But he missed her.
God, thought Mack as he finally reached the edge of the pool, the stinking paralysis is affecting my brain.
Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden
6 November 1997
1908
ZEN TOOK OVER FROM THE COMPUTER AS THE FLIGHTHAWK
U/MF-3 dropped off the aircraft’s wing, ramping up the engine and banking toward the waves below. The aircraft’s vital signs flashed in the lower left-hand quadrant of his screen: airspeed pushing through four hundred knots, altitude going down through twenty thousand feet. He had a full tank of gas and all systems were in the green.
“Successful launch, Wisconsin,” he told Dog, who was piloting the Flighthawk’s mother plane.
“Roger that, Flighthawk leader. We’re proceeding on course as planned. The only thing we have on the water in the immediate vicinity is that barge we told you about earlier.”
“Copy. Should have a visual in thirty seconds.”
Zen checked his position on the sitrep screen. This was 90
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
essentially a God’s eye view of the world, with the Flighthawk marked out as a green arrow at the center of the screen.
Using data from the Wisconsin’s powerful radar, the computer could detect ships as well as aircraft. The barge that Dog had mentioned appeared as a black rectangle marked SV1—surface vessel contact 1—in the right-hand corner of the screen. Zen could get information about it by asking the computer. If SV1 were a warship, the computer would have checked it against an identification library and provided details on its armament. An operator on the flightdeck—one handled surface contacts, one air contacts—had a database of commercial shipping in the area that identified most, though not all, of the major traffic through the Gulf of Aden.
“Full visual on the barge,” said Zen. The computer focused the camera in the Flighthawk’s nose on the craft. “You getting that, Dish?” Zen added, speaking to the operator handling the surface radar.
“Roger that, Flighthawk leader,” Sergeant Peter “Dish”
Mallack replied. “We copy. Looks like an oil equipment barge. Definitely benign.”
Zen started a turn, taking the Flighthawk around the rear of the craft. The computer kept the camera trained on it, providing a detailed view to the crewman upstairs. Dish used a “de-dappler” program to analyze the image, stripping away and manipulating possible camouflage to make educated guesses about what was aboard the craft. It wasn’t foolproof, and relied on close-up video to work well, but it beat staring at shadows with a magnifying glass for hours.
“Confirmed. That is definitely an equipment barge,” said Dish. “Can we get an infrared image? I’ll just double-check the number of people.”
“On this run,” said Zen. He brought the Flighthawk down below three thousand feet and eased off on the slider at the back of his joystick controller. The slider was actually the throttle; the Flighthawk controls had been designed to allow SATAN’S TAIL
91
the aircraft to be flown with only one hand. The idea had been that the pilot would control a second Flighthawk with his other hand. In real life, however, switching hands had proven cumbersome and confusing in combat. Typically, the pilot would control one Flighthawk at a time, while letting the computer take the other. Zen routinely flew two but had handled four in exercises.
“Five people aboard,” said Dish as Zen climbed away from the barge. “Looking good, Major.”
“Let’s see how we do a little closer to shore,” he said, continuing on their survey.
Near Boosaaso, Somalia,
on the Gulf of Aden
6 November 1997
2008
THE CANNON HAD DESTROYED A GOOD PORTION OF THE
bridge, but the ship itself was in decent shape. Ali had no trouble from the surviving crew; they were all good Muslims, willing to follow his commands—at least while his men were aboard.
Ali’s men quickly fell into their routine, bringing over the material for the bombs while removing everything they could find that would be of use.
The captain had had the good sense to die when the first shells raked the superstructure of his ship. This made it unnecessary for Ali to execute him. But as it was necessary to demonstrate that his orders were to be followed without question, when the ship had been secured and most of what they wanted moved off it, Ali had the merchant vessel’s crew brought before him on the deck. He asked for the radioman, who after some hesitation stepped forward.
“Why did you make the distress call?” Ali asked.
“My captain directed me to.”
92
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Do you believe in God?”
“I believe in God, yes.”
“Make your peace with him.”
The man flinched, but bowed his head and began to pray.
Ali, who was not without compassion, waited until he finished before executing him, firing a single bullet into the center of his skull.
He had just signaled to his men to throw the man overboard when one of the lookouts ran to him.
“A ship in the distance,” said the man, out of breath. “It may be Satan’s Tail.”
Aboard Baker-Baker Two , over the Gulf of Aden
6 November 1997
2112
“TEN SECONDS TO TARGET POINT,” SAID SPIDERMAN.
“Roger that,” said Breanna. “Bay.”
“Bay,” said the copilot. The large doors at the rear of the fuselage swung open. A green light flashed in the heads-up display in front of Breanna; the sentinel buoy was ready to go.
She leaned on her stick, nudging the big aircraft onto her mark. Breanna had the option of letting the computer fly the Megafortress to the release point, but what was the point of that?
“Deploy,” she told the copilot as they hit their mark.
“Sentinel buoy is away,” said Spiderman as the bomb bay dispenser ejected the large cylinder.
Breanna snapped the Wisconsin upward and began a hard bank to the southeast, getting into position to launch Phoenix.
“You’re up, Commander,” she told Delaford.
“Piranha team is ready,” he said over the interphone.
“Thirty seconds to Piranha release point,” said Spiderman.
“Radar contact!” said Jackson Christian, who was operat -
SATAN’S TAIL
93
ing Baker-Baker’s AWACS-style radar, monitoring other aircraft. “Bogie at 322, one hundred miles. Identified now as a Chendu F-7M Fishbed, export Chinese fighter aircraft.
Might be Sudanese.”
“Pretty far from home if it is,” said Breanna.
“Can’t match it up otherwise,” said the sergeant. “Radar is definitely that type, which rules out one of the Ethiopian MiGs.”
“If it is from Sudan, he’s at the edge of his combat radius, if not beyond it,” said Breanna. “Keep tabs on him. Alert Colonel Bastian. Tell him we’re proceeding with launch.
Commander Delaford?”
“Ready.”
“Spiderman?”
“Counting down. We are at eleven seconds, ten …”
The Megafortress hit a turbulent layer of air as it came down closer to the water. The big aircraft shuddered, then responded sluggishly to the control inputs, her right wing fighting against Breanna’s stick. She leaned in the seat, as if her body might somehow transfer a bit of spin to the controls and the probe as they ejected it. This may actually have worked, for despite the buffeting, the computer recorded a bull’s-eye as Piranha hit the water. The probe shot beneath the waves, preprogrammed to dive to fifty feet. Breanna leveled off and Spiderman initiated their third countdown—the launch of a guidance buoy to control the Piranha.