one hundred years would bring. Indeed, there were many who hadn't wanted to call her a destroyer at all; proposals had ranged from "littoral warfare ship" to "coastal cruiser." The Navy might be ready for a radical new weapon, but a new name seemed too much of a break with tradition, and so she was designated a "destroyer, littoral" — or DD(L) — the first and so far only member of her class.

At 110 meters, she was a good deal shorter than the Arleigh Burke class, closer in size to a frigate or even a corvette. Where the Arleigh Burkes had a bulky silhouette dominated by a massive radar bulkhead, a large mast, and thick stacks, the Abner Read looked like a pyramid on a jackknife. A pair of angled pillboxes sat on the forward section of the deck, which was so low to the water, the gun housings were generally wet. Her stern looked like a flat deck; the section over what would have held the rudder on another ship was open to the ocean, as if the sea wanted to keep a finger on her back. The ship didn't have one rudder— it had several, located in strategic spots along the tumble-form hull. The rudder and hull design made the Abner Read extremely maneuverable at low and high speed. And while the exotically shaped underside and wet deck took a bit of getting used to, the Abner Read had remarkably good sea-keeping abilities for a small ship. It didn't so much float across the waves as blow right through them. Stormy ocean crossings were almost comfortable, certainly more so than in a conventional ship of the same size, even though the vessel had been designed primarily for shallow coastal waters.

The screws that propelled the ship were located almost amidships, recessed in a faceted structure that helped reduce their sound. They were powered by gas turbines whose exhausts were cooled before being released through the baffled and radar-protected funnel. The engines could propel the Abner Read to about forty knots in calm water. More important, she could sustain that speed for forty-eight hours without noticeable strain.

The three smaller craft that had accompanied the Abner Read to the Gulf of Aden looked a bit like miniature versions of her. Officially called Littoral Warfare Craft, or LWCs, they were designed from the keel up to work with the DD(L). Not only did their captains receive orders from a commander in the DD(L)'s tactical center, but the ship received sensor data as well — each had an integrated imaging system on her bridge identical to the one on the Abner Read. The vessels were crewed by only fifteen men, and in fact could be taken into combat by as few as five, though the mission had shown that a somewhat larger complement would be more comfortable. About 40 meters long, they were roughly the size of a coastal patrol boat and needed only twelve feet of draft at full load displacement. The vessels had a 25mm gun on the forward deck, a pair of multipurpose missile launchers — loaded, in this case, with Harpoon anti-ship missiles — toward the stern, and below-waterline torpedo and mine dispensers. Smaller than the Abner Read, they had a correspondingly smaller radar signature. Their long, knifelike bows and finlike superstructures had led inevitably to a warlike nickname: Shark Boats.

XP Group 1—better known as Xray Pop — was one of twelve proposed integrated littoral warfare combat groups that would eventually combine surface warfare ships with unmanned helicopters and aerial vehicles, small submarines, and Marine combat teams. But like Xray Pop, the littoral warfare concept was still very much a work in progress. The Navy had said "XP" stood for "extended patrol." The sailors who manned the ships knew it actually meant "expect problems."

Storm firmly believed littoral warfare was the Navy's future. The teething pains he suffered on this maiden mission would help shape warfare for the next fifty years. He'd freed Xray Pop from the engineering spaces and Pentagon offices and dragged littoral warfare out into the real world, and he meant to show it would work.

Which meant sinking the bastards in the little boats.

"One of the unidentified patrol craft is heading in our direction," said Eyes.

"Do they see us?"

"Not sure."

Storm moved back to the window of the bridge. The UAVs designed to operate off the ship's fantail were running nearly eighteen months behind schedule. Without them, the Abner Read had no beyond-the-horizon capability and in fact had a very limited weapons range. Storm hadn't intended on operating completely without airborne cover — a pair of P-3 Orions from the Seventh Fleet had been moved up to Kuwait to provide reconnaissance during his operation. But the P-3s had been pulled out for higher priority missions in the Philippines, and the promised replacements had not materialized. And while he had been offered helicopters, these were still back in Pearl Harbor, as near as he could determine.

Not that he would have wanted them anyway. They were too big for the Abner Read's low-slung hangar area, which had been designed for the UAVs. They'd have had to be lashed to the helipad.

"More contacts," said Eyes. "Two more patrol boats. I think these are the Somalians, Captain."

"They're a bit far from home," said Storm, feeling his heart beginning to pound. "Are you sure these are not Yemen craft?"

"We're working on it."

Storm could hear the voices of the others in the background, ringing out as more information flooded the sensors. The Tactical Warfare Center was a Combat Information Center on steroids. A holographic display similar to the smaller one on the bridge dominated the compartment. Synthesized from all of the available sensor inputs on the ship, as well as external ones piped in over the shared Littoral Warfare Network, the display showed the commander everything in the battle area. It also could provide scenarios for confronting an enemy, which made it useful for planning. Tac also held the Abner Read's radar, sonar, and weapons stations.

Two more contacts were made, then a third: Storm felt the adrenaline rising throughout the ship, the scent of blood filtering through the environmental system — the Abner Read was on the hunt.

"Two more boats. Small coastal craft."

"No markings."

"Deck guns on one."

"Another contact. Something bigger."

"Storm, we have an Osa II," said Eyes. "Definitely a Yemen boat — what's he doing out?"

The Osa II was a Russian-made missile boat that carried Soviet-era SSN-2A/B "Styx" surface-to-surface missiles. A potent craft when first designed, the Osas were now long in the tooth but packed a reasonable wallop if well-skippered and in good repair. The Yemen ships were neither.

Storm studied the tactical display. The Osa II flickered at the far end of the hologram, about five miles away.

"Looks like they're getting ready to attack the tanker," said Commander Marcum.

"Good," Storm told the ship's captain.

"Gunfire! They're shooting across the tanker's bow!" Eyes paused for only a second, gathering information from one of the crewmen manning the high-tech systems below. "The oil tanker is radioing for assistance. They are under attack."

"Weapons," said Storm.

"Weapons!" repeated the captain, addressing his weapons' officer.

"Weapons," bellowed the officer on duty in the weapons' center, Ensign Hacienda. The ensign's voice was so loud Storm might have been able to hear it without the communications gear.

"Prepare to fire the gun," said Marcum.

"Ready, sir."

"At your order, Storm."

The gun was a 155mm Advanced Gun System, housed in the sleek box on the forward deck. The weapon fired a variety of different shells, including one with a range of nearly one hundred miles that could correct its flight path while on course for its target. At the moment, the Abner Read carried only unguided or "ballistic" ammunition, which had a range of roughly twenty-two miles — more than enough to pound one of the boats firing on the tanker.

"Eyes, give them fair warning," said Storm.

"Aye, Captain." The disdain for the rules of engagement was evident in his voice. Storm shared the sentiment, though he did not voice his opinion.

"No acknowledgment. Attack is continuing. We—"

Eyes was nearly drowned out by a stream of curses from one of the men on duty in the Tactical Center. Storm knew exactly what had happened — the computer had gone off-line again, probably as they attempted to transmit a fresh warning in Arabic using the computer system's prerecorded message capability. It was one of the more problematic modules in the integrated computing system. It would take at least a full minute to bring it back.

The tanker's running lights were visible in the distance. Storm picked up his glasses and scanned the horizon. They were still too far from the small patrol boats to see them, even with the infrared.

"Missile in the air!"

The warning came not from one of the men on the bridge or the Tactical Center, but from the computer system, which used a real-language module for important warnings. Talking wasn't the only thing it did: In the time it took Storm to glance down at the threat screen on the Abner Read's "dashboard" at the center of the bridge, the computer had managed to identify the weapon and predict its course.

A Styx antiship missile.

"Well, we know which side he's on," said Storm sarcastically. "Countermeasures. Target the Osa II."

The ship's captain moved to implement the instructions. He didn't need Storm to tell him what to do — and in fact he wouldn't have been ship's captain of the Abner Read if he weren't among the most competent commanders in the Navy — but he also knew Storm well enough to realize the captain wouldn't sit in the background, especially in combat.

"Computer IDs the missile as a type P-20M with an MS-2A seeker," said Eyes.

The MS-2A was a solid-state radar that featured the ability to home in on the electronic countermeasures — or ECMs — being used to jam it.

"Is he locked on us?" asked Commander Marcum.

"Negative. Trajectory makes it appear as if he fired without radar, maybe hoping we'd go to the ECMs and he'd get a lock."

Or it was fired ineptly, which Storm thought more likely. Nonetheless, they had to act as if it were the former.

The holographic information system projected the missile's path — a clean miss. As Eyes said, the missile was aimed well wide of them; it would hit the ocean about a half mile to the south.

"Belay ECMs," said Marcum. "Repeat: no countermea-sures. Target the missile boat with our gun."

Storm nodded. Marcum really understood how to fight these guys. He'd make a good group commander down the road.

"Missile is on terminal attack," warned the computer.

The Styx missile slid downward, riding just a few feet above the waves, where it was extremely difficult to stop. One of the Phalanx 20mm Gatling guns that provided close-in antiair coverage rotated at the rear of the ship, tracking the antiship missile as it passed. A yellow cone glowed in the holographic display, and the gun engaged, obliterating the missile at long range, even though it wasn't a threat.

A problem with the program of the automated defensive weapons system, Storm noted. It tended to be somewhat overprotective — not necessarily a bad thing, but something that could stand a little tweaking.

"Torpedoes!" sang the computer.

"Toward us or the tanker?" Storm demanded.

"Not sure," said Eyes, who was scrambling to make sense of what was going on.

"Who fired the torpedoes? The missile boat?" said Mar-cum.

"Negative — they must have come from the patrol craft. That's a new development."

The patrol craft were relatively small, and until now had not been seen with torpedo tubes on their decks. Storm decided this was a compliment, in a way — after a week of running off, they'd decided to change their tactics.

The tanker was about three miles off their port bow, with the attacking pirates slightly to starboard. This was not the usual pattern of attacks — ordinarily four or five fast patrol boats and a few small speedboats would charge a slow-moving, heavily laden ship, fire a few dozen slugs to get its attention, and then send a heavily armed boarding party aboard. The ship's captain would be persuaded to phone his company headquarters and have a transfer made to an offshore account specially set up for the night. Once the transfer was made — the amount would be about ten thousand dollars, relatively small considering the value of the cargo — the tanker would be allowed to go on its way. The small "fee" charged helped guarantee that the pirates would get it; most multinational companies considered it a pittance, cheaper than a port tax — or trying to prosecute the perpetrators.

"Those torpedoes are definitely headed in our direction," said Eyes. "We don't have guidance data."

Marcum ordered evasive action. As the helmsman put the Abner Read into a sharp turn, the ship's forward torpedo tubes opened, expelling a pair of small torpedolike devices. They swam about a quarter of a mile; at that point, the skin peeled away from their bellies and they began emitting a thick fog of bubbles. The air in the water created a sonic fog in the water similar to the noise made by the ship. The destroyer, meanwhile, swung onto a new course designed to minimize its profile to the enemy.

"They must have guessed we'd be nearby," said Marcum. "I think they homed in on our radio signal when we tried to warn the oiler and threw everything they had at us. Rules of engagement, Captain. They make no sense."

"Noted for the record," said Storm.

And wholeheartedly agreed with.

"Tanker captain says he's been fired on," reported communications. "Asking for assistance."

"Inform him we intend to help him," said Storm.

The ship took a hard turn to port, still working to duck the rapidly approaching torpedoes.

"Steady, now, Jones," Marcum told the man at the helm as the ship leaned hard toward the water. The helmsman had put a little too much into the maneuver; the Abner Read's bow tucked well below the waves as she spun. The ship forgave him, picking her bow up and stabilizing in the proper direction.

"Torpedo one has passed. Torpedo two has self-destructed," said the computer.

"They're running for it," said Eyes.

"They can't run fast enough," answered Storm. "Full active radar. Target the missile ship. I want him for dinner."

Dog looked up at the familiar knock. Chief Master

Sergeant Terrence "Ax" Gibbs appeared in the doorway, head cocked in a way that indicated the chief wanted to talk to the colonel in confidence for a few moments. Bastian might be the commander of Dreamland — the Air Force's secret high-tech development facility in the Nevada desert— but Ax Gibbs was the oil that made the vast and complicated engine run smoothly.

"Chief?"

"Couple of things, couple of things," said Ax, sliding into the office.

Dog knew from the tone in the chief's voice that he was going to once again bring up their chronic personnel shortages. He reached to his coffee cup for reinforcement.

"Need a refresher?" asked Ax.

"No thanks."

"I've been looking at head counts…" Ax began, introducing a brief lecture that compared Dreamland's overall workforce to a number of other Air Force commands and facilities, as well as DARPA — the Department of Defense Advanced Research Program Agency — and a number of private industry think tanks. The study was impressive for both its breadth and depth. Ax's numbers not only compared overall positions, but broke them down to real-life instances, such as the number of people sweeping the floors. (Dreamland had exactly two people doing this, both airmen with a long list of other duties. The men had been drafted — to put it euphemistically — into the service when budget cuts eliminated the contract civilian cleaners.)

"…and we're not even considering the fact that a good portion of the head count here is also involved in Whiplash," added Ax. He was referring to Dreamland's "action" component, which included a ground special operations team, headed by Danny Freah, as well as whatever aircraft were needed for the mission.

"Preaching to the converted," said Dog.

"Yes, but I do have an idea," said Ax. "Congresswoman Kelly."

"Congresswoman Kelly?"

"Congresswoman due in next week on the VIP tour," said Ax. "She has a staffer who has a brother in the Air Force. If a nonclassified version of the report were to find its way into the staffer's hands…"

"No thank you," said Dog curtly. He reached for some of the papers Ax had brought in.

"Colonel—"

"I don't want to play Washington games." "With respect, sir."

Dog put down the papers and looked up at the chief. Ax's lips were pressed together so firmly that his jowls bulged.

"Ax, you know you can speak freely to me any time," said Dog. "Hell, I expect it. None of this 'with respect' shit. You want to call me a jackass, go for it. You've earned it."

"Colonel… Dog." The chief pulled over the nearby chair and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. "Your people are really busting. Really, really busting." "I know that."

"We have to get more people here. And that's true everywhere. Dr. Rubeo was saying—"

"Ray could find a cloud over the desert, and does so regularly."

"Even the scientists are overworked. Jennifer has what, five different projects going? She's been the main test pilot on the Werewolves after Sandy Culver and Zen. Did you know that?"

"Did I?" Dog laughed. "She brags about it all the time."

"Well, now I like her a lot, but she has other things she's gotta do. And the rest of the people here, hell, they're as bad or worse. Civilian scientists, military officers, and enlisted — they're all overworked workaholics. Problem is, Colonel, sooner or later the people who can leave will leave. Sooner or later, when you haven't had a chance to sleep in a week, it catches up to you."

"Who hasn't slept in a week?"

Ax rose from the chair.

"I'll do what I can, Ax," said Dog. "But I'm not sneaking through the back corridors of Congress to get what we need."

"Yes, sir. Major Smith is outside, reporting for duty."

Ax opened the door before Dog could say anything else. Mack Smith was sitting in the outer office, flirting with the secretary.

"Mack," said Dog, getting up. "I thought you were in rehab."

"I am," said Smith. He turned awkwardly in his wheelchair and rolled toward the doorway. Even though the door had been widened after Zen returned to active duty, it was a tight squeeze. It took Mack a few seconds to maneuver through the doorway.

"Major Mack Smith, formerly of the Brunei Royal Air Force, reporting for active duty," said Smith.

"I thought we agreed you would use the facilities here but wait to get back to work until the doctors gave you a clean

bill of health."

"Ah, the doctors say I'm fine."

"The doctors said there's no reason you won't get your legs back. That's not quite fine."

"What do the doctors know? Besides, Zen didn't wait."

"Zen's circumstances were different," said Dog.

"Sure. He had a high-powered lawyer read the Air Force and the DoD the riot act," said Mack. "And he was related to the base commander."

Dog bristled. Zen was his son-in-law, but he had had nothing to do with his reinstatement.

"Zen was posted here before I arrived," said Dog.

"Look, Colonel, the thing is — I'm bored out of my skull, right? I'm going through rehab. I have to come onto the base every day. Might as well put me to work, right?"

"It's not that I don't want to put you to work, Mack."

"I can get a high-priced lawyer if I have to," said Mack. "I hear Zen's is available. Us gimps have to hang together."

Dog felt his face flush at the word "gimps."

"You're worried that I won't do the crap work, right?" added Mack. "You're looking at a new man, Colonel. Brunei taught me a lot."

"One of the things it taught you is that you don't like administrative crap work," said Dog. "You told me that yourself. Several times."

"I don't like it, but I'll do it. Same as you. We're not that different, you and me, Colonel. We like to have our sleeves rolled up," he added.

God help me, thought Dog, if I have anything in common with Mack Smith. "All right," he said. "There are a lot of things that need to be done. None of them involve flying."

"Who's flying? Bring them on."

"The Piranha program needs a liaison. Someone who can work with the Navy people to help them move it to the next phase."

"Right up my alley," said Mack. "A big part of my job in Brunei was interfacing with Navy people."

He was referring to his position as head of the Brunei air force, which had in fact required him to work with members of the country's other military services. From all reports— including Mack's — it had not gone well.

Piranha was one of several Navy projects being developed under contract at Dreamland. An underwater robot probe, it could be controlled by ship, submarine, or aircraft and operate for several weeks without needing to be refueled. The technology that guided it was similar to the technology used in the Flighthawks, which was one of several reasons it was being developed here. Dreamland had used Piranha to halt a nuclear war between India and China.

"What else do you want me to do?" asked Mack.

"Let's start there. Remember, you're a liaison, not the program director."

"I'm the idea guy," said Mack. "Got it."

"Not exactly."

"Don't worry, Colonel. I have it. Listen, I really appreciate this. I won't forget it, believe me. I'm happy to be back. Like I said, Brunei taught me a lot. This is a new Mack Smith you're looking at."

As the major rolled out of the office, Dog struggled to keep his opinion of how long the new Mack Smith would last to himself.

"We have a lock on the Osa missile boat," reported Weapons.

"Marcum, he's yours to sink," said Storm.

"One of the patrol boats is turning toward us," warned Eyes.

"Torpedo in the water," warned the computer.

"Fire," said Commander Marcum.

A deep-throated rap from the front of the ship drowned out the acknowledgment as the number one gun began spitting out shells, one every five seconds. The holographic display did not delineate every hit — the designers thought this would be too distracting — but the target flashed red as the barrage continued.

"Direct hit," reported Eyes. "Target demolished."

"Evasive action," said Marcum. "Evade the torpedoes."

The crew sprang to comply. One of the torpedoes stayed on target with the Abner Read despite the countermeasures, and the lithe vessel swayed as the helmsman initiated a fresh set of maneuvers. The torpedo finally passed a hundred yards off their port side, detonating a few seconds later.

"Close the distance on the patrol boat that fired at us," Marcum told the man at the wheel.

The helmsman pushed at the large lever that worked the computer governing the ship's engines. They were already at full speed.

"UI-1 is about a minute from Yemen waters," reported Eyes. "Outside of visual range. The others are well beyond him."

"I have a lock on target designated as UI-1," said the weapons officer.

"Captain, it's my responsibility to report that the target ship is approaching Yemen territorial waters," said Commander Marcum. "Our rules of engagement prohibit sinking a vessel outside of neutral waters."

"Are you giving me advice?" Storm asked.

"Sir, I'm operating under your orders. I was to notify you of our status prior to engagement…"Commander Marcum paused. "I want to sink the son of a bitch myself."

"Noted. Sink him."

"Weapons: fire!"

"Firing."

Both guns rumbled. Within thirty seconds the patrol craft had been obliterated.

The three other pirate vessels had disappeared. Relatively small contacts, they were easily lost in the clutter near the irregular coast. The computer generated approximate positions from their last known citing, rendering them yellow clouds in the holographic projection. They were well inside Yemen territorial waters — out of bounds.

Storm turned his attention to the three Shark Boats. He directed One and Two to sail westward, hoping to catch the patrol boats if they went in that direction. The third would remain to the east, in case they went that way. The Abner Read, meanwhile, would search for survivors from one of the two vessels they had just sunk; if recovered, he might be persuaded to share what he knew.

Storm clicked his communications channel into a public address mode that allowed him to communicate not just with all personnel aboard the Abner Read, but with everyone in the combat group.

"All hands, this is Captain Gale," said Storm. "The DD (L) 01 Abner Read has sunk its first enemy combatants in action this November 3, 1997. I was privileged to witness the finest crew in the U.S. Navy undertake this historic mission, and I commend everyone, from Commander Robert Marcum to Seaman Bob Anthony — Bobby, I think you're our youngest crewman," he added. Storm turned and saw Marcum grinning and nodding. "It was a hell of a job all around. Xray Pop has been christened, ladies and gentlemen. Now look sharp; there's still a great deal to be done tonight."

Lieutenant Kirk "Starship" Andrews got out of the car he had rented in Los Angeles and walked across the gravel parking lot toward the church. He could hear the strains of an organ as he approached; he was late for his friend's memorial service.

He was thankful, actually. He felt he owed it to Kick to be here, but didn't particularly want to talk to anyone, Kick's parents especially. He just didn't know what to say.

The music stopped just as Starship came in through the back door. He moved quickly toward the last pew in the small church, eyes cast toward the floor. The minister began reading from the Second Book of Chronicles, a selection from the Old Testament of the Bible concerning the bond between Solomon and God: " 'Give me now wisdom and knowledge, that I may go out and come in before this people.' "

The passage spoke of wisdom and riches; the minister used it as a starting point as he asked God for the wisdom needed to accept a young man's death. The reverend spoke frankly of the difficulty of comprehending the loss. "Lieutenant James Colby was a hero," he said. "But that does not make his loss any easier for us to take."

Was Kick a hero? wondered Starship. He was a decent pilot and a hard worker; he'd been brave and seen combat. But was he a hero?

Kick had died in the line of duty, caught in a Megafortress when it crashed during an aborted takeoff in Malaysia after guerrillas had seized the kingdom of Brunei. Starship had been on the aircraft himself, strapped in next to Kick on the control deck for the Flighthawks. The fact that he was here and Kick wasn't, he thought, was just a matter of dumb, stupid luck. Bad luck.

If he had died, would he be a hero?

Starship listened as the service continued with different friends recounting their memories of Kick. He'd gotten his nickname not from the high school football team — which was the story Kick had told — but from peewee soccer. It came during his first game as a six-year-old, when he scored a goal. The nickname had stuck from there, becoming widespread in high school, where he'd switched to football and set a county scoring record booting extra points and field goals.

Starship's mind drifted as the service continued. If the luck had run differently — if he had been the one who got the freak piece of shrapnel, and the sudden shock that combined to do Kick in — what would people be saying about him?

Smart kid — number three in his high school class and in the top five percent at the Academy.

Should have chosen a few more gut classes and got top honors.

Won an assignment to Dreamland on the cutting edge of aviation.

A mistake. He was flying robot aircraft, glorified UAVs. The computer did most of the work. It was like sitting at a desk all day.

"I'll bet you're Starship."

Starship turned and saw that a woman had come into his pew from the side. Maybe five-two, with dark hair and green eyes, she looked a lot like Kick.

"Alice," she whispered. "Kick's sister."

"Hi." He stuck his hand out.

"We're glad you could come."

"Yeah, um, I'm sorry."

"I know." Distress flickered across her face, but then cleared. "We're having — my parents are inviting people over later. You should stop by."

"I kinda gotta get back," Starship lied.

"Well, OK. But say hello to them on the way out." She smiled — this time with visible effort — and then slipped out of the pew. Starship watched as she slid into another pew farther up. Somehow this made him feel better, as if he hadn't been singled out, and when Kick's parents asked him at the end of the service if he would stop by "just for coffee," he agreed and got directions.

Mack felt the muscles in his shoulders tense into hard rocks as he lowered himself into the pool. He had to relax if he was going to do the exercise, but relaxing on command was just about the most difficult thing in the world to do. He lowered his gaze to the surface of the pool and concentrated on breathing slowly, very slowly, as slowly as he possibly could, taking long, deep breaths, as one of the physical therapists at the hospital had recommended.

"All right now, Major, you want to start with a nice, easy breaststroke," said Penny Hartung, treading water next to him.

"Yeah, that's what I'm going to do," he said. But he didn't let go of the rail, afraid that he would sink into the water like a stone.

Which was impossible, since he was wearing a life preserver. But fear wasn't necessarily rational.

"You all right?" asked Frank DeLia, the other therapist. Frank was kneeling above him at the poolside.

"Oh yeah, I'm good," said Mack, finally pushing away. He fought against the impulse to paddle madly, moving his arms out slowly as he'd been told.

"Legs now. Legs," said Penny, hovering beside him.

Yup, legs, Mack thought. Legs, legs, legs.

The large beam that had fallen across his back and legs after the terrorist blew himself up had temporarily shocked his backbone. The medical explanation was somewhat longer and more complicated, but the bottom line was that he had temporarily lost the use of his legs. The thing was, no one could say how long "temporarily" was supposed to be. He'd already seen several specialists; he got the impression they all thought he should be walking by now.

Not that he didn't agree.

Mack pushed his arms out and willed his legs to kick. He didn't feel them move. He thought his hips wiggled a little.

"Legs," repeated Penny. "Legs."

He got a mouthful of water as he started to lose momentum. He had his whole upper body working, and thought his legs must be working as well.

"Push, push," said Penny.

"Doing it." Mack checked his position against the far side of the pool. He'd gone maybe five feet. "Legs," he said himself, deciding he might do better if he gave himself a pep talk. "Legs. Let's do it."

There was a tremendous splash on the other side of the pool: Zen, who worked out here regularly.

"Come on, gimp boy. That the best you can do?"

Mack ignored Zen, keeping his head toward the other side of the pool room. He sensed Zen swimming toward him. Determined to ignore him, he concentrated on doing a side-stroke, or at least as much of a sidestroke as he could manage.

"Your arms are punier than Olive Oyl's," said Zen.

Legs, Mack thought. Legs.

"Use your damn legs," said Zen.

"I'm trying," said Mack between his teeth.

"Not hard enough."

"Yeah. I am." The burn in Mack's arms was too much; he stopped and took a breather.

"Don't be such a damn wimp," said Zen. He plunged beneath the water, stroking away.

It occurred to Mack that swimming underwater when you couldn't use your legs to help must be—was—extremely difficult. But then, just about everything you did when you couldn't use your legs was extremely difficult. And Zen didn't complain or ask for help — hell, he got mad when people tried to help him.

Which Mack understood. He'd thought after Zen's crash that Zen got mad only with him, because he held a grudge. Now he realized Zen got mad with everyone. The reason was simple. Most of the people who wanted to help you — not necessarily all, but most — were thinking, You poor little baby, you. Let me help you.

For someone like Zen or Mack, being treated like a baby, being pitied—well the hell with that!

But you needed help sometimes. That was the worst part of it. Sometimes you just couldn't drag yourself up a full flight of stairs, not and bring your wheelchair with you.

"Ready to start again, Major?" asked Penny.

"Oh yeah. Starting," said Mack, pushing.

"Ten laps, gimp boy!" yelled Zen from the other side of the pool. "You owe me ten laps."

"Right," muttered Mack.

"I'm going to do twenty in the time it takes you to do one." "It's not a race," said Penny.

The others liked Zen, so they wouldn't tell him to shut up, Mack thought. And he wasn't going to tell him to shut up either, because that would be like saying Zen had won. No way. Let him be the world's biggest jerk. Great. Fine. Just because you couldn't walk didn't make you a stinking hero or a great human being. Zen was a jerk before his accident, and he was a jerk now.

A bigger jerk.

"Legs," said Penny.

"Yeah, legs," grunted Mack.

Kick's family lived on a cul-de-sac not far from the town center in McKinleyville, California, the sort of location a real estate agent would call "convenient to everything." Starship parked at the far end of the circle. As he walked up the cement driveway, he started to regret his decision to come. He paused at the bottom of the steps, but it was too late; someone came up the drive behind him, and as he glanced back, the front door opened.

"You're his friend. How do you?" said Kick's father at the door. "Have a drink, please. Make yourself at home."

"Maybe just a beer, I think," said Starship, stepping inside.

"Bud's in the fridge. Help yourself."

Starship moved inside. As he reached the kitchen he saw Kick's sister bending into the refrigerator — and noticed that she had a large engagement ring on her finger.

"Oh, Lieutenant Andrews," she said. "I'm glad you changed your mind."

"I can only stay for a few minutes."

"Want something to drink?"

"A beer maybe."

"Just like my brother." She reached in and got him a Bud Lite, then introduced him to some of the other people in the small kitchen. Two were friends of Kick's and about his age; Starship thought the men shrank back a bit as he shook their hands, maybe put off by his uniform. There was an aunt, the sister's fiance, a cousin, and the minister, who proved to be much younger up close than from the back of the church. Starship took his beer and moved toward the side of the kitchen. The others were talking about something that had happened at the local school.

"It was an unfortunate situation," said the minister as Starship slid to the side.

"Yeah, really bad," said Starship.

"He died a hero."

"Do you think that matters?"

The minister blanched. Starship hadn't meant it as a challenge — hadn't meant anything, really. The question simply bubbled out of his private thoughts.

"Don't you?" said one of Kick's friends.

Starship felt a moment of hesitation, a catch in his throat as if his breath had been knocked from him.

"I don't think he's not — wasn't brave, I mean. I think it sucks that he died," he said. "I think it's really terrible. And he was — he volunteered. We all did, and it's important what we do." He knew he was babbling but he couldn't stop. "He was a brave guy, I mean, as brave as most people, I think, but

it wasn't like — it's not like a movie thing, you know, where the guy charges out and people are shooting at him. We do have guys like that. They just march right through anything. And to be a pilot, I mean, you do face death, you know. But, you don't think about it like — it's not a movie thing. It didn't happen like you'd think it would happen in a movie. We were there and then he was dead."

Finally he stopped talking. He felt thankful, as if someone else had been making his mouth work and he had no control.

"The Lord does have a plan for us all," said the minister.

Starship wanted to ask him how he knew, and more important, how someone could find out what the plan was. But he was afraid of opening his mouth again. He didn't want the others to misunderstand him, and he didn't want to insult the minister. Starship knew he wasn't the most religious person in the world; he believed in God, certainly, but if he found himself in church more than twice a year, it was a lot.

No one else in the kitchen spoke. Starship thought everyone was staring at him.

"That was a nice passage from the Bible," the cousin told the minister.

"There's a lot of solace in the Old Testament," said the minister.

Starship realized that the reverend was struggling to find the right words to say. Which surprised him. Weren't ministers supposed to have this stuff down cold?

"Did you know Kick well, Lieutenant?" asked the cousin.

"Uh, we were in the same unit. We were together—" Star-ship stopped short of telling them how Kick had died. Partly it was for official reasons: Details of the mission remained classified. But mostly he didn't want to talk about it — didn't want to describe how he'd pulled his friend from the wreck, only to discover he was dead.

Everyone stared.

"He was a heck of a pilot," said Starship finally. He could talk about this — this was easy, nothing but facts and no interpretation; easy, straightforward facts. "I'll tell you, I saw him fly an A-10A once. We, uh, we had one at the base." He checked himself again, knowing he couldn't mention Dreamland, much less what aircraft were there. "Had that A-10A turning on a dime. Ugly plane."

One of the friends mumbled something in agreement, then ventured that Kick had always liked to fix cars when he was in high school. Starship downed the rest of the beer, then slipped out as quickly as he could.

Storm adjusted the loop at his belt, easing the brake on the safety rope system so he could move more freely on the deck of the ship. Angled and faceted to lessen its radar profile, the ship's topside was not particularly easy to walk on, even in relatively calm seas, and with no railing along the sides of the ship, the safety rope was an absolute necessity. He walked forward along the starboard side, steadying himself on the gun housing.

The Abner Read had sent its two rigid-hulled inflatable boats from the stern to search through the floating debris to the northwest. The two men on deck had seen something near the ship and, with bad weather approaching and the boats a good distance away, had worked together to pick it up before it was lost. One of the men had actually gone over the side, using his safety gear to climb down the knifelike bow area, perching on the side and fishing for the debris with a long pole.

Another commander would have probably considered this a foolhardy move, and very possibly had their captain discipline the men — if he didn't do so himself. But Storm wasn't another commander. While the man who had gotten down on the side of the ship had been dashed against the hull rather severely by the waves, in Storm's opinion he had

shown precisely the sort of can-do attitude the Navy ought to encourage.

"A jacket, sir," said one of the sailors, handing him the dark blue cloth that had been retrieved.

More precisely, it was half a jacket. There was something in one of the pockets — a folded rial.

Yemeni currency. Hard proof that the Yemenis were involved, just in case anyone doubted him.

"Damn good work," said Storm. He put the jacket under his arm. "Damn good work."

"Thank you, sir," shouted the men.

"Carry on," said Storm. He paused. "And don't drown."

The sailors laughed. "Yes, sir."

Storm turned to go back. This was the Navy at its best— filled with sailors who weren't afraid to show initiative, and whose voices carried the proper tone of respect even in casual conversation. He'd selected the best men and women for Xray Pop, knowing the plank owners of the littoral warfare ships would be the seed of the new Navy. They were what the entire Navy ought to be, and it damn well would be when he ran the fleet.

"Captain, you have an eyes-only message waiting, sir," said the seaman who met him at the hatchway. Storm followed the man to the communications department, where the crew snapped to as he came in.

"Gentlemen. Where's my message?"

"Right here, sir," said the ensign in charge. He stepped back to let Storm sit at the computer terminal. The message had been transmitted through a secure text system. The ensign made a point of going to the radioman at the other station as Storm typed in his password and brought the message onto the screen.

Hardly worth the effort of encoding, thought Storm. But then, his opinion of Admiral Woods was hardly a high one. Admiral Woods — CINCPACFLT, or Commander of the Pacific Fleet — had made such a mash of the so-called Piranha episode that the Air Force—the U.S. Air Force! — had to step in and save the day.

Not that a war between India and China was worth heading off. Like ninety percent of the Navy, Storm would have preferred to watch the two powers slug it out in the Pacific and Indian Oceans until all they had left between them were a pair of rubber dinghies. Still, if it had to be broken up, it would have been much better if the Navy had done the job.

Woods was currently aboard the John C. Stennis, which was steaming with her battle group in the eastern Indian Ocean, where the U.S. had recently prevented a war between India and China. The situation remained tense, and the only thing keeping the two countries from launching nukes at each other were two U.S. carrier groups: the Stennis and its Carrier Group Seven, and the Carl Vinson and Carrier Group Three, off the Chinese coast. A number of other Pacific Fleet assets were near Taiwan, encouraging new peace talks that would result in a permanent free China — just so long as the words "free" and "permanent" weren't used anywhere in the treaty.

Storm had asked Woods to change his rules of engagement to allow him to attack the pirates in their home waters and on land. Woods was his second strike — he'd already received a no from the head of the Fifth Fleet, Admiral P. T. "Barnum" Keelor. Technically, Keelor was his boss — but only technically. Based at Manama in Bahrain, the admiral had the unenviable position of trying to run a fleet with no ships, or at least no permanently assigned warships. Aside from a mine countermeasure vessel and some support craft, all of his assets were rotated in and out from the Atlantic and Pacific fleets. Most of his main force — two Arleigh Burke destroyers from the Seventh Fleet — had been sent to the waters off Yugoslavia to assist the Sixth Fleet as it tried to stop a war there. The other had its hands full in the Persian Gulf.

Though Xray Pop operated in his territory, Storm's orders had come directly from the Pentagon via Woods. He hadn't even met Keelor, and wouldn't before the end of his mission. Keelor was too busy trying to keep the Persian Gulf clear of Iranian mines to deal with him, which was just fine with Storm.

Woods ought to be twice as busy, Storm thought, but he seemed to relish harassing him.

"Arrange a secure video conference with the admiral for tomorrow some time, at his convenience," Storm told his communications specialist. He checked some routine matters, then made his way back to Tac. In the meantime, the rigid-hull inflatable boat they had sent to look for survivors from the missile gunboat had returned empty-handed. The gunboat had sunk without a trace. The Shark Boats had reported no further contacts.

"We'll let the Abner Read recover her boats and spend the night here, ride out the storm," he told Eyes. "Then we'll go south as planned. Let's see if these bastards have the balls to take another shot at us."

"I'd like to see them try," blurted one of the men nearby.

"Did you have a comment, mister?" said Storm, looking over.

"No, sir," said the man, eyes now pasted on the display screen in front of him.

Storm smiled and winked at Eyes. He had the best damn ships and the best damn crews in the whole Navy.

The session in the pool had done enough of a number on his ego that Mack Smith decided he would eat lunch by himself, resorting to one of Dreamland's vending machines. This was a challenge in itself — it was impossible to reach the coin slot without dramatic contortions. Fortunately, one of the civilian workers happened by as Mack was just about to give up; she took his change and even punched the buttons for him, and her perfume softened a bit of the sting.

Mack had been offered the option of using a motorized wheelchair but had declined, largely because Zen didn't use one. The advantages were obvious now as he struggled to build momentum up the ramp to the office he'd been assigned. Working a wheelchair efficiently required a certain rhythm as well as upper-body strength, and he hadn't acquired either yet.

He hoped he never did. He wanted more than anything to get the hell out of this damn thing.

Ray Rubeo was waiting for him inside the office. The scientist stood staring at an empty computer screen on the worktable at the side of the room, a deep frown on his face. Mack couldn't recall a time when the scientist hadn't worn the frown; Dreamland's senior scientist seemed to think scowling was part of his job description.

"You were looking to talk to me, Major?"

"Pull up a chair, Doc. I'm already sitting."

"I'm fine."

One thing in Rubeo's favor, thought Mack as he pushed around to the large table that was supposed to serve as his work area: He didn't give him a look of sympathy.

The table was about two inches too high to be comfortable to work at. Mack leaned forward and unwrapped his sandwich, which was some sort of processed ham and mayo on whole wheat.

"So?" asked Rubeo.

"So what, Doc?"

"You wanted to talk to me. In person. I am here."

"Yeah, I do. I'm taking over Piranha."

"Taking over Piranha? How? That's a Navy project."

"I don't mean taking it over, exactly. I'm, you know, li-aisoning. So I'm getting up to speed."

Rubeo's frown deepened. Mack ignored it.

"I was looking at the reports and it seems to me there's one constant. You need more people."

"I would say that is a constant, yes."

"So the first thing we have to do is get you more people."

"And?"

This was not exactly the response Mack had anticipated. While he knew that the scientist didn't have it in him to jump up and down in thanks, he had hoped that by acknowledging that the staff was overworked he might show from the start that he was on the team's side. This, of course, would pay dividends down the line, when he had to pressure them for more results.

"And I'm going to try to get you more people."

"Thank you, Major," said Rubeo, in a tone that suggested thanks was the last thing he had on his mind. The scientist started to walk from the room.

"Hey, Doc, where are you going?"

"Was there something else?"

"I thought maybe you could run down where we were with some of the related programs. It seems to me that the real potential here—"

"You haven't been given the reports?"

"What're these tactical UAV things, the Littoral Combat Intrinsic Air Multiplier Systems? Now those are pretty interesting."

"Piffle," said Rubeo.

"Piffle?"

"A worthless Navy project. We're not involved. They want to run the tests here — assuming they ever get the project out of their CAD programs." Rubeo wrinkled his nose, as if he'd caught a whiff of sulfur. "You might try informing them that there's very little water in the middle of the Nevada desert."

"I thought they were just adaptations of the unmanned helicopter system," said Mack. "I thought the project only got bagged because of the budget."

"UHS was a Dreamland project, that is correct," said the scientist, referring to the program by its initials. "This is different. If the Navy would deign to use a design that was originally done for the Army — as UHS was — then there would be no problem."

"They won't use it?"

Rubeo rolled his eyes.

"These Navy things look like the Werewolves," said Mack. "Hardly. The Werewolf works"

Rubeo started away. Mack wheeled forward and grabbed his shirtsleeve.

"What about the Integrated Warfare Computing System?" asked Mack. "It's already installed in their littoral combat ships. We have some interfaces for it."

The scientist snorted.

"Problems?" asked Mack.

"The Navy's computer code reminds me of the programs that were part of the TRS-80," said Rubeo. "Without the benefit of being compact."

"I assume that's some sort of put-down, right?"

"The TRS-80 was a Radio Shack computer dating from the 1970s. Yes, Major, it was a put-down. We have interfaces, though to be honest, why anyone would want to use them is beyond me. Their systems crash every eighteen to twenty-four hours."

"So why don't they just bag the crappy computer and use one of ours? Or even something off-the-shelf?"

"You haven't dealt with the Navy much, have you?"

"I'll just straighten them out, then."

A faint glimmer of a smile came to Rubeo's lips. "I hope you do, Major. Can I go now?"

"Sure," said Mack. "We should have lunch sometime. I really want to get to know you better."

"Yes," said Rubeo, leaving.

Captain Danny Freah walked past the row of video slot machines and turned left into the large baggage claim area. The flight from New York had landed a few minutes ago, and passengers were just starting to filter in. As Danny walked toward the carousel, a short man in a gray suit approached him from the side.

"You're Captain Freah, I'll bet," said the man.

"Danny Freah, yes," said Freah. "Lee?"

"That's me," said the man, Lee Rosenstein, pumping Danny's hand. "I thought you'd be in uniform."

"I'm off-duty," Danny told him.

"Well, good. You deserve some time off after all you've been through," said Rosenstein. "Let me just grab my suiter. I see it coming around the bend."

Rosenstein darted toward an opening in the crowd and grabbed a black suitcase with a multicolored twist of yarn around the handle.

"Clever," said Danny, pointing at the identifier as they walked toward the exit.

"Until it falls off," said Rosenstein. "Usually I get to carry it on, but the gate person couldn't be bribed."

He smiled, which Danny figured meant he was kidding about the bribe. Without breaking stride, Rosenstein reached to the outer pocket of the suitcase, zipped it open, and retrieved a Mets cap, plopping it on his head. It clashed a bit with the black suit.

"Been a while since I was in Vegas," added Rosenstein as they reached the hallway. "Not since March or April."

"I took a taxi. They're this way," said Danny. Rosenstein had already started to the right, where a line snaked around a set of ribbons on the sidewalk.

"Man, it's beautiful weather. Was raining and about thirty-six when I left New York this afternoon."

"It's a little warm for this time of year," said Danny. "Let's go right to Venezia," suggested Rosenstein. "I'll check in, then we'll catch some dinner." "Sounds good."

"I was thinking of Delaman's to eat. Supposed to be the best restaurant between San Francisco and New York," said Rosenstein. "I don't know if that's true, but the last time I was there it was pretty good. Hey, don't worry about paying, Captain — this is on my dime."

"I wasn't worried," said Danny. He wouldn't have known Delaman's from a diner, but now felt embarrassed at the other man's suggestion that he would pay. "We'll go fifty-fifty."

"First thing you have to learn as a candidate for Congress," said Rosenstein, "is when to let other people pay for your dinner and when not. This is a time you let other people pay. Enjoy it while it lasts."

"I don't know that I'm running for Congress," said Danny.

"Everybody says that." Rosenstein smiled. "All the more reason to let me pay."

Zen hunched over the control panel, watching the computer simulation of the small aircraft's maneuvers as it ran through a mock bombing run. Flown entirely by the computer, the aircraft managed to duck two antiair laser shots as well as an old-fashioned but still deadly flak barrage as it approached the enemy radar station. It then took a very hard cut right — the angle looked to be nearly forty-five degrees — as it tossed the five hundred pound bomb. The bomb, loosened from the underside of the robot aircraft just at the start of the maneuver, skipped through the air and landed about two meters from its target, the radar van that had been controlling the antiaircraft installation. As the simulation continued, the robot aircraft spun back down toward the ground, recording the damage its bomb had done.

"The concept definitely works," said Zen, pushing back from the panel. "In the computer, at least."

"If it works on the computer, it'll work in real life," said Jennifer Gleason.

"I'm not debating that," said Zen. "I just don't see how it's worth it moneywise to turn the U/MFs into bombers. A guidance kit on a dumb bomb is a heck of a lot cheaper. And having a real airplane gives you a heck of a lot more flexibility."

"I don't do philosophy," said Jennifer. "Just computers."

Zen was in charge of the Flighthawk U/MF-3 project, a responsibility that included not only the present generation of high-speed robot interceptors but also the next generation U/MF-4, which had just flown the simulation. The U/MF-4 was a small, slightly faster aircraft that incorporated everything they'd learned from using the Flighthawk in combat over the past two years. It could remain airborne at least twice as long without refueling, and would be able to operate approximately fifty miles from its mother plane. Its autonomous mode — the developers' fancy word for flying on its own — was much improved, thanks largely to the refined onboard tactics library developed from the battles Zen had flown with the U/MF-3s. It could also carry a heavier pay-load, a capacity intended not for bombs but rather a lightweight though powerful chemical laser, which so far had not made it past the conceptual stage.

All in all, the U/MF-4 was a better aircraft than the U/MF-3. But was it better enough to justify the billions of dollars it would take to field a fleet of them?

If it could be used as an attack aircraft as well as an interceptor, maybe — at least that was the thinking at the Pentagon, which had urged the bomb trial.

Urged as in ordered, with a bit of politeness and necessary decorum thrown in. Zen hated Washington politics, but it was a necessary part of life here.

And not just his. Of the three men and two women currently assigned to the sketch phase of the project, at least two would be let go if the U/MF-4 project were put completely on hold. They were all highly skilled workers, engineers who at least in theory ought to have no problem finding another job. But theory and reality didn't always match. And the stakes would be a hundred times greater at the next stage.

"I can have the simulation transferred to video for you by tomorrow morning," said Jennifer.

"Thanks." With everything squared away, Zen went up the ramp to the elevators and then out through the large Megafortress hangar that had been cut into the Nevada desert like an oversized curbstone. The warm air — it was a balmy eighty degrees — felt good after the filtered and AC'd bunker air he'd been breathing the last few hours.

"Hey, Major, how's it going?" asked Captain Michael La-trec as Zen rolled toward the Taj. Latrec was a flight surgeon — an Air Force doctor whose specialty was dealing with flight crews and the sometimes peculiar effects of air travel. He probably spent as much time dealing with the common cold as anything else, but then again, a runny nose at Mach 3 and 65,000 feet could hardly be called common. "You believe this weather?"

"Love it," said Zen.

"It'll snow tomorrow, watch."

"Probably."

"How's Mack?"

"I busted his chops pretty bad," said Zen.

"You did? You busted on him?"

"Nah. I just pushed him, like I said I would."

"You don't have to ride him," said Latrec. "More like encourage him. Get him to work out, keep at it, that kind of thing."

"That's what I'm doing. You sure it's all in his head?"

"No. I didn't say it was all in his head. He definitely sustained injuries. It's just — he may need encouragement to keep going. You were encouraged, and I thought you could give him the same motivation. Been there, done that, that sort of thing."

"I'm working on it, Doc." "Mack probably appreciates it."

"That's not going to happen," said Zen. "Unless he gets a brain transplant."

"I think you'll be surprised," said Latrec. "Going through something like this… "

Latrec's voice trailed off, obviously because he realized he was talking to an expert on the effects of "something like

this."

"Don't sweat it, Doc. And by the way, you owe me a case of Anchor Steam from the World Series. I haven't forgotten."

"Oh yeah. Stinking Marlins." Latrec was from Cleveland, and, after the Yankees, hated the Florida Marlins with a passion. Zen didn't particularly care, but he knew a good bet when he saw one — the Marlins were underdogs and he was able to leverage a six-pack against a case.

"I've been thinking about changing the beer," said Zen. "I've been drinking these British beers since Brunei. Samuel Smith. Maybe the Oatmeal Stout."

"Jeez, where am I going to find British beer around here?"

"Plenty of places in Vegas," said Zen. "And if not, schedule a house call to an air base in London."

Dog waited impatiently for the last techie to finish adjusting the in-flight diagnostic monitor — a fancy name for a black box flight recorder — on the right side of his aircraft so he could start the engine on the XF-16Z, the tester he was scheduled to have gotten off the ground forty-five minutes ago.

Last minute technical glitches and engineering fussiness were part of a test pilot's routine, and Dog was only too happy to put off the pile of pressing bureaucratic details awaiting him over at his office. Technically, taking a turn as a pilot in the heavy test schedule wasn't part of Dog's job at Dreamland, and it had been pointed out several times that spending too much time in the cockpit might keep him from the admittedly more important job of running the base and its Whiplash component. But from Dog's point of view, what was the sense of being a pilot if you didn't fly? Why had the government spent something approaching a million dollars training him and keeping his skills sharp if not to strap Combat Edge flight gear onto his body on a regular basis? And besides, putting his posterior against an ACES II ejection seat every few days or so made the fact that it spent so much time against a cushioned leather seat almost bearable. Almost.

But the delay was threatening his plans to have dinner with Jennifer. The two hadn't had much time to see each other since the end of the so-called "Armageddon" mission. Their deployment to the kingdom of Brunei and Malaysia had interrupted his campaign to more actively "woo" Jennifer, a campaign that he had undertaken with the planning and precision a top pilot would put into a bombing mission.

Not that bombing was like wooing. Not at all. He had to remind himself not to make that comparison to her, at all costs.

"Wooing." Was that even a word people used anymore? Was the word "dating" more appropriate? But dating women seemed like something he had done a million years before. And besides, dating didn't really cover what he wanted to do. He wanted her to understand, to feel, that he loved her. And was "wooing." Not bombing.

"Just another minute, Colonel," yelled the engineer, disappearing back over the side of the heavily modified F-16.

The Z, as the XF-16Z was called, had started life as an F-16D, a two-seat version of the versatile fighter-bomber manufactured by General Dynamics. The Dreamland wizards had lengthened the fuselage and completely altered the wing and tail, which looked as if they belonged on a stretched version of the F-22 fighter. The slim body of the Fighting Falcon had been bulked up as well, so that the airplane looked more rectangular than round. This was partly to accommodate the larger engine, which was a Pratt & Whitney power plant originally proposed for the Joint Strike Fighter; the engine was capable of sustained cruising at Mach 1.2 while consuming a little less fuel than an F-16C would have at subsonic cruise. That there was much more room for fuel in the Dreamland version increased its operating range, giving it a typical combat radius well in excess of a thousand miles, depending on its mission and load.

The XF-16Z had been authorized shortly before Dog got to Dreamland. It originally had been intended as a test bed for a variety of technologies, including the wing construction (considered but rejected for the Joint Strike Fighter) and electronics suite (which would probably form the basis of the next generation of Wild Weasel upgrades). But it also showed how older airframes might be given new life; the Z could do for the F-16 what the Megafortress had done for the B-52—remake a venerable, solidly designed twentieth century aircraft into a twenty-first century cutting-edge war-plane. The Z was a cheaper-to-operate alternative to the strike version of the F-22; it could also be employed as a very capable Wild Weasel and — assuming the weapons people continued to make the progress they'd shown over the last twelve months — a likely platform for the lightweight attack version of the Razor antiair laser currently under development. The chemical laser was scheduled to be strapped to the belly of the Z for tests by early January.

Today's test was rather prosaic — Dog was merely helping the techies shake out some bugs in the radar unit that helped the aircraft track other airplanes around it. A pair of UAV drones — early model Pioneers — would be launched as soon as he was airborne; Dog would fly a few circuits and wait for the radar to pick up the craft and track them.

An easy gig, if the techies would just clear out so he could spool up the engine. The engineer reappeared at the side of the cockpit with a small meter, apologizing for some sort of glitch in the circuitry.

"How long is this going to take?" asked Dog.

"Uh, depends. I get a green here and you can go."

Dog couldn't help noticing that the needle on the engineer's testing device swung into the red zone and stayed there. The engineer mumbled a curse under his breath, then looked up at the colonel and turned red. "Sorry."

"I've heard those words before," said Dog. "Is this going to scrub the mission or what?"

"Um, maybe." The techie reached down and reseated his tester's clips. This time when he turned the switch dial, the needle pegged the green post on the meter. "Eureka," said the engineer. "Good to go, sir."

But as the technician disappeared down the side and the crew with the power cart got ready to "puff" the XF-16Z's engine to life, a black SUV with a blue flashing light raced toward the aircraft. A sergeant from the Whiplash ground action team, Lee Liu, got out and trotted toward the aircraft.

"Urgent Eyes-Only communication for you, Colonel," shouted Liu.

Dog undid his restraints and climbed over the side. "Di-Tullo, you're going to have to scratch unless you can find the backup pilot," he yelled. "Somedays you can never win."

Forty minutes later Dog watched the tussled hair and tired face of Jed Barclay pop onto the screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.

"Colonel, how are you?" he asked. Jed was the National Security Council assistant for technology, and the Martin-dale administration's de facto liaison with Dreamland.

"I'm fine, Jed. You look a little tired."

Jed smiled. "Stand by for Mr. Freeman."

The screen blinked. The feed indicated that the transmission was being made from the White House situation room, which had recently been upgraded, partly to accommodate secure communications with Dreamland.

"Colonel Bastian, good evening," said Philip Freeman, the National Security Advisor. "The President has issued a Whiplash Order. Hopefully, this mission won't be as intense as some of your others. I'm afraid I have an appointment upstairs. Before I go, I wanted to mention personally that I appreciate the effort you and your people made in Brunei. Good work, Colonel."

"Thank you," said Dog.

Freeman turned away from the screen.

Jed Barclay stepped back into view. "Roughly three weeks ago, one of Libya's Russian-made submarines left its port on the Mediterranean," he said. "Ordinarily, they go out a few miles, dive, circle, and go home. This one didn't. I have some graphics for you, but the illustrations are pretty, uh, basic."

A blurry black and white photo of a submarine replaced Jed's face. Dog listened as the NSC assistant described the submarine, an old but still potent diesel-powered member of the Project 641 class, code named "Foxtrots" in the west. Roughly three hundred feet long, the Libyan submarine had a snorkel and improved batteries, which allowed it to travel for several days while submerged. Capable of carrying over twenty torpedoes and possibly submarine-launched cruise missiles, the vessel posed a serious enough threat to shipping that NATO had sent additional forces to track it down. An Italian destroyer succeeded in locating it west of Sicily and trailed it as it traveled toward Gibraltar. But the submarine eventually gave it the slip.

Two days later a British antisubmarine warfare group off the Moroccan coast in the Atlantic recorded sounds of a submarine under distress. It failed to surface, and all contact was lost. The boat had not been positively identified, but was thought to have been a Foxtrot. Given the Libyans' dismal history with the Russian submarines, it seemed likely that the sub had broken up and sunk. An extensive search operation failed to turn up anything.

That closed the matter — until five days ago, when an American submarine in the Indian Ocean off the African coast reported a series of very distant contacts with a submarine it had never encountered before. The American sub was trailing a Russian cruiser at the time and couldn't do much more than listen passively as the other submarine passed a good distance away. The crew had originally identified the craft as a Kilo Project 636, a very potent diesel-powered submarine manufactured and exported by Russia. Subsequent analysis, however, indicated that was wrong. The analysts were pegging it as a Foxtrot or perhaps a member of the somewhat more refined and larger Tango class. "The same sub?" Dog asked Jed.

Jed said it certainly seemed to be. If so, it was a potentially ominous development. A loose association of pirates were currently operating in the Gulf of Aden. They had patrol boats of various sizes and configurations; they were using them to rob and extort money from ships headed from and toward the Red Sea and the Suez Canal. They were also running guns and ammunition to rebel movements in Eritrea, Somalia, Sudan, and Ethiopia.

The pirates had been active for several months, their status with the legitimate governments in the region unclear. The Arab League claimed that both Somalia, Yemen, and Ethiopia were working against the pirates, but none of the other countries would agree to work with the UN or NATO to combat them. This was no surprise in Somalia — the government wasn't much more than a fiction. Sudan and Yemen had their own share of conflicts and troubles, but Ethiopia's reluctance to cooperate was difficult to explain; they were inland and historically not allied with either country. The only possible explanation had to do with Islamic terror organizations and secret government alliances — a possibility that implied the Libyan submarine might be the first of many.

Things had gotten so bad that two weeks earlier a small contingent of U.S. ships had entered the Gulf of Aden and begun combating them. They were under orders to remain in international waters and attack only with "hard evidence" or if called by a ship under direct attack. Thus far their successes had been limited.

"A submarine would take the conflict to a whole different level," said Jed. "It's a pretty bad time for us — most of the Pacific Fleet is near Taiwan, and what's not there is spread out around North Korea and India. Meanwhile, the Atlantic Fleet is trying to deal with Yugoslavia and the Russian buildup in the Baltic."

"Which is why the pirates are so active," suggested Dog.

"Probably. This is where they've been."

A map of the Gulf of Aden came on the screen. Roughly 550 miles long, the arm of the Indian Ocean sat below the Arabian peninsula, sandwiched between the peninsula and the Horn of Africa. Somalia lay at the bottom, on the horn shape; Yemen was at the top, on the Arabian peninsula. To the left was the entrance to the Red Sea, which led to the Suez Canal at the far north.

Jed had shaded the areas along the coasts of Somalia and Yemen to show where the pirates had been most active — a swath roughly five hundred miles long.

"The attacks have been mostly in international waters, where the ships try to stay. The pirates then go into the coastal zones where they know they'll be safe," said Jed. "If the submarine is going to join them, it'll come up from this direction here."

He pointed at the right side of the map, on the horn, where Somalia butted into the Indian Ocean.

"You don't think it's heading for the Persian Gulf?" asked Dog. The Persian Gulf, which bordered Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Iraq, and Iran, lay farther east, just off Jed's map. "The Libyans have worked with the Iranians before, and the Iranians are the ones to watch in the Middle East, if you ask me."

"Um, yes, but they've been pretty quiet since Razor's Edge," said Jed, referring to the code name for an operation in Iran concluded some months before. Whiplash had destroyed an Iranian laser similar in design to the American antiair weapon known as Razor. "Besides, a NATO squadron is already operating there," he added. "There's an American destroyer and two French ships guarding the Strait of Hor-muz, and an Italian vessel farther north in the Persian Gulf. If the sub does try to get into the gulf, those ships will find it at Hormuz. The Gulf of Aden is much more problematic. If the submarine is in territorial waters, we can't touch it, and may even have trouble just tracking it."

Though Jed didn't explain, Dog realized that the administration was reluctant to push the territorial waters issue, not so much because it feared foreign reaction, but because of congressional criticism of the Martindale administration for acting unilaterally over the past six or seven months. Even though the administration had twice prevented wars between China and Taiwan and once between China and India, the politicos used the international criticism to bash Martindale. Senate Majority Leader Barbara Finegold had as much as said so in an interview on CNN a few days before, when she promised to hold hearings on President Martindale's "hidden foreign agenda."

"Why would the Libyans get involved with pirates?" Dog asked. "Are they getting a cut of the booty or what?"

"The pirates aren't just thieves," Jed explained. "They're part of a network of Islamic militants. They're attacking shipping partly for money and partly to help fund an Islamic revolt in North Africa. Sudan, Eritrea, Somalia, maybe even Ethiopia and Yemen — they're all in play. There are organizations in each country, and they're each affiliated with Al Qaeda, the people who are operating in Afghanistan."

"And who funded the takeover in Brunei."

"Same people. The Brunei movement probably used some of the money the pirates raised. We don't have any evidence that they're involved with the Libyans, or this submarine," added Jed. "But there have been efforts to get Ethiopia and Yemen as well as Egypt and even Oman to join the conflict. Ethiopia and Yemen both scrambled planes a few days ago."

"To attack the pirates?"

"More like to protect them. But they deny that." "What happens if we find the sub?" asked Dog.

"It depends on exactly what you find. If there's evidence of it working with the pirates, the Secretary of State will take it to the UN. He's pushing for a resolution that will authorize action against them no matter where they are."

The Dreamland Command Center was set up like a theater, with benches of computer displays arranged in a semicircle down toward the front screen. The displays could be tied to different systems during an operation, or used to tap into various databases. Dog stooped down to the one near him and tapped in the address for a mapping system, bringing up a detailed view of the Somalian coast. There were literally thousands of places a submarine might go along the coast of Africa.

"Where do the pirates operate out of?" he asked, looking at his map.

"We're not sure, exactly," said Jed. "They move from place to place, all along the coast. They hide among the local population, use old military bases, even civilian areas."

"In order to check some of these places out," Dog said, "we're going to have to put Piranha right into them. And I mean right into them."

"You're authorized to put Piranha as close as you have to. It's understood that the probe may go into territorial waters. That's why we want Piranha. As long as the controlling aircraft stays in international airspace."

"That's easy, if nothing goes wrong. What happens if the probe gets hung up in the mud?"

In theory, the probes were expendable; the idea was to use them in a situation like this, where exposing men could be dangerous and politically inconvenient. But at the moment, they were also very expensive — each one cost roughly a million dollars. And there were only four.

"They've passed all the trials with flying colors," said Jed. "And we used them in the Pacific. They're funded in the next fiscal year for regular procurement."

"You've been in Washington too long, Jed. That's not an answer."

"Um, sorry. It would depend on the circumstances. The, uh, political situation is pretty sensitive right now." "So's the technology." "Not my call, Colonel."

"What if I find the pirates while I'm searching for the submarine?" Dog asked. "Do I tell this Navy operation?"

"Not unless it's threatening them."

"Shouldn't we be working with them?"

"Mr. Freeman — and the President — intended this to be separate," said Jed. "They're pretty busy doing what they're doing. They've been informed of the sub, and that we'll be looking for it, but that's the extent of it at the moment," he added. "Um, I didn't think you and the Navy exactly got along."

That was an understatement. The last time Dog had worked with the Navy, he'd nearly decked an admiral.

"I get along with everybody," he replied. "Should I make contact with the Navy people or what?"

"If it becomes 'operationally necessary,' you can contact them. That's in the Whiplash directive. So, you know, it's kind of your call there. I think Mr. Freeman and the President thought you'd want to keep your distance. I should mention that the Navy doesn't put much stock in the reports of the submarine getting that far. Not at all, actually. They're pretty much against wasting any resources to find it. That's the word they use—waste"

"We can definitely get a mission package with Piranha prepared within twelve hours," Dog said. "But we need a base in the area to work out of."

"What about Diego Garcia?"

Located in the Indian Ocean south of India, the island atoll in the Chagos Archipelago had a long runway and secure if primitive facilities. It was the perfect staging area for an operation — except for the fact that it was a few thousand miles from the Gulf of Aden.

"It's a heck of a hike," Dog told Jed. "It'd be bad enough to make a bombing run up to the gulf from there. You're talkingabout patrols that have to last several hours to be effective, eight or twelve ideally. You put a four- to six-hour flight each way on top of that and you're going to have exhausted flight crews pretty quick. How about somewhere in Saudi Arabia?"

"The Saudis are pretty touchy about American military people on their soil these days," said Jed. "I don't know."

"During the Gulf War, we used an airport at Khamis Mushait for some Stealth fighters," said Dog. "It's close to the Gulf of Aden. We can scoot down to the Red Sea and get over the Gulf of Aden without crossing Yemen territory."

"I can check," said Jed. "I'll have to get back to you. There's like a thirteen hour difference between here and there. It's past eight in the evening here in D.C., five in the afternoon where you are, and, um, like past four a.m. there." Jed glanced at his watch, working out the differences. "Tomorrow. Four a.m. tomorrow."

"I can figure it out."

"If it took twelve hours to get Piranha ready, could you like, be there when? Tomorrow?"

"I have to talk to some of my people first," said the colonel. "I would guess we could arrive sometime tomorrow night our time at the very earliest. I don't know what sort of shape we'd be in to launch a mission. I'll have to get this all mapped out."

"OK, Colonel. Anything else?"

"How about tripling my budget and sending me a thousand more people?"

"Afraid I don't have that kind of pull," said Jed. "Neither do I," said Dog. "Dreamland out."

Danny Freah waited as the server rearranged their forks. To call the restaurant fancy was to underestimate it by half; the entrees cost twice what Danny had paid for his watch.

"You're sure no drink?" said Rosenstein as the server set down a single malt scotch. "Nothing for me. Thanks."

"Good. Very good," said Rosenstein, taking a sip. "I noticed you're an NOE."

"What's that?"

"Not Otherwise Enrolled," said Rosenstein. "Your party registration. You're not enrolled in a political party." "I haven't been involved in politics." "Unlike your wife."

"Jemma's always been pretty political."

"Nonpolitical is hot. The thing is, in that district, I'm pretty sure you could get both Democratic and Republican nominations. Conservative party as well. Not Liberal, but you're not going to want that anyway, right?"

"I don't know that I want anything."

"Still playing hard to get, Captain?"

"I'm not playing anything."

Rosenstein took a long sip of his scotch, savoring it. "I'm not here to sell you on running for office. I'll just lay out the time schedule for you. But…" He paused, obviously for effect. "War hero, young, black, well-spoken — Congress can use someone like you."

"You had me until you said well-spoken," said Danny. "You've never heard me speak."

"We can work on that. Game plan: Form a committee January 2. Make the rounds until early February. Parties meet. Get the endorsements in March. Circulate petitions. This is New York, so there will be primaries. That's not going to be the problem, as long as we've taken care of business in January and February. It'll be in your favor, actually; help get your name around. The primaries are the real action in the city anyway. Money's the only hiccup, and I think we can handle that without a problem. We usually break the donor lists down three ways to start. In your case we'll add two more — veterans and military contractors, and black professionals. Obviously, you'll do pretty well with those groups, and we want them to see you as their candidate right off. They don't translate into many votes in your district, but they'll ante up." "Ante up?"

"I'm sorry, it's Vegas, you know? Look, I do this for a living, so sometimes I get to sounding pretty cynical. Don't be put off. You won't have to worry about any of that. That's why we get a good financial chair. It's his problem. Or hers. You'll bring a different perspective to Congress, Captain. And I'm not blowing smoke in your ear. You can make a difference in Washington. Congress will be just a start. Mark my words."

Danny had hoped that meeting Rosenstein would end his ambivalence about running for political office, one way or the other. But right now he only felt more confused. He'd expected the political operative to be cynical, so he wasn't shocked that he spoke about people in terms of how much money they might be able to contribute. And by now so many people had told him that he ought to run that he was almost used to being called a "hero," even if from his point of view he was only a hardworking guy who did his job.

What confused him was his duty. Day by day in the military, in his experience, it was usually obvious: You followed orders, you accomplished your mission, you looked out for your people.

But there were higher responsibilities as well. If you had the potential to be a leader, then you should lead. That was one of the reasons he'd become an officer, and why he'd gone to college on an ROTC scholarship. Or to put it in the terms his mom would have used, "If you have the brains, don't sit on them."

So if he had a chance to be a congressman — to shape the country's laws and maybe make a difference — should he take it? Was it his responsibility to become a congressman because he could?

"Heads up, Captain. Here come our appetizers," said Rosenstein as the waiter approached.

As Danny started to sit back, the beeper on his belt went off. He glanced down at the face and saw the call was from Dreamland.

"I have to go make a phone call," he told Rosenstein, getting up.

"Colonel needs you," said Ax when he reached the base. "Said it might be a case of whiplash." "On my way," Danny snapped.

"I don't see the point of you deploying with us, Mack," said Dog. "There's not going to be much for you to do."

"Piranha's my project, Colonel. You put me in the slot, right? I have to liaison. Let me liaison."

"There's nothing to liaison with, Mack. You're needed here."

"I'm just twiddling my thumbs here." "You're supposed to be doing a lot more than twiddling your thumbs."

"You know what I mean, Colonel. I want to be where the action is. Hey — I'll learn to drive the Piranha. We're short on operators, right?"

"I'm not going to train you on the fly. We have Delaford and Ensign English. Zen and Starship are already checked out as backups; that gives us four operators. We can do the mission like that for a while."

"Is it because of the wheelchair?" asked Mack.

"It's not because of the wheelchair," said Dog. "But since you bring that up, I think frankly that you would be better served by continuing your rehab here."

"Ah, I'm doing fine with it."

"All the more reason to keep up with it. If you'll excuse me, I have some packing to do."

Ali Qaed Abu Al-Harthi stood on the bow of the small boat as it approached the rocky cut. It had been a long day and night, and while not without success, Ali focused now on the loss of his crew. The dozen Yemenis aboard the missile boat had abandoned ship as soon as the missile had been fired, and then were picked up promptly, but seven good men had been in the patrol craft the Americans had blown out of the water. One was his son, Abu Qaed.

Surely Abu was at God's bosom now, enjoying the promise of Paradise. But this was of small consolation to a father, even one so devout and committed to the cause of Islamic justice as Ali.

He remembered teaching the boy math when he was only three; he recalled bringing him to the mosque for the first time; he saw him now with the proud smile on his face as they made the Hajj, the great pilgrimage to Mecca that all devout Muslims must undertake once in their lives.

Was that not the proudest day of Ali's life? To toss the stone at the Satan pillar with his strapping son at his side? He had thrown his stone and turned to watch Abu throw his.

There could be no prouder moment. There had been no moment more perfect in his life.

They had made the pilgrimage together only a year ago. Ali had gone twice before; the third was like a special gift from God.

He would trade it to have Abu. Surely he would trade his own life.

Ali gazed to the west. An ancient fishing village sat on the port side as he came toward shore. Just to the right of it a group of rocky crags leaned over the water. A weathered cement platform, now three-quarters covered by rubble, gave the only clue that the rocks had not been put there by nature.

Italian and German engineers had begun establishing a large base here during the early part of World War II. Though abandoned before it could become operational, their work provided several good hiding places, most important of which was a cave that had been intended as a submarine pen. Most of Ali's smaller craft could squeeze under the opening, making it possible to hide them completely from overhead satellites and aircraft.

A second facility sat a half mile to the west — just on the starboard side of the prow as Ali had the helmsman adjust his heading. This was a dredged mooring area of more recent vintage, though it too had been abandoned to the elements. Several rusting tankers and small merchant ships sat at permanent anchorage, everything useful long ago stripped from the hulks. Some rode high in the water, empty; others rested just below the surface, the elements having won their relentless onslaught against the metal hulls. In the early 1970s the facility had been a metal and materials salvage operation owned by a group of Somalis with connections to the government. A Marxist revolution led to a government takeover of the operation, which had more to do with the failure of the principals to pay bribes than political philosophy. The men were slaughtered and the ships soon forgotten, left to stare at the rocks. The buildings beyond had been abandoned, until Ali had set up shop here a year before. He rarely visited — the key to his success was to move constantly — but tonight he had returned to examine his prize: the dark shadow on his right, sitting well above his vessel.

So at least Abu and the others had not died in vain, Ali thought, even if it was not a trade he would have freely made.

The helmsman turned the boat to port, bringing it around toward its berth. Ali waited stoically, thinking of his son one last time. The scent of the midnight storm that had helped them escape the Americans hung in the air, a reminder of God's beneficence in the midst of struggle. The rain had been fierce but lasted only an hour; long enough, however, to confuse their enemy.

"Captain!" said the man on the pier as he jumped off the boat. "I have brought the ship in." "Saed?" Ali asked. "Yes, sir!"

"Why is the vessel not being camouflaged?"

"They only just arrived," said Saed. "The captain wanted food for his crew."

"Find him and tell him that if the ship is not properly fitted so that it looks like the other wrecks before the Russian satellite passes overhead at ten, I shall cut him into a dozen pieces with my knife. It is to take the place of the one that was destroyed yesterday. It must be as close as possible. The Russians may miss it, but the Americans will not."

The pilot nodded, then ran off.

Zeid, Ali's second-in-command, was waiting on shore. "All of the American ships are near the Yemen coast," he said. "Our people have been quite active — they make not a move without us seeing."

"Yes." Ali did not pause, but walked directly toward the building he used as both command post and personal quarters.

"The torpedoes nearly struck the American ship," said Zeid, catching up. "That would have been quite a blow."

Ali didn't answer.

"I would like to be the one to sink Satan's Tail," said Zeid, using the nickname they had given to the shadowy warship that had hunted them for the past two weeks. "It would be a moment of glory for all time."

"Yes," said Ali softly.

The American ship and its three smaller brethren had surprised him the first night it appeared, and only God had managed to save him — God and a timely distress call from the ship they'd tried to attack, saying that a man had gone overboard. Ali watched from Yemen waters as the American vessel, roughly the size of a frigate but much lower in the water, turned its daggerlike bow toward the tanker. For a moment the moonlight framed it against the waves. It had two wedge-shaped gun turrets on the forward deck; behind the superstructure, its topside looked like a piece of wood planed flat. The stern had a slot, as if it were a barracuda's tail, flapping against the waves. Satan's Tail.

And like the devil, it slipped into the shadows and was gone.

Ali almost believed it had been an apparition, but the next day the ship and one of its smaller cousins chased the patrol boat he had taken to transport some of the Egyptian brothers to Djibouti, where they could help the movement there. Satan's Tail made the journey almost impossible, and Ali nearly had to confront a Djibouti gunboat before finding a way to slip past and take his passengers to an alternative landing point north of the capital. This stretched his fuel reserves, and he was forced to appropriate some at a marina. He did not regret taking it, but it was a troublesome complication.

Since that time, Ali had worked with the knowledge that the American ships might be just over the horizon. He had mobilized his army of spies — mostly fishermen and coast watchers — to help, but reports were difficult once they were far from shore. Simple detectors in his fleet could detect the powerful radars American ships usually used, giving an hour of warning, if not more, of their approach. But these ships did not use those radars. In fact, the only radar they seemed to use was an older Italian-made radar that Ali had learned of many years before, during a long apprenticeship as a junior officer with the Italian navy. It was clearly not their only means of searching for him, but he had not been able to detect any aircraft operating with them, let alone the radars that such craft would field. It was possible that they were using a very sophisticated acoustical device, though if so, it was far superior to any he had seen in the NATO or Egyptian navies. The heavy traffic of the channel and shallow waters of the coast gave them some amount of protection, but Satan's Tail was a difficult adversary. He had found out tonight its guns were even more dangerous than he had feared, their salvos unlike anything he had ever seen at sea before. Like all demons, the American vessel would not be easily exorcised.

The answer, he hoped, had arrived that evening, sneaking into port during his diversionary action two hundred miles away. In itself, the vessel wasn't much. A member of the Russian Polnocny class, she had been built many years before in Poland to support landings by amphibious forces. Her upturned bow could be beached and the doors opened, allowing vehicles to roll off the large tank deck that ran through the center of the ship. But Ali wasn't interested in its ability as an amphibious warfare vessel; he had no tanks and no desire to fight on land. Indeed, the work he had spoken of to his man included modifying the deck to make the ship appear from the air as much as possible like an old junker, a local merchant ship a few months from the scrap heap.

Once the Russian and American satellites passed on their predictable schedules overhead, the real modifications would begin: the addition of advanced SS-N-2D Styx ship-to-ship missile launchers. Vastly improved over the early model fired from the Yemen missile boat, the missiles had a forty-six-mile range and included an infrared backup, allowing them to find their targets even if jammed by an electronic countermeasure system. The missiles would allow Ali to attack Satan's Tail from a distance without having a good "lock" from the radar, which he suspected would be impossible. While the odds on a single or even double shot succeeding were high, Ali believed from his training that a barrage firing in two or more waves of missiles would succeed. An anti-ECM unit built by the Indians to update the missile confused NATO close-in ship protection systems, such as those that typically used a Phalanx gun to shoot down cruise missiles. Whether the units — or even the missiles, which had been purchased from North Korea— worked would only be determined in combat. But Ali intended to find out as soon as possible.

The missiles would be camouflaged as crates on the ship's deck. The 30mm cannons and a large 140mm gun designed for land bombardment had been stripped years before, something Ali thought would now be in his favor, since even if the vessel were properly identified, she would appear toothless.

The two men guarding the door to Ali's headquarters snapped to attention as the commander approached. One had been a lifelong friend of his son's; Ali remembered carrying both boys on his back when they were five. He paused, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder. "My son has gone tonight to Paradise," he told the young man.

The guard's face remained blank, not comprehending.

Inside the office, Ali knelt to the floor and bent his head in silent prayer, as was his custom. But his body shook and the words wouldn't come. He began to sob, wracked by grief.

"It is a terrible thing to lose a son."

Ali looked across the darkened room. Sitting in the corner was the Saudi. It had been months since they had spoken in person; Osama bin Laden's beard seemed whiter even in the darkness.

"How did you know?" asked Ali.

"If you were a superstitious man I would tell you a lie, and you would believe, wouldn't you, because your emotion is so great?" The Saudi rose from the chair and came toward him. He seemed much thinner than the last time they had met, more worn by the weight of his mission to free the faithful from their chains. But there was strong energy in his walk, and when he touched Ali on the shoulder, it was as if that energy sparked into his body. The pain of losing his son retreated, and Ali rose and clasped the older man's hand.

"Thank you for your comfort," he told him.

"My comfort is nothing. Allah's comfort is all. We will have much need of it before our war is over." He stepped back and looked at Ali, nodding. "You have done well with your fleet. The large vessel has arrived without being detected."

"With God's help."

"You intend it to attack the Americans?"

"Yes."

The Saudi nodded. It was clear that he had reservations, though it was not his way to interfere directly. He ruled largely by persuasion and was, in Ali's experience, a very logical man, as well as a religious one.

"The Yemenis were able to contribute the vessel with their missile," said the Saudi.

"A rotting tub with a single missile that could not be aimed properly," said Ali. "But we made use of it. We drew the American toward us as a diversion, and nearly succeeded in striking them. They are angry." He smiled faintly.

"Does their anger frighten you?"

"No. I welcome it."

"You wish to avenge your son?"

"I do."

"You should not."

The words surprised him.

"Your son has found his place in heaven," the Saudi explained. "You have no need for revenge in jihad. You must fight for God's agenda, not your own. Only when you are truly pure will you succeed."

The Saudi was prone to long speeches extolling the virtues of the righteous war and the need for God's soldiers to be pure. Ali was not in the mood for such a speech. He lived not in the world of ideals, but in the real world, and he had just lost his son.

"I fight as I am," he said, sitting in his chair.

"And we are all the better for it. Tell me, if you had your wish, what would it be?"

"What would I wish for? My son back beside me."

"And?"

"Many things. More weapons, fuel for my ships. Better communications. Missiles that can be fired at long range. More ships."

"Airplanes?"

Ali frowned. The Ethiopians had promised several times to send aircraft to his aid, as had Yemen and Sudan. Supposedly they had taken off on missions several times in the past week, but if so, Ali hadn't seen the proof.

"I don't need airplanes," he said.

"Not even against the American ship?"

"They shouldn't even attempt that. It could easily shoot them down. However—" Ali pitched his body forward. "The American Navy sometimes uses unarmed radar and electronics aircraft called Orions. Those would be easy targets for a fighter. There must be one operating somewhere in the Gulf of Aden, perhaps disguised as a civilian. If that were shot down, that would help me."

The Saudi nodded thoughtfully.

"I can tell them the sort of radar signals to look for," said Ali. "I will have a message delivered to the embassy." "Deliver it to Yemen as well."

The air force in his native land was staffed entirely by cowards who would never act, but Ali told the Saudi he would do so before his first meal.

"Other ships will join you within a few days. Large, powerful ships that you can use. A vessel from Oman," added the Saudi.

"Oman? From the corrupted government?" "Brothers there are active. Details will be provided in the usual way."

"A missile boat would be very useful." Ali ran his hand over his chin. He needed fuel, food — those were the problems of a commander, more difficult to solve than the tactics of warfare.

"If you had everything you wished for," said the Saudi, "what would you do?"

"I would sink the enemy's ships." "The one that killed your son?"

"Yes."

"Is that the limit of your ambition?" "I would sink every ship that I could find," said Ali. "I would continue to obtain the tribute that is God's so we could fight the only war. I would show the West that they are not the rulers of the world."

The Saudi stared at him. His eyes were the eyes of a viper, black diamonds that missed nothing.

"What would you do with a submarine?" said Osama.

"A submarine?" Had anyone else made this suggestion, Ali would have thought it a joke — but the Saudi did not joke. "A submarine would be very useful."

"Friends in Libya who agree with our aim have volunteered to join you. The vessel has been sailing for many days. It had to go around Africa. We have been trying to get word to you in a way that the Americans and Jews could not intercept. Finally, I decided I must come myself."

The Saudi told Ali that the submarine would arrive at a point ten miles due north of Boosaaso and surface at ten minutes past midnight on the morning of November 8. If no contact was made, he would surface the next night, and the next.

"They will surface every night to look for you. They will do so until they run out of fuel and food. If you do not come, they will destroy the first American warship they see. And then the next, and so on, until they have no more weapons to fire. Then they will crash their ship into the enemy, and commit their souls to Allah."

"We will meet him," said Ali. He was somewhat skeptical at the mention of Libya. The Libyan Navy had several submarines, all Russian vessels that the Italian navy had tracked when they came out of port. These were Project 641 and 641B ships, members of the Foxtrot and Tango class, large, oceangoing submarines. Not quite as quiet as the Kilo class of diesel-powered export submarines, they were still potent ships — but only if properly maintained and manned. In his experience, the Libyan vessels were neither.

"There is one other matter of interest," said the Saudi.

Ali understood that this was meant to be the condition for the largesse Osama had brought. He listened without emotion as the Saudi told him that God's plans were immense, and the war against Satan immeasurable from a human perspective. Personal feelings could have no place in it. Only after this lengthy preface did he get to the heart of the matter:

"Friends of ours have learned that a British aircraft carrier named the Ark Royal is due to sail through the Suez Canal at the beginning of next week. Have you heard of it?"

"Of course. It's the pride of their fleet."

"If the ship were to be sunk, it would be a major blow to the West. The British could not afford to replace her. Others would see what happens to those who work closely with the devil. The blow would be much mightier than any attack on a smaller ship, however great the lesser strike would be."

"There will be many protections in place," said Ali. It was clear that the Saudi knew nothing about sea matters; suggesting an attack on an aircraft carrier was foolhardy, even by a submarine. "Aircraft carriers sail with several other vessels and are watched constantly."

"According to our Egyptian friends, the carrier is on a journey to India. Perhaps they will not be on their guard the entire distance."

"Perhaps," said Ali.

"The Egyptians will make much information available. Some I do not entirely understand, I confess. They speak of three escorts, and an air arm at half strength."

Three escorts would be standard — two optimized for air defense, one for submarine warfare. They were good ships, though certainly not unbeatable. The air arm probably referred to the carrier's complement of Harrier jump jets; half strength might mean as few as four planes were aboard the carrier. Ali would have to find out; such a low number would limit patrols severely. The ship would also have helicopters for radar and antisubmarine work — potentially more of a problem than the Harriers.

Was he thinking of attacking? Against such strong odds?

It would be suicidal.

He did not care for his own life now. Death would be welcome. And wouldn't God see to it that he succeeded?

The answer was obvious. This was an order from God; the Saudi was only a messenger.

During his time with the Italian destroyer Audace, one of their regular exercises had called for an attack on the flagship of the Italian fleet, the Giuseppe Garibaldi. The Garibaldi was somewhat smaller than the Ark Royal, displacing only about half the tonnage. In some ways it was much more capable, however — unlike the Ark Royal, it carried potent surface-to-surface missiles and torpedo launchers; even during the exercises when it was stripped of its escorts it held off Ali's ship. In fact, it usually did better without escorts: There were never enough to properly screen against a surface attack if it was launched properly, but the carrier crews saw the other ships and believed they were well-protected. They were less than vigilant.

The attack would have to be orchestrated very carefully.

The surprising thing he had seen during the exercises was the ineptness of the flight crews when locating attacking ships. They trained almost exclusively to bombard land targets or combat submarines. The captain of Ali's ship had dodged one patrol merely by identifying the ship as one of the carrier's screening vessels. The vessel had been permitted to get close enough to launch its surface-to-surface missiles unscathed.

The commander had been reprimanded for his trickery; Ali thought he should have been commended. It was the pilot's fault, after all; truly he should have been able to tell the difference.

If he could sink it — if he did sink it — wouldn't that send a message that anyone who was friends with the Americans could be targeted? Wouldn't the nations of the Middle East — the small ones especially, like Djibouti and Bahrain, but also the bigger ones, Egypt, Saudi Arabia — realize they weren't safe?

Ali looked over at his visitor and found him smiling.

"You understand how truly majestic it would be," said Osama. "I can see it in your face."

"Yes, I do understand," said Ali. "But — it would not be an easy task. I would need much information — considerable information."

"You will have it."

"The Iranians?"

"The Iranians will not be cooperative. We will work to get you other resources," said the Saudi. "And God will be with you. Come. It is almost dawn. Let us prepare to pray. It will be a glorious day."