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Je
“That was to get rid of Mack,” Dog said. “I have a lot of work to do.”
Je
“I know.”
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“I love you.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey.” He pressed her arm gently. “I do.”
“I know.” She smiled. “Don’t stay up all night.”
UN Building,
New York City
7 November 1997
1430
JED STARED AT THE PICTURE OF THE OMAN MISSILE BOAT, REplaying the conversation he’d had with Ford and the Secretary of State.
Tell a good story.
Put together a strong set of images.
Was he being told to lie? Or just do a good job?
He didn’t have any pictures of people dying, as Ford had suggested. He did have a picture of the ship as it fired the missile—that looked pretty graphic. But beyond that?
A picture of the nearby oiler or tanker blowing up would be something.
Except that it hadn’t blown up.
Jed brought up one of the photo editing programs on the computer and merged the shot with a blowup of the missile launch. At first it didn’t look like much, but as he cropped it and played with the settings in the photo manipulation program, he got it to look pretty gruesome. He dappled and faded, played around some more—the ship appeared to be on fire in a shadowy image.
Was that what Ford wanted?
You couldn’t fault the ambassador for wanting to make a strong message, thought Jed, and here it was, all in an easily disseminated jpg file: We have to stop these pirates. They’re blowing up the world’s oil supply.
And they were too. The message wasn’t a lie. They were SATAN’S TAIL
249
blowing up whatever they could, killing as many people as they could in the process.
Unfortunately, Jed Barclay didn’t happen to have a picture of it.
Except for a phony one. Kind of artistic, though. And definitely dramatic.
His sat phone began to ring. He picked it up and turned it on.
“Mr. Barclay, stand by for Colonel Bastian.”
Before he could say anything, Colonel Bastian’s voice boomed onto the line.
“Thanks for helping us out on that situation today. What are the odds on us using that facility again?”
“Yeah, OK,” said Jed. “The Navy, um, mentioned that you’re supposed to work through them.”
“Did I get you in trouble?”
“Not yet.”
“We could use a base a lot closer to the gulf. Somewhere in Africa.”
“I’ve tried, Colonel. No go.”
“What about India?”
“Boss is opposed to that for a bunch of reasons,” Jed told Dog.
There was a knock on the door.
“Your lunch is here, sir,” said a voice in the hall.
“OK, cool,” said Jed. “Just leave it. Uh, Colonel, I gotta run.”
“All right. If you can arrange for us to use that base again as a backup, though, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll work on it.”
He ended the call, then pulled over the laptop. He slid his finger on the touchpad and moved the pointer to the X at the top of the corner of the program window.
DO YOU WANT TO SAVE? asked the computer.
He hesitated, then pressed YES.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Diego Garcia
0400
MACK WAS TOO KEYED-UP AND TOO TIME-LAGGED TO SLEEP.
He read some of the CD-ROM manuals on the Piranha and basic naval warfare tactics. By four a.m. he’d read his fill and was still restless. He pulled on a sweater and roamed out of the building. His wheels splashed through a deep puddle near the road.
“Hold on there,” said an authoritative voice behind him.
Mack turned around and recognized Boston, one of the Whiplash team members.
“Sergeant Rockland. Good morning.”
“Morning, Major. Out for a stroll?”
“A roll more like it.”
“Yeah.” Ben Rockland—Boston to those who knew him—pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He had an M4 rifle with him, a shortened version of the M16 preferred by airborne and some special operations troops. “Want a butt?”
“No. I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Out in the wilderness, there’s nothing else to do.” Boston lit up and took a drag. “How you doing with that thing?”
“Chair? Pain in the ass. Literally.”
“Yeah.” Boston took a pensive smoke. “My brother is a paraplegic.”
“No shit. Sorry.”
“Yeah. Sucks big-time.”
“It does.”
“You’re go
He was. That’s what everybody said. But he sure as hell didn’t feel like he was going to be OK.
“Bet your ass,” said Mack. That was what people wanted to hear.
“Good.” Boston took a long puff on his cigarette. “Well, don’t get run over by a bike. That’s the main means of travel around here.”
SATAN’S TAIL
251
“I don’t think there are too many people going to knock me over at this hour.”
“Probably not.”
“What happened to him?” asked Mack.
“My brother? Car accident.”
“No hope?”
“Nah. People, you know, they tell him to cheer up and shit, but, I mean some days he gives it a good show. He really does. But he ain’t the same person. He played basketball in high school. Not like he was a star or nothing, but I mean, to go from that to this. Sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to get better, though.”
Am I, thought Mack. When?
“Hey, you need like a ride somewhere? We have two vehi -
cles. We brought in a pair of gators, you know, the little ATV
things.”
“I don’t really know where I’d go this time of night.”
“Gym’s open. Fitness center. It’s over by the billeting office. Open 24/7. Come on. I’ll just tell Nurse I’m taking you over.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate that.”
“You can call me Boston. Everybody does.”
“Thanks, Boston.”
UN Building,
New York City
7 November 1997
1830
THE CORRIDOR SEEMED TO CLOSE IN AROUND JED AS HE
walked with the Secretary of State and the rest of the American entourage toward the chamber where the Security Council meeting was to be held. They were ru
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
ing Russia to vote in favor of the proposal. Britain was strongly in favor. China had already agreed to abstain. That left only France among the permanent members that could veto the measure. The French had been presented a draft of the proposal, but the Secretary had not been able to schedule a meeting with them. According to Ford, that wasn’t a bad sign. He predicted that Egypt, one of the rotating Security Council members and a key regional ally, would agree because of pressure from Oman as well as the U.S.
They reached the doorway. There were people ahead, murmuring. The Secretary paused, then swept right. Jed followed, and was suddenly inside the National Security Council hall. Along with the ambassador and Secretary of State, he moved to the U.S. spot at the table. Jed sat in one of the modernistic blue seats directly behind Ambassador Ford.
He’d seen the room on a tour as a kid and vaguely remembered it now—more for Rosie Crowe’s hair than the awe he should have felt. He hadn’t felt any awe at all then.
Now he did.
Security Council President Fernando Berrocal Soto of Costa Rica gaveled the session to order. The murmurs crescendoed and then there was silence.
Secretary of State Hartman leaned forward and began his speech.
“The international community ca