“What? The Megafortress?”

“No, Storm, a Flighthawk. He was trying to locate our people in the water. The ACIWS read it as a missile.”

“Turn it off, damn it!”

“I did, sir, I did,” said the defensive weapons operator.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Rescue party, prepare to render assistance as needed,”

Storm said.

“Cap, you’re being hailed on the Dreamland channel by Colonel Bastian,” said the communications officer.

Storm switched over to the Dreamland circuit. “Bastian?”

“You hit one of my planes.”

“I’m sorry. What the hell was it doing that low?”

“Taking a low level run to look for survivors from your boat damaged by the missile.”

“Do you need assistance?”

“It’s an unmanned flight.”

“Right. Find those pirates.”

Aboard the Wisconsin

0145

DOG RAN THROUGH THE DIAGNOSTICS AGAIN, REASSESSING

the damage to the Wisconsin’s tail. According to the computer, shrapnel had ripped up the skin of about a fifth of the starboard stabilizer but its structural integrity had not been threatened. The damage did not appreciably limit the aircraft’s maneuverability, though Dog knew he should be gentle until the plane was inspected on the ground.

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201

Unlike a standard B-52, the Megafortresses had a V-shaped tail. The leading and trailing edges of the tail surface were adjusted by the flight computer automatically to improve the aircraft’s flight characteristics. The adjustments were “transparent,” or invisible to the pilot, with the computer interpreting what he wanted to do and adjusting all of the plane’s control surfaces to do it. The flight control computer had no trouble compensating for the damage to the control surfaces on the tail; it also prepared an assessment of how much trouble it would have in more demanding circumstances, deciding that the Megafortress could perform at

“ninety-four percent efficiency.” Dog smiled at the assessment—computers, and the engineers who made them work, always wanted to put a number on things.

“We just can’t find the patrol boats, Colonel,” said Dish.

“Faded into the coastline.”

“All right,” said Dog.

“We have to work on the systems recognizing those ships and filtering out the clutter from the coast,” added Dish.

“This system was adapted from the airborne system and optimized for large ships on the open sea. Coastlines bring all sorts of other problems. There are three or four dozen places they could be.”

“Agreed, Sergeant.”

“And no offense, sir, but, uh, if we coordinated better—working with Xray Pop instead of against them—we might have started with a better profile for the computer to use on its tracking. One of the difficulties of this all being automated.”

“Can’t argue with you, Dish.”

One of these days, thought Dog, I’m going to sit down and write the collected common sense of Air Force sergeants. It’ll be a best seller—though since it would come from sergeants, no officer would take it seriously.

Dog tracked out to the Indian Ocean, sweeping the gulf just in case the patrol craft had managed somehow to get this far. As he circled back he told Storm the pirates had slipped away.

202

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Figures,” snapped Storm.

“We should talk,” said Dog.

“I have my hands full right now, Bastian,” said the Navy captain, snapping the line dead.

Dog made a report to the lieutenant commander in the Tactical Center, who was considerably more cooperative, and even upbeat. The Oman ship they targeted had sunk soon after the battle, struck by two Harpoons from the Wisconsin and one from the Abner Read.

“We monitored a communication from a Liberian tanker a few miles away,” said Dog. “They believed they saw some survivors.”

“Stay on top of that,” said the Tac commander, whose nickname was Eyes. “What happened to that oiler?”

“We lost track of it. We’ll look for it as soon as we swing back.”

“You probably saved their butts,” said Eyes.

“You figure the Oman government sent the ship to help the pirates?” asked Dog.

“Your guess is as good as mine out here, Colonel. It’s the Wild West with speedboats.”

And Exocet missiles, thought Dog.

As they continued westward, he checked back in with the team at Khamis Mushait. Danny had gone off to bed; Sergeant Bison gave him the rundown. There were no protesters to be seen, and the Marines were now holding positions around the base. The technical teams were tearing things down and packing so they could relocate to Diego Garcia. The two Megafortresses Dog had ordered in from Dreamland were already en route there. Dog decided that he would have Baker-Baker take a short mission tomorrow, then head to the island directly, once they could work out the relief schedule. How long Wisconsin stayed in Saudi Arabia depended on the damage it had sustained; if it was minimal, he’d gas up and head out ASAP.

“Scientist wants to talk to you, Colonel,” said Bison.

“Put her on,” said Dog.

SATAN’S TAIL

203

Bison moved away from the console. Jennifer’s tired face came into view.

“You oughta be in bed, lady,” said Dog.

“Is that an offer?”

“I wish.”

“Me too.” She frowned. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Take a number.”

“I could have flown the Werewolf.”

“Command decision.” Dog didn’t feel like arguing with her.

“Because I’m a woman, or because I’m a civilian?”

“Because you’ve got a lot of other things to do, like make the LADS blimps work.”

“They’re working.”

“And get ready to get over to Diego Garcia.”

“We’re getting ready.”

“Zen’s got more combat experience,” he told her.

“I can beat him in a Werewolf.”

“Be that as it may,” said Dog.

“Command decision?” She frowned, but then smiled. “All right. Sorry to bust your chops.”

“At least you apologize,” Dog told her.

“I miss you.”

“Me too.”

“I’m going to bed now.”

Dog stared at the blank screen a few seconds, distracted in a way he knew he couldn’t afford to be.

“We miss you back here, Colonel,” said Major Catsman at Dreamland when he checked in there. “Mack Smith especially.”

“Mack?”

“He’s telling everyone who’ll listen and most of those who won’t how he ought to be out there doing real work. He spends all day dreaming up schemes to get more projects under his control. Then he goes and harangues the people involved to try to get them to agree it’s a good idea. Yesterday or the day before, it was naval warfare modules for the Werewolves. Today it was a ship-tracking system for the Un-

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

manned Bomber. He may come up with a flying aircraft carrier tomorrow.”

Dog laughed.

“I’m serious, Colonel. He’s driving everybody nuts. I see where he got his reputation.”

“Trust me, this is the new and improved Mack Smith,”

said Dog. “What naval warfare modules is he talking about?”

“I don’t recall the specifics. He has studies and tests and things. I don’t know if it’s any actual programming. To be honest, I’m not paying much attention to most of what he’s saying—there’s too much to do here.”

“It occurs to me that Whiplash is currently interfacing with the Navy on a full-time basis,” Dog told Catsman. “And the person designated to handle the interface is Mack Smith.”

“God bless you, Colonel.”

Dog laughed. “Send him over to Diego Garcia. Clear it with the doctors first.”

“They’ll carry him aboard the plane.”

Dog went over a few administrative things with Catsman, then signed off. With his copilot flying the plane, he got up and took a stroll around the flight deck, checking the radar operators and stretching—surely one of the pleasures of flying an aircraft whose basic design dated from another era.