Satan's Tail

“I’ve got your bags, Major,” said Lieutenant Dai cheer-fully as Mack wheeled away from the belly of the plane. He paused to let Dai load the bags onto his lap. The extra weight and awkwardness made it difficult to work the wheels, and when Dai started pushing him, Mack didn’t object.

Sergeant Lee Liu, a member of the Whiplash action team, stood in front of a battered pickup truck nearby, waiting for them.

“Major, welcome to Paradise,” said the sergeant. “Hop aboard.”

“I’m not hopping anywhere,” said Mack. “And I’m not getting in the back of that truck. I’ll ride up front.”

“Just a figure of speech, Major,” said the sergeant.

Liu helped him into the cab and they drove to a small SATAN’S TAIL

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building overlooking the ocean. Two airmen met them there, members of a security team flown in to provide security until the rest of the Whiplash team arrived. In truth, Diego Garcia was probably as secure as any American base in the world, and the local Navy contingent could have done an adequate job guarding two or three full squadrons. Located on a small island atoll in the ocean below India, the only people here were either military or contract workers for the military. Completely isolated, the base was self-contained, an entire world unto itself. Depending on your perspective, it could be either Paradise, or hell—or maybe a little of both.

Mack tried to lower himself from the truck to the waiting wheelchair, but couldn’t manage the maneuver; he finally gave in and asked for help. The airmen craned him upward and deposited him gently in the chair.

“Thanks, guys,” he said. “I hope not to be in this sucker too long. Get my legs back any day now.”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the airmen.

The cement-block building wasn’t much to look at, but Mack realized that it had two major assets: There was no step or curb to the front door, and the rooms were all on one level.

“This isn’t the most comfortable facility,” said Liu, coming in behind him. “But it’s isolated from the rest of the base.

There is a three-story structure on the other side of the tank farm. It’s a little newer, but wouldn’t be as easy to secure.”

“I think this one’s fine,” said Mack, ignoring the musty odor as they continued down the hallway. There were small, simple offices and a large common room. As Mack surveyed the rooms, Liu told him that the Dreamland Command Trailer was due to arrive in a few hours; they would set it up outside. A secure communications system for the offices would be wired in, along with other gear as needed. Dog wasn’t due to come in until nighttime at the earliest; he was meeting with Captain Gale aboard the Abner Read, the flagship of Xray Pop.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“We’re three hours ahead of the base in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf of Aden, where the aircraft are patrolling,” added Liu, “so if it’s 1530 or three-thirty in the afternoon here, it’s twelve-thirty there; 1600 is 1300, and like that. And just to really confuse you, when it’s 1500 here and 1200 in the Gulf of Aden, it’s 0100 in Dreamland. Got it?”

“Basically, it’s party time somewhere in the world,” said Mack. “As long as you can stay awake to enjoy it.”

National Airport,

Washington, D.C.

0530

THEY HAD JUST ANNOUNCED THAT THE PLANE FOR NEW YORK

was boarding when Jed’s encrypted cell phone rang back with the message that a refueling stop had been cleared for the Osprey at Dabolin in the province of Goa, India. He pulled out the sat phone and hot-keyed the number for the Dreamland Command Center.

“Yes?” answered an unfamiliar voice.

“Um, who is this?” said Jed. He’d been expecting Major Catsman, whom he’d spoken to a few minutes before.

“Who is this? ”

Jed, thinking that he had somehow gotten a wrong number and dialed a residence, hit the end transmission button.

It should have been impossible to get a residence, he thought. Jed looked at the buttons, and hit the combination again.

“Yes?” sneered the same voice.

“This is Jed Barclay.”

“Yes, of course it is.”

“This is Dr. Ray, right?” said Jed, finally attaching the sneer to a face.

There was a pause, then Ray Rubeo cleared his throat very loudly. “This is Dr. Raymond Rubeo. What do you want, Mr. Barclay?”

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“I was just kind of thrown off there. Usually an operator answers or maybe an officer.”

“We are shorthanded and I am pitching in at the Command Center,” said Rubeo, who sounded about as happy to be doing that as Jed was to be going to New York at five-thirty in the morning.

“Listen, pass the word that I got the approval. There’s an Indian Navy aviation base at Dabolin in India. It’s in Goa.

So you can tell them they can take off.”

“They took off fifteen minutes ago.”

“They did?”

“Colonel Bastian apparently believes you when you say you’ll take care of something,” said Rubeo. He cut the line on his end.

Aboard the Abner Read

1400

“RIGHT THERE, CAP. IT’S THREE MILES OFF THE COAST.”

Eyes pointed to the holographic display in the Tactical Warfare Center. Storm saw from the scale that they were fifteen miles from the submarine—a half hour’s sail at most. The Libyan submarine sat almost at a complete standstill. The patrol boat that had been escorting the sub lay another mile or so farther east in very shallow water close to the shore.

Four torpedoes, fired from the vertical launch tubes, and the submarine and patrol boat would be history. No one would ever know.

That wasn’t quite true. Bastian would know. The pirates would know. And eventually Johnson would find out and use it to scuttle his career.

He thought of his pledge to the sailor after his death that they would have justice.

Have it absolutely.

He stared at the image in the hologram, which had been 238

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

synthesized by the computer from the sounds the array picked up—and the assumptions about those sounds that had been programmed into the system. The symbol of the sub flickered to the right, nudging northward.

Was he moving out from the protected waters?

God, let him come out to me. Let him come after someone.

Just get close to international waters.

He could always say they had opened their torpedo tubes, clearly indicating that they were going to fire. That would justify attacking.

No one would buy that, not completely. But it would give the people who liked him enough cover to protect him.

Balboa would probably believe it. But Balboa was known to have little if any leverage with the President. And Johnson would work relentlessly against him.

Storm looked back at the display. The submarine wasn’t moving northward at all. His eyes had seen what he wanted them to see—what his need for revenge dictated.

“We have a communication from the fleet about the approaching British carrier and her escorts, the Ark Royal,”

said Eyes. “They ran into some sort of delay at the Suez Canal. One of their ships is coming ahead and will be out into the gulf by early tomorrow morning.”

“Very good,” said Storm.

The Ark Royal was en route to Asia to help Americans in the Philippines. It was more a gesture of allied solidarity—a useless one, in Storm’s opinion, though he was thankful that he hadn’t been told to work with the Brits.

He stared at the hologram. No, the submarine wasn’t moving at all. It would, though. It had to.

“Watch the submarine carefully,” he said. “If it starts moving toward the shipping lanes—if it starts moving at all—let me know.”

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Aboard Baker-Baker Two , approaching Diego Garcia