Satan's Tail

It figured.

His sat phone rang, and he picked it up without thinking.

“Jed, this is Colonel Bastian. I wonder if you can get me some data on a ship … I also need better maps of the coastal area. One weird thing we’re looking for is something 294

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from 1940 or 1941 that might help. See, the Italians started to build a base in British Somaliland around the end of 1940—”

“Um, I’m kind of on, uh, like on a leave thing,” Jed said.

“I shouldn’t even have answered the phone.”

“Vacation?”

“It’s hard to explain. I’m kind of on … leave.”

“What do you mean ‘leave’?”

Oh, hell, thought Jed. “I screwed something up. So, I’m kind of on ice.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it, and I really can’t. You or the people at Dreamland Command can call over to the White House and get the military liaison’s office. They’ll help out.”

“Are you in real trouble?”

“Yeah.”

Dog didn’t say anything. “You want some advice?”

“I do, but—I know I can trust you, Colonel, but things are so screwed up right now.”

“I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, and I don’t want you to tell me, not if it’ll make things worse. But in Washington it can be really hard to know who’s on your side and who isn’t. If you’re really in trouble—and I mean real trouble—you find a lawyer. All right?”

“Yeah. That’s probably good advice.”

“Look, can you help me? I don’t have time to spend trying to run this stuff down.”

Jed sighed. “What exactly is it that you need?”

Diego Garcia

0800

STARSHIP TOLD HIMSELF HE WAS JUST GOING INTO THE

chapel because he was bored. Inside, the minister was wrapping up a sermon about David in the lion’s den. Star-

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295

ship took a seat and listened. The minister wasn’t a particularly good speaker, and the sermon itself wasn’t much better.

Starship rose with the rest of the congregation, joining in a hymn, eyes wandering. When he was a teenager and used to go to church with the family on Sundays, he’d spent a lot of services this way, checking out the women nearby. There were only two in the sparse crowd, and neither would have earned higher than a four on his old scale of one to ten.

As he stood there, he realized everyone else had a hymnal.

Belatedly, he reached for one and began thumbing through it. But before he could find the song it was over.

Everyone started walking out. Starship put the book down and waited for the others to pass, then shambled out behind them, bemused—church, it seemed to him, hadn’t changed all that much in the few years since he’d stopped going regularly, or semiregularly.

“Welcome to our congregation,” said the minister in a vaguely Australian accent. He had stationed himself near the door.

“Uh, thanks. Nice sermon,” said Starship.

“You only heard the tail end.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“It wasn’t really that good, was it?” said the minister.

His honesty surprised Starship, who wasn’t sure how to respond. He shrugged, then started to walk away, but something in the minister’s face made him want to say something—anything—to let the poor guy know he didn’t think he was a failure. “I got a question. Is it true that Muslims and Jews use the Bible too?”

“What Christians call the Old Testament. Absolutely,”

said the minister. “Is that your question?”

“Yeah.”

“Come back and pray with us again.”

“Thanks,” said Starship, making his escape.

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Aboard the Abner Read

1324

“WE WILL OPEN OPERATION BLOODTHIRST AT 2350 WITH THE

Flighthawk overflight of the base area,” said Storm. He gestured to the hologram, where a simulation of the operation had begun to play. “We analyze the video feeds, then get a go/no go on the operation. Assuming a green light, SharkBoat One moves forward at 2410 and puts the first shore party into the insertion raft. The party splits up, one watching the small bridge to the village and the other moving farther east along the coast as a backstop to prevent anyone from escaping. Bombardment begins from the Abner Read.

The Werewolves appear at 2415. The Osprey approaches from the south. Werewolves attack. Second shore team comes off the Shark Boat. Shark Boat One moves offshore and monitors the situation. Osprey disgorges the combined teams of Marines and Whiplash troopers.”

Da

Storm relished the spotlight; there was no doubt about that.

He was the kind of guy who should be a congressman.

I’m not going to run for Congress, Da

He glanced across the room at Dancer, noticing her intent gaze as Storm moved to the exfiltration.

I’m not sure exactly who I am, but I’m not a congressman.

“Shark Boat Two stays in this area to the east, watching for additional boats and mopping up anything that manages to get by the Abner Read and Boat One,” continued Storm.

“Are we all on board?”

One by one the different commanders checked in. Dog, who was participating by video back in the Dreamland Command trailer, grunted. The colonel seemed more tired than Da

That’ll be me in what, ten years?

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Unlikely. Oh, he might make lieutenant colonel—given his record, he ought to do so easily. But then what? The general idea would be to stick around and make full bird colonel, then go for general. But that wasn’t as easy as it seemed.

There was a real numbers squeeze on, and there were going to be less and less slots available at the higher ranks, especially after the Martindale administration, which was generally considered pro-military. Even now, getting the star on your shoulder could be tricky for someone who wasn’t a pilot. It wasn’t a written thing, and there were plenty of exceptions— plenty—but if you wanted to go to the top in the Air Force, it helped a lot to be part of the mafia.

Dog would argue that. Da

But did he want to be a general? Talk about being a politician.

So what would he do?

“Captain?” said Storm, looking at him.

“I think it’s going to work,” said Da

Diego Garcia

1630

“IS MS. O’DAY THERE?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“This is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian,” Dog told the man who had answered the phone. “Is Ms. O’Day there?”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“I’m afraid it’s very early,” said Dog. “Unfortunately, a good friend of hers is in trouble, and I have only a limited time to talk to her about it.”

“Hold on.”

Dog hadn’t spoken to Deborah O’Day since she left the administration. The former National Security Advisor was 298

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now a college professor in Maine. Contrary to what he had told the man who answered the phone, Dog did know what time it was there—five-thirty a.m.—but it seemed more tactful to feign ignorance.

“Colonel Bastian, Auld Lang Syne.”

“Ms. O’Day. How are you?”

“Well, I’m OK, Dog. I’m guessing you’re not. What’s wrong?”

“A friend of ours is in some sort of trouble. Something serious enough for him not to want to talk about it.”

“Who?”

“Jed Barclay.”

“Jed Barclay. Jed?”

“He’s still at the NSC.”