Satan's Tail

“You’re standing, asshole. You’re standing,” Zen told him.

Mack looked down at his legs. He was standing, though in fact Zen was holding most of his weight. Slowly, Zen pushed him further upright. He let go with his right hand, then, looking at Mack, he let go with his left.

Tears streamed down Mack’s face. He took a step—unsteady, trembling, but it was a real step.

“You’re still a fucking asshole, Mack,” said Zen, turning and rolling from the room, leaving Mack Smith standing on his own two feet for the first time in more than a month.

VIII

Bloodthirst

Alexandria,

near Washington, D.C.

10 November 1997

0600

JED WAS JUST ABOUT TO LEAVE FOR THE OFFICE WHEN THE

phone rang. He grabbed it, thinking it might be Freeman.

“Barclay.”

“Well, Jed, how are you?”

“Ms. O’Day?”

“How’s Washington treating you?”

“It’s treating me fine,” Jed told her. They hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. “How are you?”

“I was talking with a friend of ours, and decided to give you a call. I’ve been meaning to say hello for a long time.”

Deborah O’Day had been Jed’s first boss. He had started with her as little more than an intern; she’d encouraged him and given him more responsibility. While they hadn’t worked together for long, he had learned a great deal. By the time she left office with the last administration, he had become the de facto link with Dreamland and Whiplash, one of the main reasons Freeman and President Martindale had kept him on.

Jed guessed that Colonel Bastian had asked her to call. A week before, even just a few days ago, he might have told her everything that had happened. But now he was wary: He was belatedly starting to understand that he couldn’t trust anyone in Washington, not even friends.

“I’d like to talk,” he told her. “But I’m kind of on my way to a meeting.”

306

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Neither statement was a lie; they just left a lot out.

“Are you in trouble, Jed?”

“Not really. No.”

Now that was a lie.

“I want you to know that if trouble does come up,” she told him, “we can find friends who will help you. Legal friends. Don’t let yourself be pressured.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t take the fall for anyone.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Jed remembered watching her in her office some days, sitting and frowning at the desktop, considering what she wanted to say. He imagined she was doing that now.

“All right, Jed. Let me give you my number, just in case.

You can call it whenever you need help.”

“I appreciate that.”

“YOU TALKED TO DREAMLAND, AND TO XRAY POP,” SAID

Freeman as soon as Jed entered his office a few minutes before seven. “Why?”

Primed to be fired, the question actually caught him off guard.

“Colonel Bastian asked for some stuff, and I—I just figured it made more sense to straighten it out for them on my own. Otherwise the whole thing, I mean, I didn’t want to make it more complicated than it was.”

“Sit down, Jed.” Freeman sighed. “Let me ask you one question before we continue.”

Here it comes, thought Jed. “OK.”

“Do you believe in President Martindale?”

“Well, sure.”

Believe in him? He agreed with his positions, or most of them at least, but believe in him? What did that mean, exactly?

“Look, Mr. Freeman, I didn’t do it on purpose, but I un-

SATAN’S TAIL

307

derstand it’s huge,” said Jed. “I’m ready to resign. It’s OK.

You don’t have to let me down easy.”

“Resigning now would not be a good idea, Jed. It’ll only make things much more complicated. It won’t help the President, and it certainly won’t help you. Senator Finegold will crucify you if she has the chance.”

Surprised—definitely relieved, but mostly surprised—Jed nodded.

“The photo hasn’t appeared anywhere else, has it?” asked Freeman.

“No, sir. I was kind of wondering about that.”

“The press will move on, and this will be forgotten.”

“What if it’s not?” asked Jed.

“Then we’ll deal with that then. The Secretary of State still has your laptop?”

“Yes.”

Freeman frowned. “Jeff Hartman is very ambitious, Jed.

Don’t forget that. He’s a member of this administration—but he’s also very ambitious.”

“What does that have to do with my laptop?”

“Hopefully, nothing.”

“What should I tell the President?”

“You should tell him nothing.”

Jed frowned, and Freeman repeated, “Nothing.”

“Wouldn’t it be better—”

“Nothing.”

“But he’s the President.”

“Do you trust me, Jed?”

No, thought Jed. I don’t trust anyone. Not even myself. But he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Tell you what. Let’s get some coffee and head over to the Pentagon. I’d like to hear what Captain Gale is pla

308

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard the Abner Read

2300

DANNY FREAH’S STOMACH FLUTTERED AS THE DREAMLAND

Osprey dipped a few yards from the deck of the Abner Read.

Weighed down by the troops in her belly, the nose of the craft dipped forward and her tail pitched sharply left, an unexpected burst of wind trying to wrestle control of the craft from the pilot. The waves snapped at the wheels of the aircraft, and the fantail of the littoral warship loomed in the window.

Da

If I die, this is the last thing I’m going to see, he thought.

Beauty.

The Osprey lurched backward, buffeted by another burst of wind. The tail pushed downward and the aircraft shot right.

Da

“Whoa,” said one of the Marines next to him.

Whoa is right, thought Da

STORM SAW THE OSPREY DIP DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO THE

waves then jerk back upright, as if the aircraft had paused to take a sip of water.

Months and years of work hung in the air for a moment, stuttering there on the fragile metal wings of the aircraft. He folded his fingers into a fist and punched the air.

“Go!” he yelled from the flying bridge at the side of the superstructure atop the Abner Read. “Go!”

The aircraft stumbled again. This was a real weakness of the mission plan: They had to rely on a single aircraft to transport the assault team. That couldn’t be helped—there was only one Osprey available.

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309

Storm’s stomach turned as the plane faltered. I’ve put toomuch into this to fail now, he thought. Go.

It moved sideways for a moment longer, then lurched forward, more in control. Storm lowered his night optical device and took one last long breath of the night air. If Operation Bloodthirst succeeded— when Operation Bloodthirst succeeded—the future of Combined Action Groups based around littoral warships like the Abner Read would be assured. As would his own career.

And if the operation failed, so would he. There’d be no admiralship, no hope of advance beyond captain. He’d be relieved in a heartbeat, given some obscure job counting toilet seats on the Great Lakes. Everything he’d worked for was now on the line.