Satan’s Tail. Dale Brown
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Satan’s Tail
WRITTEN BY DALE BROWN AND JIM DEFELICE
Contents
DREAMLAND
DUTY ROSTER
LIEUTENANT COLONEL TECUMESH ‘DOG’ BASTIAN
The master of Dreamland, his ‘bark’ and ‘bite’ have won him many powerful Pentagon friends … and enemies.
CAPTAIN BREANNA BASTIAN STOCKARD
A woman in a man’s Top Gun world, she will stay on the attack and keep her cool when the fighting spins out of control.
CAPTAIN HAROLD ‘STORM’ GALE, USN
Commander of Xray Pop, a cutting-edge naval squadron, his ‘shoot first’ attitude puts him on a dangerous collision course with Washington and Dog Bastian.
CAPTAIN DANNY FREAH
War hero and potential future political star, Dreamland needs his bravery and his brilliance more than ever before.
JED BARCLAY
Barely old enough to shave – a science ‘whizz kid’ and deputy to the National Security Advisor – he is Dreamland’s link to the President and will be called upon to take the ultimate risk in the midst of crisis.
MAJOR MACK ‘THE KNIFE’ SMITH
An ace with more MiG kills than any flier since Vietnam, he was taken out of the game by a terrorist in Brunei … but nothing will keep him out of the fight.
Dreamland 2 November 1997 0610 (all times local)
The shock of light from the rising sun stopped Jennifer Gleason as she rounded the mountain. She raised her arm to ward off the glare, standing at the edge of the trail as her companion, Lt Colonel Tecumseh ‘Dog’ Bastian, continued to the pile of rocks. Dreamland – the United States Air Force High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center – stretched out before them on the floor of an ancient lake, its desert surface glowing as the pink fingers of the sun brushed back the shadows of the night. It was an awe-inspiring moment, the sort of thing that made you appreciate the enormity of creation and man’s small place in God’s scheme. Jennifer shuddered, humbled by the view.
The past few months had been a struggle for her, personally and professionally; they had shaken everyone at Dreamland. But standing here as the new day dawned, the scientist felt her hope and faith in the future renewed. She had come through a difficult storm, and if she was not the same person she had been before her troubles began, she was wiser and stronger in many ways.
She glanced upward, watching Dog scramble the last twenty feet to the monument they’d come to visit. It was a simple, polished stone, etched with the names of those who had died while serving at Dreamland. All were friends of hers.
Dog reached into his pocket for a small stone he’d taken from in front of his hut before they started their hike – a token, he said, of remembrance, not a fancy or formal thing, just a sign to the dead that he remembered their sacrifice. Important to him, which was what mattered.
Not a fancy or formal thing: That was Dog.
Jennifer watched as he placed the small stone in the pile at the base of the monument. His eyes had welled up, and she saw something she thought no one else in the world was privileged to see: a single tear slipping down his cheek.
Jennifer turned back to look at the base in case he glanced around and caught her staring. After a while he came over and put his arm around her waist.
‘Beautiful view,’ he said softly.
Jennifer went to the monument and paid her own respects, tracing each name with her finger. As they started down, they talked about breakfast and how hungry they were, but soon fell silent again. The long spells of quiet walking, both of them scrambling in the same direction, apart and yet together, were her favorite part of the trips they took.
When they rounded a curve about two-thirds of the way down, a pair of robot helicopter gunships undergoing tests at one of the test ranges a mile away roared into view. The small aircraft had stubby wings and counter-rotating rotors; at rest, they looked like miniaturized Russian-made Kamov Ka-50 Hokums, with wing-mounted small jet engines and a stabilizer a good distance forward of the rear tail. In flight, however, they looked like spiders with bird-shaped beaks, flitting over the desert. Because of their similarity to the Russian gunship, the aircraft had been dubbed Werewolves, the English translation of Hokum.
Dog pulled up behind her, scanning the horizon before realizing what she was watching. The aircraft began unleashing a coordinated attack on an enemy ‘tank’ – a plywood box in a dugout ravine. Rockets spit from the pods under their forward wings – ‘arms,’ as the designers called them. The tank disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
‘Good shots,’ muttered Dog.
‘Decent,’ said Jennifer, whose team had helped develop the attack programs. ‘I could have done better.’
‘You’re telling me you can beat the computer?’
‘As