Satan's Tail

by Dale Brown

  The three smaller craft that had accompanied the Abner Read to the Gulf of Aden looked a bit like miniature versions of her. Officially called Littoral Warfare Craft, or LWCs, they were designed from the keel up to work with the DD(L). Not only did their captains receive orders from a commander in the DD(L)’s tactical center, but the ship received sensor data as well—each had an integrated imaging system on her bridge identical to the one on the Abner Read.

  The vessels were crewed by only fifteen men, and in fact could be taken into combat by as few as five, though the mission had shown that a somewhat larger complement would be more comfortable. About 40 meters long, they were roughly the size of a coastal patrol boat and needed only twelve feet of draft at full load displacement. The vessels had a 25mm gun on the forward deck, a pair of multipurpose missile launchers—loaded, in this case, with Harpoon antiship missiles—toward the stern, and below-waterline torpedo and mine dispensers. Smaller than the Abner Read, they had a correspondingly smaller radar signature. Their long, knifelike bows and finlike superstructures had led inevitably to a warlike nickname: Shark Boats.

  XP Group 1—better known as Xray Pop—was one of twelve proposed integrated littoral warfare combat groups that would eventually combine surface warfare ships with unmanned helicopters and aerial vehicles, small submarines, and Marine combat teams. But like Xray Pop, the littoral warfare concept was still very much a work in progress. The Navy had said “XP” stood for “extended patrol.” The sailors who manned the ships knew it actually meant “expect problems.”

  Storm firmly believed littoral warfare was the Navy’s future. The teething pains he suffered on this maiden mission would help shape warfare for the next fifty years. He’d freed Xray Pop from the engineering spaces and Pentagon offices and dragged littoral warfare out into the real world, and he meant to show it would work.

  Which meant sinking the bastards in the little boats.

  “One of the unidentified patrol craft is heading in our direction,” said Eyes.

  “Do they see us?”

  “Not sure.”

  Storm moved back to the window of the bridge. The UAVs designed to operate off the ship’s fantail were running nearly eighteen months behind schedule. Without them, the Abner Read had no beyond-the-horizon capability and in fact had a very limited weapons range. Storm hadn’t intended on operating completely without airborne cover—a pair of P-3 Orions from the Seventh Fleet had been moved up to Kuwait to provide reconnaissance during his operation. But the P-3s had been pulled out for higher priority missions in the Philippines, and the promised replacements had not materialized. And while he had been offered helicopters, these were still back in Pearl Harbor, as near as he could determine.

  Not that he would have wanted them anyway. They were too big for the Abner Read‘s low-slung hangar area, which had been designed for the UAVs. They’d have had to be lashed to the helipad.

  “More contacts,” said Eyes. “Two more patrol boats. I think these are the Somalians, Captain.”

  “They’re a bit far from home,” said Storm, feeling his heart beginning to pound. “Are you sure these are not Yemen craft?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  Storm could hear the voices of the others in the background, ringing out as more information flooded the sensors.

  The Tactical Warfare Center was a Combat Information Center on steroids. A holographic display similar to the smaller one on the bridge dominated the compartment. Synthesized from all of the available sensor inputs on the ship, as well as external ones piped in over the shared Littoral Warfare Network, the display showed the commander everything in the battle area. It also could provide scenarios for confronting an enemy, which made it useful for planning.

  Tac also held the Abner Read‘s radar, sonar, and weapons stations.

  Two more contacts were made, then a third: Storm felt the adrenaline rising throughout the ship, the scent of blood filtering through the environmental system—the Abner Read was on the hunt.

  “Two more boats. Small coastal craft.”

  “No markings.”

  “Deck guns on one.”

  “Another contact. Something bigger.”

  “Storm, we have an Osa II,” said Eyes. “Definitely a Yemen boat—what’s he doing out?”

  The Osa II was a Russian-made missile boat that carried Soviet-era SSN-2A/B “Styx” surface-to-surface missiles. A potent craft when first designed, the Osas were now long in the tooth but packed a reasonable wallop if well-skippered and in good repair. The Yemen ships were neither.

  Storm studied the tactical display. The Osa II flickered at the far end of the hologram, about five miles away.

  “Looks like they’re getting ready to attack the tanker,” said Commander Marcum.

  “Good,” Storm told the ship’s captain.

  “Gunfire! They’re shooting across the tanker’s bow!” Eyes paused for only a second, gathering information from one of the crewmen manning the high-tech systems below. “The oil tanker is radioing for assistance. They are under attack.”

  “Weapons,” said Storm.

  “Weapons!” repeated the captain, addressing his weapons’ officer.

  “Weapons,” bellowed the officer on duty in the weapons’

  center, Ensign Hacienda. The ensign’s voice was so loud Storm might have been able to hear it without the communications gear.

  “Prepare to fire the gun,” said Marcum.

  “Ready, sir.”

  “At your order, Storm.”

  The gun was a 155mm Advanced Gun System, housed in the sleek box on the forward deck. The weapon fired a variety of different shells, including one with a range of nearly one hundred miles that could correct its flight path while on course for its target. At the moment, the Abner Read carried only unguided or “ballistic” ammunition, which had a range of roughly twenty-two miles—more than enough to pound one of the boats firing on the tanker.

  “Eyes, give them fair warning,” said Storm.

  “Aye, Captain.” The disdain for the rules of engagement was evident in his voice. Storm shared the sentiment, though he did not voice his opinion.

  “No acknowledgment. Attack is continuing. We—” Eyes was nearly drowned out by a stream of curses from one of the men on duty in the Tactical Center. Storm knew exactly what had happened—the computer had gone off-line again, probably as they attempted to transmit a fresh warning in Arabic using the computer system’s prerecorded message capability. It was one of the more problematic modules in the integrated computing system. It would take at least a full minute to bring it back.

  The tanker’s running lights were visible in the distance.

  Storm picked up his glasses and scanned the horizon. They were still too far from the small patrol boats to see them, even with the infrared.

  “Missile in the air!”

  The warning came not from one of the men on the bridge or the Tactical Center, but from the computer system, which used a real-language module for important warnings. Talking wasn’t the only thing it did: In the time it took Storm to glance down at the threat screen on the Abner Read‘s “dashboard” at the center of the bridge, the computer had managed to identify the weapon and predict its course.

  A Styx antiship missile.

  “Well, we know which side he’s on,” said Storm sarcastically. “Countermeasures. Target the Osa II.” The ship’s captain moved to implement the instructions.

  He didn’t need Storm to tell him what to do—and in fact he wouldn’t have been ship’s captain of the Abner Read if he weren’t among the most competent commanders in the Navy—but he also knew Storm well enough to realize the captain wouldn’t sit in the background, especially in combat.

  “Computer IDs the missile as a type P-20M with an MS-2A seeker,” said Eyes.

  The MS-2A was a solid-state radar that featured the ability to home in on the electronic countermeasures—or ECMs—being used to jam it.

  “Is he locked on us?” asked
Commander Marcum.

  “Negative. Trajectory makes it appear as if he fired without radar, maybe hoping we’d go to the ECMs and he’d get a lock.”

  Or it was fired ineptly, which Storm thought more likely.

  Nonetheless, they had to act as if it were the former.

  The holographic information system projected the missile’s path—a clean miss. As Eyes said, the missile was aimed well wide of them; it would hit the ocean about a half mile to the south.

  “Belay ECMs,” said Marcum. “Repeat: no countermeasures. Target the missile boat with our gun.” Storm nodded. Marcum really understood how to fight these guys. He’d make a good group commander down the road.

  “Missile is on terminal attack,” warned the computer.

  The Styx missile slid downward, riding just a few feet above the waves, where it was extremely difficult to stop.

  One of the Phalanx 20mm Gatling guns that provided close-in antiair coverage rotated at the rear of the ship, tracking the antiship missile as it passed. A yellow cone glowed in the holographic display, and the gun engaged, obliterating the missile at long range, even though it wasn’t a threat.

  A problem with the program of the automated defensive weapons system, Storm noted. It tended to be somewhat overprotective—not necessarily a bad thing, but something that could stand a little tweaking.

  “Torpedoes!” sang the computer.

  “Toward us or the tanker?” Storm demanded.

  “Not sure,” said Eyes, who was scrambling to make sense of what was going on.

  “Who fired the torpedoes? The missile boat?” said Marcum.

  “Negative—they must have come from the patrol craft.

  That’s a new development.”

  The patrol craft were relatively small, and until now had not been seen with torpedo tubes on their decks. Storm decided this was a compliment, in a way—after a week of running off, they’d decided to change their tactics.

  The tanker was about three miles off their port bow, with the attacking pirates slightly to starboard. This was not the usual pattern of attacks—ordinarily four or five fast patrol boats and a few small speedboats would charge a slow-moving, heavily laden ship, fire a few dozen slugs to get its attention, and then send a heavily armed boarding party aboard. The ship’s captain would be persuaded to phone his company headquarters and have a transfer made to an offshore account specially set up for the night. Once the transfer was made—the amount would be about ten thousand dollars, relatively small considering the value of the cargo—the tanker would be allowed to go on its way. The small “fee” charged helped guarantee that the pirates would get it; most multinational companies considered it a pittance, cheaper than a port tax—or trying to prosecute the perpetrators.

  “Those torpedoes are definitely headed in our direction,” said Eyes. “We don’t have guidance data.” Marcum ordered evasive action. As the helmsman put the Abner Read into a sharp turn, the ship’s forward torpedo tubes opened, expelling a pair of small torpedolike devices.

  They swam about a quarter of a mile; at that point, the skin peeled away from their bellies and they began emitting a thick fog of bubbles. The air in the water created a sonic fog in the water similar to the noise made by the ship. The destroyer, meanwhile, swung onto a new course designed to minimize its profile to the enemy.

  “They must have guessed we’d be nearby,” said Marcum.

  “I think they homed in on our radio signal when we tried to warn the oiler and threw everything they had at us. Rules of engagement, Captain. They make no sense.”

  “Noted for the record,” said Storm.

  And wholeheartedly agreed with.

  “Tanker captain says he’s been fired on,” reported communications. “Asking for assistance.”

  “Inform him we intend to help him,” said Storm.

  The ship took a hard turn to port, still working to duck the rapidly approaching torpedoes.

  “Steady, now, Jones,” Marcum told the man at the helm as the ship leaned hard toward the water. The helmsman had put a little too much into the maneuver; the Abner Read‘s bow tucked well below the waves as she spun. The ship for-gave him, picking her bow up and stabilizing in the proper direction.

  “Torpedo one has passed. Torpedo two has self-destructed,” said the computer.

  “They’re running for it,” said Eyes.

  “They can’t run fast enough,” answered Storm. “Full active radar. Target the missile ship. I want him for dinner.”

  Dreamland

  3 November 1997

  0901

  DOG LOOKED UP AT THE FAMILIAR KNOCK. CHIEF MASTER Sergeant Terrence “Ax” Gibbs appeared in the doorway, head cocked in a way that indicated the chief wanted to talk to the colonel in confidence for a few moments. Bastian might be the commander of Dreamland—the Air Force’s secret high-tech development facility in the Nevada desert—but Ax Gibbs was the oil that made the vast and complicated engine run smoothly.

  “Chief?”

  “Couple of things, couple of things,” said Ax, sliding into the office.

  Dog knew from the tone in the chief’s voice that he was going to once again bring up their chronic personnel shortages. He reached to his coffee cup for reinforcement.

  “Need a refresher?” asked Ax.

  “No thanks.”

  “I’ve been looking at head counts …” Ax began, introducing a brief lecture that compared Dreamland’s overall workforce to a number of other Air Force commands and facilities, as well as DARPA—the Department of Defense Advanced Research Program Agency—and a number of private industry think tanks. The study was impressive for both its breadth and depth. Ax’s numbers not only compared overall positions, but broke them down to real-life instances, such as the number of people sweeping the floors. (Dreamland had exactly two people doing this, both airmen with a long list of other duties. The men had been drafted—to put it euphemistically—into the service when budget cuts eliminated the contract civilian cleaners.)

  “… and we’re not even considering the fact that a good portion of the head count here is also involved in Whiplash,” added Ax. He was referring to Dreamland’s “action” component, which included a ground special operations team, headed by Danny Freah, as well as whatever aircraft were needed for the mission.

  “Preaching to the converted,” said Dog.

  “Yes, but I do have an idea,” said Ax. “Congresswoman Kelly.”

  “Congresswoman Kelly?”

  “Congresswoman due in next week on the VIP tour,” said Ax. “She has a staffer who has a brother in the Air Force. If a nonclassified version of the report were to find its way into the staffer’s hands …”

  “No thank you,” said Dog curtly. He reached for some of the papers Ax had brought in.

  “Colonel—”

  “I don’t want to play Washington games.”

  “With respect, sir.”

  Dog put down the papers and looked up at the chief. Ax’s lips were pressed together so firmly that his jowls bulged.

  “Ax, you know you can speak freely to me any time,” said Dog. “Hell, I expect it. None of this ‘with respect’ shit. You want to call me a jackass, go for it. You’ve earned it.”

  “Colonel … Dog.” The chief pulled over the nearby chair and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk.

  “Your people are really busting. Really, really busting.”

  “I know that.”

  “We have to get more people here. And that’s true everywhere. Dr. Rubeo was saying—”

  “Ray could find a cloud over the desert, and does so regularly.”

  “Even the scientists are overworked. Jennifer has what, five different projects going? She’s been the main test pilot on the Werewolves after Sandy Culver and Zen. Did you know that?”

  “Did I?” Dog laughed. “She brags about it all the time.”

  “Well, now I like her a lot, but she has other things she’s gotta do. And the rest of the p
eople here, hell, they’re as bad or worse. Civilian scientists, military officers, and enlisted—they’re all overworked workaholics. Problem is, Colonel, sooner or later the people who can leave will leave.

  Sooner or later, when you haven’t had a chance to sleep in a week, it catches up to you.”

  “Who hasn’t slept in a week?”

  Ax rose from the chair.

  “I’ll do what I can, Ax,” said Dog. “But I’m not sneaking through the back corridors of Congress to get what we need.”

  “Yes, sir. Major Smith is outside, reporting for duty.” Ax opened the door before Dog could say anything else.

  Mack Smith was sitting in the outer office, flirting with the secretary.

  “Mack,” said Dog, getting up. “I thought you were in rehab.”

  “I am,” said Smith. He turned awkwardly in his wheelchair and rolled toward the doorway. Even though the door had been widened after Zen returned to active duty, it was a tight squeeze. It took Mack a few seconds to maneuver through the doorway.

  “Major Mack Smith, formerly of the Brunei Royal Air Force, reporting for active duty,” said Smith.

  “I thought we agreed you would use the facilities here but wait to get back to work until the doctors gave you a clean bill of health.”

  “Ah, the doctors say I’m fine.”

  “The doctors said there’s no reason you won’t get your legs back. That’s not quite fine.”

  “What do the doctors know? Besides, Zen didn’t wait.”

  “Zen’s circumstances were different,” said Dog.

  “Sure. He had a high-powered lawyer read the Air Force and the DoD the riot act,” said Mack. “And he was related to the base commander.”

  Dog bristled. Zen was his son-in-law, but he had had nothing to do with his reinstatement.

  “Zen was posted here before I arrived,” said Dog.

  “Look, Colonel, the thing is—I’m bored out of my skull, right? I’m going through rehab. I have to come onto the base every day. Might as well put me to work, right?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to put you to work, Mack.”