Not that he did not relish the day he would face them in combat. He welcomed the chance to avenge the defeat they had dealt his father.
“Can you launch the decoy once Boat Four is aboard?”
Sattari asked.
“With them this close, I would think it highly likely they would realize where it came from.”
“Turn on the sonar as the submarine comes into the ship,” said Sattari.
“The sonar?”
“For a brief moment. Then drop the decoy. Continue on as if nothing has happened.”
“As you wish, Captain.”
48
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Abner Read , off the coast of Somalia
0215
“SHARK GILL SONAR! DEAD AHEAD—HE MUST BE RIGHT UNder that oil tanker!” Eyes’s voice was so loud Storm thought he would’ve heard him without the com set.
“Excellent,” said Storm, though in truth he felt disappointed. Shark Gill was the NATO code word for the sonar used in Russian Kilo-class submarines. Most likely he had been trailing a Russian boat that had managed to evade the fleet— not the commandos, since Russia and India were allies.
“See if the captain of the tanker would honor a request to move off to the west,” said Storm. “Tell him that our helicopter has been tracking some mines in the area—get him scared and get him out of there.”
“The sub may follow.”
“I doubt he’ll make it that easy for us, now that he knows we’re here,” said Storm. “Turn on our active sonar as well—let’s make sure he knows precisely how close to him we are.”
Off the coast of Somalia
0216
SERGEANT IBN CAME UP TO THE BRIDGE TO REPORT TO SAT-tari while the tanker captain was talking to the Americans.
“All our men are back. No losses. Mission accomplished,” said the sergeant, his face as grim as ever.
“The success of the mission is entirely yours,” Sattari told him. “You trained everyone superbly—I for one benefited greatly from your drills.”
The sergeant turned beet red, then bent his head.
Had Sattari mistaken shyness for skepticism? No, he thought; Ibn—and most likely the others—were wary of an unproven commander whose experience was entirely in the END GAME
49
cockpit. They must have felt, and with some justification, that he had only gotten his position because of his father, who still had some influence with the government. Or else they thought the entire scheme of equipping a special operations group with gear and machines any civilian—any rich civilian—could buy was preposterous.
They would not think so now.
Ibn remained at attention.
“Relax, Sergeant,” Sattari told him. “See to the men.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Was there more respect in his voice? Less doubt?
Perhaps. But more important, Sattari felt sure of himself.
He had done it; he had succeeded. Tonight was only the start.
“The Americans want us to go west,” the tanker captain told him. “They say they have spotted some mines.”
Had he not been so tired, Sattari would have burst out laughing.
“Comply. Make as much noise as you can.”
“The decoy will begin chattering any moment now.”
“That’s fine,” said Sattari. “They will think the submarine launched it. Combined with the sonar they heard—they won’t be able to piece the different parts together.”
The ship’s commander was a short, sinewy man who had somehow managed to keep his face clear of wrinkles despite having spent his life at sea. He looked at Sattari as if he didn’t understand, and the commando leader felt com-pelled to explain further.
“You see,” Sattari said, “these Americans are clever people. They love puzzles, and they love to piece them together. In this case, the fact that the pieces don’t fit will confuse them. Their instincts will be to press ahead and attack. They will realize it’s a decoy soon enough, then they will look for the submarine in earnest.”
“You speak of the Americans as if you know them very well,” said the ship’s captain.
“I speak from unfortunate experience.”
50
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard the Abner Read , off the coast of Somalia
0218
“SHIP IS TURNING TO PORT. I WOULDN’T SAY THEY’RE BURNing up the ocean,” reported Starship.
“Take a run over them. Make sure they see you.”
“Have to be blind not to,” said Starship. But he did as he was told, moving the Werewolf down toward the tanker.
Again he passed so close that he could see a man on the ladder of the superstructure. Again he felt a chill and a moment of premonition, sure he was going to be shot down.
I’m not even on the stinkin’ helicopter, he reminded himself as he circled away, unfired on. Relax.
“WE HAVE A DECOY IN THE WATER,” EYES TOLD STORM.
“Loud. Imposter.”
Imposter was a nickname for a Russian MG-74 decoy, a versatile torpedo-tube-launched noisemaker that could employ a variety of techniques to confuse a tracking ship, including jamming sonar and simulating the sound of a large submarine.
“You have a contact with the sub that launched it?”
“Negative. We didn’t hear the tube flood or launch, either. Tubes could have been open for a while. Not adding up, Captain. Now we don’t have any contacts at all.”
“Nothing!”
“I know, I know,” said Eyes quickly. “We’re looking, Storm. I don’t know why we can’t find it.”
This was the point in the chase where a hunter had to be patient; sooner or later the prey would make a mistake and give himself away. No matter how clever—and the captain of the submarine had proven himself quite clever—he would eventually slip.
The problem was, Storm was not a patient man. He stared END GAME
51
at the holographic display, trying to puzzle out where his adversary had gone.
“You’re sure he’s not trailing that tanker?”
“Negative.”
Oh my God, thought Storm, what if he managed to get underneath us?
Impossible.
But a logical explanation.
“Change course—hard to starboard,” he shouted to the helmsman behind him on the bridge. “Eyes—make sure the SOB isn’t hiding right beneath us or in our wake somehow.”
STARSHIP SKIPPED OVER THE WAVES, STARING AT THE INFRARED
feed and trying not to let it burn through his eyes. There was nothing on the surface of the water—no periscope, no radio mast, no nothing.
Navy guys stared at the sea all the time, and claimed to love it. How sick was that?
THE SUBMARINE WASN’T UNDER THEM. BUT NEITHER WAS IT
anywhere in the five mile grid they marked out in the ocean as its most likely location, nor in the wider circle that Storm had the ship patrol after the grid proved empty.
They’d been beaten. And the worst thing was, Storm didn’t even know who had done it.
A hard-ass Russian submarine captain in a Kilo, who’d wandered close to Port Somalia by accident and then thought it best to get away before he got blamed?
Or the captain of a submarine who had in fact picked up the saboteurs and scooted clean away?
“All right,” he growled into his microphone. “Eyes—we’re going to have to call off the search. We can’t stay here forever.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Storm’s anger flashed as the command was passed and the crew began to move, tacitly accepting defeat. His right 52
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
hand formed into a fist but he restrained himself from pounding the bulkhead.
He thought of that later, in his cabin, when he stared at the ceiling instead of sleeping. It was a measure of how much he had changed in the months since the fight with the Somalian pirates.
Whether it was a change for the better, he couldn’t tell.
Las Vegas University of Medicine,