“We’ll let the Abner Read recover her boats and spend the night here, ride out the storm,” he told Eyes. “Then we’ll go south as planned. Let’s see if these bastards have the balls to take another shot at us.”
“I’d like to see them try,” blurted one of the men nearby.
“Did you have a comment, mister?” said Storm, looking over.
“No, sir,” said the man, eyes now pasted on the display screen in front of him.
Storm smiled and winked at Eyes. He had the best damn ships and the best damn crews in the whole Navy.
Dreamland
3 November 1997
1331
THE SESSION IN THE POOL HAD DONE ENOUGH OF A NUMBER
on his ego that Mack Smith decided he would eat lunch by himself, resorting to one of Dreamland’s vending ma-
40
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
chines. This was a challenge in itself—it was impossible to reach the coin slot without dramatic contortions. Fortunately, one of the civilian workers happened by as Mack was just about to give up; she took his change and even punched the buttons for him, and her perfume softened a bit of the sting.
Mack had been offered the option of using a motorized wheelchair but had declined, largely because Zen didn’t use one. The advantages were obvious now as he struggled to build momentum up the ramp to the office he’d been assigned. Working a wheelchair efficiently required a certain rhythm as well as upper-body strength, and he hadn’t acquired either yet.
He hoped he never did. He wanted more than anything to get the hell out of this damn thing.
Ray Rubeo was waiting for him inside the office. The scientist stood staring at an empty computer screen on the worktable at the side of the room, a deep frown on his face.
Mack couldn’t recall a time when the scientist hadn’t worn the frown; Dreamland’s senior scientist seemed to think scowling was part of his job description.
“You were looking to talk to me, Major?”
“Pull up a chair, Doc. I’m already sitting.”
“I’m fine.”
One thing in Rubeo’s favor, thought Mack as he pushed around to the large table that was supposed to serve as his work area: He didn’t give him a look of sympathy.
The table was about two inches too high to be comfortable to work at. Mack leaned forward and unwrapped his sandwich, which was some sort of processed ham and mayo on whole wheat.
“So?” asked Rubeo.
“So what, Doc?”
“You wanted to talk to me. In person. I am here.”
“Yeah, I do. I’m taking over Piranha.”
“Taking over Piranha? How? That’s a Navy project.”
SATAN’S TAIL
41
“I don’t mean taking it over, exactly. I’m, you know, liaisoning. So I’m getting up to speed.”
Rubeo’s frown deepened. Mack ignored it.
“I was looking at the reports and it seems to me there’s one constant. You need more people.”
“I would say that is a constant, yes.”
“So the first thing we have to do is get you more people.”
“And?”
This was not exactly the response Mack had anticipated.
While he knew that the scientist didn’t have it in him to jump up and down in thanks, he had hoped that by acknowledging that the staff was overworked he might show from the start that he was on the team’s side. This, of course, would pay dividends down the line, when he had to pressure them for more results.
“And I’m going to try to get you more people.”
“Thank you, Major,” said Rubeo, in a tone that suggested thanks was the last thing he had on his mind. The scientist started to walk from the room.
“Hey, Doc, where are you going?”
“Was there something else?”
“I thought maybe you could run down where we were with some of the related programs. It seems to me that the real potential here—”
“You haven’t been given the reports?”
“What’re these tactical UAV things, the Littoral Combat Intrinsic Air Multiplier Systems? Now those are pretty interesting.”
“Piffle,” said Rubeo.
“Piffle?”
“A worthless Navy project. We’re not involved. They want to run the tests here—assuming they ever get the project out of their CAD programs.” Rubeo wrinkled his nose, as if he’d caught a whiff of sulfur. “You might try informing them that there’s very little water in the middle of the Nevada desert.”
“I thought they were just adaptations of the unmanned he-
42
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
licopter system,” said Mack. “I thought the project only got bagged because of the budget.”
“UHS was a Dreamland project, that is correct,” said the scientist, referring to the program by its initials. “This is different. If the Navy would deign to use a design that was originally done for the Army—as UHS was—then there would be no problem.”
“They won’t use it?”
Rubeo rolled his eyes.
“These Navy things look like the Werewolves,” said Mack.
“Hardly. The Werewolf works.”
Rubeo started away. Mack wheeled forward and grabbed his shirtsleeve.
“What about the Integrated Warfare Computing System?”
asked Mack. “It’s already installed in their littoral combat ships. We have some interfaces for it.”
The scientist snorted.
“Problems?” asked Mack.
“The Navy’s computer code reminds me of the programs that were part of the TRS-80,” said Rubeo. “Without the benefit of being compact.”
“I assume that’s some sort of put-down, right?”
“The TRS-80 was a Radio Shack computer dating from the 1970s. Yes, Major, it was a put-down. We have interfaces, though to be honest, why anyone would want to use them is beyond me. Their systems crash every eighteen to twenty-four hours.”
“So why don’t they just bag the crappy computer and use one of ours? Or even something off-the-shelf?”
“You haven’t dealt with the Navy much, have you?”
“I’ll just straighten them out, then.”
A faint glimmer of a smile came to Rubeo’s lips. “I hope you do, Major. Can I go now?”
“Sure,” said Mack. “We should have lunch sometime. I really want to get to know you better.”
“Yes,” said Rubeo, leaving.
SATAN’S TAIL
43
McCarran International Airport,
Las Vegas
1630
CAPTAIN DANNY FREAH WALKED PAST THE ROW OF VIDEO SLOT
machines and turned left into the large baggage claim area.
The flight from New York had landed a few minutes ago, and passengers were just starting to filter in. As Danny walked toward the carousel, a short man in a gray suit approached him from the side.
“You’re Captain Freah, I’ll bet,” said the man.
“Danny Freah, yes,” said Freah. “Lee?”
“That’s me,” said the man, Lee Rosenstein, pumping Danny’s hand. “I thought you’d be in uniform.”
“I’m off-duty,” Danny told him.
“Well, good. You deserve some time off after all you’ve been through,” said Rosenstein. “Let me just grab my suiter.
I see it coming around the bend.”
Rosenstein darted toward an opening in the crowd and grabbed a black suitcase with a multicolored twist of yarn around the handle.
“Clever,” said Danny, pointing at the identifier as they walked toward the exit.
“Until it falls off,” said Rosenstein. “Usually I get to carry it on, but the gate person couldn’t be bribed.”
He smiled, which Danny figured meant he was kidding about the bribe. Without breaking stride, Rosenstein reached to the outer pocket of the suitcase, zipped it open, and retrieved a Mets cap, plopping it on his head. It clashed a bit with the black suit.