Satan's Tail d-7

by Dale Brown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  State.

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

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

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

  "Me?"

  "Go ahead."

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

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

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

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

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

  Douceur. What did that mean? Sweetness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Jed forced a smile. His fingers were freezing again.

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

  Maniacs maybe, thought Jed.

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

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

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

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

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

  Jed opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  "Cat got your tongue?" said the man.

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

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

  State.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Like a Coast Guard cutter?"

  Jed frowned. "Well, not exactly."

  "Is it from Dreamland?" asked another woman.

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

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

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

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

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

  Jed followed them out into the hallway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gulf of Aden

  9 November 1997

  0601

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The men nodded solemnly.

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

  Diego Garcia

  0900

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

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

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

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

  "Lay off," said Mack.

  "Why?"

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

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

  "Zen, go easy," said Breanna.

  "I'm just encouraging him."

  "No, you're not."

  "He's a wimp gimp."

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

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

  "Screw yourself."

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

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

  * * *

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

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

  "Doctor's orders."

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

  "You're being damn cruel."

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

  "No, you don't."

  "Fuck yourself, Bree."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  him?

  Why the hell not him?

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

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

  Just as well, he thought. Just as well.

  Aboard the Abner Read

  0800

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

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

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

  Hack it together. Yes.

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

  Drool was practically coming out of his mouth.

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

  "Where's the pilot?" asked Storm.

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

  "A man?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Diego Garcia

  1100

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

  Lieut:

  You probably don't remember me. I got your e-mail address from Kick's sister. I am their minister. Our conversation in the kitchen that day has stayed with me. You seem to be a wandering soul. I hope you find solace. For me, I've always found it in the "Good Book."

  — Rev. Gerry