by David Poyer
“Yeah. Yeah, I know Andy. What’s he doing now?”
“He had DevRon Five, after San Fran; now he’s the chief of staff at ComSubPac. Ran into him at a technology conference in Bangor. He told me some … sea stories. About you and the North Koreans.” Youngblood winked broadly, then chuckled, as if he knew Dan couldn’t comment. “Course, I didn’t believe a word. Anyway, this is my formal inchop, right? Or do I need a message, too?”
“No message necessary. I’ll just include that you checked in, in my daily report.”
A tap at the door. “Come in,” Dan called.
Ammermann was in khaki slacks, running shoes, and a dark green silk polo. He blinked and gave Dan a tentative half-salute. Dan cleared his throat. “Jack, this is Adam Ammermann. We’re not really sure how long he’ll be staying, but he’s a sort of public affairs staffer out of the West Wing. Adam, Jack Youngblood, USS Pittsburgh. Uh, a nuclear submarine. She’ll be in company with us over the next few days. I thought we’d have lunch, the three of us, and get acquainted.”
The big submariner and Ammermann shook hands, and they moved to the large table, which Longley had set for three. Not with the formal silver service, which was reserved for VIP or diplomatic guests, but regular wardroom china. It was Chinese day, with pork lo mein, somewhat crooked spring rolls, and steamed rice. Dan glanced again at the other CO’s profile, hoping he wouldn’t take the menu as some kind of insult … no, shit, he was getting paranoid again. “So … looks like we’re going to have a war on our hands in the next couple of days.”
“Never good.” Youngblood shook his head. “I think we’re ready. But let’s hope they can find some other way.”
“The president gave them forty-eight hours to leave,” Ammermann said. “Him and his sons.”
Youngblood frowned. “And why exactly are we doing this now?”
Ammermann smiled, laying a finger on the submariner’s arm; Youngblood stiffened. “We have absolute proof they have chemical and biological weapons, maybe even a nuclear device. You don’t wait around to be attacked. That was our mistake on 9/11. They’ve lied and threatened us long enough. We can bring democracy to Iraq, same as we brought it to Germany and Italy and Japan and Russia.”
Dan applied himself to the lo mein while it was still hot and let them argue, but he couldn’t help remembering what Freya Stark had written about Rome wanting only weak states on her periphery. The Romans had followed a policy of crushing any bordering state that seemed likely to become powerful. But when she’d destroyed these prospective buffers, far more dangerous barbarians, pushing through the chaos and debris, had eventually brought down the empire.
When Ammermann ran out of steam Dan put in, “Not to change the subject, but—Jack; that Israeli corvette, to the east. He’s parked five miles out, where we asked him to respect our safety zone. Any idea what’s on his mind?”
Youngblood chewed for a moment. The broad head cocked. “Maybe he’s wondering the same about us.”
“Adam, what do you think? The Israelis must know what we’re doing here. Wouldn’t somebody from the West Wing, or State, have notified them? Officially, or…?”
“I can make a call and find out. If you’ll give me a secure hookup.”
“That’d be awkward. I’ve put my entire crew, and myself, on personal comm restrictions.” That wasn’t why he didn’t want this guy on the horn, but he wasn’t about to say, “I don’t want you reporting back on me.”
“He actually might be here to protect you,” said the submariner.
“Yeah, I wondered about that.” Lahav might be his missing “shotgun” … his escort when Savo Island was so focused on her mission she couldn’t defend herself. It might make sense. The administration was wooing Arab states to join the Coalition of the Willing. Few had, but at least they weren’t joining the other side. In that case, keeping any U.S.-Israeli military cooperation covert would be smart. “But I can’t even talk to their ABM side, to deconflict. That doesn’t sound like cooperation.”
A beep. Dan said, “Excuse me,” and unholstered his Hydra. Turned away from the table. “Captain.”
“Cheryl here, sir. INS Lahav is calling CO-to-CO on uncovered voice.”
He swallowed one more forkful of lo mein and wiped his lips with a napkin. “Gotta take this. It’s from Lahav.” To Staurulakis he said, “Be right there. No—on second thought, I’ll take it on the bridge. But stay on the circuit taking notes. And see if you can get Radio to record it. Just in case.”
* * *
THE voice was clear, hard, accented but perfectly enunciated. “Good afternoon, Captain. This is Captain Gabi Marom of INS Lahav. I am recording this conversation. Over.”
Dan peered out. The corvette was barely visible, a dark speck on a ragged horizon shrouded in overcast. A plume of white spray leaped up as Savo’s bullnose burrowed into a steely sea. It wavered across the forecastle and forward gun, and clattered down against the window. Damn, blowing harder already, and they were picking up a nasty roll. “Good afternoon. Dan Lenson, CO, USS Savo Island. We’re taping on this end too. What can I do for you this fine day at sea, Captain?”
“This is Lahav. I am respecting your eight-kilometer safety zone. At the same time, you are within the hundred-kilometer exclusion zone my country has declared. I must ask you to declare your intentions and how soon you intend to return to international waters. Over.”
Dan trapped the handset between shoulder and chin as he hunted around on the nav console to zoom out. “Captain, I hold us well outside your country’s twenty-mile Maritime Exclusion Zone. And also outside your twelve-nautical-mile coastal zone. Therefore, we are both in international waters. Suggest you check your navigation. Over.”
“Captain, you are speaking of the standard MEZ. I am referring to the special security zone Israel announced one week ago. Over.”
Okay, great … He made sure his finger was off the Transmit button and keyed the Hydra with his free hand as Savo reeled. He twisted to wedge himself in next to the nav console. This put his thigh against the bridge’s heater element, but it wasn’t quite hot enough, through the fabric of his coveralls, to burn. “Cheryl, any input?”
“The official position: We don’t recognize any claim to limit innocent passage beyond twelve miles. Including unilaterally declared exclusion zones, like Libya and China keep trying to impose.”
“So the question is, are we on innocent passage?”
“No sir. The question actually is whether you’re going to let him bluff us out of where our orders clearly place us.”
Well, that was pretty clear-cut. He double-clicked her off and told the Israeli, “Lahav, this is Savo Island. I say again, we are in international waters and exercising right of innocent passage. Please respect our safety zone while conducting military operations. Out.”
“This is Lahav. Interrogative: What type of military operations are you conducting? And what is their termination date? Over.”
Dan frowned. He couldn’t blame them for being hinky about foreign ships off their coast. But had no one told the Israelis he was shielding them from hostile missiles? Or was that information stovepiped somewhere in the political-military bureaucracy, and just hadn’t trickled down to their navy yet? He started to answer, then socketed the phone. Let the other guy buck his beef up his own chain of command, until it hit the bona fide skinny coming down.
At the same time, he couldn’t just pretend a missile-armed warship with an inquisitive—no, actually somewhat hostile-sounding—commanding officer wasn’t within striking range. Off the Sinai, inside a declared security zone during the Six-Day War, USS Liberty had been attacked and badly damaged by Israeli jets and torpedo boats. If the State of Israel felt threatened, Savo had better look to her defenses. He lifted the portable radio again, then changed his mind and used the 21MC. He wasn’t sure how far outside the skin of the ship someone could eavesdrop on Hydra transmissions. “TAO, CO: Fifteen seconds’ illumination of INS Lahav with SPQ-9.”
&
nbsp; “Shine her with the gun radar?”
“Affirmative.”
A minute later she was back on the intercom. “Bridge, TAO: Incoming threat emitter, I-band radar, bearing one one five.”
He squinted along the gyrocompass repeater, just to confirm it was Lahav, beaming back the same challenge he’d just aimed at her. The corvette lay under a gray storm-cloud, menacing, holding her distance, neither closing nor opening. “Threat emitter ceased, time five one,” Staurulakis added.
He checked his watch. “Very well. I’m going to need a message—”
“Already up on high-side chat with CTF 61 TAO. Keeping them informed in real time, sir.”
“Good. Real good, Cheryl. Let’s double up on our EW watch, one on three sixty, one on this guy—”
“Manning up Console Two now.”
“Okay, Cher. Good work.” He signed off, almost resenting the calm rational voice that was always a step ahead. Looked out to the distant speck once more. Beyond it lay a land embattled, and beyond that, one about to be invaded. Somehow he had to share intel with the Israelis. Or at least get their watchdog off his back. But how? If only he had a genie aboard. He’d wish Savo Island and her crew far from here. No, he’d wish war itself and the eternal suspicion between nations, classes, and those of different hues of skin, over and done, existing only in a past of myth and legend. Something you read about in the history books, like the centuries-long duel between the Romans and the Parthians …
“Captain?” Almarshadi’s thin, nervous features were shadowed like a foretaste of dusk. “Boat crew’s wondering, it’s really looking like it’s going to kick up, they’re not sure they can stay out much longer. Got a call from the XO on Pittsburgh, too. What’s the plan? When’s Captain Youngblood heading back?”
“Call the whaleboat in, Fahad. We’ll call him away before it blows any harder. I’ll come down to see him off.” He turned away, gripping the overhead cable as Savo leaned into a roll that seemed to have no end.
But war wasn’t going to end. Not as long as men were men, and contended each against the other on a steadily eroding sphere compounded of the dust of the dead. Wish all he liked. There’d still be violence. Still be war. Most relentless of the Four Horsemen. And doubly bitter because Man, along with the ants, was a species that inflicted its greatest plague on itself.
11
THE rest of the day passed swiftly. He checked in again with Staurulakis, asking how she’d set up the watch rotation. The forty-eight-hour deadline would expire tomorrow; he wanted them ready for whatever happened. The senior watch officer said she was running an overlapping rotation. It was tight; the admiral’s mast, on top of Savo’s already reduced manning, had cut deep into their bench. She and Mills would be standing five hours on, five hours off. Either Dan or Almarshadi would be on call, again five and five, though they wouldn’t actually have to be in their seat in CIC. They had a bit more slack on the bridge, with three qualified officers of the deck: Pardee, Garfinkle-Henriques, and the comm officer, Dave Branscombe. She said Gene Mytsalo was doing well as JOOD and might be able to step up to OOD soon. “But I think we can keep them going up there for quite a while, four on and eight off.”
Next he went down to the engine spaces, undogging and then redogging each door and hatch as he passed through, observing the damage-control drills.
Almarshadi secured everyone from general quarters at 1400. The wind had increased to twenty knots, twenty-five in gusts. It stayed dark as hell all afternoon. Savo rolled, top-heavy like her sisters, but she could take six- to seven-foot waves forever. He ate evening meal in the wardroom, not contributing much to the conversation. He could feel himself starting to sag. Better sleep while he could.
Instead, he went back up to the bridge and stared at the running lights of the Israeli corvette, still soldered to the northeastern horizon. He contemplated the radio handset. Perhaps he should call Marom, ask him to increase the standoff distance, at least during the hours of darkness. Finally he decided, to hell with him. As night fell he went back down to his at-sea cabin. He stripped off sweat-smelling coveralls and stuffed them into his laundry bag. He picked up Freya Stark; read a page or two about Diocletian’s increasing recruitment of mercenaries for the defensive armies, rather than Roman citizens; and turned off the light. Sleep? Yeah, maybe …
* * *
THE fucking buzzer. No, the call note on his Hydra. He fumbled getting it out of the recharging base and it hit the deck. The leather case must have damped the impact, because it was still working when he hit the Reply button. “C’m,” he grunted. Then cleared his throat and said again, louder, “Captain!”
“Sir, maybe you better get up here.” Mytsalo, voice high and young, frightened as a child’s.
Dan dropped the radio, found his shoes, and sprinted out the door. But the left turn, or rather, the roll Savo had just plunged into, betrayed him, and he caromed full tilt off the opposite bulkhead. He groped for the ladder up in the dim red light, shoulder aching, cursing.
Utter darkness, pierced by the whine of the wind. He blundered into a soft short shape and heard a sharp intake of breath, a gasped-out, “Captain’s on the bridge.”
“Where’s the OOD? What’s the problem?”
Another shadow, and Garfinkle-Henriques’s voice. “Off to starboard, Captain. Constant bearing, decreasing range. I reported it to Combat—”
He couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath, at the icy wind on his underwear-clad skin, but much more at the closeness of the green and white and red lights. The other ship was nearly bow on. He couldn’t say how far because he didn’t know how large it was. But far too fucking close. He caught the distant wink of the corvette’s stern light. If that was five miles, this ship was only a few hundred yards off. Hell, he could hear it; the steady whoosh of machinery and ventilators even through the whine of the wind. What was this thing? It was enormous.
The supply officer, beside him. He could just make her out, binoculars clutched to her chest. “We’re stand-on vessel. I notified the XO, sir. He said maintain course, he’d warn it off on VHF—”
“Did they answer? You’ve got Channel 16 up here, right?”
“I didn’t hear an answer. No sir.”
“Where’s your rudder? Never mind. Right hard, right hard. All back full!” He gripped the pelorus, staring over it at approaching disaster. On second glance, it was much bigger than Savo. Which might not be bad; it might be slightly farther away than he’d thought. But it was hard to be certain. Spray or rain laced the night, making the port running light a carmine smear, the starboard a turquoise glow. The centerline white lights were blurry opals in a deep black velvet night. Was the uppermost very slightly to the right of the lower? A port bow aspect? It all felt so much like his nightmares he had to reach out and grind his knuckles into the gritty steel of the bulwark. No, fuck, it was real. Were the lights sliding left? Or was that the effect of their own rudder, hard over to the right? He couldn’t tell, but couldn’t wait to see. He turned back into the pilothouse and yelled, “Sound the collision alarm.”
“Lee helm control’s not responding.”
Oh, Christ. “You don’t have engine control up here! Remember? Call Main Control. All back full! All back emergency!”
Dit dit dit. Dit dit dit. The triple blips of the collision alarm stuttered over the 1MC. He glanced left, then ran back out onto the bridge.
To his astonished relief, the gap between the white lights had widened. The green starboard light was occulted; the port one shone out clear. But the ship was so close that even in the dark he could make out its silhouette, black against blacker black, in the same way the unlit circle of a new moon was visible against night sky. Pearly aureoles around sulfur-orange lights tapered back in a long line, fading along its … upper deck? In the dark, the obscuring mist, it was hard to tell exactly what he was looking at. Some sort of tanker, oil or natural gas. Or maybe a really huge bulk carrier.
“Main Control responds, all back eme
rgency,” the OOD said, edging onto the wing with him. Still gripping her glasses. “They never answered on VHF.”
He took a deep breath to keep his voice from shaking. “All right, rudder amidships. Secure from collision alert. —You should have called me before this, Hermelinda.”
“I notified the XO. He said you were asleep. That he had the duty.”
She was right; in Condition III, whoever was in the CO’s seat in Combat was the go-to guy. But what had happened, that Fahad would let a contact get in this close? “O … kay. I’ll take it up with him, then.”
“Do you want me to ask for a relief, sir?”
“No. You have the deck. You never turned it over, I never assumed it.” He stared out the forward windows at the lights, already shrinking into the distance, and shivered; it had been all too fucking much like the last seconds of the doomed Reynolds Ryan. He wrapped his arms around himself, tightening his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. No wonder, he was still in shorts and undershirt. “Wait till he’s clear, then resume course. I’m going down to Combat.”
* * *
HE stopped for his coveralls, steadily growing angrier. That ship should never have gotten within miles. If she didn’t respond to a verbal warning, there were other ways of getting her attention. If all else failed, Savo should have turned away, long before the situation became dangerous, and opened the range herself.
Maybe there was a reason Imerson had kept Almarshadi off the bridge.
When he got to CIC the exec was sitting at the command desk, fingers laced over his face, thin shoulders hunched. Matt Mills glanced up from the TAO chair; Singhe watched from where she stood behind the Aegis watchstanders, dark eyes hooded. The compartment was crowded with men and women at consoles, but no one said a word. Dan slowed himself down by checking the screens. Only an occasional contact incandesced here and there, sparse stars where typically constellations boiled around the ports of the Levant. The contact they’d just missed was outbound, headed west. He took another deep breath, cleared his throat, and said to the hunched shoulders, “XO? Can you step out in the passageway for a minute?”
