The Command

by David Poyer

  The only answer he had was that they’d attacked to protect someone else. Someone who could be challenged, and stopped, and searched.

  The satellite phone beeped. Dan gave the staff officer on the other end a quick rundown. “You sank them both?” the voice said at last.

  “I returned fire. Hard kill on both hostile missiles. I then fired four RGM-84Cs on the shooters and observed impact. Both contacts have disappeared from the screen except for faint returns I evaluate as debris. Now proceeding to the point of impact.”

  He got a doubtful “Roger, out,” and slammed the phone back into its holder. It popped out again, impelled by the spring, and this time he let it dangle.

  The men were still waiting. He had to say something. “Good reaction, good work,” he said to them all. “Especially the Mark 86 and the Harpoon Targeting team. Herb, give the OOD a course and run us over where those missiles hit. We’ll see if there’s anybody in the water who can tell us what this was all about.”

  But Camill was looking up from the big scope again, puzzlement clear in his furrowed brow. “What is it?” Dan asked him.

  “That third contact,” the ops officer said. “It’s still on the scope.”

  “What third contact?”

  “The one you told me to check for. Out behind them.”

  Dan slid out of his chair.

  The radar return was faint. It was probably either smaller or lower than the Osas. When he put the ESM operators on its bearing, they picked up a weak emission on a VHF band. When they put it on the speaker, it sounded like Arabic. But by the time they got a translator to Combat, the transmission had ceased. The bands hissed like an empty conch shell.

  “Give them a call,” he told Camill.

  “Unidentified craft, this is U.S. Navy warship. Identify yourself.”

  No response. They called again, then put Barkhat on. No one answered him, either. One of the trackers reported the contact was coming right. After a smooth wide turn, it steadied up. Running its new course out, Dan saw it was heading for Egyptian territorial waters. Where neither he nor any other U.S. unit could follow. From there it could merge back into the coastal traffic and vanish.

  What could it have aboard so valuable men would kill and die to protect it?

  “Sir, are we headed over where the Osas went down?”

  “No,” he told Camill. “Get Brinegar on the line. Vector Moosbrugger over there to pick up any survivors. If this is what I think it is, I’m not letting this guy go.”

  32

  HE could have intercepted in under an hour at flank speed. But he didn’t want to go in blind, at night. So for the remainder of the hours of darkness he paralleled the third contact’s slow course, remaining some miles to the north. Updating Vigilant Dragon every half hour, and each time requesting permission to cross the line, if necessary, in hot pursuit. Permission denied, permission denied. At first he took it calmly. After almost getting hammered with Styxes, he was just glad to be alive. Then, as the distance separating the fleeing craft from safe haven shrank, he started to heat up.

  At the first sign of dawn he launched Richardson and Conden in Blade Slinger and vectored them southward.

  As the light grew over the sea, they made a long-range pass, then checked the fleeing contact out from a mile away. Finally the aircraft made a low pass. They reported a trawler-type with two men on deck waving.

  Listening in Combat, Dan had a moment of doubt. Was the attack by the Osas unrelated? Coincidental? No, the tactic, the offensive, had to have been meant to protect this innocent-looking craft.

  He couldn’t help recalling the dhow attack. It had looked innocent, too. Built around a small craft. They’d never have suspected a thing, if Ar-Rahim hadn’t blown the whistle from shoreside. This could be the same tactic. Maybe even the same organization.

  His phone, by his chair. “Skipper.”

  “Sir, XO here.”

  “Claudia?”

  “We need a decision about breakfast.”

  Horn was still at general quarters, though he’d let the men relax on station. Where there’d been two hostile Osas, there might be more. But it had been hours now. He said reluctantly, “All right, secure. I want to stay at condition three on the bridge and Combat, though.”

  When the word came over the 1MC, the crew began stretching and stripping off their helmets. Dan sat brooding. Blade Slinger reported another low pass, crew still waving on deck. Estimated speed twelve. Richardson said it was pushing a bow wave. Twelve was probably as fast as it could go.

  Which Dan thought strange for a fishing boat. The others had tacked and veered at low speeds, seeking their piscine prey. He went back to the chart table. Camill stood by silently.

  “So where’s he going now? A straight course, top speed?”

  “Home?”

  “You think so?”

  “You know what I wonder,” Camill said.

  “What?”

  “Not where he’s going now. Where he was headed before.”

  Dan cursed himself. He should have thought of that. He headed for the chart of the eastern Med, rolled out and taped down. Called back, “Read me off the first detected position, backtracking on the JOTS.”

  He plotted it. Ran a straight line from the posit Camill read off.

  Straightened, feeling a chilled knife-edge trace his spine. “You seeing what I’m seeing, Camel?”

  “Yessir, sure am. They were running straight for Tel Aviv, till we got in their way.”

  He picked up the sat phone once more. Now he was going to have to explain he’d sent his embarked helo into the standoff zone dividing his patrol area from Egyptian waters. And that Horn herself would be leaving her patrol area in the next few minutes. This time he asked to speak to Vigilant Dragon actual. An older, more deliberate voice came on.

  “Sir, Lenson here, CO Horn. I’m still seeking guidance as to what to do about this contact we picked up last night. The one I think the Osas who fired on me were running interference for. The one that was headed for Tel Aviv, until we intercepted it.”

  “Haven’t you been told to track and trail?”

  “Yes, sir, but that’s not going to be viable much longer. We’re closing in on Egyptian waters. Sir—”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m assuming whatever this guy is, he’s what this whole operation was set up to catch. Some nasty package intended for Israel. So what is he?”

  “We’re contacting the Egyptian navy. This is an Egyptian national matter.”

  “Do they have units en route? We’re not seeing any on the scope.” Dan gave him a moment to reply, then when he didn’t, keyed again. “Sir, two more questions on that. One: what if those were Egyptian Osas? Two: whether they were or not, if it’s important enough for somebody to sacrifice two missile units for, do we really want the Egyptians to have it?”

  Silence on the other end. Finally the admiral said, “We’re seeking direction from NCA now.”

  NCA was National Command Authority, the White House and the National Security Advisor staff. Dan said, “Sir, we can’t sit on our hands much longer. Once they get in among the coastwise traffic, they’re gone. If it’s dangerous … germs, or gas … maybe the wisest thing would be to sink it. Designate it to Bulldog, like we did the Osas.”

  The voice said that was out of the question. “Do not, repeat, do not launch on your contact. We’re working all the angles you’ve just touched on, Captain. Believe me. Just carry on with what you’re doing.”

  “Sir, we can’t hang fire on this waiting for orders. He’s making for the coast. Do you want me to board and search? Light him up? Follow him across the line? I’ve got to have a decision soon.”

  “I told you. Track and trail. Otherwise, no action.”

  Dan thought about telling him he had his helo over the suspect, then decided not to. Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. He signed off and called Richardson, got a better description of the boat. It didn’t sound that large.
>
  What could it be carrying? A fugitive? Some fleeing political figure? No, he’d have been safer without the escort. It had to be a weapon of some sort. Explosives, like on the dhow? Or something less conventional? He wondered if this was the waterborne biological attack everybody had talked about so long. A small craft motoring along the coast at night, dispensing aerosolized anthrax to blow inland. Certainly Israel would make the perfect target.

  And meanwhile, with each mile, they were getting closer to escape. He started to tell Camill to get the interpreter back up, give the boat another call. But they hadn’t answered before. Only churned onward, toward the invisible line that would shelter them.

  He was tempted to leave it. Be the good little commander. Do just what he was told. But Nick Niles was right. Dan Lenson had never operated that way. He had to second-guess everything. He’d never accepted an order without wondering why. And that skeptical voice didn’t just question others. It doubted him, too; questioned everything he did, and everything he thought was right.

  That simply, he made up his mind. At worst, he’d annoy some fishermen, lose his command, and forget about being promoted ever again. At best, he could stop a boatload of terrorists. Maybe even bring them to trial.

  He told Camill, “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. The ship stays just outside the line. But we call away Gold Team for a helo boarding.”

  “A helo boarding, sir?”

  “They’re used to seeing it over them by now. Chief Marchetti can do a fast-rope or rappel down. Then we’ll figure out what we’ve got and what to do about it.”

  “You’re sure about that, sir? I don’t think that’s what Vigilant Dragon has in mind.”

  “He can’t order me to cross into territorial waters, Herb.”

  “He can’t?”

  “Well, I guess he could. But he’s not going to, because that’d be illegal. See?”

  “Okay… so …”

  “But it has to be done. So, I’ll do it. At least, put the helo across.”

  “They’re not going to like it, sir.”

  “That’s why they call it command, Ops,” he said, trying to make it light, though he felt anything but. He kept remembering how they’d forbidden him to defend himself in Manama Harbor. He’d acquiesced, pulled his men and his weapons back aboard. And came damn close to losing a lot of people and maybe his ship.

  This time, he’d do what he felt was right.

  MARTY was pulling out his chair in the chiefs’ mess when the 1MC shrilled ‘Attention.’ Then, “Now away the visit, boarding, and search team, away. Gold Team, provide. Deck division stand by to hoist out the starboard RHIB.”

  The chiefs stared at him. “Your song, Machete.”

  “Son of a bitch.” He grabbed a fistful of toast off Andrews’s plate and stuffed it into his maw, swung his leg over the back of the chair. Then froze as the 1MC crackled again.

  “Belay my last…”

  “Shit, why can’t they make up their fucking—”

  “Now away the visit, boarding, and search team, away. Gold Team, provide. Flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands man your flight quarters stations. Stand by to receive Blade Slinger One-Niner-One. No hats are to be worn on the weather decks. No eating, drinking, or smoking is permitted aft of frame 292. Stow all loose gear inside the skin of the ship. All unauthorized personnel stand clear aft of frame 292. Now flight quarters.”

  Still cursing, he was out the door in three strides.

  “ONE-Niner-One on deck.”

  “Very well,” Dan said. In the minutes since he’d given the order to call away the boarding team, he’d realized he hadn’t gone far enough, thought the situation through. He couldn’t send the boarding team over without Horn backing them up. They didn’t have night to cover them, or fog, or much in the way of weapons except the door gun. He wasn’t going to leave them out there alone again, like he had with the smuggler. Whoever was conning the trawler needed to see a warship on the horizon when the aircraft made its approach. So he’d just have to cross the line, violate territorial waters, and take whatever consequences followed. He reached up for the 21MC. “Bridge, CO: once we secure from flight quarters, come right and head for track 2385. He bears—”

  “One-five-five, twelve miles,” Camill said from the JOTS.

  “One-five-five, twelve miles. Do your mo-board for a flank-speed intercept and be ready to kick around as soon as One-Niner-One lifts.”

  He got a roger back and reached for the phone. He wasn’t supposed to do this. He was going to, okay, but he wasn’t going to hide it under any bushels. If they ordered him back, it’d be time to think it over.

  “Vigilant Dragon, this is Blade Runner.”

  “Dragon, over.”

  “One-Niner-One clear of the deck,” said the 21MC. Faintly through Horn’s metal Dan heard the zooming whine of the helo’s turbines as she tilted past, going out. The deck began to slant as the OOD put the rudder over to follow her.

  “This is Blade Runner. Unless otherwise directed, I’m going in after this guy at this time. I’ll report back what I find out.”

  When he didn’t hear anything back but empty air, he smiled sardonically at Camill. Clicked the transmit button twice, and socketed the handset so hard that, this time, it stayed put.

  THE Gold Team was mustering when Marchetti ran up the ladder. He didn’t have coveralls on, just regular khakis, but there wasn’t time to change. Goldstine slammed his Mossberg into one hand, his .45 into the other, looped the ammo pouch stenciled MACHETE over his neck. He slung the shotgun and stuck the pistol in his belt. The gunner’s mate dumped an extra handful of shells in his hand, and he moved on. In the hangar he caught the harness Cassidy threw, started strapping it on. No life vests: they caught in the rappelling gear.

  “What is it this time, sir?”

  “Droppin’ on a trawler. Skipper thinks, maybe some of the bastards tried to get us in Manama.”

  “Droppin’ on a hot LZ!” said Lizard Man, eyebrows peaking. “Cool.”

  “You guys see anybody with a weapon, take him out,” Cassidy said. He looked at Marchetti. “That’s your line, isn’t it?”

  “It sounds okay from you, sir.” They looked at each other, and for a moment there Marchetti wondered what had happened to the old Cassidy, the scared young ensign. Now he had a Battle Face, too, the mask you dropped over your real self when it was time to load up. He turned back to the team. “You melonheads spring-loaded? Check your buddy. Descenders! ’Beeners! Empty chambers, mags tight! Don’t forget your gloves. That rope’s gonna hurt if you do!”

  They gave him thumbs, good to go. He heard the distant clatter of helo blades, and his pulse started to pound. They’d practiced insertions, but he couldn’t say they were hot shit on them. Crack Man, Sasquatch, Lizard, Snack Cake, Deuce, Showboat, Spider Woman. He went down the line, checking boots and weapons and harnesses. When he came to Wilson he stopped.

  “You ain’t gonna give me any shit this time,” she snapped, before he could say anything at all.

  “Who—me?”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I just was gonna say this might be a little rough today.”

  “I can rappel as well as you can, asshole.”

  “Cranials!” one of the squadron guys bawled, handing them out. Marchetti snatched off his cap, tucked it into a pocket. So did Wilson.

  “Okay, okay, I just wanted to say if you don’t—” Looking at her slit-ted squint, he decided to save his breath. “Ah, fuck it, never mind.”

  The howl of engines ate through the hangar door, devoured the hot, close air. He pulled the cranial on, and the din became a muffled Niagara. Cassidy hung up the phone and gave him the go signal. He bent for the static line and slung the coil over his shoulder. “Gold! Follow me.”

  Open air, blinding sun, buffeting wind, the smell of hot kerosene and a turbine-scream deafening even through the ear protection. A red-vested crewman stood under the shining roaring disk, right hand beckoni
ng, left pointing. Marchetti diagonaled across the flight deck and took a brace by the sliding door, helping the guys in when their gear hung up or their boots slipped. Rolling in last, he crammed himself and the coil of static line into the final cubic inches of space. The crewman slid the door shut, scraping his back. Then they were all heavy, the deck pressing against their backsides, and he saw the ship falling away, a blue slanted sea rotate in to take its place.

  There wasn’t a lot of room in a sixty. The guys were on each other’s laps. But climbing the sunlight, he suddenly knew this was as good as it got. A hammering roar in his ears, a gun in his hand, the smell of hot metal and oil and men. If these were the same assholes who’d tried to get them in Bahrain, he wanted another crack at them. He knew the guys did, too. The only problem was, one of them had his ass right in his face. He shoved at it.

  Wilson looked around, grinned, and let one rip. He could smell it even through everything else. “You lousy bitch,” he yelled into the overwhelming sound.

  He had to read her lips to hear “Fuck you.”

  TO give himself a few seconds grace if the officer in tactical command called back with another “permission denied,” Dan told Camill he was going topside. Swung down with relief—he’d been in Combat almost nonstop all night and all day before—and jogged up the ladder, up to the pilothouse.

  Sunlight, warmth, shining space. The whistle of wind. The clack of a Browning bolt seating out on the wing. Horn was driving over three-foot seas like a big Peterbilt down a new interstate. He took a deep breath of air that wasn’t filtered and cooled and rubbed the bristly prickle on his chin. Alive, damn it. For a few seconds last night, when that second Styx had swung back toward them, he hadn’t been sure any of them were going to see the sun again. Yerega shouted, “Captain on the bridge.” Claudia Hotchkiss started to slide out of her chair on the port side. Dan pushed his hand down, telling her to stay where she was. He asked the officer of the deck, “Range to—what are you calling it? Roughly ten miles, bearing about one-five-five?”