“It’ll still be hard to track us,” said Breanna.

“Why don’t we fly Wisconsin with a Flighthawk over the area first, doing reconnaissance,” said Zen. “Then head south over the general area where Piranha will head. We come back and hand off the Flighthawk to Baker-Baker, land, re-plenish, and take off for another mission in the morning.”

“Stretching the crew,” said Dog.

“Just me. Ensign English can drive the Piranha on the second shift, and you can have the backup flight crew take the aircraft. “We can get back to twelve hours on, twelve hours off. One Flighthawk per mission.”

“I think it’ll work,” said Breanna.

“Still, the turnaround on the mission times will be ridiculously tight,” said Spiderman, who was acting as maintenance officer as well as copilot of Baker-Baker Two. “We’re 84

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

really stretched out here. We have the backup crews, but we’re pushing the aircraft and systems. We need more maintainers and technical people, Colonel.”

“Our MC-17 should be here with the full load in two hours,” said Dog. “We’ll bring more people and equipment in as needed.”

As usual, the most difficult part of the mission wasn’t actually the objective itself, but getting the people and material into position to do the job in the first place. The so-called

“little people”—the guys and gals who fueled the aircraft, humped the supplies, tightened the screws—were in many ways the ones the mission actually hinged on. And Dog knew that the hardest part of his job wasn’t dodging bullets or Pentagon bullshit—it was finding a way to get his support people to the places they were needed the most.

“All right, let’s all take a break and get a feel for our quarters,” said Dog as the outlines of their tasks were finally settled. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll brief the Wisconsin flight and mission in an hour. Breanna, you and Baker-Baker should be ready to launch two hours after we do.”

“When are we going to come up with a better name for the plane?” Breanna asked. “It has to have a real name.”

“Let’s deal with that later,” said Dog.

“Yeah,” said Zen. “We’re going to need an hour just to find our rooms in this place. The building’s bigger than half the cities in Saudi Arabia.”

“One other thing,” said Dog. “The Saudis have opened their cafeteria on the other side of the base; Danny’s making the arrangements. Listen, I know I don’t have to remind any of you that we’re in a Muslim country, and a very sensitive one at that. Please, pass the word—best behavior. We’re ambassadors of goodwill here. Frankly, the lower the profile we have the better.”

“We’re going to be too busy to have much of a profile,”

said Delaford.

“Hopefully,” said Dog.

SATAN’S TAIL

85

Near Boosaaso, Somalia,

on the Gulf of Aden

6 November 1997

1731

ALI STEADIED HIMSELF ON THE OPEN BRIDGE OF THE PATROL

boat as it cut across the shadows below the Somalian coast.

Their target sat about a mile away, still steaming lazily for Boosaaso, a port on the Somalian coast. The ship was a freighter carrying crates of packaged food from the Mediterranean. Once the vessel was secured, they would offload as much of the supplies as they could. Ali’s men would also scour the ship for anything useful; he was especially interested in batteries and items such as electrical wires that could be used in the repair of the Sharia, the Somalian amphibious ship that they were working on. Finally, several hundred pounds of explosive would be packed into the hull, a timer set, and the ship directed toward the open channel: payback to the Greeks who owned her for trying to renege on an earlier arrangement.

“Boarding party is ready, Captain,” said Bari, the dark first mate.

“Signal the other vessels,” said Ali.

“Yes, Captain.”

The merchant ship, the Adak, lumbered along at eight knots. It was likely her small crew hadn’t even spotted the three fast patrol boats and four smaller runabouts charging toward her stern.

Ali’s crew moved to the 40mm gun on the forward deck.

He picked up the microphone as they drew alongside the ship.

“Brothers, I speak to you today as a member of the Gulf Cooperation Council,” Ali declared, his voice booming over the loudspeaker. “Your cargo is required in the struggle against the great enemy. Surrender without resistance and you will be accorded safe passage home. Any who wish to join our cause will be welcomed with eager arms.”

A figure appeared at the rail. Ali repeated his message.

86

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“They’re sending an SOS!” said the radioman from below.

“Fire!” Ali told his crew over the loudspeaker. “Boarding parties, attack.”

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

6 November 1997

1734

STORM HAD JUST STEPPED INTO THE HEAD WHEN COMMANDER

Marcum beeped him on the communicator system. Grum-bling, he secured his pants and hit the switch at his belt.

“What is it?”

“Storm, we have an SOS from a merchant ship about ten miles from Boosaaso on the Somalian coast,” said the ship’s captain. “They said they were under attack. The radio seems to have gone dead. Seaman who monitored the call couldn’t tell if it was real or not. I suspect a trap. Eyes isn’t sure. He’s working on it.”

“What’s the ship?”

“The Adak. It’s out of Greece. This wouldn’t fit with the normal pattern of attacks. It’s back to the south a bit quicker than they normally move.”

Which, to Storm’s way of thinking, made it all the more likely to be exactly that: an attack.

Boosaaso was a tiny port at the north of Somalia; there was a small airport near the city. They were a good two hours away from the area.

“I’ll be in the Tactical Center in a minute,” Storm said.

“Have Eyes rally one of the Shark Boats; keep the others in reserve in case it’s a decoy. If the Adak sends another SOS, don’t radio back. I don’t want to tip off anyone who’s listening that we’re on our way.”

“Aye aye, Cap.”

SATAN’S TAIL

87

Near Boosaaso, Somalia,

on the Gulf of Aden

6 November 1997

1738

THE MORTAR AT THE REAR OF THE BOAT MADE A THICK THUMP

as it fired the projectile toward the superstructure of the merchant vessel. The rope whistled behind it as two of Ali’s sailors waited for the device it had fired to land. The mortar’s payload looked like a folded grappling hook, designed to open as it landed. As soon as the ropes stopped flying through the air, the men grabbed and pulled them taut, securing a connection with the ship. In a matter of seconds they had thrown themselves into the air, swinging across the space and climbing up the side of the vessel. This was the most dangerous moment for Ali’s teams as they boarded. Anyone on the other ship with a hatchet and an ounce of courage could sever the line, sending the heavily armed men into the water. To help lessen the chance of this, two of Ali’s team peppered the top rail with their machine guns. Ali himself had unfolded the metal stock of his AK47, though he did not believe in wasting bullets without a target.

Smoke curled from the superstructure of the merchant ship. The fools! They’d gained nothing by calling for help.

Ali saw the first member of his team clamber over the deck, then the second and third. The other boats drew close; more men followed. There were shouts, gunfire. A swell pitched his small craft toward the merchant vessel. At the last second God intervened, pushing the boats apart.

A ladder, two ladders, were dropped off the side. His men were now firmly in control of the deck.