“Communication from a Dreamland aircraft, warning us that two MiGs are approaching.”
“About time,” scoffed Storm. “Connect me.”
“It’s not easy cutting that circuit in, sir. There’s a technical glitch on our side that—”
“Connect me.”
Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden
1417
“THEY’RE BOTH MIG-23BNS,” ZEN TOLD THE NAVY CAPTAIN.
“Computer says they don’t have antiship missiles. Repeat, no missiles.”
“Bombs?”
“Appear to have no weapons of any kind,” said Zen. “I think they’re just up for their jollies. They’re not reacting to your ship. I don’t think they know you’re there.”
“They must be up to something. The Ethiopians typically don’t come over Somalian territory.”
“They did last night.”
The two Ethiopian warplanes were now ten miles off the Flighthawk’s nose. Zen began a turn to the east, planning to bring the Flighthawk in an arc behind the MiGs. Wisconsin, meanwhile, had already begun tacking in that direction to stay close to the Piranha probe.
“Have a small patrol craft moving out of the port,” said Ensign English, who was commanding the probe.
“Feed me the location,” said Zen. The plot merged into SATAN’S TAIL
135
the sitrep screen in Zen’s helmet. The MiG fighter-bombers, meanwhile, continued northward.
“It’s a sucker play,” said Zen. “They sent the MiGs out to get everyone’s attention while the patrol boat sneaks off in broad daylight.”
Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden
1426
“MIGS SEE US,” EYES TOLD STORM. “CHANGING COURSE.
Heading toward us.”
“Do we have a lock?”
“Having some trouble,” said Eyes.
The missiles themselves were dependable weapons, but were designed to work with a different targeting system.
Sometimes they were locked even though the weapons panel indicated they weren’t—and vice versa. The experts promised a fix … but by the time that happened, the new system would probably be ready.
“Weapons, can you target those planes?” Storm asked.
“Ready to fire at your command,” said the weapons officer. “I can’t guarantee a hit, because of the glitch.”
“I’m not asking you to, son.”
“Dreamland aircraft is back on the line,” said the communications officer. “They say it’s urgent.”
“Tell them to take a ticket,” said Storm. “Have the Ethiopian aircraft been warned?”
“Affirmative.”
“Eyes, are those aircraft in Somalian territory?”
“Negative, sir. They have crossed into international airspace. They have not answered hails. I believe they show hostile intent. They are a bombing run, and we’re in their crosshairs.”
“Noted. Engage the enemy.”
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Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden
1428
ZEN SAW THE FIRST MISSILE FLASH FROM THE DESK OF THE
Abner Read and shook his head.
“Missile in the air!” warned Dish. “RIM-67, Navy Standard Missile Two in ship-to-antiaircraft mode, targeted at the Ethiopian MiG.”
“He’s a dead pony,” said Zen. He pushed the Flighthawk closer to the water. The patrol boat had her throttle open full bore and was kicking over the waves at close to fifty knots. It was crossing out of Somalian waters, heading for the open sea.
“Dish, have you advised Xray Pop? The patrol boat’s getting away.”
“Told me to hold on,” said Dish. “Second missile launched. Same deal, targeting the second MiG.”
“Flighthawk leader, we have to get into position to make another buoy drop,” said the Wisconsin’s pilot.
“I copy. I’m coming back,” said Zen. He changed the display from the optical camera to the sitrep, and was surprised to see that the two MiGs were still in the air, hightailing it back over the Somalian coast. “Don’t tell me Navy missed,”
said Zen.
“Shanked to the right,” said Dish. “My guess is there’s a problem with the Abner Read’s radar—their signal is very degraded. Looks like the MiGs selected afterburners before the Abner Read got her first shot off,” added the radar operator.
“Storm’s not going to be happy about that,” said English.
“You know him?” asked Zen.
“Only from what Commander Delaford has told me. They served together. Storm’s a hothead.”
“And not a very good shot either,” said Zen. “But at least he scared the pants off those Ethiopians. Idiots are still in afterburner. Probably run out of fuel halfway home.”
SATAN’S TAIL
137
White House
0706
ADMIRAL BALBOA HAD CALMED DOWN CONSIDERABLY IN THE
few hours since Jed had seen him, but that was only relative; he was still frowning and clearly irritable as they waited upstairs in the White House residence for the President. It was just after seven a.m. The President was supposed to leave no later than seven-thirty from the back lawn for a round of visits to the Midwest. The early morning session had been called primarily to update him on the situation in China, where a U.S. plane had been forced down by hostile action, but the Gulf of Aden was nearly as volatile. The Ethiopian Air Force claimed that two of their aircraft had been shot down without provocation, and had filed a protest with the UN. Meanwhile, the Navy was demanding more resources for Xray Pop, which had lost several men after boarding a pirated ship.
Jed realized that if the last administration hadn’t cut the funding for weapons development, the task group would have had a much easier time of things; at the very least, it would have had more Shark Boats, working UAVs, and competent radar. But no one wanted to hear that, least of all Admiral Balboa, who seemed to think the last President walked on water, with an aircraft carrier to guide him.
“Young Jed, good to see you this morning,” said President Martindale, springing into the Treaty Room at the center of the upstairs floor of the presidential mansion. The President liked to have small, intimate sessions in the residence; he thought they were much more informal and likely to yield “real” advice than sessions in the West Wing. Jed, though, thought that the history of the place intimidated some people—you were sitting where Abraham Lincoln walked his sick son to sleep, where FDR poured cocktails and shared off-color gossip, where Kennedy sized up his conquests.
“Admiral, Mr. Freeman, Jeffrey, Jerrod—everyone have 138
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coffee except me?” The President went to the large urn that had been wheeled into the room and helped himself. “Let’s hear what the Seventh Fleet’s story is,” he said as he poured.
“I think we should talk about the Gulf of Aden first,” said Freeman. “And get that out of the way.”
“Xray Pop lost twelve men last night,” said Balboa, launching into a short summary of what had happened.
Martindale nodded solemnly, and Jed guessed that he already knew everything Balboa was telling him. The White House military liaison would most likely have woken him with the news.
“There was also an attack on a Dreamland aircraft by Ethiopia,” Balboa went on. “Provoked by the Dreamland aircraft.”
“That’s not true,” blurted Jed.
Everyone looked at him. Jed felt his face shade red. He glanced at Freeman, who was frowning.
“Go ahead, Jed,” said the President. “What happened?”
“First of all, there were two encounters, one early in the evening with the Sudanese, and then several hours later with the Ethiopians. The Sudanese did a fly-by; it’s not clear how they knew that the Megafortresses were in the area, or even if they were military aircraft as opposed to, say, uh, civilians. They went away without incident. Several hours later the Ethiopians approached. They demanded that the Megafortresses identify themselves or be fired on. Since their mission was covert, they maintained radio silence.