Satan's Tail

He explained that they had been ordered to leave, and were currently arranging to do just that. He covered a few administrative details, begi

“Saudis have been letting us eat over at the cafeteria,”

Da

Dancer smiled. “Best to spring that on them at the last minute.”

Da

“Details about a lot of our systems are classified,” Da

“They’re not people, they’re Marines.” Dancer smiled.

“Don’t worry. They won’t tell anybody the secrets to your success. But if I were you, I’d check on that poker game right away. My guys can be ruthless when the stakes are high.”

178

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2350

“WHAT’S PIRANHA’S STATUS?” DOG ASKED DELAFORD.

“Still swimming merrily along,” he said. “But we’re going to have to drop another buoy soon.”

“You have a location for me?”

“Same as before,” said Delaford. “Here.”

The computer took the plot from Delaford’s system and integrated it into the sitrep map on Dog’s cockpit panel. The Megafortress was about fifty miles due north of Mayhd on the Somalian coast. To reach the next drop point he’d have to swing eastward about thirty miles, which would mean taking the Flighthawk with him. They could watch the two ships by radar easily enough.

“We’ll drop this buoy, but we may have to put the probe to sleep,” Dog told Delaford.

“I’d really prefer to avoid that if we can, Colonel,” said Delaford. “We’d be better off putting it into autonomous mode and letting it go on its own to a rendezvous point.”

“Sleep mode” was just that—the probe turned most of its systems off and sat in the water until receiving a signal to re-activate. “Autonomous mode” meant that it would use its internal system to take it to a specific point in the ocean. The discussion on what to do mixed tactical considerations with technical ones—the probes failed to wake up from sleep mode about twenty-five percent of the time. On the other hand, autonomous mode wasn’t foolproof either—the internal navigation system was prone to small errors, which multiplied into tens if not hundreds of miles over time.

“All right, this is what we’re going to do,” Dog said finally. “We’ll send Piranha west and rendezvous with it somewhere north of Butyallo or Caluula, small towns on the Somalian coast. In the meantime, we’ll drop one last buoy.”

“Sounds good,” said Delaford.

“Starship, hang back near the Oman ship as long as you SATAN’S TAIL

179

can, then come east with me for the duration of the buoy drop,” Dog told the Flighthawk pilot.

“On it, Colonel.”

“Let’s do it.”

Gulf of Aden

8 November 1997

0012

ALI PUT DOWN HIS GLASSES AND CHECKED HIS WATCH. THEY

were more than a hundred miles from the rendezvous point for the submarine. They had made very poor progress for a number of reasons, including false reports on the radios that they monitored. Frustrated but resigned, Ali told the helmsman to slow the boat; there was no sense wasting their fuel or pushing their engines further. The other vessels in the flotilla slowed as well.

A container ship was heading westward in the direction of the Red Sea. On another night, it would be an inviting target.

“Captain, the radio,” said one of the men below.

Ali leaned down into the cabin, listening to the chatter over the shortwave radio. There had been talk of aircraft and ships all night, most of it false. Twice Ali had taken his boats toward hiding places because of radio reports of American destroyers; he’d had to use his satellite phone to call his own sources to see if these reports were true. He wondered if the Americans had realized that he used the radio calls as part of his intelligence network and decided to infiltrate it somehow. If so, they would have found people who spoke very good Arabic.

“Near Sury Point,” said one of the voices on the radio now. “Three ships low to the water. One large, the others small. Moving quickly.”

Satan’s Tail, Ali realized, less than forty miles from him, back to the west.

And within sixty of the Al Bushra gunboat the volunteers had taken from Oman.

180

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

If it was a true report. Could he trust it?

“Has Ghazala sent the signal that he met the submarine?”

Ali asked the communications mate. Ghazala commanded the ship he had sent ahead to the rendezvous.

“Not yet, sir.”

If Ali turned the ships around and raced west, they could engage Satan’s Tail before two hours passed. At the same time, the Al Bushra could launch her missiles against it. The American would be caught between the two forces.

If the American was where these reports said he was.

The oiler would have to sail on alone. And the Sharia would have to return to its mooring. She was not ready to do battle.

It was a gamble, based on possibly inaccurate information. But if he waited to verify it, the chance might slip through his fingers.

Had God given him the Al Bushra for this attempt? It had not been required for the oiler, and seemed to have no other role—surely it was intended to attack the devil ship.

“Signal the other boats,” said Ali. “Satan’s Tail awaits.”

Khamis Mushait Air Base

0020

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Fifty feet over Al Huwaymi, heading out toward the gulf,”

Zen told his wife Brea

flatscreens. The panel on the right showed a three-dimension simulation of where the Werewolf was, the area it flew over rendered as a wire model, with green and red lines delineating the topography. The Werewolf was a stubby yellow dou-

SATAN’S TAIL

181

ble cross that, if you squinted just right, looked a little like the aircraft itself. It reminded Zen of the first Flighthawk simulation—which wasn’t coincidental, since the program was essentially the same one.

Give or take five million lines of code …

The panel on the left showed the video feed from the Werewolf’s nose. The camera was not light-enhanced, and even though they were using the Dreamland satellite system, the transmission was choppy.

“Doesn’t it feel weird to be sitting here in a hangar, five hundred miles away, guiding an aircraft over hostile territory?” asked Brea

“Four hundred and seventy-two miles away, and Yemen is not necessarily hostile territory,” said Zen. “The computer is actually doing the flying. I just nudge the control stick every so often so it thinks I’m in control.”

“You know what I mean. I can see with the Flighthawks. I mean, you’re in a plane. But this—it’s like a computer game.”

“I guess,” said Zen, taking the cola.

“You used to say that.”

“I used to.” He took a long sip from the soda. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”