“We monitored a message from some of our brothers in Yemen, Captain,” said Bari, coming up from the radio area.

“I thought it best to bring it to your attention.”

“What?”

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“Two large American aircraft landed in southern Saudi Arabia this afternoon,” said the mate, his black face blending into the growing darkness of the evening. “Perhaps they were the Orions you spoke of. The alert is being spread through Yemen and across the gulf to our other friends.”

A green flare shot from the deck of the merchant ship. His men had taken it over.

“Thank you, Bari,” he told his mate. “Keep me informed.

In the meantime, take command here while I go aboard our new vessel.”

“As you wish, Captain.”

Dreamland

0808

MACK SLID INTO THE WATER AND BEGAN PADDLING SLOWLY. A lifeguard watched from the other end, but otherwise he was alone, and would be for the rest of the session. The rehab specialists were off-duty today, and more important, Zen was halfway across the world and couldn’t barge in to harass him.

He knew that should have made him relax, but Mack felt even more stressed and tired as he pushed toward the other side. How the hell did Stockard do this every day, anyway?

The guy had been in decent shape before his accident, but he was no athlete, not by a mile.

Mack, on the other hand, had gotten letters in high school football and baseball. He had worked out semiregularly, not so much in the past few months maybe, but still, he could be considered in at least reasonably good shape. Yet here he was, struggling to reach the far side of the pool.

He tried pushing his legs—this was supposed to be about his legs, not his arms. But they wouldn’t respond. They were never going to respond, he thought, despite what the doctors said.

He’d known that the moment he opened his eyes in the SATAN’S TAIL

89

hotel in Brunei. Breanna was there, looking over him. He’d seen that look in her face, and he knew. If anyone was an expert on whether people would walk or not, it was Breanna.

He had to give Zen one thing—he’d sure as hell picked the right wife.

Mack had met a pretty decent woman in Brunei, as a matter of fact: Cat McKenna, a contract pilot who was now the de facto head of the air force there.

McKenna was more than decent, actually—she was probably the most competent woman pilot and officer he’d ever met. She was also, without doubt, one of the ugliest-looking women he’d ever met. Reasonable enough body, but her nose alone would have stopped a truck. And her chin …

But he missed her.

God, thought Mack as he finally reached the edge of the pool, the stinking paralysis is affecting my brain.

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

6 November 1997

1908

ZEN TOOK OVER FROM THE COMPUTER AS THE FLIGHTHAWK

U/MF-3 dropped off the aircraft’s wing, ramping up the engine and banking toward the waves below. The aircraft’s vital signs flashed in the lower left-hand quadrant of his screen: airspeed pushing through four hundred knots, altitude going down through twenty thousand feet. He had a full tank of gas and all systems were in the green.

“Successful launch, Wisconsin,” he told Dog, who was piloting the Flighthawk’s mother plane.

“Roger that, Flighthawk leader. We’re proceeding on course as planned. The only thing we have on the water in the immediate vicinity is that barge we told you about earlier.”

“Copy. Should have a visual in thirty seconds.”

Zen checked his position on the sitrep screen. This was 90

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

essentially a God’s eye view of the world, with the Flighthawk marked out as a green arrow at the center of the screen.

Using data from the Wisconsin’s powerful radar, the computer could detect ships as well as aircraft. The barge that Dog had mentioned appeared as a black rectangle marked SV1—surface vessel contact 1—in the right-hand corner of the screen. Zen could get information about it by asking the computer. If SV1 were a warship, the computer would have checked it against an identification library and provided details on its armament. An operator on the flightdeck—one handled surface contacts, one air contacts—had a database of commercial shipping in the area that identified most, though not all, of the major traffic through the Gulf of Aden.

“Full visual on the barge,” said Zen. The computer focused the camera in the Flighthawk’s nose on the craft. “You getting that, Dish?” Zen added, speaking to the operator handling the surface radar.

“Roger that, Flighthawk leader,” Sergeant Peter “Dish”

Mallack replied. “We copy. Looks like an oil equipment barge. Definitely benign.”

Zen started a turn, taking the Flighthawk around the rear of the craft. The computer kept the camera trained on it, providing a detailed view to the crewman upstairs. Dish used a “de-dappler” program to analyze the image, stripping away and manipulating possible camouflage to make educated guesses about what was aboard the craft. It wasn’t foolproof, and relied on close-up video to work well, but it beat staring at shadows with a magnifying glass for hours.

“Confirmed. That is definitely an equipment barge,” said Dish. “Can we get an infrared image? I’ll just double-check the number of people.”

“On this run,” said Zen. He brought the Flighthawk down below three thousand feet and eased off on the slider at the back of his joystick controller. The slider was actually the throttle; the Flighthawk controls had been designed to allow SATAN’S TAIL

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the aircraft to be flown with only one hand. The idea had been that the pilot would control a second Flighthawk with his other hand. In real life, however, switching hands had proven cumbersome and confusing in combat. Typically, the pilot would control one Flighthawk at a time, while letting the computer take the other. Zen routinely flew two but had handled four in exercises.

“Five people aboard,” said Dish as Zen climbed away from the barge. “Looking good, Major.”

“Let’s see how we do a little closer to shore,” he said, continuing on their survey.

Near Boosaaso, Somalia,

on the Gulf of Aden

6 November 1997

2008

THE CANNON HAD DESTROYED A GOOD PORTION OF THE

bridge, but the ship itself was in decent shape. Ali had no trouble from the surviving crew; they were all good Muslims, willing to follow his commands—at least while his men were aboard.

Ali’s men quickly fell into their routine, bringing over the material for the bombs while removing everything they could find that would be of use.

The captain had had the good sense to die when the first shells raked the superstructure of his ship. This made it unnecessary for Ali to execute him. But as it was necessary to demonstrate that his orders were to be followed without question, when the ship had been secured and most of what they wanted moved off it, Ali had the merchant vessel’s crew brought before him on the deck. He asked for the radioman, who after some hesitation stepped forward.

“Why did you make the distress call?” Ali asked.

“My captain directed me to.”

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“Do you believe in God?”

“I believe in God, yes.”

“Make your peace with him.”

The man flinched, but bowed his head and began to pray.

Ali, who was not without compassion, waited until he finished before executing him, firing a single bullet into the center of his skull.

He had just signaled to his men to throw the man overboard when one of the lookouts ran to him.

“A ship in the distance,” said the man, out of breath. “It may be Satan’s Tail.”