Satan’s Tail

‘Right here, sir,’ said the ensign in charge. He stepped back to let Storm sit at the computer terminal. The message had been transmitted through a secure text system. The ensign made a point of going to the radioman at the other station as Storm typed in his password and brought the message onto the screen.

REQUEST FOR RULES CHANGE DENIED. YOU ARE TO PROCEED AS DIRECTED.

I EXPECT A FULL BRIEFING SOONEST.

ADMIRAL WOODS

Hardly worth the effort of encoding, thought Storm. But then, his opinion of Admiral Woods was hardly a high one. Admiral Woods – CINCPACFLT, or Commander of the Pacific Fleet – had made such a mash of the so-called Piranha episode that the Air Force – the U.S. Air Force! – had to step in and save the day.

Not that a war between India and China was worth heading off. Like ninety percent of the Navy, Storm would have preferred to watch the two powers slug it out in the Pacific and Indian Oceans until all they had left between them were a pair of rubber dinghies. Still, if it had to be broken up, it would have been much better if the Navy had done the job.

Woods was currently aboard the John C. Stennis, which was steaming with her battle group in the eastern Indian Ocean, where the U.S. had recently prevented a war between India and China. The situation remained tense, and the only thing keeping the two countries from launching nukes at each other were two U.S. carrier groups: the Stennis and its Carrier Group Seven, and the Carl Vinson and Carrier Group Three, off the Chinese coast. A number of other Pacific Fleet assets were near Taiwan, encouraging new peace talks that would result in a permanent free China – just so long as the words ‘free’ and ‘permanent’ weren’t used anywhere in the treaty.

Storm had asked Woods to change his rules of engagement to allow him to attack the pirates in their home waters and on land. Woods was his second strike – he’d already received a no from the head of the Fifth Fleet, Admiral P. T. ‘Barnum’ Keelor. Technically, Keelor was his boss – but only technically. Based at Manama in Bahrain, the admiral had the unenviable position of trying to run a fleet with no ships, or at least no permanently assigned warships. Aside from a mine countermeasure vessel and some support craft, all of his assets were rotated in and out from the Atlantic and Pacific fleets. Most of his main force – two Arleigh Burke destroyers from the Seventh Fleet – had been sent to the waters off Yugoslavia to assist the Sixth Fleet as it tried to stop a war there. The other had its hands full in the Persian Gulf.

Though Xray Pop operated in his territory, Storm’s orders had come directly from the Pentagon via Woods. He hadn’t even met Keelor, and wouldn’t before the end of his mission. Keelor was too busy trying to keep the Persian Gulf clear of Iranian mines to deal with him, which was just fine with Storm.

Woods ought to be twice as busy, Storm thought, but he seemed to relish harassing him.

‘Arrange a secure video conference with the admiral for tomorrow some time, at his convenience,’ Storm told his communications specialist. He checked some routine matters, then made his way back to Tac. In the meantime, the rigid-hull inflatable boat they had sent to look for survivors from the missile gunboat had returned empty-handed. The gunboat had sunk without a trace. The Shark Boats had reported no further contacts.

‘We’ll let the Abner Read recover her boats and spend the night here, ride out the storm,’ he told Eyes. ‘Then we’ll go south as planned. Let’s see if these bastards have the balls to take another shot at us.’

‘I’d like to see them try,’ blurted one of the men nearby.

‘Did you have a comment, mister?’ said Storm, looking over.

‘No, sir,’ said the man, eyes now pasted on the display screen in front of him.

Storm smiled and winked at Eyes. He had the best damn ships and the best damn crews in the whole Navy.

Dreamland 3 November 1997 1331

The session in the pool had done enough of a number on his ego that Mack Smith decided he would eat lunch by himself, resorting to one of Dreamland’s vending machines. This was a challenge in itself – it was impossible to reach the coin slot without dramatic contortions. Fortunately, one of the civilian workers happened by as Mack was just about to give up; she took his change and even punched the buttons for him, and her perfume softened a bit of the sting.

Mack had been offered the option of using a motorized wheelchair but had declined, largely because Zen didn’t use one. The advantages were obvious now as he struggled to build momentum up the ramp to the office he’d been assigned. Working a wheelchair efficiently required a certain rhythm as well as upper-body strength, and he hadn’t acquired either yet.

He hoped he never did. He wanted more than anything to get the hell out of this damn thing.

Ray Rubeo was waiting for him inside the office. The scientist stood staring at an empty computer screen on the worktable at the side of the room, a deep frown on his face. Mack couldn’t recall a time when the scientist hadn’t worn the frown; Dreamland’s senior scientist seemed to think scowling was part of his job description.

‘You were looking to talk to me, Major?’

‘Pull up a chair, Doc. I’m already sitting.’

‘I’m fine.’

One thing in Rubeo’s favor, thought Mack as he pushed around to the large table that was supposed to serve as his work area: He didn’t give him a look of sympathy.

The table was about two inches too high to be comfortable to work at. Mack leaned forward and unwrapped his sandwich, which was some sort of processed ham and mayo on whole wheat.

‘So?’ asked Rubeo.

‘So what, Doc?’

‘You wanted to talk to me. In person. I am here.’

‘Yeah, I do. I’m taking over Piranha.’

‘Taking over Piranha? How? That’s a Navy project.’

‘I don’t mean taking it over, exactly. I’m, you know, liaisoning. So I’m getting up to speed.’

Rubeo’s frown deepened. Mack ignored it.

‘I was looking at the reports and it seems to me there’s one constant. You need more people.’

‘I would say that is a constant, yes.’

‘So the first thing we have to do is get you more people.’

‘And?’

This was not exactly the response Mack had anticipated. While he knew that the scientist didn’t have it in him to jump up and down in thanks, he had hoped that by acknowledging that the staff was overworked he might show from the start that he was on the team’s side. This, of course, would pay dividends down the line, when he had to pressure them for more results.

‘And I’m going to try to get you more people.’

‘Thank you, Major,’ said Rubeo, in a tone that suggested thanks was the last thing he had on his mind. The scientist started to walk from the room.

‘Hey, Doc, where are you going?’

‘Was there something else?’

‘I thought maybe you could run down where we were with some of the related programs. It seems to me that the real potential here –’

‘You haven’t been given the reports?’

‘What’re these tactical UAV things, the Littoral Combat Intrinsic Air Multiplier Systems? Now those are pretty interesting.’

‘Piffle,’ said Rubeo.

‘Piffle?’

‘A worthless Navy project. We’re not involved. They want to run the tests here – assuming they ever get the project out of their CAD programs.’ Rubeo wrinkled his nose, as if he’d caught a whiff of sulfur. ‘You might try informing them that there’s very little water in the middle of the Nevada desert.’

‘I thought they were just adaptations of the unmanned helicopter system,’ said Mack. ‘I thought the project only got bagged because of the budget.’

‘UHS was a Dreamland project, that is correct,’ said the scientist, referring to the program by its initials. ‘This is different. If the Navy would deign to use a design that was originally done for the Army – as UHS was – then there would be no problem.’