“The helicopter most likely belonged to a smuggler,”

said Ibn.

“Perhaps,” said Captain Sattari. “In any event, let us proceed.”

“God is great.”

Sattari put his glasses back in their pouch and began helping the four men on his boat who would descend to the pipes below them to plant their explosive charges. The charges they carried were slightly bigger than a large suitcase, and each team had to place two on the thick pipes below.

Sattari positioned his knee against the side of the raft, but cautioned himself against hoping it would brace him; he’d already seen in their drills that the raft would easily capsize.

The trick was to use only one hand to help the others balance their loads; this was a heavy strain, but the team he was assisting managed to slip into the water without a splash or upsetting the raft.

The men on the raft on the other side of him did not. The little boat capsized.

Sattari picked up his paddle, as did the other man on his raft. They turned forty-five degrees, positioning themselves 26

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

to help if necessary. But the two men on the other boat recovered quickly; within seconds they had their vessel righted and were back aboard.

“Good work,” Sattari told them.

He turned back toward Ibn’s raft. The sergeant had gone below with the others, but one of the two men still aboard had a radio scanner, which he was using to monitor local broadcasts. As Sattari picked up his oar to get closer, the coxswain did the same. They pushed over silently.

“Anything, Corporal?” Sattari asked the radioman.

“All quiet, Captain.”

“There was nothing from the Indian warship?”

“No, sir. Not a peep.”

Sattari scanned the artificial island, roughly two miles away. Aside from a few dim warning lights on the seaward side, it was completely in shadow. It slumbered, unsuspecting.

“We will proceed,” Sattari said. “God is great.”

Aboard the Abner Read , off the coast of Somalia

2340

STORM TOOK ADMIRAL JOHNSON’S COMMUNICATION IN HIS

cabin. The admiral’s blotchy face was rendered even redder by the LCD screen. Johnson was aboard his flagship, the Nimitz, sailing in the waters north of Taiwan.

“What’s going on out there, Storm?”

“Good evening, Admiral. I’m about to send a boarding party over to a boat I suspect is a smuggler.”

“That’s what you called me about?”

“No,” said Storm. “About an hour ago we spotted four aircraft flying very low and fast toward northeastern Somalia. We were not able to identify the aircraft. Given the size of the force, they may have been terrorists going ashore to a END GAME

27

camp we don’t know about. Since they were flying in the direction of Port Somalia, I tried to contact the Indian force there, but could not. I wanted to send—”

“Port Somalia? The Indian tanker station? What is your exact location?”

“We’re about eighty nautical miles—”

“Exact location.”

Storm looked over to the small computer screen near the video display, then read off the GPS coordinates.

“What are you doing so close to that end of the gulf?”

said Johnson. “You’re supposed to be chasing pirates.”

“With all due respect, Admiral, that’s what I’m doing. I have a smuggler in sight, and we’re preparing to board her.

I called to alert you to these aircraft, so a message could be sent through the normal channels. I don’t know whether their radio—”

“You know as well as I do that you’re a good deal east of the area we discussed two days ago. A good deal east.”

“I’m within the parameters of my patrol area. I’m not in coastal waters.”

When Johnson was displeased—as he was just about every time Storm talked to him—his cheeks puffed slightly and his eyes narrowed at the corners, so that he looked like the mask of an Asian sea devil. When he became really angry—which happened often—his forehead grew red and he had difficulty speaking. Storm saw the space above his eyebrows tint, and decided it was time to return the conversation to its point.

“Should I attempt to contact the Pentagon to alert the Indians at Port Somalia?” he asked.

“No, you should not.” Johnson scowled. “We’ll handle that here.”

The screen blanked before Storm could respond.

28

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Off the coast of Somalia

2345

CAPTAIN SATTARI FELT HIS GLOVED HAND SLIPPING FROM THE

rope. Swinging his left arm forward, he managed to grab hold of the cross-hatched metal fencing at the side of the support pillar. For a moment he hung in midair five meters over the water and rocks, his fate suspended.

If I slip, he thought, the man behind me will fall as well.

He will be killed, and even if I survive, I will never be able to draw a breath as a man again.

He’d practiced this climb for months. He could do it. He had to do it.

With a ferocious heave, Sattari pulled himself to the pillar. Hanging by three fingers, he hunted for a better handhold. His left arm seemed to pull out of its socket before his right hand found a grip.

Up, he told himself, forcing open the fingers on his left hand. Sattari jerked his arm upward, throwing it against the fencing. His right arm had always been stronger than his left; he found a good hold and rested for a moment, then attacked the fence again, trying but failing to get a toehold so he could climb rather than pull. Again and again he forced his fingers to unclench; again and again he felt his shoulders wrenching. Even his right began to give way before he reached the top.

The first man up stood by the rail, waiting. Sattari took the rope he had carried up, tied it to the rail, then tossed it down. The captain helped the man who had started up behind over the rail, then went ahead.

Their target was a pipe assembly and tank housing fuel for the boats that docked here. Besides the large tanks containing ship fuel, there were two tanks that held the lighter—and more flammable—marine fuel used by small vessels. The tanks and some of the associated machinery sat behind a Cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. The point man began cutting a hole through the fence with a set END GAME

29

of large wire cutters; Sattari went around the decking to the corner to act as a lookout while the others prepared to set explosives on the tanks.

A pair of metal staircases led down to the lower docking area just beyond the turn where he took his position. A small boat was tied to the fiberglass planks, and he could hear it slapping against the side with the current.

Sattari could also hear his heart, pounding in his chest.

Never had he been this nervous, not even on his first solo flight.

The Indians had roughly two dozen men permanently on the island; another three or four dozen workers came out during the day when ships were docked or to finish up the many small items that still had to be perfected before the official opening in a few weeks. At night, a force of no more than eight men were on duty, manning lookouts on the northern and eastern sides of the large complex.

A local spy had reported that the watchmen varied their patrols admirably, making it impossible to time their rounds. However, this area was consistently neglected; like many security forces, the guards concentrated their efforts on what they thought the biggest prize was.

Sattari heard a noise behind him. He turned; the man who had cut the hole in the fence raised his hand in the air.

The charges had been set.

They retreated to the ropes. Remembering the trouble he’d had climbing with the gloves, Sattari pulled them off.

Better to burn his hands, he thought, than to lose his grip.