by Dale Brown
"This is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian," Dog told the man who had answered the phone. "Is Ms. O'Day there?" "Do you know what time it is?"
"I'm afraid it's very early," said Dog. "Unfortunately, a good friend of hers is in trouble, and I have only a limited time to talk to her about it."
"Hold on."
Dog hadn't spoken to Deborah O'Day since she left the administration. The former National Security Advisor was now a college professor in Maine. Contrary to what he had told the man who answered the phone, Dog did know what time it was there — five-thirty a.m. — but it seemed more tactful to feign ignorance.
"Colonel Bastian, Auld Lang Syne."
"Ms. O'Day. How are you?"
"Well, I'm OK, Dog. I'm guessing you're not. What's wrong?"
"A friend of ours is in some sort of trouble. Something serious enough for him not to want to talk about it."
"Who?"
"Jed Barclay." "Jed Barclay. Jed?" "He's still at the NSC."
"Oh, I know where Jed is. He's doing very well. I keep track of all my boys — even you, Tecumseh. I remember the first time I brought him into a meeting with the President at the White House. God, what an awful tie he wore." She laughed. "As I remember, Dog, you didn't have a particularly high opinion of him."
"Well, he kind of grows on you. And maybe I was wrong. You might give him a call. I happen to know he's in his apartment."
"Same number?"
"I'm just guessing, but I'd say yes." "I'll talk to him." "I appreciate that."
"How are you, Dog? How's Martindale treating you?" "Fine."
"Be careful of him, Tecumseh."
"I will." Dog had a different opinion of the President than O'Day did, but this wasn't the time or place to discuss it.
"I'm sorry about the memorial service. I couldn't have made it through. He was a great, great man." Her voice choked up. "I loved him."
"We all miss the general," said Dog. Neither of them had to mention Brad Elliott by name. Ms. O'Day had not attended the service, even though the two had been very close prior to his death.
"I'll watch out for Jed."
"So will I."
"Auld Lang Syne," said O'Day. "Auld Lang Syne."
* * *
From the point of view of the Dreamland flight crews, the mission was straightforward. They'd get to the area around 2300. Zen, aboard the Wisconsin, would handle the Flighthawk flyover of the pirate area and cover the landing. One of the two Flighthawks would be "parked" in an orbit above the battlefield, providing real-time visuals for the ground team commander, Danny Freah. The other would provide fire support. Baker-Baker would patrol farther north, watching for ships that might launch an attack from the Yemen side of the Gulf. Each Megafortress would have a Piranha operator aboard: Delaford in Baker-Baker and Ensign English in Wisconsin. The Megafortress closest to the probe would control it; at the start of the mission that would be English. Once the submarine was destroyed, the probe could be recovered, either by Danny Freah and the Whiplash team or Shark Boat One. The Megafortress weapons bays would carry Harpoon missiles exclusively. The Ethiopians had been quiet since losing their planes, and between the Flighthawks and the air defenses aboard the Abner Read, they would have plenty of cover.
"I'd put Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses in as well," said Mack, interrupting Zen as he discussed the capabilities of the other air forces in the region.
"Yeah." Zen rolled his eyes. Everyone involved in the mission — and a lot of people who weren't — had gathered for the brief, so they'd had to hold it in the common room in the administration building. "As I was saying, Yemen has been putting its aircraft on alert and turning its radar systems on and off, but they don't seem like they're interested in doing more than that. Did I mention that the Flighthawks aboard Wisconsin will be Hawk One and Hawk Two?" "I wouldn't take Yemen too lightly," said Mack. Zen ignored him.
"Hawk One and Two are mine. Starship, flying in Baker-Baker Two, will have Hawk Three and Hawk Four."
"The MiGs are pretty capable," said Mack.
"Yemen does have MiG-29s," said Zen. "The radar operators will be on the alert for that — as they have every mission."
"Pays to be alert," said Mack.
"And we will watch them carefully," said Zen. "Because of the length of the mission, we've arranged for a tanker to accompany us. We'll run the usual routine. We'll tank, gas up, head out. Tanker will come up for a second top-off after the mission concludes, or obviously if we need it earlier. Baker-Baker Two—"
"When are we going to get real names for the Megafortresses?" said Mack. "Baker-Baker Two sounds like a racehorse or something."
"We'll get new names when you start walking again," snapped Zen.
There was a hush in the room, and Zen realized he'd gone too far. But he was damned if he was going to apologize. Mack was quiet for the rest of the brief.
"All right," said Dog when they were done. "Let's clear the seas of these scum."
"I can handle the two Flighthawks, no sweat," said Star-ship, coming over to Zen as the meeting broke up.
"Do it like it's a simulation," Zen told him, gathering his papers.
"No, it's a little different," said the lieutenant. "It's like— it's different. A simulation, I mean it looks the same, but it's not. You can't really feel it."
"Don't get philosophical on me," said Zen, though he thought he knew what he meant. There was a difference, as hard as it was to put into words. "Just fly."
"I will."
"When are you going to give it up?" said Mack behind him.
Zen ignored him, snapping his bag closed. He started to wheel away, but Mack — with what must have been a superhuman effort for him — managed to cut in front of the door and block his way.
"When are you going to stop?" said Mack.
"Stop what, Mack?" asked Zen.
"Stop riding me. As soon as I say one thing—"
"You make stupid comments, Mack. It's pretty much all you ever do."
"Because I'm in a wheelchair."
"No. That's about the only good thing that's ever happened to you."
"You're an asshole."
"Excuse me, I have a mission to run," Zen told him. "Why don't you get off your ass and do something valuable?"
Starship put his hand on the back of Zen's wheelchair. "Say, Zen?"
Zen brushed his hand away. There were about a half-dozen other people still in the room, standing back uncomfortably.
"I'd walk if I could," said Mack. "I'm not faking it."
"I gotta go," said Zen, trying to squeeze by.
"Why the hell are you riding my case?" demanded Mack.
"Because you can walk, asshole." Zen spun back into the room so he could face him. "Get your butt out of that chair and walk."
"The hell with you."
"Walk!"
"You think I'm faking this?"
"It's all in your stinking ass mind. The doctors all told you — you bruised your spinal column. Nothing more. It's better now. You can walk."
"Like hell I can."
"Come on, you wimp."
Mack reared back as if to punch him.
"Go ahead," said Zen. "Hit me."
"I oughta, you bastard. You blame me for making you a cripple."
"You bet your ass I do, chickenshit. Hit me."
"Screw yourself." Mack started to turn his chair to go through the door.
Zen pushed forward and grabbed the wheel. "Hit me, you coward. Go ahead — hit me."
Mack spun around and took a swing. Though surprised, Zen ducked it easily.
"That the best you can do?"
"If you weren't a cripple I'd beat the crap out of you."
"Try it. I ain't a cripple. I ain't a fucking cripple at all. My legs don't work but I ain't no goddamn cripple. Not like you. I could crawl over there and strangle you if I wanted."
Zen saw Mack's glare tighten. He pushed his chair backward just in time as Mack threw a roundhouse — and missed, falling from the wheelchair face
first on the ground.
"Lie there like the coward wimp you are," said Zen.
Mack bolted upright with a scream, launching himself on Zen so ferociously that Zen just barely kept the wheelchair upright, darting backward under the weight of Mack's blows. Strengthened by more than two years of regular, strenuous workouts, Zen's upper body was more than a match for Mack's, but even so, he had a hard time fending off Mack's blows, and the chair backed all the way to the wall, slamming against it with a teeth-jarring smash. Mack flailed and punched as Zen grabbed for a handhold. Only as Mack's fury began to exhaust itself did Zen manage to hold him upright and off him.
"You're standing, asshole. You're standing," Zen told him.
Mack looked down at his legs. He was standing, though in fact Zen was holding most of his weight. Slowly, Zen pushed him further upright. He let go with his right hand, then, looking at Mack, he let go with his left.
Tears streamed down Mack's face. He took a step— unsteady, trembling, but it was a real step.
"You're still a fucking asshole, Mack," said Zen, turning and rolling from the room, leaving Mack Smith standing on his own two feet for the first time in more than a month.
VIII
Bloodthirst
Alexandria,
near Washington, D.C.
10 November 1997
0600
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."
Aboard the Abner Read
2300
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 th
e 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."
Gulf of Aden
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.