Satan's Tail

VIII Bloodthirst

Jed was just about to leave for the office when the phone rang. He grabbed it, thinking it might be Freeman. "Barclay."

"Well, Jed, how are you?" "Ms. O'Day?"

"How's Washington treating you?"

"It's treating me fine," Jed told her. They hadn't spoken in nearly a year. "How are you?"

"I was talking with a friend of ours, and decided to give you a call. I've been meaning to say hello for a long time."

Deborah O'Day had been Jed's first boss. He had started with her as little more than an intern; she'd encouraged him and given him more responsibility. While they hadn't worked together for long, he had learned a great deal. By the time she left office with the last administration, he had become the de facto link with Dreamland and Whiplash, one of the main reasons Freeman and President Martindale had kept him on.

Jed guessed that Colonel Bastian had asked her to call. A week before, even just a few days ago, he might have told her everything that had happened. But now he was wary: He was belatedly starting to understand that he couldn't trust anyone in Washington, not even friends.

"I'd like to talk," he told her. "But I'm kind of on my way to a meeting."

Neither statement was a lie; they just left a lot out. "Are you in trouble, Jed?" "Not really. No." Now that was a lie.

"I want you to know that if trouble does come up," she told him, "we can find friends who will help you. Legal friends. Don't let yourself be pressured."

"I won't."

"And don't take the fall for anyone." "I wouldn't do that."

She didn't say anything for a moment. Jed remembered watching her in her office some days, sitting and frowning at the desktop, considering what she wanted to say. He imagined she was doing that now.

"All right, Jed. Let me give you my number, just in case. You can call it whenever you need help."

"I appreciate that."

"You talked to Dreamland, and to Xray Pop," said Freeman as soon as Jed entered his office a few minutes before seven. "Why?"

Primed to be fired, the question actually caught him off guard.

"Colonel Bastian asked for some stuff, and I–I just figured it made more sense to straighten it out for them on my own. Otherwise the whole thing, I mean, I didn't want to make it more complicated than it was."

"Sit down, Jed." Freeman sighed. "Let me ask you one question before we continue."

Here it comes, thought Jed. "OK."

"Do you believe in President Martindale?"

"Well, sure."

Believe in him? He agreed with his positions, or most of them at least, but believe in him? What did that mean, exactly?

"Look, Mr. Freeman, I didn't do it on purpose, but I understand it's huge," said Jed. "I'm ready to resign. It's OK. You don't have to let me down easy."

"Resigning now would not be a good idea, Jed. It'll only make things much more complicated. It won't help the President, and it certainly won't help you. Senator Finegold will crucify you if she has the chance."

Surprised — definitely relieved, but mostly surprised — Jed nodded.

"The photo hasn't appeared anywhere else, has it?" asked Freeman.

"No, sir. I was kind of wondering about that." "The press will move on, and this will be forgotten." "What if it's not?" asked Jed.

"Then we'll deal with that then. The Secretary of State still has your laptop?"

"Yes."

Freeman frowned. "Jeff Hartman is very ambitious, Jed. Don't forget that. He's a member of this administration — but he's also very ambitious."

"What does that have to do with my laptop?"

"Hopefully, nothing."

"What should I tell the President?"

"You should tell him nothing."

Jed frowned, and Freeman repeated, "Nothing."

"Wouldn't it be better—"

"Nothing."

"But he's the President." "Do you trust me, Jed?"

No, thought Jed. I don't trust anyone. Not even myself. But he nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Tell you what. Let's get some coffee and head over to the Pentagon. I'd like to hear what Captain Gale is planning before it happens. You can tell me what Colonel Bastian told you on the way."

Danny Freah's stomach fluttered as the Dreamland Osprey dipped a few yards from the deck of the Abner Read. Weighed down by the troops in her belly, the nose of the craft dipped forward and her tail pitched sharply left, an unexpected burst of wind trying to wrestle control of the craft from the pilot. The waves snapped at the wheels of the aircraft, and the fantail of the littoral warship loomed in the window.

Danny saw Dancer's face across the cabin as the aircraft leaned hard to its right. The red hue of the interior lights softened her frown; he saw how beautiful she was under the Marine BDUs.

If I die, this is the last thing I'm going to see, he thought. Beauty.

The Osprey lurched backward, buffeted by another burst of wind. The tail pushed downward and the aircraft shot right. Danny grabbed for the strap near his head, pitching against one of the Marines. The aircraft sank again, but it was a more subtle, controlled maneuver, a steadying; the Osprey seemed to hiccup in the air and then hopped forward, finally stable.

"Whoa," said one of the Marines next to him.

Whoa is right, thought Danny.

Storm saw the Osprey dip dangerously close to the waves then jerk back upright, as if the aircraft had paused to take a sip of water.

Months and years of work hung in the air for a moment, stuttering there on the fragile metal wings of the aircraft. He folded his fingers into a fist and punched the air.

"Go!" he yelled from the flying bridge at the side of the superstructure atop the Abner Read. "Go!"

The aircraft stumbled again. This was a real weakness of the mission plan: They had to rely on a single aircraft to transport the assault team. That couldn't be helped — there was only one Osprey available.

Storm's stomach turned as the plane faltered. I've put too much into this to fail now, he thought. Go.

It moved sideways for a moment longer, then lurched forward, more in control. Storm lowered his night optical device and took one last long breath of the night air. If Operation Bloodthirst succeeded—when Operation Blood-thirst succeeded — the future of Combined Action Groups based around littoral warships like the Abner Read would be assured. As would his own career.

And if the operation failed, so would he. There'd be no admiralship, no hope of advance beyond captain. He'd be relieved in a heartbeat, given some obscure job counting toilet seats on the Great Lakes. Everything he'd worked for was now on the line.

On the hangar deck below, the Werewolf UAVs were pulled forward on their skids, ready for launch. The aircraft were equipped with Hellfire missiles and extra cannon pods; they looked like the beasts of the Apocalypse, ready for blood. The crews made a few last second adjustments to the weapons loads, then moved back to the hangar area as the rotors began to spin. The loud whirl made an eerie sound in the night, more a growl than a buzz; the Werewolves picked up their tails and leapt into the air, more sure-footed than the heavily loaded Osprey had been.

A half dozen of them flying with each Combined Action Group would more than fulfill the need for airborne defenses. The first thing he would do when this was over was get with Balboa and tell him the Werewolves had to be a Navy program. As long as this mission went well, Balboa would be easy to convince.

As long as this mission went well.

"Good takeoff, Ensign," said Storm, lauding the officer he'd assigned to fly the robot aircraft.

"Thank you, sir, but, uh, Miss Gleason handled the takeoff."

"Why? I directed you to. I don't want her in the Tactical Warfare Center at all unless absolutely necessary. I don't want any of the techies there while we're in combat. They're civilians."

"Yes, sir," mumbled the ensign.

"Give me Miss Gleason."

"Stand by, Cap."

"I've been in combat more than anyone on your crew," said Jennifer Gleason, coming on the line so quickly that Storm realized she must have been listening.

Clearly there was something in the water at that damn Air Force base that made these people so disagreeable, thought Storm.

"I'm not going to argue with you, Miss Gleason." "Ms. Gleason."

"Ms. Gleason, yes. I'm not going to argue. Combat spaces are off-limits during—"

"If something goes wrong, do you want it fixed right away, or do you want to waste ten or fifteen minutes finding me before it gets attended to?"

And it didn't help that they were always right.

"Very well, Ms. Gleason," said Storm. "Stay out of the way."

"With pleasure."

2300

His son cried for him. Ali struggled from the bed, the blankets weighing him down. As he walked in the direction of the room, the hallway lengthened. His son's cries intensified and he tried to walk faster, still stumbling against sleep. One of the blankets had wrapped itself around his midsection and tripped him as he tried to hurry; he fell against the wall and the house gave way.

I have to reach my son, he thought.

And then he woke up.

Someone was standing over his bed. For a moment, a terrible moment, he thought it was Abu.

"The Saudi sent me," said the man. Ali's guards were standing behind him.

"All right," said Ali. He rolled over and put his feet on the floor, legs trembling from the dream.

"You asked to be woken, Captain," said one of the men.

"Yes," said Ali. "Leave us."

"I have this," said the messenger. He took a small card from his pocket. A set of numbers were written on the back. Ali led the man to the chart table at the side and took a ruler, using the figures to measure in centimeters from Mecca the location of the aircraft carrier.

It had come ahead of schedule. It was already in the gulf.

They would have to leave now if they were to get out to the Indian Ocean before it did. It might even be too late.

The submarine could leave instantly. Some of the boats as well.

The Yemenis had been told to fly their planes to confuse the carrier's air cover as soon as it reached the gulf. That perhaps would buy him some time, but not much.

Nor could the Yemenis be truly counted on. But this was what God willed.

"There is also this," said the messenger. He pulled open his shirt. For a split second Ali thought that the man was wearing an explosive belt and had been sent by his enemies to kill him. His breath caught, and he cursed God for robbing him of the duty to avenge his son and wife.

In the next moment Ali felt ashamed for his blasphemy.

But the man was as he claimed. He took a small video from the belt, handing it to Ali. The captain took the camera off the shelf and put the cartridge inside. He pulled open the viewer at the side of the camera.

"Ali Qaed Abu Al-Harthi, may the Lord God and the Prophet Muhammad be with you," said Osama bin Laden. "Your blow will be the first in a long battle against the unbelievers. The Holy will rise with you and trample the infidel in the final battle. I commend you to him who sees and knows all, whose hand guides the heavens, whose wisdom illuminates the tiniest snail."

The screen flickered and then went blank. Ali took the tape from the camera and put it into his pocket. He walked to the door.

"Help me wake the others," he told his guards. "We must leave right away."

The computer beeped, announcing that the refuel was complete. Zen took the stick, rolling Hawk One out from under the big black aircraft. He rode it down a moment, flying ahead of the Wisconsin to a preplanned course ahead of the mothership.

"Two," he told the computer, and the view in his screen changed; he saw the Megafortress's tail, as if he were in Hawk Two, about a mile and a half behind the mothership. The verbal command was all the computer required to change positions with him, giving him direct control of Hawk Two while taking the stick in Hawk One.

He pushed Hawk Two in for the refuel, guided by a set of cues in the middle of his view screen. He locked in, then, as the fuel began to flow, turned Hawk Two over to the computer again, jumping into the cockpit of Hawk One.

"How are you doing, Hawk Three?" he asked Starship over the Dreamland radio circuit.

"Looking good," said the other pilot. "Quiet up here."

"Well, don't fall asleep."

"Commander Delaford keeps poking me to keep me awake," said Starship. His voice suddenly became serious. "You got a Bible, Major?"

Zen couldn't have been more surprised if Starship had come in and asked for — well, he didn't know. "A Bible?" "Is that too weird a question?"

"It's not weird, it's just — no offense, Starship, but you never struck me as the Bible type."

"I'm not. I just — I wanted to read it. You know what I mean."

The only thing Zen could remember Starship reading, outside of tech manuals, was along the lines of Penthouse— though generally with less words.

"Maybe you should check out the Navy chaplain when we get back to Diego Garcia. Or, you know, one of the British ministry types. They have a couple."

"Yeah. I'll probably do that." Starship paused a second, then added, "You believe in God?"

"Uh-huh." "I think I do."

"Good," said Zen.

"You blame him for losing your legs?" "I didn't lose them," Zen snapped. "No, I know what you mean. Probably. Sometimes I do. Yeah."

Sometimes. Though more often he blamed Mack.

Mack mostly.

Which wasn't fair either.

How many times had he told himself that, and yet he still blamed him, didn't he? He still — did he want revenge? He remembered the screaming match, the fight that had finally gotten the asshole to walk.

Jackass.

Zen did still want revenge. Or rather, he wanted something, anything — he wanted…

He wanted what he could never have. And everytime he thought he could make peace with it, everytime he came up to — not accepting it, but at least willing or able to live with it — to let it sleep — it came back and bit him.

He didn't want revenge. Seeing Mack in the wheelchair hadn't felt good at all. And the proof of the damn thing was that he'd helped the idiot walk again.

The lucky SOB.

Zen was still mad, just not as mad as he had been. Or not mad in the same way. Because he couldn't blame Mack Smith, much as he wanted to. And blaming God — well, you didn't blame God. That wasn't the way it worked. If you blamed God, if you thought God did it, well then logically the next thought, the next question was: Why? If God did it, he must have had a reason.

So maybe it was God and there was a purpose, or maybe it wasn't — one way or the other, getting angry with him didn't mean zip. It left you back at square one, having to deal with it.

Which was what he did. Again and again and again. But he didn't blame Mack anymore. Not in the same way. "I didn't mean to pry," said Starship. "This isn't a good place for this kind of discussion," said Zen.

"I'm going to get a Bible, I think, and read it," said Star-ship. "I haven't read it really."

"Go for it," said Zen. "Let's get to work, OK?" "Yes, sir."

"Zen — the submarine is moving!" said Ensign English, breaking into the circuit.

Jed paced the length of the outer conference room, waiting as the duty officers and a technician tried to clear the foul-up preventing them from tying into the Dreamland network. The secure connection had been designed to display whatever was on the main screen at Dreamland Command, but there was a glitch in the software and hardware units that did the encryption, and the screen was completely blank. The President and Freeman were en route to North Carolina, and Jed was to provide updates every fifteen minutes.

"The submarine is moving," said Major Catsman over the speakerphone. They'd dedicated a phone line as a backup until the glitch was solved.

"Here we go," said the technician.

A sitrep map of the northern African coast popped onto the main screen.

"No audio," said the technician. "That'll take another minute. I have to reboot the backup system so I can clear it."

"Yeah, it's all right," said Jed.

"Admiral Balboa!" said the officer who'd been sitting at the control station, jumping to his feet as Balboa and the Secretary of State walked into the room, along with two aides and the head of the CIA.

"Hello, Jed," said Secretary of State Hartman.

"Mr. Secretary, Admiral."

"Jed." Balboa's pronunciation of his name made it sound almost like a curse.

Jed wondered why Balboa wasn't at the Pentagon. He guessed it had something to do with Hartman, who wasn't particularly welcome there.

Then again, the same might be said of Balboa here. Jed couldn't remember the Secretary of State ever being friendly with the admiral.

"You have an image from the Gulf of Aden operation?" asked the Secretary of State.

"It's actually a plot of the area synthesized from different sensor views, like radar and infrared," Jed explained. "It's usually called a sitrep or a 'situational representation.' The computer imposes it on a satellite photo as its base image. In theory it's what God would see if he were looking down at the earth. But of course we're only seeing what the sensors can pick up. It's in long-range view now, with the forces represented by bars and dots."

"Which one of those dots is the Abner Read?" Balboa asked.

"That would be the rectangle to the right," said the lieutenant.

He might have added that it was the rectangle with the abbreviation ABNR RD under it.

"That's the target area?" asked Balboa.

"That's the village near it. It's empty, according to the infrared. These are the buildings they think the pirates are using," said Jed. "There are two docks, two patrol craft twenty yards from shore, some other smaller boats all in this cluster here. Only some are probably used by the pirates. There are some defenses along the ridge, and there has to be some sort of entrance to the submarine area from the land, though we haven't found it yet. They haven't found it yet," added Jed, correcting himself. "The submarine is moving. We can't see it yet on this screen but the Piranha probe is tracking it. It's roughly here. They'll update the view at some point once they get all the sensors on line properly. They have some problems because of the connection with Xray Pop, which wasn't designed specifically to interface with the Dreamland system."

"What kind of problems?" said Balboa.

"I don't have all the technical details," said Jed. "But part of the problem is probably the encryption system and the bandwidth the Abner Read uses. It's apparently more, um, limited, than that used by Dreamland."

Balboa frowned. "Inferior?"

Probably, thought Jed, but he didn't say it.

"Worried?" Hartman asked.

"No, sir." Jed shifted on his feet awkwardly.

"Jed, we've got the sound," the technician told him. "You can select the circuits."

"Thanks," said Jed. He turned off the speakerphone and pulled the headset on.

"This is going to go well tonight?" said Hartman. He tried to smile, but his tone was less than optimistic.

Everybody in the room looked at Jed.

"I don't know," said Jed. "They'll do their best."

Zen slid the Flighthawk toward the coastline, letting his speed drop below 300 knots. The infrared viewer painted the craggy cliffs different shades of green and black, a placid mottle. But as he approached the camp, a jagged set of sticks appeared in a black triangle on the left — a lookout post with three rifles positioned to fire. The men who belonged to the rifles weren't nearby, nor was anyone in a similar post about a quarter mile on.

Two figures were moving down the cliff a few hundred yards away. Two patrol boats were idling their engines near the shore, and a third had started out of the harbor. The submarine wasn't visible on the IR scan as Zen passed.

"Positions are open, Whiplash leader," Zen told Danny. "I've handed over the GPS data on the emplacements they have."

"Roger that," Danny replied. "We're go. Bloodthirst Command, commence firing. Ground teams are ten minutes from touching down."

Zen took Hawk One higher to avoid any stray incoming shells from the Abner Read. Then he settled the aircraft into an orbit over the camp so it could provide real-time images to the landing team and turned it over to the computer. Back in Hawk Two, he took a run to the east, making sure the teams securing the village area didn't need any assistance.

The shudder of the gun rattled Storm's teeth as the 155mm shells left the ship, beginning the bombardment of the hulks in the harbor eight miles away.

The shake relaxed him completely: It was all in play now, the attack under way. Storm put his hand over his ear, filtering out the sounds around him as he listened to the action on the Dreamland Command channel. The landing area was clear; the Osprey on its way in; the submarine was moving. Thanks to the connections made by the Dreamland wizards, his Weapons people had pinpoint locations for the patrol craft at the base. "Ready, Cap," said Eyes.

"Target the surface craft moving from the base. We'll take them first."

"Craft One is targeted," reported Weapons. "Craft Two is targeted."

"Fire Harpoons," said Storm.

The missiles tore away from the destroyer, popping upward from their vertical launcher. Storm saw them appear in the holographic display; their targets bore tiny initials, literally marked for death.

"Let's get these bastards," he said. He punched the communications unit at his belt. "All hands — all personnel involved in Operation Bloodthirst — hostilities are now under way. I promise you, we will revenge the deaths of our comrades who fell in action on November 6, 1997. Each one of their deaths will be avenged tenfold."

The first shell landed on the sunken trawler nearest to the shore just as Ali got down to the dockside. Water and shrapnel sprayed only a few feet away. A second shell exploded, this one on another hulk farther out in the harbor. The loud boom emptied the air of the noise around him. Ali felt as if he had been lifted physically away from the earth, pulled into a place above what was happening. The connection between the present and his thought was severed momentarily, and he felt as if he were independent not simply from his body, but from everything around him.

The Americans are attacking.

Satan's Tail must be offshore.

I will strangle them with my bare hands.

Another explosion, this one on the nearby wreck close to shore, shook him back to reality.

"Quickly!" he shouted. "The Americans are attacking us! We will not lay down for them! Quickly."

As he reached into his pocket for the phone to pass the orders along, another volley from the American guns landed, this time on the land nearby. Dust and dirt flew everywhere; he just barely managed to touch the quick-dial sequence that would signal that he was under an all-out attack. He looked at the phone, not sure if the call went through.

Send all the hell you can, he thought. There was no need to say it, however; the fact that the number was dialed and that he did not answer when called back would be enough.

Ali steadied his fingers to make a second call, alerting his crews farther west. A fresh shell burst near the shoreline, shaking the ground so severely that he dropped the phone. As he bent to grab it, another shell landed directly behind him, and the force of the explosion pushed him down the embankment toward the water. He managed to grab a large stone pillar to stop his fall.

He spit the dirt and rocks from his mouth. He'd lost the phone somewhere along the way and had to scramble back up the hill for it. Another shell landed below, near the water. Ali sensed it before he heard the explosion, and in that small space of time realized he'd been lifted upward by the force. He started to scream, but before a sound could come from his mouth, the world turned black.

Danny saw the obliterated guard posts as the feed from the Flighthawk played on the visor screen of his smart helmet. Several figures were coming from the caves near the water; another dozen were moving from the village buildings just to the east. But the top of the cliff was unprotected and he zoomed in to it, focusing on landing zone one and then two.

"Abner Read, be advised we are inbound to LZ. Do not shell the cliff," said the pilot over the Dreamland circuit. "Repeat. We're inbound and will arrive in sixty seconds."

Someone on the Abner Read acknowledged. The shelling of the wrecked ships in the harbor continued; the Navy gunnery experts had predicted it would take a little more than twelve minutes to obliterate them all. As incredible as it seemed, the awesome torrent of shells made it seem like they might do it even quicker. The Werewolves had been unable to keep up with the Osprey and the accelerated schedule; they were running behind him by about ten minutes. He'd make the landings without them.

"Team One is up!" shouted Geraldo "Blow" Hernandez, who was acting as jumpmaster, supervising the exit of the aircraft via the ropes. "Team One is up!"

The Marines and three of Danny's men moved toward the door as the Osprey revved into hover mode, its tilt-wing swinging around as the craft arced to the disembarkation point. Danny's men were used to the jolt of weightlessness that this induced, but the Marines weren't, and even the men who had been with them on the mission the night before jerked against their straps and each other.

"Go! Go! Hit the ropes, let's go, let's go, let's go!" yelled Boston.

"Do it, men!" yelled Dancer. "Make your mamas proud!"

Danny watched her grab a rope and go down with the rest of the team. They'd given up trying to use the Marine systems with the smart helmets and Dreamland circuit; instead, Danny had given her a backup short-range radio-only headset so she could talk directly to him. His people had been split up to work with different knots of Marines.

"Team Two coming up! Team Two coming up!" yelled Boston.

Danny moved with the rest of them. The Osprey swung around to get into position. One of the chain guns beneath the front of the aircraft began to rotate, spitting bullets at the lip of the crag. Danny thought they were probably shooting at ghosts, but there wasn't time to question the pilots — he put his gloved hands onto the rope, pulled his feet into place, and fast-roped down.

The Osprey stuttered backward as he descended, shuddering under the weight of bullets it was firing. But he got on the ground solidly, pushing to the left as the rest of the team came out.

"Incoming!" yelled someone as Danny jumped from the aircraft. Something flashed thirty yards ahead; it was a rocket-launched grenade fired nearly point-blank, but fortunately without much of an aim. Running forward, Danny peppered the area where it had come from with his MP5 before sliding down to one knee. There was no answering fire.

He swiveled his head back and forth as he took stock of the situation. More gunfire erupted to his right; three members of his team, all Marines, were engaged with someone at the very edge of the cliff.

"Grenade!" someone yelled.

It could have been a warning or a suggestion; in any event, nothing exploded. Two muzzles flashed from the direction of the sea to Danny's extreme left; more terrorists coming up to the defense. The gunfire was answered by someone behind him.

Men were still coming off the Osprey, easy targets.

"Get the machine guns up!" yelled Danny. "Get the bastards on the cliff down! Go!"

More pirates came up the cliff and began to fire, bullets blazing everywhere. Something exploded behind him; as he turned to look, he saw the right wing of the Osprey break apart, struck by a mortar shell that had the incredibly bad luck to land on the engine housing and detonate. The aircraft veered sideways, spun forward, then sailed toward the water.

"Son of a bitch!" yelled Boston into his open mike.

Danny threw one of his grenades toward the cliff where he'd

seen the muzzle flashes. Someone else had the same idea, and their grenade exploded first, followed quickly by Danny's. Jumping to his feet, Danny ran forward, emptying the MP5 before diving flat on the ground, next to a Marine. He slapped a new magazine into his weapon and fired a few rounds. There was no return fire, but just to be sure, he threw another grenade.

"Come on, Marine, come on!" he yelled, jumping to his feet after it exploded. As Danny took a step, a fresh burst of automatic rifle fire stoked up from the right and he threw himself back down. He didn't fire back; he had people in that direction and in the scramble now couldn't be positive who was where. He tried crawling forward but the ground began percolating with gunfire.

"Let's get that machine gun over here!" Danny yelled at the Marine he'd just left. The man lay a few feet behind him, still hugging the ground. "Yo, Marine, come on," said Danny pushing back toward him. He grabbed for the man's shoulder; it came without resistance. It was only then that he realized the man had been killed.

Zen stared at the Osprey as it flew over the cliff, unsure exactly what was going on for a moment. Then he realized that the wing and engine had broken off and the aircraft was going down. The left rotor tried valiantly to hold the doomed MV-22 upright, but within a second or so the fuselage sagged to the right. The Osprey veered backward and then into a wide arc, slinging down toward the water. A fireball erupted from the aircraft, spitting in the direction of the terrorist village, as if the Osprey had spit at its enemy, a final insult before diving into the grave.

The screen flared as the rest of the MV-22 caught fire. It hit the water a moment later, debris, fire, and steam erupting as if from a volcano. Zen had already started to bring Hawk Two over the area; he pressed the throttle against its stop, trying to accelerate.

"We have a downed aircraft," he said. "Osprey. Bad. No chance of survivors."

"Acknowledged," said Dog.

"I'm bringing Hawk Two overhead and then will provide fire support for the landing team," said Zen. "Where the hell are those Werewolves?"

"Werewolves are still three minutes out," said Dog. "They're doing their best, Zen."

"They're going to have to do better."

Storm stood over the newly installed Werewolf console in the Tactical Warfare Center. "Let's move it, let's move it," he told Ensign Young.

"I'm doing the best I can, sir."

Best wasn't good enough, Storm realized.

"Dreamland," he said, turning to Jennifer Gleason. "Can you do anything with this or not?"

"Damn straight, if you let me," she told him.

"Well do it. Go. Go, do it."

She moved toward the console. The ensign hesitated, glancing back at Storm, then quickly jumped up.

"Werewolf Control Computer, override established programming, authorization JenJen4356," said Jennifer, pulling on the headset.

She got a tone and instructions on the main screen:

"Auto designate mode, full pilot command, disregard safety protocols, authorization JenJen4356. Disregard tactical encyclopedia, authorization JenJen4356."

As soon as the computer acknowledged, Jennifer punched the function key to designate targets. The computer didn't beep for some reason, failing to accept the command.

"Free-form mode," she told the computer. "Sitrep on main screen," she added, asking for a bird's-eye view of the aircraft and the battlefield.

The sitrep failed to come up.

All right, she told herself, you're not thinking clearly because your adrenaline is blasting. Take a deep breath and go back to the beginning.

She took two breaths, neither as deep and slow as she wanted, then called for the sitrep again. Again the image failed to come up. She was sure she'd done it right; there must be a glitch in the connection with the Dreamland circuit.

There wasn't any time to figure out where the problem was; the Werewolves were almost at their target and would begin firing on their own as soon as they arrived.

"Manual Command," she said. "Complete override. Authorization JenJen4356."

"Trial mode. W1 is lead."

"Good computer," she said.

Jennifer reached to the pad of function keys on the left-hand side of the console, hitting key 3 for a video image. It was dark and the image was blurry, but she could see enough to make out the approaching cliffside.

"Werewolf to Whiplash commander, what's the important target?" Jennifer asked.

"The buildings," said Storm.

"I'm not asking you, I want Danny… Danny — Whiplash commander, where do you want the Werewolves?" The reply came back garbled.

"Jen, they're pinned down on the ridge by mortar fire from below," said Dog over the Dreamland circuit. "Zen is en route."

"I'm there — give me the location. There's a glitch in the system and I can't get the data through you directly. I don't have time to figure it out, but I can gun it manually."

"McNamara will guide you in. I'm not even going to ask what's going on over there," added Dog.

"Talk to you later," she said. "Kevin?"

"This is McNamara," said Dog's copilot. "Jen?"

"I have the Werewolves. Give me a rough idea where that mortar is so I can erase it."

"Stand by."

Danny took the Marine's machine gun. The plastic box that contained the belt of 5.56mm slugs remained full; the Marine had two more boxes at his belt. A mortar round landed nearby; Danny grabbed the boxes and dragged the gun with him as he looked for better cover.

"Captain Freah, this is Werewolf."

"Jennifer?"

"I'm going to take out the mortars. They're firing from down near the beach."

"Go for it," said Danny, skidding into a shallow gully. He could just barely hear the roar of the Werewolves somewhere below, launching their rockets at the pirates on the beach.

He flipped the smart helmet's screen into a sitrep mode, which should have shown him the location of his men. But the screen was blank; either something aboard the Wisconsin or in his unit had gone offline.

"Yo, Boston, where are you?" Danny asked over the short-range team radio channel.

"We're about twenty meters from the lip of the canyon," said the sergeant. "There's a set of spider holes or maybe tunnels behind some of the rocks to the left. That's where the ragheads are coming from. We've been trying to get some grenades down it but we haven't made it. And they have a pretty good line of fire."

"Do you have a good location?"

"I can get pretty damn close."

"All right. Stand by."

Danny switched into the Dreamland circuit. "Jen? I have a hole that needs to be filled. If we use the laser designator to mark it out, can you hit it with the Hellfires after you get the mortars?"

"Do it."

"Boston, move back and lase it. I'll get the Werewolves in." "Working on it, Cap."

"Whiplash leader, this is Werewolf. Tell your people to duck."

There was a roar below as one of the Werewolves began chewing up the beach area with its chain guns. Then the ridge exploded with a barrage of Hellfires raining down on the spot Boston had designated with the laser. The AGM-114C was not the optimum weapon for the attack against the foxholes, but the roughly eighteen pounds worth of explosives in its nose did a more than adequate landscaping job anyway, permanently rearranging the geography of the cliffside.

"Boston, you OK?" Danny asked as the smoke cleared.

"Oh yeah, we're cool. We're moving up."

"Pretty Boy, you on the line?" asked Danny, trying to sort out where everyone was now that the biggest threat had been dealt with.

"I'm your left flank, Cap," Sergeant Jack Floyd replied. "We're moving to the ridge."

"Bison?"

The sergeant didn't answer. He would have been one of the last men out of the Osprey.

"Everybody, take the ridge," Danny yelled. He cradled the M249 under his arm and began running for it himself.

Jennifer pulled Werewolf One to the west, glancing quickly at the window in the lower left-hand corner of the screen, which showed the aircraft's vital signs. Everything was in the green.

"Werewolf, keep to the south," said Zen. "I'm taking a run at the patrol boat off to the east. Remember, they're still shelling the hulks in the harbor."

"Negative, Flighthawk leader," said Eyes, cutting in. "We're targeting the patrol craft with Harpoons."

"Roger that, I see them inbound. This boat isn't targeted."

"We don't have it."

"Watch where I go and you will."

"Standing by."

As Jennifer cleared out from below the cliff, she saw a group of shadows down by the water. She pushed the stick in their direction but was moving too fast to get a shot without the computer's automated targeting system, which she'd had to take offline to gain control. She tried to flip Werewolf Two out of its automated trail mode but couldn't manage it quickly enough to get a shot with that aircraft either.

And it was a good thing. She saw that the men were moving toward the shore, not away from it. It was the second landing party coming in to try and cut off retreat. She took a deep breath and went back to work.

Storm turned toward the holographic display as the words cut through the cacophony around him:

"Submarine is out of the pen — moving at twelve or fifteen knots to the east, to get away from the breakwaters and barriers," said Eyes.

Don't let the bastards get away. Don't let the bastards get away!

"Weapons, target the submarine," he said.

"We don't have it on the targeting system. The sound is being obscured by the channel and the battle," Eyes interrupted. "We have the location from the Dreamland people and we're keeping track."

"What's the status of the bombardment?" Storm asked.

"Another few minutes."

"As soon as it's complete, move east with the submarine so he doesn't get away," said Storm. "I want that son of a bitch."

Starship found it difficult to concentrate with the chatter on the Dreamland circuit, but he didn't want to completely turn it off. They were flying just outside the territorial limits of Yemen. The usual assortment of ground radars were working, but at the moment they had the skies to themselves.

Flipping back and forth between two aircraft wasn't as easy as Zen made it seem. Starship found it too easy to confuse which one he was in, since there were no visual cues on the main screen. Granted, part of the problem was that he was flying at night, and there were pretty much no visual cues period, just distant lights and the looming shadow of the Megafortress. But it couldn't take all that much to program in a line indicating which flight you were looking at, a color-coded bar or number at the top of the screen, say.

"Hawk Three, this is Baker-Baker Two" said Breanna. "We have a flight from the Ark Royal coming south. The Brits are running a bit ahead of schedule."

Starship glanced at the sitrep map. The aircraft carrier was at the very far end of the screen, as were two Harrier aircraft flying patrol nearby. The Harriers were versatile aircraft, though not much of a match for front-line fighters or the tiny Flighthawks, which were invisible to their radar except at very close range.

"We've advised them an operation is in progress," Bre-anna added. "Their course will take them through the center of the gulf, as we were briefed. Closest point of contact with the operation should be about seventy nautical miles in an hour or so. I'm advising the rest of the task force."

"Roger that," said Starship.

He leaned back in his seat. Commander Delaford was working the Piranha controls next to him. He was in his own world, literally miles away.

"I have two MiGs, coming off Aden," said Spiderman, referring to an airfield in southern Yemen. "They may be interested in the Ark Royal."

"Let them know," said Breanna.

"Doing so."

The two MiGs were identified as MiG-29UBs, an export model of the front-line Russian lightweight fighter. They were about two hundred miles away from Baker-Baker Two.

"Another pair right behind them," added Spiderman.

"Must be putting on quite a show for the British," said Starship, turning Hawk Three back toward the Megafortress.

"Hawk Three, be advised that first flight of MiGs is changing course," said Spiderman a minute later. "I may be paranoid, but they look like they're on a direct vector toward the assault area. And they're moving"

Jed folded his arms tightly against his chest, staring at the sitrep screen from the Wisconsin. It showed the assault team on the ground, moving down the slopes — the positions of the Whiplash team members were marked with green triangles — as well as the locations of the aircraft and ships involved in the operation, all superimposed on a satellite photo of the area. The downed Osprey was marked by the computer with a black rectangle.

"Damn it, what the hell is going on down there?" said Balboa.

"The Osprey was struck from the ground," said Jed.

"I meant that rhetorically," said Balboa. "Storm should have asked for more support. He's a good officer, but he goes off half-cocked."

Jed stared at the screen, trying very hard not to point out that this was a textbook example of the pot calling the kettle black.

"It sounds confused there," said the Secretary of State. "Yes, sir. It is a bit," said Jed.

"This isn't going as well as I'd hoped," muttered Hartman. "It's not over yet," said Jed, unsure what else to say.

Danny reached the cliffside just as Boston went down. A pair of automatic rifles popped below, but he couldn't see where the enemy was. A Werewolf screamed along the beach area to the right but didn't fire.

Danny saw a knot of soldiers working their way down above the beach area. He knew the hulking shadow in the middle was Boston, but the friend-or-foe identifier system wasn't placing an upside triangle on the screen to indicate Friend, as it should have.

"Whiplash team, this is Whiplash commander," he said. "I have a malfunction with the friend-or-foe identifier. It may be common to everyone. Use extreme caution."

"Hey, Cap, think I have the same problem," said Boston, " 'cause I'm looking back up at you and can't see your triangle."

"Our set's working," said Sergeant Liu. "We'll use caution, however. We have some of the pirates pinned down."

As Danny ended his transmission, gunfire stoked up from his direction. He craned his neck upward but couldn't see anything.

"Werewolves, this is Whiplash leader," said Danny. "We're having trouble with the friend-or-foe."

"I heard," said Jennifer. "There's no time to sort it out now. Use the laser designator for targets and I'll have the Werewolves attack only at designated targets."

"Good," said Danny. "Wisconsin?"

"Yeah, we're copying," said Dog. "We see your team going down the face of the cliff. There's some sort of glitch in the programming. My bet is the interface with Xray Pop."

"Good guess," said Jennifer.

"Heads up!" yelled Boston.

Almost simultaneously a series of explosions rocked the base of the cliff. Danny fell on his butt and began sliding down the hillside, knocking into one of the Marines. An AK-47 began firing directly below, quickly answered by M16s and M4s. By the time Danny got to his knees the gunfire had stopped.

"Couple of caves there, Cap," said Boston. "Mo-fo's are holed up in them."

Mo-fo was Boston's abbreviation for a none-too-polite street term.

"Can you lase the cave?" Danny asked.

"Yeah, I'm going to try."

"Jen?"

"On it, Whiplash."

As the Werewolves spun out from over the ocean, one of the ships in the water began firing at it. The arc of gunfire provided just enough light for Danny to see the black streak of a Harpoon missile as it approached. Or at least he thought he saw it — in the next moment the space where the ship had been flashed white and the ocean erupted. The Werewolves, meanwhile, stuttered in the air as their cannons sprayed lead on the caves. Danny got up, grabbing hold of the Marine nearby and tugging him along; within a few seconds they had found a path and were able to clamber down to a ledge where three other members of the team were huddled. Something flashed to the left.

Mortar, thought Danny. Before he had time to react, two of the Marines had begun firing in that direction and a third had used the grenade launcher on his rifle to obliterate the terrorist.

A second Harpoon struck another ship in the water, this one farther from shore. There was a flash but no secondary explosion.

"Jen, pull the Werewolves out," said Danny. "Let's take stock."

"Clear sailing, Cap," said Boston ten or fifteen yards below.

"Don't get too cocky," said Danny.

"Hey, cocky's my middle name. Just ask the girls."

As if in answer, a machine-gun began chewing up the rocks in Boston's general vicinity. Once more the Marines near Danny answered with a combination of rifle fire and grenades; the weapon fell silent.

"Team One? Dancer, what are you doing?" Danny asked as the pandemonium subsided.

"We're at the edge of the village," answered Sergeant Liu. "Lieutenant Dancer is preparing a team to begin a sweep."

"All right. Dancer, are you on the circuit?"

There was no reply.

"She can't hear you, Cap. Another malfunction, I think. I'll pass the word along."

"Listen, tell her we're moving ahead the way we drew it

up."

"Gotcha," said Liu.

By now the rest of the team was moving in the direction of the caves and shoreline. The landing party from the Shark Boat had engaged a small force at the base of the cliff and was exchanging fire. Danny sent Pretty Boy and two of his Marines in that direction, telling them to try and get into a position where they could either use grenades to attack the pirates or lase them for the Werewolves. He and the others went down the hillside to join with Boston and the Marines, who were clearing the caves.

"Back!" yelled Boston as he tossed a grenade inside one of the openings. The team ducked down as the weapon exploded, then immediately rose again and peppered the opening with gunfire. Despite the heavy onslaught, at least one of the pirates managed to survive long enough to fire back when the party started inside the cave. The earth itself seemed to erupt as the Americans returned fire, nearly everyone emptying their mags on the black hole.

"Discipline! Discipline!" yelled someone as the gunfire died down.

Good advice, thought Danny, though it had about as much effect as yelling stop at a runaway train.

"I'm OK," said Boston, who apparently had been hit by the gunfire, fortunately in his boron vest. "Two grenades on the next one," he added, apparently talking to one of the Marines, not Danny. "One deep, one shallow."

"And then a second wave," said Danny. "These bastards have nine lives."

"Mo-fo's always do, Cap."

The Abner Read was capable of launching torpedoes from either its vertical-launch tubes as missiles or its below-waterline tubes near the middle of the ship. The vertical-launched torpedoes had a somewhat longer range, adding approximately six miles to the seven that the torpedo alone could run. While the submarine was within range, the targeting system on the Abner Read had trouble picking it out.

Storm waited impatiently as the Abner Read heaved around, paralleling the submarine and waiting for it to clear into an easier targeting area.

"We have the target," said Eyes, relaying the message from Weapons to Storm, who was still on the bridge with Peanut and the bridge crew.

"Fire."

Two missiles popped from the vertical launching pods on the forward deck, their rocket motors igniting them and steering them unsteadily in the direction of the submarine. Launching torpedoes like this had always seemed to Storm an unnatural and awkward act, more so because the erupting rockets always appeared to lurch in the air, moving unsteadily as if the torpedo they propelled in the canister was literally a fish out of water. The ASROC system, however, had been perfected over several decades, and the idea of launching torpedoes from missile pods was little more than an extension of firing them from aircraft — an art perfected in World War II. Lengthening their effective range made excellent sense, allowing a surface ship to strike a submarine before it became vulnerable itself.

The Abner Read's designers had planned for her to carry the latest weapons, and had accordingly designed both the vertical-launching system and torpedo tubes — along with their associated targeting and control systems — for the MK-50 and MK-54 torpedo. The MK-50 in particular was an excellent torpedo. Relatively slim at 12.75 inches in diameter, the torpedo — in its upgraded version — could avoid counter-measures, operate entirely on its own once fired, and strike virtually any ship or submarine operating in the world. The MK-54 was a lighter version of the MK-50, equipped with a more limited guidance system, in essence a poor man's version of the very expensive MK-50 tuned to operate in shallow water.

Unfortunately, neither weapon was aboard the Abner Read. The MK-54—which probably would have been a good choice here — was still in development and not yet available. And the cost of the MK-50 had limited the Navy's purchases. Because it was in short supply, the powers-that-be had rationed it among the Navy ships and aircraft capable of carrying it. The Abner Read had not made the cut. Instead, its tubes were filled with old standbys, the MK-46.

When they were first deployed in 1966, the MK-46 torpedoes were at least arguably the best of their class: lightweight, versatile killers with about a hundred pounds of explosives in their teeth. Thirty years and several upgrades later, they were problematic weapons in areas where the shallow water, other nearby contacts, and a system admittedly designed for different weapons, multiplied the confusion factor exponentially.

One of the torpedoes failed completely after it entered the water; the reason wasn't clear. The other, however, made a beeline for the sub. Traveling at 45 knots, the torpedo needed nearly eight minutes to get to its target. By the fourth minute it became clear that it had lost its way; by the fifth, it had veered off course toward the shoreline. The operator couldn't tell what it was tracking, and Storm didn't particularly care.

He gave the order for the ship to close in on the submarine, which was running in snorkel mode almost exactly due east about three-quarters of a mile from the coast.

"Captain, that's going to take us out of the designated patrol area," said Peanut.

"Are you questioning my orders?" barked Storm.

"No, sir."

"Then do it. Eyes!"

"Cap?"

"Target the submarine." "Weapons is working on it." "Active sonar. Find the bastards." "Yes, sir," said Eyes.

The room fell silent for a moment. "Submarine is targeted," Eyes said finally. "Launch!"

The weapons bolted from the launcher.

"Patrol craft coming out from the east," reported Eyes. "Two miles."

"Where'd he come from?" asked Storm. "Just popped in there."

Storm barked out orders that the ship be sunk. Within seconds the Abner Read reverberated with the steady thud of the 155mm Advanced Gun System. It took a dozen shots to strike the pirate craft, but only two to sink it.

"Torpedoes in the water!" warned the computer.

"Evasive action," Storm said. "Use the Prairebot."

"We're down to two, Cap," said Peanut.

"Now or never."

"Prairebot."

The order was passed and Abner Read's forward torpedo tubes opened, expelling the devices. They swam about a quarter of a mile and began emitting their bubble fog. The two torpedoes were completely baffled, and circled back in the direction from which they'd been fired.

Storm glanced at the hologram. He could only find one of his torpedoes tracking the submarine.

"Weapons, how are we doing on that submarine?" he asked.

"Torpedo three missed, sir. Another malfunction. Four is running true."

"Fire torpedoes five and six."

"That will empty the vertical launching system," said Peanut.

"I can count."

"Target acquired, target locked," said Weapons. "Fire, damn it! I want the sharks picking over his bones before daybreak."

"Firing ASROC torpedoes."

"We better hit the damn thing this time," muttered Storm as the rockets whipped away from the ship.

While the two Werewolves were performing well, real-life combat was proving harder on resources than the test range. Werewolf Two was not only out of Hellfires, but down to its last hundred rounds of bullets, and borderline on fuel. Jennifer plotted a course for it to fly back to the Abner Read to reload and refuel; if the crews moved quickly enough, she could keep at least one aircraft over the battle area. She had to dial into the aircraft maintenance channel to talk to the mate there, but couldn't find the preset, and ended up resorting to the common intercom channel. Someone acknowledged anyway, and she told the computer to bring the Werewolf back to the deck of the ship, safing the weapons just in case it became rambunctious.

"What are you doing with that aircraft?" demanded Storm.

"There's a knot of pirates hiding in that building there by the water," Jennifer told him.

"No, the other one, heading toward us."

"I need to refuel and rearm."

"We can't recover it now. We're in the middle of a battle."

Jennifer twisted toward him ferociously. "What the hell do you want me to do with it? Crash it into the shoreline?"

Storm's face went white. She thought for a moment that he would take a swing at her. But instead he turned, and she heard him ordering someone to prepare to recover the aircraft.

Ali's son called to him from the pool, yelling to his father for help. They'd gone to visit his cousin Abdul, and the boy was playing in the back while the adults debated the obligations a man had to God and his family. Ali's cousin had just claimed that the family must come first — blasphemy, or close to it, Ali argued, for wasn't that the point of the story of Abraham?

His son's cries shook him; there was something in his voice that he had never heard before, a kind of immediate terror that pulled Ali to action. The father sprang to help the son, bolting over the wall at the back of the yard.

The pool was only a few yards away, yet with every step Ali took it moved no closer. He saw his son Abu go under. Ali ran faster, faster, ran with all his all might, yet got no closer to saving him, no closer to pulling him out.

Lightning split the sky. Something pushed Ali's head into the dirt. He felt himself flying into the water, flying into the pool.

This isn't happening, he thought. This is a dream, one of the dreams.

I would never have withstood God's test. I would not have killed my son for the Lord's sake, even though I should have. I am not worthy to be a follower of the Prophet.

The ground shook. Ali swallowed a mouthful of saltwater and grit. He began to choke uncontrollably. Somewhere in the middle of the fit he realized that he was lying at the edge of the water, his body twisted and his rifle in his hand.

A dark shadow filled the water in front of him.

Satan's Tail.

I will be avenged. I cannot achieve my mission, but I will be avenged on Satan. Let me strangle the bastard demon with my bare hands and take him to hell with me.

He pushed down, rising from the water. There were two, three, more of his men nearby.

"The ship — the American ship is out there," he said, pointing. "I am going aboard and fighting them hand-to-hand."

He started into the water. Two or three of his men followed and pulled him back.

"Let me go!" he yelled. "Let me go!"

"Captain, it's not Satan's Tail. It's one of their smaller ships," said Saed. "We've shot down one of their planes. They've sent a boat to look for survivors."

In his fury, Ali had a hard time understanding the words. Finally, he understood what his lieutenant was trying to say.

"Our patrol craft have gotten out, all but two," said Saed. He held up a satellite phone. "The submarine is gone. I've passed the order to the Sharia to attack the aircraft carrier. They will not fail."

"Tell them instead to attack Satan's Tail," Ali told him.

"But—"

"Do it. Then gather every man you can find and get them into fishing boats. Quickly!" he yelled. "We have only a little time."

Danny selected full magnification in the visor, looking at the rocks.

"Yeah, it's definitely booby-trapped," he told Boston, who'd first pointed it out. "Question is, why would they bother?"

"Worth finding out, don't you think?" asked the sergeant.

"All right, we'll come back." He turned to one of the Marines nearby and told him to watch the cave entrance. "It's booby-trapped, so stay back, and keep everybody else back," added Danny.

"Captain, the lieutenant wants to talk to you," said Liu. "I'm giving her my helmet."

"All right." "Captain?"

"Yeah, Dancer, go ahead."

"We think we've found the headquarters in Building Two here. I'm getting the demolition team to look at it now, with one of your men. You want to come and see?"

The buildings were about two hundred yards to the east.

"I'll be along in a few minutes, once we're sure we have this side of the camp secured. Have you heard from the Shark Boat on the Osprey rescue?"

"Negative. My whole communication system is gone," she said. "Even the Marine unit."

"I'll get back to you."

"My best guess is they used it to store weapons and ammo, Cap," said Boston. "Couple of boxes of ammo for AK47s on the ground there. Might've grabbed them when we were coming."

"All right. Take your team and hook up with the Navy shore party moving in from the west off the Shark Boat," Danny told him. "I'm going to go with Pretty Boy and see what Dancer has."

"She's hot," said Boston. "For a Marine."

"I'll forget you said that, Sergeant," snapped Danny.

As the situation on shore settled down, Zen turned his attention to the water and the spot where the Osprey had crashed, about a half mile west from the mooring area. He crisscrossed as slowly as possible overhead, hoping the infrared sensors would pick up something in the water he could direct the Shark Boat's crews to. The Navy craft had sent two small inflatable boats to the area; Zen could talk to them by communicating with the ship's commander via one of the portable Dreamland communication systems. He took a first pass at three thousand feet, circling back and dropping lower, working the Flighthawk down through two thousand. He activated the C³ search-and-rescue mode, directing the Flighthawk's computer to look for men in the water. The computer began beeping immediately, drawing a box about three hundred yards from the northernmost boat.

Zen vectored the rescuers toward them and pushed the Flighthawk even lower, edging down close to five hundred feet. His airspeed bled off and he got a stall warning, C³ getting nervous.

"Boat Two has recovered one body," reported the Shark Boat captain after he passed along the coordinates. "Pretty mangled."

"Flighthawk leader."

Dog looked at the radar plot from Baker-Baker Two showing the two flights of Yemen MiGs. The aircraft had been flying on the same course for nearly five minutes; there seemed no doubt they were flying toward the assault area.

"Baker-Baker Two, this is Wisconsin. Bree, intercept those MiGs. I don't want them in the assault area."

"And if they don't turn back?"

"Direct them to. If they arm their weapons, engage and shoot them down."

"Baker-Baker. Will do."

"You don't think that's too aggressive, Colonel?" asked the copilot.

"I've already lost an aircraft and its crew," replied Dog. "I don't intend on losing any others."

Dead bodies lay on both sides of the wooden planks on the rock-strewn coastline. More than three dozen pirates had been killed, many by the bombardment. Several corpses were missing large parts of their anatomy. A head had landed on the rocks, eyes open, face contorted with pain, as if the man were emerging from hell below.

Danny stared at it, not unnerved exactly, but arrested by the grotesqueness of war and death. The man was his enemy, and surely would have killed him without remorse. Yet Danny felt a stab of pity for him. The absurd futility captured by the man's death stare reached through the body armor Danny wore, reached past the tough shell he donned to do his job. The Air Force captain had seen much brutality in the past few years — he'd been in Bosnia and the former Yugoslavia before joining Whiplash, and had come to know the many ways a corpse could be mangled. But each time he faced death again, there was something fresh, something unexpected, something still capable of eliciting pity and even sorrow.

He reminded himself what his job was and plunged on, following the Marine private across the wooden planks that formed a narrow and crude boardwalk to the main area of the compound. There were more bodies here, including two that belonged to Americans. Danny saw the young man who'd been ahead of him stop, then pitch forward to his hands and knees.

Danny gave him a moment, then leaned down close to his ear.

"Take a second," he told the young Marine. "But then you have to move on. For yourself. You can't do anything for them now. We'll grieve later."

"Yes, sir," said the Marine, voice choked with tears.

Danny rose and walked alone toward the corner of a nearby building, where another member of the team crouched with an M249 machine gun. Calling the structure a building was optimistic; it was more a hovel that leaned against the side of the hill.

"Down here, Danny," said Dancer.

He spotted her near the largest of the buildings, on the side overlooking one of the docks. He made his way down quickly.

"We have no more resistance, or at least they've stopped firing," she said. "There are two speedboats, some other small open boats tied up in the water on that side there. The Abner Read has taken care of the hulks. There doesn't seem to be anyone in them." She turned and pointed to the boats in the water. "This building looks like a command post. There's radio equipment and other gear inside. We didn't see any booby traps."

"It's clean," Liu said behind her.

"All right," said Danny. "Next objective is the cave where the submarine was, beyond that dock and the breakwater there. Piranha reports no vessels inside, but there may be people."

"I'd like a chance to help in the search for our people on the Osprey," said Dancer. "I think we should do that first."

"I think we can assist the search while we're looking for an entrance to the pen," Danny told her. "We need to get the divers in before we take on the cave. The Shark Boat too. I don't want to start an assault, or a possible assault, until we have all the possible entrances covered anyway. I'll check on what the possibilities are while you take charge of the search. Why don't you take Sergeant Liu and two of your Marines with you?"

"Thank you, I will," said Dancer. "And I'm holding on to your sergeant's hat. Does this thing get baseball games?"

"Only Yankee games."

"Those are the only ones I watch."

"Hey, Captain! I got people! Up here in the second tier of hovels."

Dancer and a Marine trailed Danny as he trotted up the hill and then climbed a short set of rock steps to Boston. The sergeant was holding his M4 on a pair of frail-looking women. One was middle-aged, the other in her early twenties. They wore heavy black clothes with veils drawn over their faces.

"I have a couple of civilians," Danny said over the Dreamland Command circuit. "I need the Arabic translator."

"He's on the line," said Major Catsman.

As Danny started to ask for the words "We mean no harm," the younger woman jumped up.

"Grenade!" yelled Boston.

Without thinking, Danny threw himself at the woman. Boston tried to grab the grenade, which flew up into the air. Twisting back, Danny saw it hover a few inches above his head, an old Russian-style weapon.

He also saw very clearly that its pin had been pulled.

Starship took Hawk Three down to 25,000 feet, running head-on at the first element of MiG-29s. The aircraft were moving fairly quickly, around 600 knots. They were fifty miles away from his nose; the combined speeds of the aircraft meant they'd run through each other's windshields in a little more than three minutes if nothing changed.

Hawk Four paralleled Three by two and a half miles. Star-ship took control of the plane directly and started a slight turn farther east. "Intercept doublet pattern Zen-Two," he told the computer, naming a preset tactical maneuver that Zen used so often it had been named after him. While the contingencies of the encounter could immensely complicate what happened, the outline of the plan was simple: Hawk Three would engage the flight nearly head-on, attacking the lead plane, which was running a bit farther west and higher than the second MiG. Hawk Four would angle in from the east, aiming for a tail attack on the second MiG as it broke and ran or moved to help its mate.

"Real" pilots probably wouldn't have chosen the attack — for one thing, they'd be flying aircraft with missiles capable of engaging the enemy at long range — but the plan took advantage of the Flighthawk's strengths. The computer was much better at making close-quarter rear-end attacks than it was at any other angle; in fact, it was probably as good as Starship was, so letting C³ take the plane and follow that attack plan gave it a high chance of success. The small profile of the aircraft meant that neither plane would be detected by the MiGs' radar until practically the moment that Starship began firing. He'd not only be able to begin the engagement on his terms, but probably fire and be beyond the enemy fighter before it even knew he was there.

If he missed and both Yemen aircraft went after Hawk Three—the aggressive and logical action — Starship could easily turn and continue to concentrate on his original target, even if the enemy's wingmate maneuvered to get on his tail. That's what he wanted it to do, since it would give Hawk Four an easier and more predictable target. And if both planes turned to run away, they would be sitting ducks, at least until their afterburners helped them regain momentum.

Ironically, the strongest answer to Zen-Two was to split and take each Flighthawk head-on — then go for afterburners and cruise home at a couple of times the speed of sound. While it was unlikely to yield a kill for the MiGs, it also presented the Flighthawks with the least amount of tango time — and the higher the tango time for the Flighthawks, the higher the tomb time for the opponents.

One of Kick's favorite sayings.

Kick's not here, Starship thought. Time to let him rest.

"Hawk Three? What's your situation?" asked Breanna.

"Lining up for an intercept. Weapons are ready."

"Roger that," said Breanna. He heard her switch over to the frequency the Yemen pilots were using and broadcast a prerecorded warning in Arabic that they were approaching a U.S. aircraft and were to turn back.

"No acknowledgment," said Spiderman after a few seconds.

"All channels," said Breanna.

The warning was repeated, again without an acknowledgment. Just for good measure, Spiderman repeated it in English.

"They certainly know we're here," said Telly, the airborne radar warning operator. "Their fuzz busters are probably hotter than a toaster in a boardinghouse."

"Intercept in zero-two minutes," said Starship. "What's your call, Captain?"

"They're activating weapons radars!" said Spiderman. "Trying to lock on us!"

"Hawk Three and Four, engage enemy aircraft," said Breanna.

"Roger that," said Starship, leaning closer to the screen.

The woman's grenade floated in the air ten inches from Danny's head. As he started to cringe, his body bracing for the shock, an ebony-shaded hand appeared from nowhere, grabbing the grenade and in the same motion throwing it out toward the sea.

A blackness filled his eyes in the next second. He became

blind.

Then he was falling, crashing against the rocks, pulling the woman who'd tried to kill them against the ground.

The grenade exploded somewhere below. Danny rolled and pushed upright, his only thought for his pistol, loose in his holster. He gripped the woman unsteadily, then managed to throw her to the left, away from his gun. She continued to struggle, grabbing something from her body. Three shots rang out and she fell back, then tumbled down the hill.

Danny rolled to his feet. "Thanks, Boston," he said.

"The lieutenant grabbed the grenade and threw it," said Boston. He pointed to Dancer. "She shot the bitch too."

"She had another grenade in her dress there," said Dancer, motioning with the gun. Her voice had a tinge of regret. "Fortunately she couldn't pull the pin. Crazy."

"You better search this one," Danny said, pointing to the older woman on the side. She'd either fainted or been knocked unconscious. "Let's make sure we're secure here before you go anywhere else," he told Dancer. "And thanks."

"My pleasure, Captain."

The thing Starship couldn't figure was: Why make it so easy for us? Why attack at all? We're just going to shoot you down.

The lead MiG did not see the Flighthawk, either on radar or visually, until the computer turned Starship's firing cue yellow. By then it was too late for the MiG to do much of anything. Undecided about whether to fight or flee, the Yemen pilot attempted to do both, launching an all-aspect R-73 heat-seeker at the Flighthawk and trying to tuck hard on his right wing and roll away.

The R-73—known to NATO as an AA-11 Archer — was an excellent weapon, able to accelerate to Mach 2.5 and guided by an extraordinarily sensitive infrared seeker in its nose. But even the best infrared seeker — and the R-73 certainly was in the running for consideration — had trouble picking out a relatively small target like the Flighthawk head-on, especially in an encounter where seconds loomed like hours. Starship flicked left as the enemy started to turn, only vaguely aware of the air-to-air weapon's flash. His cue turned red; he counted "one-two" to himself and then fired, sliding the nose of the Flighthawk down slightly to keep the stream of bullets on the MiG's wings. By the time the R-73 missile flew past the Flighthawk, the MiG that launched it had burst into a U-shaped ring of red flames.

Starship pulled off abruptly, afraid the explosion would spray debris in the U/MF-3's path. He cleared without getting hit, and corrected slightly north to line up an intercept on the second group of aircraft, some thirty miles away.

He wanted to execute the same plan, but Hawk Four was having trouble with the MiG it was assigned to nail. The Yemen pilot turned toward the Flighthawk's path before Hawk Four was in range to fire, and the computer changed its attack pattern. It managed a few shots as the two planes passed, the MiG heading farther west. By the time Hawk Four came around and got on the Yemeni plane's tail, it had launched a pair of R-27R radar missiles — not at the Flighthawk, but at the Megafortress guiding her.

Starship blocked out the sounds of the crew responding in his headset, taking control of Hawk Four himself to press the attack. Anticipating that the MiG would try to run home, he cut back north, slamming the throttle — and sure enough, the MiG swept back, accelerating so fast that even though he'd expected it, Starship nearly missed the shot.

Nearly wasn't good enough for the MiG driver, though — Starship punched two dozen slugs through the rear engine housing, crippling the aircraft as surely as a knife slicing a horse's knee tendons. The pilot bailed a few seconds later.

Starship turned back north, trying to get into position to take the run on the second element of Yemen aircraft. But Hawk Three was now too far ahead to pull the same maneuver; he had to settle for what they called Train Attack One— one ship in a deep trail, reacting to whatever was left after the lead aircraft made its attack. He jumped into Hawk Three just as the computer closed in for the kill; he got a red in the target screen and pressed the trigger. The computer was too optimistic — his bullets trailed downward, and the MiG jinked hard to Starship's right. This element of aircraft was flying parallel, and Starship flew through without another shot. He banked to get behind the flight, turning as sharply as he could, the small plane recording more than eight g's on her air frame.

Flown by the computer, Hawk Four lined up for a head-on shot at the easternmost MiG, which hadn't changed course. Starship let the computer hold onto the Flighthawk and angled toward the other plane, which had begun to dive to the west.

"Hawk Three, we're going to take those MiGs out with missiles," said Breanna. "We have another group of four MiGs taking off from Yemen. Meet them."

"Hawk Four is engaging," said Starship.

"Pull off," said Breanna.

"Roger that," he said reluctantly, overriding the computer.

Breanna waited until Spiderman got a lock on the second aircraft to give the order to fire. The AMRAAM-pluses clunked off the launcher, whipping forward from beneath the Megafortress's belly.

"Close it up," she told her copilot.

"They're locking — launching the Alamos."

"ECMs."

"Jesus, Captain, they're scrambling their whole air force," said Telly. "I have that group of four MiG-29s, and now two MiG-21s, four MiG-21s coming out of the north. They're going for broke."

"So are we."

Starship had his pick of targets — four MiG-29s and six MiG-21s had joined the playing field. The MiG-29s were more serious threats to the Megafortress, and closer besides — he set the two Flighthawks up for a run at their front quarters from the east. This time the attack was a no-brainer, with the enemy planes spread out at easy intervals. Despite the two earlier encounters, they were unaware of the Flighthawks and took no evasive maneuvers as Starship approached.

The cockpit of one of the MiGs materialized in the center of his firing screen, the image complete with the bobbing head of the pilot. Starship hesitated — it seemed inhumane for some reason to target the man flying the plane rather than the metal itself — but then squeezed the trigger. The rain of lead flowed across the aircraft for perhaps two whole seconds, twice as long as the Flighthawk's cannon needed to obliterate the Russian-built machine.

A second aircraft appeared almost immediately. Starting to ride the adrenaline high of the encounter, Starship fired even though the gear showed he didn't have a shot. He scolded himself and turned right, just in time to witness the computer's first score of the night with Hawk Four—a screaming attack from above that tore off the right wing of one of the MiGs.

As Starship hunted for his own target, he got a warning from the radar warning receiver — one of the MiGs had man aged to turn and was on his tail. He pulled the MiG with him in a dive and then a tuck to the right, weaving back to the left and then pulling up with a twist to the left. The MiG hung with the smaller plane, very close to its tail but not quite lined up for a shot. Sweat rode down Starship's back as he ducked left then right, then left again. The Flighthawk flicked in the sky, changing course so sharply that a live pilot would have been knocked senseless by the heavy g's. Finally the MiG shot past. Starship waited a second for his wings to steady, then zeroed out his opponent with a steady burst.

As the plane exploded, a second fighter came into view; Starship immediately turned to close for an attack. But he'd lost so much airspeed already that he got a stall warning — it was a wonder, between his maneuvers and the effect of the cannon, that he wasn't moving backward. Feeling cocky, he slammed his wing down and circled in the direction he figured the MiG would take. The Flighthawk moved sideways and down, more brick than anything approaching a controllable aircraft. Part of it was luck, but Starship managed to put the Flighthawk on the tail of the MiG and begin firing. He was too flatfooted to get more than a few bullets into the other aircraft, and when the MiG pulled away, he had to let it go.

He turned to check the sitrep screen to reorient himself when he got a warning buzzer from C³—he was low on fuel. Very low — ten minutes.

"MiG-21s are moving to engage us," Spiderman told him. "Eight of them. They're five minutes from missile range."

"I need to gas up," Starship said. "Both planes."

"This isn't a good time," Breanna told him.

"It's a lousy time," said Starship. "But I'm almost bone dry."

"We're being tracked by a surface radar," added Spider-man. "SAMs — we're spiked! They're firing!"

"Hit on Sonar Contact One!" said Weapons, relaying the news that one of their torpedoes had struck the Libyan submarine.

"It's about time," said Storm. "Eyes — status of that submarine?"

"Still trying to determine, sir."

"Weapons — torpedoes five and six?"

"En route and true."

Hallelujah, thought Storm.

"The submarine is dead in the water," said Eyes.

"Time to impact on torpedo five is three minutes," said Peanut. "Six is right behind."

"Stay on him."

"I'm trying, Storm," said the executive officer. Storm detected some of his pique at being bypassed creeping into his voice but didn't comment on it; he'd take care of the man later on, reward him for his patience.

He'd reward all the crew members — best damn crew in the Navy, bar none.

Storm turned his attention to the rest of the battle. All of the vessels coming from the targeted base area had been struck, but there were other ships in the vicinity, which he guessed must be part of the pirate fleet. They would have to neutralize as many as they could.

His move against the submarine had taken him in the direction of three ships identified as small patrol boats by the Megafortress; these were heading out from the coastline to his west about eight miles away. Shark Boat Two had engaged a similar-sized craft three miles beyond them. Storm decided that since the Abner Read was already headed in that direction and the land objective had been secured, they would cut off the three patrol craft and stand by to render assistance to the Shark Boat. He told Bastian to remain over at the pirate camp, supporting the landing team and Shark Boat One.

The rules of engagement required the ships to positively identify any craft not at the landing site as a pirate before opening fire, unless they were fired on first or represented an immediate threat. Storm had communications issue a warning to the three patrol craft, telling them that they were interfering with a UN-sponsored operation and were to return to their ports.

"No answer," said the communications officer.

"Peanut, target the patrol craft identified as Surface Contacts Fourteen, Fifteen, and Sixteen."

Peanut issued the command. As it was being passed along, Eyes reported that the Libyan submarine had opened its torpedo tubes.

"Weapons, what's the status of the torpedoes?" said Storm. "Five is sixty seconds away."

"Torpedoes in the water!" warned the computerized threat indicator.

The twenty-one-inch torpedoes carried by the enemy submarine were heavier and deadlier than those Storm's ship had launched and in theory had a longer range — as much as fifty kilometers. As the crew began to respond, Eyes reported that torpedo five had detonated prematurely, too far from the submarine to damage it.

Storm stifled a curse, struggling to control his anger. He would get the bastard — he would get all of the bastards — but to do that he had to remain calm.

But remaining calm was not his strong suit.

"Dreamland EB-52 Wisconsin to CAG Tactical Command," said Bastian over the Dreamland circuit. "The other Megafortress is engaging fighters from Yemen. We'd like to go to their assistance."

"We need you to stand by," said Eyes. "All of our forces are engaged with the enemy."

"They're under heavy attack."

"I know what they're doing," said Storm, butting in. "They've shot down half the Yemen Air Force. They don't need any help. Do you have Harpoons left?"

"Affirmative," said Dog. "Eyes, give them a target."

"That amphibious ship they saw the other day is about thirty miles north of us. It has another craft alongside it, possibly as a tug."

"Sink the bastard," cut in Storm.

"Your orders covering engagement prohibit me from doing that," replied the colonel coldly. "They've been in international waters since before the start of the engagement. And besides, I can't get close enough for a visual without leaving this area."

How could the Air Force flyboy remain so stinking calm when he had just lost several men?

"Damn it, Bastian — find a way to engage him. Your people in the other Megafortress don't seem to be having any problem."

"They were threatened and had to defend themselves." "A good plan for you. We're going after the submarine." "Wisconsin out." The feed snapped clean. "What's going on with those torpedoes that were launched at us?" said Storm.

"Two are still tracking, Captain."

The voices came in rapid succession as the different elements of the battle were processed.

"Bingo! We have another strike on the submarine!" said Weapons.

"One of the Libyan torpedoes has self-detonated." "We have the patrol craft zeroed in." "Second Libyan torpedo is going off course. We're in the clear."

Suddenly, one of the sonar operators shouted so loud his voice echoed in the space:

"I have sounds of a submarine breaking up!"

"Put them over the loudspeaker," said Storm. "Crew, we have sunk the Tango sub. We have routed the pirates from their base. We are in the process of breaking the terrorists' backs."

The crew began to cheer. This is what revenge sounds like, Storm thought.

The celebration was interrupted by a new warning, this one from the Dreamland EB-52 over the battle area.

"Missiles in the air — four — eight Styx missiles! Launched in the direction of the Abner Read."

Dog had just told Zen to take Hawk Two toward the amphibious ship when the barrage of missiles sprang from it.

"Multiple launches," reported Dish. "They're all Styx missiles. We're confirmed on that."

"I have three of the missiles in view," said Zen.

"Can you take them out?" asked Dog.

"Not all of them," said Zen.

"Dish — can you ID guidance or the missile types?"

"Working on it, Colonel. S1 and S2 have MS-2A

seekers — radar, capable of home on jam. Active. Others are similar — may be a P-22 in there as well. That would default to an infrared if jammed. Guess here is that they had a location or at least an approximate location based on the Abner Read's radar and fired."

"I have S5 and S6," said Zen, singling out two of the missiles Dish had ID'd as having heat-seeking heads.

"McNamara, target the two closest to Abner Read with Scorpions," Dog said. "Once the air-to-air missiles are off, we'll sink the ship with the rest of our Harpoons."

"Working on it, Colonel. Going to need you to come to a new course."

"Lay it in."

"I'm engaging," said Zen.

Dog swung the aircraft into a better position for McNa-mara, shortening the distance the AMRAAM-pluses would need to take to intercept the missiles. No matter how it was guided, the Russian-made Styx was at its heart a flying bomb, a set of wings and an engine that could take its 480-kilogram warhead just over the speed of sound. In its most recent version, it could travel about fifty-four nautical miles.

"Opening bomb bay doors," said Dog as he swung into position. The aircraft shuddered as she opened her belly to the elements, exposing the antiair missile on her revolving dispenser.

"Locked on S3," said the copilot.

"Fire."

"Firing. Locked on S4." "Fire."

The missiles clunked off the rack, their sleek bodies accelerating rapidly. The standard AMRAAM could top Mach 4; the AMRAAM-plus Scorpion, a Dreamland special, went a hair faster but carried a heavier warhead, which, as on the standard version, sat just forward of the middle of the missile.

"Baker-Baker, this is Wisconsin—I'm afraid we have our hands full for the moment," he told Breanna, not wanting to let her think he'd forgotten about her. "We're engaging Styx missiles."

"We have it under control, Daddy."

He hated her calling him Daddy.

"Wisconsin, I need you to come west with me," said Zen. "Missiles are away," said McNamara. "Tracking." "Button up," Dog told him. "And hang on."

Zen pushed Hawk Three into a dive at the course the computer plotted for the Styx missile. In some ways, the ship-to-ship projectile was an easy target — it flew in a predictable path and couldn't defend itself. On the other hand, it was fast enough that he had only one real shot at it; if he missed, he'd never be able to turn and get another shot. The computer showed the course perfectly. Zen was moving exactly onto his mark. There was only one problem — the missile wasn't there.

Zen slid the throttle back, cutting down his speed. According to the sitrep plot at the bottom right of his visor, the Styx missile should be right in front of him. But neither the synthesized radar view nor the low-light video showed it.

Confused, he tucked the Flighthawk into a bank. The computer had Hawk Two—the control screen showed that it was nearly ready to fire. Realizing that he was unlikely to do any better than the computer in the encounter, Zen stayed with Hawk One.

"Strike on S3," reported McNamara, watching the AMRAAM-plus.

"Hey, Dish, they're foxing us somehow, confusing the radar with false returns," said Zen. "I just chased a nonexistent missile."

"Working on it — sorry, we haven't seen these ECMs before. More missiles in the air!"

Zen selected his infrared feed and saw two missiles within striking distance; he went for the closer one, putting several cannon shells into the rear and sending it spinning out of control. He glanced briefly at the radar and saw three other missiles there — all phony.

"They're still tricking us," he told Dish.

"Yeah," said the radar operator. "I'm trying to narrow down the units that have the counter-ECMs. Whatever they're using is good — maybe Indian modifications or something new out of Russia."

"Better alert the Abner Read to the false signals."

"Already have."

The vessel loomed ahead, more a shadow on the water than a ship.

"Come," Ali told the others who had joined him. "Commend yourselves to God, and follow."

He stripped off his shirt and pants and slipped into the water, his only weapon the knife at his belt. Six others followed him, the best swimmers of his small force.

And then more — another dozen, eighteen, all of the men who had survived.

But after a few strokes, Ali faltered; the water was too cold and his arms too old to reach his destination.

Let me die if it is your will, he told his Lord.

Water swelled into his nose. He felt himself going down and thought of his son.

And then he was there, his hand touching the side of the ship — it felt like hard rubber, as if the entire craft were sheathed in a diver's suit. Ali didn't know where to put his hands. He had found his way to the flank of the enemy's craft, propelled entirely by God's will.

Allah had delivered this vessel so he could strike the Ark Royal. He wanted the devil's own sword wielded in the name of justice.

No one was topside. The ship was about as long as his own patrol boats, sitting low in the water on two knife-shaped arms. The deck held a small cannon forward of a sloped and angled wheelhouse, the broad fantail at the rear dominated by two long rectangular boxes.

A hand grasped him. The others had arrived.

"Wait until we are all aboard," said Ali. "God has brought us and will provide. We are in his hands and fight a holy war."

Danny walked down to the water, heart pounding heavily, afraid the grenade meant for him had killed or wounded the Marine hunched on the ground ahead. But the man wasn't hurt, at least not physically — he was throwing up. Danny knelt beside him and recognized the young man he'd been with earlier.

"I saw a head," mumbled the kid. "Oh, God." The Marine leaned over and puked again.

Danny gripped the jacket of the bulletproof vest. After a few more heaves the Marine straightened, and Danny helped him to his feet.

"I'm OK, sir. I'm OK."

"I know you are, guy. It sucks."

The Marine looked at him for a second. "Does it get easier?"

Danny thought back to the first man he'd seen die — or rather, the first one he'd realized was a man, not a faceless enemy in the distance. He'd puked too.

In one sense, it did get easier — he didn't throw up anymore. But in all the important ways, it didn't get easier at all.

"You'll get through it, kid. You're doing your job."

"Thank you, sir," snapped the Marine, a bit of his strength returning.

Danny rapped his arm gently with his fist, then went to check on the others.

The gun at the front of the enemy ship began to fire. The deck shook with it, and the boat started to roll.

The dark hatchway to the interior lay a few feet ahead. Ali could see the men moving inside, two of them — devil men with horns and spikes at their heads.

The knife burned hot in his hand.

"For the Glory of God!" he yelled, plunging into the darkness.

"Have Sergeant Liu take charge of securing any documents and equipment from the headquarters building," Danny told Dancer over the team circuit. "We ought to try to evacuate it out to the Shark Boat as soon as we can, just in case the natives get restless. We'll use the Navy SITT teams to conduct searches of the other buildings. They're trained for that stuff. But I want them to go slow. There's no sense tripping over more booby traps in the dark." "Agreed, Captain."

Something flashed in the sky overhead. A loud clap of thunder followed. There were two more bursts in rapid succession.

"Missiles," Danny told the Marine lieutenant. "Being intercepted. Big ones."

"Cap, Werewolf is trying to get ahold of you on the Dreamland circuit," said Boston. "The most beautiful woman in the world wants to sing in your ear."

"Boston, you would joke on the doorstep of hell," said Danny.

"Aw, been there, done that, Captain."

Danny clicked into the line. "Whiplash leader."

"Danny, I have to pull Werewolf Two back to refuel. It's going to be at least twenty minutes before I get back to you. Werewolf One is being refueled but it may take a while to get back in the air."

He could hear a lot of voices behind her on the ship, rushed, calm, nearly hysterical — the adrenaline-soaked sounds of battle.

"It's OK, Jen. We're secure here. What's your situation?"

"We've sunk the submarine, but we've been targeted by missiles. Gonna be a few minutes before it sorts out and I can land to refuel — have to go."

"Go."

Dancer had climbed down the cliffside and was standing before him with one of her Marines — the one who had just emptied the contents of his stomach on the beach.

"Danny, I'm going to take Luke here and check on the search of the Osprey wreckage as we'd planned. I think it's better to leave Liu and the others to help Boston sort out the situation in the hovel and then bring the papers or whatever's in the headquarters' stash down."

"You sure you're OK?"

"Hey, we're Marines," said Dancer. "Come on, Luke."

The Marine had to scramble to keep up with the five-seven lieutenant as she strode toward the dock where the small boats were tied up.

"Just that old woman up here, Cap," said Boston. "As far as the sensors can tell, no mines anywhere. And no more booby traps."

"All right. Sergeant Liu is organizing a team to take material out of the headquarters. If you're secure up there and there's manpower available, go down and help out. I'm going to see if I can find some sort of boat we can use to get the material out to the Shark Boat."

A fresh set of explosions in the distance shook the ground.

"Sounds like we're not the only ones having a party tonight," said Boston.

Starship turned Hawk Three toward the lead MiG then jumped back into Hawk Four. He whirled the airplane toward the southeast, hunting for Baker-Baker Two.

"I have an idea, Bree," he said. "I'll hold them off with Three long enough to get a couple hundred pounds of juice into Four, then go back and finish them off."

"I don't know if we can complete a refuel under fire," said Breanna.

"I think it's worth a try," said Starship. "It's better than just running away and losing both U/MFs."

"Agreed," she snapped back. "Let's try."

Starship lined up Hawk Four, then told the computer to take the aircraft in for the refuel. The computer balked — its safety protocols would not allow it to refuel while the Megafortress was being targeted by the enemy. Both he and Breanna had to authorize the override. The extra step took only a few seconds, but by the time he got back into Hawk Three, the computer had missed its shot. Rather than breaking and going for the other aircraft in the pack — a human's natural choice, since there were no less than four targets within spitting distance — C³ had stubbornly stayed on the

lead MiG. It led it to the very edge of the connection range with Baker-Baker Two. The computer backed off and banked around, taking itself out of the fight even though it had been ordered to stay with the other plane.

It was the first tactical flaw Starship had found in the programming. It disappointed him somehow, as if the computer should have known better.

He'd figure out how to use it in the next exercise to try and beat Zen, something no one had ever done.

Kick would have loved that. He was always talking about beating the master.

Starship pushed the memory of his friend away as he took control of the Flighthawk. The sky before him was studded with fighters. The MiGs stoked their engines, trying to close on the Megafortress — apparently they were all carrying short-range heat-seekers and needed to get up close to take a shot. He pulled to a half mile of the nearest aircraft and lit his cannon, tearing a long, jagged line through the fuselage and back into the tail plane. He kept moving forward, barely letting up on the trigger before finding his second target, another MiG-21. Before he could fire, a missile sprang from beneath the enemy's wing. Cursing, Starship waited for the target cue to blink then go solid red.

"You better not hit me, you son of a bitch," he said, dialing the enemy into oblivion.

"Break right, you have to turn right!" Spiderman yelled to Breanna.

"We need to stay straight for the refuel."

"Bree! There's a MiG closing from your left and two heat-seekers coming from behind."

"Flares and Stinger," said Breanna calmly.

The decoys shot out from the Megafortress as the air-to-air missiles sped toward it. The cascade of flares were too inviting a target for the antiquated missiles to ignore — both tucked downward, exploding more than a mile away.

Which left the MiG-29 that somehow managed to elude everything else in the sky and was drawing a bead on their left flank.

"He's taking a cannon run," said Spiderman. "Starship, how's your fuel?" "Two more minutes."

"We don't have two minutes," said Breanna as the first slug from the MiG's 30mm cannon began crashing into the fuselage.

"Computer, my control, Hawk Four," said Starship, and in a breath he was falling past the Megafortress. He tilted his wing slightly to the left, feeling his way, not seeing, blind in the dark night. Flashes of red sped overhead. He lifted himself and there was the enemy, dead-on in the middle of his screen.

"Now!" he yelled, and the black triangle hurling itself toward him turned golden orange. Starship flew through it, shuddering as debris rained in every direction. He climbed then circled back, looking for the Megafortress. As he turned he was jerked backward, away from his small plane. Disoriented, he blinked — then saw the flames coming from the top of Baker-Baker Two in the screen.

"Radar is offline," Spiderman told Breanna. "Least of our problems."

"Thirty percent in engine two. We may lose her." "Fire control."

"Fire control. Sounding warning."

A klaxon began to sound in the aircraft. "Everybody, make sure your oxygen is on," shouted Breanna over the automated warning.

The Megafortress had a system that flooded vulnerable areas of the aircraft to extinguish fires. It worked by denying the flames oxygen — which of course meant it would kill the crew as well.

"Do it," she told the copilot.

Starship put Hawk Four into a preset trail maneuver, pulled on his oxygen mask, then undid his restraints to check on Delaford.

"You really have to be tied in tight," Starship told him, snapping and then snugging the restraints on his ejection seat.

"Thanks," said Delaford. "We're not going out, are we?"

"Nah, not today," said Starship. He turned, then flew against the side of the seat as the Megafortress rolled hard on her right side.

The lights began to blink, indicating that the fire-suppression system had been activated. He pulled himself upright and slid in behind his controls as the Megafortress pitched forward. He tumbled against the bulkhead over the panel hard enough to rebound backward into the seat, and he lay there dazed for a moment, temporarily stunned.

Get your gear back on, dude. You're coming undone. Mask is out and where the hell is your helmet?

"Screw yourself, Kick."

You undid your mask. You can't breathe right.

"Screw it."

Come on.

Something or someone seemed to take hold of the mask and center it on his face. Starship had his helmet and cinched it — when had he put it on?

He fumbled with the restraint buckle on the left side of his seat; when it finally cinched, he went to connect the right and found it already closed. The aircraft pushed back, leveling off — then shot back down, its nose pitched nearly perpendicular to the earth.

Breanna scrambled to compensate as engine four went offline. The radar housing had been smashed all to hell, there were holes in the wing, and at least some of the control surfaces were no longer attached to the aircraft. "Hang with me, Spiderman," she yelled.

"I'm hanging."

"We have engine one and engine three, that's all we need," she told him.

"Oh, yeah," he said, though he didn't sound convinced.

"I have the stick, I have the stick," she told him. "We have to stay calm and straight."

Not necessarily in that order either. Breanna managed to keep the aircraft from falling into a spin, but still had to struggle to quell the roller-coaster movements up and down, the plane riding the momentum toward the ocean. Each plunge got a little shallower and more controllable, and she finally managed to get the aircraft level. Pushing her shoulders back, she took a deep breath in celebration — then went back to work.

"First thing I want you to do," she told Spiderman, "is get us a course to an airfield. See what the distance is to that place in India that the Ospreys used. That's probably our best bet at this point. I'll take stock of the damage. At some point we'll see if we can bring engine four back online. Starship?"

"Sorry, Bree."

"Wasn't your fault — that MiG ducked our AMRAAM somehow. But I think next time, we may test the old saying about discretion being the better part of valor."

Breanna checked with the rest of the crew; no one had been hurt. The MiGs, meanwhile, had returned to Yemen— those that hadn't been shot down. By their count, they had gunned down seven.

"Eight—Hawk Three got one more before it ran out of fuel. It did the honorable thing and blew itself up when it went dry," said Starship, reviewing the computer file.

"Ark Royal is asking if we need assistance," said Spider-man.

"Unless they want to add another four or five thousand feet to their landing deck, tell them thanks but no thanks," said Breanna.

According to the Dreamland people, four surface-to-surface missiles were coming at them. The problem was, the screens in the defensive weapons section said there were thirty.

Even the Abner Read's gun control system couldn't take them all out.

"Target the first wave," said Storm.

"You're going to have to trust what Wisconsin tells you," said Jennifer Gleason, standing up from her station. "They can use the infrared sensors and you can manually override the system to target the missiles one by one."

"You're damn sassy for a scientist."

"And for someone who's smart, you can be a real asshole."

Overcome with anger, Storm nearly grabbed her.

"You know I'm right," she added.

She was, wasn't she?

"Do it!" Storm said. "Do what Gleason says. Get the Dreamland people to ID each missile as it's incoming, and manually take it out. Eyes? Weapons? Peanut?"

"Aye, Captain, we're on it."

"I was wrong," he said. "And she's right."

God guided his hand and the enemy devil fell to the deck, blood gurgling from his mouth. Ali spun around, following the other man, who was running through the hatch to the left. The man tripped and Ali leaped over him, running forward — there were two other men nearby, one with a gun at his belt. Ali slashed at him, striking so hard that his knife lodged deep in the man's midsection. They fell together, crumpling against a table.

The space filled with Ali's men. Ali saw a sidearm and grabbed for it; the man began to fight back, and his companion came to his aid. But God was on the side of the true believers — Ali felt his strength moving in his arms, and he wrestled the pistol from the holster. Before he could use it, however, the man fell back, limp; the blood he'd lost had robbed him of fight.

"Captain! The bridge is this way!" shouted one of his men.

Ali jumped up. There were now so many of his men aboard that he had trouble squeezing onto the bridge.

Two Americans lay at the side, one with his neck twisted at a grotesque angle. Ali stepped forward and shot him once in the head, even though he was clearly dead. He used two bullets on the other man, whose body continued to jerk for several long seconds after the final shot.

The ship's captain stood near the wheel, pinned by four of Ali's men.

"You — show me the boat," said Ali, using his very limited English.

"I will die first."

Ali raised the pistol to the man's head. "The boat."

The man spit at him. Ali pulled the trigger. The bullet sped through the man's skull and lodged in the glass of the bridge behind him.

"Throw them overboard. Quickly, search the rest of the ship," said Ali. "Find the weapons lockers."

Ali scanned the bridge. The basic controls were here. Moving the Shark Boat would not be difficult. But the displays and sensors and, most important, the weapons would take considerable amount of study. Even with his experience, Ali doubted he could master them.

But God would help, surely. He had given them the boat.

"Captain, we have the boat," said Saed, taking him by the elbow.

Ali was surprised to find his lieutenant here. "I had not realized you were here."

"Until the end. There are fifteen of us, and yourself."

"Take the helm. Where is Habib?"

"Outside."

"Someone find Habib," said Ali. "We need his computer skills."

The runabout tied to the dock looked like a late-1950s eighteen-foot Thompson, crafted from wood and open to the air. A pair of large Johnson engines sat at the stern. A thick coat of varnish covered the pockmarked decking and wooden ribs at the side of the open craft.

Danny got in, steadying himself on the gunwale as the boat rocked back and forth. There was no question the craft had been used by the pirates — there were two AK47s and an ammo locker under the seat bench on the port side, and mountings for a grenade launcher bolted just below the port window.

The controls consisted of a large wheel and a throttle assembly that could be ganged to engage and work the motors together. There didn't seem to be an ignition key; the only thing close was a simple push-button to the right of the wheel, mounted on a plastic plate that had been carefully fitted to the wooden dashboard.

Danny leaned on the button but nothing happened. He started to go back and check the engines, then saw a thick wire running along the decking up toward the dashboard. Thinking there had to be a key or some sort of ignition system, he got to his knee and craned his neck under the old panel. One strand of wire was separated, with the two ends stripped and formed into hooks. He slipped them together, then got up and tried again. The engines coughed, but didn't catch.

A small gauge on the dash indicated that there was a full tank of fuel. Danny guessed that he needed to choke the engines somehow, but he couldn't find a switch or mechanism to do so. There was nothing obvious on the engine housings either; metal wire ran to them, but he couldn't quite see where they connected. He went back and tried again; the motors coughed but still didn't catch. The boat rocked unsteadily beneath him. He jerked his hand out against the dashboard, grabbing a decorative knob in the middle. A swell of the waves pushed him back, and as he tried to maintain his balance by holding onto the dash, the knob came out. He'd found the choke.

It took two more tries to get the motors started. Once they came to life, the boat heaved forward. The line tugged taut; Danny backed off the power to idle, went back and cut the line. His performance wasn't going to win him any honors in seamanship, but at least he had the craft working. There were a pair of lights on the bow; he found the switches and saw the thin beams play over the water as he moved away from the dock, getting a feel for the boat.

"Hey, Dancer, this is Whiplash leader. Where are you?"

"About five hundred yards from shore," said the Marine lieutenant. "Roughly due north of the second landing. Very shallow here, maybe twenty feet deep. We're working with a boat from Shark Boat One"

"I see you. I'm in a runabout or something. I want to use it to bring whatever we take from the pirate command post out to the Shark Boat. I'm heading toward you."

Danny throttled slowly toward the wreckage area. The windscreen of the boat folded forward, and he managed to lean out and work the beam down so he could sweep the water. Debris covered the surface.

"Looks like we don't have any survivors," said Dancer, maneuvering her boat toward his. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"Two of the Navy men are certified as divers, and there's diving equipment back on the Shark Boat," she told him. "So if you want to start a recovery—"

"That's going to have to wait until we check on the cave where the sub is," Danny told her. "Maybe they can dive in from the ocean side after our guys secure the land entrances. The Shark Boat can support them. I want to check back in with the Abner Read and see what their situation is."

One of Shark Boat One's little boats came alongside and told Dancer that they were having trouble raising their ship on the radio. Danny went into the Dreamland circuit and tried to connect via the Abner Read, but also couldn't get them.

"Abner Read is under fire," Major Catsman said from Dreamland Command. "The ECM systems aboard the ship and the Megafortresses are degrading the radio communications. Going to be a few minutes, Danny."

"Maybe I ought to just take a spin out there," Danny told Dancer. "I have to talk to the captain myself, and it might be quicker face-to-face."

"Ship seems to be moving," said the Marine in Dancer's boat. He pointed out to the horizon.

"I hope they're not planning on leaving us here," said Dancer.

"He's moving pretty fast. Maybe there's another pirate boat out there," said Dancer.

Danny clicked his viewer into the sitrep screen, then into the infrared view supplied by Hawk Two, which was still orbiting overhead. Neither screen showed a threat. The Shark Boat had taken a turn in the water and was now heading directly north.

"Colonel Bastian, this is Whiplash leader."

"Go ahead, Danny," said Dog from the Megafortress.

"Can you contact the Shark Boat offshore?"

"Stand by. We're countering a barrage of antiship missiles."

"If you could give me the surface radar operator, I want to know about possible threats off the beachhead here."

"There are no threats. Dish will get on the line with you in a second."

"I think I want to go talk to their captain right now," Danny told Dancer. "And I want a couple of Marines with me."

"This is a passive infrared receiving system.It shows heat sources in front of the ship," said Habib. "This is an active radar, which is very limited, not much more powerful than ours. This screen, though, this gets inputs from some other source. I can't tell whether it's aboard this ship or not."

Ali studied the suite of screens. If he was reading the legends correctly — which might not be the case — the external radar had a seventy-mile radius. Rather than putting this vessel in the center of the plot, it seemed to position it far off to the side. It seemed to him that the Americans had found some way to transmit radar information from another source — Satan's Tail, he guessed. This would explain why they had never seen radar signals from the small patrol craft themselves.

"This looks like a radar plot too, but I don't see how that can be," added Habib, pointing to a large screen near the center of the console. "It has different modes, but what they mean is not clear."

"This is our ship," said Ali, pointing to a set of blue letters at the lower left of the screen. "That — that at the center — is the source of the information. Flip back to the first screen you started with."

Habib did so. It was some sort of scale.

"The buttons below the screen change the scale; the ones at the right, they have something to do with the detection modes," said Ali. "Go to the longest plot — the small scale. There!" He pointed to the top of the screen. "That is the Ark Royal. That's our target."

It wasn't clear from the screen what the distance was, but Ali guessed it was less than eighty miles.

"Helm, come five degrees to port," he told Saed. "And then get as much from the engines as you can. Habib, you have done a good job. Now determine how to use the weapons systems." He put his hand on his sailor's shoulder. "God is with us. He will help you see."