Satan's Tail

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

superstructure, its topside looked like a piece of wood planed flat. The stern had a slot, as if it were a barracuda’s tail, flapping against the waves.

Satan’s Tail.

And like the devil, it slipped into the shadows and was gone.

Ali almost believed it had been an apparition, but the next day the ship and one of its smaller cousins chased the patrol boat he had taken to transport some of the Egyptian brothers to Djibouti, where they could help the movement there. Satan’s Tail made the journey almost impossible, and Ali nearly had to confront a Djibouti gunboat before finding a way to slip past and take his passengers to an alternative landing point north of the capital. This stretched his fuel reserves, and he was forced to appropriate some at a marina. He did not regret taking it, but it was a troublesome complication.

Since that time, Ali had worked with the knowledge that the American ships might be just over the horizon. He had mobilized his army of spies—mostly fishermen and coast watchers—to help, but reports were difficult once they were far from shore. Simple detectors in his fleet could detect the powerful radars American ships usually used, giving an hour of warning, if not more, of their approach. But these ships did not use those radars. In fact, the only radar they seemed to use was an older Italian-made radar that Ali had learned of many years before, during a long apprenticeship as a junior officer with the Italian navy. It was clearly not their only means of searching for him, but he had not been able to detect any aircraft operating with them, let alone the radars that such craft would field. It was possible that they were using a very sophisticated acoustical device, though if so, it was far superior to any he had seen in the NATO or Egyptian navies.

The heavy traffic of the cha

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demons, the American vessel would not be easily exorcised.

The answer, he hoped, had arrived that evening, sneaking into port during his diversionary action two hundred miles away. In itself, the vessel wasn’t much. A member of the Russian Polnocny class, she had been built many years before in Poland to support landings by amphibious forces.

Her upturned bow could be beached and the doors opened, allowing vehicles to roll off the large tank deck that ran through the center of the ship. But Ali wasn’t interested in its ability as an amphibious warfare vessel; he had no tanks and no desire to fight on land. Indeed, the work he had spoken of to his man included modifying the deck to make the ship appear from the air as much as possible like an old junker, a local merchant ship a few months from the scrap heap.

Once the Russian and American satellites passed on their predictable schedules overhead, the real modifications would begin: the addition of advanced SS-N-2D Styx ship-to-ship missile launchers. Vastly improved over the early model fired from the Yemen missile boat, the missiles had a forty-six-mile range and included an infrared backup, allowing them to find their targets even if jammed by an electronic countermeasure system. The missiles would allow Ali to attack Satan’s Tail from a distance without having a good

“lock” from the radar, which he suspected would be impossible. While the odds on a single or even double shot succeeding were high, Ali believed from his training that a barrage firing in two or more waves of missiles would succeed. An anti-ECM unit built by the Indians to update the missile confused NATO close-in ship protection systems, such as those that typically used a Phalanx gun to shoot down cruise missiles. Whether the units—or even the missiles, which had been purchased from North Korea—worked would only be determined in combat. But Ali intended to find out as soon as possible.

The missiles would be camouflaged as crates on the ship’s deck. The 30mm ca

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

something Ali thought would now be in his favor, since even if the vessel were properly identified, she would appear toothless.

The two men guarding the door to Ali’s headquarters snapped to attention as the commander approached. One had been a lifelong friend of his son’s; Ali remembered carrying both boys on his back when they were five. He paused, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “My son has gone tonight to Paradise,” he told the young man.

The guard’s face remained blank, not comprehending.

Inside the office, Ali knelt to the floor and bent his head in silent prayer, as was his custom. But his body shook and the words wouldn’t come. He began to sob, wracked by grief.

“It is a terrible thing to lose a son.”

Ali looked across the darkened room. Sitting in the corner was the Saudi. It had been months since they had spoken in person; Osama bin Laden’s beard seemed whiter even in the darkness.

“How did you know?” asked Ali.

“If you were a superstitious man I would tell you a lie, and you would believe, wouldn’t you, because your emotion is so great?” The Saudi rose from the chair and came toward him. He seemed much thi

“Thank you for your comfort,” he told him.

“My comfort is nothing. Allah’s comfort is all. We will have much need of it before our war is over.” He stepped back and looked at Ali, nodding. “You have done well with your fleet. The large vessel has arrived without being detected.”

“With God’s help.”

“You intend it to attack the Americans?”

“Yes.”

SATAN’S TAIL

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The Saudi nodded. It was clear that he had reservations, though it was not his way to interfere directly. He ruled largely by persuasion and was, in Ali’s experience, a very logical man, as well as a religious one.

“The Yemenis were able to contribute the vessel with their missile,” said the Saudi.

“A rotting tub with a single missile that could not be aimed properly,” said Ali. “But we made use of it. We drew the American toward us as a diversion, and nearly succeeded in striking them. They are angry.” He smiled faintly.

“Does their anger frighten you?”

“No. I welcome it.”

“You wish to avenge your son?”

“I do.”

“You should not.”

The words surprised him.

“Your son has found his place in heaven,” the Saudi explained. “You have no need for revenge in jihad. You must fight for God’s agenda, not your own. Only when you are truly pure will you succeed.”

The Saudi was prone to long speeches extolling the virtues of the righteous war and the need for God’s soldiers to be pure. Ali was not in the mood for such a speech. He lived not in the world of ideals, but in the real world, and he had just lost his son.

“I fight as I am,” he said, sitting in his chair.

“And we are all the better for it. Tell me, if you had your wish, what would it be?”

“What would I wish for? My son back beside me.”

“And?”

“Many things. More weapons, fuel for my ships. Better communications. Missiles that can be fired at long range.

More ships.”

“Airplanes?”

Ali frowned. The Ethiopians had promised several times to send aircraft to his aid, as had Yemen and Sudan. Suppos-