“Not a problem,” said Dog. “I should be able to get there late in the afternoon, depending on what’s going on in Saudi Arabia.”

“Good.”

“Good,” said Dog. He clicked off the circuit. Clearly the best time to talk to Storm was when he was too tired to argue.

On the other hand, the same was probably true of himself.

He glanced at his watch. They had more than six hours scheduled on patrol. And by the time he got to the AbnerRead, he’d be even more exhausted.

“Colonel,” said Delaford. “I have contact with the Piranha. It’s about a hundred miles south of us, just passing out of range of the buoy we dropped. It’s headed west.”

“West? Didn’t you point it east?”

“I put it in autonomous mode, which means it can change its mind if something comes up,” said Delaford. “Looks like it found the sub.”

VI

Paradise

Gulf of Aden

8 November 1997

0301

TWO OF THE PATROL BOATS WERE DAMAGED BEYOND REPAIR.

Ali took a last look around their decks, making sure his men had salvaged everything possible. He hated to lose the heavy guns, but they didn’t have the wrenches needed to take the bolts from the decks. One of the men had tried to cut away the deck with a chain saw—a creative idea, thought Ali, until the chain snapped and the man got a slashing wound on his arm for it. They settled for the ammunition.

Ten men had died, and some of their blood stained Ali’s hand and shirt. He saw it when he waded back to his own craft, noticing the stain on his hand.

He wished it were his enemy’s blood.

He had lost the Oman ship, and with her, his cousin Mabrukah and several other men he knew very well. Satan’s Tail had escaped. Ali knew because his spies had heard its radio transmissions, or at least some. One of the boats that accompanied it had been damaged, apparently by one of the missiles. A fisherman and his brother were making their way toward the area now in a small boat; he would know by morning how much damage they had done.

It wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would be enough until he sank the large ship.

To do that, he had to return west. The Sharia and the others would have to be rallied. He would regroup, attack again.

214

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The wind howled around his ears.

It sounded like Abu Qaed’s voice, calling him.

“Quickly now,” he told his crew. “Signal the others. We have a great distance to go.”

Aboard the Abner Read

0310

FOLLOWING DIRECTIONS FROM THE DREAMLAND TECHNICAL

team, Storm’s communications specialists had managed to plug the portable communications system into the AbnerRead’s own system, even allowing visuals. So when Colonel Bastian signaled that he had to speak to the captain immediately, the specialists called up to the bridge and told Storm he could see the man who’d become such a thorn in his side.

Storm told them to make the connection and stepped to the video screen.

An image snapped in. He saw the side of a helmet, and waited as the head turned toward the camera. The visor was up and the oxygen mask hung down, revealing a face softer than Storm had expected. The eyes were pensive, searching, and expressive.

The voice was as belligerent as ever.

“We found the submarine,” Bastian told Storm.

“What?”

“The Libyan submarine. About forty miles southwest of your present location, just barely in Somalian territorial waters. It’s going west. Commander Delaford is on the circuit with the technical details. Tommy?”

“Hi, Storm. The submarine is definitely a Foxtrot, Project 641, Russian sub. May have been upgraded—the engines are quieter than the specs say they should be. It’s definitely not a Kilo.”

“How do you know?” said Storm.

“Because we worked with a Kilo to develop Piranha,”

SATAN’S TAIL

215

snapped Bastian. “And we sank one in the South China Sea.”

“Two,” said Delaford. “This is the first time we’ve come across a Foxtrot. He’s snorkeling right now, making about eight knots, a little slower. That’s close to his best speed using the snorkel. He can go twice that fast on the surface, though he wouldn’t be able to sustain it very long. If he goes deeper and just runs on his battery, he’s not going to go much over two knots unless he really has to. If his batteries were in good shape he could probably do fifteen knots on them, but that would run them down pretty quickly.”

“Can you sink him?”

“We’re not authorized to,” said Bastian. The eyes flashed.

Then he added, “I have one Harpoon left aboard. I can sink him on the surface, and maybe when he’s snorkeling. As long as I have authorization.”

“I’ll get permission,” said Storm. He’d been ready to bury the hatchet with the Air Force lieutenant colonel—after all, his men had performed well—but the tone in his voice stoked Storm’s resentment all over again.

“Permission or not, I think rather than sinking him, we should follow him, at least for a while,” said Dog. “My guess is that he’s going toward an important pirate base. If we follow him, he’ll lead us right there.”

Storm realized that made sense, especially since the only weapon Bastian had was designed to strike a surface ship, not a submerged submarine.

On the other hand, the way Bastian suggested it—with a sneer in his voice for anyone who wasn’t thinking as quickly as he was—nearly forced him to dismiss the idea out of hand.

Bastian is a real jerk, Storm thought, but not a stupid jerk.

He happens to be right.

“Captain?” said Bastian.

A real jerk, though.

“All right, that’s not a bad idea. Hold on.”

He went over to the holographic display. The damaged 216

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Shark Boat could not make it to the rendezvous without the Abner Read; the ship would be lost.

Which would have a greater impact on his career? Sinking the Libyan ship? Or losing a damaged ship to do so?

Probably the latter. In an ideal world—in an ideal navy—the objective would be the most important. But even the U.S.

Navy was far from ideal.

At present. It would be better in the future.

“Storm?”

“Unlike you, Bastian, I try not to shoot from the hip. If we could slow him down, it would be an easier decision.”

“I have a way we might do that,” said Delaford. “There’s a patrol boat near him, a few miles away. It’s possible he’s trailing him, communicating somehow. If the Megafortress buzzed the surface boat, they might warn the submarine. If the sub dove deeper, he’d have to slow down, or least run on batteries for a while.”

“I think it’s worth a try,” said Bastian.

“Yes. It is a good idea,” said Storm, glad that it had come from a Navy officer and not the insufferable flyboy.

Storm could order a Shark Boat to help trail the submarine at a distance; if it made an attack, the boat would be in a position to combat it. By the afternoon, the Abner Read and Boat One would meet the tug. He could have Boat Two escort the tug and head back.

A haul—he had three hundred miles to the tug rendezvous, another four hundred back, at least, even if they slowed it down. More than twelve hours, getting back and forth. But the Shark Boat could stay nearby, ready to strike if it looked like the sub was going to get away. It had lightweight torpedoes designed for undersea warfare. They’d be much more effective than lobbing a Harpoon and praying that the sub stayed near the surface.

“All right, Bastian, let’s do it your way this time. I’ll send a Shark Boat to shadow them, and have them stay just over the horizon.”

“I’m going to bring another Megafortress in to relieve me SATAN’S TAIL