“Two more boats. Small coastal craft.”

“No markings.”

“Deck guns on one.”

18

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Another contact. Something bigger.”

“Storm, we have an Osa II,” said Eyes. “Definitely a Yemen boat—what’s he doing out?”

The Osa II was a Russian-made missile boat that carried Soviet-era SSN-2A/B “Styx” surface-to-surface missiles. A potent craft when first designed, the Osas were now long in the tooth but packed a reasonable wallop if well-skippered and in good repair. The Yemen ships were neither.

Storm studied the tactical display. The Osa II flickered at the far end of the hologram, about five miles away.

“Looks like they’re getting ready to attack the tanker,”

said Commander Marcum.

“Good,” Storm told the ship’s captain.

“Gunfire! They’re shooting across the tanker’s bow!” Eyes paused for only a second, gathering information from one of the crewmen manning the high-tech systems below. “The oil tanker is radioing for assistance. They are under attack.”

“Weapons,” said Storm.

“Weapons!” repeated the captain, addressing his weapons’ officer.

“Weapons,” bellowed the officer on duty in the weapons’

center, Ensign Hacienda. The ensign’s voice was so loud Storm might have been able to hear it without the communications gear.

“Prepare to fire the gun,” said Marcum.

“Ready, sir.”

“At your order, Storm.”

The gun was a 155mm Advanced Gun System, housed in the sleek box on the forward deck. The weapon fired a variety of different shells, including one with a range of nearly one hundred miles that could correct its flight path while on course for its target. At the moment, the Abner Read carried only unguided or “ballistic” ammunition, which had a range of roughly twenty-two miles—more than enough to pound one of the boats firing on the tanker.

“Eyes, give them fair warning,” said Storm.

“Aye, Captain.” The disdain for the rules of engagement SATAN’S TAIL

19

was evident in his voice. Storm shared the sentiment, though he did not voice his opinion.

“No acknowledgment. Attack is continuing. We—”

Eyes was nearly drowned out by a stream of curses from one of the men on duty in the Tactical Center. Storm knew exactly what had happened—the computer had gone off-line again, probably as they attempted to transmit a fresh warning in Arabic using the computer system’s prerecorded message capability. It was one of the more problematic modules in the integrated computing system. It would take at least a full minute to bring it back.

The tanker’s running lights were visible in the distance.

Storm picked up his glasses and scanned the horizon. They were still too far from the small patrol boats to see them, even with the infrared.

“Missile in the air!”

The warning came not from one of the men on the bridge or the Tactical Center, but from the computer system, which used a real-language module for important warnings. Talking wasn’t the only thing it did: In the time it took Storm to glance down at the threat screen on the Abner Read’s “dashboard” at the center of the bridge, the computer had managed to identify the weapon and predict its course.

A Styx antiship missile.

“Well, we know which side he’s on,” said Storm sarcastically. “Countermeasures. Target the Osa II.”

The ship’s captain moved to implement the instructions.

He didn’t need Storm to tell him what to do—and in fact he wouldn’t have been ship’s captain of the Abner Read if he weren’t among the most competent commanders in the Navy—but he also knew Storm well enough to realize the captain wouldn’t sit in the background, especially in combat.

“Computer IDs the missile as a type P-20M with an MS-2A seeker,” said Eyes.

The MS-2A was a solid-state radar that featured the ability to home in on the electronic countermeasures—or ECMs—being used to jam it.

20

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Is he locked on us?” asked Commander Marcum.

“Negative. Trajectory makes it appear as if he fired without radar, maybe hoping we’d go to the ECMs and he’d get a lock.”

Or it was fired ineptly, which Storm thought more likely.

Nonetheless, they had to act as if it were the former.

The holographic information system projected the missile’s path—a clean miss. As Eyes said, the missile was aimed well wide of them; it would hit the ocean about a half mile to the south.

“Belay ECMs,” said Marcum. “Repeat: no countermeasures. Target the missile boat with our gun.”

Storm nodded. Marcum really understood how to fight these guys. He’d make a good group commander down the road.

“Missile is on terminal attack,” warned the computer.

The Styx missile slid downward, riding just a few feet above the waves, where it was extremely difficult to stop.

One of the Phalanx 20mm Gatling guns that provided close-in antiair coverage rotated at the rear of the ship, tracking the antiship missile as it passed. A yellow cone glowed in the holographic display, and the gun engaged, obliterating the missile at long range, even though it wasn’t a threat.

A problem with the program of the automated defensive weapons system, Storm noted. It tended to be somewhat overprotective—not necessarily a bad thing, but something that could stand a little tweaking.

“Torpedoes!” sang the computer.

“Toward us or the tanker?” Storm demanded.

“Not sure,” said Eyes, who was scrambling to make sense of what was going on.

“Who fired the torpedoes? The missile boat?” said Marcum.

“Negative—they must have come from the patrol craft.

That’s a new development.”

The patrol craft were relatively small, and until now had not been seen with torpedo tubes on their decks. Storm de-

SATAN’S TAIL

21

cided this was a compliment, in a way—after a week of running off, they’d decided to change their tactics.

The tanker was about three miles off their port bow, with the attacking pirates slightly to starboard. This was not the usual pattern of attacks—ordinarily four or five fast patrol boats and a few small speedboats would charge a slow-moving, heavily laden ship, fire a few dozen slugs to get its attention, and then send a heavily armed boarding party aboard. The ship’s captain would be persuaded to phone his company headquarters and have a transfer made to an offshore account specially set up for the night. Once the transfer was made—the amount would be about ten thousand dollars, relatively small considering the value of the cargo—the tanker would be allowed to go on its way. The small “fee” charged helped guarantee that the pirates would get it; most multinational companies considered it a pittance, cheaper than a port tax—or trying to prosecute the perpetrators.

“Those torpedoes are definitely headed in our direction,”

said Eyes. “We don’t have guidance data.”

Marcum ordered evasive action. As the helmsman put the Abner Read into a sharp turn, the ship’s forward torpedo tubes opened, expelling a pair of small torpedolike devices.

They swam about a quarter of a mile; at that point, the skin peeled away from their bellies and they began emitting a thick fog of bubbles. The air in the water created a sonic fog in the water similar to the noise made by the ship. The destroyer, meanwhile, swung onto a new course designed to minimize its profile to the enemy.

“They must have guessed we’d be nearby,” said Marcum.

“I think they homed in on our radio signal when we tried to warn the oiler and threw everything they had at us. Rules of engagement, Captain. They make no sense.”

“Noted for the record,” said Storm.

And wholeheartedly agreed with.

“Tanker captain says he’s been fired on,” reported communications. “Asking for assistance.”