Satan's Tail Page 3

  “Ah, the doctors say I’m fine.”

  “The doctors said there’s no reason you won’t get your legs back. That’s not quite fine.”

  “What do the doctors know? Besides, Zen didn’t wait.”

  “Zen’s circumstances were different,” said Dog.

  “Sure. He had a high-powered lawyer read the Air Force and the DoD the riot act,” said Mack. “And he was related to the base commander.”

  Dog bristled. Zen was his son-in-law, but he had had nothing to do with his reinstatement.

  “Zen was posted here before I arrived,” said Dog.

  “Look, Colonel, the thing is—I’m bored out of my skull, right? I’m going through rehab. I have to come onto the base every day. Might as well put me to work, right?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to put you to work, Mack.”

  “I can get a high-priced lawyer if I have to,” said Mack. “I hear Zen’s is available. Us gimps have to hang together.”

  Dog felt his face flush at the word “gimps.”

  “You’re worried that I won’t do the crap work, right?” added Mack. “You’re looking at a new man, Colonel. Brunei taught me a lot.”

  “One of the things it taught you is that you don’t like administrative crap work,” said Dog. “You told me that yourself. Several times.”

  “I don’t like it, but I’ll do it. Same as you. We’re not that different, you and me, Colonel. We like to have our sleeves rolled up,” he added.

  God help me, thought Dog, if I have anything in common with Mack Smith. “All right,” he said. “There are a lot of things that need to be done. None of them involve flying.”

  “Who’s flying? Bring them on.”

  “The Piranha program needs a liaison. Someone who can work with the Navy people to help them move it to the next phase.”

  “Right up my alley,” said Mack. “A big part of my job in Brunei was interfacing with Navy people.”

  He was referring to his position as head of the Brunei air force, which had in fact required him to work with members of the country’s other military services. From all reports—including Mack’s—it had not gone well.

  Piranha was one of several Navy projects being developed under contract at Dreamland. An underwater robot probe, it could be controlled by ship, submarine, or aircraft and operate for several weeks without needing to be refueled. The technology that guided it was similar to the technology used in the Flighthawks, which was one of several reasons it was being developed here. Dreamland had used Piranha to halt a nuclear war between India and China.

  “What else do you want me to do?” asked Mack.

  “Let’s start there. Remember, you’re a liaison, not the program director.”

  “I’m the idea guy,” said Mack. “Got it.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Don’t worry, Colonel. I have it. Listen, I really appreciate this. I won’t forget it, believe me. I’m happy to be back. Like I said, Brunei taught me a lot. This is a new Mack Smith you’re looking at.”

  As the major rolled out of the office, Dog struggled to keep his opinion of how long the new Mack Smith would last to himself.

  Aboard the Abner Read

  3 November 1997

  1942

  “WE HAVE A LOCK ON THE OSA MISSILE BOAT,” REPORTED Weapons.

  “Marcum, he’s yours to sink,” said Storm.

  “One of the patrol boats is turning toward us,” warned Eyes. “Torpedo in the water,” warned the computer.

  “Fire,” said Commander Marcum.

  A deep-throated rap from the front of the ship drowned out the acknowledgment as the number one gun began spitting out shells, one every five seconds. The holographic display did not delineate every hit—the designers thought this would be too distracting—but the target flashed red as the barrage continued.

  “Direct hit,” reported Eyes. “Target demolished.”

  “Evasive action,” said Marcum. “Evade the torpedoes.”

  The crew sprang to comply. One of the torpedoes stayed on target with the Abner Read despite the countermeasures, and the lithe vessel swayed as the helmsman initiated a fresh set of maneuvers. The torpedo finally passed a hundred yards off their port side, detonating a few seconds later.

  “Close the distance on the patrol boat that fired at us,” Marcum told the man at the wheel.

  The helmsman pushed at the large lever that worked the computer governing the ship’s engines. They were already at full speed.

  “UI-1 is about a minute from Yemen waters,” reported Eyes. “Outside of visual range. The others are well beyond him.”

  “I have a lock on target designated as UI-1,” said the weapons officer.

  “Captain, it’s my responsibility to report that the target ship is approaching Yemen territorial waters,” said Commander Marcum. “Our rules of engagement prohibit sinking a vessel outside of neutral waters.”

  “Are you giving me advice?” Storm asked.

  “Sir, I’m operating under your orders. I was to notify you of our status prior to engagement…” Commander Marcum paused. “I want to sink the son of a bitch myself.”

  “Noted. Sink him.”

  “Weapons: fire!”

  “Firing.”

  Both guns rumbled. Within thirty seconds the patrol craft had been obliterated.

  The three other pirate vessels had disappeared. Relatively small contacts, they were easily lost in the clutter near the irregular coast. The computer generated approximate positions from their last known citing, rendering them yellow clouds in the holographic projection. They were well inside Yemen territorial waters—out of bounds.

  Storm turned his attention to the three Shark Boats. He directed One and Two to sail westward, hoping to catch the patrol boats if they went in that direction. The third would remain to the east, in case they went that way. The Abner Read, meanwhile, would search for survivors from one of the two vessels they had just sunk; if recovered, he might be persuaded to share what he knew.

  Storm clicked his communications channel into a public address mode that allowed him to communicate not just with all personnel aboard the Abner Read, but with everyone in the combat group.

  “All hands, this is Captain Gale,” said Storm. “The DD(L) 01 Abner Read has sunk its first enemy combatants in action this November 3, 1997. I was privileged to witness the finest crew in the U.S. Navy undertake this historic mission, and I commend everyone, from Commander Robert Marcum to Seaman Bob Anthony—Bobby, I think you’re our youngest crewman,” he added. Storm turned and saw Marcum grinning and nodding. “It was a hell of a job all around. Xray Pop has been christened, ladies and gentlemen. Now look sharp; there’s still a great deal to be done tonight.”

  Humboldt County,

  northwestern California

  3 November 1997

  1205

  LIEUTENANT KIRK “STARSHIP” ANDREWS GOT OUT OF THE CAR he had rented in Los Angeles and walked across the gravel parking lot toward the church. He could hear the strains of an organ as he approached; he was late for his friend’s memorial service.

  He was thankful, actually. He felt he owed it to Kick to be here, but didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone, Kick’s parents especially. He just didn’t know what to say.

  The music stopped just as Starship came in through the back door. He moved quickly toward the last pew in the small church, eyes cast toward the floor. The minister began reading from the Second Book of Chronicles, a selection from the Old Testament of the Bible concerning the bond between Solomon and God: “‘Give me now wisdom and knowledge, that I may go out and come in before this people.’”

  The passage spoke of wisdom and riches; the minister used it as a starting point as he asked God for the wisdom needed to accept a young man’s death. The reverend spoke frankly of the difficulty of comprehending the loss. “Lieutenant James Colby was a hero,” he said. “But that does not make his loss any easier for us to take.”

  W
as Kick a hero? wondered Starship. He was a decent pilot and a hard worker; he’d been brave and seen combat. But was he a hero?

  Kick had died in the line of duty, caught in a Megafortress when it crashed during an aborted takeoff in Malaysia after guerrillas had seized the kingdom of Brunei. Starship had been on the aircraft himself, strapped in next to Kick on the control deck for the Flighthawks. The fact that he was here and Kick wasn’t, he thought, was just a matter of dumb, stupid luck. Bad luck.

  If he had died, would he be a hero?

  Starship listened as the service continued with different friends recounting their memories of Kick. He’d gotten his nickname not from the high school football team—which was the story Kick had told—but from peewee soccer. It came during his first game as a six-year-old, when he scored a goal. The nickname had stuck from there, becoming widespread in high school, where he’d switched to football and set a county scoring record booting extra points and field goals.

  Starship’s mind drifted as the service continued. If the luck had run differently—if he had been the one who got the freak piece of shrapnel, and the sudden shock that combined to do Kick in—what would people be saying about him?

  Smart kid—number three in his high school class and in the top five percent at the Academy.

  Should have chosen a few more gut classes and got top honors.

  Won an assignment to Dreamland on the cutting edge of aviation.

  A mistake. He was flying robot aircraft, glorified UAVs. The computer did most of the work. It was like sitting at a desk all day.

  “I’ll bet you’re Starship.”

  Starship turned and saw that a woman had come into his pew from the side. Maybe five-two, with dark hair and green eyes, she looked a lot like Kick.

  “Alice,” she whispered. “Kick’s sister.”

  “Hi.” He stuck his hand out.

  “We’re glad you could come.”

  “Yeah, um, I’m sorry.”

  “I know.” Distress flickered across her face, but then cleared. “We’re having—my parents are inviting people over later. You should stop by.”

  “I kinda gotta get back,” Starship lied.

  “Well, OK. But say hello to them on the way out.” She smiled—this time with visible effort—and then slipped out of the pew. Starship watched as she slid into another pew farther up. Somehow this made him feel better, as if he hadn’t been singled out, and when Kick’s parents asked him at the end of the service if he would stop by “just for coffee,” he agreed and got directions.

  Dreamland

  1231

  MACK FELT THE MUSCLES IN HIS SHOULDERS TENSE INTO HARD rocks as he lowered himself into the pool. He had to relax if he was going to do the exercise, but relaxing on command was just about the most difficult thing in the world to do. He lowered his gaze to the surface of the pool and concentrated on breathing slowly, very slowly, as slowly as he possibly could, taking long, deep breaths, as one of the physical therapists at the hospital had recommended.

  “All right now, Major, you want to start with a nice, easy breaststroke,” said Penny Hartung, treading water next to him.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do,” he said. But he didn’t let go of the rail, afraid that he would sink into the water like a stone.

  Which was impossible, since he was wearing a life preserver. But fear wasn’t necessarily rational.

  “You all right?” asked Frank DeLia, the other therapist. Frank was kneeling above him at the poolside.

  “Oh yeah, I’m good,” said Mack, finally pushing away. He fought against the impulse to paddle madly, moving his arms out slowly as he’d been told.

  “Legs now. Legs,” said Penny, hovering beside him.

  Yup, legs, Mack thought. Legs, legs, legs.

  The large beam that had fallen across his back and legs after the terrorist blew himself up had temporarily shocked his backbone. The medical explanation was somewhat longer and more complicated, but the bottom line was that he had temporarily lost the use of his legs. The thing was, no one could say how long “temporarily” was supposed to be. He’d already seen several specialists; he got the impression they all thought he should be walking by now.

  Not that he didn’t agree.

  Mack pushed his arms out and willed his legs to kick. He didn’t feel them move. He thought his hips wiggled a little.

  “Legs,” repeated Penny. “Legs.”

  He got a mouthful of water as he started to lose momentum. He had his whole upper body working, and thought his legs must be working as well.

  “Push, push,” said Penny.

  “Doing it.” Mack checked his position against the far side of the pool. He’d gone maybe five feet. “Legs,” he said himself, deciding he might do better if he gave himself a pep talk. “Legs. Let’s do it.”

  There was a tremendous splash on the other side of the pool: Zen, who worked out here regularly.

  “Come on, gimp boy. That the best you can do?”

  Mack ignored Zen, keeping his head toward the other side of the pool room. He sensed Zen swimming toward him. Determined to ignore him, he concentrated on doing a sidestroke, or at least as much of a sidestroke as he could manage.

  “Your arms are punier than Olive Oyl’s,” said Zen.

  Legs, Mack thought. Legs.

  “Use your damn legs,” said Zen.

  “I’m trying,” said Mack between his teeth.

  “Not hard enough.”

  “Yeah. I am.” The burn in Mack’s arms was too much; he stopped and took a breather.

  “Don’t be such a damn wimp,” said Zen. He plunged beneath the water, stroking away.

  It occurred to Mack that swimming underwater when you couldn’t use your legs to help must be—was—extremely difficult. But then, just about everything you did when you couldn’t use your legs was extremely difficult. And Zen didn’t complain or ask for help—hell, he got mad when people tried to help him.

  Which Mack understood. He’d thought after Zen’s crash that Zen got mad only with him, because he held a grudge. Now he realized Zen got mad with everyone. The reason was simple. Most of the people who wanted to help you—not necessarily all, but most—were thinking, You poor little baby, you. Let me help you.

  For someone like Zen or Mack, being treated like a baby, being pitied—well the hell with that!

  But you needed help sometimes. That was the worst part of it. Sometimes you just couldn’t drag yourself up a full flight of stairs, not and bring your wheelchair with you.

  “Ready to start again, Major?” asked Penny.

  “Oh yeah. Starting,” said Mack, pushing.

  “Ten laps, gimp boy!” yelled Zen from the other side of the pool. “You owe me ten laps.”

  “Right,” muttered Mack.

  “I’m going to do twenty in the time it takes you to do one.”

  “It’s not a race,” said Penny.

  The others liked Zen, so they wouldn’t tell him to shut up, Mack thought. And he wasn’t going to tell him to shut up either, because that would be like saying Zen had won. No way. Let him be the world’s biggest jerk. Great. Fine. Just because you couldn’t walk didn’t make you a stinking hero or a great human being. Zen was a jerk before his accident, and he was a jerk now.

  A bigger jerk.

  “Legs,” said Penny.

  “Yeah, legs,” grunted Mack.

  Humboldt County,

  northwestern California

  1235

  KICK’S FAMILY LIVED ON A CUL-DE-SAC NOT FAR FROM THE town center in McKinleyville, California, the sort of location a real estate agent would call “convenient to everything.” Starship parked at the far end of the circle. As he walked up the cement driveway, he started to regret his decision to come. He paused at the bottom of the steps, but it was too late; someone came up the drive behind him, and as he glanced back, the front door opened.

  “You’re his friend. How do you?” said Kick’s father at the door. “Have a drink, ple
ase. Make yourself at home.”

  “Maybe just a beer, I think,” said Starship, stepping inside.

  “Bud’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  Starship moved inside. As he reached the kitchen he saw Kick’s sister bending into the refrigerator—and noticed that she had a large engagement ring on her finger.

  “Oh, Lieutenant Andrews,” she said. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”

  “I can only stay for a few minutes.”

  “Want something to drink?”

  “A beer maybe.”

  “Just like my brother.” She reached in and got him a Bud Lite, then introduced him to some of the other people in the small kitchen. Two were friends of Kick’s and about his age; Starship thought the men shrank back a bit as he shook their hands, maybe put off by his uniform. There was an aunt, the sister’s fiancé, a cousin, and the minister, who proved to be much younger up close than from the back of the church. Starship took his beer and moved toward the side of the kitchen. The others were talking about something that had happened at the local school.

  “It was an unfortunate situation,” said the minister as Starship slid to the side.

  “Yeah, really bad,” said Starship.

  “He died a hero.”

  “Do you think that matters?”

  The minister blanched. Starship hadn’t meant it as a challenge—hadn’t meant anything, really. The question simply bubbled out of his private thoughts.

  “Don’t you?” said one of Kick’s friends.

  Starship felt a moment of hesitation, a catch in his throat as if his breath had been knocked from him.

  “I don’t think he’s not—wasn’t brave, I mean. I think it sucks that he died,” he said. “I think it’s really terrible. And he was—he volunteered. We all did, and it’s important what we do.” He knew he was babbling but he couldn’t stop. “He was a brave guy, I mean, as brave as most people, I think, but it wasn’t like—it’s not like a movie thing, you know, where the guy charges out and people are shooting at him. We do have guys like that. They just march right through anything. And to be a pilot, I mean, you do face death, you know. But, you don’t think about it like—it’s not a movie thing. It didn’t happen like you’d think it would happen in a movie. We were there and then he was dead.”