Starship opened his mouth to argue, then realized it was a moot point—the computer was counting down to disconnect on his screen. Reluctantly, he pulled it back toward its mothership.
“My bet would be it’s on its way to the scrap heap,” said Delaford, examining the video scans of the ship again. “A lot of metal.”
“What about the crates on deck?”
“Possibly more junk inside them,” said Delaford. “Or else like I said, someone’s trying to use it to bring cargo back and SATAN’S TAIL
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forth. I kind of doubt that but you never know out here. People can be very resourceful.”
“Maybe they’re going to invade someplace.”
“These warlords have enough trouble keeping control of their little spits of land,” said Delaford.
Starship reached for the steel coffee mug, draining the last bit of coffee. Flying circles around the sky for hours on end was bad enough, but doing it on such little sleep was sheer torture. He had some caffeine pills he could take—as well as stronger medicine if absolutely necessary—but he preferred to hold them in reserve.
“Hawk One, we have two ships approaching from the north,” said Dog. He gave him a heading and a GPS location about sixty-five miles ahead of the Megafortress.
“On my way, Colonel,” replied Starship. He nudged the Flighthawk’s control stick forward, descending gradually toward the two ships.
“Big one in front looks like an oiler,” said Delaford as he got close, “the sort of ship that carries diesel fuel for others.”
“Like a tanker?”
“More like a floating gas station. There are a few of these ships that were used by navies in the past, mostly the Russians, and then were sold off and used with very little conversion as transports. Database is working on it.”
The computer needed twenty points of reference to identify a ship and compare it to the database for identification.
The points could range from size measurements to mast and stack configurations.
An ID flashed on the screen as Starship’s Flighthawk closed to within two miles:
DUBNA CLASS, OIL
“Database is comparing it to a Finnish-built ship used by the Russians,” explained Delaford. “Carries a couple thousand tons of bunker oil and about the same of light diesel, 170
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
some other supplies. I have it in the registry—it’s a Turkish ship, looks like it was bought from Ukraine two years ago.”
“What’s the other one?” asked Starship.
Before Delaford could answer, the computer gave its opinion:
BUSHRA CLASS PATROL BOAT
OMAN NAV
“That’s incredibly far from home. Couple of hundred miles,” said Delaford.
“Maybe they’re protecting them from the pirates.”
“Maybe.”
DOG LOOKED AT THE LOW-LIGHT VIDEO AS IT PLAYED IN THE
panel on the Megafortress’s “dashboard.”
“The Oman ship doesn’t look particularly hostile,” he told Delaford.
“Granted,” said the lieutenant commander. “But there are a couple of things out of place. There’s an Exocet missile launcher on the deck behind the smokestack. You can see it in the view of the starboard side. That’s not standard equipment on those boats. Oman does have Exocets, but they’re usually on their Dhofar missile boats, which are a little newer. There’s also an antiair battery, a missile system on the forward deck.”
“Doesn’t add up to pirates,” said Dog. “So they’ve updated the ship, so what? It might be protecting the other ship.”
“Very possibly. Or perhaps pirates have taken over the Oman ship and have used it to capture the oiler. It’s filled with fuel. It can fuel other ships at sea, or at least bring fuel supplies to ports.”
“But most of the patrol boats don’t use the heavy fuel it has.”
“Good point,” said Delaford. “I’m not saying I know what’s going on. Quite the opposite.”
“All right. Let’s try hailing them and find out what they’re SATAN’S TAIL
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up to,” said Dog. He turned to his copilot. “McNamara, ID
us as a Navy flight on a routine patrol. See if you can hail the Oman ship.”
“On it, Colonel.”
“How’s your fuel, Starship?”
“Going to need to tank in about twenty minutes,” said Starship.
“Get some close-ups of both of those ships,” said Dog.
“Then we’ll set up for a refuel.”
“Roger that.”
“Not acknowledging us,” said McNamara.
“Try the oiler.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Delaford, the Oman ship isn’t talking to us,” said Dog.
“Anything except the obvious occur to you?”
“No.”
“Radar,” said McNamara. The copilot was warning Dog that the Oman ship had just turned on an antiaircraft radar.
“Shouldn’t be able to see us at this range. Not sure about the Flighthawk as it goes over, but they don’t have a lock at the moment.”
STARSHIP PUSHED THE UM/F TOWARD THE OMAN VESSEL, accelerating for a quick fly-by.
“People moving on the deck of the second boat,” he told Dog. “Up near the, uh, front, the bow, near the gun.”
If they were fanatics, killers, he could erase them with a squeeze of his trigger. They deserved it—murderers. They’d killed Kick.
Would that bring him back?
Of course not.
Would it feel good?
Not really. Not in the way he wanted it to.
“What should I do, Colonel?”
“Just stand by,” said Dog. “Let me talk to my friend, Captain Gale.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden
2150
STORM PRESSED THE BUTTON ON THE COMMUNICATION CONtrol, connecting through the satellite phone.
“What is it, Bastian?”
“Hold on, sir,” said a voice he didn’t recognize.
Bastian came on a second later.
“We have something that you may be interested in, Storm,” he said. “Some sort of tanker being trailed by a gunboat that’s supposed to belong to Oman. We’re not sure if it’s an escort or if it’s joined the pirates.”
“Hail them.”
“We’ve tried that. No answer from either ship. I’m going to patch you over to Commander Delaford,” said Dog. “He can fill you in on what the ships look like and what he thinks they may be up to. I’ll stand by. Using the satellite phone to connect isn’t working very well, Storm. Your voice blanks in and out.”
“And what do you propose instead?”
“As I tried to tell you earlier, we have mobile communications units that will let you tie into the Dreamland network.
If you work with me instead of against me, we might actually get something done.”
“I’m getting plenty done, Bastian. Put Delaford on.”
The line descended into static for so long that Storm was about to call in his communications expert to get the Dreamland people back when Delaford came on.
“Storm, we have a gunboat out of Oman trailing what looks to be an old oiler converted for use as a civilian tanker,”
Delaford explained. “It’s an Al Bushra, a large patrol boat originally built by France. They’ve mounted Exocets on it.”
“Exocets?”
“Absolutely. I can’t tell whether they’ve taken them off one of their missile boats or what, but they’re definitely there.”
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“He’s pretty far from where he belongs,” said Storm. He hadn’t encountered any Oman ships during their patrol; they usually stayed close to port, where the government could keep a close watch on them.
“He’s escorting an oiler that’s been converted to civilian use as a tanker,” said Delaford. “We have the oiler in the database registered to a Cameroon company. It took on fuel in Turkey and does a regular route, mostly bunker oil, over to the East African coast, sometimes to Asia. Never to Oman.”
“And they’re not answering radio calls?”
“No. They’re headed in the direction of Somalia, though they’re in international waters. It looks weird, but there’s no proof of anything.”