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Ford and Hartman looked at him to answer.
“It’s a small-ship surface warfare force,” said Jed, forcing the words from his mouth.
“Which means what?” asked the reporter.
“Littoral warships.”
He turned and looked to the Secretary of State, hoping to be rescued, but the Secretary simply smiled at him.
“A littoral warship is what?” asked the woman.
The Abner Read had been acknowledged by the Navy several months before, and described as a “frigate-sized vessel optimized for the littoral warfare role.” Jed wasn’t worried about security—he just didn’t want to stutter.
“That would be like—like a destroyer,” he managed. “It’s closer in size to a frigate. You could think of it as a small destroyer for, uh, coastal waters.”
“Like a Coast Guard cutter?”
Jed frowned. “Well, not exactly.”
“Is it from Dreamland?” asked another woman.
“It’s a Navy asset. I—I don’t really know that much about it, to be honest.”
The questions turned back to the resolution, and Jed faded into the background again.
“We have to get back,” said Ambassador Ford finally. He rose, signaling the end of the press conference.
“Will there be copies of your presentation?” asked one of the press people, this one an American.
“Yes, of course,” said Secretary Hartman. “The ambassador’s staff will take care of that.”
Jed followed them out into the hallway.
“Good job, Jed,” said the Secretary. “You ducked the Dreamland question masterfully. A very plausible denial that no doubt will help feed the rumors. Good work.”
“Um, did we want to feed the rumors?”
“The Dreamland people are incredibly popular behind the scenes for risking their lives to stop the war in China,” said Ford. “Do we have those slides?”
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“I didn’t make copies or anything. I can copy the file onto a disk.”
“Let’s do that—copy them off, I’ll have Paul in my office make some copies for them. Here—we’ll go upstairs, you download it or whatever you have to do, and then you go to di
“Yes, sir. Is it OK to release it to the press?” Jed asked Secretary Hartman.
“Just copy the presentation and give it to Jake,” said Hartman. “I’ll go through it and release it myself.”
“You did good, kid,” said Ford, slapping him on the back.
“You’re a real pro.”
Gulf of Aden
9 November 1997
0601
THERE WAS NO SURER SIGN THAT ALLAH WAS WITH THEM THAN
this: They had managed to get across the Gulf of Aden and westward to Shaqr¯a on the northern, Yemen side of the gulf without being stopped by the Americans.
To cross more than two hundred miles of open water without being detected by Satan’s Tail required more than skill or luck. Ducking between the traffic on the water, hiding near the coast, racing past places the Americans liked to check: all of this required a certain amount of experience and ability. But surely God’s hand had led them across the water to safety. Surely God himself, the one true and only God, intended him for greater things.
And so, Ali told himself, he must avoid the easy temptation. A small British warship was moving through the gulf not twenty miles away, according to his spies. An air defense destroyer, it had been sent ahead of the screening force assigned to the British aircraft carrier Ark Royal. From the description, Ali had identified it as a Type 42 destroyer. He knew the type very well. It was designed primarily for anti-
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aircraft defense, and its crew trained constantly to fight off aerial attacks. They were not nearly as good at dealing with thrusts from the surface, as the Italians he served with showed. Even a ship as large as a corvette could get close enough to launch torpedoes without being detected: 6.5 kilometers, or roughly four miles. Ali’s boats had the same 12.5-inch torpedoes used in the Italian navy. He would not miss if he attacked.
But if he attacked, he would miss the aircraft carrier, traveling a day and a half behind.
To send the destroyer on ahead seemed to Ali typical of western egos. They were focused on the obvious danger—the Red Sea and the narrow passage at B¯ab al Mandab. The destroyer was both an advance scout and a distant warning system—if aircraft came north from Ethiopia, it would see them long before the carrier.
Of course, sending the ship alone was also a matter of sheer hubris. The British were so full of themselves, so proud of their Ark Royal, that they couldn’t conceive of a danger to the smaller ship. Who would want to strike a puny destroyer when the pride of their fleet was nearby?
He exaggerated. The British probably did not believe anyone would attack the carrier either. It was more likely that the destroyer captain was an arrogant know-it-all who had decided to race his superiors to the gulf. They were all ego-tists, untempered, unhumbled by the knowledge of God’s superiority.
Allah would provide a plan to humble them. Hints of it were poking at the corners of his brain, but it had not revealed itself to him yet.
“We will rest here,” Ali told the crew. “We will take shifts.
As soon as dusk comes, we will cross back and rendezvous with our brothers. Then we will embark on our most glorious campaign.”
The men nodded solemnly.
“I am going below,” he added. “Wake me if there is anything important.”
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Diego Garcia
0900
THE NAVY RAN DIEGO GARCIA. WHILE TO THE AIR FORCE IT
was an emergency way-station for bombers operating in Asia and occasionally the Middle East, to the Navy it was an important telecommunications and support site for units operating in the southern Pacific. The Navy also hosted Defense Information System “assets” there, top secret systems—mostly sophisticated ante
Though small, the base’s amenities included a four-lane bowling alley, a ragged and coral-strewn golf course, and what was supposedly one of the best chief petty officers’
clubs in the world. The Dreamland team was given access to the facilities, including the swimming pool, which opened at 0830 on Sundays. Zen managed to wangle his way in a few minutes early. The cement stairs were so steep, he got out of his chair and climbed up the grass hill while Brea
He swam his morning laps while Brea
“You got a pool boy now?” laughed Zen as Mack was wheeled toward the water.
“Lay off,” said Mack.
“Why?”
“Come on, Zen. Time to go,” said Brea
Zen pulled himself from the pool, dragging himself across the cement to the wheelchair. “Let’s see you do some laps, gimp boy.”
“Zen, go easy,” said Brea
“I’m just encouraging him.”
“No, you’re not.”
“He’s a wimp gimp.”
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“Screw yourself, Stockard. Asshole,” muttered Mack.
“What?” Zen pulled himself up into the chair. Mack looked like he was going to start bawling any minute.
“What’d you say, Smith?”
“Screw yourself.”
“You’re lucky I don’t come over there and give you a real workout.”
“That’s enough, Stockard,” said Brea
“WHY SHOULDN’T I HARASS HIM? WHY SHOULDN’T I KILL
him?” said Zen as they wheeled back toward their quarters.
“I can’t believe you’re saying that.”