‘Missile is on terminal attack,’ warned the computer.
The Styx missile slid downward, riding just a few feet above the waves, where it was extremely difficult to stop. One of the Phalanx 20mm Gatling guns that provided close-in antiair coverage rotated at the rear of the ship, tracking the antiship missile as it passed. A yellow cone glowed in the holographic display, and the gun engaged, obliterating the missile at long range, even though it wasn’t a threat.
A problem with the program of the automated defensive weapons system, Storm noted. It tended to be somewhat overprotective – not necessarily a bad thing, but something that could stand a little tweaking.
‘Torpedoes!’ sang the computer.
‘Toward us or the tanker?’ Storm demanded.
‘Not sure,’ said Eyes, who was scrambling to make sense of what was going on.
‘Who fired the torpedoes? The missile boat?’ said Marcum.
‘Negative – they must have come from the patrol craft. That’s a new development.’
The patrol craft were relatively small, and until now had not been seen with torpedo tubes on their decks. Storm decided this was a compliment, in a way – after a week of running off, they’d decided to change their tactics.
The tanker was about three miles off their port bow, with the attacking pirates slightly to starboard. This was not the usual pattern of attacks – ordinarily four or five fast patrol boats and a few small speedboats would charge a slow-moving, heavily laden ship, fire a few dozen slugs to get its attention, and then send a heavily armed boarding party aboard. The ship’s captain would be persuaded to phone his company headquarters and have a transfer made to an offshore account specially set up for the night. Once the transfer was made – the amount would be about ten thousand dollars, relatively small considering the value of the cargo – the tanker would be allowed to go on its way. The small ‘fee’ charged helped guarantee that the pirates would get it; most multinational companies considered it a pittance, cheaper than a port tax – or trying to prosecute the perpetrators.
‘Those torpedoes are definitely headed in our direction,’ said Eyes. ‘We don’t have guidance data.’
Marcum ordered evasive action. As the helmsman put the Abner Read into a sharp turn, the ship’s forward torpedo tubes opened, expelling a pair of small torpedo-like devices. They swam about a quarter of a mile; at that point, the skin peeled away from their bellies and they began emitting a thick fog of bubbles. The air in the water created a sonic fog in the water similar to the noise made by the ship. The destroyer, meanwhile, swung onto a new course designed to minimize its profile to the enemy.
‘They must have guessed we’d be nearby,’ said Marcum. ‘I think they homed in on our radio signal when we tried to warn the oiler and threw everything they had at us. Rules of engagement, Captain. They make no sense.’
‘Noted for the record,’ said Storm.
And wholeheartedly agreed with.
‘Tanker captain says he’s been fired on,’ reported communications. ‘Asking for assistance.’
‘Inform him we intend to help him,’ said Storm.
The ship took a hard turn to port, still working to duck the rapidly approaching torpedoes.
‘Steady, now, Jones,’ Marcum told the man at the helm as the ship leaned hard toward the water. The helmsman had put a little too much into the maneuver; the Abner Read’s bow tucked well below the waves as she spun. The ship forgave him, picking her bow up and stabilizing in the proper direction.
‘Torpedo one has passed. Torpedo two has self-destructed,’ said the computer.
‘They’re running for it,’ said Eyes.
‘They can’t run fast enough,’ answered Storm. ‘Full active radar. Target the missile ship. I want him for dinner.’
Dreamland 3 November 1997 0901
Dog looked up at the familiar knock. Chief Master Sergeant Terrence ‘Ax’ Gibbs appeared in the doorway, head cocked in a way that indicated the chief wanted to talk to the colonel in confidence for a few moments. Bastian might be the commander of Dreamland – the Air Force’s secret high-tech development facility in the Nevada desert – but Ax Gibbs was the oil that made the vast and complicated engine run smoothly.
‘Chief?’
‘Couple of things, couple of things,’ said Ax, sliding into the office.
Dog knew from the tone in the chief’s voice that he was going to once again bring up their chronic personnel shortages. He reached to his coffee cup for reinforcement.
‘Need a refresher?’ asked Ax.
‘No thanks.’
‘I’ve been looking at head counts …’ Ax began, introducing a brief lecture that compared Dreamland’s overall workforce to a number of other Air Force commands and facilities, as well as DARPA – the Department of Defense Advanced Research Program Agency – and a number of private industry think tanks. The study was impressive for both its breadth and depth. Ax’s numbers not only compared overall positions, but broke them down to real-life instances, such as the number of people sweeping the floors. (Dreamland had exactly two people doing this, both airmen with a long list of other duties. The men had been drafted – to put it euphemistically – into the service when budget cuts eliminated the contract civilian cleaners.)
‘… and we’re not even considering the fact that a good portion of the head count here is also involved in Whiplash,’ added Ax. He was referring to Dreamland’s ‘action’ component, which included a ground special operations team, headed by Danny Freah, as well as whatever aircraft were needed for the mission.
‘Preaching to the converted,’ said Dog.
‘Yes, but I do have an idea,’ said Ax. ‘Congresswoman Kelly.’
‘Congresswoman Kelly?’
‘Congresswoman due in next week on the VIP tour,’ said Ax. ‘She has a staffer who has a brother in the Air Force. If a nonclassified version of the report were to find its way into the staffer’s hands …’
‘No thank you,’ said Dog curtly. He reached for some of the papers Ax had brought in.
‘Colonel –’
‘I don’t want to play Washington games.’
‘With respect, sir.’
Dog put down the papers and looked up at the chief. Ax’s lips were pressed together so firmly that his jowls bulged.
‘Ax, you know you can speak freely to me any time,’ said Dog. ‘Hell, I expect it. None of this “with respect” shit. You want to call me a jackass, go for it. You’ve earned it.’
‘Colonel… Dog.’ The chief pulled over the nearby chair and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. ‘Your people are really busting. Really, really busting.’
‘I know that.’
‘We have to get more people here. And that’s true everywhere. Dr Rubeo was saying –’
‘Ray could find a cloud over the desert, and does so regularly.’
‘Even the scientists are overworked. Jennifer has what, five different projects going? She’s been the main test pilot on the Werewolves after Sandy Culver and Zen. Did you know that?’
‘Did I?’ Dog laughed. ‘She brags about it all the time.’
‘Well, now I like