Satan's Tail

“We would value action,” said the captain finally.

“You will have plenty. An aircraft carrier is making its way down from the Suez Canal. It will be in the Gulf of Aden at dawn the day after tomorrow.”

They moved to the chart table, where the Libyan captain brought out a chart of the gulf area. The maps were not very good—surely another sign that Allah had guided the man here.

“I will get you another set before we sail,” Ali assured him. “But for now, these will do—we will sail to the eastern end of the gulf as swiftly as possible. It is several hundred miles.” He pointed to ’Abd al K¯ur¯ı, a small island roughly seventy miles east of the tip of Somalia. Allah had given him a plan overnight—in compensation for the dreams, perhaps.

They would strike where the carrier least expected it: at the end of the passage through the gulf. The other ships would lure the carrier to an attack, allowing the submarine to close in with its torpedoes. Sharia would launch its missiles at the same time—the Ark Royal would be overwhelmed.

“I have spies all along both coasts, and among the traffic in the gulf,” Ali told the submarine captain. “They will give us his location without trouble. We will then make an attack.”

He described the three-tiered attack he had mapped out in general terms, giving the submarine commander enough information so he would know his duty, but not enough to scuttle the missions of the other ships if he was captured. The Sharia, fueled and disguised as a benign pile of junk ready for the salvagers’ blowtorches, would put out to sea at dusk on its slow trek eastward. The rest of the fleet would slip out a few hours afterward. The entire flotilla would be gone within thirty-six hours.

“It is mostly a matter of timing,” added Ali. “Once things begin, it follows the clock. There will be no need for com-

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munications. And no possibility of it. But we will succeed.”

“God willing,” said the captain.

“I have no doubt that he is willing.”

“Nor do I.” The captain looked at the chart. “We will be sailing more than five hundred miles.”

“It will be somewhat more,” said Ali.

“We will have to go on the surface during the night to accomplish this. It is a risk we must take now,” said the captain.

Ali folded his arms, studying the captain’s face. His assessments were correct, and he seemed aggressive. His passage here, however, had demonstrated caution in the extreme.

Which was the true man?

The answer could be seen in the gaze at a chart or the knitting of a brow. Ali would have to trust that the man who spoke of God’s will was the truer—or that God would take a hand when necessary.

“There is an American force in the waters. They are a serious concern, far more than the British,” said Ali. He showed the submarine captain where Satan’s Tail normally patrolled. “He ca

“As long as you stay close to the coast, he ca

He may follow, though. We will use that to our advantage if it happens.”

Ali outlined his plan. Tomorrow afternoon a pair of patrol boats would head a few miles to the west and then cut directly north across the gulf toward Yemen. The submarine would sail at dusk, followed by two other patrol boats that would shadow him. A few hours later a second group of patrol boats would go across the gulf, with the Sharia following roughly the same route the submarine did. Ali would follow in the large amphibian ship’s path.

Most likely the Americans would attack the first group of patrol boats as they headed toward Yemen or soon afterward.

If this happened, the submarine would have clear sailing.

The next possibility was that those boats and the submarine would be missed; the second wave of patrol craft would SATAN’S TAIL

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draw the Americans’ attention. The third possibility was that the Americans would detect the submarine and follow it.

“Their sensors are not very good in the shallow water,”

boasted the submarine captain. “I have sailed right past American ships in the Mediterranean many times.”

“This is not the Mediterranean, and you have not dealt with this ship and its commander before,” said Ali. “Do not be overconfident. Satan’s Tail is a ship like no other you have ever seen. The other day one of my vessels fired eight Exocet missiles at it, and it survived.”

“We will do better if we come up against it.”

“No. You must stay near the coast. Keep in the shadow of the Karkaar Mountains. Do not give them a reason to come for you.”

“If they attack me?”

“If they attack you and you have no other choice, then you may engage. But your first mission is to get away.” Ali looked down at the chart. “I will get them if they interfere. I will find a way.”

“Let me show you the rest of the boat,” said the Libyan.

They went through the forward spaces. Some of the equipment had been updated; even the older gear was clean and freshly painted, a sign of discipline that pleased Ali, for to him it meant not simply that the captain paid attention to details, but that the crew paid attention to the captain. This was another of the lessons he saw from the Italians, in going from ship to ship in their fleet—one could measure the crew by the captain, and vice versa.

The tour continued to the forward torpedo room, where the large tube openings protruded from the wall like the stubby teats of a goat. There were six firing tubes, three to a side.

“Only six torpedoes?” asked Ali.

“I was told you would supply more,” said the captain.

“I do not have Russian torpedoes. Nor anything large enough for these tubes.”

The submarine used a standard Russian design, twenty-

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one inches, or 533mm, in diameter. The torpedoes that Ali had were Italian A244s—a very versatile weapon, as its adaptation to his boats and tactics had shown, but at 12.75

inches, a much smaller and lighter torpedo.

“Perhaps we can modify the tubes,” suggested the captain.

“The Russians have done so.”

He is optimistic by nature, thought Ali. That would be useful in battle.

“There isn’t time for that,” said Ali. “Six will have to suffice.”

Alexandria,

near Washington, D.C.

1500

JED TOOK THE METRO FROM THE AIRPORT AND WALKED THE

five blocks from the Metro, stopping first to grab the Washington Post—no picture on the front or inside the newspaper, where the story played at the top of the international section.

Standing at the register waiting to pay, he glanced sideways toward the coolers at the six-packs of beer.

“Maybe later,” he said out loud. He wasn’t much of a drinker.

“Later?” asked the clerk.

“Just the paper,” said Jed. He took his change and walked the five blocks home. His mood swung from anger at himself to depressed disbelief.

How could he have been so stupid?

Why the hell had he made the picture in the first place?

He was an assistant to the National Security Advisor of the United States, not a member of the Harvard Lampoon.

Damn, I’m a jerk, he told himself. I deserve to get booted across the Potomac.

And I will be. Probably by the President himself.

The answering machine was blinking at him when he got in: twelve calls.

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That wasn’t a record, but it was close for a Sunday. He hadn’t turned on his phones since he’d left the UN; he did now, and saw that each had nearly as many calls.

Jed put them down on his bed and stood over them.

I’m either going to deal with this, he thought, or I’m not.

I am going to deal with this.