by Dale Brown
In theory, the probes were expendable; the idea was to use them in a situation like this, where exposing men could be dangerous and politically inconvenient. But at the moment, they were also very expensive — each one cost roughly a million dollars. And there were only four.
"They've passed all the trials with flying colors," said Jed. "And we used them in the Pacific. They're funded in the next fiscal year for regular procurement."
"You've been in Washington too long, Jed. That's not an answer."
"Um, sorry. It would depend on the circumstances. The, uh, political situation is pretty sensitive right now." "So's the technology." "Not my call, Colonel."
"What if I find the pirates while I'm searching for the submarine?" Dog asked. "Do I tell this Navy operation?"
"Not unless it's threatening them."
"Shouldn't we be working with them?"
"Mr. Freeman — and the President — intended this to be separate," said Jed. "They're pretty busy doing what they're doing. They've been informed of the sub, and that we'll be looking for it, but that's the extent of it at the moment," he added. "Um, I didn't think you and the Navy exactly got along."
That was an understatement. The last time Dog had worked with the Navy, he'd nearly decked an admiral.
"I get along with everybody," he replied. "Should I make contact with the Navy people or what?"
"If it becomes 'operationally necessary,' you can contact them. That's in the Whiplash directive. So, you know, it's kind of your call there. I think Mr. Freeman and the President thought you'd want to keep your distance. I should mention that the Navy doesn't put much stock in the reports of the submarine getting that far. Not at all, actually. They're pretty much against wasting any resources to find it. That's the word they use—waste"
"We can definitely get a mission package with Piranha prepared within twelve hours," Dog said. "But we need a base in the area to work out of."
"What about Diego Garcia?"
Located in the Indian Ocean south of India, the island atoll in the Chagos Archipelago had a long runway and secure if primitive facilities. It was the perfect staging area for an operation — except for the fact that it was a few thousand miles from the Gulf of Aden.
"It's a heck of a hike," Dog told Jed. "It'd be bad enough to make a bombing run up to the gulf from there. You're talkingabout patrols that have to last several hours to be effective, eight or twelve ideally. You put a four- to six-hour flight each way on top of that and you're going to have exhausted flight crews pretty quick. How about somewhere in Saudi Arabia?"
"The Saudis are pretty touchy about American military people on their soil these days," said Jed. "I don't know."
"During the Gulf War, we used an airport at Khamis Mushait for some Stealth fighters," said Dog. "It's close to the Gulf of Aden. We can scoot down to the Red Sea and get over the Gulf of Aden without crossing Yemen territory."
"I can check," said Jed. "I'll have to get back to you. There's like a thirteen hour difference between here and there. It's past eight in the evening here in D.C., five in the afternoon where you are, and, um, like past four a.m. there." Jed glanced at his watch, working out the differences. "Tomorrow. Four a.m. tomorrow."
"I can figure it out."
"If it took twelve hours to get Piranha ready, could you like, be there when? Tomorrow?"
"I have to talk to some of my people first," said the colonel. "I would guess we could arrive sometime tomorrow night our time at the very earliest. I don't know what sort of shape we'd be in to launch a mission. I'll have to get this all mapped out."
"OK, Colonel. Anything else?"
"How about tripling my budget and sending me a thousand more people?"
"Afraid I don't have that kind of pull," said Jed. "Neither do I," said Dog. "Dreamland out."
Las Vegas
1715
Danny Freah waited as the server rearranged their forks. To call the restaurant fancy was to underestimate it by half; the entrees cost twice what Danny had paid for his watch.
"You're sure no drink?" said Rosenstein as the server set down a single malt scotch. "Nothing for me. Thanks."
"Good. Very good," said Rosenstein, taking a sip. "I noticed you're an NOE."
"What's that?"
"Not Otherwise Enrolled," said Rosenstein. "Your party registration. You're not enrolled in a political party." "I haven't been involved in politics." "Unlike your wife."
"Jemma's always been pretty political."
"Nonpolitical is hot. The thing is, in that district, I'm pretty sure you could get both Democratic and Republican nominations. Conservative party as well. Not Liberal, but you're not going to want that anyway, right?"
"I don't know that I want anything."
"Still playing hard to get, Captain?"
"I'm not playing anything."
Rosenstein took a long sip of his scotch, savoring it. "I'm not here to sell you on running for office. I'll just lay out the time schedule for you. But…" He paused, obviously for effect. "War hero, young, black, well-spoken — Congress can use someone like you."
"You had me until you said well-spoken," said Danny. "You've never heard me speak."
"We can work on that. Game plan: Form a committee January 2. Make the rounds until early February. Parties meet. Get the endorsements in March. Circulate petitions. This is New York, so there will be primaries. That's not going to be the problem, as long as we've taken care of business in January and February. It'll be in your favor, actually; help get your name around. The primaries are the real action in the city anyway. Money's the only hiccup, and I think we can handle that without a problem. We usually break the donor lists down three ways to start. In your case we'll add two more — veterans and military contractors, and black professionals. Obviously, you'll do pretty well with those groups, and we want them to see you as their candidate right off. They don't translate into many votes in your district, but they'll ante up." "Ante up?"
"I'm sorry, it's Vegas, you know? Look, I do this for a living, so sometimes I get to sounding pretty cynical. Don't be put off. You won't have to worry about any of that. That's why we get a good financial chair. It's his problem. Or hers. You'll bring a different perspective to Congress, Captain. And I'm not blowing smoke in your ear. You can make a difference in Washington. Congress will be just a start. Mark my words."
Danny had hoped that meeting Rosenstein would end his ambivalence about running for political office, one way or the other. But right now he only felt more confused. He'd expected the political operative to be cynical, so he wasn't shocked that he spoke about people in terms of how much money they might be able to contribute. And by now so many people had told him that he ought to run that he was almost used to being called a "hero," even if from his point of view he was only a hardworking guy who did his job.
What confused him was his duty. Day by day in the military, in his experience, it was usually obvious: You followed orders, you accomplished your mission, you looked out for your people.
But there were higher responsibilities as well. If you had the potential to be a leader, then you should lead. That was one of the reasons he'd become an officer, and why he'd gone to college on an ROTC scholarship. Or to put it in the terms his mom would have used, "If you have the brains, don't sit on them."
So if he had a chance to be a congressman — to shape the country's laws and maybe make a difference — should he take it? Was it his responsibility to become a congressman because he could?
"Heads up, Captain. Here come our appetizers," said Rosenstein as the waiter approached.
As Danny started to sit back, the beeper on his belt went off. He glanced down at the face and saw the call was from Dreamland.
"I have to go make a phone call," he told Rosenstein, getting up.
"Colonel needs you," said Ax when he reached the base. "Said it might be a case of whiplash." "On my way," Danny snapped.
Dreamland
1930
"I don't
see the point of you deploying with us, Mack," said Dog. "There's not going to be much for you to do."
"Piranha's my project, Colonel. You put me in the slot, right? I have to liaison. Let me liaison."
"There's nothing to liaison with, Mack. You're needed here."
"I'm just twiddling my thumbs here." "You're supposed to be doing a lot more than twiddling your thumbs."
"You know what I mean, Colonel. I want to be where the action is. Hey — I'll learn to drive the Piranha. We're short on operators, right?"
"I'm not going to train you on the fly. We have Delaford and Ensign English. Zen and Starship are already checked out as backups; that gives us four operators. We can do the mission like that for a while."
"Is it because of the wheelchair?" asked Mack.
"It's not because of the wheelchair," said Dog. "But since you bring that up, I think frankly that you would be better served by continuing your rehab here."
"Ah, I'm doing fine with it."
"All the more reason to keep up with it. If you'll excuse me, I have some packing to do."
Near Karin, Somalia,
on the Gulf of Aden
4 November 1997
0431
Ali Qaed Abu Al-Harthi stood on the bow of the small boat as it approached the rocky cut. It had been a long day and night, and while not without success, Ali focused now on the loss of his crew. The dozen Yemenis aboard the missile boat had abandoned ship as soon as the missile had been fired, and then were picked up promptly, but seven good men had been in the patrol craft the Americans had blown out of the water. One was his son, Abu Qaed.
Surely Abu was at God's bosom now, enjoying the promise of Paradise. But this was of small consolation to a father, even one so devout and committed to the cause of Islamic justice as Ali.
He remembered teaching the boy math when he was only three; he recalled bringing him to the mosque for the first time; he saw him now with the proud smile on his face as they made the Hajj, the great pilgrimage to Mecca that all devout Muslims must undertake once in their lives.
Was that not the proudest day of Ali's life? To toss the stone at the Satan pillar with his strapping son at his side? He had thrown his stone and turned to watch Abu throw his.
There could be no prouder moment. There had been no moment more perfect in his life.
They had made the pilgrimage together only a year ago. Ali had gone twice before; the third was like a special gift from God.
He would trade it to have Abu. Surely he would trade his own life.
Ali gazed to the west. An ancient fishing village sat on the port side as he came toward shore. Just to the right of it a group of rocky crags leaned over the water. A weathered cement platform, now three-quarters covered by rubble, gave the only clue that the rocks had not been put there by nature.
Italian and German engineers had begun establishing a large base here during the early part of World War II. Though abandoned before it could become operational, their work provided several good hiding places, most important of which was a cave that had been intended as a submarine pen. Most of Ali's smaller craft could squeeze under the opening, making it possible to hide them completely from overhead satellites and aircraft.
A second facility sat a half mile to the west — just on the starboard side of the prow as Ali had the helmsman adjust his heading. This was a dredged mooring area of more recent vintage, though it too had been abandoned to the elements. Several rusting tankers and small merchant ships sat at permanent anchorage, everything useful long ago stripped from the hulks. Some rode high in the water, empty; others rested just below the surface, the elements having won their relentless onslaught against the metal hulls. In the early 1970s the facility had been a metal and materials salvage operation owned by a group of Somalis with connections to the government. A Marxist revolution led to a government takeover of the operation, which had more to do with the failure of the principals to pay bribes than political philosophy. The men were slaughtered and the ships soon forgotten, left to stare at the rocks. The buildings beyond had been abandoned, until Ali had set up shop here a year before. He rarely visited — the key to his success was to move constantly — but tonight he had returned to examine his prize: the dark shadow on his right, sitting well above his vessel.
So at least Abu and the others had not died in vain, Ali thought, even if it was not a trade he would have freely made.
The helmsman turned the boat to port, bringing it around toward its berth. Ali waited stoically, thinking of his son one last time. The scent of the midnight storm that had helped them escape the Americans hung in the air, a reminder of God's beneficence in the midst of struggle. The rain had been fierce but lasted only an hour; long enough, however, to confuse their enemy.
"Captain!" said the man on the pier as he jumped off the boat. "I have brought the ship in." "Saed?" Ali asked. "Yes, sir!"
"Why is the vessel not being camouflaged?"
"They only just arrived," said Saed. "The captain wanted food for his crew."
"Find him and tell him that if the ship is not properly fitted so that it looks like the other wrecks before the Russian satellite passes overhead at ten, I shall cut him into a dozen pieces with my knife. It is to take the place of the one that was destroyed yesterday. It must be as close as possible. The Russians may miss it, but the Americans will not."
The pilot nodded, then ran off.
Zeid, Ali's second-in-command, was waiting on shore. "All of the American ships are near the Yemen coast," he said. "Our people have been quite active — they make not a move without us seeing."
"Yes." Ali did not pause, but walked directly toward the building he used as both command post and personal quarters.
"The torpedoes nearly struck the American ship," said Zeid, catching up. "That would have been quite a blow."
Ali didn't answer.
"I would like to be the one to sink Satan's Tail," said Zeid, using the nickname they had given to the shadowy warship that had hunted them for the past two weeks. "It would be a moment of glory for all time."
"Yes," said Ali softly.
The American ship and its three smaller brethren had surprised him the first night it appeared, and only God had managed to save him — God and a timely distress call from the ship they'd tried to attack, saying that a man had gone overboard. Ali watched from Yemen waters as the American vessel, roughly the size of a frigate but much lower in the water, turned its daggerlike bow toward the tanker. For a moment the moonlight framed it against the waves. It had two wedge-shaped gun turrets on the forward deck; behind the superstructure, its topside looked like a piece of wood planed flat. The stern had a slot, as if it were a barracuda's tail, flapping against the waves. Satan's Tail.
And like the devil, it slipped into the shadows and was gone.
Ali almost believed it had been an apparition, but the next day the ship and one of its smaller cousins chased the patrol boat he had taken to transport some of the Egyptian brothers to Djibouti, where they could help the movement there. Satan's Tail made the journey almost impossible, and Ali nearly had to confront a Djibouti gunboat before finding a way to slip past and take his passengers to an alternative landing point north of the capital. This stretched his fuel reserves, and he was forced to appropriate some at a marina. He did not regret taking it, but it was a troublesome complication.
Since that time, Ali had worked with the knowledge that the American ships might be just over the horizon. He had mobilized his army of spies — mostly fishermen and coast watchers — to help, but reports were difficult once they were far from shore. Simple detectors in his fleet could detect the powerful radars American ships usually used, giving an hour of warning, if not more, of their approach. But these ships did not use those radars. In fact, the only radar they seemed to use was an older Italian-made radar that Ali had learned of many years before, during a long apprenticeship as a junior officer with the Italian navy. It was clearly not their only means of searching f
or him, but he had not been able to detect any aircraft operating with them, let alone the radars that such craft would field. It was possible that they were using a very sophisticated acoustical device, though if so, it was far superior to any he had seen in the NATO or Egyptian navies. The heavy traffic of the channel and shallow waters of the coast gave them some amount of protection, but Satan's Tail was a difficult adversary. He had found out tonight its guns were even more dangerous than he had feared, their salvos unlike anything he had ever seen at sea before. Like all demons, the American vessel would not be easily exorcised.
The answer, he hoped, had arrived that evening, sneaking into port during his diversionary action two hundred miles away. In itself, the vessel wasn't much. A member of the Russian Polnocny class, she had been built many years before in Poland to support landings by amphibious forces. Her upturned bow could be beached and the doors opened, allowing vehicles to roll off the large tank deck that ran through the center of the ship. But Ali wasn't interested in its ability as an amphibious warfare vessel; he had no tanks and no desire to fight on land. Indeed, the work he had spoken of to his man included modifying the deck to make the ship appear from the air as much as possible like an old junker, a local merchant ship a few months from the scrap heap.
Once the Russian and American satellites passed on their predictable schedules overhead, the real modifications would begin: the addition of advanced SS-N-2D Styx ship-to-ship missile launchers. Vastly improved over the early model fired from the Yemen missile boat, the missiles had a forty-six-mile range and included an infrared backup, allowing them to find their targets even if jammed by an electronic countermeasure system. The missiles would allow Ali to attack Satan's Tail from a distance without having a good "lock" from the radar, which he suspected would be impossible. While the odds on a single or even double shot succeeding were high, Ali believed from his training that a barrage firing in two or more waves of missiles would succeed. An anti-ECM unit built by the Indians to update the missile confused NATO close-in ship protection systems, such as those that typically used a Phalanx gun to shoot down cruise missiles. Whether the units — or even the missiles, which had been purchased from North Korea— worked would only be determined in combat. But Ali intended to find out as soon as possible.