Satan's Tail

IV My Way or No Way

Storm watched the rigid hull inflatable boat pull into the landing area at the stern of Abner Read. Two more bodies had been recovered from the destroyed freighter, which had sunk during the night. Three men had not yet been recovered.

He would get the bastards for this. He would get them and he would see personally that they paid.

As for Bastian…

"Captain?"

Storm ignored the seaman who had approached him, snapping to attention and bringing his hand up in a stiff salute as one of his dead sailors was lifted from the boat. A light rain made the work all the more grim; several members of the party helping recover the remains slipped on the wet deck as they carried their fallen comrades about the destroyer. They struggled to hold the dead bodies up off the deck until they reached the litters that had been laid out for them, determined to spare them one final indignity. Only when the last body was laid down did Storm turn and give the seaman his attention.

"Sorry, sir," said the sailor.

Storm noted that the man's eyes were welled with tears. "They'll be avenged," Storm told him. "We'll have justice." The young man nodded. "What did you want to tell me?"

"Commander Eisenberg sent me to tell you that Communications has that transmission you needed," said the young man. "He also said to mention that your communications unit has given out, sir. He can hear you but apparently you can't hear him."

Storm looked down at his belt. Somewhere during the long night he had pulled the wires of the unit out and broken part of the connection. The sailor was holding a replacement unit.

"Thanks," said Storm. "I'll take the transmission in my cabin."

As he walked to his quarters, he pulled the old com unit off his head. Some of his blood had scabbed under the unit, and he winced as he pulled it off. Not much pain, he thought; just enough to remind him he was alive.

Admiral Johnson's face filled the screen when he flipped on the secure communications line. Storm told him what had happened; for once the admiral listened without comment.

"There were three patrol boats that fled the scene," Storm told him. "The Dreamland team tracked them to a harbor in Somalia, then lost them when a group of Ethiopians showed up. They had time to shoot down two planes, but they couldn't lift a finger to help us."

"Did the Dreamland people understand what was at stake here?" asked Johnson.

"Admiral, I can't begin to understand or speak for what was going on in their minds. I requested that they engage the boats and they refused. As for the Ethiopians — I think if we don't put our foot down, things are going to get a lot worse over here."

"Bastian thinks he's the Lone Ranger," said Johnson. "He's not used to being part of a team."

Finally, thought Storm, he and Admiral Johnson actually agreed on something.

"Have you recovered your dead?" asked Johnson.

"We're working on it. We will accomplish that. I've taken temporary command as captain of the ship as well as the task group. It seemed the most expedient and efficient way to proceed."

Johnson didn't argue, and Storm didn't give him the chance, pushing on quickly.

"We will accomplish the rest of the mission, sir." "You damn well better." "I intend to, Admiral."

The screen blanked. Storm reached to turn it off, but the voice of a communications specialist aboard the admiral's flagship stopped him.

"Captain Gale, Captain McGowan requests to speak to you, sir."

"Put him on."

The screen flashed. Captain Red McGowan, his face tired and drawn, appeared on the screen.

"Sorry for your troubles," said Red. "Sorry to hear your men were lost."

"Thanks, Red."

"Marcum too?"

"I'm sorry to say, yes."

"Bastards."

"I hate those mothers."

Storm released a string of curses. His friend nodded as he continued, making no effort to calm him as he vented.

"I'll get them," Storm said softly when his breath, but not his anger, had finally drained.

"What happened with the Dreamland aircraft? They were fired on?"

"Apparently, Bastian claims to have shot down two MiGs. They couldn't lift a finger against the patrol boats that were killing my people, but they could go out of their way to take out the Ethiopians. Ethiopians — I question whether they were even armed. The country doesn't have an air force worthy of the name."

"You're going overboard, Storm."

"In the two weeks plus that we've been here, they haven't attacked us once. Dreamland comes out here and all of a sudden the Ethiopians are flying miles away from their air bases and, bang bang, splashing into the gulf. I wish I could get away with that."

"Bastian's not going to get away with anything," answered Red.

"Do I get the Belleau Wood or what?"

"That's not going to happen, Storm. There's just no way."

"Then untie my hands! I have the assets I need — let me use them."

Red winced. "If it were up to me."

"Yeah, all right. Later." Storm punched the button on the panel, ending the transmission. He went and washed some of the dirt and dried blood off his face, then changed into a fresh uniform. Calmer, he dialed into Communications.

"See if you can find Admiral Balboa for me," Storm told the officer. "Call the Joint Chiefs personnel office and ask them where Pinkie is — he's a lieutenant commander who owes me a favor. Better yet, call the Pentagon, OK? And Joint Chiefs, ask for Lou Milelo. He's a chief petty officer. Be respectful, very respectful, and tell him I need a personal favor. Then get me on the line. I'll be on the bridge."

Ali folded the paper carefully in half, then took the lighter from his pocket and set it on fire. He watched intently as the flames consumed it, waiting until his fingers were singed to drop it into the nearby surf.

The message it contained had been disappointing. The Ethiopian Air Force had attacked an American warplane with predictable results: Two of their pilots had been shot down. They were hoping he could look for the men in the gulf.

The Ethiopians might be brave, but they were also foolhardy. It wasn't clear from the message what sort of plane it had been, though Ali doubted it was an Orion or any similar radar or surveillance craft; such planes were typically unequipped for air-to-air combat. And any single American warplane was more than a match for the entire Ethiopian Air Force. Brave men foolishly led to their deaths by misguided leaders — this was not God's wish.

There was slim hope of finding the pilots, but he had been called on as a brother in religion, and could not turn down such a request. In exchange, perhaps the Ethiopians would have to help him. He needed a diversion so he could get the last of his patrol boats out of the port near Laasgoray, where it had spent the night being repaired. He needed it to join him in an attack on a fuel carrier tonight; if the attack went well, they would have more than enough diesel fuel for the Sharia, and the boats as well.

He took a pen from his pocket and wrote down a time and place.

"Take this message back," he told the man who had come from town. "Tell them we will do what they wish. But they must also try to have airplanes at this place and time. It would be very useful as a diversion. Let them use their courage to its best effect."

Starship brought the Flighthawk onto the runway after the Megafortress had turned onto the ramp, taxiing around so the U/MF-3 trailed the big airplane like a dog following its master. He had definitely drawn the short stick on the mission. After the excitement with the Ethiopians, Baker-Baker Two hadn't been challenged. He'd spent most of the six hours since Zen handed off the Flighthawk flying crazy eights at twenty thousand feet, and hadn't so much as buzzed a dhow during the entire time.

Dreamland's MC-17 sat near the ramp area, along with an MV-22 Osprey. A pack of maintainers met Baker-Baker Two as she trundled to a stop. They were already working on the damaged engine when Starship came down the ladder.

Starship got out of his flight gear and debriefed the mission. Too keyed-up to hit the sack, he decided to get a late breakfast. The Saudis had a cafeteria-style grill on their side of the base; a whiteboard at the door welcomed u.s. fliers and announced a special of hamburgers and fries in their honor, the words presented in both Arabic and English.

Starship wasn't sure why burgers were being presented as breakfast fare, but wasn't about to argue. He took his to a table near a group of Saudis who were dressed in flight suits. One of the men smiled at him as he sat down, then came over and introduced himself as Major Bandar, inviting Starship to join him and the others. Well into their thirties, the men were all F-15 jocks who'd spent time in the States and had flown during the Gulf War. When they asked Starship what he flew, he answered by saying he used to fly F-15s himself.

"And now what do you fly?" asked Bandar. "Mega-fortress?"

Starship held out his hands. "Can't say." The others jeered good-naturedly. "Oh, oh, top secret," laughed Bandar. "You fly the robot," guessed one of the others. "The midget with wings."

"He doesn't look small enough." "What is it like? Is it difficult?"

Starship tried changing the subject, and finally got them to talk about the F-15s and their own routine. Bandar lamented that they were restricted to a flight a week, and that the missions were little more than hops north and back, barely enough to get the turbines spinning.

"Maybe we can work an exercise out with you sometime," said Starship as the Saudis got up for a meeting. "A little dissimilar aircraft tactics."

"That would be very good," said Bandar.

"I'd like to shoot down a Megafortress," said the officer across from Bandar.

Starship started to smile but the pilot's expression made it clear he wasn't joking.

Now it was Bandar's turn to change the subject. "If you are interested in seeing the town," he said, "let me know. I will be your guide."

"Yeah? I wouldn't mind a tour," said Starship.

"Meet me at the gate at 1400," said Bandar. "Two p.m."

Starship hesitated. He was supposed to fly tonight and had been planning on sleeping.

"Two p.m.," repeated Bandar. "You'll be there?"

"Sure," said Starship.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral George Balboa, spent much of his time at the White House angry, but Jed Barclay had never heard him quite this angry.

Then again, he'd never heard his boss this angry either. The walls of the Executive Office Building were practically shaking as the two men shouted at each other. Fortunately, because of the early hour, there were few people in the West Wing to hear them — though given how loud they were shouting, Jed wouldn't have been surprised to find that they woke half the city.

"You're trying to create your own private army, Freeman. That's what Dreamland is — a private army."

"That's baloney and you know it. It's slander."

"You tell me what to call a deployment of military units that ignores the normal chain of command. And ignores international law."

"I'd like to see proof of that. That aircraft was attacked. They have proof."

"Manufactured by them, no doubt."

"You're way out of line, Balboa. And for the record, Whiplash has always operated at the President's specific command — legally, per the law. It's the President's prerogative as commander in chief to direct units and set their missions."

"Does the President know about it?"

"Ask him yourself."

"I damn well will," said Balboa.

Jed literally threw himself back against the wall as Balboa stormed from the office. Balboa's face was red, and the admiral's stubby legs and arms pumped like the rods in an overworked V-8 car motor. Jed held his breath as the admiral passed. Just as he exhaled, Balboa swung around.

"And you," he shouted at Jed. "You better wake up and smell the coffee here, kid. I thought you had a brain in your head."

"I have a brain," snapped Jed.

"You're a dupe. You better watch yourself, Barclay, or you're going to end up like Ollie North — if you're lucky. More like Dean and Erlichmann."

He stomped away, disappearing around the corner. Jed walked into Freeman's suite, where he found his boss picking up files from the floor.

"Sorry about that, Jed," said Freeman. "The Chairman is a little upset."

Jed nodded and began to help. "Who's Dean and Erlich-mann?"

"John Dean and John Erlichmann. They were in the Nixon administration. They went to prison because they lied for the President."

"Oh," said Jed, sitting in the chair in the corner. "That's just Balboa being Balboa. Don't worry about it." "Why would I be like one of those guys?"

"You're not. Balboa is throwing his usual smoke. He's still angry about the strike on China by Brad Elliott and company," said Freeman. "He'd love to prove that Dreamland was behind it."

"Dreamland had nothing to do with it," said Jed.

They were referring to the so-called Fatal Terrain episode, which had been pulled off by a semiprivate group operating on behalf of the Taiwan government — or at least that was the public version. Even Jed wasn't privy to all the details. But he did know that the Dreamland people weren't involved. Or at least he thought he did.

"Balboa apparently thinks that Dreamland and Whiplash should be placed back in the military chain of command," said Freeman. "Or I should say, under his chain of command."

There had been various plans to bring Dreamland back "online" as a regular command, but the President was ambivalent about doing so. Jed had always believed this was because, as the President had said, he didn't want to stifle the creativity there. But in light of what Balboa had just said, he had to admit there might be other reasons as well. Lieutenant General Terill Samson had been tapped to head nearby Brad Elliott Air Force Base, which on paper was supposed to have included Dreamland. But Dreamland's funding line was specifically excluded from the command, and no one in the Air Force — not even the formidable General Samson — had direct authority over Colonel Bastian and his people. Once a Whiplash order designated a mission, Bastian answered only to the President.

Usually through Jed. Which put him in the middle… maybe in the same place Erlichmann and the others had been.

"Among his other goals," continued Freeman, "Admiral Balboa is angling to have the Dreamland team in the Gulf of Aden placed under Captain Gale. Xray Pop could use help. There's no question about that."

"But that would change their focus from the submarine to the pirates," said Jed.

"They may end up being the same mission. Balboa is claiming the Dreamland people provoked the attack on their aircraft."

"I heard, but that's ridiculous. Colonel Bastian wouldn't do that. Besides, Ethiopia has scrambled planes before." "Mmmm."

Jed could tell that Freeman wasn't entirely sure. "I can get the mission tapes," he said.

"No, that's all right. Like I said, it's just Balboa being Balboa." Freeman rose. "It may make sense to have the Megafortresses work with Xray Pop. The only problem is that Gale and Bastian will spend so much time spitting at each other they'll forget who the enemy is."

They were exactly fifteen miles offshore, directly north of the port where the Dreamland people had tracked the Somalian pirates. Storm had ordered the radars turned on so they knew the Abner Read was there, hoping that would provoke a response. Thus far it hadn't.

If he wanted to, he could unleash a barrage from his gun and obliterate the town just above the tiny port where the pirates had taken refuge. A dozen shells would erase it.

Two or three hundred years ago, when sails ruled the sea, that's what they would have done. There'd be no political niceties, no worry about a peace process or the UN.

"Captain, we have two unidentified aircraft approaching from the south at high speed," said Eyes. "Just popped up over the mountains, coming toward the coast."

"Very good," Storm said. "Weapons, track them and prepare to fire."

Zen tapped the command to share the video feed with Ensign Gloria English, who was operating the Piranha at the other Flighthawk station. "What's that?" he asked.

"That, Major, is the future of the Navy. The DD(L)-01 Abner Read. A littoral warfare destroyer. It's the naval equivalent of a Megafortress, in terms of cutting-edge equipment. That's Captain Storm Gale's flagship."

"Looks like a Popsicle with a couple of sugar cubes on it."

"Be interesting to see what it could do in a tangle."

"Zen, those Ethiopian MiG-23s are continuing north," warned Dish, who had been tracking them on radar. "They have activated their attack radars. Looks to me like they're going to attack the Abner Read."

"Better warn them. I'm on it," said Zen, plunging the Flighthawk in their direction.

The excited shouts over the ship's battle circuits revved Storm's heart as he glanced at the graphic rendering of the approaching MiGs in his hologram. The two aircraft were just crossing from the land to the water fifteen miles away, sweeping in their general direction. "We have them targeted."

"Stand by," said Storm. The Abner Read had SM-2 missiles in its Vertical Launching System; the missiles could knock out a target at roughly ninety miles.

The MiGs weren't coming on an exact intercept, but they were well within range to launch antiship missiles. Neither, however, had turned on a targeting radar, and thus had not committed a hostile act — which his orders required before he was allowed to shoot them down.

Orders he didn't particularly care for, orders that put him and his ships in danger — but orders which, if disobeyed, would be used by his enemies to derail his career.

"Communication from a Dreamland aircraft, warning us that two MiGs are approaching."

"About time," scoffed Storm. "Connect me."

"It's not easy cutting that circuit in, sir. There's a technical glitch on our side that—"

"Connect me."

"They're both MiG-23BNs," Zen told the Navy captain. "Computer says they don't have antiship missiles. Repeat, no missiles." "Bombs?"

"Appear to have no weapons of any kind," said Zen. "I think they're just up for their jollies. They're not reacting to your ship. I don't think they know you're there."

"They must be up to something. The Ethiopians typically don't come over Somalian territory."

"They did last night."

The two Ethiopian warplanes were now ten miles off the Flighthawk's nose. Zen began a turn to the east, planning to bring the Flighthawk in an arc behind the MiGs. Wisconsin, meanwhile, had already begun tacking in that direction to stay close to the Piranha probe.

"Have a small patrol craft moving out of the port," said Ensign English, who was commanding the probe.

"Feed me the location," said Zen. The plot merged into the sitrep screen in Zen's helmet. The MiG fighter-bombers, meanwhile, continued northward.

"It's a sucker play," said Zen. "They sent the MiGs out to get everyone's attention while the patrol boat sneaks off in broad daylight."

"MiGs see us," Eyes told Storm. "Changing course. Heading toward us."

"Do we have a lock?"

"Having some trouble," said Eyes.

The missiles themselves were dependable weapons, but were designed to work with a different targeting system. Sometimes they were locked even though the weapons panel indicated they weren't — and vice versa. The experts promised a fix…but by the time that happened, the new system would probably be ready.

"Weapons, can you target those planes?" Storm asked.

"Ready to fire at your command," said the weapons officer. "I can't guarantee a hit, because of the glitch."

"I'm not asking you to, son."

"Dreamland aircraft is back on the line," said the communications officer. "They say it's urgent."

"Tell them to take a ticket," said Storm. "Have the Ethiopian aircraft been warned?"

"Affirmative."

"Eyes, are those aircraft in Somalian territory?"

"Negative, sir. They have crossed into international airspace. They have not answered hails. I believe they show hostile intent. They are a bombing run, and we're in their crosshairs."

"Noted. Engage the enemy."

Zen saw the first missile flash from the desk of the Abner Read and shook his head.

"Missile in the air!" warned Dish. "RIM-67, Navy Standard Missile Two in ship-to-antiaircraft mode, targeted at the Ethiopian MiG."

"He's a dead pony," said Zen. He pushed the Flighthawk closer to the water. The patrol boat had her throttle open full bore and was kicking over the waves at close to fifty knots. It was crossing out of Somalian waters, heading for the open sea.

"Dish, have you advised Xray Pop? The patrol boat's getting away."

"Told me to hold on," said Dish. "Second missile launched. Same deal, targeting the second MiG."

"Flighthawk leader, we have to get into position to make another buoy drop," said the Wisconsin's pilot.

"I copy. I'm coming back," said Zen. He changed the display from the optical camera to the sitrep, and was surprised to see that the two MiGs were still in the air, hightailing it back over the Somalian coast. "Don't tell me Navy missed," said Zen.

"Shanked to the right," said Dish. "My guess is there's a problem with the Abner Read's radar — their signal is very degraded. Looks like the MiGs selected afterburners before the Abner Read got her first shot off," added the radar operator.

"Storm's not going to be happy about that," said English.

"You know him?" asked Zen.

"Only from what Commander Delaford has told me. They served together. Storm's a hothead."

"And not a very good shot either," said Zen. "But at least he scared the pants off those Ethiopians. Idiots are still in afterburner. Probably run out of fuel halfway home."

Admiral Balboa had calmed down considerably in the few hours since Jed had seen him, but that was only relative; he was still frowning and clearly irritable as they waited upstairs in the White House residence for the President. It was just after seven a.m. The President was supposed to leave no later than seven-thirty from the back lawn for a round of visits to the Midwest. The early morning session had been called primarily to update him on the situation in China, where a U.S. plane had been forced down by hostile action, but the Gulf of Aden was nearly as volatile. The Ethiopian Air Force claimed that two of their aircraft had been shot down without provocation, and had filed a protest with the UN. Meanwhile, the Navy was demanding more resources for Xray Pop, which had lost several men after boarding a pirated ship.

Jed realized that if the last administration hadn't cut the funding for weapons development, the task group would have had a much easier time of things; at the very least, it would have had more Shark Boats, working UAVs, and competent radar. But no one wanted to hear that, least of all Admiral Balboa, who seemed to think the last President walked on water, with an aircraft carrier to guide him.

"Young Jed, good to see you this morning," said President Martindale, springing into the Treaty Room at the center of the upstairs floor of the presidential mansion. The President liked to have small, intimate sessions in the residence; he thought they were much more informal and likely to yield "real" advice than sessions in the West Wing. Jed, though, thought that the history of the place intimidated some people — you were sitting where Abraham Lincoln walked his sick son to sleep, where FDR poured cocktails and shared off-color gossip, where Kennedy sized up his conquests.

"Admiral, Mr. Freeman, Jeffrey, Jerrod — everyone have coffee except me?" The President went to the large urn that had been wheeled into the room and helped himself. "Let's hear what the Seventh Fleet's story is," he said as he poured.

"I think we should talk about the Gulf of Aden first," said Freeman. "And get that out of the way."

"Xray Pop lost twelve men last night," said Balboa, launching into a short summary of what had happened.

Martindale nodded solemnly, and Jed guessed that he already knew everything Balboa was telling him. The White House military liaison would most likely have woken him with the news.

"There was also an attack on a Dreamland aircraft by Ethiopia," Balboa went on. "Provoked by the Dreamland aircraft."

"That's not true," blurted Jed.

Everyone looked at him. Jed felt his face shade red. He glanced at Freeman, who was frowning.

"Go ahead, Jed," said the President. "What happened?"

"First of all, there were two encounters, one early in the evening with the Sudanese, and then several hours later with the Ethiopians. The Sudanese did a fly-by; it's not clear how they knew that the Megafortresses were in the area, or even if they were military aircraft as opposed to, say, uh, civilians. They went away without incident. Several hours later the Ethiopians approached. They demanded that the Megafortresses identify themselves or be fired on. Since their mission was covert, they maintained radio silence. Four MiGs then engaged the Megafortress that was commanding the Piranha probe. Two were shot down, one by the Megafortress and the other by a Flighthawk."

"They could have identified themselves as a civilian aircraft if they wanted to avoid trouble," said Balboa.

"Well, no, because no civilian aircraft is supposed to be in that area," said Jed.

"I thought the Megafortresses are invisible to radar," said Jerrod Hale, the President's Chief of Staff.

"They're not completely invisible," said Jed. He explained that the low-radar profile simply made the aircraft "look" smaller to the radar, which meant it couldn't be detected at long range. But that profile grew exponentially when the bomb bay doors were opened, which would have happened when the Piranha buoys were dropped. In addition, the other Megafortress was using its radars to scan the surface and air; these could be detected and even used as a beacon by approaching hostiles.

"The, uh, the question is… " Jed couldn't get his tongue untangled and stopped speaking for a moment. His stuttering had become an increasing problem over the past several months, growing in tandem with his responsibilities. "Who — Who told the Sudanese planes they were there in the first place? Because they'd flown pretty far from their bases. Once they see the Megafortress, they might tell the Ethiopians, but who told them? C–C-Colonel Bastian thinks there may be a spy at the Saudi air base. Someone who's passing information along. The same thing is probably happening with the pirates."

"It's definitely happening with the pirates," said Balboa. "They see all these small boats watching them from territorial waters. Every move they make is observed. What's the use of a stealth design when there are spies everywhere?"

"Why are the Ethiopians and Sudanese cooperating with pirates?" the President asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman. His tone suggested that the Secretary had ordered the countries to interfere.

"They claim they were on routine patrols," said Hartman.

"That's not good enough," said Martindale.

"I didn't say it was. Internal problems may be leading them to try and appease some of the more radical elements in their countries. That's why we have to work with the UN."

"The hell with that," said Secretary of Defense Chastain. "We should have sank these bastards a week ago."

"Xray Pop needs more resources," said Balboa. "And orders that allow them into the coastal areas."

"What resources?" asked Chastain. Though in theory he was Balboa's boss, the two men didn't get along and hardly spoke.

"Give them the Dreamland people," said Balboa, "and some Marines to work as boarding parties."

"What good are the Marines going to do against pirates?" Chastain asked.

"Board their ships. And attack their bases."

"Wait now, let's not put the cart before the horse," said Hartman. "We need a UN resolution to operate and attack in territorial waters. Let's be very clear about that. This is a small part of a larger picture. If we don't work with the UN here, we'll never get the China issue settled. Or Korea. And that's where the real problems are."

"Your big picture is killing our people," said Balboa.

"The issues at stake here are immense," said Hartman. "We have to handle this delicately. Which I have to say is not being done."

"Then you shouldn't have sent I-Take-Orders-from-No-Man Bastian out there," said Balboa.

"Colonel Bastian takes orders from me," said President Martindale, looking up from his coffee cup. "I think we have to cut him some slack here. I doubt he instigated the attack."

"It's important to get UN backing before we go into coastal waters," Hartman told the President. "If we don't, everything else will fall apart. And Congress will be all over you."

"Congress is all over me already." Martindale smiled faintly.

"We won't be able to count on getting a UN peacekeeping force in Taiwan," said Hartman.

"We can't count on that now," said Freeman. "China won't accept it."

"The hell with peacekeeping," said Chastain. "I say blow the bastards up and let's be done with it. We should have wiped the Chinese military out completely when we had the chance. With all due respect to the late General Elliott and his sacrifice—"

"Let's focus on the Gulf of Aden, shall we?" said Martin-dale. It wasn't a question. "I have to agree with the Secretary of State. I want the UN resolution if at all possible before we act. That was the idea behind sending the Dreamland team to look for the submarine. They are doing that, aren't they, Jed?"

"They've started. They haven't found it yet. It may take quite a while."

"It won't be found, because it doesn't exist," said Balboa. "It sank somewhere in the Atlantic off the coast of Africa."

"The evidence was pretty persuasive that it was the same sub that was heard in the Indian Ocean," said Jed.

"You're not going to start lecturing me on submarines now, are you, son?" asked Balboa.

"No, sir."

"Philip, what do you think of Dreamland working with Xray Pop?" the President asked National Security Advisor Freeman.

"It might work. It would give them an over-the-horizon capability and air support that they don't have. It would make it easier to deal with the pirates, even in international waters. But I don't know if they could do both missions at once. Finding the sub, I mean."

"There is no sub," said Balboa.

"It would be useful to find the submarine," said Hartman. "The more evidence that we can gather to convince the Security Council—"

"The fact that the terrorists killed a civilian crew and blew up their ship won't do it?" asked Martindale.

"Similar incidents haven't in the past," said Hartman.

"Jed, can Dreamland support Xray Pop and look for the submarine at the same time?" asked the President.

"I don't know. I'd have to check with Colonel Bastian."

"The support mission has to be given priority," said Balboa. "That task has to be rolled into Xray Pop's mission, and the commander at the scene should make the final call on which resources go where."

"I don't think that's a good idea," said Freeman.

"What's the alternative? Put Bastian in charge of Xray Pop?" asked Balboa. "That won't work — Captain Gale outranks him."

"Knowing the Dreamland people, my guess is that they can find a way to do both jobs," said Martindale. "The Whiplash team is just providing service, along the same lines as it did in Iraq and Iran when Razor was raising such havoc," said the President. "Supporting Xray Pop will take top priority if push comes to shove."

"And Captain Gale will be in charge," said Balboa.

Martindale took a sip from his coffee cup and seemed surprised to find that it was empty. He went back over to the urn.

"Let's talk about China," said Freeman.

"Is Gale in charge or not?" said Balboa.

"Yes," said the President, pouring his coffee. "And now on to other disagreeable matters."

Danny Freah watched the C-17 roll toward the Dreamland side of the base. It had circled above for over forty-five minutes, ostensibly waiting for an inbound Saudi aircraft that had declared an engine emergency. The Saudi airplane failed to materialize, and it wasn't because it had crashed — the pilots in the C-17 told the tower several times that there were no other aircraft anywhere in the vicinity. Danny had heard the entire exchange over the Dreamland circuit. It hadn't exactly filled him with confidence about base security.

As allies, the Saudis were a very ambivalent group. Most of the pilots were friendly enough, and the head of base security couldn't have been more helpful. But a few officers— obviously including people in the control tower — were openly hostile. The enlisted people were at best split down the middle, and the contracted workers, most of whom were either Palestinians or Pakistani, refused to go anywhere near the Americans. Which was just as well.

Dog had just sat down at the communications console in the Command trailer to get an update from Dreamland Command when the screen flashed with an incoming communication marked eyes only, dream commander.

"Bastian," he said after clearing the security procedures to allow the connection.

"Uh, Colonel, didn't expect to get you so quick," said Jed Barclay. "I, uh, just came out of a marathon National Security session. President and Admiral Balboa and Mr. Freeman, Defense Secretary Chastain—"

"I don't need the roll call," said Dog. "Give me the bad news."

"How do you know it's bad news?" "Because you always beat around the bush when it's bad news."

"They want to beef up Xray Pop," said Jed. "Under ideal circumstances—"

"We're being assigned to work with Xray Pop?"

"That would be it, Colonel. Under Captain Storm's command."

Dog didn't respond.

"The orders will be cut I'd say pretty quickly. Um, they'll come through—"

"It's all right. We'll figure it out."

"I, um, I know it's going to be kind of a — not a good situation," said Jed. "But—" "Thanks."

He killed the connection.

Dog leaned back from the console. The last time he'd been under a Navy commander, he'd been sent home within twenty-four hours. He'd probably beat that this time around.

"Hey!"

Dog turned around, surprised to see Jennifer standing in the trailer. She'd come in with the technical teams to work on the Werewolf and LADS lighter than air detection systems.

"Hey, yourself," he said, getting up. She hugged him, and he gave her a kiss, trying not to seem too distracted. Not that it worked.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me," she said.

"I am, Jennifer, I am," Dog told her. "But right now I have a dozen different things to sort through, and then I have to brief a mission."

"I was just looking for a kiss," she said, pressing against him.

"I did kiss you."

"My grandma gives better kisses."

Dog clasped her in his arms and gave her a "regulation" kiss, melting his lips into hers. It was long and it was delicious and it was dangerously tempting.

"I do have to get to work," he told her finally, pulling back.

"I know," she said.

Somehow the tone of her voice made him want her even more. But before he could suggest that they leave the trailer and find a place where he could give in to temptation, two members of the Whiplash security team who'd been checking on the C-17 and its gear came inside. Sergeant Lee "Nurse" Liu, the senior NCO on the Whiplash team, gave him an update on the security situation, along with the prediction that the Werewolves would be operational within an hour.

"There's only one problem — Sandy Culver, the Werewolf pilot, is sick," said Liu.

"How?" Dog turned to Jennifer, who had been on the flight with Culver.

"He has the flu or something," said Jennifer. "He didn't look too good when he got on the plane. And he started throwing up about an hour before he landed."

"Captain Freah is checked out on the aircraft," said Liu. "So am I," said Jennifer. "That's why I'm here." "I understood you were here to work on their systems, not to fly them," said Dog. "I can do both."

"We're going to need you on the LADS system," said Dog. "You can't do everything." "I can if I have to."

"Danny can fly them," said Dog. "Or Zen in an emergency. When you're finished with everything else, we'll talk about it."

"Colonel, you have a call on the satellite telephone system," said Sergeant Jack "Pretty Boy" Floyd, who had taken over the communications station. "It's from the Navy."

"That'll be the new boss, wondering when we're going to genuflect," said Dog. "Excuse me."

He walked to the back of the trailer and waited until Pretty Boy stepped aside before clearing the communication in.

"Bastian."

"This is Captain Gale."

"Captain, good afternoon," Dog said evenly. "I'm sorry for the loss of your men."

"Yes. That won't happen again. I understand you've been looking for a submarine with a Piranha probe."

"That's right, Captain."

"I'll tell you what, Colonel. Let's cut the bullshit here."

"Gladly."

"I've heard about you. You have a reputation for getting things done. I appreciate that." "Thank you."

"I also have heard that you're a cowboy. You don't take orders from anyone."

"On the contrary, I take orders very seriously," said Dog.

"As long as you follow mine, we'll have no trouble. You can call me Storm."

Is that supposed to make me feel warm and fuzzy inside? Dog wondered.

"What areas have you searched?" Storm asked.

"The Somalian coast from the Eritrean border east about fifty miles. We've only just started."

"Well, the search has secondary priority now," said Storm. "You're working for me now and we're going after the pirates."

"Understood."

"When I give you an order to sink someone, I want them sunk."

Dog said nothing.

"The pirates work both sides of the Gulf," the Navy captain continued. "They use hit and run tactics and then retreat. Because of our rules of engagement, they know they're safe near the coast. So I have to catch them in international waters. You spot them, vector me toward them, and I'll attack."

"It would be just as easy for me to attack them myself, then," said Dog.

"You didn't last night."

"I was following my orders."

"Well, you have new orders now. You spot the pirates, and I'll take care of them."

Dog thought Storm was a jerk, but that didn't mean his frustration wasn't justified. He'd been given a difficult job to do, then had his hands tied behind his back.

"Listen, Storm," said Dog, deciding to offer an olive branch. "We can do a lot more for you than just fly around the ocean spotting patrol boats. For one thing, the sort of surveillance you're asking for can be conducted by lighter-than-air blimps. I can have a dozen flown in from Dreamland; we can post them around the gulf and give the control units to your ships. You'll have around-the-clock coverage of the entire gulf. And we can get you some better communications systems. I understand that you had a lot of difficulty communicating with my aircraft earlier. I know there was some sort of foul-up with your antiair missiles and you missed a MiG you were aiming at; one of my specialists believed it had to do with the radar link to the guidance system. Maybe I can get some of my radar people—"

"Just get your aircraft working with my intelligence officers by 2000 hours, Bastian. I'm in charge. Not you."

The line went dead.

Bandar's tour of Khamis Mushait started with what seemed to be an old fort, but according to the Saudi pilot was just an old building at the edge of the original city. Khamis Mushait had once been a popular trading and rest spot for desert caravans. It still had an impressive market, as Starship saw when he and his guide walked through an open-air bazaar that appeared to stretch for acres and acres. Among the displays were elaborately decorated china and furniture. Bandar found a vendor and bought some fruit juice for them, refusing to let Starship pay. Then he pointed in the distance at the large white castle, relating a ghost story about Bedouins who had roamed the desert a thousand years ago. One of the band had been killed out of jealousy and his body left to rot; as punishment, the men were turned into eternal ghosts and forced to wander until the man's body was given its rightful honors. Since this could never happen — it had been devoured by beasts and birds of prey— they wandered to this very day. Bandar finished the story by claiming that he had heard their camels thundering across the plains several times.

Starship laughed and asked if Bandar truly believed in ghosts.

"You don't?" The Saudi laughed.

"Nah."

"Nothing you can't see?" "Something like that."

The tour led back toward the mosque. Starship suddenly felt curious about the interior and asked if he might look inside. Bandar started to make a face, clearly uncomfortable.

"It's OK," said Starship. "I didn't mean to offend anyone."

Before Bandar could answer, someone nearby began yelling at them in Arabic. Bandar spun around, and then began answering the man as he continued to yell.

"It's all right. Don't worry about it," said Starship. He took a step backward. Two or three other men who'd been nearby walked closer.

"No, he's wrong," said Bandar. "You are a guest in our country."

"It's all right. I don't want any trouble or anything," said Starship. "I have to get back anyway."

Bandar turned and said something to the other man, who unleashed another tirade. A few more people came up. Star-ship touched his guide's arm, trying to get him to come, but Bandar waved his hand dismissively.

"I'm sorry," said Starship.

"Go home," said one of the other men in English. "Go away. We don't want you."

"I didn't mean any offense," said Starship. "Really, I'm leaving."

"Go away," said another.

By the time Bandar stopped arguing, a thick crowd had gathered. They trailed Starship and the Saudi pilot back to the car. Most of the people simply looked curious, but they made it hard for Bandar to go without hitting them. Something or someone hit the back of the car as they cleared the crowd. Starship turned around; the road was cluttered with angry people, fists raised in the air.

"I really didn't mean any trouble," said Starship.

"People forget their manners," said Bandar.

"It's all right."

As they drove back toward the airport, Starship tried to think of something to say. "It's a really nice city," he said finally. Bandar grunted something, and Starship thought it best to keep his mouth shut.

A large crowd had gathered near the gate of the airport. Surprised, Starship at first didn't realize that they were protesters, and it wasn't until a group began running toward the car that he realized what was going on.

"Troublemakers," said Bandar.

Starship slid down in the seat, eyes pasted ahead as people surged against the side of the car. Saudi police ran toward them. Bandar managed to get inside the gate without hitting anyone.

"Wow," said Starship.

"Troublemakers," repeated Bandar. "I'm sorry." "It's all right." "Ignorant troublemakers."