Satan's Tail

“What else do you want me to do?” asked Mack.

“Let’s start there. Remember, you’re a liaison, not the program director.”

“I’m the idea guy,” said Mack. “Got it.”

“Not exactly.”

“Don’t worry, Colonel. I have it. Listen, I really appreciate this. I won’t forget it, believe me. I’m happy to be back.

Like I said, Brunei taught me a lot. This is a new Mack Smith you’re looking at.”

As the major rolled out of the office, Dog struggled to keep his opinion of how long the new Mack Smith would last to himself.

Aboard the Abner Read

3 November 1997

1942

“WE HAVE A LOCK ON THE OSA MISSILE BOAT,” REPORTED

Weapons.

“Marcum, he’s yours to sink,” said Storm.

“One of the patrol boats is turning toward us,” warned Eyes.

“Torpedo in the water,” warned the computer.

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“Fire,” said Commander Marcum.

A deep-throated rap from the front of the ship drowned out the acknowledgment as the number one gun began spitting out shells, one every five seconds. The holographic display did not delineate every hit—the designers thought this would be too distracting—but the target flashed red as the barrage continued.

“Direct hit,” reported Eyes. “Target demolished.”

“Evasive action,” said Marcum. “Evade the torpedoes.”

The crew sprang to comply. One of the torpedoes stayed on target with the Abner Read despite the countermeasures, and the lithe vessel swayed as the helmsman initiated a fresh set of maneuvers. The torpedo finally passed a hundred yards off their port side, detonating a few seconds later.

“Close the distance on the patrol boat that fired at us,”

Marcum told the man at the wheel.

The helmsman pushed at the large lever that worked the computer governing the ship’s engines. They were already at full speed.

“UI-1 is about a minute from Yemen waters,” reported Eyes.

“Outside of visual range. The others are well beyond him.”

“I have a lock on target designated as UI-1,” said the weapons officer.

“Captain, it’s my responsibility to report that the target ship is approaching Yemen territorial waters,” said Commander Marcum. “Our rules of engagement prohibit sinking a vessel outside of neutral waters.”

“Are you giving me advice?” Storm asked.

“Sir, I’m operating under your orders. I was to notify you of our status prior to engagement …” Commander Marcum paused. “I want to sink the son of a bitch myself.”

“Noted. Sink him.”

“Weapons: fire!”

“Firing.”

Both guns rumbled. Within thirty seconds the patrol craft had been obliterated.

The three other pirate vessels had disappeared. Relatively 28

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

small contacts, they were easily lost in the clutter near the ir-regular coast. The computer generated approximate positions from their last known citing, rendering them yellow clouds in the holographic projection. They were well inside Yemen territorial waters—out of bounds.

Storm turned his attention to the three Shark Boats. He directed One and Two to sail westward, hoping to catch the patrol boats if they went in that direction. The third would remain to the east, in case they went that way. The AbnerRead, meanwhile, would search for survivors from one of the two vessels they had just sunk; if recovered, he might be persuaded to share what he knew.

Storm clicked his communications cha

“All hands, this is Captain Gale,” said Storm. “The DD

(L) 01 Abner Read has sunk its first enemy combatants in action this November 3, 1997. I was privileged to witness the finest crew in the U.S. Navy undertake this historic mission, and I commend everyone, from Commander Robert Marcum to Seaman Bob Anthony—Bobby, I think you’re our youngest crewman,” he added. Storm turned and saw Marcum gri

Humboldt County,

northwestern California

3 November 1997

1205

LIEUTENANT KIRK “STARSHIP” ANDREWS GOT OUT OF THE CAR

he had rented in Los Angeles and walked across the gravel parking lot toward the church. He could hear the strains of SATAN’S TAIL

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an organ as he approached; he was late for his friend’s memorial service.

He was thankful, actually. He felt he owed it to Kick to be here, but didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone, Kick’s parents especially. He just didn’t know what to say.

The music stopped just as Starship came in through the back door. He moved quickly toward the last pew in the small church, eyes cast toward the floor. The minister began reading from the Second Book of Chronicles, a selection from the Old Testament of the Bible concerning the bond between Solomon and God: “ ‘Give me now wisdom and knowledge, that I may go out and come in before this people.’ ”

The passage spoke of wisdom and riches; the minister used it as a starting point as he asked God for the wisdom needed to accept a young man’s death. The reverend spoke frankly of the difficulty of comprehending the loss. “Lieutenant James Colby was a hero,” he said. “But that does not make his loss any easier for us to take.”

Was Kick a hero? wondered Starship. He was a decent pilot and a hard worker; he’d been brave and seen combat. But was he a hero?

Kick had died in the line of duty, caught in a Megafortress when it crashed during an aborted takeoff in Malaysia after guerrillas had seized the kingdom of Brunei. Starship had been on the aircraft himself, strapped in next to Kick on the control deck for the Flighthawks. The fact that he was here and Kick wasn’t, he thought, was just a matter of dumb, stupid luck. Bad luck.

If he had died, would he be a hero?

Starship listened as the service continued with different friends recounting their memories of Kick. He’d gotten his nickname not from the high school football team—which was the story Kick had told—but from peewee soccer. It came during his first game as a six-year-old, when he scored a goal. The nickname had stuck from there, becoming wide-spread in high school, where he’d switched to football and set a county scoring record booting extra points and field goals.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Starship’s mind drifted as the service continued. If the luck had run differently—if he had been the one who got the freak piece of shrapnel, and the sudden shock that combined to do Kick in—what would people be saying about him?

Smart kid— number three in his high school class and inthe top five percent at the Academy.

Should have chosen a few more gut classes and got top honors.

Won an assignment to Dreamland on the cutting edge of aviation.

A mistake. He was flying robot aircraft, glorified UAVs.

The computer did most of the work. It was like sitting at a desk all day.

“I’ll bet you’re Starship.”

Starship turned and saw that a woman had come into his pew from the side. Maybe five-two, with dark hair and green eyes, she looked a lot like Kick.

“Alice,” she whispered. “Kick’s sister.”

“Hi.” He stuck his hand out.

“We’re glad you could come.”

“Yeah, um, I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Distress flickered across her face, but then cleared. “We’re having—my parents are inviting people over later. You should stop by.”

“I kinda gotta get back,” Starship lied.