Satan's Tail

Whatever the law said, and whatever the geopolitical and religious implications were, Kick had been killed by fanatics.

They didn’t hate Kick specifically; they hated all westerners.

And Starship hated them.

STORM’S VOICE EXPLODED IN DOG’S EAR AS SOON AS HE

opened the circuit to the Abner Read. “You went over my head!”

“I didn’t go over your head, Captain. I informed the White House that we had a serious diplomatic situation. I need to relocate my people before things get uglier.”

“You went over my head! You instigated an incident—”

“Look, Storm, I don’t particularly like you, and it’s clear you don’t like me. But neither I nor my people instigated anything in Saudi Arabia. There was clearly a well-thought-

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out plot to provoke a riot at the entrance to the base. I reported the incident to Washington as commander of Dreamland— not as part of the Whiplash team working under your command.”

“Stop the legal bullshit, Bastian. The fact is, you talked to the White House without talking to me.”

“Actually, Storm, I did try to talk to you. You wouldn’t pick up the phone. Check with your communications officer.”

“I’m warning you, Bastian. Play by my rules.”

Dog checked his course on the navigation screen. They had to drop below three thousand feet to drop the buoy as configured, and they were still above the cloud cover at 25,000 feet.

“Are you there, Bastian?”

“I am here, Captain. As a matter of fact, I’m just double-checking where here is.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Colonel, we have a surface contact coming out of the coast near Karin, about fifty miles due south of us,” said Dish, who was operating the surface radar aboard the Wisconsin. “Thing is, I don’t have that marked as a major port, and this is a pretty big ship. Nothing in the database about a tanker or anything either.”

“Run that by Commander Delaford and see what he thinks about it,” said Dog. “Ask him if it’s worth jogging down in that direction for a look-see.”

“Bastian?”

Dog clicked his talk button. “Yes?”

“You’re to move your operation to Diego Garcia as soon as possible. Note I said possible, not convenient.”

Gee thanks, thought Dog.

“We’ll be there in twenty-four hours, if not sooner,” said Dog.

“When are you rendezvousing with my ship?”

“It’ll take us a few hours to get the probe close enough to get overhead.”

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“Make it here as quickly as you can.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Khamis Mushait Air Base

2130

WITH THINGS OUTSIDE THE GATE QUIET FOR THE MOMENT, Da

He did the latter first, scalding the desert sand out of his pores. By the time he got out he felt like a lobster—but a relaxed one. He got dressed and returned to the Dreamland Command trailer. After checking to make sure that nothing had changed outside—it hadn’t—he put through the call, trying her university office first.

“Dr. Freah.”

“Hi, Doc. I was wondering if you could cure my sore throat,” said Da

“Well, hello, stranger. Where have you been?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Have you talked to Rosenstein?”

“I’m fine, how are you?”

“Don’t duck the question.”

“I haven’t had a chance,” said Da

“There’s a party at the Guggenheim Museum two weeks from today that would be fantastic for you to attend,” said Jemma Freah. “All the important people are going to be there. It’s a cocktail party, mixing art with politics. A lot of bucks. Definitely a good place to press the flesh.”

Politics was the last thing Da

“How are you, Jem?”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Fine, but I have a class in two minutes. Can you make that party?”

Da

Would he ever feel differently?

If not, then why run for office?

“I don’t know what I’ll be doing then,” said Da

“Why not?”

“You know I can’t go into details, Jem.”

“Yeah, well, look, I have to go to class. Send me an e-mail.”

“Good idea,” he said, though he really didn’t have anything to say. In fact, he wondered why he’d bothered to call at all.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2135

STARSHIP BROUGHT THE FLIGHTHAWK SOUTH, DROPPING

through two thousand feet as he approached the lumbering ship. There were two much smaller vessels moving in its wake, twenty-foot open boats. The infrared camera in the nose of the Flighthawk painted the ship a ghostly green in the display; the angle seemed odd—the bow looked as if it poked up out of the ocean. Starship thought there was something wrong with the camera or viewer, and hit the diagnostic section for a self-test.

The test showed no problem. The ship looked to Starship SATAN’S TAIL

167

like an old oil tanker; it carried crates or something lashed to the deck.

“What do you have there?” asked Delaford.

“I don’t know. I’m getting some distortion from my infrared viewer. Bow’s kind of out of whack. I’m switching to the low light. Pretty dark, though.”

“Looks like an old amphibious vessel,” said Delaford.

“See how the bow sweeps up?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not in our database,” said Delaford. “Can you get closer?”

“I can just about land on his deck if you want.”

Starship tucked the Flighthawk into a roll, knifing down through one thousand feet. He continued to accelerate as he dropped toward the water. As the altimeter ladder ramped down through five hundred, he started to level off, getting a high g warning as he pushed the robot plane into an extremely sharp turn to take it over the ship. He leaned forward against his restraints, pushing the robot toward her limits.

For the first time on the deployment, and for one of the first times since he had started flying the U/MFs, he felt as if he were on board the tiny aircraft. He sensed the rush of gravity as he bent the wings to complete his turn. The aircraft took over 9 g’s; he could feel his body reacting, tensing and leaning against the forces the Flighthawk was encountering.

This is what Zen means, he thought to himself. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

“There used to be some sort of gun at the rear deck—at the forward area too,” said Delaford, somewhere far behind him.

Starship poured on the dinosaurs, accelerating back toward the Megafortress. He was still low, barely a hundred feet over the waves. He began another turn, banking much more gently, lining up for a run over the bow area for another angle.

Delaford was talking over the interphone, telling him about the ship: “The Somalians had a large Russian vessel that was designed as an amphibious ship. It was supposed to 168

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be used to transport tanks and equipment. Hasn’t been used in at least five years. This is probably it, patched up to be used as a freighter, or more likely being taken to a salvage operation. Stolen, maybe.”