Satan's Tail

V Invaders

The wind bit at Ali's face, snapping at his eyes and nose as they sped toward the looming shadow of the tanker three miles away. Ali welcomed the bite; it took his mind off his son.

The Saudi had been as good as his word: Offers of help were pouring in from brothers throughout the Middle East. Two ships had joined him tonight: a large, Al Bushra-class patrol boat from Oman, liberated from unrighteous rulers by true believers, and a patrol boat from Eritrea roughly similar to the patrol craft he was already using. An additional thirty men had volunteered beyond the two dozen needed to crew both vessels; most were raw youths, but seemed willing to follow his orders without question.

Though classified as a patrol boat, the Al Bushra dwarfed his other ships, measuring nearly 180 feet. A pair of Exocet missile launchers had been installed on the deck behind the superstructure, giving the ship considerable firepower. Surface-to-air missiles had replaced the 76mm cannon on the forward deck. The ship could make only 24.5 knots, too slow to keep up with the faster boats, but she had room for a large boarding party. Most of Ali's new recruits were aboard her; they were unlikely to see real action but would learn a great deal from tonight's encounter.

She was running about a mile behind him, commanded by his cousin Mabrukah. The captain who had brought her bristled at being put under another man, and Ali knew he would have to alter the arrangement eventually, but tonight he had no time to devote to personalities, and needed someone who knew his ways without needing to question them.

God had brought him additional volunteers for a purpose. He had two difficult tasks to achieve tonight. Not only was he to meet the submarine at midnight, but his best chance for capturing a vessel that could fuel his fleet would occur a few hours before, as an old oiler now used as a fuel transport sailed through the gulf. Unfortunately, the oiler was more than 250 miles from the rendezvous point with the submarine. According to the spies, it had come down past Saudi Arabia already and would be passing near this spot sometime within the next few hours.

Ali had decided capturing the oiler was more critical, and thus decided to lead that mission personally. He had sent one of his patrol boats with a pilot to meet the submarine. If the takeover went well, he would head east and link up with the submarine.

Perhaps Allah intended that he accomplish both — a gray shadow appeared on the horizon ahead: their target.

"Signal the others," Ali told Bari, his second-in-command for the operation.

The flotilla of pirates spread out on the water, a pack of wolves stalking their prey. Ali set a course for his vessel that brought her toward the stern of the slow-moving target. He stood in the open wheelhouse of his patrol boat, staring at the shadow as it grew. The wind sucked the heat from his face, turning it to a mask of cold bones.

A light blinked at the oiler's fantail.

Ali turned to Bari. "Our people aboard have secured the radio. Pass the signal — begin the attack."

Dog bent down to look at the video display. Four or five hundred Saudis were gathered on the main road to the airport, fists raised, chanting in Arabic that the invaders must go home.

"Invaders!"

That was the term they used, translated by the translation software in the Dreamland Command trailer. And they said it loudly enough for the microphones in the video camera to pick up, even though the Osprey hovered overhead.

"Invaders!"

"This is relatively calm," Danny told him. "A half hour ago I wasn't sure what was going to happen. At least now the Saudi police have the crowd cordoned off. The base itself is secure."

"Until some jerk drives up in a truck full of explosives," said Dog.

"He won't get past the gate. We've set up bullet panels on the approaches to our sector, along with tear-gas mortars. We have the Osprey overhead. I'm keeping the Werewolves in reserve. But if they get past the tear gas and bullet panels and we have to shoot, it'll get bloody. We can withstand an attack, but it won't be pretty."

The bullet panels were large rectangles filled with 9mm rubber bullets. They were considered nonlethal deterrents for use against a stampeding crowd; when triggered, they fired a hail of hard rubber in the air. Combined with the tear gas, they would turn back all but the most determined protesters.

The Osprey's guns were loaded with live ammunition, as were the Werewolves. Danny's assessment was an understatement — they'd slaughter whoever was in their path.

"This couldn't have been spontaneous," said Dog.

"No," said Danny. "But I wouldn't underestimate the emotions involved."

"I'll talk to Washington. We have to relocate. Probably to Diego Garcia."

"What about Captain Gale?"

"I'll talk to him too. Though frankly I'd rather get my teeth pulled." Dog glanced at his watch. Wisconsin was scheduled to launch at 2000, and he was slated to lead the mission. He hadn't even started planning his brief for it.

"Starship is outside," said Danny. "I think he thinks it's all his fault."

"Send him in."

Dog got up from the video station and walked to the large common room at the front of the trailer. Starship flinched when he saw him.

"Colonel."

"Lieutenant, I believe you forgot to ask if you had permission to go into town this afternoon," said Dog. "I thought it would be OK." "So what happened?"

"It didn't seem like that big a deal. I went with a Saudi pilot. We were in the town and, uh, there was a mosque, and I asked if I could take a look."

"Why?"

"I wasn't trying to be disrespectful. I was just — if I went to church, I mean it was the same thing. You know? I was looking around. I just want to understand."

"Understand what?"

"I want to understand why Kick died and I didn't."

Starship's eyes widened momentarily, as if he'd seen something passing behind them in the room. They held Dog's for just a moment, then turned down, settling on the dark shadows at the base of the floor.

Dog wasn't the kind of officer who could play father figure or priest, which he knew was what Starship really needed. He did understand, however, what the young man was going through. He'd experienced it himself, or at least something like it, much earlier in his career when he'd lost a friend. But now he felt powerless to help the lieutenant, to do anything more than tell him the riot wasn't his fault, which it wasn't.

"All right, Starship. I understand that you meant no harm. The situation at the gate has nothing to do with you. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was organized before you went near the mosque."

"I don't think Bandar — the pilot — I don't think he set me up," said Starship. "I didn't go inside or anything. I was just looking around."

"It's immaterial now. We're supposed to fly in two hours. Better get ready for your mission."

Ali gripped the rope, pulling himself up the side of the ship. His AK-47 clunked at his back as he clambered over the side of the tanker, helped by two of his men. The ship's captain stood a few feet away, frowning in the dim light.

"I thought we were not to be stopped again," said the captain as Ali approached. "You told me this yourself."

"I am flattered that you remembered me, Captain," said Ali. They had stopped the ship three months before, and Ali had, in fact, made that promise. "It is regrettable that circumstances made it necessary to engage you again."

Bari, Ali's second-in-command, approached from the side. Bari had led the first team over. "Plenty of fuel," he told Ali. The tanker carried marine gas oil and marine diesel, the heavy grade of fuel oil commonly called "bunker oil," which was used by large ships.

"Set the course," Ali told him.

"Should we wait for the Al Bushra to come alongside? The crew here seems compliant enough. They remember our last encounter, and most are Muslim brothers from Indonesia and Pakistan, with a Turk or two for discipline. There were no weapons."

"Good. Have the Al Bushra come about and stand by to assist if necessary. But if you judge the situation acceptable, don't lose the time bringing more men aboard," said Ali. "Transmit the message telling the Sharia to sail. You should be able to meet them in six hours so they can fuel and return to the mooring before the Russian satellite passes. The boats will come with me. God has graced us and made things easy this evening."

"What are you saying?" demanded the captain of the tanker.

Ali raised his rifle. "Pray," he told the captain. The man made no sign to comply, and so he shot him where he stood.

Starship checked his position on the sitrep map, trying to get a feel for the night's mission. Xray Pop was located about twenty miles north of Bandar Murcaayo in the Gulf of Aden; the Piranha unit was exploring an area of the Soma-lian coast near Bullaxaar. They were supposed to bring the probe eastward toward the task force; this would take between six and eight hours. The realignment would allow the Dreamland team to cover Xray Pop and run Piranha at the same time. Colonel Bastian had ordered two more Mega-fortresses and additional Flighthawks to join them; once they arrived, the search for the submarine and support of Xray Pop could proceed independently.

"Ready for Flighthawk launch," said Dog.

"Flighthawk launch ready," said Starship. He authorized the launch verbally for C³, the Flighthawk control computer, then curled his fingers around the control stick. His heart pounded steadily as the Megafortress tipped forward and picked up momentum. The big aircraft lifted upward as the release point was reached, using the wind sheer off the wing as well as gravity to push the Flighthawk out of its nest beneath the wing. The computer had already ignited the robot plane's engine, and by the time Starship took over, he was zooming into a layer of clouds that seemed to last forever. The milky soup furled in all directions; he felt as if he were flying into someone's dream.

Unlike Zen, Starship preferred using the computer screens at the control station to guide the plane, instead of the command helmet. He found it easier to tap the screen to change views and get data. He had a standard pilot's helmet and mask, but often left them at the base of his ejection seat, resorting to them only during obvious combat situations. Zen argued that a "normal" helmet made working the board difficult, but Starship disagreed; the weight of the control helmet tended to twist his neck and give him headaches if he wore it for more than an hour.

"Hawk One is launched and operating in the green," he told Dog. "Coming through fifteen thousand feet, going to five thousand. On programmed course."

"Good work, Starship," said Dog. "Be advised we have a civilian merchant ship for you to check out, two miles due south of your present course."

"On my way, Colonel."

"Piranha control, we are in range for the handoff. Baker-Baker is standing by," added Dog over the interphone.

"Piranha control is ready," said Delaford, who was sitting next to Starship on the Flighthawk deck. "Initiating transfer procedure."

With the Flighthawk launched and the probe now under Delaford's control, Dog had a few moments to relax before lining up for a buoy drop about thirty miles to the east. He checked back in with Danny at Khamis Mushait via the Dreamland Command frequency.

"Peaceful at the moment," said Danny. His voice came over the circuit a half second before his image appeared on the screen on the left-hand side of Dog's control panel. "Base commander was over a little while ago, full of apologies and trying to be reassuring. He says this is being stirred up by bad elements."

"That's nice," said Dog sarcastically. "Did they beef up security?"

"Claims it's at the max now. Has Washington gotten back to you, Colonel?"

"Negative. But I can't imagine that they're going to tell us to stay around," added Dog.

"We can bug out as soon you give the order," said Danny. "And as soon as we know where we're going."

"Probably Diego Garcia," said Dog. "Unless somebody comes up with an alternative. Did you get the blimp up?"

"Half hour ago. We're going to run a drill with the Werewolves around 2400, just to make sure the systems are all working together."

"All right. But get some sleep at some point."

"I will."

"All right, Danny, I have to get into position to drop a buoy. Let me know if anything comes up."

Starship pushed the Flighthawk over the stern of the merchant ship, riding slow and low across its topside. The low-light video image appeared gray on his main screen. Though slightly blurry, it was clear enough that there were no weapons aboard the ship.

"He's probably a smuggler," said Commander Delaford. Starship was providing a video feed to one of the commander's auxiliary screens so the Navy expert could offer his opinions. The Piranha's onboard controls were more than adequate to take it to its new location on their own, and would alert Delaford automatically if it encountered anything suspicious or ran into a problem. The commander could easily divide his time between the probe and helping Starship.

"Why do you think he's a smuggler?"

"According to the database of area shipping we've compiled, he's headed for South Africa," Delaford explained. "But he's on a beeline for coastal waters, well out of the normal traffic area. If we follow him, my bet is we'll see him rendezvous with some smaller boats just inside territorial waters where he knows he can't be touched if Xray Pop comes calling."

"Doesn't the Navy force know what's going on?"

"Absolutely."

"So how can these guys get away with it?"

"Well, for one thing, you can't just stop any ship on the high seas. International law permits inspections only in certain circumstances. So even if the ship were carrying weapons, you'd have to prove that some law was being broken."

"Like smuggling guns?"

"Unfortunately, you can't just stop and search a ship because you think it has guns," said Delaford. "There are countries that we have treaties with, where the terms of the treaty might allow a search. But even there, you would need at the very least probable cause and some sort of OK or at least notification. The administration has tried negotiating that, mostly to stop smuggling of weapons-grade plutonium or ballistic missiles. But what we're talking about here, pretty much the whole nature of the thing, we simply don't have the authority to stop the ship and search it against its captain's will. The UN and other international organizations are working on protocols to prevent certain types of smuggling and make it possible to take action, but they've been working on them for years. Most arrests are made in territorial waters where the local government is going to enforce its laws. At the moment, if you don't catch them in the act, or you don't find some very obvious problem with the ship manifest or something else, in the end you're going to have to give the weapons back. In theory," added Delaford. "Besides, Xray Pop can't be everywhere at once. Stopping and searching a ship can take considerable time if you do it right.

The Navy has specially trained teams to handle it, and let me tell you, it's a dangerous job in a place like this. Thoroughly searching a vessel that size could take six, eight hours, even more."

"What about the pirates?" said Starship. "Why aren't we just blasting them? We know what they're up to. They're just terrorists."

The same people who killed Kick, he thought, though he didn't say it.

"The thing that sets us apart from pirates is that we follow the law," said Delaford. "You have to remember that, Starship."

"How does the law stop us? It shouldn't."

"It doesn't, specifically. But what we can do depends on where they are," said Delaford. "If they're in international waters, we can defend anyone that they're attacking — or to put it in your terms, blast them. But outside of international waters, an attack on another ship isn't actually piracy. So an attack in coastal waters is subject to the laws of the country where it occurs."

"Unless it's Somalia, where there is no law."

"There are laws. Whether they are enforced or not is another question."

"But these guys attack in international waters. How come they're free?"

"Again, because they're in the territory of another country. They can also claim that they're under the jurisdiction of Somalia or Yemen or wherever, and are entitled to the protection of their laws."

"Sounds like bullshit to me."

"Well, think of it this way. One of the things the War of 1812 was about was America's rights to its territorial waters and the rights of its seamen. Britain was stopping American ships and impressing seamen. America said it had no right to

do that."

"That doesn't sound like the same thing," said Starship. "It has to do with the law of the sea, and one country putting itself ahead of the law because it has the power to do so."

"I don't think we're above the law," said Starship. "But I don't think these crazies should be shooting at us either."

"Agreed. The fanatics don't care how many people die," added Delaford. "They know they're not going to win in the short term. This isn't about a single battle for them, or even a short war. They see this as a hundred year struggle. They want us to invade Somalia — they want us to invade all of Africa, all of the Middle East. They think if that happens, Islam will rise up and there will be a new golden age. Those people back in Saudi Arabia who were protesting outside the gates, the people who threw stones at you because you were curious about a mosque — what do you think their reaction would be to an invasion?"

"But we're not here to invade. We're just trying to protect shipping in the Gulf of Aden."

"Absolutely," said Delaford. "That's what we have to remember. That and the fact that no one's going to thank us for it."

Starship turned his full attention back to the Flighthawk, circling eastward to visually check the area where the control buoy would be dropped.

Whatever the law said, and whatever the geopolitical and religious implications were, Kick had been killed by fanatics. They didn't hate Kick specifically; they hated all westerners.

And Starship hated them.

Storm's voice exploded in Dog's ear as soon as he opened the circuit to the Abner Read. "You went over my head!"

"I didn't go over your head, Captain. I informed the White House that we had a serious diplomatic situation. I need to relocate my people before things get uglier."

"You went over my head! You instigated an incident—" "Look, Storm, I don't particularly like you, and it's clear you don't like me. But neither I nor my people instigated anything in Saudi Arabia. There was clearly a well-thought-out plot to provoke a riot at the entrance to the base. I reported the incident to Washington as commander of Dreamland—not as part of the Whiplash team working under your command."

"Stop the legal bullshit, Bastian. The fact is, you talked to the White House without talking to me."

"Actually, Storm, I did try to talk to you. You wouldn't pick up the phone. Check with your communications officer."

"I'm warning you, Bastian. Play by my rules."

Dog checked his course on the navigation screen. They had to drop below three thousand feet to drop the buoy as configured, and they were still above the cloud cover at 25,000 feet.

"Are you there, Bastian?"

"I am here, Captain. As a matter of fact, I'm just double-checking where here is."

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" "Not that I know of."

"Colonel, we have a surface contact coming out of the coast near Karin, about fifty miles due south of us," said Dish, who was operating the surface radar aboard the Wisconsin. "Thing is, I don't have that marked as a major port, and this is a pretty big ship. Nothing in the database about a tanker or anything either."

"Run that by Commander Delaford and see what he thinks about it," said Dog. "Ask him if it's worth jogging down in that direction for a look-see."

"Bastian?"

Dog clicked his talk button. "Yes?" "You're to move your operation to Diego Garcia as soon as possible. Note I said possible, not convenient." Gee thanks, thought Dog.

"We'll be there in twenty-four hours, if not sooner," said

Dog.

"When are you rendezvousing with my ship?" "It'll take us a few hours to get the probe close enough to get overhead."

"Make it here as quickly as you can." "Aye aye, Captain."

With things outside the gate quiet for the moment, Danny Freah decided to do two things he'd been putting off since arriving in Saudi Arabia: call his wife, and take a shower.

He did the latter first, scalding the desert sand out of his pores. By the time he got out he felt like a lobster — but a relaxed one. He got dressed and returned to the Dreamland Command trailer. After checking to make sure that nothing had changed outside — it hadn't — he put through the call, trying her university office first.

"Dr. Freah."

"Hi, Doc. I was wondering if you could cure my sore throat," said Danny. It was an old joke between them — her Ph.D. was in black studies.

"Well, hello, stranger. Where have you been?"

"You'd be surprised."

"No, I wouldn't. Have you talked to Rosenstein?"

"I'm fine, how are you?"

"Don't duck the question."

"I haven't had a chance," said Danny.

"There's a party at the Guggenheim Museum two weeks from today that would be fantastic for you to attend," said Jemma Freah. "All the important people are going to be there. It's a cocktail party, mixing art with politics. A lot of bucks. Definitely a good place to press the flesh."

Politics was the last thing Danny wanted to talk about. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs under the console carefully to avoid the stack of black boxes controlling the communications functions.

"How are you, Jem?"

"Fine, but I have a class in two minutes. Can you make that party?"

Danny had no way of knowing how long the present deployment was going to last. It was conceivable that, if the Dreamland team moved to Diego Garcia, he'd be able to go home for a few days, maybe even an entire week, around Thanksgiving — Diego Garcia not only had its own security, it was at least arguably more secure than any base in the Continental United States because of its location. But about the last place in the world he wanted to even think about being was a political cocktail party.

Would he ever feel differently?

If not, then why run for office?

"I don't know what I'll be doing then," said Danny.

"Why not?"

"You know I can't go into details, Jem." "Yeah, well, look, I have to go to class. Send me an e-mail."

"Good idea," he said, though he really didn't have anything to say. In fact, he wondered why he'd bothered to call

at all.

Starship brought the Flighthawk south, dropping through two thousand feet as he approached the lumbering ship. There were two much smaller vessels moving in its wake, twenty-foot open boats. The infrared camera in the nose of the Flighthawk painted the ship a ghostly green in the display; the angle seemed odd — the bow looked as if it poked up out of the ocean. Starship thought there was something wrong with the camera or viewer, and hit the diagnostic section for a self-test.

The test showed no problem. The ship looked to Starship like an old oil tanker; it carried crates or something lashed to the deck.

"What do you have there?" asked Delaford.

"I don't know. I'm getting some distortion from my infrared viewer. Bow's kind of out of whack. I'm switching to the low light. Pretty dark, though."

"Looks like an old amphibious vessel," said Delaford. "See how the bow sweeps up?"

"Yeah."

"It's not in our database," said Delaford. "Can you get closer?"

"I can just about land on his deck if you want."

Starship tucked the Flighthawk into a roll, knifing down through one thousand feet. He continued to accelerate as he dropped toward the water. As the altimeter ladder ramped down through five hundred, he started to level off, getting a high g warning as he pushed the robot plane into an extremely sharp turn to take it over the ship. He leaned forward against his restraints, pushing the robot toward her limits. For the first time on the deployment, and for one of the first times since he had started flying the U/MFs, he felt as if he were on board the tiny aircraft. He sensed the rush of gravity as he bent the wings to complete his turn. The aircraft took over 9 g's; he could feel his body reacting, tensing and leaning against the forces the Flighthawk was encountering.

This is what Zen means, he thought to himself. This is what it's supposed to feel like.

"There used to be some sort of gun at the rear deck — at the forward area too," said Delaford, somewhere far behind him.

Starship poured on the dinosaurs, accelerating back toward the Megafortress. He was still low, barely a hundred feet over the waves. He began another turn, banking much more gently, lining up for a run over the bow area for another angle.

Delaford was talking over the interphone, telling him about the ship: "The Somalians had a large Russian vessel that was designed as an amphibious ship. It was supposed to be used to transport tanks and equipment. Hasn't been used in at least five years. This is probably it, patched up to be used as a freighter, or more likely being taken to a salvage operation. Stolen, maybe."

This is how it's supposed to feel, Starship thought again. The ship grew in his screen, its upturned bow on the right side. He realized he should slow down for a more detailed view, but by now it was too late; he was already beyond it.

"One more pass, low and slow," he said aloud. He nudged his throttle back and took a breath, reminding himself to stay in control. He could feel his pulse thumping in his throat.

Get too excited and you lose it. That was Kick's saying, wasn't it? You with me, Kick? Get too excited and you lose it.

Yeah.

Starship exhaled very slowly as he took the Flighthawk into a turn, trying to stay calm. But just as he reached the far point of the turn, the computer warned that he was at the far end of his control range.

"Three seconds to disconnect," it said in his ear.

"Colonel, I need you to come east."

"It's unnecessary, Lieutenant. Get back to the Wisconsin'"

"I just need one more pass."

"Back to the Wisconsin'" said Dog.

Starship opened his mouth to argue, then realized it was a moot point — the computer was counting down to disconnect on his screen. Reluctantly, he pulled it back toward its mothership.

"My bet would be it's on its way to the scrap heap," said Delaford, examining the video scans of the ship again. "A lot of metal."

"What about the crates on deck?"

"Possibly more junk inside them," said Delaford. "Or else like I said, someone's trying to use it to bring cargo back and forth. I kind of doubt that but you never know out here. People can be very resourceful."

"Maybe they're going to invade someplace."

"These warlords have enough trouble keeping control of their little spits of land," said Delaford.

Starship reached for the steel coffee mug, draining the last bit of coffee. Flying circles around the sky for hours on end was bad enough, but doing it on such little sleep was sheer torture. He had some caffeine pills he could take — as well as stronger medicine if absolutely necessary — but he preferred to hold them in reserve.

"Hawk One, we have two ships approaching from the north," said Dog. He gave him a heading and a GPS location about sixty-five miles ahead of the Megafortress.

"On my way, Colonel," replied Starship. He nudged the Flighthawk's control stick forward, descending gradually toward the two ships.

"Big one in front looks like an oiler," said Delaford as he got close, "the sort of ship that carries diesel fuel for others."

"Like a tanker?"

"More like a floating gas station. There are a few of these ships that were used by navies in the past, mostly the Russians, and then were sold off and used with very little conversion as transports. Database is working on it."

The computer needed twenty points of reference to identify a ship and compare it to the database for identification. The points could range from size measurements to mast and stack configurations.

An ID flashed on the screen as Starship's Flighthawk closed to within two miles:

"Database is comparing it to a Finnish-built ship used by the Russians," explained Delaford. "Carries a couple thousand tons of bunker oil and about the same of light diesel,

some other supplies. I have it in the registry — it's a Turkish ship, looks like it was bought from Ukraine two years ago."

"What's the other one?" asked Starship.

Before Delaford could answer, the computer gave its opinion:

"That's incredibly far from home. Couple of hundred miles," said Delaford.

"Maybe they're protecting them from the pirates." "Maybe."

Dog looked at the low-light video as it played in the panel on the Megafortress's "dashboard."

"The Oman ship doesn't look particularly hostile," he told Delaford.

"Granted," said the lieutenant commander. "But there are a couple of things out of place. There's an Exocet missile launcher on the deck behind the smokestack. You can see it in the view of the starboard side. That's not standard equipment on those boats. Oman does have Exocets, but they're usually on their Dhofar missile boats, which are a little newer. There's also an antiair battery, a missile system on the forward deck."

"Doesn't add up to pirates," said Dog. "So they've updated the ship, so what? It might be protecting the other ship."

"Very possibly. Or perhaps pirates have taken over the Oman ship and have used it to capture the oiler. It's filled with fuel. It can fuel other ships at sea, or at least bring fuel supplies to ports."

"But most of the patrol boats don't use the heavy fuel it has."

"Good point," said Delaford. "I'm not saying I know what's going on. Quite the opposite."

"All right. Let's try hailing them and find out what they're up to," said Dog. He turned to his copilot. "McNamara, ID us as a Navy flight on a routine patrol. See if you can hail the Oman ship."

"On it, Colonel."

"How's your fuel, Starship?"

"Going to need to tank in about twenty minutes," said Starship.

"Get some close-ups of both of those ships," said Dog. "Then we'll set up for a refuel." "Roger that."

"Not acknowledging us," said McNamara. "Try the oiler." "Yes, sir."

"Delaford, the Oman ship isn't talking to us," said Dog. "Anything except the obvious occur to you?"

"No."

"Radar," said McNamara. The copilot was warning Dog that the Oman ship had just turned on an antiaircraft radar. "Shouldn't be able to see us at this range. Not sure about the Flighthawk as it goes over, but they don't have a lock at the moment."

Starship pushed the UM/F toward the Oman vessel, accelerating for a quick fly-by.

"People moving on the deck of the second boat," he told Dog. "Up near the, uh, front, the bow, near the gun."

If they were fanatics, killers, he could erase them with a squeeze of his trigger. They deserved it — murderers. They'd

killed Kick.

Would that bring him back? Of course not. Would it feel good?

Not really. Not in the way he wanted it to. "What should I do, Colonel?"

"Just stand by," said Dog. "Let me talk to my friend, Captain Gale."

Storm pressed the button on the communication control, connecting through the satellite phone.

"What is it, Bastian?"

"Hold on, sir," said a voice he didn't recognize. Bastian came on a second later.

"We have something that you may be interested in, Storm," he said. "Some sort of tanker being trailed by a gunboat that's supposed to belong to Oman. We're not sure if it's an escort or if it's joined the pirates."

"Hail them."

"We've tried that. No answer from either ship. I'm going to patch you over to Commander Delaford," said Dog. "He can fill you in on what the ships look like and what he thinks they may be up to. I'll stand by. Using the satellite phone to connect isn't working very well, Storm. Your voice blanks in and out."

"And what do you propose instead?"

"As I tried to tell you earlier, we have mobile communications units that will let you tie into the Dreamland network. If you work with me instead of against me, we might actually get something done."

"I'm getting plenty done, Bastian. Put Delaford on."

The line descended into static for so long that Storm was about to call in his communications expert to get the Dreamland people back when Delaford came on.

"Storm, we have a gunboat out of Oman trailing what looks to be an old oiler converted for use as a civilian tanker," Delaford explained. "It's an Al Bushra, a large patrol boat originally built by France. They've mounted Exocets on it."

"Exocets?"

"Absolutely. I can't tell whether they've taken them off one of their missile boats or what, but they're definitely there."

"He's pretty far from where he belongs," said Storm. He hadn't encountered any Oman ships during their patrol; they usually stayed close to port, where the government could keep a close watch on them.

"He's escorting an oiler that's been converted to civilian use as a tanker," said Delaford. "We have the oiler in the database registered to a Cameroon company. It took on fuel in Turkey and does a regular route, mostly bunker oil, over to the East African coast, sometimes to Asia. Never to Oman."

"And they're not answering radio calls?"

"No. They're headed in the direction of Somalia, though they're in international waters. It looks weird, but there's no proof of anything."

"You sure Bastian's not making this up?"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry, Captain, we have a bum connection I think. I'm not sure what you said."

"You're sure this is for real?" said Storm.

"It's real. I'm looking at a video of it now."

"All right. It's definitely worth checking into."

Storm looked at the holographic display. The two ships were over two hundred nautical miles to the southwest. It would take six hours, at least, to get there. But the addition of an Oman ship to the pirate fleet would be a major development.

Eyes looked at him expectantly. Storm put up his forefinger, signaling that he would explain in a moment.

"It'll take us several hours to get out there," Storm told Delaford. "Do you think the Dreamland people can track him until then?"

"With their eyes closed."

"Give me Bastian."

"I'm here," said Bastian.

Just like him to eavesdrop, thought Storm. "Trail the ship. See where it goes. We're going to come east and board them."

"I can do that, but I may have to put the Piranha into sleep mode," said the Air Force flier.

"What does that mean?"

"I'm uncomfortable discussing it in detail," said Dog. "The satellite line is encrypted."

"I'm still uncomfortable talking about details of the system. You're going to have to take my word for it."

Everything with this guy is a struggle, thought Storm. Everything.

"Do what you have to do," he told Bastian.

"I intend to."

"Listen Bastian…Bastian? Are you still there?"

"Still here."

"We're losing the stinking communications satellite around four o'clock in the morning. We're going to have to find another way to communicate. Get those Dreamland communications things en route to me ASAP."

"I'll have an Osprey launch within the hour."

"I can get three portable units out there right away, Colonel," Danny told Dog. "But that leaves me without the Osprey for over four hours."

"You don't think the Werewolves are enough to keep you covered?"

"They can, but I can't use the Werewolves to bug out if I have to."

"All right, let's rethink this," said Dog.

"What if we send one of the Werewolves?"

"A round trip is over twelve hundred miles," said Dog. "It can't make it back without refueling."

"Couldn't it refuel on the Abner Read?" asked Danny. "If they have a helipad, maybe they have fuel."

"We can check," said Dog. "Talk to the technical people first about what they'd have to do to carry radio units. Make sure it's feasible before you talk to Storm. Is Peterson still

sick?"

"Afraid so. Fever of 102, last time I checked. I can fly it," added Danny.

"No, you have too much to do. So does Jennifer. Is Zen around?"

"Zen's right here," said Danny. "Put him on."

Danny got up and walked into the conference area of the command post. "Boss wants to talk to you," he told Zen, who was playing poker with Spiderman and two of the Whiplash sergeants. "He's looking for a pilot for the Werewolf."

"The Werewolf?"

"I can do it," said Danny. "Jen's over working on the LADS connection and—"

"Don't sweat it; I've flown them plenty of times," said Zen, wheeling himself backward to the communications area. "Piece of cake. Computer does all the work if you let it."

The trailer rocked as Sergeant Ben "Boston" Rockland burst through the door.

"Hey, Cap, we're being invaded, but I think they're friendly," he said. "The Marines have landed."

Two burly Marine Corps sergeants followed Boston inside. They were followed by one of the slimmest Marines Danny had ever met.

And by far the prettiest.

"Lieutenant Emma Klacker, U.S. Marine Corps. No need to worry; you're secure now."

Danny laughed. "Oh are we? What'd you do, bring a division?"

"We don't need a division," said the lieutenant. "We're the Marines. Relax, Captain. Nobody's coming or going on this base without your approval."

The Whiplash troopers sitting around the table smirked at each other.

"Raise is two bucks to you, Zen," said Sergeant Kevin Bison. "Now that we're safe, I feel I can open up my game and bet the limit."

"You making a joke, soldier?" said Klacker.

"Oh, no, ma'am. I'm just feeling real warm and toasty now that the Marines are here to save my bacon."

"Lieutenant, maybe you and I ought to discuss this outside," said Danny.

Lieutenant Klacker glared at Bison, gave the evil eye to the rest of the trailer, then exited. As Danny passed the Marines, one of them said in a stage whisper, "No disrespect, sir, but I'd watch out. She's got one hell of a temper. And if she volunteers to scrimmage you in tae kwon do, don't do it."

"That's all right," said Danny. "I never scrimmage. Or fight fair."

Klacker was waiting for him outside. "Why are you letting your men disrespect the Corps?" "They're not," said Danny. "Disrespect is bullshit, Captain."

"Whoa, hold on, Lieutenant. I agree. None of my people are going to disrespect the Corps. Whiplash has worked with the Corps before. We have nothing but respect."

"What do you mean, Whiplash?"

"That's who we are."

The Marine officer looked at him suspiciously. "Bullshit, you are. We were told there was an Air Force survey team down here that needed help with some local rioters."

Danny laughed.

"What the hell's so funny, Captain?"

"That must be the cover they were using up at CentCom or something. We're surveying, all right — we're hunting around the gulf for a Libyan submarine."

"You're the guys who went into Iran? Whiplash from Dreamland?"

"That's us."

"You're Freah?"

"That's what it says on the uniform."

"I heard of you." She frowned, as if she still didn't believe him. "You're younger than I heard."

Danny laughed. "I hope that's a compliment."

"It is." She stuck out her hand. "My friends call me Dancer. Yes, Captain, I was one, in another lifetime. I have other nicknames, but I don't use them in polite company."

"I'm Danny." He held out his hand. Based on what the Marine inside had said, he almost expected to be tossed over her shoulder. But she only shook it, gripping it firmly but not trying to crush his fingers the way some women officers did, trying to prove they were as tough as men. "I appreciate your coming down to help out," Danny told her.

He explained that they had been ordered to leave, and were currently arranging to do just that. He covered a few administrative details, beginning with the fact that there was plenty of space in the building they'd been given if the Marines wanted to bunk out.

"Saudis have been letting us eat over at the cafeteria," Danny added finally. "Base commander said additional troops wouldn't be a problem. I didn't tell him they were Marines."

Dancer smiled. "Best to spring that on them at the last minute."

Danny gave a brief overview of the defenses, showing her some of the nonlethal bullet panels and pointing out the general location of the blimp overhead. It couldn't be seen in the night sky, its skin of LEDs rendering it almost invisible.

"Details about a lot of our systems are classified," Danny added. "Obviously, we're going to be working with you, and we'll be sharing what you need to know. But I'd ask that you emphasize the fact that they are classified to your people."

"They're not people, they're Marines." Dancer smiled. "Don't worry. They won't tell anybody the secrets to your success. But if I were you, I'd check on that poker game right away. My guys can be ruthless when the stakes are high."

"What's Piranha's status?" Dog asked Delaford.

"Still swimming merrily along," he said. "But we're going to have to drop another buoy soon."

"You have a location for me?"

"Same as before," said Delaford. "Here."

The computer took the plot from Delaford's system and integrated it into the sitrep map on Dog's cockpit panel. The Megafortress was about fifty miles due north of Mayhd on the Somalian coast. To reach the next drop point he'd have to swing eastward about thirty miles, which would mean taking the Flighthawk with him. They could watch the two ships by radar easily enough.

"We'll drop this buoy, but we may have to put the probe to sleep," Dog told Delaford.

"I'd really prefer to avoid that if we can, Colonel," said Delaford. "We'd be better off putting it into autonomous mode and letting it go on its own to a rendezvous point."

"Sleep mode" was just that — the probe turned most of its systems off and sat in the water until receiving a signal to reactivate. "Autonomous mode" meant that it would use its internal system to take it to a specific point in the ocean. The discussion on what to do mixed tactical considerations with technical ones — the probes failed to wake up from sleep mode about twenty-five percent of the time. On the other hand, autonomous mode wasn't foolproof either — the internal navigation system was prone to small errors, which multiplied into tens if not hundreds of miles over time.

"All right, this is what we're going to do," Dog said finally. "We'll send Piranha west and rendezvous with it somewhere north of Butyallo or Caluula, small towns on the Somalian coast. In the meantime, we'll drop one last buoy."

"Sounds good," said Delaford.

"Starship, hang back near the Oman ship as long as you can, then come east with me for the duration of the buoy drop," Dog told the Flighthawk pilot.

"On it, Colonel."

"Let's do it."

Ali put down his glasses and checked his watch. They were more than a hundred miles from the rendezvous point for the submarine. They had made very poor progress for a number of reasons, including false reports on the radios that they monitored. Frustrated but resigned, Ali told the helmsman to slow the boat; there was no sense wasting their fuel or pushing their engines further. The other vessels in the flotilla slowed as well.

A container ship was heading westward in the direction of the Red Sea. On another night, it would be an inviting target.

"Captain, the radio," said one of the men below.

Ali leaned down into the cabin, listening to the chatter over the shortwave radio. There had been talk of aircraft and ships all night, most of it false. Twice Ali had taken his boats toward hiding places because of radio reports of American destroyers; he'd had to use his satellite phone to call his own sources to see if these reports were true. He wondered if the Americans had realized that he used the radio calls as part of his intelligence network and decided to infiltrate it somehow. If so, they would have found people who spoke very good Arabic.

"Near Sury Point," said one of the voices on the radio now. "Three ships low to the water. One large, the others small. Moving quickly."

Satan's Tail, Ali realized, less than forty miles from him, back to the west.

And within sixty of the Al Bushra gunboat the volunteers had taken from Oman. If it was a true report. Could he trust it?

"Has Ghazala sent the signal that he met the submarine?" Ali asked the communications mate. Ghazala commanded the ship he had sent ahead to the rendezvous.

"Not yet, sir."

If Ali turned the ships around and raced west, they could engage Satan's Tail before two hours passed. At the same time, the Al Bushra could launch her missiles against it. The American would be caught between the two forces.

If the American was where these reports said he was.

The oiler would have to sail on alone. And the Sharia would have to return to its mooring. She was not ready to do

battle.

It was a gamble, based on possibly inaccurate information. But if he waited to verify it, the chance might slip through his fingers.

Had God given him the Al Bushra for this attempt? It had not been required for the oiler, and seemed to have no other role — surely it was intended to attack the devil ship.

"Signal the other boats," said Ali. "Satan's Tail awaits."

"Where are you?"

"Fifty feet over Al Huwaymi, heading out toward the gulf," Zen told his wife Breanna. The control unit for the Werewolves had been housed in the hangar behind the Mega-fortress parking area. Zen sat surrounded by the large black carrying cases used to ship the equipment, a tangle of wires forming a nest around his wheelchair. The control unit had only two panels set up. Both were twenty-one-inch LCD flatscreens. The panel on the right showed a three-dimension simulation of where the Werewolf was, the area it flew over rendered as a wire model, with green and red lines delineating the topography. The Werewolf was a stubby yellow double cross that, if you squinted just right, looked a little like the aircraft itself. It reminded Zen of the first Flighthawk simulation — which wasn't coincidental, since the program was essentially the same one.

Give or take five million lines of code…

The panel on the left showed the video feed from the Werewolf's nose. The camera was not light-enhanced, and even though they were using the Dreamland satellite system, the transmission was choppy.

"Doesn't it feel weird to be sitting here in a hangar, five hundred miles away, guiding an aircraft over hostile territory?" asked Breanna as she handed Zen an ice cold cola.

"Four hundred and seventy-two miles away, and Yemen is not necessarily hostile territory," said Zen. "The computer is actually doing the flying. I just nudge the control stick every so often so it thinks I'm in control."

"You know what I mean. I can see with the Flighthawks. I mean, you're in a plane. But this — it's like a computer game."

"I guess," said Zen, taking the cola. "You used to say that."

"I used to." He took a long sip from the soda. "I guess I've gotten used to it." "I guess."

"Ten years from now, Bree, everything will be remote control."

"I hope not."

"Well, how did it feel flying the Unmanned Bomber?" he asked.

"Too weird. That's why I gave it up." "Temporarily. For the deployment in the Pacific." "Permanently."

Zen glanced up at her. Breanna had gone through a lengthy debate several months before when she was offered command of the Unmanned Bomber project. It was an important project and a very important position, especially for an ambitious female captain. The Unmanned Bomber was a hypersonic aircraft designed to be fitted with either a laser or a high-energy discharge weapon. There was no guarantee that the UMB, as it was known at Dreamland, would go into production, but even if it didn't, the project was likely to be the touchstone for a dozen future systems, from engines to weapons. Taking command of the project would surely put Breanna on the fast track for a general's star, and beyond.

"You don't want the project?" Zen asked.

"I like to fly when I fly," she said.

"Well, some of us can't."

"I don't mean it like that," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"No harm, no foul," he said. He'd have to save the discussion about her future for another time. "I gotta do a cut here in thirty seconds," he added. "Then I have to contact Xray Pop and make sure the global positioning system is working properly. Okay?"

"Never interrupt a pilot on a mission, even when he's sitting in a hangar 472 miles away."

"Four hundred and eighty-five. These things move pretty quick."

"The Oman ship is now heading northeast," said Dish. "Still moving ahead."

"What about the tanker?" Dog asked.

"He's still more or less where he was. A little closer to the coast maybe. Definitely moving, just not very fast."

"What do you think, Tommy?" Dog asked Delaford.

"The Oman patrol boat, the Al Bushra ship, she's headed in Xray Pop's direction. Beyond that, though, I'm just not sure. He's at twenty knots or so. That's close to his top speed, if not right at it."

"Still doesn't answer any hails," said McNamara.

Dog banked the Megafortress. They were at 35,000 feet, twenty miles off the coast of Somalia. None of the Ethiopian aircraft they'd tussled with the night before had come out. Several radars in Yemen had switched on and off during the night, but they were too far away to find them.

"Have a contact I think is the Abner Read" said Dish. "Just barely there. Very small radar return, now twenty miles to our east. Couple of other very small ships, very small, about ten miles farther east. The radar signature is so small we can't even ID the ship. Kind of like looking at a stealth bomber. I'd guess it's next to invisible to a surface radar until you're maybe inside five miles."

"You sure about those locations?"

"Locations? Absolutely."

"Commander Delaford — the Shark Boats that patrol with the Abner Read …Would they be trailing him by ten miles?"

"I'm not sure, Colonel. Why?" "Just two of them," said Dog.

"Actually we have four now, Colonel. They're moving fast — faster than he is. About fifty knots."

Dog reached to the communications panel, punching into the Dreamland circuit.

"Zen, have you contacted the Abner Read?"

"I'm supposed to radio the ship when I'm five miles away, about forty-five seconds from now," said Zen, piloting the Werewolf. "We're about ten miles due north of the last calculated rendezvous point."

"We have some contacts to your east. Can you see them?"

"Hang on."

Dog watched the composite radar screen, which compiled the positions of both surface and ship contacts. The Werewolf was closer to the trailing ships than to the Abner Read.

"Can't see them," said Zen. "I can change course."

"Don't do that," said Dog. "You say you're only five miles from the Abner Read?"

"Affirmative. They have to turn their lights on for me to land. The automated system can't interface with them, and they're a moving target."

"All right. Contact them and arrange to drop those com units. I'm going to talk to Captain Gale and suggest you check out these contacts. How much fuel do you have aboard?"

"Another thirty minutes worth. I was told they had fuel on the ship."

"They do. Stand by."

Storm could hear the aircraft approaching in the distance.

"Lights," he said into his microphone.

The landing deck of the destroyer glowed white. Storm looked upward, as much to shield his eyes as to look for the helicopter. The sound grew louder, the roar of a steam locomotive drowning out the sounds of the Abner Read; the hum of her engines and the high-pitched hiss of her lights.

"There, Captain, there she is."

The aircraft buzzed across the fantail, ten feet off the deck. It circled to the right, buzzing to the end of the glow and coming back. It looked more like an alien spaceship than a helicopter. It took another pass, and then spun smartly around, dropping into a hover and descending on the Abner Read's helicopter landing pad.

Storm had never seen anything like it. The aircraft looked like a combination of an airplane and a helicopter. It was small, its body no bigger than a good-sized desk. And it had just executed a perfect landing on a destroyer moving at close to forty knots, all the while guided by someone hundreds of miles away.

He didn't like Bastian, but he had to give the devil his due — his techno toys worked pretty damn well.

Two of the Abner Read crewmen approached the helicopter as its rotors spun down. Because the Werewolf was so small, there was little clearance between the deck and the rotors, and they had to wait until the propellers stopped spinning. When they finally did, the men rushed forward, leaned in with big chain cutters, and snapped the wire restraints that held the case beneath the Werewolf's belly. The aircraft had landed on it; there was no way to retrieve it until the helo took off.

"Go!" yelled Storm. "Go!"

The rotors spun in opposite directions, making an eerie whirling sound. The first revolution seemed lazy, almost against its will; the second was a little faster; with the third, the aircraft sprung upward in a fury and was gone.

"Lights!" yelled Storm.

As the lights were doused, the voice of one of the men in the Tactical Center below yelled over the combat intercom system: "Here they come!"

"Hard right rudder!" said Storm. "Weapons! Prepare to fire!"

A long streak of yellow flashed in the screen, mor-phing to white and then breaking back into yellow. Zen leaned on the control stick for the Werewolf, whipping the robot helicopter out of the line of fire. The computer opened a targeting window at the right side of his screen, boxing the cannon on the deck of the lead pirate ship. Zen reached forward and tapped the screen, manually designating the target and allowing the computer to fire as soon as it was locked. Unlike in the Flighthawk, he didn't have to line up head-on for a shot — the computer rotated the chain gun, firing to the right as the Werewolf flew nearly parallel to its target. The 30mm shells drew a thick line across the front of the small patrol craft, tearing through the gun, surrounding deck, and nearby superstructure. Zen banked sharply and took manual control of the gun to rake the rear of the patrol craft. The computer recorded the hits on a wire-model projection in the targeting screen, painting them as dark red flashes and estimating the damage: No critical systems had been hit, but the vessel's forward gun was out of action.

A barrage of bullets erupted from a second patrol boat a half mile away. The Werewolf pirouetted in the sky as Zen lined up the new target. The target box painted the enemy ship's bridge; Zen stabbed the screen and concentrated on ducking the sudden burst of bullets from the enemy ship. The Werewolf fired several times, recording hits on the bridge, but the patrol boat continued to fire and Zen had to pull off.

His control screen flashed red. Fuel state low, said a message in the middle of the screen.

"Is that all?" he said, relieved, but as if in answer, the computer flashed a fresh message:

And then several others in rapid succession:

"Now's where it starts to get interesting," said Zen, pushing the joystick to line up for another run at the pirate.

"Missile away!"

A Harpoon missile leapt from the vertical launcher on the forward deck. The flare from the lower stage of the rocket glared through the windscreen at the front of the bridge, painting the gear and crew an eerie yellow.

"Where are my guns!" Storm barked into his microphone.

At least three people answered, "Firing!" as the destroyer started to rock with the beat of six 155mm shells fired in rapid succession from the forward weapon. The crew on the bridge and in the Tactical Center cheered as the weapon hit home.

"Target one is demolished!"

"Target one sunk!"

"We got the son of a bitch."

"Take that for Commander Marcum, you bastards!"

"Take out the rest of the boats," said Storm calmly. "Steady, gentlemen. Executive officer, Eyes, everyone, steady, now. We have not yet begun to fight."

The sea around them erupted as the American ship began spitting its shells. A helicopter zipped above, firing a cannon at the lead vessel in Ali's flotilla. One of the crewmen began firing the machine gun at it, the barrage so close and loud that Ali had to put his mouth directly to his helmsman's ear to make himself be heard.

"Continue the attack!" he shouted. "We need more time. Torpedoes!" he added. "Fire the torpedoes!"

One of the shells from Satan's Tail landed in the water ten or fifteen yards away, sending a spray of salt water over the boat. The small vessel rocked back and forth, slapped by the waves and explosions.

"Torpedoes! Fire!" yelled Ali. He reached down and picked up the flare gun. As the flare shot upward, he pulled the satellite phone from his pocket. "Fire on these coordinates!" he told his cousin Mabrukah aboard the Oman missile boat. "Fire! Fire! Fire!"

"Missile in the air!" yelled Starship, his voice so loud Dog probably could have heard him without the benefit of the interphone system. "Two missiles in the air!"

"Exocet antiship missiles," said Dog's copilot, Kevin Mc-Namara, much more calmly. "Fired toward the Abner Read."

"That's good enough for me," said Dog. "Target the Oman ship. Open bomb bay doors."

"Bay," repeated the copilot.

The Megafortress bucked as the large doors at the base of the rear fuselage swung open. Dog pushed his stick forward, nosing into a fifteen-degree angle toward the vessel that had just launched the missiles.

"Vessel targeted," said McNamara.

"Fire Harpoon."

The missile clunked off the rotating dispenser, already on a direct line to the enemy ship. Four hundred eighty-eight pounds of high explosives were locked into the fat target less than eight miles away.

Dog hit the preset button on the communications panel to open the radio channel to Storm. But the Abner Read's crew apparently had not been able to activate the communications unit yet.

"Broadcast a missile warning to Abner Read," Dog told McNamara.

"Already have. Harpoon two is ready to fire."

"Fire Harpoon two."

"Launching."

The turbojet engine at the rear of the missiles ignited, ramping their airspeed toward five hundred knots. They had one more of the antiship weapons left.

"Radar system on the missile boat is attempting to lock," said the copilot.

"ECMs," said Dog, ordering electronic counter measures.

"They're firing surface-to-air missiles! Radar-guided! Harpoon one missed," said McNamara, incredulous.

"Target them again."

"Targeting. Missile in the air! Coming for us."

Dog held to his course, waiting for the copilot to lock the Harpoon's guidance system on the target. The missile that had been launched was identified as an SA-S-4; the Wisconsin was flying at the outer edge of its range, though that was no guarantee of safety. With the bomb bay doors open, the Megafortress's radar cross section was more than ample for the missile's guidance system to see. They were high but moving relatively slow, and except for the ECMs, which confused the missile's guidance systems, they would be an easy target.

"We have a lock," said the copilot.

"Fire Harpoon," said Dog.

"Firing."

"Crew, stand by for some jinking," said Dog. "Button us up, Kevin."

As their last antiship missile dropped from the belly, the copilot closed the bomb bay, instantly making them less visible to radar. Dog pressed the chaff release button, sending bundles of metallic tinsel into the air. An old but still effective counterweapon, the chaff acted like a smoke screen, making it harder for the enemy to pick the Megafortress out of the sky. Dog jabbed the control stick to jerk the Megafortress in a new direction, a wide receiver giving the defensive backs an open-field fake.

Even so, it wasn't enough — a warning tone in Dog's headset told him the missile was closing in.

Starship pointed the Flighthawk toward the ship, leaning toward the screen as he nosed into a forty-five-degree dive, plunging at the rectangular bridge at the center of his screen. A puff of smoke flashed at the left side of his screen, and black lines began to rise on the right.

Starship felt the Megafortress lurch beneath him. He fought off the distraction. The targeting pipper danced left and right, the ship below seeming to slip back and forth as if it sensed he was coming. The screen blinked yellow and he pressed the trigger, even though he knew it was too early. The shells trailed downward and he let go, pulling up on the stick as the Flighthawk lost some of its momentum. He had no target now; he'd ruined his approach by firing too soon and was caught flatfooted in the air, flying toward a cloud of antiaircraft fire. Starship bit the side of his lip, angry but trying to control his emotions, knowing he wasn't that far off. He managed to duck right and pull around sharply enough to get a burst in, this time on target, but he was beyond the vessel before he could fire more than a handful of bullets.

Starship leveled off, took a breath, then pushed the plane into a long, almost lackadaisical bank low over the ocean, trying to convince himself that this was just another of the hundred or two hundred simulations he had run with Zen and Kick during training a few months before. Kick had been better at the attack missions — he'd flown an A-10A Warthog, a real stick and rudder aircraft, and was used to using the cannon on surface targets. Starship had learned a lot just by watching his laid-back, no rush approach; it was a different head than the balls-out fighter jock Starship was used to.

The Flighthawk had dropped below fifty feet, and the computer gave him a warning as he came out of the turn. "Thanks, Mama," he told it.

A message flashed on the Flighthawk control screen:

"Never mind," Starship told the computer.

The warship filled his viewer, the superstructure looming in the right quadrant. The cursor flashed yellow, then red.

Starship pressed the trigger, watching as the bullets tore into the metal.

"Twenty seconds!" shouted the copilot as the enemy missile approached.

Dog counted off five more, then yanked the stick and fired off more chaff, trying to roll the Megafortress out of the way.

It worked — kind of. The missile sailed toward the spot the Megafortress had been, and then, sensing it had missed, ignited. The Wisconsin was far enough away to miss the main force of the explosion, though a ripple through the controls and a red warning light on the panel told Dog they hadn't escaped completely.

"Damage to the right stabilizer," said McNamara, monitoring the system status screens at the copilot's station. "Not critical."

Dog had his hands full for the moment, steadying the big plane as a fresh volley of missiles were launched upward from the amphibious vessel.

"ECMs," he told the copilot. "Let's put a little more distance between us and them."

"ECMs active. Harpoon one has its target — impact! We've got it."

"Bastian, are you there?" asked Storm on the Dreamland circuit. His face appeared in the video screen; it was rounder than Dog had expected, younger as well, but the scowl seemed familiar.

"Missiles headed your way," said Dog.

"Yes, we're taking evasive action. Where are you?"

"We've fired two Harpoon missiles at the Oman ship," said Dog. "He's fired surface-to-air missiles and we're taking evasive action."

"Good," said Storm.

He started to say something else but it was drowned out by an explosion. The image shook; Storm fell to the side and then the screen blanked.

"We're flying east, Starship," Dog announced over the interphone. "Stay with me."

"More missiles coming off the ship!" said Starship. "A whole barrage! Looks like they're launching everything they've got! The front of the ship's on fire!"

"Exocets," said the copilot.

"Better warn Storm," said Dog.

As Storm felt himself falling backward he realized the close-in guns had somehow missed one of the Exocets. He hit the side of the holograph table before he could brace himself, and saw black as he fell to the deck of the bridge, floundering there for a moment before managing to roll over and get to his knees. He glanced across the bridge and saw that the helmsman had strapped himself into his seat and remained at his station.

"Damage control, report," said Storm, pulling himself to his feet.

There was no answer, or at least none that he could sort out through the cacophony of voices over the open intercom. He punched the control pane on the holographic display for the ship's system report. The Phalanx close-in gun had actually struck the missile, but it had done so very close to the ship and the explosion had sprayed the Abner Read with shrapnel from the warhead. They had taken several hits amidships and there was a fire in the seamen's quarters be-lowdecks. Propulsion, Weapons, and Guidance were all operating normally.

"We're fighting a fire," said a garbled voice, presumably one of the firefighters.

The damage wasn't that bad.

Storm pulled the headset off his ears, still partly dazed. He tapped the hologram's controls, bringing the image back to the bird's-eye view. One of the forward guns began firing outside.

There were three patrol boats, all running like hell toward the coast. The Abner Read was pointed in the other direction.

"Helm, come about," said Storm. "Pursue those ships."

"Captain, there are missiles in the air," said the ship's executive officer, who had come up from Tac to make sure Storm was all right.

"Pursue those pirates!"

"Aye, Captain. We're tracking incoming missiles."

"Shoot them down, don't track them!" snapped Storm.

"Cap, the Dreamland aircraft pilot is trying to contact you," said the communications officer. "They want to know if we need assistance."

Storm went over to the captain's chair, pulling up the handset. "Bastian?"

"We're en route. They've barrage-fired several missiles at you, firing everything they have. We've hit them twice. They're on fire."

"Help me pursue these patrol boats. There are three of them left. They're beyond our radar range."

Outside, the Phalanx close-in antimissile gun began clattering, trying to ward off the missiles.

"We are en route. Be advised those patrol boats are in So-malian coastal waters."

"You want me to call Washington and ask permission to sink them?"

"I just want to make sure you know where everything is. Bastian out."

Ali saw the shell land in the water a few hundred yards away. It streaked from over his shoulder, a ghost in the air.

"To port," he told the helmsman. "You're steering closer to their fire."

The helmsman didn't answer. The boat continued to run in the general direction of the shells. Ali turned and reached to physically move his helmsman's hand. It was only then that he realized the man had been killed and was being held up only because he had strapped himself in place.

Ali took his knife and cut the belt, pushing the man aside so he could take the wheel himself. He angled toward the dark shadow of land to his right. Satan's Tail had never followed them this close to land before — but then, he'd never made such a bold attack before. They weren't going to give up now, territorial waters or no.

The missiles must have missed. Another failure.

He turned and shouted to his crewmen at the rear of the vessel. "The mines. Unleash the mines. Then the smoke. We will hide beyond the Prophet's Rocks. Signal the others."

Built by France, the Exocet gained fame as an air-launched missile, but it was originally designed as a ship board weapon. The MM38 family — which included the versions launched at the Abner Read—had a range of sixty-five kilometers, or forty miles, and were designed to sink a good-sized warship. After launch, the missile entered what was called an inertial phase, flying in the general direction it had been aimed. A radar altimeter aboard the missile kept it at ten meters above the waves. The relatively low altitude made it difficult for some radars to detect and harder to intercept. As the Exocet neared its target, an active radar seeker in the head switched on, looking for the biggest bull's-eye it could find. At the same time, the missile tucked downward to about three meters above the waves, greatly increasing the difficulty of shooting it down. The MM38 had been superceded by newer designs, but the missile was still potent, especially when a number were used and programmed to attack from different directions.

As the missiles approached the Abner Read, the ship's Advanced Close-In Weapons System (ACIWS) prioritized each missile and directed its Phalanx guns at the threat, opening fire at a little over fifteen hundred yards. The Abner Read's ACIWS succeeded the earlier Close-In Weapons System (CIWS) standard on most American vessels. Among other improvements, the ACIWS activated "hot," which meant that the system was ready to fire as soon as it was turned on, not needing the sixty-second activation time required by the CIWS. The ACIWS also did a better job identifying threats. Its guns, however, were exactly the same as those controlled by the older system — the venerable M61 Vulcan six-barrel Gatling design. The cannon had been used by American forces in one shape or another since 1958, when a pilot in an F-105 Thunderchief wrote his name on a test target with one. Despite a number of improvements in the associated systems and innovations like tungsten bullets, the gun itself had been virtually unchanged, a testimony to the hard work and solid engineering of its original inventors.

A stream of bullets spit into the air toward the first Exo-cet, hosing the missile down into the water. As a cannon rotated toward a second missile, the Exocet disappeared from the radar system, swallowed by the waves as its guidance system malfunctioned. The ACIWS interpreted this as some sort of electronic trick and rallied its weapons into the space it thought the missile was hiding in. The hiccup caused the system a second or two of hesitation before it could focus on the third and fourth missiles, which were skimming toward the destroyer's stern. One was destroyed at approximately five hundred meters from the ship; the last, however, was less than a hundred yards away when it detonated. This was of little consequence to the Abner Read, but it was very close to one of the Shark Boats, which had inadvertently maneuvered close to the mother-ship. Part of the missile smashed through the superstructure of the small vessel, destroying the embedded radio mast and a good portion of the baffling system that lowered the infrared heat signature coming from the smokestack. It also killed three of the Shark Boat's crew and sent one overboard, the ship stumbling in a spray of steam and smoke.

Storm couldn't see the strike from the bridge, but Eyes saw it on the board in the Tac Center, and immediately lost contact with the craft.

"Three's been hit," he told Storm.

Storm clicked into his preset. "Boat Three, this is Storm. Kelly, what's going on over there. Kelly?" "Radio's out, Cap," said Eyes. "How bad are they hit?" "System's still evaluating."

Unsure what the damage was, Storm realized his people were his top priority. The pirates would get away once more.

He slammed the side of the holographic display in frustration.

"Bring us into position to help Boat Three," he ordered. "Eyes!"

"Yes, Captain."

"Where are those pirates?"

"We've lost them close to shore, Cap."

"Dreamland, I need you now," Storm said, punching into the Dreamland line. "Where are those patrol boats?"

"We can give you headings from the last-known GPS locations, but at the moment they're hidden in the clutter of the shoreline," said McNamara, the copilot aboard the Megafortress.

"Give my weapons people whatever you have," he said. "Eyes — get with the flyboys and target these pirates. I want them sunk! Get Boat One into position to follow them. Have Boat Two stand by with us to render assistance to Shark Boat Three. We'll join One once we're sure of the situation here."

"Mines ahead," warned the computer, giving the helmsman a verbal warning as well as flashing it on his heads-up screen. Storm turned around and looked at the hologram, where the mines were popping up as small red triangles. The detection system could "paint" the location of the mines in the HUD, but the Abner Read had to slow down for the system to work properly. And the Shark Boat could not proceed on its own through a minefield.

"Eyes! Some sort of minefield ahead. Warn the Shark

Boat."

"Sent a warning to them already, Cap." "Do you have the target data?" asked Storm. "Working on it, sir."

"Bastian, it's now or never," Storm said, though he was not hooked into the Dreamland line. "Now or never."

Zen emptied his chain gun on the last of the patrol boats. He was now into his fuel reserves, and had to land or risk losing the Werewolf. He spun the aircraft back in the direction of the American ships, which were now nearly forty miles to the west.

"I'm out of fuel and out of lead," he said over the Dreamland circuit, hoping the Abner Read had tied into the circuit by now. "I have to land."

"Who are you?" asked a voice.

"This is Major Stockard. I'm flying the Werewolf. It's the helo that brought the communications gear to the Abner Read. I've been shooting at your pirates for you but I'm running on fumes. I need to land."

"What assistance do you need?"

Landing lights would be nice, thought Zen, but under the circumstances that was a bit much to ask.

"I don't need anything," he said. "I just want you to know. Don't fire on me. I don't want the hassle of trying to duck your Phalanx gun system."

"OK, we understand. We understand. You're inbound. We see you on the radar. We're passing the word."

The words FUEL EMERGENCY flashed on the screen.

Pass it quick, thought Zen, settling into a hover over the ship.

Starship could see a light glowing in the distance as he approached, and realized it was the Werewolf Zen had been flying.

"Hawk One to Dreamland Werewolf," he said. "Hey, Zen, I'm approaching you from the northwest."

"Werewolf," acknowledged Zen. "Starship, they have a Shark Boat that's been struck by a missile. They may have people in the water."

"Roger that, Werewolf. I'll do a low and slow and turn with the infrared cameras."

"Werewolf. Be advised, I'm into my fuel reserves." Dog broke into the circuit. "Dreamland Werewolf, are you landing aboard the Abner Read?" "That's my intention, Colonel."

"All right. Starship, take the circuit around the stricken boat and assist with the rescue efforts. Then continue east and help us locate the pirates."

"Roger that."

Starship could see the robot helicopter veering to his left, skimming in an arc and landing on the nearby ship.

"Starship, do you have the location?" asked Zen.

"Roger that, Werewolf. I'm coming— Shit!"

The air in front of him erupted with 20mm shells. Star-ship hit the throttle and pushed the Flighthawk's nose toward the water, but he'd been caught entirely by surprise. The left wing of the robot aircraft had been chewed severely by the Phalanx's 20mm cannon.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" yelled Zen.

"Friendly fire! Friendly fire! I'm on your side! I'm on your side!" screamed Starship.

His systems screen lit, showing so many problems that the display looked like a solid splotch of red. Starship struggled to compensate for the mangled wing surface, leaning to the right with the joystick, as if his body might somehow help keep the tiny aircraft alive. He leveled off for a few seconds, but the Flighthawk's forward airspeed had dropped below one hundred knots and wouldn't come up. The computer began to push up the forward leading edge on the left wing for some bizarre reason. Starship had to override it with a direct voice command. He got an altitude warning but stayed with the aircraft, starting to build momentum. Then a second hail of bullets swarmed in front of him and the Flighthawk screen went dead.

He was so angry he smashed his fist in the middle of the control panel, breaking several of the keys.

"What the hell is going on!" demanded Storm. "Where did that missile come from!"

"No missile — it was the Dreamland flight," said Eyes.

"What? The Megafortress?"

"No, Storm, a Flighthawk. He was trying to locate our people in the water. The ACIWS read it as a missile." "Turn it off, damn it!"

"I did, sir, I did," said the defensive weapons operator. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Rescue party, prepare to render assistance as needed," Storm said.

"Cap, you're being hailed on the Dreamland channel by Colonel Bastian," said the communications officer.

Storm switched over to the Dreamland circuit. "Bastian?"

"You hit one of my planes."

"I'm sorry. What the hell was it doing that low?"

"Taking a low level run to look for survivors from your boat damaged by the missile."

"Do you need assistance?"

"It's an unmanned flight."

"Right. Find those pirates."

Dog ran through the diagnostics again, reassessing the damage to the Wisconsin's tail. According to the computer, shrapnel had ripped up the skin of about a fifth of the starboard stabilizer but its structural integrity had not been threatened. The damage did not appreciably limit the aircraft's maneuverability, though Dog knew he should be gentle until the plane was inspected on the ground.

Unlike a standard B-52, the Megafortresses had a V-shaped tail. The leading and trailing edges of the tail surface were adjusted by the flight computer automatically to improve the aircraft's flight characteristics. The adjustments were "transparent," or invisible to the pilot, with the computer interpreting what he wanted to do and adjusting all of the plane's control surfaces to do it. The flight control computer had no trouble compensating for the damage to the control surfaces on the tail; it also prepared an assessment of how much trouble it would have in more demanding circumstances, deciding that the Megafortress could perform at "ninety-four percent efficiency." Dog smiled at the assessment — computers, and the engineers who made them work, always wanted to put a number on things.

"We just can't find the patrol boats, Colonel," said Dish. "Faded into the coastline."

"All right," said Dog.

"We have to work on the systems recognizing those ships and filtering out the clutter from the coast," added Dish. "This system was adapted from the airborne system and optimized for large ships on the open sea. Coastlines bring all sorts of other problems. There are three or four dozen places they could be."

"Agreed, Sergeant."

"And no offense, sir, but, uh, if we coordinated better— working with Xray Pop instead of against them — we might have started with a better profile for the computer to use on its tracking. One of the difficulties of this all being automated."

"Can't argue with you, Dish."

One of these days, thought Dog, I'm going to sit down and write the collected common sense of Air Force sergeants. It'll be a best seller — though since it would come from sergeants, no officer would take it seriously.

Dog tracked out to the Indian Ocean, sweeping the gulf just in case the patrol craft had managed somehow to get this far. As he circled back he told Storm the pirates had slipped away.

"Figures," snapped Storm. "We should talk," said Dog.

"I have my hands full right now, Bastian," said the Navy captain, snapping the line dead.

Dog made a report to the lieutenant commander in the Tactical Center, who was considerably more cooperative, and even upbeat. The Oman ship they targeted had sunk soon after the battle, struck by two Harpoons from the Wisconsin and one from the Abner Read.

"We monitored a communication from a Liberian tanker a few miles away," said Dog. "They believed they saw some survivors."

"Stay on top of that," said the Tac commander, whose nickname was Eyes. "What happened to that oiler?"

"We lost track of it. We'll look for it as soon as we swing back."

"You probably saved their butts," said Eyes.

"You figure the Oman government sent the ship to help the pirates?" asked Dog.

"Your guess is as good as mine out here, Colonel. It's the Wild West with speedboats."

And Exocet missiles, thought Dog.

As they continued westward, he checked back in with the team at Khamis Mushait. Danny had gone off to bed; Sergeant Bison gave him the rundown. There were no protesters to be seen, and the Marines were now holding positions around the base. The technical teams were tearing things down and packing so they could relocate to Diego Garcia. The two Megafortresses Dog had ordered in from Dreamland were already en route there. Dog decided that he would have Baker-Baker take a short mission tomorrow, then head to the island directly, once they could work out the relief schedule. How long Wisconsin stayed in Saudi Arabia depended on the damage it had sustained; if it was minimal, he'd gas up and head out ASAP.

"Scientist wants to talk to you, Colonel," said Bison.

"Put her on," said Dog.

Bison moved away from the console. Jennifer's tired face came into view.

"You oughta be in bed, lady," said Dog. "Is that an offer?" "I wish."

"Me too." She frowned. "I have a bone to pick with you." "Take a number."

"I could have flown the Werewolf." "Command decision." Dog didn't feel like arguing with her. "Because I'm a woman, or because I'm a civilian?" "Because you've got a lot of other things to do, like make the LADS blimps work." "They're working."

"And get ready to get over to Diego Garcia." "We're getting ready."

"Zen's got more combat experience," he told her. "I can beat him in a Werewolf." "Be that as it may," said Dog.

"Command decision?" She frowned, but then smiled. "All right. Sorry to bust your chops."

"At least you apologize," Dog told her. "I miss you." "Me too."

"I'm going to bed now."

Dog stared at the blank screen a few seconds, distracted in a way he knew he couldn't afford to be.

"We miss you back here, Colonel," said Major Catsman at Dreamland when he checked in there. "Mack Smith especially."

"Mack?"

"He's telling everyone who'll listen and most of those who won't how he ought to be out there doing real work. He spends all day dreaming up schemes to get more projects under his control. Then he goes and harangues the people involved to try to get them to agree it's a good idea. Yesterday or the day before, it was naval warfare modules for the Werewolves. Today it was a ship-tracking system for the Unmanned Bomber. He may come up with a flying aircraft carrier tomorrow." Dog laughed.

"I'm serious, Colonel. He's driving everybody nuts. I see where he got his reputation."

"Trust me, this is the new and improved Mack Smith," said Dog. "What naval warfare modules is he talking about?"

"I don't recall the specifics. He has studies and tests and things. I don't know if it's any actual programming. To be honest, I'm not paying much attention to most of what he's saying — there's too much to do here."

"It occurs to me that Whiplash is currently interfacing with the Navy on a full-time basis," Dog told Catsman. "And the person designated to handle the interface is Mack

Smith."

"God bless you, Colonel."

Dog laughed. "Send him over to Diego Garcia. Clear it with the doctors first."

"They'll carry him aboard the plane."

Dog went over a few administrative things with Catsman, then signed off. With his copilot flying the plane, he got up and took a stroll around the flight deck, checking the radar operators and stretching — surely one of the pleasures of flying an aircraft whose basic design dated from another era. He went down the ladder to the Flighthawk deck, where Starship sat slumped back in his seat and Delaford reviewed the database of ship traffic.

"Wasn't your fault, Starship. Their system should have picked up on the identifier and it didn't," Dog told the lieutenant.

"I know."

There had been much worse accidents involving friendly fire; this involved only the loss of a robot, not a life. But Dog didn't think pointing that out would console his lieutenant. Instead he tried changing the subject.

"You ever been to Diego Garcia, Starship?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"It's a pretty nice place."

"We're relocating because of me?"

"No. Not because of you. Because some of the Saudis don't understand what it is we're about. Orders from the White House and our current mission commander." Dog tried to hold his face neutral as he mentioned Storm. "Nothing to do with you. Lighten up, Starship. Maybe you should try taking a nap."

"I'm OK, Colonel," said the pilot.

"Don't get morose. You did a good job with that ship back there. Watch the tape. You did a good job."

Delaford looked over at him. "Got a second, Colonel?" "Plenty of them."

"I was looking at our patrol route. I have a couple of places we can drop a buoy and recover the Piranha from automated mode ahead of schedule."

"Sounds good. Transfer them to my station. We'll do it, assuming our tail holds up and Storm doesn't come up with something else for us to do."

Zen pushed the door to the room open as quietly as possible, but it had a spring on the hinge and there was no way to keep it open and get inside without a sound. The light snapped on just as he stopped to let it close behind him.

"Hey," said his wife from the bed.

"Hey back."

The room was set up like an oversized hotel room, with the bathroom and a closet off a very narrow hall near the door to the outside. This made it hard to get into the bathroom with his wheelchair, and Zen's maneuvering was complicated by an inch-high piece of marble at the doorway. The marble looked real pretty, unless you had to roll over it.

"How'd it go?" asked Breanna, coming over in her robe.

"We ran into some trouble." He slid the chair near the toilet seat and levered himself over. Tired, he nearly flopped into the space between his chair and the commode, but managed to lean forward just enough to plop onto the porcelain seat.

"Communications system didn't work?" asked Bree.

She stayed just outside the door, giving him privacy after a quick glance to make sure he was all right. It was one of the many dances they'd perfected since the accident.

"The communications worked. Dog spotted some fast patrol boats trying to sneak up on them from the east. While Xray Pop was dealing with that, an Oman ship launched missiles."

"Oman?"

"Yeah. Supposed to be friendly to the West. Haven't figured that one out yet. One of the Shark Boats got hit by a missile that the Abner Read was shooting down. They crossed too close because of the attack or something. Anyway, ship's still afloat but it's pretty badly beat up. They lost three guys. Then, just for good measure, Abner Read shot down Starship's Flighthawk."

"You're kidding."

"I wish. Their automated ship protection system thought it was a cruise missile. Starship thought he could get close to the ship because Werewolf was. Their system's more sophisticated than that, though. Lucky for him."

"What happened to the pirates?"

"Dog got the missile ship. We got some hits in — Navy battered one of the little boats pretty well, and I know I hit two — but as far as I could tell, they all got away. They were moving pretty fast. You can't get much on the Werewolf radar beyond five or six miles, and the hook-in from the Megafortress isn't operational."

Breanna put her hands on Zen's shoulders as he came out of the bathroom, kneading his muscles.

"Keep going," he urged when she stopped. "My neck is all whacked out. I had to stoop over the display."

"Hop into bed and I'll give you a full body massage."

It was more a dive than a hop. Zen pulled himself over the mattress, sinking in. His wife's hands felt fantastic.

"Admiral Storm still a jerk?" asked Breanna.

"Captain Storm. No worse than your dad."

"My father isn't a jerk."

"Demanding."

"Oh, he is not. He has standards." "He can be a prick." Breanna smacked him, semiplayfully. "I meant that in a good way," said Zen. "It's OK to be tough."

"I doubt that Storm is anything like my father." "Probably not," said Zen.

Breanna went back to giving him a massage. "Maybe I should take this bathrobe off and you could give me a massage," she suggested.

"Good idea," said Zen. He felt his eyes closing.

"Jeff?"

"Good idea," he mumbled, sliding into a dream.

Starship looked at the main screen as the computer replayed his flyover of the Oman missile boat, watching it as if it were a training video, not his own engagement. He saw someone standing on the upper deck of the missile boat, aiming at the ship with a gun. The gun sparkled as the Flighthawk passed.

He hit pause and backed up to the beginning of the run, going through it in slow motion this time as he tried to gauge the impact of his 20mm cannon shells. The bullets were relatively small, designed primarily for use against other aircraft; in retrospect, he thought he should have been more selective in targeting the ship, looking for a vulnerable spot. He slowed the action down, watching the line of slugs slanting into the hull as the attack continued. The holes were nothing more than specks on the screen.

The man stood there again. What he'd thought was a gun turned out just to be a shadow.

Starship saw the flash again, and this time realized that the man on the deck hadn't been firing at him at all; he'd simply been running. The flash came from one of the Flighthawk's bullets as it struck the rail or perhaps the bulkhead behind him.

The man lay on the deck in the next pass. If his Flighthawk had done any other damage, it wasn't visible.

So I killed him, thought Starship. He leaned back in the seat.

Good. Revenge for Kick.

He leaned forward, hit the button to play the rest of the encounter. Midway through he backed up and again ran through the attack where he had shot the man.

"Good," he whispered, but he didn't feel good at all.

Dog let McNamara handle the buoy launch, double-checking the plotted course and feeding him vital signs, but otherwise staying in the background as the copilot flew the plane. They slapped out the buoy and buttoned up, continuing their patrol. The Tac officer on the Abner Read gave them an update a short while later. A fleet ocean tug— basically an oceangoing tugboat large enough to pull an aircraft carrier by herself — had been dispatched from Bahrain to take the damaged Shark Boat under tow. The Navy was still undecided about where the Shark Boat would be taken for repairs.

"I'd like to have a word with Captain Gale," said Dog when the update was done.

"All right," said the Tac officer, with a tone that implied he was asking for trouble.

"What is it, Bastian?"

"We should rendezvous to discuss the situation tomorrow," suggested Dog. "Rendezvous?"

"I think we can do things better."

"You'll have to come to me. I have no way of getting to you," said Storm.

"Not a problem," said Dog. "I should be able to get there late in the afternoon, depending on what's going on in Saudi Arabia."

"Good."

"Good," said Dog. He clicked off the circuit. Clearly the best time to talk to Storm was when he was too tired to argue.

On the other hand, the same was probably true of himself. He glanced at his watch. They had more than six hours scheduled on patrol. And by the time he got to the Abner Read, he'd be even more exhausted.

"Colonel," said Delaford. "I have contact with the Piranha. It's about a hundred miles south of us, just passing out of range of the buoy we dropped. It's headed west."

"West? Didn't you point it east?"

"I put it in autonomous mode, which means it can change its mind if something comes up," said Delaford. "Looks like it found the sub."