Satan's Tail

that nearly tore the Megafortress in two. That’s what came from having Zen teach these kids how to fly.

Not that he had anything against Zen. He owed him a lot.

Did he, though? What had Zen done except be a jerk?

Well, he owed him that, then.

Mack sat down at the console. The Abner Read had been struck by a missile.

“Damn it,” he said. “I ought to be there. I could have shot those damn things down.”

Aboard the Abner Read

0102

THE FIRST REPORT WAS NOT GOOD. THE MISSILE HAD HIT THE

hangar area, igniting the fuel there.

The next report was worse. A secondary explosion had ripped through part of the hull. They were taking on water and had to close down one of the sections below, even though there were men inside.

Most likely the men were dead, but there was no way to know.

The Abner Read listed toward starboard two or three degrees, and her bow had started to lift. Storm saw from the damage control graphic on the bridge hologram that a 378

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hatch to the compartment remained open. He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, picturing the sailors there, then moved forward to the weapons bay. He punched the code, but rather than the petty officer he expected to pick up, he found himself talking to a young sailor, Tommy Hall. He knew Hall a little better than the seaman would have wished—two days before they sailed, the boatswain’s mate second class had been brought before him for discipline.

“Tommy, I need you to go to the engineering shop and find the emergency response team,” Storm told him. “They’re out of communication. Direct them to dog the hatch there, son.

If they are not in sight, you have to do it yourself. You need to secure it, and you need to do it right now.”

“Sir, there’s water on the deck here, a foot of water.”

Storm realized the situation was worse than he’d thought.

“Yes, I understand,” he said calmly. “Go and dog the hatch while it can still be closed.”

“I’m going to try, sir.”

“No, son, you’re going to do it. I know you’re going to do it, because I’m counting on you. You’re going to close that hatch and you’re going to save our ship.”

There was no answer. Storm felt the ship lurch; the list was getting worse.

A firefighting team reported that they were tackling a fire behind the main exhaust. The lights flickered, but came back on strong.

Storm looked at the hologram. If they didn’t close off the compartment, the fuel ballast tanks and main diesel generator would be flooded. The damage done by the missile and the secondary explosion made it impossible to seal those compartments directly.

If he were the sailor, would he close the hatch, knowing his friends were inside? Even if he were sure they were dead? Even if he knew his own life depended on it?

Storm resisted the temptation to run down himself and se-

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cure the hatch. His place was here, and besides, he knew he’d never make it in time.

JENNIFER HELPED THE CORPSMAN CARRY THE INJURED PETTY

officer out of Tac into a small space used as an electrical shop. The corpsman checked the bandage she had used to stanch the bleeding from the man’s neck.

“You did a good job, miss,” said the corpsman, getting up.

“He’ll live?”

“I don’t know,” said the sailor honestly. “If we abandon ship, I just don’t know.”

“Are we abandoning ship?”

The man winced. “We’ve been hit pretty bad, and we’re taking on water. But it’s the captain’s decision.”

THE VOICE WAS WEAK AND PUNCTUATED BY SOBS.

“I heard screaming,” it said.

“Did you secure the hatch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good work, Tommy. Secure the door to the compart -

ment. Tighten it down, and come up here to the bridge.”

“But—”

“I need you up here right away,” added Storm. “Can you get up here?”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“No, son, you come up here now because I need you, and because you’re going to help save our ship. You’re going to come here and save some lives.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” said the young man, just firmly enough to convince Storm that he would.

He glanced at the hologram, but already sensed that the ship had stopped settling. They were going to make it—but there was a hell of a lot of work to do.

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Aboard the Wisconsin

0102

ZEN TOOK HAWK ONE TOWARD THE SHARK BOAT, RUNNING AT

the craft from the east. There were two smaller craft tracking behind it—pirates chasing it off, or at least that was what it looked like.

“English, look at this screen and tell me what you see,” said Zen, authorizing the feed from the Flighthawk’s infrared.

“Well, if I didn’t know any better,” the ensign replied, “I’d say it was a Shark Boat ru

“Why?”

“For one thing, even if they had no weapons aboard, the Shark Boat could just turn around and run over them,” said Ensign English. “Besides, there is no way that anyone working for Storm is going to run away from battle. The crews on those Shark Boats were handpicked, especially the captains.

They’ll fight to the bitter end.”

“Wisconsin, this is Flighthawk leader. I have a strange situation I want to sort out. Can you reach the Shark Boat?”

“Negative,” said Dog. “Da

“Where is Da

“Stand by.”

The line clicked twice, and Da

“Something’s going on with that Shark Boat,” he said.

“He’s going out into the open water—I think he’s ru

“I’ll take a pass and put some shots across his bow.”

“Hold on,” said Dog. “The control buoy for Piranha was hit in the gun battle. We’re going to have to drop another buoy or we’ll lose it. Da

“Five minutes,” repeated Da

381

right, we need the submarine pen checked out, and the probe should go in ahead of the divers.”

“All right. Give us five minutes,” said Dog.

“Flighthawk leader,” said Zen, agreeing.

Gulf of Aden

0105

“TWO OF OUR BOATS ARE FOLLOWING US, COMMANDER,” SAID

Saed. “Should we stop for them?”

Ali stared into the blackness before him. The Ark Royal was roughly sixty miles away.

Habib had made a wondrous discovery—according to the computer, there were two American missiles aboard the ship, Harpoon missiles. Ali had not worked with the missiles himself; the Italian Navy’s standard antiship missile was the Otomat, a more limited weapon. The Otomat’s accuracy and effective range were affected by the radar capabilities, which limited its over-the-horizon range to roughly twenty-five miles. Ali was not sure what the range of the Harpoons would be, or whether the ship’s low profile meant the reach of its radar wasn’t as good.

It was all academic at the moment—Habib had not yet figured out how to use the weapon.

Better to simply take the ship into the side of the aircraft carrier and be done with it, Ali thought. Surely that was what God intended—the British would not fire on an American vessel. He would run close to it, launch the torpedoes from the forward hull tubes—those, at least, had a standard NATO

command interface—and then ram the British ship, commending his soul to God.

Sixty miles—given their present speed as well as the aircraft carrier’s toward them. It would be over in a half hour, perhaps less.

And then he would join his son Abu, finally at rest. Was it 382

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a sin to think of his son when God’s sword was in his hand?