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“I can relate to that,” said Dog. “We do that ourselves.”

The other officers nodded, but Storm frowned. No one in the world could be as unique as he was.

“The Tactical Center is the brain of the task force, the next generation combat information center,” said Storm. “All the systems are monitored here. That’s Radar, Active Sonar, our Array, which you can think of as a very sophisticated listening device. In the future we’ll integrate information from UAVs and underwater robot systems. We process the information and then deliver it to the other ships in the task group. It’s not unlike what would happen in a task force built around an aircraft carrier and advanced cruisers and the rest.

The holographic display shows the changing tactical situation around us. It can be used for everything from plotting an ocean crossing with computerized charts to working out the best method of attack. Our weapons center is on the other side here. Eventually we’ll control robots as well as the ships’ own weapons. Eyes, Peanut, we’ll be in my quarters.”

Storm abruptly turned on his heel and went back the way he came. At the top of the ladder he turned left, walking onto the bridge.

Dog was surprised to find that there were only three men here. One sat in front of the wheel; a second had a large computer display. An ensign stood behind the captain’s chair at the center of the bridge, as stiff as if this were a port inspection by the fleet admiral.

“This is the bridge,” said Storm.

Dog nodded at the men, trying to will them into something approaching ease. He feared they had been told he was the enemy.

Another holographic display stood at the right against the bulkhead; slightly smaller, this one currently showed a model of the ship and gave readings on the various engineering systems it used. Storm demonstrated that it had several different modes, including the ones he had seen in Tac.

“How much longer?” Storm asked the ensign.

“Another two and half hours, sir.”

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Storm nodded, but didn’t explain to Dog what they were talking about.

“Are you in contact with my Megafortress?” Dog asked.

“Of course. The submarine is that way.” Storm gestured dismissively toward the ship’s bow. “We’ll rendezvous with my Shark Boat and wait to see what happens. We have it under control, Bastian. Don’t worry.”

Dog interpreted the conversation and Storm’s comments to mean that the Shark Boat trailing the submarine was still about two and half hours away. The submarine had remained submerged since their last pass; he didn’t expect it to move now until nightfall.

“This way,” said Storm, walking to the other side. Dog followed through a hatchway to a cabin dominated by a large conference table. On the opposite side a hatch opened into the captain’s personal quarters. With his bunk on one side and his desk on the other, it would have fit in a good-sized closet at Dreamland.

“We’ve had teething pains. Our biggest problem right now is radar coverage,” said Storm. He slid into a chair. “It’s nonexistent. You can sit.”

“Thanks,” said Dog.

Storm clearly didn’t realize he’d meant it sarcastically.

The only other seat in the cabin was piled high with charts and papers.

“We’re designed to rely on radar inputs from other assets,” explained Storm. “This way no one can use our radar to locate us. But like much of our gear, the data link isn’t ready for deployment. Nor is the robot helo that’s supposed to carry the radar. It’s probably two years from being ready to fly. As a stopgap, a version of the SPY-3 multifunction radar is supposed to be adapted for our use. That’s a joke—the customized version isn’t even off the drawing board because of funding issues.”

Dog wasn’t familiar with the SPY-3 system, though he guessed it was a follow-up to the present generation of sensors used by the fleet. The Abner Read’s unique design 228

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would surely complicate the radar’s development, as would the need to integrate it with other systems.

All right, thought Dog; maybe some of Storm’s attitude came from the fact that he’d been given a job without the tools to do it. Didn’t make him any less of a jerk, though it at least might explain some of his behavior.

“In the meantime, our only radar is a poorly modified version of the SPS-63. It’s an Italian design barely useful for navigating. According to the specifications, it’s supposed to cover out to about forty nautical miles. It doesn’t, not on our ship anyway. Has something to do with the antenna configuration and height. And contrary to advertising, the pirates have been able not only to spot it, but to use it to aim at us.”

“We may be able to figure out a way to pipe you our radar coverage,” said Dog. “My technical people may have to modify some of the systems, but our airborne sensors were originally designed to interface with the combat information centers aboard aircraft carriers, so it ought to work. After some trial and error.”

“Hmmph.”

“Look, Storm: You and I don’t have to get along at all. But we can work together to accomplish this mission. You have gaps—”

“What gaps?”

“Let me finish: You have gaps in your capabilities because the technology is still new or hasn’t gotten out of the development stage. I’m used to dealing with that. That’s what Dreamland’s all about. We have some things that can help you. The Werewolves for starters. The communications system. We also have high-tech blimps that can carry radar—”

“Blimps?”

“They’re lighter-than-air ships that can be positioned over the gulf and monitor traffic. You could use them for radar coverage and not give your position away.”

“Pirates will just shoot them down.”

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“They use a technology that makes them blend into the surrounding sky. They’re difficult to see. If the pirates don’t know they’re there and aren’t using radar, they probably would never see them. We used them in Brunei.”

“Yes.”

Dog recognized that particular “yes.” It meant: I heard that you kicked butt there, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to say anything that you might interpret as a compliment.

“If we’re going to work together,” Dog said. “Then let me suggest—”

“You’re going to work for me,” said Storm.

“If we’re going to work together, there are some problems we have to fix,” said Dog. “First of all is communications. I can get more portable communications units so you can tie your Shark Boats into the network. Everyone can get the same information immediately, no bottlenecks. I’d like to bring some of my technical people in to figure out if we can give you the radar information and anything else.

Maybe we can download target coordinates, or supply targeting data to the Harpoons once they’re launched. The Werewolves—running them from a base a few hundred miles away is doable, but it’s not the best solution. I can air-lift a mobile control unit in and put a pilot on board so you can fly them from here. And we have to do better about friendly fire.”

Storm scowled, but then nodded. “Agreed.”

“The fact is, my Flighthawk pilot didn’t understand about your defense system,” added Dog tactfully. “He got the idea that because the Werewolf was close, he could get close. He thought it was an on-off thing. That’s not going to happen again, but obviously we have to share procedures as well as information. Up and down the line.”

“I agree with you, Bastian. We don’t have to be friends.”

Gee, thanks, you SOB, thought Dog.

STORM WATCHED THE OSPREY CIRCLE AWAY, TAKING BASTIAN

back to his temporary base in Saudi Arabia. Bastian hadn’t 230

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been the most polite officer—and looked a bit unkempt; he could have used a shave.