Satan's Tail

A barrage of bullets erupted from a second patrol boat a half mile away. The Werewolf pirouetted in the sky as Zen lined up the new target. The target box painted the enemy ship’s bridge; Zen stabbed the screen and concentrated on ducking the sudden burst of bullets from the enemy ship.

The Werewolf fired several times, recording hits on the bridge, but the patrol boat continued to fire and Zen had to pull off.

His control screen flashed red. FUEL STATE LOW, said a message in the middle of the screen.

“Is that all?” he said, relieved, but as if in answer, the computer flashed a fresh message:

DAMAGE TO REAR STABLIZER FIN. 25 PERCENT.

And then several others in rapid succession: DAMAGE TO HYDRAULIC SYSTEM 1. OFFLINE.

DAMAGE TO HYDRAULIC SYSTEM 2. 24 PERCENT.

DAMAGE TO CONTROL SYSTEM 1, CPU UNIT. 20 PERCENT.

“Now’s where it starts to get interesting,” said Zen, pushing the joystick to line up for another run at the pirate.

SATAN’S TAIL

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Aboard the Abner Read,

Gulf of Aden

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“MISSILE AWAY!”

A Harpoon missile leapt from the vertical launcher on the forward deck. The flare from the lower stage of the rocket glared through the windscreen at the front of the bridge, painting the gear and crew an eerie yellow.

“Where are my guns!” Storm barked into his microphone.

At least three people answered, “Firing!” as the destroyer started to rock with the beat of six 155mm shells fired in rapid succession from the forward weapon. The crew on the bridge and in the Tactical Center cheered as the weapon hit home.

“Target one is demolished!”

“Target one sunk!”

“We got the son of a bitch.”

“Take that for Commander Marcum, you bastards!”

“Take out the rest of the boats,” said Storm calmly.

“Steady, gentlemen. Executive officer, Eyes, everyone, steady, now. We have not yet begun to fight.”

Gulf of Aden

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THE SEA AROUND THEM ERUPTED AS THE AMERICAN SHIP BEgan spitting its shells. A helicopter zipped above, firing a ca

“Continue the attack!” he shouted. “We need more time.

Torpedoes!” he added. “Fire the torpedoes!”

One of the shells from Satan’s Tail landed in the water ten 188

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

or fifteen yards away, sending a spray of salt water over the boat. The small vessel rocked back and forth, slapped by the waves and explosions.

“Torpedoes! Fire!” yelled Ali. He reached down and picked up the flare gun. As the flare shot upward, he pulled the satellite phone from his pocket. “Fire on these coordinates!” he told his cousin Mabrukah aboard the Oman missile boat. “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

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“MISSILE IN THE AIR!” YELLED STARSHIP, HIS VOICE SO LOUD

Dog probably could have heard him without the benefit of the interphone system. “Two missiles in the air!”

“Exocet antiship missiles,” said Dog’s copilot, Kevin McNamara, much more calmly. “Fired toward the Abner Read.”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Dog. “Target the Oman ship. Open bomb bay doors.”

“Bay,” repeated the copilot.

The Megafortress bucked as the large doors at the base of the rear fuselage swung open. Dog pushed his stick forward, nosing into a fifteen-degree angle toward the vessel that had just launched the missiles.

“Vessel targeted,” said McNamara.

“Fire Harpoon.”

The missile clunked off the rotating dispenser, already on a direct line to the enemy ship. Four hundred eighty-eight pounds of high explosives were locked into the fat target less than eight miles away.

Dog hit the preset button on the communications panel to open the radio cha

SATAN’S TAIL

189

“Broadcast a missile warning to Abner Read,” Dog told McNamara.

“Already have. Harpoon two is ready to fire.”

“Fire Harpoon two.”

“Launching.”

The turbojet engine at the rear of the missiles ignited, ramping their airspeed toward five hundred knots. They had one more of the antiship weapons left.

“Radar system on the missile boat is attempting to lock,”

said the copilot.

“ECMs,” said Dog, ordering electronic counter measures.

“They’re firing surface-to-air missiles! Radar-guided!

Harpoon one missed,” said McNamara, incredulous.

“Target them again.”

“Targeting. Missile in the air! Coming for us.”

Dog held to his course, waiting for the copilot to lock the Harpoon’s guidance system on the target. The missile that had been launched was identified as an SA-S-4; the Wisconsin was flying at the outer edge of its range, though that was no guarantee of safety. With the bomb bay doors open, the Megafortress’s radar cross section was more than ample for the missile’s guidance system to see. They were high but moving relatively slow, and except for the ECMs, which confused the missile’s guidance systems, they would be an easy target.

“We have a lock,” said the copilot.

“Fire Harpoon,” said Dog.

“Firing.”

“Crew, stand by for some jinking,” said Dog. “Button us up, Kevin.”

As their last antiship missile dropped from the belly, the copilot closed the bomb bay, instantly making them less visible to radar. Dog pressed the chaff release button, sending bundles of metallic tinsel into the air. An old but still effective counterweapon, the chaff acted like a smoke screen, making it harder for the enemy to pick the Megafortress out 190

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

of the sky. Dog jabbed the control stick to jerk the Megafortress in a new direction, a wide receiver giving the defensive backs an open-field fake.

Even so, it wasn’t enough—a warning tone in Dog’s headset told him the missile was closing in.

STARSHIP POINTED THE FLIGHTHAWK TOWARD THE SHIP, LEANing toward the screen as he nosed into a forty-five-degree dive, plunging at the rectangular bridge at the center of his screen. A puff of smoke flashed at the left side of his screen, and black lines began to rise on the right.

Starship felt the Megafortress lurch beneath him. He fought off the distraction. The targeting pipper danced left and right, the ship below seeming to slip back and forth as if it sensed he was coming. The screen blinked yellow and he pressed the trigger, even though he knew it was too early.

The shells trailed downward and he let go, pulling up on the stick as the Flighthawk lost some of its momentum. He had no target now; he’d ruined his approach by firing too soon and was caught flatfooted in the air, flying toward a cloud of antiaircraft fire. Starship bit the side of his lip, angry but trying to control his emotions, knowing he wasn’t that far off.

He managed to duck right and pull around sharply enough to get a burst in, this time on target, but he was beyond the vessel before he could fire more than a handful of bullets.

Starship leveled off, took a breath, then pushed the plane into a long, almost lackadaisical bank low over the ocean, trying to convince himself that this was just another of the hundred or two hundred simulations he had run with Zen and Kick during training a few months before. Kick had been better at the attack missions—he’d flown an A-10A Warthog, a real stick and rudder aircraft, and was used to using the ca