Satan's Tail d-7 Page 21

  "If we didn't pack the Osprey, how long would it take to get out of here?" Dog asked.

  "Hour," said Danny. "Give or take."

  "Let me get with Washington and see if I can land the Osprey somewhere midway and have her refueled."

  "Aren't you supposed to check with Storm?" said Danny. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

  Washington, D.C.

  0450

  The knock on the door of the condo came ten minutes before Jed was expecting it — and more important, before the coffee started pouring through the filter of Mr. Coffee.

  "Jed Barclay? Are you ready?" said a gruff voice outside the door.

  "Um, almost," said Jed.

  "Lot of traffic on the road, sir. If we're going to make the airport we want to get moving."

  "Yeah, all right. Like, I'm coming." Jed shut off the coffeepot. He swung his hand through the loop of his carry-on, grabbed his knapsack laptop bag, and opened the door. The driver was a Marine corporal assigned to the NSC; he wore a civilian suit and looked better dressed than Jed, whose tie didn't quite go with his wrinkled gray jacket.

  "Mr. Barclay?" said the corporal, glancing down at Jed's scuffed brown shoes.

  "Yeah. Aren't you kind of early?"

  "No, sir." The corporal studied his face for a moment. "Maybe we could grab some Joe on the way?"

  "Definitely a good idea," said Jed. "There's an all-night 7-Eleven on the corner."

  As they got into the car, one of Jed's phones began ringing. He had three with him — a secure NSC satellite phone, an encrypted cell phone, and a personal cell phone.

  It took a few moments for his caffeine-deprived brain to figure out that the call was on the encrypted line.

  "Jed," he said, popping it open somewhat hesitantly.

  "Hello?"

  "Jed, this is Colonel Bastian. Sorry to wake you."

  "Um, well, you're not waking me, Colonel. As it happens." "I need a favor. A pretty big one." "Um, uh — personal favor?"

  "It is a personal favor to me, but it's not of a personal nature. I need a place for one of my Ospreys to land where it can be refueled."

  "Uh—"

  "I know I'm not going through channels, but there isn't enough time," said Dog.

  "Yeah, OK," Jed replied. "What exactly do you need?"

  "Basically, I need someplace between Saudi Arabia and Diego Garcia to refuel the Osprey. India would be best."

  "How soon?" Jed asked.

  "Ten minutes ago would be great," said Dog.

  "Ten minutes ago I can't do. But I can work something out, I think. Can I call you back?"

  "I'd kind of like to get this solved right now," said Dog. "What I'd like you to do is talk to my people back home and set it up with them. But I want to know whether it's doable or not."

  "Um, hang on," said Jed as they pulled up in front of the convenience store.

  "How do you want your coffee?" asked the driver.

  "Plenty of milk and two sugars. Better make it the biggest they got — three sugars."

  The driver got out.

  "I think it's probably doable," Jed told Dog. "I have to talk to State anyway."

  "Probably's not good enough for me, Jed. I need to count on you."

  "You can count on me, Colonel, soon as I get my coffee."

  Diego Garcia

  1530

  It was not the worst flight Mack Smith had ever been on — but it had certainly been close. He spent the entire fifteen hours, twelve minutes, and thirteen seconds strapped into the stiff Flighthawk control seat on the lower deck of Megafortress Charlie One. He'd been so bored that he even took a few tries at the training simulations for Piranha that Lieutenant Cly Dai was flying at his station next to him. But you could only play computer games for so long.

  It wasn't bad enough that he was a passenger on an airplane, instead of a pilot; he was an immobile one, strapped to his stinking ejection seat and unable to move without considerable help. The newly minted EB-52 had a temporary bunk area on the upper deck, along with a galley, restroom, and a VCR. But he'd have had to crawl up the steps to get to it, and the humiliation simply wasn't worth it. Getting down out of the aircraft was its own adventure. All of the EB-52s were equipped with an attachment on the ladder that allowed a wheelchair to be mechanically lowered by a pair of small electric motors. Though it doubled as a way to ease the loading and unloading of heavy computer gear, it had been designed specifically for Zen, and it certainly beat being carried down to the tarmac. But it involved a great deal of faith; the angle was precarious, and Mack was sure he would topple out of his seat the whole way down.

  "I've got your bags, Major," said Lieutenant Dai cheerfully as Mack wheeled away from the belly of the plane. He paused to let Dai load the bags onto his lap. The extra weight and awkwardness made it difficult to work the wheels, and when Dai started pushing him, Mack didn't object.

  Sergeant Lee Liu, a member of the Whiplash action team, stood in front of a battered pickup truck nearby, waiting for them.

  "Major, welcome to Paradise," said the sergeant. "Hop aboard."

  "I'm not hopping anywhere," said Mack. "And I'm not getting in the back of that truck. I'll ride up front." "Just a figure of speech, Major," said the sergeant. Liu helped him into the cab and they drove to a small building overlooking the ocean. Two airmen met them there, members of a security team flown in to provide security until the rest of the Whiplash team arrived. In truth, Diego Garcia was probably as secure as any American base in the world, and the local Navy contingent could have done an adequate job guarding two or three full squadrons. Located on a small island atoll in the ocean below India, the only people here were either military or contract workers for the military. Completely isolated, the base was self-contained, an entire world unto itself. Depending on your perspective, it could be either Paradise, or hell — or maybe a little of both.

  Mack tried to lower himself from the truck to the waiting wheelchair, but couldn't manage the maneuver; he finally gave in and asked for help. The airmen craned him upward and deposited him gently in the chair.

  "Thanks, guys," he said. "I hope not to be in this sucker too long. Get my legs back any day now."

  "Yes, sir," said one of the airmen.

  The cement-block building wasn't much to look at, but Mack realized that it had two major assets: There was no step or curb to the front door, and the rooms were all on one level.

  "This isn't the most comfortable facility," said Liu, coming in behind him. "But it's isolated from the rest of the base. There is a three-story structure on the other side of the tank farm. It's a little newer, but wouldn't be as easy to secure."

  "I think this one's fine," said Mack, ignoring the musty odor as they continued down the hallway. There were small, simple offices and a large common room. As Mack surveyed the rooms, Liu told him that the Dreamland Command Trailer was due to arrive in a few hours; they would set it up outside. A secure communications system for the offices would be wired in, along with other gear as needed. Dog wasn't due to come in until nighttime at the earliest; he was meeting with Captain Gale aboard the Abner Read, the flagship of Xray Pop.

  "We're three hours ahead of the base in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf of Aden, where the aircraft are patrolling," added Liu, "so if it's 1530 or three-thirty in the afternoon here, it's twelve-thirty there; 1600 is 1300, and like that. And just to really confuse you, when it's 1500 here and 1200 in the Gulf of Aden, it's 0100 in Dreamland. Got it?"

  "Basically, it's party time somewhere in the world," said Mack. "As long as you can stay awake to enjoy it."

  National Airport,

  Washington, D.C.

  0530

  They had just announced that the plane for New York was boarding when Jed's encrypted cell phone rang back with the message that a refueling stop had been cleared for the Osprey at Dabolin in the province of Goa, India. He pulled out the sat phone and hot-keyed the number for the Dreamland Command Center.

  "Yes?" answ
ered an unfamiliar voice.

  "Um, who is this?" said Jed. He'd been expecting Major Catsman, whom he'd spoken to a few minutes before.

  "Who is this?"

  Jed, thinking that he had somehow gotten a wrong number and dialed a residence, hit the end transmission button.

  It should have been impossible to get a residence, he thought. Jed looked at the buttons, and hit the combination again.

  "Yes?" sneered the same voice. "This is Jed Barclay." "Yes, of course it is."

  "This is Dr. Ray, right?" said Jed, finally attaching the sneer to a face.

  There was a pause, then Ray Rubeo cleared his throat very loudly. "This is Dr. Raymond Rubeo. What do you want, Mr. Barclay?"

  "I was just kind of thrown off there. Usually an operator answers or maybe an officer."

  "We are shorthanded and I am pitching in at the Command Center," said Rubeo, who sounded about as happy to be doing that as Jed was to be going to New York at five-thirty in the morning.

  "Listen, pass the word that I got the approval. There's an Indian Navy aviation base at Dabolin in India. It's in Goa. So you can tell them they can take off."

  "They took off fifteen minutes ago."

  "They did?"

  "Colonel Bastian apparently believes you when you say you'll take care of something," said Rubeo. He cut the line on his end.

  Aboard the Abner Read

  1400

  "Right there, Cap. It's three miles off the coast."

  Eyes pointed to the holographic display in the Tactical Warfare Center. Storm saw from the scale that they were fifteen miles from the submarine — a half hour's sail at most. The Libyan submarine sat almost at a complete standstill. The patrol boat that had been escorting the sub lay another mile or so farther east in very shallow water close to the shore.

  Four torpedoes, fired from the vertical launch tubes, and the submarine and patrol boat would be history. No one would ever know.

  That wasn't quite true. Bastian would know. The pirates would know. And eventually Johnson would find out and use it to scuttle his career.

  He thought of his pledge to the sailor after his death that they would have justice.

  Have it absolutely.

  He stared at the image in the hologram, which had been synthesized by the computer from the sounds the array picked up — and the assumptions about those sounds that had been programmed into the system. The symbol of the sub flickered to the right, nudging northward.

  Was he moving out from the protected waters?

  God, let him come out to me. Let him come after someone. Just get close to international waters.

  He could always say they had opened their torpedo tubes, clearly indicating that they were going to fire. That would justify attacking.

  No one would buy that, not completely. But it would give the people who liked him enough cover to protect him.

  Balboa would probably believe it. But Balboa was known to have little if any leverage with the President. And Johnson would work relentlessly against him.

  Storm looked back at the display. The submarine wasn't moving northward at all. His eyes had seen what he wanted them to see — what his need for revenge dictated.

  "We have a communication from the fleet about the approaching British carrier and her escorts, the Ark Royal" said Eyes. "They ran into some sort of delay at the Suez Canal. One of their ships is coming ahead and will be out into the gulf by early tomorrow morning."

  "Very good," said Storm.

  The Ark Royal was en route to Asia to help Americans in the Philippines. It was more a gesture of allied solidarity — a useless one, in Storm's opinion, though he was thankful that he hadn't been told to work with the Brits.

  He stared at the hologram. No, the submarine wasn't moving at all. It would, though. It had to.

  "Watch the submarine carefully," he said. "If it starts moving toward the shipping lanes — if it starts moving at all — let me know."

  Aboard Baker-Baker Two,

  approaching Diego Garcia

  2232

  "Almost there, Captain," Spiderman told Breanna.

  Relieved by Charlie One in the Gulf of Aden shortly before 1400, they had flown for just about six hours to get to the airstrip at Diego Garcia. Except for a few short breaks, Breanna had flown the whole mission herself. She'd die rather than admitting it, but she was starting to feel the strain of not having had a full night's sleep.

  "I hear Diego Garcia is a pretty cool place," continued the copilot. "Lots of partying. 'Gilligan's Island with guns' some of the guys call it."

  "Don't believe everything you hear," said Breanna.

  "It's not fun?"

  "It's all right. To visit. You've never been there?" "No, ma'am."

  "Interesting place," said Breanna. "Lots of sun and sand." "As long as there's a cot down there with my name on it, I'll be happy," said Spiderman. "Amen to that."

  Zen rolled onto the concrete in front of the hangar area, squinting from the glare of the nearby floodlights. There was a two and a half hour time difference between the Gulf of Aden and Diego Garcia, and it was now getting on towards eleven p.m. local time. But there were dozens of things to do before he could get to bed. He rolled over to the team that had swarmed around the Flighthawk to check on the aircraft's status, and was surprised when Chief Master Sergeant Clyde "Greasy Hands" Parsons stepped away from the gaggle of maintainers and techies.

  "Chief, what are you doing here?" said Zen.

  "I wanted to personally kick the butt of the jerk who shot down my aircraft," said Parsons. "Then I'm going to work on my tan."

  "Go easy on Starship, Chief."

  "I'm not talking about the lieutenant. He didn't shoot it down. It's the Navy I'm mad at." Parsons looked out toward the runway, where a C-5A was just landing, undoubtedly with more of their gear. "Besides, he's only a lieutenant. Once you make chief, you let your underlings chew out louies. They're too easy."

  Zen grinned.

  "Although I may give you a good kick just to stay in practice, Major. You've been running this aircraft awful hard," Greasy Hands added. "Due for an overhaul. Oughta be grounded until we get a new engine in."

  "Can't afford the downtime," said Zen.

  "Take ten minutes, if I'm watchin' them." Parsons smiled, a sure sign that he was going to make a joke. "What do you think about a Chevy small block V-8? Bore that sucker out and watch her rip."

  "You going to tell me about your Chevelle SS again?"

  "That was a hell of a car, Zen. I'll tell you, a hell of a car. They do not make cars like that anymore."

  "Thank God."

  "Well, that aircraft really ought to set a spell until we get it overhauled. I'm not talking about a rinse and wax either."

  "Colonel's not going to like that," said Zen. "And the Navy captain we're answering to isn't going to like it either."

  "Back in the day, the Air Force didn't take orders from the Navy," said Greasy Hands. "The Navy gave us grief, we flew low and slow over one of their aircraft carriers. Admiral got the message real quick."

  "They had aircraft carriers when you were young, Chief?"

  "They were just coming in when I made sergeant."

  "Storm's not an admiral. And he's just as stubborn as the colonel."

  "That I'd like to see."

  "Hey, Jeff, how's it going?"

  Zen turned around and saw Mack Smith wheeling toward him.

  "What do you think of Paradise?" Mack asked.

  "I think it's damn hot for November," said Zen.

  "I have some idea on integrating the Flighthawks with CAG Xray Pop. We could make coordinated attacks with the microbombs, get them right onto the pilot bridge of the patrol boats. At the same time, the Shark Boats and Abner Read could launch torpedoes at them. So while they're blinded, they're also sitting ducks."

  "Why don't we just nuke them and be done with it?" said Zen.

  "I'm serious. You know, the chief was telling me that the replacement Flighthawk engine
delivers more thrust, and I was playing with the numbers — I think we can get a lightweight torpedo on, as long as we were launching for a really short flight."

  "I'm going to go get something to eat," said Zen. "See you later, Chief."

  "Don't you think that's a good idea?" said Mack.

  "I think it's so good you ought to join the Navy, gimp boy," said Zen.

  "Hey, give me a break, huh?"

  "Which leg?" "Ha, ha."

  "Where do we eat in Paradise, anyway?" said Zen. He saw one of the Whiplash troopers standing near a truck a short distance away and began rolling toward him. Breanna and the rest of the plane crew were walking in that direction as well.

  "You don't think those are good ideas?" asked Mack. He was trying to follow but couldn't keep up with Zen.

  "I told you, they're great, gimp boy. Now leave me alone."

  "Hey, lay off the gimp stuff, huh?"

  Zen looked back. "Maybe you ought to get a motorized chair. If you're planning on staying in that much longer." "Screw yourself, Zen." "You're as witty as ever, Mack."

  "And you're nastier than ever," said Breanna, catching up. Zen pushed his wheels toward the truck. All he wanted to do right now was get some food and go to sleep. For about three weeks.

  UN Building,

  New York City

  1300

  Jed looked at the graphics files again, making sure they were ordered properly. The Secretary of State wanted to go through the presentation at least once before meeting with the British and French ambassadors privately at two p.m. and the Saudi ambassador at four; the National Security Council's special session was due to start at six p.m. There'd be no chance to go through the presentation with him if he didn't get back soon.