The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel

by David Poyer

  “Captain, MDU complete.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant Singhe.” He stretched to work out a cramp in his back, wishing NavSea would spend a few more of those defense dollars making the chairs a little more comfortable.

  The red phone again. “Savo, Pittsburgh, this is TSC. Verbal Indigo 001 Delta Tango Golf follows. Savo: Mission target 1A1, verification CODE 56342. Quantity, one Block three Charlie. Time on top: Shoot soonest.

  “Savo: Mission target 1D1. Code 14353. Quantity, one Block three Charlie, time on top…” The voice droned on; the team, heads down, were scrutinizing each target and code on the screens. “Break; how copy, over?”

  Singhe repeated back, exactly, what the strike controller had just passed. Not a lot of chatter from the rest of the team, a good sign; people who knew their jobs didn’t need to talk a lot. They’d be entering verification codes and required text data. Comparing the launch-sequence plan with what the computer was spitting out.

  Singhe, on the Strike circuit. “Captain? Request permission to send, TLAM make ready.”

  The “make ready” command sent engagement plans and mission data to the missiles, which would power up and start the test protocols. Dan clicked his mike. “Granted.”

  “TLAM make ready, plans sent.”

  “Missiles pair, all plans.”

  Standard commands, from drills on the old Horn. The combination of familiarity and reality felt weird, the way it always did when he’d had to fight. Like two layers of reality, drill and what was really happening.

  Mills murmured, “Lahav still on our starboard quarter. No surface or air contacts other than Iranian group fifty miles to the south. No air tracks except for Red Hawk. We’ll clear him to the west just before launch. EW reports coastal radars have ceased illuminating.”

  “Huh,” Dan said.

  Singhe, on the circuit. “Missions checked and downloaded. Rounds spinning up.”

  “Spinning up, aye.” Once in flight, the rounds would navigate by GPS, but for the initial regime they’d depend on gyros to operate their vanes for boost, pitchover, and transition to engine start. Which was usually where things went to shit. Dan kept wanting to lean forward, say something, but reined himself in. He got up again and was pacing around when the engagement planner called, “Skipper? Ready for onscreen approval.”

  Dan bent over his shoulder, checking the graphic display. No problem with the flight path. He checked missile type and time data. It all looked good. “Mission 1A1 approved. Send to launch.”

  Singhe was off the red phone. Dan moved back so she could take her normal seat again. Murmured, “Launch direction.”

  “OOD, Strike: Verify launch direction clear to port.”

  Mytsalo verified that the bearing was clear. She warned him not to change course or speed for the next ten minutes, then went back to the countdown. At minus two minutes she picked up the 1MC mike. “All hands. Tomahawk missiles will be launching from forward and aft launchers. All hands remain clear of weather decks while salvo alarm is sounding.”

  Mills, at his elbow. “Captain? The helo…?”

  “Thanks, Matt. Let’s get Strafer out of there.”

  Mills, on the Transmit button. “Red Hawk, Matador. One minute to launch; stand clear to the west.”

  The pilot rogered up. The salvo warning alarm wailed faintly through steel. Dan closed his eyes, tracking his mental checklist.

  “Confirm whip and fan antennas silent.”

  “Confirm blast exhaust doors open.”

  “Alignment complete.”

  “Time to launch: thirty seconds.”

  His cue. He’d worn the keys around his neck, on the same chain as his Academy-issue dog tags, since they’d left Naples. He stood above the launch console. Lifted beaded steel over his head, and handed the key to Singhe.

  “Time to launch, ten seconds.”

  Singhe plugged her own key in, then Dan’s. Glanced at him, the dark eyes passionless, and gave each a half turn.

  Everyone looked at him. Dan waited a beat, then nodded. “Batteries released, primary plan.”

  “Salvo firing commence,” Singhe said, and the launch controller hit the Shoot button.

  A distant thud, then a shudder: the cell and uptake hatches slamming open.

  Someone had focused one of the gun cameras on the forward VLS. Along with the others in CIC, Dan watched a huge ball of flame suddenly burst into existence just aft of the forward five-inch gun. Almost too fast for the eye to follow, the missile flamed up through its rubber waterproofing membrane, then slung suddenly upward from its cell.

  Like an Olympic gymnast performing some complex twist while hurtling through the air, it reoriented, surrounded by the glare of the orange flame, and departed, a bright star quickly dwindling. Smoke blasted across the field of view, then thinned in the wind. Hemicylindrical covers tumbled through the air, blown free in the first hundred meters of boost.

  The camera tracked jerkily upward, and caught it again. An orange star, red as Mars, still climbing, still shrinking. He’d seen the sequence dozens of times, first during development, then in predeployment testing, then during Prime Needle … until it sometimes seemed that the weapon he’d shepherded through its teething was the main way his country interacted with the Arab world. The engine inlet popping open, shedding the dual shrouds protecting the exhaust. Fuselage wing plug covers ejecting. Steering and stabilization fins switchblading out, followed by the wings. Then booster burnout, and the nose dropping.

  He held his breath, but there it was, the winkout of the orange spark of the booster, and nearly simultaneously, the black smoke of engine start.…

  Singhe keyed her red phone. “Cutlass, this is Savo. Greyhound away. Break. 1A1, transition to cruise. Out.”

  Dan blinked at the screen. The smoke column looked grayer than he recalled. Had they changed the booster composition? The remaining missiles went out at eleven-second intervals. It was growing dark. Another missile ignited into orange fire, illuminating the forecastle in glaring Halloween light, lofted, dwindled. Then the launch-roar shifted aft as the rounds in the stern magazine woke, ignited, and departed, a squadron of avenging furies.

  “Rounds complete,” Singhe told him at last. He passed a trembling hand over his forehead and turned away. Shaken, as if his own sinew and muscle had lifted tons of explosives and sent them hurtling over sea and land. But then he had to turn back and take the key she pressed into his hand. Loop it over his neck again, feeling the stainless chain warm from her hands, slick from his own sweat and perhaps hers, too.

  He said hoarsely, “I’ll be topside when you’re ready to send the firing report.”

  * * *

  ON the bridge, it was nearing full dark. He brought Savo around to clear the submarine’s range. If a booster failed, he didn’t want to be in the way. Then stood on the wing with his binoculars, watching Pittsburgh firing from beneath the dark sea. The big night glasses pulled each missile in close as it leapt free of the waves, ignited with hot red-orange flame, and blowtorched away into suddenly brilliant night. Tangerine glared off onyx crests. Smoke trails glowed like cotton candy, draped across a black starless sky. Every eleven seconds another blasted up from the deep, ignited, and accelerated off. He followed them in the dark double circles of the glasses until they occulted. Youngblood called over the red phone, giving his end-of-salvo report. Cutlass acknowledged and made the launch area cold, but told both shooters to keep the remaining TLAMs powered up until further notice.

  Dan checked his watch. His own salvo would be crossing the coast just about now. No doubt the Syrian air defense network, one of the densest in the Mideast, had the hurtling airframes on their screens. Was following an international boundary violating the airspace of the countries on either side? He didn’t have a clue.

  A hollow thunk as the wing door opened. A shadow in the dark, complete with helmet and life preserver. “Captain?”

  “Fahad. What have you got?”

  “I reported stri
ke complete. To CTF 60.”

  “Well … I was going to do that. But I guess that’s all right.” If the Syrians did lash back, the quickest way would be to unleash those C-802s. “They say anything about air cover?”

  “No sir.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “No sir.”

  “XO, what’re you doing right now?”

  “Supervising the bridge team. Isn’t that where you wanted me?”

  “Right, right … How about getting on the horn and making sure everybody knows to be alert for some kind of retaliation. Most likely, a sea skimmer from the Syrian side.” He considered asking him to get with Grissett, tasking him to dig into the sickness issue, but didn’t. Right now, they had to be ready to fend off a more immediate threat.

  A pale red planet caught his eye, moving slowly south to north. He frowned, then identified it. Deholstered his Hydra. “TAO, CO: We need Red Hawk back between us and the coast. Tell ’em to keep their eyes peeled. Also, ask 60 about that air cover they promised would be on tap.”

  “You didn’t say anything about asking for air cover.” The voice from the dark was resentful.

  He felt abruptly sick of this whole situation. No matter what he said or did, Almarshadi took offense. “It wasn’t a criticism of you, Fahad. Okay? I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now. We’ll sit down and have it out when we’re not at Condition Three. Till then, can we just … stuff it?”

  A stiff silence. Then, “Yes sir, we will stuff it. But I’m going to request a reassignment.”

  “Great, whatever. Now can you do what I asked, and make sure we’re scanning for C-802 signatures?” He crossed to the doorway, leaned in, and asked the helo control talker for time remaining to bingo fuel. It wasn’t long. He started to hoist himself into his command chair, but failed. Shit, he was too fucking exhausted even to get up into the fucking chair.

  “Captain, course from here?”

  “What do you recommend, Ensign? Remember, we’re going to have to recover the bird shortly.”

  “I think we ought to … head south? Back toward Point Adamantine?”

  “Sounds good.” He rebraced himself and this time managed to half-jump, half-lever himself up. Coughed hard, then relaxed back into the cool padded leather, like a softball into a well-worn glove, and closed his eyes.

  The beep of his Hydra, as he was slipping away. Just as the vividness of dream began to supplant a heaving sea, the whistle of the wind in the antennas, the squeak and murmur of the helm console. He grunted, then resubmerged. The radio beeped again. He fought to the surface like a drowning man, groping for it. “Unh … Captain.”

  “Skipper? TAO here.”

  “Hey, Cher, you back on already?”

  “Afraid so, sir. I’m bringing us to flank and heading south.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Monitoring the chat. Israel’s taken enough. That two hundred dead was the last straw. They’ve decided to retaliate. Just sent us a warning message.”

  He opened his eyes. For a moment what she’d said didn’t make sense. But it must have been just some open circuit in his own brain, because the next moment it did.

  All too horrifyingly. The Israelis had shown over and over again they wouldn’t take aggression lying down. Entebbe. The Osirak reactor. Lebanon. You could debate whether armed reprisal was a tactic, or a mind-set, that could ever lead to permanent peace. But certainly, striking back in the name of the dead of the Tel Aviv bunker was consistent with their previous policies.

  He cleared his throat, still trying to get his head around what it would mean. “Uh—retaliate. Did they say how, Cher?”

  Before she could answer, the scarlet bulb strobed above the Navy Red handset. “Matador, this is Iron Sky. Stand by for flash traffic from Iron Sky actual. Over.”

  Iron Sky was CTF 60, the task force to the west. He got it with his left hand while he asked Staurulakis again, on the Hydra fisted in his right, “Retaliate? How? —This is Matador actual. Over.”

  “There’s speculation. A missile counterstrike seems to be the consensus. But of course they don’t say. Just warning us to stand by. So we can be ready. For the consequences, I mean.”

  The Navy Red circuit said, “Matador actual, this is CTF 60 actual. Flash traffic follows.”

  “What kind of missile? —This is Savo, uh, Matador, ready to copy.” He jerked his head at Van Gogh, at the nav console. “Get this down, Chief.”

  “They don’t say. And no one knows. They have a nuclear capability. Whether this is a case where they’d use it…”

  “This is CTF 60 actual. Dan, we have a flash notification about Israeli plan to retaliate for the Tel Aviv hit this morning. We need you back in your defender position ASAP.”

  He gestured again, angrily, to Van Gogh. Snapped into the handset. “This is Savo. Copy your flash notification. Coming to flank speed at this time. Uh, just to make clear: I have only two Block 4s remaining. And limited self-defense capability.”

  “Understand limited capability. Remain alert for counterstrikes. Review your op order. Let me know if you need a frag on your ROEs. Iron Sky, out.”

  The light died. Decoded, the task force commander had just advised him to be perfectly clear that he understood under what circumstances he could fire first. And to let him know if the rules of engagement seemed too restrictive. Too late, Dan cursed himself; he hadn’t brought up the question of air cover, either. They’d be out here naked if the Syrians decided to vector a couple of MiGs his way.

  When he went to rub his mouth his hand jerked, and a cup of cold coffee he hadn’t even realized in the dark was there tipped and spattered. Damn it! It was happening again. Strike and counterstrike. Reprisal and counterblow, and a steady descent into bloody chaos.

  But what should anyone have expected? This was the Middle East. Any fuze you lit was tangled in among a dozen others. And would light them all as it crept toward its own bomb.

  Why did it seem like mass killing was the default option for every international quarrel? As if human beings didn’t have enough to deal with:… No, they still had to throw themselves beneath the entrails-bedecked chariot of Mars. Or was he thinking of some other god, equally bloody-handed? And why did all the gods, it seemed, come from a three-hundred-mile radius around where he rolled through this black sea?

  But what he wondered made no difference. His duty, and that of every other man and woman aboard, was plain as if engraved on bronze tablets. The ship reeled. Somewhere steel banged hollowly, and the wind sang in Savo’s thirty-eight antennas like a mourning chorus in a Greek tragedy.

  18

  Oparea Adamantine

  WHIRLING snow, again.

  The booming sea.

  They echo through deserted caverns as he feels his way. Unsure of any destination. With the white thing, which he’d only glimpsed from the corner of his eye, following him. Still back there, somewhere. And only a little air left on his gauge …

  Then, somehow, Wenck was down in the watery caves with him. What the hell? “What are you doing here, Donnie?” he asked the electronics technician.

  “How about waking up, Dan? Uh, Skipper?”

  He woke with neck cricked, curled awkwardly in his chair. The air-conditioning made a rushing clatter like a flock of blackbirds taking wing. Someone coughed, the dry hacking stirring a tickle in his own scarred trachea. He stirred, gaze pulled to the screens. “Cher … Matt,” he croaked. “Where the hell are we?”

  “Five miles from the oparea boundary,” Staurulakis murmured. When he glanced over, her face was Wicked Witch green. For a moment he didn’t know if he was awake or still dreaming. Then realized she’d only changed the display; the emerald hue was from her terminal.

  Wenck again, murmuring close to his ear. The bright blue, off-kilter eyes glittered as if he were on some nonregulation chemical, but that was just Donnie. “We gotta talk a minute, Skip.”

  “Tell me what you’ve got, Donnie. It can’t be anything Commander
Staurulakis hasn’t heard before.”

  “Maybe so, maybe not. Over in the corner, okay?”

  Back in the dark under the comm status displays, Wenck bent to the scuttlebutt. It was seldom used now, since most of the crew bought bottled Aquafina from the soft-drink machines. The water came up under high pressure in a thin stream, almost a spray. He straightened, drops glittering on his cheeks, and wiped his mouth on one sleeve. A heavy book was clamped under his arm. “Sir, I’m reading the backroom chat. That missile hit Tel Aviv? You know they’re gonna react to that, right?”

  “That’s why we’re heading back south, Donnie. Wasn’t that message in your queue?”

  “Sir, don’t take this wrong, but by the time you zeros get shit through Radio, it is long past the sell-by date. Me and the Terror, we’re following the chatter on one of the Israeli nets. Got in through a back door. She’s crooked, that girl. Don’t let that quiet act spoof you.”

  “Who—Terranova? Are you serious, Donnie?”

  “Serious as shit. Since they approved coordination, we said, we gotta have some way to coordinate, right? Most of it’s in some other language, Israeli I guess, but they use English for the technical discussions, and we can see the numbers, and all the code’s in Ada. Like, when they’re talking about range-gate anomalies, or whatever—I guess Hebrew doesn’t have the words, or it’s easier because that’s what their Patriot manuals are printed in. Anyway, they got the heads-up. Counterstrike. Beth and me worked the target out from the ascent trajectory.”

  But before he could ask, the chief went on. “It’s Baghdad. Baghdad for Tel Aviv. Eye for an eye, I guess.”

  “What kind of missile? What’s the payload?”

  Wenck unelbowed the blue-backed copy of Jane’s Missile Systems Dan remembered seeing racked with the other CIC reference works. “What they call the Jericho. Like our old Pershing. One-ton warhead. Four-thousand-klick range. Nuclear or conventional warhead.”

  Dan ran his eye down the page. An idea was germinating. But he needed more data. “Couldn’t you ask them a question?”