By the time Danny got to his knees the gunfire had stopped.

“Couple of caves there, Cap,” said Boston. “Mo-fo’s are holed up in them.”

Mo-fo was Boston’s abbreviation for a none-too-polite street term.

“Can you lase the cave?” Danny asked.

“Yeah, I’m going to try.”

“Jen?”

“On it, Whiplash.”

As the Werewolves spun out from over the ocean, one of the ships in the water began firing at it. The arc of gunfire provided just enough light for Danny to see the black streak of a Harpoon missile as it approached. Or at least he thought he saw it—in the next moment the space where the ship had 332

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been flashed white and the ocean erupted. The Werewolves, meanwhile, stuttered in the air as their cannons sprayed lead on the caves. Danny got up, grabbing hold of the Marine nearby and tugging him along; within a few seconds they had found a path and were able to clamber down to a ledge where three other members of the team were huddled.

Something flashed to the left.

Mortar, thought Danny. Before he had time to react, two of the Marines had begun firing in that direction and a third had used the grenade launcher on his rifle to obliterate the terrorist.

A second Harpoon struck another ship in the water, this one farther from shore. There was a flash but no secondary explosion.

“Jen, pull the Werewolves out,” said Danny. “Let’s take stock.”

“Clear sailing, Cap,” said Boston ten or fifteen yards below.

“Don’t get too cocky,” said Danny.

“Hey, cocky’s my middle name. Just ask the girls.”

As if in answer, a machine-gun began chewing up the rocks in Boston’s general vicinity. Once more the Marines near Danny answered with a combination of rifle fire and grenades; the weapon fell silent.

“Team One? Dancer, what are you doing?” Danny asked as the pandemonium subsided.

“We’re at the edge of the village,” answered Sergeant Liu.

“Lieutenant Dancer is preparing a team to begin a sweep.”

“All right. Dancer, are you on the circuit?”

There was no reply.

“She can’t hear you, Cap. Another malfunction, I think.

I’ll pass the word along.”

“Listen, tell her we’re moving ahead the way we drew it up.”

“Gotcha,” said Liu.

By now the rest of the team was moving in the direction of the caves and shoreline. The landing party from the Shark Boat had engaged a small force at the base of the cliff and SATAN’S TAIL

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was exchanging fire. Danny sent Pretty Boy and two of his Marines in that direction, telling them to try and get into a position where they could either use grenades to attack the pirates or lase them for the Werewolves. He and the others went down the hillside to join with Boston and the Marines, who were clearing the caves.

“Back!” yelled Boston as he tossed a grenade inside one of the openings. The team ducked down as the weapon exploded, then immediately rose again and peppered the opening with gunfire. Despite the heavy onslaught, at least one of the pirates managed to survive long enough to fire back when the party started inside the cave. The earth itself seemed to erupt as the Americans returned fire, nearly everyone emptying their mags on the black hole.

“Discipline! Discipline!” yelled someone as the gunfire died down.

Good advice, thought Danny, though it had about as much effect as yelling stop at a runaway train.

“I’m OK,” said Boston, who apparently had been hit by the gunfire, fortunately in his boron vest. “Two grenades on the next one,” he added, apparently talking to one of the Marines, not Danny. “One deep, one shallow.”

“And then a second wave,” said Danny. “These bastards have nine lives.”

“Mo-fo’s always do, Cap.”

Aboard the Abner Read

0009

THE ABNER READ WAS CAPABLE OF LAUNCHING TORPEDOES

from either its vertical-launch tubes as missiles or its below-waterline tubes near the middle of the ship. The vertical-launched torpedoes had a somewhat longer range, adding approximately six miles to the seven that the torpedo alone could run. While the submarine was within range, the targeting system on the Abner Read had trouble picking it out.

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Storm waited impatiently as the Abner Read heaved around, paralleling the submarine and waiting for it to clear into an easier targeting area.

“We have the target,” said Eyes, relaying the message from Weapons to Storm, who was still on the bridge with Peanut and the bridge crew.

“Fire.”

Two missiles popped from the vertical launching pods on the forward deck, their rocket motors igniting them and steering them unsteadily in the direction of the submarine.

Launching torpedoes like this had always seemed to Storm an unnatural and awkward act, more so because the erupting rockets always appeared to lurch in the air, moving unsteadily as if the torpedo they propelled in the canister was literally a fish out of water. The ASROC system, however, had been perfected over several decades, and the idea of launching torpedoes from missile pods was little more than an extension of firing them from aircraft—an art perfected in World War II. Lengthening their effective range made excellent sense, allowing a surface ship to strike a submarine before it became vulnerable itself.

The Abner Read’s designers had planned for her to carry the latest weapons, and had accordingly designed both the vertical-launching system and torpedo tubes—along with their associated targeting and control systems—for the MK-50 and MK-54 torpedo. The MK-50 in particular was an excellent torpedo. Relatively slim at 12.75 inches in diameter, the torpedo—in its upgraded version—could avoid countermeasures, operate entirely on its own once fired, and strike virtually any ship or submarine operating in the world. The MK-54 was a lighter version of the MK-50, equipped with a more limited guidance system, in essence a poor man’s version of the very expensive MK-50 tuned to operate in shallow water.

Unfortunately, neither weapon was aboard the AbnerRead. The MK-54—which probably would have been a good choice here—was still in development and not yet SATAN’S TAIL

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available. And the cost of the MK-50 had limited the Navy’s purchases. Because it was in short supply, the powers-that-be had rationed it among the Navy ships and aircraft capable of carrying it. The Abner Read had not made the cut. Instead, its tubes were filled with old standbys, the MK-46.

When they were first deployed in 1966, the MK-46 torpedoes were at least arguably the best of their class: lightweight, versatile killers with about a hundred pounds of explosives in their teeth. Thirty years and several upgrades later, they were problematic weapons in areas where the shallow water, other nearby contacts, and a system admittedly designed for different weapons, multiplied the confusion factor exponentially.

One of the torpedoes failed completely after it entered the water; the reason wasn’t clear. The other, however, made a beeline for the sub. Traveling at 45 knots, the torpedo needed nearly eight minutes to get to its target. By the fourth minute it became clear that it had lost its way; by the fifth, it had veered off course toward the shoreline. The operator couldn’t tell what it was tracking, and Storm didn’t particularly care.

He gave the order for the ship to close in on the submarine, which was running in snorkel mode almost exactly due east about three-quarters of a mile from the coast.

“Captain, that’s going to take us out of the designated patrol area,” said Peanut.

“Are you questioning my orders?” barked Storm.

“No, sir.”

“Then do it. Eyes!”