Satan's Tail

VI Paradise

Two of the patrol boats were damaged beyond repair. Ali took a last look around their decks, making sure his men had salvaged everything possible. He hated to lose the heavy guns, but they didn't have the wrenches needed to take the bolts from the decks. One of the men had tried to cut away the deck with a chain saw — a creative idea, thought Ali, until the chain snapped and the man got a slashing wound on his arm for it. They settled for the ammunition.

Ten men had died, and some of their blood stained Ali's hand and shirt. He saw it when he waded back to his own craft, noticing the stain on his hand.

He wished it were his enemy's blood.

He had lost the Oman ship, and with her, his cousin Mabrukah and several other men he knew very well. Satan's Tail had escaped. Ali knew because his spies had heard its radio transmissions, or at least some. One of the boats that accompanied it had been damaged, apparently by one of the missiles. A fisherman and his brother were making their way toward the area now in a small boat; he would know by morning how much damage they had done.

It wouldn't be enough. Nothing would be enough until he sank the large ship.

To do that, he had to return west. The Sharia and the others would have to be rallied. He would regroup, attack again.

The wind howled around his ears. It sounded like Abu Qaed's voice, calling him. "Quickly now," he told his crew. "Signal the others. We have a great distance to go."

Following directions from the Dreamland technical team, Storm's communications specialists had managed to plug the portable communications system into the Abner Read's own system, even allowing visuals. So when Colonel Bastian signaled that he had to speak to the captain immediately, the specialists called up to the bridge and told Storm he could see the man who'd become such a thorn in his side.

Storm told them to make the connection and stepped to the video screen.

An image snapped in. He saw the side of a helmet, and waited as the head turned toward the camera. The visor was up and the oxygen mask hung down, revealing a face softer than Storm had expected. The eyes were pensive, searching, and expressive.

The voice was as belligerent as ever.

"We found the submarine," Bastian told Storm.

"What?"

"The Libyan submarine. About forty miles southwest of your present location, just barely in Somalian territorial waters. It's going west. Commander Delaford is on the circuit with the technical details. Tommy?"

"Hi, Storm. The submarine is definitely a Foxtrot, Project 641, Russian sub. May have been upgraded — the engines are quieter than the specs say they should be. It's definitely not a Kilo."

"How do you know?" said Storm.

"Because we worked with a Kilo to develop Piranha," snapped Bastian. "And we sank one in the South China Sea."

"Two," said Delaford. "This is the first time we've come across a Foxtrot. He's snorkeling right now, making about eight knots, a little slower. That's close to his best speed using the snorkel. He can go twice that fast on the surface, though he wouldn't be able to sustain it very long. If he goes deeper and just runs on his battery, he's not going to go much over two knots unless he really has to. If his batteries were in good shape he could probably do fifteen knots on them, but that would run them down pretty quickly."

"Can you sink him?"

"We're not authorized to," said Bastian. The eyes flashed. Then he added, "I have one Harpoon left aboard. I can sink him on the surface, and maybe when he's snorkeling. As long as I have authorization."

"I'll get permission," said Storm. He'd been ready to bury the hatchet with the Air Force lieutenant colonel — after all, his men had performed well — but the tone in his voice stoked Storm's resentment all over again.

"Permission or not, I think rather than sinking him, we should follow him, at least for a while," said Dog. "My guess is that he's going toward an important pirate base. If we follow him, he'll lead us right there."

Storm realized that made sense, especially since the only weapon Bastian had was designed to strike a surface ship, not a submerged submarine.

On the other hand, the way Bastian suggested it — with a sneer in his voice for anyone who wasn't thinking as quickly as he was — nearly forced him to dismiss the idea out of hand.

Bastian is a real jerk, Storm thought, but not a stupid jerk. He happens to be right. "Captain?" said Bastian. A real jerk, though.

"All right, that's not a bad idea. Hold on."

He went over to the holographic display. The damaged Shark Boat could not make it to the rendezvous without the Abner Read; the ship would be lost.

Which would have a greater impact on his career? Sinking the Libyan ship? Or losing a damaged ship to do so?

Probably the latter. In an ideal world — in an ideal navy— the objective would be the most important. But even the U.S. Navy was far from ideal.

At present. It would be better in the future.

"Storm?"

"Unlike you, Bastian, I try not to shoot from the hip. If we could slow him down, it would be an easier decision."

"I have a way we might do that," said Delaford. "There's a patrol boat near him, a few miles away. It's possible he's trailing him, communicating somehow. If the Megafortress buzzed the surface boat, they might warn the submarine. If the sub dove deeper, he'd have to slow down, or least run on batteries for a while."

"I think it's worth a try," said Bastian.

"Yes. It is a good idea," said Storm, glad that it had come from a Navy officer and not the insufferable flyboy.

Storm could order a Shark Boat to help trail the submarine at a distance; if it made an attack, the boat would be in a position to combat it. By the afternoon, the Abner Read and Boat One would meet the tug. He could have Boat Two escort the tug and head back.

A haul — he had three hundred miles to the tug rendezvous, another four hundred back, at least, even if they slowed it down. More than twelve hours, getting back and forth. But the Shark Boat could stay nearby, ready to strike if it looked like the sub was going to get away. It had lightweight torpedoes designed for undersea warfare. They'd be much more effective than lobbing a Harpoon and praying that the sub stayed near the surface.

"All right, Bastian, let's do it your way this time. I'll send a Shark Boat to shadow them, and have them stay just over the horizon."

"I'm going to bring another Megafortress in to relieve me in a few hours. Not only do we have only one Harpoon aboard, we have no Flighthawks." A criticism of his ship?

Even Storm had to admit it would have been justified. "Do it. Keep me posted," said Storm. "I'll expect a full report when you come to the ship tomorrow."

"Out."

The screen went dead.

"Well, he was almost human that time," Dog told Delaford.

"I think you're just being too hard on him, Colonel. He's lost a bunch of men, and one of his ships is pretty battered."

"We'll see. I'll run ahead and make a buoy drop, then come back and harass the gunboat."

"Ready whenever you are."

The control setup for the Piranha allowed Starship to see the synthesized sensor view on his number two auxiliary screen. The submarine appeared as a reddish flicker at about nine o'clock on the rectangular screen; a row of yellow, orange, and blue flames made waves behind it, descending toward the bottom of the screen. Piranha swam about three hundred yards behind the Libyan submarine, a little less than a quarter mile. The sub didn't know it was there.

"We're going to say hello to the surface craft," said Dog. "We don't think the patrol boat has any antiair missiles, but there's only one way to find out. Hang on."

Starship slapped against his seat restraints as the EB-52 powered toward the waves. The aircraft tilted left, then right, taking a wide turn before climbing back out.

"Didn't shoot at us," reported Dog.

"Sub is still moving forward," said Delaford.

"Patrol craft has stopped," said Dish, watching on the radar above. "Maybe that's the signal."

The submarine continued toward the patrol boat for another half mile or so, then began to submerge.

"We got their attention," Delaford told Dog. "He's going down."

"How did he know?" asked Starship.

"Either they were listening as the engines cut out or they're using a light or something to communicate. At snorkel depth the submarine can use its periscope to watch the surface."

"Are they blind when they go down?"

"No. They can use either passive or even active sonar to follow the patrol boat. He's probably going to dive for a bit, hang out there. When nothing happens, he'll come back up and proceed again. My guess is, the submarine captain is pretty cautious."

"Why?"

"He could have made better time on the surface earlier. Rather than using his snorkel, he could have surfaced. It was night, and more than likely he wouldn't have been seen."

"We would have seen him on radar."

"True enough."

"You try and psych him out so you know how he'll be when you fight him," said Starship.

"You don't do that with the Flighthawks in air combat?"

"The situations are usually so fluid, you don't have time. It sounds good, but in real life it's just bang-bang-bang. For me, anyway."

"Zen says he does it."

"Zen's different. That's why he's Zen."

Delaford laughed. Starship shrugged. It was true; Zen wasn't like most other pilots — he was Zen.

"He's stopped," said Delaford, looking back at his screen. "Hundred and fifty-five feet. I give him only a few minutes."

Sure enough, the submarine began moving again ten minutes later, gliding upward. Within a half hour it had begun snorkeling again. They let it proceed for twenty minutes, then Dog brought the Megafortress in for another run — this one at five hundred feet and directly over the submarine's wake. The patrol boat veered hard toward the coastline.

"He's going down. Fast," said Delaford. "He's nervous."

"Good for him," said Dog.

"Fifty feet…seventy-five," said Delaford. Excitement snuck into his voice. "He's got his nose down. Angle is fifteen degrees. He's moving — he's in trouble here. Twenty degrees. Still growing. He may hit the bottom!"

The water the submarine was moving through was about 1,200 feet deep. But once the submarine built up downward momentum, it could be hard to stop. The pitch was important as well as its speed: The boat was designed to descend horizontally; if the nose of the sub pitched greater than thirty degrees, the vessel became virtually uncontrollable.

Starship watched the screen, which had become a frenzied mass of purple and red funneling lines — the computer's representation of the sound the submarine was making. The lines fluttered, breaking in the middle.

"Four hundred feet…four fifty," said Delaford.

Starship watched the colors dancing on the screen. Was it this easy to kill your enemy? There were about seventy-five men aboard the average sub of this class — could you kill them by scaring them to death? Was war really that easy?

"Four seventy-five. He's slowing. Angle is less than fifteen. He's under control." Delaford sounded disappointed. "I may have misinterpreted his movement a bit."

Starship wasn't entirely sure why, but he felt relieved.

"This is beyond piracy," the President told the others gathered in his study next to the Oval Office. "What does Oman say?"

"They claim the ship was stolen," said Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman.

"They're probably telling the truth," said Robert Plank, the CIA director.

Jed's boss, Philip Freeman, looked at Jed, who nodded.

"I agree," said Freeman. "It may have been attempting to hijack a civilian ship, an old tanker type, when we came across it."

"You're sure it's been sunk?" the President said, directing the question to Jed, who'd gotten data on the battle from Dreamland and supplied it to the others.

"Yes, sir. Another ship picked up some of its crew. They're holding them for Oman. They, uh, had to be subdued. So I think the story the Oman government is telling is probably true."

"What happened to the tanker?"

"The owners haven't reported any trouble but we're still trying to get a definitive word."

The President turned to Admiral Balboa. "What was the latest on the submarine?"

Balboa looked at Jed. "Mr. Barclay seems to have the best information here."

Jed felt his face flush. It was hard to tell whether Balboa was trying to put him on the spot or actually trying to be nice.

"Just that it's still under surveillance," Jed said. "It's definitely the Libyan boat. Some improvements. Last time I checked, just before coming here, it had moved closer to the coast, but was within a few miles of where it was originally spotted. It can't go very fast on battery power, and the thinking was that it might wait a few hours and then try to move again."

"Xray Pop can sink it within an hour of getting the order," said Balboa. "Let's go in there and sink the submarine before this gets worse."

"Wait until we get the vote in the UN," said Secretary Hartman. "We'll have it easily now. The session is Tuesday. It's only a few days."

"What if they vote it down?" asked Chastain.

"They won't."

"I think this new attack, with the Oman ship and the submarine, will cinch things," said Freeman.

"Then let's push for an earlier vote," said the President. "That will emphasize how serious we think things are. We make the Oman ship the center of the presentation. The pirates are so bold they're stealing warships. No one's safe. It's a pretty strong argument. We can leave the submarine unmentioned for now. Frankly, if we can't convince them using the Oman ship, then we can't convince them at all."

"The French will pull their usual bullshit," said Chastain. "They'll want pictures."

"So we'll give them pictures," said the President. "Jed, can we use the photos you showed us?"

"Um, the security implications—"

"Everybody knows we were there," said Hartman, suddenly warming to the idea. "We could use some of the distance shots, just leave out details about the aircraft that took them. Call it a UAV."

"I think that would work," said Freeman.

Jed nodded. The President looked over at Balboa. The admiral nodded.

"Let's get moving. I'd like another update by midnight," said the President. He turned to CIA Director Plank. "Robert, Jed will run his material by you as well as Colonel Bastian's people to make sure nothing sensitive is released. All right, Jed? Nothing too sensitive, just what we need to show them we have the goods. I hope you didn't have any plans for the weekend," he added.

"Um, just like, uh, water the plants."

Everyone in the room laughed, though Jed hadn't meant it as a joke.

Breanna rolled over onto her side, pushing toward the weight of her husband.

Except he wasn't there.

"Jeff?" she murmured.

No answer.

She pushed deeper into the blankets, still swimming in the haze of fatigue.

"Where are you?" she said. When he still didn't answer, she put her hand out, then woke. "Hey?"

His wheelchair was gone. She glanced at the clock — it wasn't quite five-thirty a.m.

"All right," she said, more to herself than her absent husband. "Where are you?"

Breanna pushed her legs out of bed and pulled on her clothes. Out in the hallway, the scent of fresh brewed coffee drew her toward the reception area, where Boston presided over a huge tray of doughnuts.

Dunkin' Donuts.

"Sergeant! Are these real, live Dunkin' Donuts?" exclaimed Breanna, the last vestiges of sleep whisked away by the scents. "In Saudi Arabia?"

Boston beamed.

"You are going to be a chief master sergeant someday," said Breanna, taking a strawberry jelly doughnut. "Oh, Sergeant, you may be President of the United States if you keep this up."

"Chiefs have more power," growled Danny Freah, appearing from around the corner. "Boston, where did you get these doughnuts?"

The Whiplash sergeant's smile widened, but he said nothing.

"You see Zen anywhere?" she asked Danny as she tried the coffee.

"Prepping for his next mission."

"He is? Already?"

"Colonel Bastian wanted to move around the mission schedules because we're heading over to Diego Garcia. The maintainers have the plane fueled and ready to go. Loaded up with missiles and a Flighthawk."

"He can't fly without a pilot," said Breanna.

"I think Spiderman was going to command the mission and Dayton was going to take the copilot's slot."

"That's my plane. And my mission."

"Zen said something about you needing all the beauty rest you can get."

"Oh, he did, did he?" said Breanna. "Where are they?"

Zen had just finished reading the weather report— clear and dry, light wind — when the door of the trailer flew open. Breanna stormed in, a befuddled Marine behind her.

"Gentlemen," she said, with a tone that was outlawed as a lethal weapon in twenty-eight states.

"Hey, Captain," said Spiderman.

"Don't 'Hey, Captain,' me. What's the story here?"

"Um, we're getting ready for the mission?" said the pilot, backing away slightly.

Breanna leaned over the table and looked at Zen. "Beauty rest? Beauty rest?"

Zen started laughing. The others backed away from the

table.

"Um, sirs?" said the Marine.

"It's OK. She belongs to us," said Zen.

"I will see all of you on the plane," said Breanna, straightening. "Dayton, you can come and spell Spiderman — the copilot—if you want. I expect you all on board and ready to go in ten minutes."

She spun and left the trailer.

"Looks like this mission's briefed," said Zen.

Dog had done many difficult things in his life, but on the trip out to meet with Storm, he accomplished the near impossible: He fell asleep on an Osprey.

The jolt as the tilt-rotor MV-22 veered into a landing pattern over the DD(L) shook him awake. Dog caught a glimpse of the ship as they descended. It didn't look like a ship, at least not one that sailed on the ocean. The angled gun enclosure and superstructure reminded Dog of something from the Star Wars series of movies. Low to the water and painted matte black, the ship looked a great deal more like a pirate vessel than the ones they'd fought the night before.

A whistle greeted Dog as he stepped down the ladder from the Osprey. A petty officer took a step forward and snapped a precise salute. Two sailors with M4s, shortened versions of M16s, stood a short distance away.

"Colonel Bastian, welcome aboard, sir."

"Thank you," said Bastian.

"Do you have a bag or aides, sir?"

"No, I'm it."

"Captain Gale is this way, sir."

Dog followed the petty officer through a door at the side of a large hangar opening. They walked through the empty hangar space to a set of metal steps. They walked down the steps — a "ladder" in Navy terms — and across an enclosed gangway to another passage or hallway that opened onto a metal walkway across a large mechanical area. A huge network of pipes ran from below, connecting a series of what looked like large tanks to a thick, round aluminum tube. This was the heart of the ship's exhaust system, designed to lower the temperature of the exhaust as it left the gas turbines at the right. The low-heat signature of the exhaust made it more difficult for infrared detectors and missiles to "see" it. The room itself, though, seemed no warmer or cooler than the hangar had been, at least to Dog.

"This way, Colonel," said the petty officer, stepping through another hatchway. This led to a section of the ship filled by offices; with some slight adjustments for the location and decor, they might have been in an industrial park. "Captain's quarters ahead, sir."

A short, heavyset man stepped from the hatchway just as they approached.

"Bastian?"

"That's me."

"I'm just going down to the Tactical Center. It's this ship's version of a CIC, or Combat Information Center," said Storm. "Come."

Dog started to put out his hand, but Storm turned in the other direction. Dog followed down a ladder to a large room filled with computer work stations set into metal desks and cabinets. Most but not all of the stations were manned; a large, weary-eyed Navy lieutenant commander stood in the open area at one side, talking into a headset. This was "Eyes," Dog guessed; the man gave him a weary smile and went back to what he was doing.

A large glass table stood at the right side, slicing off part of the room from the rest. At first glance it looked like an area display, or re-creation one would find in a museum. It took Dog a few seconds of staring at it to realize it was a holographic computer display showing the Abner Read's position and that of the other ships in the area.

"This is Peanut," said Storm, introducing another officer. "He's the executive officer of the ship. We lost our captain in battle. A very good man. That's Eyes. You've spoken to him. He's tactical officer and my second-in-command. He runs the show down here."

Both men gave him grim smiles as they exchanged greetings.

"The Abner Read is designed to act as a coordinator as well as a combatant in littoral zones," said Storm. "Since combined action is still a new concept, we're working some of this out as we go."

"I can relate to that," said Dog. "We do that ourselves."

The other officers nodded, but Storm frowned. No one in the world could be as unique as he was.

"The Tactical Center is the brain of the task force, the next generation combat information center," said Storm. "All the systems are monitored here. That's Radar, Active Sonar, our Array, which you can think of as a very sophisticated listening device. In the future we'll integrate information from UAVs and underwater robot systems. We process the information and then deliver it to the other ships in the task group. It's not unlike what would happen in a task force built around an aircraft carrier and advanced cruisers and the rest. The holographic display shows the changing tactical situation around us. It can be used for everything from plotting an ocean crossing with computerized charts to working out the best method of attack. Our weapons center is on the other side here. Eventually we'll control robots as well as the ships' own weapons. Eyes, Peanut, we'll be in my quarters."

Storm abruptly turned on his heel and went back the way he came. At the top of the ladder he turned left, walking onto the bridge.

Dog was surprised to find that there were only three men here. One sat in front of the wheel; a second had a large computer display. An ensign stood behind the captain's chair at the center of the bridge, as stiff as if this were a port inspection by the fleet admiral.

"This is the bridge," said Storm.

Dog nodded at the men, trying to will them into something approaching ease. He feared they had been told he was the enemy.

Another holographic display stood at the right against the bulkhead; slightly smaller, this one currently showed a model of the ship and gave readings on the various engineering systems it used. Storm demonstrated that it had several different modes, including the ones he had seen in Tac.

"How much longer?" Storm asked the ensign.

"Another two and half hours, sir."

Storm nodded, but didn't explain to Dog what they were talking about.

"Are you in contact with my Megafortress?" Dog asked.

"Of course. The submarine is that way." Storm gestured dismissively toward the ship's bow. "We'll rendezvous with my Shark Boat and wait to see what happens. We have it under control, Bastian. Don't worry."

Dog interpreted the conversation and Storm's comments to mean that the Shark Boat trailing the submarine was still about two and half hours away. The submarine had remained submerged since their last pass; he didn't expect it to move now until nightfall.

"This way," said Storm, walking to the other side. Dog followed through a hatchway to a cabin dominated by a large conference table. On the opposite side a hatch opened into the captain's personal quarters. With his bunk on one side and his desk on the other, it would have fit in a good-sized closet at Dreamland.

"We've had teething pains. Our biggest problem right now is radar coverage," said Storm. He slid into a chair. "It's nonexistent. You can sit."

"Thanks," said Dog.

Storm clearly didn't realize he'd meant it sarcastically. The only other seat in the cabin was piled high with charts and papers.

"We're designed to rely on radar inputs from other assets," explained Storm. "This way no one can use our radar to locate us. But like much of our gear, the data link isn't ready for deployment. Nor is the robot helo that's supposed to carry the radar. It's probably two years from being ready to fly. As a stopgap, a version of the SPY-3 multifunction radar is supposed to be adapted for our use. That's a joke— the customized version isn't even off the drawing board because of funding issues."

Dog wasn't familiar with the SPY-3 system, though he guessed it was a follow-up to the present generation of sensors used by the fleet. The Abner Read's unique design would surely complicate the radar's development, as would the need to integrate it with other systems.

All right, thought Dog; maybe some of Storm's attitude came from the fact that he'd been given a job without the tools to do it. Didn't make him any less of a jerk, though it at least might explain some of his behavior.

"In the meantime, our only radar is a poorly modified version of the SPS-63. It's an Italian design barely useful for navigating. According to the specifications, it's supposed to cover out to about forty nautical miles. It doesn't, not on our ship anyway. Has something to do with the antenna configuration and height. And contrary to advertising, the pirates have been able not only to spot it, but to use it to aim at us."

"We may be able to figure out a way to pipe you our radar coverage," said Dog. "My technical people may have to modify some of the systems, but our airborne sensors were originally designed to interface with the combat information centers aboard aircraft carriers, so it ought to work. After some trial and error."

"Hmmph."

"Look, Storm: You and I don't have to get along at all. But we can work together to accomplish this mission. You have gaps—"

"What gaps?"

"Let me finish: You have gaps in your capabilities because the technology is still new or hasn't gotten out of the development stage. I'm used to dealing with that. That's what Dreamland's all about. We have some things that can help you. The Werewolves for starters. The communications system. We also have high-tech blimps that can carry radar—"

"Blimps?"

"They're lighter-than-air ships that can be positioned over the gulf and monitor traffic. You could use them for radar coverage and not give your position away."

"Pirates will just shoot them down."

"They use a technology that makes them blend into the surrounding sky. They're difficult to see. If the pirates don't know they're there and aren't using radar, they probably would never see them. We used them in Brunei."

"Yes."

Dog recognized that particular "yes." It meant: I heard that you kicked butt there, but I'll be damned if I'm going to say anything that you might interpret as a compliment.

"If we're going to work together," Dog said. "Then let me suggest—"

"You're going to work for me," said Storm.

"If we're going to work together, there are some problems we have to fix," said Dog. "First of all is communications. I can get more portable communications units so you can tie your Shark Boats into the network. Everyone can get the same information immediately, no bottlenecks. I'd like to bring some of my technical people in to figure out if we can give you the radar information and anything else. Maybe we can download target coordinates, or supply targeting data to the Harpoons once they're launched. The Werewolves — running them from a base a few hundred miles away is doable, but it's not the best solution. I can airlift a mobile control unit in and put a pilot on board so you can fly them from here. And we have to do better about friendly fire."

Storm scowled, but then nodded. "Agreed."

"The fact is, my Flighthawk pilot didn't understand about your defense system," added Dog tactfully. "He got the idea that because the Werewolf was close, he could get close. He thought it was an on-off thing. That's not going to happen again, but obviously we have to share procedures as well as information. Up and down the line."

"I agree with you, Bastian. We don't have to be friends."

Gee, thanks, you SOB, thought Dog.

Storm watched the Osprey circle away, taking Bastian back to his temporary base in Saudi Arabia. Bastian hadn't been the most polite officer — and looked a bit unkempt; he could have used a shave.

But he had at least said the right things. Whether he could deliver or not remained to be seen.

"How are we, Peanut?" Storm asked the exec, who was now on the bridge.

"Nothing yet, Cap. The Shark Boat is roughly forty miles dead ahead. We're sure the sub is still there?"

"Delaford knows what he's talking about. I trust him," said Storm.

Tying the Dreamland people into his ships made a great deal of sense. The Werewolf gunships could help extend the task force's power well over the horizon. He wasn't necessarily convinced about the blimps — that seemed to him just a play to unhook the Megafortresses from the mission — but they might work down the road. Throw Piranha into the mix — the automated submarine probe was supposed to join the fleet within a year anyway — and the DD(L) warship and the Combined Action Group, or CAG, concept would begin to reach their potential.

From the way Bastian was talking, Dreamland had plenty of other projects — and maybe development money — that might help them. The trick would be prying them out of the flyboy's sticky fingers.

It was unfortunate Bastian was such a jerk to deal with. Storm trusted Delaford to give him a straight story, at least, but clearly a Navy man wouldn't have much say under Bas-tian's command. If Bastian had trusted him at all, he would have brought him out to the ship with him.

He would have to find someone else at Dreamland to cultivate, someone overly ambitious who might be manipulated, or if not manipulated, at least influenced to cooperate for a higher cause: like his promotion.

Dog shouted a thank you to the Osprey crew as he hopped down and headed toward the Dreamland Command trailer. He was extremely hungry — Storm hadn't offered him lunch on the Abner Read, and he was damned if he was going to ask — but any thought of heading over to the cafeteria vanished when Danny Freah met him in front of the trailer.

"Our friends are back at the gate," said Danny.

"I saw a dozen or so from the Osprey," said Dog. "A lot less than yesterday."

"There are more on the way. In buses. Be here within an hour, according to the Saudis."

"How many people?"

"There are twelve buses that the police saw coming from Mecca alone. Another ten or twelve from Jiddah, the city on the Red Sea. We seem to be a popular attraction. The, uh, base commander wants to talk to you about this."

"I can imagine."

Hands on hips, Dog surveyed the hangar area. The Wisconsin sat on the left, her Flighthawk mounted beneath her wing. The damage to the tail had been repaired; for once the computer had overestimated the extent of the injuries, and the maintainers confirmed there were no serious structural problems. The MC-17/W, her rear ramp open, sat to the right. Several large items had to be loaded into her: the LADS blimp, the Werewolves, the Dreamland Command trailer, and last but not least, the Osprey. It was a tight fit and would require at least two hours — much of it to get the Osprey in shape to be carried. Diego Garcia was too far for the tilt-rotor aircraft to travel without refueling, even if she were carrying just her crew.

"If we didn't pack the Osprey, how long would it take to get out of here?" Dog asked.

"Hour," said Danny. "Give or take."

"Let me get with Washington and see if I can land the Osprey somewhere midway and have her refueled."

"Aren't you supposed to check with Storm?" said Danny. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

The knock on the door of the condo came ten minutes before Jed was expecting it — and more important, before the coffee started pouring through the filter of Mr. Coffee.

"Jed Barclay? Are you ready?" said a gruff voice outside the door.

"Um, almost," said Jed.

"Lot of traffic on the road, sir. If we're going to make the airport we want to get moving."

"Yeah, all right. Like, I'm coming." Jed shut off the coffeepot. He swung his hand through the loop of his carry-on, grabbed his knapsack laptop bag, and opened the door. The driver was a Marine corporal assigned to the NSC; he wore a civilian suit and looked better dressed than Jed, whose tie didn't quite go with his wrinkled gray jacket.

"Mr. Barclay?" said the corporal, glancing down at Jed's scuffed brown shoes.

"Yeah. Aren't you kind of early?"

"No, sir." The corporal studied his face for a moment. "Maybe we could grab some Joe on the way?"

"Definitely a good idea," said Jed. "There's an all-night 7-Eleven on the corner."

As they got into the car, one of Jed's phones began ringing. He had three with him — a secure NSC satellite phone, an encrypted cell phone, and a personal cell phone.

It took a few moments for his caffeine-deprived brain to figure out that the call was on the encrypted line.

"Jed," he said, popping it open somewhat hesitantly.

"Hello?"

"Jed, this is Colonel Bastian. Sorry to wake you."

"Um, well, you're not waking me, Colonel. As it happens." "I need a favor. A pretty big one." "Um, uh — personal favor?"

"It is a personal favor to me, but it's not of a personal nature. I need a place for one of my Ospreys to land where it can be refueled."

"Uh—"

"I know I'm not going through channels, but there isn't enough time," said Dog.

"Yeah, OK," Jed replied. "What exactly do you need?"

"Basically, I need someplace between Saudi Arabia and Diego Garcia to refuel the Osprey. India would be best."

"How soon?" Jed asked.

"Ten minutes ago would be great," said Dog.

"Ten minutes ago I can't do. But I can work something out, I think. Can I call you back?"

"I'd kind of like to get this solved right now," said Dog. "What I'd like you to do is talk to my people back home and set it up with them. But I want to know whether it's doable or not."

"Um, hang on," said Jed as they pulled up in front of the convenience store.

"How do you want your coffee?" asked the driver.

"Plenty of milk and two sugars. Better make it the biggest they got — three sugars."

The driver got out.

"I think it's probably doable," Jed told Dog. "I have to talk to State anyway."

"Probably's not good enough for me, Jed. I need to count on you."

"You can count on me, Colonel, soon as I get my coffee."

It was not the worst flight Mack Smith had ever been on — but it had certainly been close. He spent the entire fifteen hours, twelve minutes, and thirteen seconds strapped into the stiff Flighthawk control seat on the lower deck of Megafortress Charlie One. He'd been so bored that he even took a few tries at the training simulations for Piranha that Lieutenant Cly Dai was flying at his station next to him. But you could only play computer games for so long.

It wasn't bad enough that he was a passenger on an airplane, instead of a pilot; he was an immobile one, strapped to his stinking ejection seat and unable to move without considerable help. The newly minted EB-52 had a temporary bunk area on the upper deck, along with a galley, restroom, and a VCR. But he'd have had to crawl up the steps to get to it, and the humiliation simply wasn't worth it. Getting down out of the aircraft was its own adventure. All of the EB-52s were equipped with an attachment on the ladder that allowed a wheelchair to be mechanically lowered by a pair of small electric motors. Though it doubled as a way to ease the loading and unloading of heavy computer gear, it had been designed specifically for Zen, and it certainly beat being carried down to the tarmac. But it involved a great deal of faith; the angle was precarious, and Mack was sure he would topple out of his seat the whole way down.

"I've got your bags, Major," said Lieutenant Dai cheerfully as Mack wheeled away from the belly of the plane. He paused to let Dai load the bags onto his lap. The extra weight and awkwardness made it difficult to work the wheels, and when Dai started pushing him, Mack didn't object.

Sergeant Lee Liu, a member of the Whiplash action team, stood in front of a battered pickup truck nearby, waiting for them.

"Major, welcome to Paradise," said the sergeant. "Hop aboard."

"I'm not hopping anywhere," said Mack. "And I'm not getting in the back of that truck. I'll ride up front." "Just a figure of speech, Major," said the sergeant. Liu helped him into the cab and they drove to a small building overlooking the ocean. Two airmen met them there, members of a security team flown in to provide security until the rest of the Whiplash team arrived. In truth, Diego Garcia was probably as secure as any American base in the world, and the local Navy contingent could have done an adequate job guarding two or three full squadrons. Located on a small island atoll in the ocean below India, the only people here were either military or contract workers for the military. Completely isolated, the base was self-contained, an entire world unto itself. Depending on your perspective, it could be either Paradise, or hell — or maybe a little of both.

Mack tried to lower himself from the truck to the waiting wheelchair, but couldn't manage the maneuver; he finally gave in and asked for help. The airmen craned him upward and deposited him gently in the chair.

"Thanks, guys," he said. "I hope not to be in this sucker too long. Get my legs back any day now."

"Yes, sir," said one of the airmen.

The cement-block building wasn't much to look at, but Mack realized that it had two major assets: There was no step or curb to the front door, and the rooms were all on one level.

"This isn't the most comfortable facility," said Liu, coming in behind him. "But it's isolated from the rest of the base. There is a three-story structure on the other side of the tank farm. It's a little newer, but wouldn't be as easy to secure."

"I think this one's fine," said Mack, ignoring the musty odor as they continued down the hallway. There were small, simple offices and a large common room. As Mack surveyed the rooms, Liu told him that the Dreamland Command Trailer was due to arrive in a few hours; they would set it up outside. A secure communications system for the offices would be wired in, along with other gear as needed. Dog wasn't due to come in until nighttime at the earliest; he was meeting with Captain Gale aboard the Abner Read, the flagship of Xray Pop.

"We're three hours ahead of the base in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf of Aden, where the aircraft are patrolling," added Liu, "so if it's 1530 or three-thirty in the afternoon here, it's twelve-thirty there; 1600 is 1300, and like that. And just to really confuse you, when it's 1500 here and 1200 in the Gulf of Aden, it's 0100 in Dreamland. Got it?"

"Basically, it's party time somewhere in the world," said Mack. "As long as you can stay awake to enjoy it."

They had just announced that the plane for New York was boarding when Jed's encrypted cell phone rang back with the message that a refueling stop had been cleared for the Osprey at Dabolin in the province of Goa, India. He pulled out the sat phone and hot-keyed the number for the Dreamland Command Center.

"Yes?" answered an unfamiliar voice.

"Um, who is this?" said Jed. He'd been expecting Major Catsman, whom he'd spoken to a few minutes before.

"Who is this?"

Jed, thinking that he had somehow gotten a wrong number and dialed a residence, hit the end transmission button.

It should have been impossible to get a residence, he thought. Jed looked at the buttons, and hit the combination again.

"Yes?" sneered the same voice. "This is Jed Barclay." "Yes, of course it is."

"This is Dr. Ray, right?" said Jed, finally attaching the sneer to a face.

There was a pause, then Ray Rubeo cleared his throat very loudly. "This is Dr. Raymond Rubeo. What do you want, Mr. Barclay?"

"I was just kind of thrown off there. Usually an operator answers or maybe an officer."

"We are shorthanded and I am pitching in at the Command Center," said Rubeo, who sounded about as happy to be doing that as Jed was to be going to New York at five-thirty in the morning.

"Listen, pass the word that I got the approval. There's an Indian Navy aviation base at Dabolin in India. It's in Goa. So you can tell them they can take off."

"They took off fifteen minutes ago."

"They did?"

"Colonel Bastian apparently believes you when you say you'll take care of something," said Rubeo. He cut the line on his end.

"Right there, Cap. It's three miles off the coast."

Eyes pointed to the holographic display in the Tactical Warfare Center. Storm saw from the scale that they were fifteen miles from the submarine — a half hour's sail at most. The Libyan submarine sat almost at a complete standstill. The patrol boat that had been escorting the sub lay another mile or so farther east in very shallow water close to the shore.

Four torpedoes, fired from the vertical launch tubes, and the submarine and patrol boat would be history. No one would ever know.

That wasn't quite true. Bastian would know. The pirates would know. And eventually Johnson would find out and use it to scuttle his career.

He thought of his pledge to the sailor after his death that they would have justice.

Have it absolutely.

He stared at the image in the hologram, which had been synthesized by the computer from the sounds the array picked up — and the assumptions about those sounds that had been programmed into the system. The symbol of the sub flickered to the right, nudging northward.

Was he moving out from the protected waters?

God, let him come out to me. Let him come after someone. Just get close to international waters.

He could always say they had opened their torpedo tubes, clearly indicating that they were going to fire. That would justify attacking.

No one would buy that, not completely. But it would give the people who liked him enough cover to protect him.

Balboa would probably believe it. But Balboa was known to have little if any leverage with the President. And Johnson would work relentlessly against him.

Storm looked back at the display. The submarine wasn't moving northward at all. His eyes had seen what he wanted them to see — what his need for revenge dictated.

"We have a communication from the fleet about the approaching British carrier and her escorts, the Ark Royal" said Eyes. "They ran into some sort of delay at the Suez Canal. One of their ships is coming ahead and will be out into the gulf by early tomorrow morning."

"Very good," said Storm.

The Ark Royal was en route to Asia to help Americans in the Philippines. It was more a gesture of allied solidarity — a useless one, in Storm's opinion, though he was thankful that he hadn't been told to work with the Brits.

He stared at the hologram. No, the submarine wasn't moving at all. It would, though. It had to.

"Watch the submarine carefully," he said. "If it starts moving toward the shipping lanes — if it starts moving at all — let me know."

"Almost there, Captain," Spiderman told Breanna.

Relieved by Charlie One in the Gulf of Aden shortly before 1400, they had flown for just about six hours to get to the airstrip at Diego Garcia. Except for a few short breaks, Breanna had flown the whole mission herself. She'd die rather than admitting it, but she was starting to feel the strain of not having had a full night's sleep.

"I hear Diego Garcia is a pretty cool place," continued the copilot. "Lots of partying. 'Gilligan's Island with guns' some of the guys call it."

"Don't believe everything you hear," said Breanna.

"It's not fun?"

"It's all right. To visit. You've never been there?" "No, ma'am."

"Interesting place," said Breanna. "Lots of sun and sand." "As long as there's a cot down there with my name on it, I'll be happy," said Spiderman. "Amen to that."

Zen rolled onto the concrete in front of the hangar area, squinting from the glare of the nearby floodlights. There was a two and a half hour time difference between the Gulf of Aden and Diego Garcia, and it was now getting on towards eleven p.m. local time. But there were dozens of things to do before he could get to bed. He rolled over to the team that had swarmed around the Flighthawk to check on the aircraft's status, and was surprised when Chief Master Sergeant Clyde "Greasy Hands" Parsons stepped away from the gaggle of maintainers and techies.

"Chief, what are you doing here?" said Zen.

"I wanted to personally kick the butt of the jerk who shot down my aircraft," said Parsons. "Then I'm going to work on my tan."

"Go easy on Starship, Chief."

"I'm not talking about the lieutenant. He didn't shoot it down. It's the Navy I'm mad at." Parsons looked out toward the runway, where a C-5A was just landing, undoubtedly with more of their gear. "Besides, he's only a lieutenant. Once you make chief, you let your underlings chew out louies. They're too easy."

Zen grinned.

"Although I may give you a good kick just to stay in practice, Major. You've been running this aircraft awful hard," Greasy Hands added. "Due for an overhaul. Oughta be grounded until we get a new engine in."

"Can't afford the downtime," said Zen.

"Take ten minutes, if I'm watchin' them." Parsons smiled, a sure sign that he was going to make a joke. "What do you think about a Chevy small block V-8? Bore that sucker out and watch her rip."

"You going to tell me about your Chevelle SS again?"

"That was a hell of a car, Zen. I'll tell you, a hell of a car. They do not make cars like that anymore."

"Thank God."

"Well, that aircraft really ought to set a spell until we get it overhauled. I'm not talking about a rinse and wax either."

"Colonel's not going to like that," said Zen. "And the Navy captain we're answering to isn't going to like it either."

"Back in the day, the Air Force didn't take orders from the Navy," said Greasy Hands. "The Navy gave us grief, we flew low and slow over one of their aircraft carriers. Admiral got the message real quick."

"They had aircraft carriers when you were young, Chief?"

"They were just coming in when I made sergeant."

"Storm's not an admiral. And he's just as stubborn as the colonel."

"That I'd like to see."

"Hey, Jeff, how's it going?"

Zen turned around and saw Mack Smith wheeling toward him.

"What do you think of Paradise?" Mack asked.

"I think it's damn hot for November," said Zen.

"I have some idea on integrating the Flighthawks with CAG Xray Pop. We could make coordinated attacks with the microbombs, get them right onto the pilot bridge of the patrol boats. At the same time, the Shark Boats and Abner Read could launch torpedoes at them. So while they're blinded, they're also sitting ducks."

"Why don't we just nuke them and be done with it?" said Zen.

"I'm serious. You know, the chief was telling me that the replacement Flighthawk engine delivers more thrust, and I was playing with the numbers — I think we can get a lightweight torpedo on, as long as we were launching for a really short flight."

"I'm going to go get something to eat," said Zen. "See you later, Chief."

"Don't you think that's a good idea?" said Mack.

"I think it's so good you ought to join the Navy, gimp boy," said Zen.

"Hey, give me a break, huh?"

"Which leg?" "Ha, ha."

"Where do we eat in Paradise, anyway?" said Zen. He saw one of the Whiplash troopers standing near a truck a short distance away and began rolling toward him. Breanna and the rest of the plane crew were walking in that direction as well.

"You don't think those are good ideas?" asked Mack. He was trying to follow but couldn't keep up with Zen.

"I told you, they're great, gimp boy. Now leave me alone."

"Hey, lay off the gimp stuff, huh?"

Zen looked back. "Maybe you ought to get a motorized chair. If you're planning on staying in that much longer." "Screw yourself, Zen." "You're as witty as ever, Mack."

"And you're nastier than ever," said Breanna, catching up. Zen pushed his wheels toward the truck. All he wanted to do right now was get some food and go to sleep. For about three weeks.

Jed looked at the graphics files again, making sure they were ordered properly. The Secretary of State wanted to go through the presentation at least once before meeting with the British and French ambassadors privately at two p.m. and the Saudi ambassador at four; the National Security Council's special session was due to start at six p.m. There'd be no chance to go through the presentation with him if he didn't get back soon.

Jed had arranged a dozen pictures and graphics in a PowerPoint program for the Security Council; they began with a map of the Gulf of Aden showing where the pirates had struck, documenting clearly that they were using coastal waters to hide. The last photo was a video capture from a Flighthawk; it showed the Oman gunship firing one of its missiles. The picture was shot from a distance and was grainy though provocative. Just as important, it didn't give anything about the Flighthawk away. Neither the robot plane nor the Megafortress would be mentioned in the presentation. From a security point of view, the only possibly dicey photo was a month-old satellite picture of a patrol boat tied up amid some civilian boats at a dock on the Somalian coast. The image had been taken by a KH-12 Improved Crystal satellite; Jed had reproduced it at a low resolution, but the image was still detailed enough to allow the identification of a goat in one of the yards. Three different people had already signed off on it, but Jed was still debating whether to blur it further.

"Here we are, Jed," said Secretary of State Hartman, entering the room he'd been given to work in. "You know Ambassador Ford."

"Yes, sir."

Stephen Ford was the U.S. ambassador to the UN. Jed had met him perhaps twice, but protocol insisted that they both act like longtime friends, or at least acquaintances, and they did so.

"Let's run through the slides, shall we? Then Stephen and I have to meet with the mayor of New York, Rudy Giuliani. Pretty colorful character."

"Insufferable Yankee fan," said Ford, who was from Boston. "Thank God they lost this year."

"Well, um, we begin with the area map and fade into a slide showing the pirates' strikes over time," said Jed. He maneuvered the laptop so the others could see, hitting the buttons at regular intervals.

"I have more statistics — tonnage lost, number of ships. The numbers are conservative," said Jed as he continued showing them the slides. "I kicked out anything that might have been questionable."

"Why?" asked Ford.

The question took Jed by surprise. "I just thought, uh, that, you know, the Secretary wouldn't want to be questioned on something."

"He'll always be questioned," said Ford. "You have to make the best case, Jed. Always lead with your best argument."

Jed nodded — though there was no chance in hell he was going back for other numbers or changing the presentation if he didn't have to. These were pretty damning in themselves, with an average of nearly a ship a week stopped or attacked.

"This is a missile boat?" asked Ford, looking at the last image.

"Actually, a patrol boat that was being outfitted to be a missile ship. Or upgraded — refitted, I guess would be the right word."

"Dreamland's involved in this?" Ford looked at the Secretary of State. "That might be worth mentioning, because it would persuade China."

"China has already agreed to remain neutral," said Hartman.

"A yes vote is better."

"There are, um, security issues," said Jed.

"Well, there can't be too many issues," said Ford cheerfully. "There's a book coming out about the China incident called Strike Zone. I may write the preface."

"Um, Dreamland still officially doesn't exist," said Jed. "It's not going to be in the book, is it?"

"Doesn't exist?" Ford laughed.

"I think we can get by without mentioning them," said the Secretary of State. "And that book should be vetted before you do a preface."

"Maybe I won't," said Ford. "But I can probably get an advanced copy, right?" He turned to Jed. "Do you have any better pictures?"

"I dulled that satellite picture down because I was worried that it gave too much detail about—"

"No, I mean, more graphic. The presentation has to grab you," said Ford. "Real pictures. People dying. We need a storyline."

Jed glanced at the Secretary of State. "I don't have any pictures of people dying."

"We have to sell this," said Ford. "That's what your slide show has to do."

"This is all I have."

"Put together a strong set, Jed. Work with what you have," said the Secretary. "I'll leave it to you."

"Tell a good story," said Ford, slapping Jed on the back as

they left.

The uncomfortable military-style "cot" in Wisconsin's upper Flighthawk deck left Dog's neck twisted all out of whack when he awoke shortly after landing. He tried stretching it but it remained knotted until Jennifer found him in the office Mack had set aside for him in their new headquarters building. She began kneading his muscles, and he leaned back, feeling some of the knots untangle.

"Ahh," he said as the tension began to slip away.

"I can come back," said Mack Smith at the door.

"That's OK, Major. Come on in. I twisted my neck," said Dog.

"Sure," said Mack, rolling forward. "So, I have a list of ideas for you, Colonel. Thought you'd like to hear them."

"Thanks, Mack, but hold that thought for about thirty-six hours. Your first order of business is to get with Xray Pop and communicate our new patrol schedule. Also find an update on getting the Werewolves out to them. We have two problems — our pilot is sick with the flu, and they don't have enough range on their own. Second one's easier to deal with. There's a base in India we can use to stage them out of — we can take them there via the M/C-17 and run the Osprey over to refuel them en route, since it's already set up to be used as a tanker. Chief Parsons can get the Werewolves adapted— they need their nozzle sets reworked. He said it wouldn't take too long to work out."

"I can fly them," said Jennifer.

"Thanks for volunteering, but you're going to be plenty busy over there as it is. I'm going to get Fred Rosenzwieg in from Dreamland."

"That'll take a day at least," said Jennifer.

"Quicker than waiting for Culver to get better."

The Werewolves' lead pilot, Sandy Culver, had been evacked to Germany from Saudi Arabia because he'd lost so much fluids from the flu. It seemed to have been food poisoning — hopefully from something he'd eaten at home, not at Dreamland.

"Maybe I can fly them," said Mack. "They don't look that hard to learn."

Dog reached back to stop Jennifer, who'd continued her massage as they were talking. "This isn't a great time, Mack. I'm kind of tired. You must be too."

"Nope. Want to hear some of my ideas?"

"Tomorrow's much better. How are your legs?"

"Getting there. I'll be walking any day."

"Great. See you tomorrow."

"One thing we ought to do is come up with real names for the aircraft, the Megafortresses especially," said Mack. "Tell you what — why don't you handle that?" "Fine. I'll get right on it." "In the morning, Mack. People are tired." "Yes, sir."

Dog watched him wheel out.

"I'll fly the Werewolves until the replacement pilot arrives," said Jennifer. "I have to be on the ship anyway. And I'd be testing the system."

"You'll be too busy."

"They're not likely to use them in the next twenty-four hours, are they?"

Dog shrugged. It was the obvious solution, yet still he resisted it. Not because she was a civilian, he thought, and still less because she was a woman.

Then why?

Because he didn't want her to get hurt.

"All right, if you can stand Storm, you can handle the Werewolves until Rosenzwieg gets here," he told her. "Knowing Storm, he'll probably insist that you show him how to fly them so he can do it himself. Any chance of taking Mack with you?"

Jennifer rolled her eyes.

Dog took out the sheet he had used to write his air tasking order, which laid out the upcoming missions. Their four Megafortresses would be used on a straight rotation, one after the other, with only one over Xray Pop at a time. Because of the distances involved, each flight would spend roughly six hours going out to the gulf, six hours on patrol, and six hours returning. The arrangement called for three aircraft to be in the air at any given moment — one on patrol, one coming home, and one going to relieve the other. That gave the maintainers twelve hours to turn each one around; it sounded like a decent interval, but in practice it could end up very tight. Fortunately, they had more leeway with the Flighthawks, since they had six and were only planning on flying one per mission. But there were only four Flighthawk pilots, and only two — Zen and Starship — had combat experience. Dog had tried to arrange the missions so Zen and Starship would be flying on the night patrols, which was when the pirates were most active. Complicating this immensely was the fact that there were only three Piranha operators, counting Delaford and English. If anyone got hurt or sick, they were in trouble. Zen and Starship were the only backups at the moment.

He needed more planes, more crews, more support, but he'd settle for a closer base of operations. Northern or central Africa would be perfect; northern India would do in a pinch.

"Penny for your thoughts," said Jennifer. "They're worth a quarter at least," said Dog. "But they're not about you."

"They ought to be."

"What time is it in New York?" Dog asked, looking at his watch, which was still set to gulf time: 2216.

"About two-fifteen in the afternoon," said Jennifer.

"Let me see if I can get a hold of Jed. Have you had a chance to look at those Navy systems?"

Jennifer leaned toward him and frowned. "Didn't you just tell Mack it was getting late?"

"That was to get rid of Mack," Dog said. "I have a lot of work to do."

Jennifer started to pout. Dog leaned up and gave her a kiss. "I do have to work." "I know."

"I love you."

"Yeah."

"Hey." He pressed her arm gently. "I do."

"I know." She smiled. "Don't stay up all night."

Jed stared at the picture of the Oman missile boat, replaying the conversation he'd had with Ford and the Secretary of State.

Tell a good story.

Put together a strong set of images.

Was he being told to lie? Or just do a good job?

He didn't have any pictures of people dying, as Ford had suggested. He did have a picture of the ship as it fired the missile — that looked pretty graphic. But beyond that?

A picture of the nearby oiler or tanker blowing up would be something.

Except that it hadn't blown up.

Jed brought up one of the photo editing programs on the computer and merged the shot with a blowup of the missile launch. At first it didn't look like much, but as he cropped it and played with the settings in the photo manipulation program, he got it to look pretty gruesome. He dappled and faded, played around some more — the ship appeared to be on fire in a shadowy image.

Was that what Ford wanted?

You couldn't fault the ambassador for wanting to make a strong message, thought Jed, and here it was, all in an easily disseminated jpg file: We have to stop these pirates. They're blowing up the world's oil supply.

And they were too. The message wasn't a lie. They were blowing up whatever they could, killing as many people as they could in the process.

Unfortunately, Jed Barclay didn't happen to have a picture of it.

Except for a phony one. Kind of artistic, though. And definitely dramatic.

His sat phone began to ring. He picked it up and turned it on.

"Mr. Barclay, stand by for Colonel Bastian."

Before he could say anything, Colonel Bastian's voice boomed onto the line.

"Thanks for helping us out on that situation today. What are the odds on us using that facility again?"

"Yeah, OK," said Jed. "The Navy, um, mentioned that you're supposed to work through them."

"Did I get you in trouble?"

"Not yet."

"We could use a base a lot closer to the gulf. Somewhere in Africa."

"I've tried, Colonel. No go."

"What about India?"

"Boss is opposed to that for a bunch of reasons," Jed

told Dog.

There was a knock on the door. "Your lunch is here, sir," said a voice in the hall. "OK, cool," said Jed. "Just leave it. Uh, Colonel, I gotta run."

"All right. If you can arrange for us to use that base again as a backup, though, I'd appreciate it." "I'll work on it."

He ended the call, then pulled over the laptop. He slid his finger on the touchpad and moved the pointer to the X at the top of the corner of the program window.

DO YOU WANT TO SAVE? asked the computer.

He hesitated, then pressed YES.

Mack was too keyed-up and too time-lagged to sleep. He read some of the CD-ROM manuals on the Piranha and basic naval warfare tactics. By four a.m. he'd read his fill and was still restless. He pulled on a sweater and roamed out of the building. His wheels splashed through a deep puddle near the road.

"Hold on there," said an authoritative voice behind him. Mack turned around and recognized Boston, one of the Whiplash team members.

"Sergeant Rockland. Good morning." "Morning, Major. Out for a stroll?" "A roll more like it."

"Yeah." Ben Rockland — Boston to those who knew him — pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He had an M4 rifle with him, a shortened version of the M16 preferred by airborne and some special operations troops. "Want a

butt?"

"No. I didn't know you smoked."

"Out in the wilderness, there's nothing else to do." Boston lit up and took a drag. "How you doing with that thing?" "Chair? Pain in the ass. Literally."

"Yeah." Boston took a pensive smoke. "My brother is a paraplegic."

"No shit. Sorry." "Yeah. Sucks big-time." "It does."

"You're gonna be OK, though, right?"

He was. That's what everybody said. But he sure as hell didn't feel like he was going to be OK.

"Bet your ass," said Mack. That was what people wanted to hear.

"Good." Boston took a long puff on his cigarette. "Well, don't get run over by a bike. That's the main means of travel around here."

"I don't think there are too many people going to knock me over at this hour." "Probably not."

"What happened to him?" asked Mack. "My brother? Car accident." "No hope?"

"Nah. People, you know, they tell him to cheer up and shit, but, I mean some days he gives it a good show. He really does. But he ain't the same person. He played basketball in high school. Not like he was a star or nothing, but I mean, to go from that to this. Sucks."

"Yeah."

"You're going to get better, though." Am I, thought Mack. When?

"Hey, you need like a ride somewhere? We have two vehicles. We brought in a pair of gators, you know, the little ATV things."

"I don't really know where I'd go this time of night."

"Gym's open. Fitness center. It's over by the billeting office. Open 24/7. Come on. I'll just tell Nurse I'm taking you over."

"Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate that." "You can call me Boston. Everybody does." "Thanks, Boston."

The corridor seemed to close in around Jed as he walked with the Secretary of State and the rest of the American entourage toward the chamber where the Security Council meeting was to be held. They were running late; the meeting should have started a half hour ago. But the delay was well worth it. The Secretary had spent the time convincing Russia to vote in favor of the proposal. Britain was strongly in favor. China had already agreed to abstain. That left only France among the permanent members that could veto the measure. The French had been presented a draft of the proposal, but the Secretary had not been able to schedule a meeting with them. According to Ford, that wasn't a bad sign. He predicted that Egypt, one of the rotating Security Council members and a key regional ally, would agree because of pressure from Oman as well as the U.S.

They reached the doorway. There were people ahead, murmuring. The Secretary paused, then swept right. Jed followed, and was suddenly inside the National Security Council hall. Along with the ambassador and Secretary of State, he moved to the U.S. spot at the table. Jed sat in one of the modernistic blue seats directly behind Ambassador Ford.

He'd seen the room on a tour as a kid and vaguely remembered it now — more for Rosie Crowe's hair than the awe he should have felt. He hadn't felt any awe at all then.

Now he did.

Security Council President Fernando Berrocal Soto of Costa Rica gaveled the session to order. The murmurs crescendoed and then there was silence.

Secretary of State Hartman leaned forward and began his speech.

"The international community cannot withstand the continued depredations of lawlessness in the Gulf of Aden, which escalate every day," he read. The words had looked good on paper — they had sounded great when the Secretary tried them out on Jed and some of the staff — but they came off flat here, a little off-key and hurried.

Jed thought of what a nightmare it would be if he had to speak — how terrible his stutter would be.

The ambassador cited some statistics and then spoke of the "horrible outrage" involved in the stealing of the Oman missile ship.

Jed saw the Kenyan representative frowning.

How could he frown? It was an outrage.

"Would someone dim the lights?" said the Secretary of State, moving to the final stage of the presentation, showing the evidence Jed had compiled.

There was a scramble at the side of the room as the lights were dimmed. They had given a CD-ROM with the presentation to one of the aides, who'd set up a projector and a screen. As the slide show began, Jed heard the ambassador reading the script he'd written, and cringed. He should have done a much better job, he thought, been more eloquent.

He glanced around and saw more frowns; mostly frowns. Ford was right: He should have gotten more narrative in. He should have used that slide of the ship exploding. No one would have frowned at that.

The lights came back on. The floor moved to the representative from Oman, who deplored the "action of brazen, misguided thieves and radicals." He called on the international community for action. Ford turned around and gave Jed a thumbs-up.

Then one by one the other permanent and rotating members of the Security Council took the floor. The Kenyan representative charged that the Americans had "wantonly attacked a peaceful air patrol from the law-abiding country of Ethiopia" and "murdered countless airmen aboard the planes."

Secretary of State Hartman quickly countered that the aircraft had failed to answer hails and acted in support of the pirates. Even the Ethiopian government had denounced their interference with an American flight, he pointed out, claiming that the unit involved had mutinied.

Of course, Jed and the Secretary of State knew that the Ethiopian government actually authorized the mission, but the U.S. had indicated through back channels that it would go along with the lie, so long as no more Ethiopian forces materialized in the area.

Hartman made some points, but Jed saw that Ford had been far too optimistic. Kenya and France were clearly opposed to the measure. Egypt was on the fence. The objections being raised seemed ludicrous to Jed; the rule of law had to be preserved, international sovereignty had to be preserved, America was injecting itself where it didn't belong.

How about the fact that a hundred people had died since the attacks began? And a few hundred thousand dollars extorted? Money that was being used to kill innocent people, not only in Africa, but in faraway places like Brunei.

Do nothing? And let the attacks continue? Let more innocent people die?

Peace was attractive — but it wasn't the alternative here.

When the French ambassador said he had questions about the attack on the American ship, Ambassador Ford raised his hand and then whispered something to the Secretary of

State.

"We can answer those questions," said Ford when the president of the Security Council acknowledged him. "We invite an open and frank discussion, Mr. President. We will answer any questions about that incident."

"Where was this attack exactly?" said the French ambassador.

The Secretary of State turned to Jed. "Like, uh, about twenty miles west of Laasgoray and just outside territorial waters," whispered Jed. "Tell them."

"Me?"

"Go ahead."

Jed's throat constricted and he felt his fingers turn ice cold. He leaned forward to the microphone; Ford moved aside.

"The attack took place at approximately forty-seven degrees longitude and just short of thirteen miles from the coast in the Gulf of Aden. I have the GPS point."

"Very smooth," replied the Frenchman, smirking. He asked another question, this one about the U.S. forces, which Secretary Hartman took himself.

Ford tugged on Jed's sleeve and Jed moved back.

"Douceur," the Frenchman had said. The translator hadrendered it as "smooth," but Jed, who'd taken four years of French in high school and another two in college, realized that wasn't a precise translation.

Douceur. What did that mean? Sweetness.

A sweet-tongued lie, seemed to be the sense of the remark.

He listened as the session continued. The Russian representative took the floor and began peppering the Secretary of State with questions about pirate attacks that had been made over the previous months.

This is all BS, thought Jed. The Russian knows the answers to those questions because the Secretary of State gave him a background paper with all the information when they met.

The Secretary did not seem to mind, answering the questions patiently. The tone changed with the next speaker, the representative from the United Kingdom, who gave an impromptu speech on international law on piracy and the precedents for following the pirates into territorial waters when sovereignty was being abused by non-nationals.

As the tone of the remarks from the other countries gradually became more diplomatic — and harder to decipher — Jed's attention wandered. He saw Ford get up and go over to the French delegate; he came back smiling. A few minutes later a motion was made for a brief recess for dinner.

"Good work, Jed," said Ford. "Come on now, we're on to part two."

"Part two?" Jed turned to the Secretary of State. "Press conference," said the Secretary. "Replay for the Sunday papers and talk shows. Important part of the campaign." "Oh," he mumbled.

"We'll get you some dinner when we're done. Don't worry," said Ford.

Reporters had packed into the auditorium; TV lights were popping in the back as correspondents did brief pieces that could be used to introduce the small snippet or two they would take from the session. A large desk-like wooden table sat on the stage at the front. Jed hung back, but Ford prodded him to come sit at the table, where three chairs were set up.

"Time to face the music," the ambassador joked in a stage whisper.

Jed forced a smile. His fingers were freezing again.

The Secretary repeated the highlights of his speech— much more forcefully this time, Jed thought — then opened the floor to questions. The reporters were more skeptical than the French ambassador had been, one or two even suggesting that the pirates were "liberators" rather than thieves.

Maniacs maybe, thought Jed.

"Jed, maybe you can talk about that Oman ship," said the Secretary when the reporters pressed for details.

"Uh, sure. It was basically a patrol boat that was being refitted; you know, like updated. That included putting in missiles. That's where the Exocets came in. They're ship-to-ship missiles. These were early model missiles, which limited their effectiveness and—"

"I don't think we need the technical detail," said Ford, good-naturedly. "Don't want to get into classified areas."

The specs were readily available in open source materials — not to mention company brochures — but Jed was only too glad to have a reason to stop talking.

"There's a rumor that Dreamland was involved," said one of the reporters, an older man with an Indian accent.

Jed opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

"Cat got your tongue?" said the man.

"N-No," he said. Feeling his tongue start to stutter, he stopped speaking. A weight pressed on his chest. He wanted to slide through the floor.

"We'd have no comment on that," said the Secretary of

State.

"What sort of Navy force was there?" asked a young Asian woman. "The American force? What is it?"

Ford and Hartman looked at him to answer. "It's a small-ship surface warfare force," said Jed, forcing the words from his mouth.

"Which means what?" asked the reporter. "Littoral warships."

He turned and looked to the Secretary of State, hoping to be rescued, but the Secretary simply smiled at him.

"A littoral warship is what?" asked the woman.

The Abner Read had been acknowledged by the Navy several months before, and described as a "frigate-sized vessel optimized for the littoral warfare role." Jed wasn't worried about security — he just didn't want to stutter.

"That would be like — like a destroyer," he managed. "It's closer in size to a frigate. You could think of it as a small destroyer for, uh, coastal waters."

"Like a Coast Guard cutter?"

Jed frowned. "Well, not exactly."

"Is it from Dreamland?" asked another woman.

"It's a Navy asset. I–I don't really know that much about it, to be honest."

The questions turned back to the resolution, and Jed faded into the background again.

"We have to get back," said Ambassador Ford finally. He rose, signaling the end of the press conference.

"Will there be copies of your presentation?" asked one of the press people, this one an American.

"Yes, of course," said Secretary Hartman. "The ambassador's staff will take care of that."

Jed followed them out into the hallway.

"Good job, Jed," said the Secretary. "You ducked the Dreamland question masterfully. A very plausible denial that no doubt will help feed the rumors. Good work."

"Um, did we want to feed the rumors?"

"The Dreamland people are incredibly popular behind the scenes for risking their lives to stop the war in China," said Ford. "Do we have those slides?"

"I didn't make copies or anything. I can copy the file onto a disk."

"Let's do that — copy them off, I'll have Paul in my office make some copies for them. Here — we'll go upstairs, you download it or whatever you have to do, and then you go to dinner. I'll bet you're hungry."

"Yes, sir. Is it OK to release it to the press?" Jed asked Secretary Hartman.

"Just copy the presentation and give it to Jake," said Hart-man. "I'll go through it and release it myself."

"You did good, kid," said Ford, slapping him on the back. "You're a real pro."

There was no surer sign that Allah was with them than this: They had managed to get across the Gulf of Aden and westward to Shaqra on the northern, Yemen side of the gulf without being stopped by the Americans.

To cross more than two hundred miles of open water without being detected by Satan's Tail required more than skill or luck. Ducking between the traffic on the water, hiding near the coast, racing past places the Americans liked to check: all of this required a certain amount of experience and ability. But surely God's hand had led them across the water to safety. Surely God himself, the one true and only God, intended him for greater things.

And so, Ali told himself, he must avoid the easy temptation. A small British warship was moving through the gulf not twenty miles away, according to his spies. An air defense destroyer, it had been sent ahead of the screening force assigned to the British aircraft carrier Ark Royal. From the description, Ali had identified it as a Type 42 destroyer. He knew the type very well. It was designed primarily for anti-aircraft defense, and its crew trained constantly to fight off aerial attacks. They were not nearly as good at dealing with thrusts from the surface, as the Italians he served with showed. Even a ship as large as a corvette could get close enough to launch torpedoes without being detected: 6.5 kilometers, or roughly four miles. Ali's boats had the same 12.5-inch torpedoes used in the Italian navy. He would not miss if he attacked.

But if he attacked, he would miss the aircraft carrier, traveling a day and a half behind.

To send the destroyer on ahead seemed to Ali typical of western egos. They were focused on the obvious danger— the Red Sea and the narrow passage at Bab al Mandab. The destroyer was both an advance scout and a distant warning system — if aircraft came north from Ethiopia, it would see them long before the carrier.

Of course, sending the ship alone was also a matter of sheer hubris. The British were so full of themselves, so proud of their Ark Royal, that they couldn't conceive of a danger to the smaller ship. Who would want to strike a puny destroyer when the pride of their fleet was nearby?

He exaggerated. The British probably did not believe anyone would attack the carrier either. It was more likely that the destroyer captain was an arrogant know-it-all who had decided to race his superiors to the gulf. They were all egotists, untempered, unhumbled by the knowledge of God's superiority.

Allah would provide a plan to humble them. Hints of it were poking at the corners of his brain, but it had not revealed itself to him yet.

"We will rest here," Ali told the crew. "We will take shifts. As soon as dusk comes, we will cross back and rendezvous with our brothers. Then we will embark on our most glorious campaign."

The men nodded solemnly.

"I am going below," he added. "Wake me if there is anything important."

The Navy ran Diego Garcia. While to the Air Force it was an emergency way-station for bombers operating in Asia and occasionally the Middle East, to the Navy it was an important telecommunications and support site for units operating in the southern Pacific. The Navy also hosted Defense Information System "assets" there, top secret systems — mostly sophisticated antennas — that obtained data from a number of sources, including satellites and listening posts.

Though small, the base's amenities included a four-lane bowling alley, a ragged and coral-strewn golf course, and what was supposedly one of the best chief petty officers' clubs in the world. The Dreamland team was given access to the facilities, including the swimming pool, which opened at 0830 on Sundays. Zen managed to wangle his way in a few minutes early. The cement stairs were so steep, he got out of his chair and climbed up the grass hill while Breanna took the wheelchair up. It wasn't pretty, but it got the job done.

He swam his morning laps while Breanna sipped a coffee at poolside. They were just getting ready to leave when Mack arrived, pulled up the long flight of steps by a member of the security team who'd been traveling with him.

"You got a pool boy now?" laughed Zen as Mack was wheeled toward the water.

"Lay off," said Mack.

"Why?"

"Come on, Zen. Time to go," said Breanna.

Zen pulled himself from the pool, dragging himself across the cement to the wheelchair. "Let's see you do some laps, gimp boy."

"Zen, go easy," said Breanna.

"I'm just encouraging him."

"No, you're not."

"He's a wimp gimp."

"Screw yourself, Stockard. Asshole," muttered Mack.

"What?" Zen pulled himself up into the chair. Mack looked like he was going to start bawling any minute. "What'd you say, Smith?"

"Screw yourself."

"You're lucky I don't come over there and give you a real workout."

"That's enough, Stockard," said Breanna, grabbing the back of his wheelchair.

"Why shouldn't I harass him? Why shouldn't I kill him?" said Zen as they wheeled back toward their quarters.

"I can't believe you're saying that."

"Doctor's orders."

"I doubt he wanted you to harass him." "Harass, encourage — he said help motivate. That's what I'm doing."

"You're being damn cruel."

"Like I don't have a right to be cruel?"

"No, you don't."

"Fuck yourself, Bree."

She grabbed his chair. "Hey. Don't you ever say that to me again."

For the first time in their relationship — for the only time in their relationship — Zen felt an almost overwhelming urge to punch her, to physically hurt his wife. The emotion was so strong that he grabbed the rails of his chair, squeezing them; his body shook and for a moment, for a long moment, he wasn't sure that he wouldn't hit her.

He closed his eyes, knowing that he was out of control— knowing that this wasn't him, that he loved his wife, that he would do anything in the world not to hurt her, that he would rather hurt himself than strike her.

And yet the anger was real too; he couldn't deny it. He couldn't deny the rage and wrath, the way his body shook even now. He leaned forward in the chair, breathing slowly through his teeth, gazing at his useless legs.

He was mad at Mack Smith, not her. Not Breanna.

Why was it Mack who would recover? Why the hell not

him?

Why the hell not him?

When Zen raised his head, Breanna was staring at him. "What?" he demanded.

She pressed her lips together, then turned quickly and walked alone down the path.

Just as well, he thought. Just as well.

Whether she knew anything about computers or not, the Dreamland scientist had the full attention of everyone aboard the Abner Read, even Captain Gale.

Especially the captain. Storm watched the scientist spreading out her laptops and wires at the side of the Tactical Warfare Center while volunteers hauled down equipment from the Osprey.

"See, it was designed to interface into your general warfare bus," said Jennifer, bending over to retrieve a screwdriver from the canvas tool bag. "It's not going to work right out of the gate, because your system is not quite to spec, unfortunately. Looks like they put in some workarounds because of bugs they couldn't decode. But I can hack something together."

Hack it together. Yes.

"And we can control the Werewolf units from here?" asked Lieutenant Mathews.

Drool was practically coming out of his mouth.

"From this station, once it's set up," said Jennifer. "I'll have them in the air in a few hours."

"Where's the pilot?" asked Storm.

"The lead pilot has the stomach flu. I'm his replacement." "No offense, miss, but I'd prefer—"

"A man?"

"No," said Storm. He had women on his crew and was not overly sexist.

Overly. In his opinion. "So?" asked the Dreamlander.

"I'd prefer someone on my crew, if they can be trained. I understood that the computer does most of the work."

The scientist had set her jaw and was glaring at him. If anything, she looked even more beautiful than before.

"What I mean is, I need someone who's familiar with the ship, and who can stay on the job if something else goes wrong," said Storm. "You're going to be busy making sure our gear is working. I can't afford to lose the systems in the middle of a battle, or just turn the helicopters off."

"The computer does most of the work flying the aircraft," said Jennifer.

"Then it should be easy to learn, right? I have someone trained in, uh, air-type warfare. He's an ex-helicopter pilot himself."

"I can teach him. If it's an order," said Jennifer. Jeez, don't put it like that, thought Storm. "Very well. I'd appreciate it," he told her. Jennifer bent down to get something else out of the bag. "It'll be a while before I'm ready to do that."

"Take your time, miss. Take your time," said Storm.

1100

Starship didn't recognize the address, but opened the e-mail anyway.

"Good Book." The minister had put it in quotes.

All the answers, huh? Starship deleted the message. He'd seen what religion could do in Saudi Arabia.

Immediately, he regretted deleting it. The minister was only trying to be helpful. Not even that: just trying to say better what he had stuttered over earlier. He'd been in that position himself plenty of times.

He ought to send the guy a note back, say thanks or something.

Starship turned from the console in the Dreamland Command Trailer's communications area. "Captain Freah?" "What's up?"

"I deleted an e-mail by accident. Any way to get it back?" "Deleted or just read it?" "Deleted. I wasn't thinking."

Danny made a face. "Sorry. The techies have it set up so it doesn't write to disk as the default for security. If you delete, you don't get to write it on the disk. There might be some fancy way around it," added the captain.

"Don't worry about it. Not worth it," said Starship, getting up.

Which phone was it?

Jed grabbed at all of them in succession — satellite, encrypted, cell phone, hot line, hotel phone…

He didn't have a hot line. It was a dream. Except that a phone really was ringing.

Jed pushed out from under the covers and grabbed for the phone at the side of the bed. "Jed Barclay."

"Jed, session vote is set for ten a.m.," said Ambassador Ford. "We'll have a driver in the lobby in five minutes. Room service is on the way up with coffee for you. Get over here, OK?"

"Yes, sir."

Jed put the phone down and lay back on the bed for a minute. The Plaza was far and away the fanciest hotel he had ever stayed in. The headboard was upholstered, for crying out loud. And room service…

There was a knock on the door. Jed jumped out of bed and walked over — he was wearing sweats and an old T-shirt— then remembered that he had to give a tip. "Just a minute," he said, and scrambled over for his wallet on the antique dresser. But when he pulled open the door, the man was gone; there was a full pot of coffee on a table at the side. This wasn't a plastic carafe either — it was a silver pot.

He pulled on some clothes, shaved quickly, then went down to the lobby. The driver hadn't arrived yet. Jed took out his personal cell phone and called his mom in Kansas.

"You're not going to believe where I am," he told her as soon as she picked up the phone.

"New York," she told him. "I saw you last night."

"You did?"

"At a press conference. You could use a haircut, Jed."

"Really?"

"At least straighten it out a little." "No, I mean you saw me on TV?"

"The Secretary of State did most of the talking. He's a bit full of himself, that one. But you got a few words in about the ship. And Dreamland."

"I didn't say anything about Dreamland," said Jed.

"Your father wanted to tape it, but by the time he found a tape you were gone. There was a girl who's going to the national spelling bee from Lincoln."

"I'm like in a real fancy hotel here," said Jed.

"Good for you, honey. Did they have silk sheets?"

"I'm not sure," said Jed.

"You did pull down the covers, right?"

"Well, yeah. I just don't know what silk feels like."

"You would if you slept on it."

"Maybe it was," said Jed.

"Who paid for you to stay there? Not the government."

"No, Ambassador Ford set it all up."

"You aren't being paid by lobbyists, are you, Jed? On a junket? You don't want to get in with those lobbyists."

"No. They're just friends, I think." Ford had made the arrangements. Jed had no idea who was actually paying, just that it wasn't him.

A tall man in a suit walked into the lobby. He saw Jed and walked over, flashing State Department credentials.

"Gotta go, Ma."

"Have a good day, honey. And get a haircut!"

"I will."

The Secretary of State looked as if he hadn't had any sleep; it was likely that he hadn't. He'd gone back to Ford's penthouse on the East Side, planning to work the phones as long as necessary. Ford, who probably had gotten as little sleep as the Secretary, was just about flying. According to the ambassador, the French had come around; there would be abstentions, but the measure was going to pass and not be vetoed. It was an important day for the U.S. and the world.

An overstatement, he knew, but his enthusiasm and conviction were contagious. Jed followed them into the Security Council chamber, holding his laptop bag and some newspapers in one arm and a full cup of coffee in the other. The room seemed almost familiar today, and certainly friendlier. Jed sat, propping the bag by his chair and unfolding the newspapers onto his lap. He hadn't had a chance to read them yet.

He nearly dropped his coffee when he glanced at the cover of the Sunday Daily News.

It was his cobbled picture of the tanker on fire.