Satan’s Tail

‘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 torpedo-like 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 forgave 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 people 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.’

‘I can get a high-priced lawyer if I have to,’ said Mack. ‘I hear Zen’s is available. Us gimps have to hang together.’

Dog felt his face flush at the word ‘gimps.’

‘You’re worried that I won’t do the crap work, right?’ added Mack. ‘You’re looking at a new man, Colonel. Brunei taught me a lot.’

‘One of the things it taught you is that you don’t like administrative crap work,’ said Dog. ‘You told me that yourself. Several times.’

‘I don’t like it, but I’ll do it. Same as you. We’re not that different, you and me, Colonel. We like to have our sleeves rolled up,’ he added.

God help me, thought Dog, if I have anything in common with Mack Smith. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘There are a lot of things that need to be done. None of them involve flying.’

‘Who’s flying? Bring them on.’

‘The Piranha program needs a liaison. Someone who can work with the Navy people to help them move it to the next phase.’

‘Right up my alley,’ said Mack. ‘A big part of my job in Brunei was interfacing with Navy people.’

He was referring to his position as head of the Brunei air force, which had in fact required him to work with members of the country’s other military services. From all reports – including Mack’s – it had not gone well.

Piranha was one of several Navy projects being developed under contract at Dreamland. An underwater robot probe, it could be controlled by ship, submarine, or aircraft and operate for several weeks without needing to be refueled. The technology that guided it was similar to the technology used in the Flighthawks, which was one of several reasons it was being developed here. Dreamland had used Piranha to halt a nuclear war between India and China.

‘What else do you want me to do?’ asked Mack.

‘Let’s start there. Remember, you’re a liaison, not the program director.’

‘I’m the idea guy,’ said Mack. ‘Got it.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Don’t worry, Colonel. I have it. Listen, I really appreciate this. I won’t forget it, believe me. I’m happy to be back. Like I said, Brunei taught me a lot. This is a new Mack Smith you’re looking at.’

As the major rolled out of the office, Dog struggled to keep his opinion of how long the new Mack Smith would last to himself.

Aboard the Abner Read 3 November 1997 1942

‘We have a lock on the Osa missile boat,’ reported Weapons.

‘Marcum, he’s yours to sink,’ said Storm.

‘One of the patrol boats is turning toward us,’ warned Eyes.

‘Torpedo in the water,’ warned the computer.

‘Fire,’ said Commander Marcum.

A deep-throated rap from the front of the ship drowned out the acknowledgment as the number one gun began spitting out shells, one every five seconds. The holographic display did not delineate every hit – the designers thought this would be too distracting – but the target flashed red as the barrage continued.

‘Direct hit,’ reported Eyes. ‘Target demolished.’

‘Evasive action,’ said Marcum. ‘Evade the torpedoes.’

The crew sprang to comply. One of the torpedoes stayed on target with the Abner Read despite the countermeasures, and the lithe vessel swayed as the helmsman initiated a fresh set of maneuvers. The torpedo finally passed a hundred yards off their port side, detonating a few seconds later.

‘Close the distance on the patrol boat that fired at us,’ Marcum told the man at the wheel.

The helmsman pushed at the large lever that worked the computer governing the ship’s engines. They were already at full speed.

‘UI-1 is about a minute from Yemen waters,’ reported Eyes. ‘Outside of visual range. The others are well beyond him.’

‘I have a lock on target designated as UI-1,’ said the weapons officer.

‘Captain, it’s my responsibility to report that the target ship is approaching Yemen territorial waters,’ said Commander Marcum. ‘Our rules of engagement prohibit sinking a vessel outside of neutral waters.’

‘Are you giving me advice?’ Storm asked.

‘Sir, I’m operating under your orders. I was to notify you of our status prior to engagement …’ Commander Marcum paused. ‘I want to sink the son of a bitch myself.’

‘Noted. Sink him.’

‘Weapons: fire!’

‘Firing.’

Both guns rumbled. Within thirty seconds the patrol craft had been obliterated.

The three other pirate vessels had disappeared. Relatively small contacts, they were easily lost in the clutter near the irregular coast. The computer generated approximate positions from their last known citing, rendering them yellow clouds in the holographic projection. They were well inside Yemen territorial waters – out of bounds.

Storm turned his attention to the three Shark Boats. He directed One and Two to sail westward, hoping to catch the patrol boats if they went in that direction. The third would remain to the east, in case they went that way. The Abner Read, meanwhile, would search for survivors from one of the two vessels they had just sunk; if recovered, he might be persuaded to share what he knew.

Storm clicked his communications channel into a public address mode that allowed him to communicate not just with all personnel aboard the Abner Read, but with everyone in the combat group.

‘All hands, this is Captain Gale,’ said Storm. ‘The DD (L) 01 Abner Read has sunk its first enemy combatants in action this November 3, 1997. I was privileged to witness the finest crew in the U.S. Navy undertake this historic mission, and I commend everyone, from Commander Robert Marcum to Seaman Bob Anthony – Bobby, I think you’re our youngest crewman,’ he added. Storm turned and saw Marcum grinning and nodding. ‘It was a hell of a job all around. Xray Pop has been christened, ladies and gentlemen. Now look sharp; there’s still a great deal to be done tonight.’

Humboldt County, northwestern California 3 November 1997 1205

Lieutenant Kirk ‘Starship’ Andrews got out of the car he had rented in Los Angeles and walked across the gravel parking lot toward the church. He could hear the strains of an organ as he approached; he was late for his friend’s memorial service.

He was thankful, actually. He felt he owed it to Kick to be here, but didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone, Kick’s parents especially. He just didn’t know what to say.

The music stopped just as Starship came in through the back door. He moved quickly toward the last pew in the small church, eyes cast toward the floor. The minister began reading from the Second Book of Chronicles, a selection from the Old Testament of the Bible concerning the bond between Solomon and God: ‘“Give me now wisdom and knowledge, that I may go out and come in before this people.”’

The passage spoke of wisdom and riches; the minister used it as a starting point as he asked God for the wisdom needed to accept a young man’s death. The reverend spoke frankly of the difficulty of comprehending the loss. ‘Lieutenant James Colby was a hero,’ he said. ‘But that does not make his loss any easier for us to take.’

Was Kick a hero? wondered Starship. He was a decent pilot and a hard worker; he’d been brave and seen combat. But was he a hero?

Kick had died in the line of duty, caught in a Megafortress when it crashed during an aborted takeoff in Malaysia after guerrillas had seized the kingdom of Brunei. Starship had been on the aircraft himself, strapped in next to Kick on the control deck for the Flighthawks. The fact that he was here and Kick wasn’t, he thought, was just a matter of dumb, stupid luck. Bad luck.

If he had died, would he be a hero?

Starship listened as the service continued with different friends recounting their memories of Kick. He’d gotten his nickname not from the high school football team – which was the story Kick had told – but from peewee soccer. It came during his first game as a six-year-old, when he scored a goal. The nickname had stuck from there, becoming widespread in high school, where he’d switched to football and set a county scoring record booting extra points and field goals.

Starship’s mind drifted as the service continued. If the luck had run differently – if he had been the one who got the freak piece of shrapnel, and the sudden shock that combined to do Kick in – what would people be saying about him?

Smart kid – number three in his high school class and in the top five percent at the Academy.

Should have chosen a few more gut classes and got top honors.

Won an assignment to Dreamland on the cutting edge of aviation.