Satan's Tail

“We need you to stand by,” said Eyes. “All of our forces are engaged with the enemy.”

“They’re under heavy attack.”

“I know what they’re doing,” said Storm, butting in.

“They’ve shot down half the Yemen Air Force. They don’t need any help. Do you have Harpoons left?”

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“Affirmative,” said Dog.

“Eyes, give them a target.”

“That amphibious ship they saw the other day is about thirty miles north of us. It has another craft alongside it, possibly as a tug.”

“Sink the bastard,” cut in Storm.

“Your orders covering engagement prohibit me from doing that,” replied the colonel coldly. “They’ve been in international waters since before the start of the engagement.

And besides, I can’t get close enough for a visual without leaving this area.”

How could the Air Force flyboy remain so stinking calm when he had just lost several men?

“Damn it, Bastian—find a way to engage him. Your people in the other Megafortress don’t seem to be having any problem.”

“They were threatened and had to defend themselves.”

“A good plan for you. We’re going after the submarine.”

“Wisconsin out.” The feed snapped clean.

“What’s going on with those torpedoes that were launched at us?” said Storm.

“Two are still tracking, Captain.”

The voices came in rapid succession as the different elements of the battle were processed.

“Bingo! We have another strike on the submarine!” said Weapons.

“One of the Libyan torpedoes has self-detonated.”

“We have the patrol craft zeroed in.”

“Second Libyan torpedo is going off course. We’re in the clear.”

Suddenly, one of the sonar operators shouted so loud his voice echoed in the space:

“I have sounds of a submarine breaking up!”

“Put them over the loudspeaker,” said Storm. “Crew, we have sunk the Tango sub. We have routed the pirates from their base. We are in the process of breaking the terrorists’

backs.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The crew began to cheer. This is what revenge sounds like, Storm thought.

The celebration was interrupted by a new warning, this one from the Dreamland EB-52 over the battle area.

“Missiles in the air—four—eight Styx missiles!

Launched in the direction of the Abner Read.”

Aboard the Wisconsin

0040

DOG HAD JUST TOLD ZEN TO TAKE HAWK TWO TOWARD THE

amphibious ship when the barrage of missiles sprang from it.

“Multiple launches,” reported Dish. “They’re all Styx missiles. We’re confirmed on that.”

“I have three of the missiles in view,” said Zen.

“Can you take them out?” asked Dog.

“Not all of them,” said Zen.

“Dish—can you ID guidance or the missile types?”

“Working on it, Colonel. S1 and S2 have MS-2A seekers—radar, capable of home on jam. Active. Others are similar—may be a P-22 in there as well. That would default to an infrared if jammed. Guess here is that they had a location or at least an approximate location based on the AbnerRead’s radar and fired.”

“I have S5 and S6,” said Zen, singling out two of the missiles Dish had ID’d as having heat-seeking heads.

“McNamara, target the two closest to Abner Read with Scorpions,” Dog said. “Once the air-to-air missiles are off, we’ll sink the ship with the rest of our Harpoons.”

“Working on it, Colonel. Going to need you to come to a new course.”

“Lay it in.”

“I’m engaging,” said Zen.

Dog swung the aircraft into a better position for McNamara, shortening the distance the AMRAAM-pluses would SATAN’S TAIL

355

need to take to intercept the missiles. No matter how it was guided, the Russian-made Styx was at its heart a flying bomb, a set of wings and an engine that could take its 480-kilogram warhead just over the speed of sound. In its most recent version, it could travel about fifty-four nautical miles.

“Opening bomb bay doors,” said Dog as he swung into position. The aircraft shuddered as she opened her belly to the elements, exposing the antiair missile on her revolving dispenser.

“Locked on S3,” said the copilot.

“Fire.”

“Firing. Locked on S4.”

“Fire.”

The missiles clunked off the rack, their sleek bodies accelerating rapidly. The standard AMRAAM could top Mach 4; the AMRAAM-plus Scorpion, a Dreamland special, went a hair faster but carried a heavier warhead, which, as on the standard version, sat just forward of the middle of the missile.

“Baker-Baker, this is Wisconsin—I’m afraid we have our hands full for the moment,” he told Brea

“We have it under control, Daddy.”

He hated her calling him Daddy.

“Wisconsin, I need you to come west with me,” said Zen.

“Missiles are away,” said McNamara. “Tracking.”

“Button up,” Dog told him. “And hang on.”

ZEN PUSHED HAWK THREE INTO A DIVE AT THE COURSE THE

computer plotted for the Styx missile. In some ways, the ship-to-ship projectile was an easy target—it flew in a predictable path and couldn’t defend itself. On the other hand, it was fast enough that he had only one real shot at it; if he missed, he’d never be able to turn and get another shot.

The computer showed the course perfectly. Zen was mov-

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

ing exactly onto his mark. There was only one problem—the missile wasn’t there.

Zen slid the throttle back, cutting down his speed. According to the sitrep plot at the bottom right of his visor, the Styx missile should be right in front of him. But neither the synthesized radar view nor the low-light video showed it.

Confused, he tucked the Flighthawk into a bank. The computer had Hawk Two—the control screen showed that it was nearly ready to fire. Realizing that he was unlikely to do any better than the computer in the encounter, Zen stayed with Hawk One.

“Strike on S3,” reported McNamara, watching the AMRAAM-plus.

“Hey, Dish, they’re foxing us somehow, confusing the radar with false returns,” said Zen. “I just chased a nonexistent missile.”

“Working on it—sorry, we haven’t seen these ECMs before. More missiles in the air!”

Zen selected his infrared feed and saw two missiles within striking distance; he went for the closer one, putting several ca

“They’re still tricking us,” he told Dish.

“Yeah,” said the radar operator. “I’m trying to narrow down the units that have the counter-ECMs. Whatever they’re using is good—maybe Indian modifications or something new out of Russia.”

“Better alert the Abner Read to the false signals.”

“Already have.”

Northern Somalia

0045

THE VESSEL LOOMED AHEAD, MORE A SHADOW ON THE WATER

than a ship.

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357

“Come,” Ali told the others who had joined him. “Commend yourselves to God, and follow.”

He stripped off his shirt and pants and slipped into the water, his only weapon the knife at his belt. Six others followed him, the best swimmers of his small force.

And then more—another dozen, eighteen, all of the men who had survived.

But after a few strokes, Ali faltered; the water was too cold and his arms too old to reach his destination.

Let me die if it is your will, he told his Lord.

Water swelled into his nose. He felt himself going down and thought of his son.

And then he was there, his hand touching the side of the ship—it felt like hard rubber, as if the entire craft were sheathed in a diver’s suit. Ali didn’t know where to put his hands. He had found his way to the flank of the enemy’s craft, propelled entirely by God’s will.