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available. And the cost of the MK-50 had limited the Navy’s purchases. Because it was in short supply, the powers-that-be had rationed it among the Navy ships and aircraft capable of carrying it. The Abner Read had not made the cut. Instead, its tubes were filled with old standbys, the MK-46.
When they were first deployed in 1966, the MK-46 torpedoes were at least arguably the best of their class: lightweight, versatile killers with about a hundred pounds of explosives in their teeth. Thirty years and several upgrades later, they were problematic weapons in areas where the shallow water, other nearby contacts, and a system admittedly designed for different weapons, multiplied the confusion factor exponentially.
One of the torpedoes failed completely after it entered the water; the reason wasn’t clear. The other, however, made a beeline for the sub. Traveling at 45 knots, the torpedo needed nearly eight minutes to get to its target. By the fourth minute it became clear that it had lost its way; by the fifth, it had veered off course toward the shoreline. The operator couldn’t tell what it was tracking, and Storm didn’t particularly care.
He gave the order for the ship to close in on the submarine, which was running in snorkel mode almost exactly due east about three-quarters of a mile from the coast.
“Captain, that’s going to take us out of the designated patrol area,” said Peanut.
“Are you questioning my orders?” barked Storm.
“No, sir.”
“Then do it. Eyes!”
“Cap?”
“Target the submarine.”
“Weapons is working on it.”
“Active sonar. Find the bastards.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eyes.
The room fell silent for a moment. “Submarine is targeted,” Eyes said finally.
“Launch!”
The weapons bolted from the launcher.
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“Patrol craft coming out from the east,” reported Eyes.
“Two miles.”
“Where’d he come from?” asked Storm.
“Just popped in there.”
Storm barked out orders that the ship be sunk. Within seconds the Abner Read reverberated with the steady thud of the 155mm Advanced Gun System. It took a dozen shots to strike the pirate craft, but only two to sink it.
“Torpedoes in the water!” warned the computer.
“Evasive action,” Storm said. “Use the Prairebot.”
“We’re down to two, Cap,” said Peanut.
“Now or never.”
“Prairebot.”
The order was passed and Abner Read’s forward torpedo tubes opened, expelling the devices. They swam about a quarter of a mile and began emitting their bubble fog. The two torpedoes were completely baffled, and circled back in the direction from which they’d been fired.
Storm glanced at the hologram. He could only find one of his torpedoes tracking the submarine.
“Weapons, how are we doing on that submarine?” he asked.
“Torpedo three missed, sir. Another malfunction. Four is running true.”
“Fire torpedoes five and six.”
“That will empty the vertical launching system,” said Peanut.
“I can count.”
“Target acquired, target locked,” said Weapons.
“Fire, damn it! I want the sharks picking over his bones before daybreak.”
“Firing ASROC torpedoes.”
“We better hit the damn thing this time,” muttered Storm as the rockets whipped away from the ship.
WHILE THE TWO WEREWOLVES WERE PERFORMING WELL, REAL-life combat was proving harder on resources than the test range. Werewolf Two was not only out of Hellfires, but down SATAN’S TAIL
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to its last hundred rounds of bullets, and borderline on fuel.
Jennifer plotted a course for it to fly back to the Abner Read to reload and refuel; if the crews moved quickly enough, she could keep at least one aircraft over the battle area. She had to dial into the aircraft maintenance channel to talk to the mate there, but couldn’t find the preset, and ended up resorting to the common intercom channel. Someone acknowledged anyway, and she told the computer to bring the Werewolf back to the deck of the ship, safing the weapons just in case it became rambunctious.
“What are you doing with that aircraft?” demanded Storm.
“There’s a knot of pirates hiding in that building there by the water,” Jennifer told him.
“No, the other one, heading toward us.”
“I need to refuel and rearm.”
“We can’t recover it now. We’re in the middle of a battle.”
Jennifer twisted toward him ferociously. “What the hell do you want me to do with it? Crash it into the shoreline?”
Storm’s face went white. She thought for a moment that he would take a swing at her. But instead he turned, and she heard him ordering someone to prepare to recover the aircraft.
Northern Somalia,
on the ground
11 November 1997
0015
ALI’S SON CALLED TO HIM FROM THE POOL, YELLING TO HIS FAther for help. They’d gone to visit his cousin Abdul, and the boy was playing in the back while the adults debated the ob-ligations a man had to God and his family. Ali’s cousin had just claimed that the family must come first—blasphemy, or close to it, Ali argued, for wasn’t that the point of the story of Abraham?
His son’s cries shook him; there was something in hisvoice that he had never heard before, a kind of immediate 338
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terror that pulled Ali to action. The father sprang to help the son, bolting over the wall at the back of the yard.
The pool was only a few yards away, yet with every step Ali took it moved no closer. He saw his son Abu go under. Ali ran faster, faster, ran with all his all might, yet got no closer to saving him, no closer to pulling him out.
Lightning split the sky. Something pushed Ali’s head into the dirt. He felt himself flying into the water, flying into the pool.
This isn’t happening, he thought. This is a dream, one of the dreams.
I would never have withstood God’s test. I would not have killed my son for the Lord’s sake, even though I should have.
I am not worthy to be a follower of the Prophet.
The ground shook. Ali swallowed a mouthful of saltwater and grit. He began to choke uncontrollably. Somewhere in the middle of the fit he realized that he was lying at the edge of the water, his body twisted and his rifle in his hand.
A dark shadow filled the water in front of him.
Satan’s Tail.
I will be avenged. I cannot achieve my mission, but I will be avenged on Satan. Let me strangle the bastard demon with my bare hands and take him to hell with me.
He pushed down, rising from the water. There were two, three, more of his men nearby.
“The ship—the American ship is out there,” he said, pointing. “I am going aboard and fighting them hand-to-hand.”
He started into the water. Two or three of his men followed and pulled him back.
“Let me go!” he yelled. “Let me go!”
“Captain, it’s not Satan’s Tail. It’s one of their smaller ships,” said Saed. “We’ve shot down one of their planes.
They’ve sent a boat to look for survivors.”
In his fury, Ali had a hard time understanding the words.
Finally, he understood what his lieutenant was trying to say.