Satan's Tail d-7

by Dale Brown

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

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

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

  "Um, the security implications—"

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

  "I think that would work," said Freeman.

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

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

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

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

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  0528

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

  Except he wasn't there.

  "Jeff?" she murmured.

  No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

  Dunkin' Donuts.

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

  Boston beamed.

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

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

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

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

  "Prepping for his next mission."

  "He is? Already?"

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

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

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

  "That's my plane. And my mission."

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

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

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

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

  "Hey, Captain," said Spiderman.

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

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

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

  Zen started laughing. The others backed away from the

  table.

  "Um, sirs?" said the Marine.

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

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

  She spun and left the trailer.

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

  Approaching the Abner Read

  1110

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

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

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

  "Colonel Bastian, welcome aboard, sir."

  "Thank you," said Bastian.

  "Do you have a bag or aides, sir?"

  "No, I'm it."

  "Captain Gale is this way, sir."

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

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

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

  "Bastian?"

  "That's me."

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

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

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

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

  Both men gave him grim smiles as they exchanged greetings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "This is the bridge," said Storm.

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

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

  "How much longer?" Storm asked the ensign.

  "Another two and half hours, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Thanks," said Dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Hmmph."

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

  "What gaps?"

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

  "Blimps?"

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

  "Pirates will just shoot them down."

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

  "Yes."

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

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

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

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

  Storm scowled, but then nodded. "Agreed."

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

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

  Gee, thanks, you SOB, thought Dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Khamis Mushait Air Base

  1238

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

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

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

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

  "How many people?"

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

  "I can imagine."

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