Satan's Tail

Flown by the computer, Hawk Four lined up for a head-on shot at the easternmost MiG, which hadn’t changed course. Starship let the computer hold onto the Flighthawk and angled toward the other plane, which had begun to dive to the west.

“Hawk Three, we’re going to take those MiGs out with missiles,” said Brea

“Hawk Four is engaging,” said Starship.

“Pull off,” said Brea

“Roger that,” he said reluctantly, overriding the computer.

BREANNA WAITED UNTIL SPIDERMAN GOT A LOCK ON THE SECond aircraft to give the order to fire. The AMRAAM-pluses SATAN’S TAIL

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clunked off the launcher, whipping forward from beneath the Megafortress’s belly.

“Close it up,” she told her copilot.

“They’re locking—launching the Alamos.”

“ECMs.”

“Jesus, Captain, they’re scrambling their whole air force,”

said Telly. “I have that group of four MiG-29s, and now two MiG-21s, four MiG-21s coming out of the north. They’re going for broke.”

“So are we.”

STARSHIP HAD HIS PICK OF TARGETS—FOUR MIG-29S AND

six MiG-21s had joined the playing field. The MiG-29s were more serious threats to the Megafortress, and closer besides—he set the two Flighthawks up for a run at their front quarters from the east. This time the attack was a no-brainer, with the enemy planes spread out at easy intervals.

Despite the two earlier encounters, they were unaware of the Flighthawks and took no evasive maneuvers as Starship approached.

The cockpit of one of the MiGs materialized in the center of his firing screen, the image complete with the bobbing head of the pilot. Starship hesitated—it seemed inhumane for some reason to target the man flying the plane rather than the metal itself—but then squeezed the trigger. The rain of lead flowed across the aircraft for perhaps two whole seconds, twice as long as the Flighthawk’s ca

A second aircraft appeared almost immediately. Starting to ride the adrenaline high of the encounter, Starship fired even though the gear showed he didn’t have a shot. He scolded himself and turned right, just in time to witness the computer’s first score of the night with Hawk Four—a screaming attack from above that tore off the right wing of one of the MiGs.

As Starship hunted for his own target, he got a warning from the radar warning receiver—one of the MiGs had man-

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

aged to turn and was on his tail. He pulled the MiG with him in a dive and then a tuck to the right, weaving back to the left and then pulling up with a twist to the left. The MiG hung with the smaller plane, very close to its tail but not quite lined up for a shot. Sweat rode down Starship’s back as he ducked left then right, then left again. The Flighthawk flicked in the sky, changing course so sharply that a live pilot would have been knocked senseless by the heavy g’s. Finally the MiG shot past. Starship waited a second for his wings to steady, then zeroed out his opponent with a steady burst.

As the plane exploded, a second fighter came into view; Starship immediately turned to close for an attack. But he’d lost so much airspeed already that he got a stall warning—it was a wonder, between his maneuvers and the effect of the ca

He was too flatfooted to get more than a few bullets into the other aircraft, and when the MiG pulled away, he had to let it go.

He turned to check the sitrep screen to reorient himself when he got a warning buzzer from C3—he was low on fuel.

Very low—ten minutes.

“MiG-21s are moving to engage us,” Spiderman told him.

“Eight of them. They’re five minutes from missile range.”

“I need to gas up,” Starship said. “Both planes.”

“This isn’t a good time,” Brea

“It’s a lousy time,” said Starship. “But I’m almost bone dry.”

“We’re being tracked by a surface radar,” added Spiderman. “SAMs—we’re spiked! They’re firing!”

SATAN’S TAIL

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Aboard the Abner Read

0030

“HIT ON SONAR CONTACT ONE!” SAID WEAPONS, RELAYING

the news that one of their torpedoes had struck the Libyan submarine.

“It’s about time,” said Storm. “Eyes—status of that submarine?”

“Still trying to determine, sir.”

“Weapons—torpedoes five and six?”

“En route and true.”

Hallelujah, thought Storm.

“The submarine is dead in the water,” said Eyes.

“Time to impact on torpedo five is three minutes,” said Peanut. “Six is right behind.”

“Stay on him.”

“I’m trying, Storm,” said the executive officer. Storm detected some of his pique at being bypassed creeping into his voice but didn’t comment on it; he’d take care of the man later on, reward him for his patience.

He’d reward all the crew members—best damn crew in the Navy, bar none.

Storm turned his attention to the rest of the battle. All of the vessels coming from the targeted base area had been struck, but there were other ships in the vicinity, which he guessed must be part of the pirate fleet. They would have to neutralize as many as they could.

His move against the submarine had taken him in the direction of three ships identified as small patrol boats by the Megafortress; these were heading out from the coastline to his west about eight miles away. Shark Boat Two had engaged a similar-sized craft three miles beyond them. Storm decided that since the Abner Read was already headed in that direction and the land objective had been secured, they would cut off the three patrol craft and stand by to render assistance to the Shark Boat. He told Bastian to remain over at the pirate camp, supporting the landing team and Shark Boat One.

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The rules of engagement required the ships to positively identify any craft not at the landing site as a pirate before opening fire, unless they were fired on first or represented an immediate threat. Storm had communications issue a warning to the three patrol craft, telling them that they were interfering with a UN-sponsored operation and were to return to their ports.

“No answer,” said the communications officer.

“Peanut, target the patrol craft identified as Surface Contacts Fourteen, Fifteen, and Sixteen.”

Peanut issued the command. As it was being passed along, Eyes reported that the Libyan submarine had opened its torpedo tubes.

“Weapons, what’s the status of the torpedoes?” said Storm.

“Five is sixty seconds away.”

“Torpedoes in the water!” warned the computerized threat indicator.

The twenty-one-inch torpedoes carried by the enemy submarine were heavier and deadlier than those Storm’s ship had launched and in theory had a longer range—as much as fifty kilometers. As the crew began to respond, Eyes reported that torpedo five had detonated prematurely, too far from the submarine to damage it.

Storm stifled a curse, struggling to control his anger. He would get the bastard—he would get all of the bastards—but to do that he had to remain calm.

But remaining calm was not his strong suit.

“Dreamland EB-52 Wisconsin to CAG Tactical Command,” said Bastian over the Dreamland circuit. “The other Megafortress is engaging fighters from Yemen. We’d like to go to their assistance.”