Satan's Tail

it wasn’t like—it’s not like a movie thing, you know, where the guy charges out and people are shooting at him. We do have guys like that. They just march right through anything.

And to be a pilot, I mean, you do face death, you know. But, you don’t think about it like—it’s not a movie thing. It didn’t happen like you’d think it would happen in a movie. We were there and then he was dead.”

Finally he stopped talking. He felt thankful, as if someone else had been making his mouth work and he had no control.

“The Lord does have a plan for us all,” said the minister.

Starship wanted to ask him how he knew, and more important, how someone could find out what the plan was. But he was afraid of opening his mouth again. He didn’t want the others to misunderstand him, and he didn’t want to insult the minister. Starship knew he wasn’t the most religious person in the world; he believed in God, certainly, but if he found himself in church more than twice a year, it was a lot.

No one else in the kitchen spoke. Starship thought everyone was staring at him.

“That was a nice passage from the Bible,” the cousin told the minister.

“There’s a lot of solace in the Old Testament,” said the minister.

Starship realized that the reverend was struggling to find the right words to say. Which surprised him. Weren’t ministers supposed to have this stuff down cold?

“Did you know Kick well, Lieutenant?” asked the cousin.

“Uh, we were in the same unit. We were together—” Starship stopped short of telling them how Kick had died. Partly it was for official reasons: Details of the mission remained classified. But mostly he didn’t want to talk about it—didn’t want to describe how he’d pulled his friend from the wreck, only to discover he was dead.

Everyone stared.

“He was a heck of a pilot,” said Starship finally. He could talk about this—this was easy, nothing but facts and no interpretation; easy, straightforward facts. “I’ll tell you, I saw 36

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

him fly an A-10A once. We, uh, we had one at the base.” He checked himself again, knowing he couldn’t mention Dreamland, much less what aircraft were there. “Had that A-10A turning on a dime. Ugly plane.”

One of the friends mumbled something in agreement, then ventured that Kick had always liked to fix cars when he was in high school. Starship downed the rest of the beer, then slipped out as quickly as he could.

Aboard the Abner Read,

off the Horn of Africa

3 November 1997

2042

STORM ADJUSTED THE LOOP AT HIS BELT, EASING THE BRAKE

on the safety rope system so he could move more freely on the deck of the ship. Angled and faceted to lessen its radar profile, the ship’s topside was not particularly easy to walk on, even in relatively calm seas, and with no railing along the sides of the ship, the safety rope was an absolute necessity. He walked forward along the starboard side, steadying himself on the gun housing.

The Abner Read had sent its two rigid-hulled inflatable boats from the stern to search through the floating debris to the northwest. The two men on deck had seen something near the ship and, with bad weather approaching and the boats a good distance away, had worked together to pick it up before it was lost. One of the men had actually gone over the side, using his safety gear to climb down the knifelike bow area, perching on the side and fishing for the debris with a long pole.

Another commander would have probably considered this a foolhardy move, and very possibly had their captain discipline the men—if he didn’t do so himself. But Storm wasn’t another commander. While the man who had gotten down on the side of the ship had been dashed against the hull rather severely by the waves, in Storm’s opinion he had SATAN’S TAIL

37

shown precisely the sort of can-do attitude the Navy ought to encourage.

“A jacket, sir,” said one of the sailors, handing him the dark blue cloth that had been retrieved.

More precisely, it was half a jacket. There was something in one of the pockets—a folded rial.

Yemeni currency. Hard proof that the Yemenis were involved, just in case anyone doubted him.

“Damn good work,” said Storm. He put the jacket under his arm. “Damn good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” shouted the men.

“Carry on,” said Storm. He paused. “And don’t drown.”

The sailors laughed. “Yes, sir.”

Storm turned to go back. This was the Navy at its best—filled with sailors who weren’t afraid to show initiative, and whose voices carried the proper tone of respect even in ca-sual conversation. He’d selected the best men and women for Xray Pop, knowing the plank owners of the littoral warfare ships would be the seed of the new Navy. They were what the entire Navy ought to be, and it damn well would be when he ran the fleet.

“Captain, you have an eyes-only message waiting, sir,”

said the seaman who met him at the hatchway. Storm followed the man to the communications department, where the crew snapped to as he came in.

“Gentlemen. Where’s my message?”

“Right here, sir,” said the ensign in charge. He stepped back to let Storm sit at the computer terminal. The message had been transmitted through a secure text system. The ensign made a point of going to the radioman at the other station as Storm typed in his password and brought the message onto the screen.

REQUEST FOR RULES CHANGE DENIED. YOU ARE TO PROCEED AS

DIRECTED.

I EXPECT A FULL BRIEFING SOONEST.

ADMIRAL WOODS

38

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Hardly worth the effort of encoding, thought Storm. But then, his opinion of Admiral Woods was hardly a high one.

Admiral Woods—CINCPACFLT, or Commander of the Pacific Fleet—had made such a mash of the so-called Piranha episode that the Air Force— the U.S. Air Force! —had to step in and save the day.

Not that a war between India and China was worth heading off. Like ninety percent of the Navy, Storm would have preferred to watch the two powers slug it out in the Pacific and Indian Oceans until all they had left between them were a pair of rubber dinghies. Still, if it had to be broken up, it would have been much better if the Navy had done the job.

Woods was currently aboard the John C. Ste