What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re not here to run the mission for them,” said Jed.
“I’m strictly observing and facilitating.”
“You are just an aide,” snapped Balboa. “You carry my orders out.”
“I’m the assistant National Security Advisor for Technology,” said Jed. “And I am responsible for interfacing with Dreamland.”
“This isn’t a Dreamland mission. Get them back,” said Balboa.
“Get them back, son,” said Hartman.
Jed stood up. “No.”
Balboa turned to the lieutenant. “Get them back.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but for security purposes Mr. Barclay has to authorize the connection. The computer checks his voice pattern as well as his passwords. If he doesn’t do it himself, it doesn’t happen.”
Secretary Hartman took hold of Jed’s arm. “Come on now, Jed, be a good boy and do as you’re told.”
“Get bent,” said Jed, starting out of the room.
Hartman grabbed him by the shirt outside in the corridor.
“Jed, you and I both know that you want to do as I say,”
Hartman said. “Now just calm down. You can’t afford another screwup.”
You can say that again, thought Jed, twisting away.
Diego Garcia
0400
MACK SMITH STEPPED BACK FROM THE COMMUNICATIONS
console in the Dreamland Command trailer, walking a few steps toward the center conference area and then walking back. Now that he could walk—and he could, though his muscles were stiff and sore and his back ached and his neck seemed ridiculously stiff—now that he could walk he SATAN’S TAIL
377
wanted to be out there where the action was, not sitting here in the stinking trailer trying to figure out what was going on from the radio and the lousy sitrep display.
If he were out there, he’d be coordinating the aircraft better. They needed an aircraft coordinator in the Abner Read, directing the Megafortresses and the Flighthawks, and everything else, for that matter.
If they had, they probably wouldn’t have lost the Osprey.
What he really wanted to do was be at the stick of an F-22, taking the MiGs down, two at a time.
Give Starship some points, though—the kid had nailed half the Yemen Air Force. Of course, he hadn’t seen the MiG
that nearly tore the Megafortress in two. That’s what came from having Zen teach these kids how to fly.
Not that he had anything against Zen. He owed him a lot.
Did he, though? What had Zen done except be a jerk?
Well, he owed him that, then.
Mack sat down at the console. The Abner Read had been struck by a missile.
“Damn it,” he said. “I ought to be there. I could have shot those damn things down.”
Aboard the Abner Read
0102
THE FIRST REPORT WAS NOT GOOD. THE MISSILE HAD HIT THE
hangar area, igniting the fuel there.
The next report was worse. A secondary explosion had ripped through part of the hull. They were taking on water and had to close down one of the sections below, even though there were men inside.
Most likely the men were dead, but there was no way to know.
The Abner Read listed toward starboard two or three degrees, and her bow had started to lift. Storm saw from the damage control graphic on the bridge hologram that a 378
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
hatch to the compartment remained open. He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, picturing the sailors there, then moved forward to the weapons bay. He punched the code, but rather than the petty officer he expected to pick up, he found himself talking to a young sailor, Tommy Hall. He knew Hall a little better than the seaman would have wished—two days before they sailed, the boatswain’s mate second class had been brought before him for discipline.
“Tommy, I need you to go to the engineering shop and find the emergency response team,” Storm told him. “They’re out of communication. Direct them to dog the hatch there, son.
If they are not in sight, you have to do it yourself. You need to secure it, and you need to do it right now.”
“Sir, there’s water on the deck here, a foot of water.”
Storm realized the situation was worse than he’d thought.
“Yes, I understand,” he said calmly. “Go and dog the hatch while it can still be closed.”
“I’m going to try, sir.”
“No, son, you’re going to do it. I know you’re going to do it, because I’m counting on you. You’re going to close that hatch and you’re going to save our ship.”
There was no answer. Storm felt the ship lurch; the list was getting worse.
A firefighting team reported that they were tackling a fire behind the main exhaust. The lights flickered, but came back on strong.
Storm looked at the hologram. If they didn’t close off the compartment, the fuel ballast tanks and main diesel generator would be flooded. The damage done by the missile and the secondary explosion made it impossible to seal those compartments directly.
If he were the sailor, would he close the hatch, knowing his friends were inside? Even if he were sure they were dead? Even if he knew his own life depended on it?
Storm resisted the temptation to run down himself and se-
SATAN’S TAIL
379
cure the hatch. His place was here, and besides, he knew he’d never make it in time.
JENNIFER HELPED THE CORPSMAN CARRY THE INJURED PETTY
officer out of Tac into a small space used as an electrical shop. The corpsman checked the bandage she had used to stanch the bleeding from the man’s neck.
“You did a good job, miss,” said the corpsman, getting up.
“He’ll live?”
“I don’t know,” said the sailor honestly. “If we abandon ship, I just don’t know.”
“Are we abandoning ship?”
The man winced. “We’ve been hit pretty bad, and we’re taking on water. But it’s the captain’s decision.”
THE VOICE WAS WEAK AND PUNCTUATED BY SOBS.
“I heard screaming,” it said.
“Did you secure the hatch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good work, Tommy. Secure the door to the compart -
ment. Tighten it down, and come up here to the bridge.”
“But—”
“I need you up here right away,” added Storm. “Can you get up here?”
“I’ll try, sir.”
“No, son, you come up here now because I need you, and because you’re going to help save our ship. You’re going to come here and save some lives.”
“Yes, sir, I am,” said the young man, just firmly enough to convince Storm that he would.
He glanced at the hologram, but already sensed that the ship had stopped settling. They were going to make it—but there was a hell of a lot of work to do.
380
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Wisconsin
0102
ZEN TOOK HAWK ONE TOWARD THE SHARK BOAT, RUNNING AT
the craft from the east. There were two smaller craft tracking behind it—pirates chasing it off, or at least that was what it looked like.
“English, look at this screen and tell me what you see,” said Zen, authorizing the feed from the Flighthawk’s infrared.
“Well, if I didn’t know any better,” the ensign replied, “I’d say it was a Shark Boat running away from a battle. But that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, even if they had no weapons aboard, the Shark Boat could just turn around and run over them,” said Ensign English. “Besides, there is no way that anyone working for Storm is going to run away from battle. The crews on those Shark Boats were handpicked, especially the captains.
They’ll fight to the bitter end.”
“Wisconsin, this is Flighthawk leader. I have a strange situation I want to sort out. Can you reach the Shark Boat?”
“Negative,” said Dog. “Danny is going out to talk to him.”