The heavy traffic of the channel and shallow waters of the coast gave them some amount of protection, but Satan’s Tail was a difficult adversary. He had found out tonight its guns were even more dangerous than he had feared, their salvos unlike anything he had ever seen at sea before. Like all SATAN’S TAIL
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demons, the American vessel would not be easily exorcised.
The answer, he hoped, had arrived that evening, sneaking into port during his diversionary action two hundred miles away. In itself, the vessel wasn’t much. A member of the Russian Polnocny class, she had been built many years before in Poland to support landings by amphibious forces.
Her upturned bow could be beached and the doors opened, allowing vehicles to roll off the large tank deck that ran through the center of the ship. But Ali wasn’t interested in its ability as an amphibious warfare vessel; he had no tanks and no desire to fight on land. Indeed, the work he had spoken of to his man included modifying the deck to make the ship appear from the air as much as possible like an old junker, a local merchant ship a few months from the scrap heap.
Once the Russian and American satellites passed on their predictable schedules overhead, the real modifications would begin: the addition of advanced SS-N-2D Styx ship-to-ship missile launchers. Vastly improved over the early model fired from the Yemen missile boat, the missiles had a forty-six-mile range and included an infrared backup, allowing them to find their targets even if jammed by an electronic countermeasure system. The missiles would allow Ali to attack Satan’s Tail from a distance without having a good
“lock” from the radar, which he suspected would be impossible. While the odds on a single or even double shot succeeding were high, Ali believed from his training that a barrage firing in two or more waves of missiles would succeed. An anti-ECM unit built by the Indians to update the missile confused NATO close-in ship protection systems, such as those that typically used a Phalanx gun to shoot down cruise missiles. Whether the units—or even the missiles, which had been purchased from North Korea—worked would only be determined in combat. But Ali intended to find out as soon as possible.
The missiles would be camouflaged as crates on the ship’s deck. The 30mm cannons and a large 140mm gun designed for land bombardment had been stripped years before, 66
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something Ali thought would now be in his favor, since even if the vessel were properly identified, she would appear toothless.
The two men guarding the door to Ali’s headquarters snapped to attention as the commander approached. One had been a lifelong friend of his son’s; Ali remembered carrying both boys on his back when they were five. He paused, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “My son has gone tonight to Paradise,” he told the young man.
The guard’s face remained blank, not comprehending.
Inside the office, Ali knelt to the floor and bent his head in silent prayer, as was his custom. But his body shook and the words wouldn’t come. He began to sob, wracked by grief.
“It is a terrible thing to lose a son.”
Ali looked across the darkened room. Sitting in the corner was the Saudi. It had been months since they had spoken in person; Osama bin Laden’s beard seemed whiter even in the darkness.
“How did you know?” asked Ali.
“If you were a superstitious man I would tell you a lie, and you would believe, wouldn’t you, because your emotion is so great?” The Saudi rose from the chair and came toward him. He seemed much thinner than the last time they had met, more worn by the weight of his mission to free the faithful from their chains. But there was strong energy in his walk, and when he touched Ali on the shoulder, it was as if that energy sparked into his body. The pain of losing his son retreated, and Ali rose and clasped the older man’s hand.
“Thank you for your comfort,” he told him.
“My comfort is nothing. Allah’s comfort is all. We will have much need of it before our war is over.” He stepped back and looked at Ali, nodding. “You have done well with your fleet. The large vessel has arrived without being detected.”
“With God’s help.”
“You intend it to attack the Americans?”
“Yes.”
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The Saudi nodded. It was clear that he had reservations, though it was not his way to interfere directly. He ruled largely by persuasion and was, in Ali’s experience, a very logical man, as well as a religious one.
“The Yemenis were able to contribute the vessel with their missile,” said the Saudi.
“A rotting tub with a single missile that could not be aimed properly,” said Ali. “But we made use of it. We drew the American toward us as a diversion, and nearly succeeded in striking them. They are angry.” He smiled faintly.
“Does their anger frighten you?”
“No. I welcome it.”
“You wish to avenge your son?”
“I do.”
“You should not.”
The words surprised him.
“Your son has found his place in heaven,” the Saudi explained. “You have no need for revenge in jihad. You must fight for God’s agenda, not your own. Only when you are truly pure will you succeed.”
The Saudi was prone to long speeches extolling the virtues of the righteous war and the need for God’s soldiers to be pure. Ali was not in the mood for such a speech. He lived not in the world of ideals, but in the real world, and he had just lost his son.
“I fight as I am,” he said, sitting in his chair.
“And we are all the better for it. Tell me, if you had your wish, what would it be?”
“What would I wish for? My son back beside me.”
“And?”
“Many things. More weapons, fuel for my ships. Better communications. Missiles that can be fired at long range.
More ships.”
“Airplanes?”
Ali frowned. The Ethiopians had promised several times to send aircraft to his aid, as had Yemen and Sudan. Suppos-
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edly they had taken off on missions several times in the past week, but if so, Ali hadn’t seen the proof.
“I don’t need airplanes,” he said.
“Not even against the American ship?”
“They shouldn’t even attempt that. It could easily shoot them down. However—” Ali pitched his body forward. “The American Navy sometimes uses unarmed radar and electronics aircraft called Orions. Those would be easy targets for a fighter. There must be one operating somewhere in the Gulf of Aden, perhaps disguised as a civilian. If that were shot down, that would help me.”
The Saudi nodded thoughtfully.
“I can tell them the sort of radar signals to look for,” said Ali. “I will have a message delivered to the embassy.”
“Deliver it to Yemen as well.”
The air force in his native land was staffed entirely by cowards who would never act, but Ali told the Saudi he would do so before his first meal.
“Other ships will join you within a few days. Large, powerful ships that you can use. A vessel from Oman,” added the Saudi.
“Oman? From the corrupted government?”
“Brothers there are active. Details will be provided in the usual way.”
“A missile boat would be very useful.” Ali ran his hand over his chin. He needed fuel, food—those were the problems of a commander, more difficult to solve than the tactics of warfare.
“If you had everything you wished for,” said the Saudi,
“what would you do?”
“I would sink the enemy’s ships.”
“The one that killed your son?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the limit of your ambition?”
“I would sink every ship that I could find,” said Ali. “I would continue to obtain the tribute that is God’s so we SATAN’S TAIL
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could fight the only war. I would show the West that they are not the rulers of the world.”
The Saudi stared at him. His eyes were the eyes of a viper, black diamonds that missed nothing.
“What would you do with a submarine?” said Osama.
“A submarine?” Had anyone else made this suggestion, Ali would have thought it a joke—but the Saudi did not joke.