Black smoke appeared at the center of the Ethiopian plane, and then the aircraft veered right.

Zen didn’t bother to follow. He tucked left, hunting for a second target.

Aboard Baker-Baker Two , over the Gulf of Aden

2256

BREANNA HAD NO TROUBLE DUCKING THE FIRST AIR-TO-AIR

missile; she could actually see it in the enhanced view screen. But the second AA-12 managed to get almost under the Megafortress’s wings and exploded close enough for her 118

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to feel the rumble. The emergency light panel lit immediately; even without checking, she could tell she’d taken a hit in engine three.

“Three’s losing oil!” said Spiderman.

“Roger that. Let’s shut her down. Compensate.”

Breanna checked her position as the copilot took the engine offline. They were seventy-five miles north of the Somalian coast, at only three thousand feet. The closest MiG

was five miles to the south, running away.

“Trimming,” said Spiderman.

The two pilots worked together for several minutes, adjusting the power settings in the remaining engines and fine-tuning the flight-control surfaces to compensate for the loss of the engine. The computer actually did most of the work, computing the complex forces acting on the airplane and suggesting solutions that would allow it to function nearly as well as if it had all four power plants—or as the flight control computer calculated, “eighty-five percent efficiency.”

“MiGs have broken off and are heading back toward their base,” said the radar operator.

“Acknowledged,” said Breanna. “Commander Delaford?”

“We’re here.”

“How’s Piranha?”

“On course and on schedule.”

“We’ll drop the second control buoy in zero-five minutes,” said Breanna. “Everybody catch your breath.”

Aboard the Wisconsin , over the Gulf of Aden

2256

ZEN PRESSED THE THROTTLE SLIDER TO MAXIMUM POWER, closing on the Ethiopian MiG. The other aircraft had fired its last missile and cut south toward home, inadvertently turning in the direction of the Flighthawk, which apparently had not been picked up by its radar.

SATAN’S TAIL

119

Zen’s screen flashed yellow.

“Flighthawk leader, the MiGs have broken off contact and are returning to base,” said Dog. “They’re no longer a threat.”

Zen’s finger jammed against the throttle, urging the robot plane closer. His screen went to red, but he knew he didn’t have a perfect shot yet, despite what the computer said. He nudged slightly to the right, willing the enemy tailpipe into the cue.

“Flighthawk leader, break contact,” said Dog.

He could squeeze the trigger now and splash the bastard.

Zen wanted to—there was no reason, in his opinion, to let any of the Ethiopians escape.

“Zen?”

“Flighthawk leader,” said Zen, pulling off.

DOG NUDGED WISCONSIN CLOSER TO THE OTHER MEGA-fortress. The starlight video camera—it worked by magnifying the available light, which in this case was primarily from the moon rather than the stars—showed some nicks in the rear housing of engine three. The wing, however, looked un-damaged, which jibed with what Breanna had said.

“I think your damage is confined to that wing,” he told her. “What’s your assessment?”

“I continue with my mission as directed. I have another buoy ready to go. I’ve already talked to Greasy Hands back at Dreamland. They’ll have a replacement engine tuned and waiting at Khamis Mushait when we land.”

“Where did the chief steal that?” asked Dog. Greasy Hands was the top NCO and unofficial godfather of the Dreamland technical crew, or “maintainers,” the men and women who kept the aircraft aloft. He knew more about the planes than the people who designed them.

“He had two shipped in from Dreamland with the ground crew,” said Breanna. “Depending on the damage to the skin, he claims the plane will be ready for its next flight. I tend to agree with him. We’ve flown with much worse. I can deal with it.”

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“All right,” said Dog. “Launch the control buoy. We’ll continue to monitor. Did you track the Ethiopian pilots who bailed out?”

“We have global positioning coordinates on one, and an approximate location on the other chute,” said Breanna.

“What do you want to do?”

If the MV-22 had been in Saudi Arabia, Dog would have ordered Danny Freah to recover them so they could be questioned. Since that wasn’t possible, his options were limited.

He could alert Xray Pop, but the squadron already had its hands full and was unlikely to be in a position to mount a rescue much before dawn, if then. As a humanitarian gesture, Dog probably ought to alert the authorities in Djibouti, which was about fifty miles from the crash site.

Should he show mercy to a man who had tried to kill his people?

“Give me the location,” said Dog. “We’ll see if we can reach someone to pick them up.”

IV

My Way or No Way

Aboard the Abner Read , Gulf of Aden

7 November 1997

0800

STORM WATCHED THE RIGID HULL INFLATABLE BOAT PULL INTO

the landing area at the stern of Abner Read. Two more bodies had been recovered from the destroyed freighter, which had sunk during the night. Three men had not yet been recovered.

He would get the bastards for this. He would get them and he would see personally that they paid.

As for Bastian …

“Captain?”

Storm ignored the seaman who had approached him, snapping to attention and bringing his hand up in a stiff salute as one of his dead sailors was lifted from the boat. A light rain made the work all the more grim; several members of the party helping recover the remains slipped on the wet deck as they carried their fallen comrades about the destroyer. They struggled to hold the dead bodies up off the deck until they reached the litters that had been laid out for them, determined to spare them one final indignity. Only when the last body was laid down did Storm turn and give the seaman his attention.

“Sorry, sir,” said the sailor.

Storm noted that the man’s eyes were welled with tears.

“They’ll be avenged,” Storm told him. “We’ll have justice.”

The young man nodded.

“What did you want to tell me?”

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“Commander Eisenberg sent me to tell you that Communications has that transmission you needed,” said the young man. “He also said to mention that your communications unit has given out, sir. He can hear you but apparently you can’t hear him.”

Storm looked down at his belt. Somewhere during the long night he had pulled the wires of the unit out and broken part of the connection. The sailor was holding a replacement unit.

“Thanks,” said Storm. “I’ll take the transmission in my cabin.”

As he walked to his quarters, he pulled the old com unit off his head. Some of his blood had scabbed under the unit, and he winced as he pulled it off. Not much pain, he thought; just enough to remind him he was alive.

Admiral Johnson’s face filled the screen when he flipped on the secure communications line. Storm told him what had happened; for once the admiral listened without comment.

“There were three patrol boats that fled the scene,” Storm told him. “The Dreamland team tracked them to a harbor in Somalia, then lost them when a group of Ethiopians showed up. They had time to shoot down two planes, but they couldn’t lift a finger to help us.”

“Did the Dreamland people understand what was at stake here?” asked Johnson.

“Admiral, I can’t begin to understand or speak for what was going on in their minds. I requested that they engage the boats and they refused. As for the Ethiopians—I think if we don’t put our foot down, things are going to get a lot worse over here.”