On the hangar deck below, the Werewolf UAVs were pulled forward on their skids, ready for launch. The aircraft were equipped with Hellfire missiles and extra cannon pods; they looked like the beasts of the Apocalypse, ready for blood. The crews made a few last second adjustments to the weapons loads, then moved back to the hangar area as the rotors began to spin. The loud whirl made an eerie sound in the night, more a growl than a buzz; the Werewolves picked up their tails and leapt into the air, more sure-footed than the heavily loaded Osprey had been.

A half dozen of them flying with each Combined Action Group would more than fulfill the need for airborne defenses. The first thing he would do when this was over was get with Balboa and tell him the Werewolves had to be a Navy program. As long as this mission went well, Balboa would be easy to convince.

As long as this mission went well.

“Good takeoff, Ensign,” said Storm, lauding the officer he’d assigned to fly the robot aircraft.

“Thank you, sir, but, uh, Miss Gleason handled the takeoff.”

“Why? I directed you to. I don’t want her in the Tactical 310

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Warfare Center at all unless absolutely necessary. I don’t want any of the techies there while we’re in combat.

They’re civilians.”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled the ensign.

“Give me Miss Gleason.”

“Stand by, Cap.”

“I’ve been in combat more than anyone on your crew,”

said Jennifer Gleason, coming on the line so quickly that Storm realized she must have been listening.

Clearly there was something in the water at that damn Air Force base that made these people so disagreeable, thought Storm.

“I’m not going to argue with you, Miss Gleason.”

“Ms. Gleason.”

“Ms. Gleason, yes. I’m not going to argue. Combat spaces are off-limits during—”

“If something goes wrong, do you want it fixed right away, or do you want to waste ten or fifteen minutes finding me before it gets attended to?”

And it didn’t help that they were always right.

“Very well, Ms. Gleason,” said Storm. “Stay out of the way.”

“With pleasure.”

Gulf of Aden

2300

HIS SON CRIED FOR HIM. ALI STRUGGLED FROM THE BED, THE

blankets weighing him down. As he walked in the direction of the room, the hallway lengthened. His son’s cries intensified and he tried to walk faster, still stumbling against sleep.

One of the blankets had wrapped itself around his midsection and tripped him as he tried to hurry; he fell against the wall and the house gave way.

I have to reach my son, he thought.

And then he woke up.

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311

Someone was standing over his bed. For a moment, a terrible moment, he thought it was Abu.

“The Saudi sent me,” said the man. Ali’s guards were standing behind him.

“All right,” said Ali. He rolled over and put his feet on the floor, legs trembling from the dream.

“You asked to be woken, Captain,” said one of the men.

“Yes,” said Ali. “Leave us.”

“I have this,” said the messenger. He took a small card from his pocket. A set of numbers were written on the back.

Ali led the man to the chart table at the side and took a ruler, using the figures to measure in centimeters from Mecca the location of the aircraft carrier.

It had come ahead of schedule. It was already in the gulf.

They would have to leave now if they were to get out to the Indian Ocean before it did. It might even be too late.

The submarine could leave instantly. Some of the boats as well.

The Yemenis had been told to fly their planes to confuse the carrier’s air cover as soon as it reached the gulf. That perhaps would buy him some time, but not much.

Nor could the Yemenis be truly counted on. But this was what God willed.

“There is also this,” said the messenger. He pulled open his shirt. For a split second Ali thought that the man was wearing an explosive belt and had been sent by his enemies to kill him. His breath caught, and he cursed God for robbing him of the duty to avenge his son and wife.

In the next moment Ali felt ashamed for his blasphemy.

But the man was as he claimed. He took a small video from the belt, handing it to Ali. The captain took the camera off the shelf and put the cartridge inside. He pulled open the viewer at the side of the camera.

“Ali Qaed Abu Al-Harthi, may the Lord God and the Prophet Muhammad be with you,” said Osama bin Laden.

“Your blow will be the first in a long battle against the unbelievers. The Holy will rise with you and trample the infidel 312

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

in the final battle. I commend you to him who sees and knows all, whose hand guides the heavens, whose wisdom illuminates the tiniest snail.”

The screen flickered and then went blank. Ali took the tape from the camera and put it into his pocket. He walked to the door.

“Help me wake the others,” he told his guards. “We must leave right away.”

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the Gulf of Aden

2310

THE COMPUTER BEEPED, ANNOUNCING THAT THE REFUEL WAS

complete. Zen took the stick, rolling Hawk One out from under the big black aircraft. He rode it down a moment, flying ahead of the Wisconsin to a preplanned course ahead of the mothership.

“Two,” he told the computer, and the view in his screen changed; he saw the Megafortress’s tail, as if he were in Hawk Two, about a mile and a half behind the mothership.

The verbal command was all the computer required to change positions with him, giving him direct control of Hawk Two while taking the stick in Hawk One.

He pushed Hawk Two in for the refuel, guided by a set of cues in the middle of his view screen. He locked in, then, as the fuel began to flow, turned Hawk Two over to the computer again, jumping into the cockpit of Hawk One.

“How are you doing, Hawk Three?” he asked Starship over the Dreamland radio circuit.

“Looking good,” said the other pilot. “Quiet up here.”

“Well, don’t fall asleep.”

“Commander Delaford keeps poking me to keep me awake,” said Starship. His voice suddenly became serious.

“You got a Bible, Major?”

Zen couldn’t have been more surprised if Starship had SATAN’S TAIL

313

come in and asked for—well, he didn’t know. “A Bible?”

“Is that too weird a question?”

“It’s not weird, it’s just—no offense, Starship, but you never struck me as the Bible type.”

“I’m not. I just—I wanted to read it. You know what I mean.”

The only thing Zen could remember Starship reading, outside of tech manuals, was along the lines of Penthouse—though generally with less words.

“Maybe you should check out the Navy chaplain when we get back to Diego Garcia. Or, you know, one of the British ministry types. They have a couple.”

“Yeah. I’ll probably do that.” Starship paused a second, then added, “You believe in God?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think I do.”

“Good,” said Zen.

“You blame him for losing your legs?”

“I didn’t lose them,” Zen snapped. “No, I know what you mean. Probably. Sometimes I do. Yeah.”

Sometimes. Though more often he blamed Mack.

Mack mostly.

Which wasn’t fair either.

How many times had he told himself that, and yet he still blamed him, didn’t he? He still—did he want revenge? He remembered the screaming match, the fight that had finally gotten the asshole to walk.

Jackass.

Zen did still want revenge. Or rather, he wanted something, anything—he wanted …

He wanted what he could never have. And everytime he thought he could make peace with it, everytime he came up to—not accepting it, but at least willing or able to live with it—to let it sleep—it came back and bit him.