Satan's Tail

But he had at least said the right things. Whether he could deliver or not remained to be seen.

“How are we, Peanut?” Storm asked the exec, who was now on the bridge.

“Nothing yet, Cap. The Shark Boat is roughly forty miles dead ahead. We’re sure the sub is still there?”

“Delaford knows what he’s talking about. I trust him,”

said Storm.

Tying the Dreamland people into his ships made a great deal of sense. The Werewolf gunships could help extend the task force’s power well over the horizon. He wasn’t necessarily convinced about the blimps—that seemed to him just a play to unhook the Megafortresses from the mission—but they might work down the road. Throw Piranha into the mix—the automated submarine probe was supposed to join the fleet within a year anyway—and the DD(L) warship and the Combined Action Group, or CAG, concept would begin to reach their potential.

From the way Bastian was talking, Dreamland had plenty of other projects—and maybe development money—that might help them. The trick would be prying them out of the flyboy’s sticky fingers.

It was unfortunate Bastian was such a jerk to deal with.

Storm trusted Delaford to give him a straight story, at least, but clearly a Navy man wouldn’t have much say under Bastian’s command. If Bastian had trusted him at all, he would have brought him out to the ship with him.

He would have to find someone else at Dreamland to cul-tivate, someone overly ambitious who might be manipulated, or if not manipulated, at least influenced to cooperate for a higher cause: like his promotion.

SATAN’S TAIL

231

Khamis Mushait Air Base

1238

DOG SHOUTED A THANK YOU TO THE OSPREY CREW AS HE

hopped down and headed toward the Dreamland Command trailer. He was extremely hungry—Storm hadn’t offered him lunch on the Abner Read, and he was damned if he was going to ask—but any thought of heading over to the cafeteria vanished when Da

“Our friends are back at the gate,” said Da

“I saw a dozen or so from the Osprey,” said Dog. “A lot less than yesterday.”

“There are more on the way. In buses. Be here within an hour, according to the Saudis.”

“How many people?”

“There are twelve buses that the police saw coming from Mecca alone. Another ten or twelve from Jiddah, the city on the Red Sea. We seem to be a popular attraction. The, uh, base commander wants to talk to you about this.”

“I can imagine.”

Hands on hips, Dog surveyed the hangar area. The Wisconsin sat on the left, her Flighthawk mounted beneath her wing.

The damage to the tail had been repaired; for once the computer had overestimated the extent of the injuries, and the maintainers confirmed there were no serious structural problems. The MC-17/W, her rear ramp open, sat to the right. Several large items had to be loaded into her: the LADS blimp, the Werewolves, the Dreamland Command trailer, and last but not least, the Osprey. It was a tight fit and would require at least two hours—much of it to get the Osprey in shape to be carried.

Diego Garcia was too far for the tilt-rotor aircraft to travel without refueling, even if she were carrying just her crew.

“If we didn’t pack the Osprey, how long would it take to get out of here?” Dog asked.

“Hour,” said Da

“Let me get with Washington and see if I can land the Os-

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prey somewhere midway and have her refueled.”

“Aren’t you supposed to check with Storm?” said Da

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Washington, D.C.

0450

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR OF THE CONDO CAME TEN MINUTES

before Jed was expecting it—and more important, before the coffee started pouring through the filter of Mr. Coffee.

“Jed Barclay? Are you ready?” said a gruff voice outside the door.

“Um, almost,” said Jed.

“Lot of traffic on the road, sir. If we’re going to make the airport we want to get moving.”

“Yeah, all right. Like, I’m coming.” Jed shut off the cof-feepot. He swung his hand through the loop of his carry-on, grabbed his knapsack laptop bag, and opened the door. The driver was a Marine corporal assigned to the NSC; he wore a civilian suit and looked better dressed than Jed, whose tie didn’t quite go with his wrinkled gray jacket.

“Mr. Barclay?” said the corporal, glancing down at Jed’s scuffed brown shoes.

“Yeah. Aren’t you kind of early?”

“No, sir.” The corporal studied his face for a moment.

“Maybe we could grab some Joe on the way?”

“Definitely a good idea,” said Jed. “There’s an all-night 7-Eleven on the corner.”

As they got into the car, one of Jed’s phones began ringing. He had three with him—a secure NSC satellite phone, an encrypted cell phone, and a personal cell phone.

It took a few moments for his caffeine-deprived brain to figure out that the call was on the encrypted line.

“Jed,” he said, popping it open somewhat hesitantly.

“Hello?”

“Jed, this is Colonel Bastian. Sorry to wake you.”

SATAN’S TAIL

233

“Um, well, you’re not waking me, Colonel. As it happens.”

“I need a favor. A pretty big one.”

“Um, uh—personal favor?”

“It is a personal favor to me, but it’s not of a personal nature. I need a place for one of my Ospreys to land where it can be refueled.”

“Uh—”

“I know I’m not going through cha

“Yeah, OK,” Jed replied. “What exactly do you need?”

“Basically, I need someplace between Saudi Arabia and Diego Garcia to refuel the Osprey. India would be best.”

“How soon?” Jed asked.

“Ten minutes ago would be great,” said Dog.

“Ten minutes ago I can’t do. But I can work something out, I think. Can I call you back?”

“I’d kind of like to get this solved right now,” said Dog.

“What I’d like you to do is talk to my people back home and set it up with them. But I want to know whether it’s doable or not.”

“Um, hang on,” said Jed as they pulled up in front of the convenience store.

“How do you want your coffee?” asked the driver.

“Plenty of milk and two sugars. Better make it the biggest they got—three sugars.”

The driver got out.

“I think it’s probably doable,” Jed told Dog. “I have to talk to State anyway.”

“Probably’s not good enough for me, Jed. I need to count on you.”

“You can count on me, Colonel, soon as I get my coffee.”

Diego Garcia

1530

IT WAS NOT THE WORST FLIGHT MACK SMITH HAD EVER BEEN

on—but it had certainly been close. He spent the entire fif-

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teen hours, twelve minutes, and thirteen seconds strapped into the stiff Flighthawk control seat on the lower deck of Megafortress Charlie One. He’d been so bored that he even took a few tries at the training simulations for Piranha that Lieutenant Cly Dai was flying at his station next to him. But you could only play computer games for so long.

It wasn’t bad enough that he was a passenger on an airplane, instead of a pilot; he was an immobile one, strapped to his stinking ejection seat and unable to move without considerable help. The newly minted EB-52 had a temporary bunk area on the upper deck, along with a galley, restroom, and a VCR. But he’d have had to crawl up the steps to get to it, and the humiliation simply wasn’t worth it. Getting down out of the aircraft was its own adventure. All of the EB-52s were equipped with an attachment on the ladder that allowed a wheelchair to be mechanically lowered by a pair of small electric motors. Though it doubled as a way to ease the loading and unloading of heavy computer gear, it had been designed specifically for Zen, and it certainly beat being carried down to the tarmac. But it involved a great deal of faith; the angle was precarious, and Mack was sure he would topple out of his seat the whole way down.