“Storm, we have a gunboat out of Oman trailing what looks to be an old oiler converted for use as a civilian tanker,”
Delaford explained. “It’s an Al Bushra, a large patrol boat originally built by France. They’ve mounted Exocets on it.”
“Exocets?”
“Absolutely. I can’t tell whether they’ve taken them off one of their missile boats or what, but they’re definitely there.”
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“He’s pretty far from where he belongs,” said Storm. He hadn’t encountered any Oman ships during their patrol; they usually stayed close to port, where the government could keep a close watch on them.
“He’s escorting an oiler that’s been converted to civilian use as a tanker,” said Delaford. “We have the oiler in the database registered to a Cameroon company. It took on fuel in Turkey and does a regular route, mostly bunker oil, over to the East African coast, sometimes to Asia. Never to Oman.”
“And they’re not answering radio calls?”
“No. They’re headed in the direction of Somalia, though they’re in international waters. It looks weird, but there’s no proof of anything.”
“You sure Bastian’s not making this up?”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Captain, we have a bum connection I think. I’m not sure what you said.”
“You’re sure this is for real?” said Storm.
“It’s real. I’m looking at a video of it now.”
“All right. It’s definitely worth checking into.”
Storm looked at the holographic display. The two ships were over two hundred nautical miles to the southwest. It would take six hours, at least, to get there. But the addition of an Oman ship to the pirate fleet would be a major development.
Eyes looked at him expectantly. Storm put up his forefin-ger, signaling that he would explain in a moment.
“It’ll take us several hours to get out there,” Storm told Delaford. “Do you think the Dreamland people can track him until then?”
“With their eyes closed.”
“Give me Bastian.”
“I’m here,” said Bastian.
Just like him to eavesdrop, thought Storm. “Trail the ship.
See where it goes. We’re going to come east and board them.”
“I can do that, but I may have to put the Piranha into sleep mode,” said the Air Force flier.
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“What does that mean?”
“I’m uncomfortable discussing it in detail,” said Dog.
“The satellite line is encrypted.”
“I’m still uncomfortable talking about details of the system. You’re going to have to take my word for it.”
Everything with this guy is a struggle, thought Storm.
Everything.
“Do what you have to do,” he told Bastian.
“I intend to.”
“Listen Bastian … Bastian? Are you still there?”
“Still here.”
“We’re losing the stinking communications satellite around four o’clock in the morning. We’re going to have to find another way to communicate. Get those Dreamland communications things en route to me ASAP.”
“I’ll have an Osprey launch within the hour.”
Khamis Mushait Air Base
2200
“I CAN GET THREE PORTABLE UNITS OUT THERE RIGHT AWAY, Colonel,” Danny told Dog. “But that leaves me without the Osprey for over four hours.”
“You don’t think the Werewolves are enough to keep you covered?”
“They can, but I can’t use the Werewolves to bug out if I have to.”
“All right, let’s rethink this,” said Dog.
“What if we send one of the Werewolves?”
“A round trip is over twelve hundred miles,” said Dog. “It can’t make it back without refueling.”
“Couldn’t it refuel on the Abner Read?” asked Danny. “If they have a helipad, maybe they have fuel.”
“We can check,” said Dog. “Talk to the technical people first about what they’d have to do to carry radio units. Make SATAN’S TAIL
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sure it’s feasible before you talk to Storm. Is Peterson still sick?”
“Afraid so. Fever of 102, last time I checked. I can fly it,”
added Danny.
“No, you have too much to do. So does Jennifer. Is Zen around?”
“Zen’s right here,” said Danny.
“Put him on.”
Danny got up and walked into the conference area of the command post. “Boss wants to talk to you,” he told Zen, who was playing poker with Spiderman and two of the Whiplash sergeants. “He’s looking for a pilot for the Werewolf.”
“The Werewolf?”
“I can do it,” said Danny. “Jen’s over working on the LADS connection and—”
“Don’t sweat it; I’ve flown them plenty of times,” said Zen, wheeling himself backward to the communications area.
“Piece of cake. Computer does all the work if you let it.”
The trailer rocked as Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland burst through the door.
“Hey, Cap, we’re being invaded, but I think they’re friendly,” he said. “The Marines have landed.”
Two burly Marine Corps sergeants followed Boston inside. They were followed by one of the slimmest Marines Danny had ever met.
And by far the prettiest.
“Lieutenant Emma Klacker, U.S. Marine Corps. No need to worry; you’re secure now.”
Danny laughed. “Oh are we? What’d you do, bring a division?”
“We don’t need a division,” said the lieutenant. “We’re the Marines. Relax, Captain. Nobody’s coming or going on this base without your approval.”
The Whiplash troopers sitting around the table smirked at each other.
“Raise is two bucks to you, Zen,” said Sergeant Kevin Bi-
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son. “Now that we’re safe, I feel I can open up my game and bet the limit.”
“You making a joke, soldier?” said Klacker.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m just feeling real warm and toasty now that the Marines are here to save my bacon.”
“Lieutenant, maybe you and I ought to discuss this outside,” said Danny.
Lieutenant Klacker glared at Bison, gave the evil eye to the rest of the trailer, then exited. As Danny passed the Marines, one of them said in a stage whisper, “No disrespect, sir, but I’d watch out. She’s got one hell of a temper.
And if she volunteers to scrimmage you in tae kwon do, don’t do it.”
“That’s all right,” said Danny. “I never scrimmage. Or fight fair.”
Klacker was waiting for him outside. “Why are you letting your men disrespect the Corps?”
“They’re not,” said Danny.
“Disrespect is bullshit, Captain.”
“Whoa, hold on, Lieutenant. I agree. None of my people are going to disrespect the Corps. Whiplash has worked with the Corps before. We have nothing but respect.”
“What do you mean, Whiplash?”
“That’s who we are.”
The Marine officer looked at him suspiciously. “Bullshit, you are. We were told there was an Air Force survey team down here that needed help with some local rioters.”
Danny laughed.
“What the hell’s so funny, Captain?”
“That must be the cover they were using up at CentCom or something. We’re surveying, all right—we’re hunting around the gulf for a Libyan submarine.”
“You’re the guys who went into Iran? Whiplash from Dreamland?”
“That’s us.”
“You’re Freah?”
“That’s what it says on the uniform.”
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“I heard of you.” She frowned, as if she still didn’t believe him. “You’re younger than I heard.”
Danny laughed. “I hope that’s a compliment.”
“It is.” She stuck out her hand. “My friends call me Dancer. Yes, Captain, I was one, in another lifetime. I have other nicknames, but I don’t use them in polite company.”
“I’m Danny.” He held out his hand. Based on what the Marine inside had said, he almost expected to be tossed over her shoulder. But she only shook it, gripping it firmly but not trying to crush his fingers the way some women officers did, trying to prove they were as tough as men. “I appreciate your coming down to help out,” Danny told her.