his throttle, ducking the grenade. Then he reached to the weapons panel, dialing up the Hellfire missiles.
‘I have hostile fire,’ he told Tac. ‘Permission to launch Hellfires?’
‘Negative, negative,’ said Eyes. ‘Don’t sink him.’
‘I’m under fire,’ Starship repeated. The men at the rear had gone back to the large crates.
‘Do not sink that boat. We want the cargo intact.’
Stifling a curse, Starship keyed back to the light machine gun. As he nudged his stick forward, the man near the cabin picked up an automatic rifle and began firing. The tracers gave Starship something to zero in on as he pressed his own trigger. With the second burst, the man crumpled to the deck of the boat, sliding toward the low rail as it rocked in the water.
Starship returned his attention to the rear deck, where the two crewmen had succeeded in pulling one of the crates from its tie-downs and were shoving it over the side. As it went over, the entire boat began to tip as if it were going to capsize. Starship continued northward and banked back around, dropping the small helicopter to ten feet over the waves. The men continued working on the crate. If he wanted the cargo, he would have to shoot them; warning shots would no longer do.
He got close enough to see the worried scowl on one of the men’s faces before he fired; the man fell limp on the deck as he passed over. Still, the other crewman refused to give up. He struggled with the chain that held the crate down as Starship zeroed in, finger dancing against the trigger. When the bullets caught him, they spun him in a macabre death dance, a large part of his skull flying off as if it had been a hat. The man danced off the side of the boat and disappeared.
‘Defenses have been neutralized,’ Starship said, taking the Werewolf back over the boat slowly. ‘I think the crew’s all dead. They got one of the crates over the side but I saved the other.’
‘SITT is en route,’ said Eyes.
A spray of water hit Storm as he stepped out onto the flying bridge. The smuggler’s boat was two hundred yards away, off his starboard side; the SITT crew was aboard inspecting her. Storm’s communications gear could connect him instantly with the team as well as everyone on his own ship, and he had the crew’s frequency tuned in; he listened to the boarding party as it went about its work. The Werewolf hovered just over the bow of the little boat, its nose slowly moving back and forth as its pilot trained its weapons on the vessel.
‘Captain Gale to SITT – Terry, you there?’
‘Here, Captain.’
‘What do you have?’
‘RPGs. Crate’s filled with grenades and launchers. Have some heavy machine guns in the hold.’
‘Get it all on video. Make sure we have a good record. Then get back here and we’ll sink it.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’
Storm went back inside. He was just about to see if he could hunt down a cup of coffee when Eyes’s excited voice erupted in his ear.
‘Port Somalia has just been attacked!’ shouted Eyes. ‘There’s a fire on the artificial island, and the sonar array picked up the sound of a large explosion.’
Storm’s mind jumped from shock to reaction mode, sorting the information, formulating a response. The airplanes they’d seen before – they had to have been involved.
What would Admiral Johnson say now?
‘Get Airforce down there right away,’ said Storm. ‘Bring the SITT crew back, then sink the smuggler’s vessel, cargo and all. Prepare a course for Port Somalia,’ he added, speaking to the navigational officer. ‘I’ll be in my quarters, updating Admiral Johnson.’
Off the coast of Somalia 6 January 1998 0023
The commando Sattari rescued had broken his leg falling from the decking to the rocks, but had not been shot. He slumped against the captain as the men paddled against the current. They attacked the waves like madmen, pushing against the spray, which seemed to increase with every stroke.
Sattari could hear the explosions behind them and saw the yellow shadows cast by a fire, but dared not take the time or strength to look back.
‘Another kilometer,’ yelled the coxswain. He was referring not to the rendezvous point but to the GPS position where the boat would turn to the north; the pickup would be roughly four kilometers beyond that.
Still, Sattari repeated the words aloud as a mantra as he worked his paddle: ‘Another kilometer to go. One more kilometer to success.’
Aboard the Abner Read, off the coast of Somalia 0023
The smoke from Port Somalia rose like an overgrown cauliflower from the ocean, furling upward and outward. It was so thick Starship couldn’t see Port Somalia itself.
If the aircraft they’d seen earlier had deposited saboteurs – not a proven fact, but a very good guess – it was likely that the planes would be returning to pick up the men. The Abner Read had activated its radar to look for them.
Starship’s job was twofold. First, scout the water and see if he could find any trace of the saboteurs. Second, check the nearby shore, which was the second most likely escape route. And he’d have to do all that in about ten minutes, or he’d risk running out of fuel before getting back to the ship.
He saw the Indian corvette to his right as he approached the outer edge of the smoke. The ship looked like an upsized cabin cruiser, with a globelike radar dome at the top. Designed for a Russian Bandstand surface targeting radar, the large dome held a less potent Indian design. But it was the small dish radar behind the dome that got Starship’s attention – the Korund antiaircraft unit extended its sticky fingers toward the Werewolf, marking a big red X on it for the ship’s SS-4 antiaircraft missiles.
‘Werewolf One being targeted by Indian vessel,’ Starship reported to Tac. He hit the fuzz buster and tucked the little helicopter toward the waves, weaving quickly to shake the radar’s grip. ‘Hey, tell these guys I’m on their side.’
‘We’re working on it, Werewolf One. They’re having a little trouble identifying targets.’
‘Duh. Tell them I’m not a target.’
‘We’re working it out. Stay out of their range.’
‘It’s ten kilometers,’ protested Starship.
‘Head toward the shore and look for the raiding party. We’ll let the Indians look at the water.’
‘Yeah, roger that,’ he said, jamming his throttle to max power.
Off the coast of Somalia 0028
The light looked like the barest pinprick in a black curtain, yet everyone aboard the raft saw it instantly.
‘There!’ said the coxswain. He lifted a small signal light and began signaling.
‘Go,’ said Sattari, pushing his oar. ‘Stroke!’
The little raft heaved itself forward as the men pushed at the oar. Sattari felt the commando he had rescued stirring next to him.
‘Rest,’ he told the man. ‘We’re almost there.’
‘Ship!’ said the coxswain.
Sattari swept his head back, though he continued to row. The low silhouette of the Indian patrol boat had appeared to the northeast; it was perhaps three kilometers away.
‘Stroke,’ insisted Sattari. The pinprick had grown to the size of a mayfly.
Sattari