“Captain Gale, Captain McGowan requests to speak to you, sir.”
“Put him on.”
The screen flashed. Captain Red McGowan, his face tired and drawn, appeared on the screen.
“Sorry for your troubles,” said Red. “Sorry to hear your men were lost.”
“Thanks, Red.”
“Marcum too?”
“I’m sorry to say, yes.”
“Bastards.”
“I hate those mothers.”
Storm released a string of curses. His friend nodded as he continued, making no effort to calm him as he vented.
“I’ll get them,” Storm said softly when his breath, but not his anger, had finally drained.
“What happened with the Dreamland aircraft? They were fired on?”
“Apparently, Bastian claims to have shot down two MiGs.
They couldn’t lift a finger against the patrol boats that were killing my people, but they could go out of their way to take out the Ethiopians. Ethiopians—I question whether they were even armed. The country doesn’t have an air force worthy of the name.”
“You’re going overboard, Storm.”
“In the two weeks plus that we’ve been here, they haven’t 126
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attacked us once. Dreamland comes out here and all of a sudden the Ethiopians are flying miles away from their air bases and, bang bang, splashing into the gulf. I wish I could get away with that.”
“Bastian’s not going to get away with anything,” answered Red.
“Do I get the Belleau Wood or what?”
“That’s not going to happen, Storm. There’s just no way.”
“Then untie my hands! I have the assets I need—let me use them.”
Red winced. “If it were up to me.”
“Yeah, all right. Later.” Storm punched the button on the panel, ending the transmission. He went and washed some of the dirt and dried blood off his face, then changed into a fresh uniform. Calmer, he dialed into Communications.
“See if you can find Admiral Balboa for me,” Storm told the officer. “Call the Joint Chiefs personnel office and ask them where Pinkie is—he’s a lieutenant commander who owes me a favor. Better yet, call the Pentagon, OK? And Joint Chiefs, ask for Lou Milelo. He’s a chief petty officer.
Be respectful, very respectful, and tell him I need a personal favor. Then get me on the line. I’ll be on the bridge.”
Near Boosaaso, Somalia,
on the Gulf of Aden
0810
ALI FOLDED THE PAPER CAREFULLY IN HALF, THEN TOOK THE
lighter from his pocket and set it on fire. He watched intently as the flames consumed it, waiting until his fingers were singed to drop it into the nearby surf.
The message it contained had been disappointing. The Ethiopian Air Force had attacked an American warplane with predictable results: Two of their pilots had been shot down.
They were hoping he could look for the men in the gulf.
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127
The Ethiopians might be brave, but they were also foolhardy. It wasn’t clear from the message what sort of plane it had been, though Ali doubted it was an Orion or any similar radar or surveillance craft; such planes were typically un-equipped for air-to-air combat. And any single American warplane was more than a match for the entire Ethiopian Air Force. Brave men foolishly led to their deaths by misguided leaders—this was not God’s wish.
There was slim hope of finding the pilots, but he had been called on as a brother in religion, and could not turn down such a request. In exchange, perhaps the Ethiopians would have to help him. He needed a diversion so he could get the last of his patrol boats out of the port near Laasgoray, where it had spent the night being repaired. He needed it to join him in an attack on a fuel carrier tonight; if the attack went well, they would have more than enough diesel fuel for the Sharia, and the boats as well.
He took a pen from his pocket and wrote down a time and place.
“Take this message back,” he told the man who had come from town. “Tell them we will do what they wish. But they must also try to have airplanes at this place and time. It would be very useful as a diversion. Let them use their courage to its best effect.”
Khamis Mushait Air Base,
southwestern Saudi Arabia
0900
STARSHIP BROUGHT THE FLIGHTHAWK ONTO THE RUNWAY AFter the Megafortress had turned onto the ramp, taxiing around so the U/MF-3 trailed the big airplane like a dog following its master. He had definitely drawn the short stick on the mission. After the excitement with the Ethiopians, Baker-Baker Two hadn’t been challenged. He’d spent most 128
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
of the six hours since Zen handed off the Flighthawk flying crazy eights at twenty thousand feet, and hadn’t so much as buzzed a dhow during the entire time.
Dreamland’s MC-17 sat near the ramp area, along with an MV-22 Osprey. A pack of maintainers met Baker-Baker Two as she trundled to a stop. They were already working on the damaged engine when Starship came down the ladder.
Starship got out of his flight gear and debriefed the mission. Too keyed-up to hit the sack, he decided to get a late breakfast. The Saudis had a cafeteria-style grill on their side of the base; a whiteboard at the door welcomed u.s. fliers and announced a special of hamburgers and fries in their honor, the words presented in both Arabic and English.
Starship wasn’t sure why burgers were being presented as breakfast fare, but wasn’t about to argue. He took his to a table near a group of Saudis who were dressed in flight suits.
One of the men smiled at him as he sat down, then came over and introduced himself as Major Bandar, inviting Starship to join him and the others. Well into their thirties, the men were all F-15 jocks who’d spent time in the States and had flown during the Gulf War. When they asked Starship what he flew, he answered by saying he used to fly F-15s himself.
“And now what do you fly?” asked Bandar. “Megafortress?”
Starship held out his hands. “Can’t say.”
The others jeered good-naturedly.
“Oh, oh, top secret,” laughed Bandar.
“You fly the robot,” guessed one of the others. “The midget with wings.”
“He doesn’t look small enough.”
“What is it like? Is it difficult?”
Starship tried changing the subject, and finally got them to talk about the F-15s and their own routine. Bandar lamented that they were restricted to a flight a week, and that the missions were little more than hops north and back, barely enough to get the turbines spinning.
“Maybe we can work an exercise out with you sometime,”
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129
said Starship as the Saudis got up for a meeting. “A little dis-similar aircraft tactics.”
“That would be very good,” said Bandar.
“I’d like to shoot down a Megafortress,” said the officer across from Bandar.
Starship started to smile but the pilot’s expression made it clear he wasn’t joking.
Now it was Bandar’s turn to change the subject. “If you are interested in seeing the town,” he said, “let me know. I will be your guide.”
“Yeah? I wouldn’t mind a tour,” said Starship.
“Meet me at the gate at 1400,” said Bandar. “Two p.m.”
Starship hesitated. He was supposed to fly tonight and had been planning on sleeping.
“Two p.m.,” repeated Bandar. “You’ll be there?”
“Sure,” said Starship.
White House
0600
THE CHAIRMAN OF THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF, ADMIRAL
George Balboa, spent much of his time at the White House angry, but Jed Barclay had never heard him quite this angry.
Then again, he’d never heard his boss this angry either.
The walls of the Executive Office Building were practically shaking as the two men shouted at each other. Fortunately, because of the early hour, there were few people in the West Wing to hear them—though given how loud they were shouting, Jed wouldn’t have been surprised to find that they woke half the city.