Dale Brown - Satan’s Tail

Smoke curled from the superstructure of the merchant ship. The fools! They’d gained nothing by calling for help.

Ali saw the first member of his team clamber over the deck, then the second and third. The other boats drew close; more men followed. There were shouts, gunfire. A swell pitched his small craft toward the merchant vessel. At the last second God intervened, pushing the boats apart.

A ladder, two ladders, were dropped off the side. His men were now firmly in control of the deck.

‘We monitored a message from some of our brothers in Yemen, Captain,’ said Bari, coming up from the radio area. ‘I thought it best to bring it to your attention.’

‘What?’

‘Two large American aircraft landed in southern Saudi Arabia this afternoon,’ said the mate, his black face blending into the growing darkness of the evening. ‘Perhaps they were the Orions you spoke of. The alert is being spread through Yemen and across the gulf to our other friends.’

A green flare shot from the deck of the merchant ship. His men had taken it over.

‘Thank you, Bari,’ he told his mate. ‘Keep me informed. In the meantime, take command here while I go aboard our new vessel.’

‘As you wish, Captain.’

Mack slid into the water and began paddling slowly. A lifeguard watched from the other end, but otherwise he was alone, and would be for the rest of the session. The rehab specialists were off-duty today, and more important, Zen was halfway across the world and couldn’t barge in to harass him.

He knew that should have made him relax, but Mack felt even more stressed and tired as he pushed toward the other side. How the hell did Stockard do this every day, anyway? The guy had been in decent shape before his accident, but he was no athlete, not by a mile.

Mack, on the other hand, had gotten letters in high school football and baseball. He had worked out semiregularly, not so much in the past few months maybe, but still, he could be considered in at least reasonably good shape. Yet here he was, struggling to reach the far side of the pool.

He tried pushing his legs – this was supposed to be about his legs, not his arms. But they wouldn’t respond. They were never going to respond, he thought, despite what the doctors said.

He’d known that the moment he opened his eyes in the hotel in Brunei. Breanna was there, looking over him. He’d seen that look in her face, and he knew. If anyone was an expert on whether people would walk or not, it was Breanna.

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