Satan's Tail Read online

  The heavy traffic of the channel and shallow waters of the coast gave them some amount of protection, but Satan’s Tail was a difficult adversary. He had found out tonight its guns were even more dangerous than he had feared, their salvos unlike anything he had ever seen at sea before. Like all demons, the American vessel would not be easily exorcised.

  The answer, he hoped, had arrived that evening, sneaking into port during his diversionary action two hundred miles away. In itself, the vessel wasn’t much. A member of the Russian Polnocny class, she had been built many years before in Poland to support landings by amphibious forces.

  Her upturned bow could be beached and the doors opened, allowing vehicles to roll off the large tank deck that ran through the center of the ship. But Ali wasn’t interested in its ability as an amphibious warfare vessel; he had no tanks and no desire to fight on land. Indeed, the work he had spoken of to his man included modifying the deck to make the ship appear from the air as much as possible like an old junker, a local merchant ship a few months from the scrap heap.

  Once the Russian and American satellites passed on their predictable schedules overhead, the real modifications would begin: the addition of advanced SS-N-2D Styx ship-to-ship missile launchers. Vastly improved over the early model fired from the Yemen missile boat, the missiles had a forty-six-mile range and included an infrared backup, allowing them to find their targets even if jammed by an electronic countermeasure system. The missiles would allow Ali to attack Satan’s Tail from a distance without having a good “lock” from the radar, which he suspected would be impossible. While the odds on a single or even double shot succeeding were high, Ali believed from his training that a barrage firing in two or more waves of missiles would succeed. An anti-ECM unit built by the Indians to update the missile confused NATO close-in ship protection systems, such as those that typically used a Phalanx gun to shoot down cruise missiles. Whether the units—or even the missiles, which had been purchased from North Korea—worked would only be determined in combat. But Ali intended to find out as soon as possible.

  The missiles would be camouflaged as crates on the ship’s deck. The 30mm cannons and a large 140mm gun designed for land bombardment had been stripped years before, something Ali thought would now be in his favor, since even if the vessel were properly identified, she would appear toothless.

  The two men guarding the door to Ali’s headquarters snapped to attention as the commander approached. One had been a lifelong friend of his son’s; Ali remembered carrying both boys on his back when they were five. He paused, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “My son has gone tonight to Paradise,” he told the young man.

  The guard’s face remained blank, not comprehending.

  Inside the office, Ali knelt to the floor and bent his head in silent prayer, as was his custom. But his body shook and the words wouldn’t come. He began to sob, wracked by grief.

  “It is a terrible thing to lose a son.” Ali looked across the darkened room. Sitting in the corner was the Saudi. It had been months since they had spoken in person; Osama bin Laden’s beard seemed whiter even in the darkness.

  “How did you know?” asked Ali.

  “If you were a superstitious man I would tell you a lie, and you would believe, wouldn’t you, because your emotion is so great?” The Saudi rose from the chair and came toward him. He seemed much thinner than the last time they had met, more worn by the weight of his mission to free the faithful from their chains. But there was strong energy in his walk, and when he touched Ali on the shoulder, it was as if that energy sparked into his body. The pain of losing his son retreated, and Ali rose and clasped the older man’s hand.

  “Thank you for your comfort,” he told him.

  “My comfort is nothing. Allah’s comfort is all. We will have much need of it before our war is over.” He stepped back and looked at Ali, nodding. “You have done well with your fleet. The large vessel has arrived without being detected.”

  “With God’s help.”

  “You intend it to attack the Americans?”

  “Yes.”

  The Saudi nodded. It was clear that he had reservations, though it was not his way to interfere directly. He ruled largely by persuasion and was, in Ali’s experience, a very logical man, as well as a religious one.

  “The Yemenis were able to contribute the vessel with their missile,” said the Saudi.

  “A rotting tub with a single missile that could not be aimed properly,” said Ali. “But we made use of it. We drew the American toward us as a diversion, and nearly succeeded in striking them. They are angry.” He smiled faintly.

  “Does their anger frighten you?”

  “No. I welcome it.”

  “You wish to avenge your son?”

  “I do.”

  “You should not.”

  The words surprised him.

  “Your son has found his place in heaven,” the Saudi explained. “You have no need for revenge in jihad. You must fight for God’s agenda, not your own. Only when you are truly pure will you succeed.”

  The Saudi was prone to long speeches extolling the virtues of the righteous war and the need for God’s soldiers to be pure. Ali was not in the mood for such a speech. He lived not in the world of ideals, but in the real world, and he had just lost his son.

  “I fight as I am,” he said, sitting in his chair.

  “And we are all the better for it. Tell me, if you had your wish, what would it be?”

  “What would I wish for? My son back beside me.”

  “And?”

  “Many things. More weapons, fuel for my ships. Better communications. Missiles that can be fired at long range.

  More ships.”

  “Airplanes?”

  Ali frowned. The Ethiopians had promised several times to send aircraft to his aid, as had Yemen and Sudan. Supposedly they had taken off on missions several times in the past week, but if so, Ali hadn’t seen the proof.

  “I don’t need airplanes,” he said.

  “Not even against the American ship?”

  “They shouldn’t even attempt that. It could easily shoot them down. However—” Ali pitched his body forward. “The American Navy sometimes uses unarmed radar and electronics aircraft called Orions. Those would be easy targets for a fighter. There must be one operating somewhere in the Gulf of Aden, perhaps disguised as a civilian. If that were shot down, that would help me.”

  The Saudi nodded thoughtfully.

  “I can tell them the sort of radar signals to look for,” said Ali. “I will have a message delivered to the embassy.”

  “Deliver it to Yemen as well.”

  The air force in his native land was staffed entirely by cowards who would never act, but Ali told the Saudi he would do so before his first meal.

  “Other ships will join you within a few days. Large, powerful ships that you can use. A vessel from Oman,” added the Saudi.

  “Oman? From the corrupted government?”

  “Brothers there are active. Details will be provided in the usual way.”

  “A missile boat would be very useful.” Ali ran his hand over his chin. He needed fuel, food—those were the problems of a commander, more difficult to solve than the tactics of warfare.

  “If you had everything you wished for,” said the Saudi, “what would you do?”

  “I would sink the enemy’s ships.”

  “The one that killed your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that the limit of your ambition?”

  “I would sink every ship that I could find,” said Ali. “I would continue to obtain the tribute that is God’s so we could fight the only war. I would show the West that they are not the rulers of the world.”

  The Saudi stared at him. His eyes were the eyes of a viper, black diamonds that missed nothing.

  “What would you do with a submarine?” said Osama.

  “A submarine?” Had anyone else made this suggestion, Ali would have thought it a jo
ke—but the Saudi did not joke.

  “A submarine would be very useful.”

  “Friends in Libya who agree with our aim have volunteered to join you. The vessel has been sailing for many days. It had to go around Africa. We have been trying to get word to you in a way that the Americans and Jews could not intercept. Finally, I decided I must come myself.” The Saudi told Ali that the submarine would arrive at a point ten miles due north of Boosaaso and surface at ten minutes past midnight on the morning of November 8. If no contact was made, he would surface the next night, and the next.

  “They will surface every night to look for you. They will do so until they run out of fuel and food. If you do not come, they will destroy the first American warship they see. And then the next, and so on, until they have no more weapons to fire. Then they will crash their ship into the enemy, and commit their souls to Allah.”

  “We will meet him,” said Ali. He was somewhat skeptical at the mention of Libya. The Libyan Navy had several submarines, all Russian vessels that the Italian navy had tracked when they came out of port. These were Project 641 and 641B ships, members of the Foxtrot and Tango class, large, oceangoing submarines. Not quite as quiet as the Kilo class of diesel-powered export submarines, they were still potent ships—but only if properly maintained and manned. In his experience, the Libyan vessels were neither.

  “There is one other matter of interest,” said the Saudi.

  Ali understood that this was meant to be the condition for the largesse Osama had brought. He listened without emotion as the Saudi told him that God’s plans were immense, and the war against Satan immeasurable from a human perspective. Personal feelings could have no place in it. Only after this lengthy preface did he get to the heart of the matter:

  “Friends of ours have learned that a British aircraft carrier named the Ark Royal is due to sail through the Suez Canal at the beginning of next week. Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course. It’s the pride of their fleet.”

  “If the ship were to be sunk, it would be a major blow to the West. The British could not afford to replace her. Others would see what happens to those who work closely with the devil. The blow would be much mightier than any attack on a smaller ship, however great the lesser strike would be.”

  “There will be many protections in place,” said Ali. It was clear that the Saudi knew nothing about sea matters; suggesting an attack on an aircraft carrier was foolhardy, even by a submarine. “Aircraft carriers sail with several other vessels and are watched constantly.”

  “According to our Egyptian friends, the carrier is on a journey to India. Perhaps they will not be on their guard the entire distance.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ali.

  “The Egyptians will make much information available.

  Some I do not entirely understand, I confess. They speak of three escorts, and an air arm at half strength.” Three escorts would be standard—two optimized for air defense, one for submarine warfare. They were good ships, though certainly not unbeatable. The air arm probably referred to the carrier’s complement of Harrier jump jets; half strength might mean as few as four planes were aboard the carrier. Ali would have to find out; such a low number would limit patrols severely. The ship would also have helicopters for radar and antisubmarine work—potentially more of a problem than the Harriers.

  Was he thinking of attacking? Against such strong odds?

  It would be suicidal.

  He did not care for his own life now. Death would be welcome. And wouldn’t God see to it that he succeeded?

  The answer was obvious. This was an order from God; the Saudi was only a messenger.

  During his time with the Italian destroyer Audace, one of their regular exercises had called for an attack on the flagship of the Italian fleet, the Giuseppe Garibaldi. The Garibaldi was somewhat smaller than the Ark Royal, displacing only about half the tonnage. In some ways it was much more capable, however—unlike the Ark Royal, it carried potent surface-to-surface missiles and torpedo launchers; even during the exercises when it was stripped of its escorts it held off Ali’s ship. In fact, it usually did better without escorts: There were never enough to properly screen against a surface attack if it was launched properly, but the carrier crews saw the other ships and believed they were well-protected. They were less than vigilant.

  The attack would have to be orchestrated very carefully.

  The surprising thing he had seen during the exercises was the ineptness of the flight crews when locating attacking ships. They trained almost exclusively to bombard land targets or combat submarines. The captain of Ali’s ship had dodged one patrol merely by identifying the ship as one of the carrier’s screening vessels. The vessel had been permitted to get close enough to launch its surface-to-surface missiles unscathed.

  The commander had been reprimanded for his trickery; Ali thought he should have been commended. It was the pilot’s fault, after all; truly he should have been able to tell the difference.

  If he could sink it—if he did sink it—wouldn’t that send a message that anyone who was friends with the Americans could be targeted? Wouldn’t the nations of the Middle East—the small ones especially, like Djibouti and Bahrain, but also the bigger ones, Egypt, Saudi Arabia—realize they weren’t safe?

  Ali looked over at his visitor and found him smiling.

  “You understand how truly majestic it would be,” said Osama. “I can see it in your face.”

  “Yes, I do understand,” said Ali. “But—it would not be an easy task. I would need much information—considerable information.”

  “You will have it.”

  “The Iranians?”

  “The Iranians will not be cooperative. We will work to get you other resources,” said the Saudi. “And God will be with you. Come. It is almost dawn. Let us prepare to pray. It will be a glorious day.”

  II

  Xray Pop

  Aboard the Abner Read

  4 November 1997

  0800

  STORM SIPPED THE COLD COFFEE, ITS ACID BITTERNESS BITING his lips. Admiral Johnson had been called away from the camera in the secure communications center aboard the Vinson. The pause gave Storm a chance to regroup and reconsider his approach. By the time Johnson’s face flashed back on the screen, Storm was more deferential.

  “As you were saying, Captain?” said Johnson.

  “We have reviewed the data, and the weapons were definitely aimed at us,” said Storm.

  “You still disobeyed your orders of engagement. You were not within visual range and therefore could not positively identify the craft.”

  “Admiral, I believe that United States warships are permitted—excuse me, directed—to take any and all prudent actions to protect themselves.”

  “You were not supposed to pursue any warships into territorial waters,” said Johnson, who wasn’t about to let go of this. He continued over the same territory he had covered earlier, speaking of the delicacy of diplomatic negotiations and the political situation in the Middle East.

  Storm took another sip of his coffee. No other commander would get this lecture; on the contrary, they would be commended for forceful and prudent action and the sinking of two pirate vessels, wherever their rusty tubs had gone down. Storm was only getting blasted because Tex Johnson hated his guts.

  “Talk to the intelligence people. I have other things to do,” said the admiral finally.

  Storm leaned back in his seat, waiting for Commander Megan Gunther and her assistants to come on line. But instead the screen flashed with the chief of staff, Captain Patrick “Red” McGowan.

  “You son of a bitch you—congratulations on sinking those bastards!” said Red.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Don’t give me that Captain bullshit, you dog. Tell me—did those idiots you were chasing blow themselves up or what?”

  “Just about,” said Storm.

  “So you sunk them with the gun, huh?”

  “Didn’t seem wort
h a missile,” said Storm. “Of course, a tactical decision like that would be made by the ship’s captain.”

  “Bullshit. I’m surprised you didn’t go down and load the damn gun yourself.”

  “Computer does all the hard work.” Storm smiled. He might be a micromanager and a pain in the butt and all that—but he also knew that he took care of his people when the shit hit the fan. And they knew it too.

  “They’re mighty pleased back at the Pentagon. Everybody’s lining up to buy you some champagne.”

  “Everybody except your boss.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about Tex. He’s just pissed that you’re getting most of the credit. He’ll come around. By tomorrow he’ll be reminding people Xray Pop was his idea.” Red meant that as a joke—Tex had opposed the idea as premature, and Storm had only prevailed by calling in favors owed to him at the Pentagon. It didn’t hurt that he’d had several assignments under the present Chief of Staff, Admiral Balboa, when Balboa headed CentCom. Balboa was a bit too pansy-assed for Storm, but connections were connections.

  “I’m telling you, Tex is warming up to you,” added Red.

  “He has the commendation all written out.”

  “The only reason that might be true is if you wrote it.” Red smiled. “So how many of the little suckers are left?”

  “No idea,” said Storm. “There were at least three other boats last night, all of them patrol-boat-sized. And we’ve seen others. It’s a motley assortment.”

  “One of your little Shark Boats couldn’t take care of them?”

  “I have to tell you, Red, not having over-the-horizon systems is hurting us quite a bit. If we had those Orions we’d be doing much better. Listen—give me the Belleau Wood and I guarantee we’ll wipe these guys off the face of the earth.”

  Red laughed, but Storm wasn’t joking. The Belleau Wood—LHA-3—was an assault ship capable of carrying Harriers and AH-1W SuperCobras as well as nearly two thousand Marines. The ship looked like a down-sized aircraft carrier, which she essentially was. When Storm had originally drawn up the proposal for Xray Pop and the mission here, he had wanted Belleau Wood or one of her sister ships involved, intending to use the airpower to provide reconnaissance and air cover. He also would have used the Marines to strike the pirate bases.