Satan's Tail

2232

“ALMOST THERE, CAPTAIN,” SPIDERMAN TOLD BREANNA.

Relieved by Charlie One in the Gulf of Aden shortly before 1400, they had flown for just about six hours to get to the airstrip at Diego Garcia. Except for a few short breaks, Brea

“I hear Diego Garcia is a pretty cool place,” continued the copilot. “Lots of partying. ‘Gilligan’s Island with guns’

some of the guys call it.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Brea

“It’s not fun?”

“It’s all right. To visit. You’ve never been there?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Interesting place,” said Brea

“As long as there’s a cot down there with my name on it, I’ll be happy,” said Spiderman.

“Amen to that.”

ZEN ROLLED ONTO THE CONCRETE IN FRONT OF THE HANGAR

area, squinting from the glare of the nearby floodlights.

There was a two and a half hour time difference between the Gulf of Aden and Diego Garcia, and it was now getting on towards eleven p.m. local time. But there were dozens of things to do before he could get to bed. He rolled over to the team that had swarmed around the Flighthawk to check on the aircraft’s status, and was surprised when Chief Master Sergeant Clyde “Greasy Hands” Parsons stepped away from the gaggle of maintainers and techies.

“Chief, what are you doing here?” said Zen.

“I wanted to personally kick the butt of the jerk who shot down my aircraft,” said Parsons. “Then I’m going to work on my tan.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Go easy on Starship, Chief.”

“I’m not talking about the lieutenant. He didn’t shoot it down. It’s the Navy I’m mad at.” Parsons looked out toward the runway, where a C-5A was just landing, undoubtedly with more of their gear. “Besides, he’s only a lieutenant.

Once you make chief, you let your underlings chew out louies. They’re too easy.”

Zen gri

“Although I may give you a good kick just to stay in practice, Major. You’ve been ru

Greasy Hands added. “Due for an overhaul. Oughta be grounded until we get a new engine in.”

“Can’t afford the downtime,” said Zen.

“Take ten minutes, if I’m watchin’ them.” Parsons smiled, a sure sign that he was going to make a joke. “What do you think about a Chevy small block V-8? Bore that sucker out and watch her rip.”

“You going to tell me about your Chevelle SS again?”

“That was a hell of a car, Zen. I’ll tell you, a hell of a car.

They do not make cars like that anymore.”

“Thank God.”

“Well, that aircraft really ought to set a spell until we get it overhauled. I’m not talking about a rinse and wax either.”

“Colonel’s not going to like that,” said Zen. “And the Navy captain we’re answering to isn’t going to like it either.”

“Back in the day, the Air Force didn’t take orders from the Navy,” said Greasy Hands. “The Navy gave us grief, we flew low and slow over one of their aircraft carriers. Admiral got the message real quick.”

“They had aircraft carriers when you were young, Chief?”

“They were just coming in when I made sergeant.”

“Storm’s not an admiral. And he’s just as stubborn as the colonel.”

“That I’d like to see.”

“Hey, Jeff, how’s it going?”

Zen turned around and saw Mack Smith wheeling toward him.

SATAN’S TAIL

241

“What do you think of Paradise?” Mack asked.

“I think it’s damn hot for November,” said Zen.

“I have some idea on integrating the Flighthawks with CAG Xray Pop. We could make coordinated attacks with the microbombs, get them right onto the pilot bridge of the patrol boats. At the same time, the Shark Boats and AbnerRead could launch torpedoes at them. So while they’re blinded, they’re also sitting ducks.”

“Why don’t we just nuke them and be done with it?”

said Zen.

“I’m serious. You know, the chief was telling me that the replacement Flighthawk engine delivers more thrust, and I was playing with the numbers—I think we can get a lightweight torpedo on, as long as we were launching for a really short flight.”

“I’m going to go get something to eat,” said Zen. “See you later, Chief.”

“Don’t you think that’s a good idea?” said Mack.

“I think it’s so good you ought to join the Navy, gimp boy,” said Zen.

“Hey, give me a break, huh?”

“Which leg?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Where do we eat in Paradise, anyway?” said Zen. He saw one of the Whiplash troopers standing near a truck a short distance away and began rolling toward him. Brea

“You don’t think those are good ideas?” asked Mack. He was trying to follow but couldn’t keep up with Zen.

“I told you, they’re great, gimp boy. Now leave me alone.”

“Hey, lay off the gimp stuff, huh?”

Zen looked back. “Maybe you ought to get a motorized chair. If you’re pla

“Screw yourself, Zen.”

“You’re as witty as ever, Mack.”

“And you’re nastier than ever,” said Brea

Zen pushed his wheels toward the truck. All he wanted to 242

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

do right now was get some food and go to sleep. For about three weeks.

UN Building,

New York City

1300

JED LOOKED AT THE GRAPHICS FILES AGAIN, MAKING SURE

they were ordered properly. The Secretary of State wanted to go through the presentation at least once before meeting with the British and French ambassadors privately at two p.m. and the Saudi ambassador at four; the National Security Council’s special session was due to start at six p.m. There’d be no chance to go through the presentation with him if he didn’t get back soon.

Jed had arranged a dozen pictures and graphics in a Power-Point program for the Security Council; they began with a map of the Gulf of Aden showing where the pirates had struck, documenting clearly that they were using coastal waters to hide. The last photo was a video capture from a Flighthawk; it showed the Oman gunship firing one of its missiles. The picture was shot from a distance and was grainy though provocative. Just as important, it didn’t give anything about the Flighthawk away. Neither the robot plane nor the Megafortress would be mentioned in the presentation. From a security point of view, the only possibly dicey photo was a month-old satellite picture of a patrol boat tied up amid some civilian boats at a dock on the Somalian coast. The image had been taken by a KH-12 Improved Crystal satellite; Jed had reproduced it at a low resolution, but the image was still detailed enough to allow the identification of a goat in one of the yards.

Three different people had already signed off on it, but Jed was still debating whether to blur it further.

“Here we are, Jed,” said Secretary of State Hartman, entering the room he’d been given to work in. “You know Ambassador Ford.”

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243

“Yes, sir.”

Stephen Ford was the U.S. ambassador to the UN. Jed had met him perhaps twice, but protocol insisted that they both act like longtime friends, or at least acquaintances, and they did so.

“Let’s run through the slides, shall we? Then Stephen and I have to meet with the mayor of New York, Rudy Giuliani.

Pretty colorful character.”

“Insufferable Yankee fan,” said Ford, who was from Boston. “Thank God they lost this year.”

“Well, um, we begin with the area map and fade into a slide showing the pirates’ strikes over time,” said Jed. He maneuvered the laptop so the others could see, hitting the buttons at regular intervals.