by David Poyer
“They wanted to load in a specified order given the cell layout. Said it might not get the 4As in first, but it’d be faster overall. I gave them the okay.”
“All right, we’ll let that stand.” He checked the TAG Heuer Blair had given him as a wedding gift. “We set up for dinner? Got the word, the commodore’ll be here?”
“Yessir, they’re setting up in the unit commander’s cabin.”
“That’s the suite?” Blair asked.
Staurulakis nodded. Dan told her, “Make sure the bed gets made up. The commodore will probably stay over.”
* * *
AS dusk fell the First Division rigged floodlights and the Tiger Team worked on. After he got Blair settled with a cup of coffee and the CNN feed in his in-port cabin, and scanned his e-mail, he went aft to check on the rearming.
The vertical launch system magazines had no launcher. Or, rather, each cell was its own, with the missile boosting vertically until it cleared the ship, then arching over to its departure azimuth. The upside was that a launcher casualty didn’t put you out of business at a ticklish time. The downside was that rearming was slower than with the older systems, and required a crane, which meant you couldn’t rearm at sea. Each of the square gray stenciled canisters that housed the missiles had to be poised above its cell, cables connected, connections tested, then lowered, very carefully, so as not to bend the loading rails.
He crossed the afterdeck to the open module. The coveralled, hard-hatted civilian technicians nodded. He waved back and looked down as gulls circled, crying out in the failing light. Forty feet, two levels down, nearly to the bilge. A narrow catwalk halfway down gave the gunners’ mates access to the canisters. A stench of burned insulation and propellant welled up. When a missile had shorted out and lit off, he’d had to flood an entire eight-round module, ruining a few million dollars’ worth of weapons. But if the others engines had ignited—or, worse yet, the blazing-hot exhaust flame had set off their high-energy warheads—there wouldn’t have been much left of USS Savo Island.
Chief Angel Quincoches saw him and ambled over. In charge of the VLS, he’d been first to go in after the fire. Dan returned his salute. “Chief.”
“Captain.”
“These guys on the ball?”
“We checked behind them as they got the new cables and control units in. One set of control units had to be replaced again. Defective from the factory, far’s we could tell.” The chief petty officer checked his watch. “Been problems with the crane, too. A bent sheave.”
“Fixed now?”
“That’s what they tell me. Sir.”
“Keep ’em moving. The commodore’s coming aboard tonight. We might get orders. Are we checking the hatches, the hatch components, gaskets?” They were one of the biggest failure items.
The senior enlisted nodded, short, as if Dan shouldn’t have had to ask.
“What are we ending up with, loadout-wise?” He knew the numbers by heart, having thrashed it out in midnight sessions with the exec and the strike and weapons officers, with input from the squadron weapons officer, the type commander, and the COMNAVSURFLANT Ballistic Missile Defense Readiness Office. But it never hurt to make sure you were getting what you expected. Especially the way tensions were running up with Iran and Pakistan, and China now, too. There’d been something on CNN moments ago, about massive capital outflows from that country.
“New totals aft are twenty-four of the new RIM-162s, four Tomahawks, and four regular SM-2 Standards. Twelve new Block 4A rounds total: two in the forward cells, ten aft.”
Dan nodded. They’d left the States with only four of the experimental rounds, which he’d expended in two engagements. The Combat Systems Weapon Inventory screen in CIC loomed in his nightmares, counting down as whatever dream-battle he was fighting progressed. Until he was left with zeros, and cruise missiles incoming, and he’d wake shaking and sweating.
He didn’t need imagination to guess what would happen then. He’d seen it, aboard USS Horn, and Reynolds Ryan, and Turner Van Zandt.
He didn’t want his name associated with another disaster. Not because of his career. That was over, after this tour. Especially after what Blair had said about congressional interest. He just didn’t want more corpses on his conscience.
The chief corpsman, “Doc” Grissett, was leaning against the bulkhead in the passageway outside the unit commander’s cabin. “You asked for a report on our cleanup, Skipper. We replaced all the air filters and disinfected all the ventilation ducts we could reach.”
“Is that going to solve our problem?” Savo had been plagued by a flulike illness among the crew, especially in forward weapons berthing, though there’d been cases throughout the ship. One seaman had died in his bunk. They’d shipped the body back to Bethesda, but the cultures had been inconclusive.
“Hope so, sir. Scrubbed out with bleach.”
The 1MC bonged. One, two; three, four; five, six bells. That would be Jenn Roald. He spun on his heel and headed for the quarterdeck, conscious, too late, that he was still in civvies.
* * *
THE unit commander’s stateroom was actually a small suite, first a large room with desk, terminal, and table, then a smaller bedroom, with a compact head and shower aft of that. On the rare occasions when an officer senior to the commanding officer was aboard, he operated out of here.
Or she, as was the case tonight. Fine-boned, thin-faced, Jennifer Roald held a cup of punch at the table, which was spread with white linen. To his relief, she was in civilian clothes too, a dark pantsuit that looked both dressy and as if she could inspect an engine room in it. He and Roald dated back to the West Wing, where she’d run the Situation Room. Now she commanded the squadron that Savo was, however loosely, attached to.
This was the first time he’d seen the silver service laid out. The old metal glowed with a soft light. The dishes were finer china than the heavy, thick wardroom settings. The food, though, would be straight from the crew’s mess—jerk chicken, steamed green beans, brown rice, butterscotch ice cream—laid out by CSSN Longley. Dan’s culinary specialist stood half at attention by the galley door, in a white jacket for once without food stains. The evening’s guests were Blair, in a green sequined one-shoulder sheath that sparkled as she moved; Cheryl Staurulakis; Commodore Roald; and Dr. William Noblos, the acerbic, nay-saying rider from the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Lab. Also, the commanding officer of Naval Station Souda Bay, Captain Nichols Blomqvist, and his opposite number on the Greek side, Captain Photios Stergiou, Hellenic Navy. They were in service dress blue. Stergiou handed over a bottle of wine with a smirk. Knowing, no doubt, that U.S. ships were dry. Dan thanked him and set it aside.
Circulating, he got involved in a discussion of the cracks in the superstructure with Blomqvist and Roald. Ticonderogas were aluminum from the main deck up, for lightness, but the whole class had been subject to cracks. His inspection had located two. “My welders tell me you’ll be ready to go in a day or two, Commodore, Captain,” the shipyard commander assured them. “Do you have sailing orders yet?”
Dan deferred to Roald, who murmured, “Expecting them any day.”
“Back to the protection-of-Israel mission?”
She glanced at Dan, who cleared his throat. “Um, actually, the Israelis seem to have a pretty good handle on the ABM role now. Iron Dome. Patriot, for the terminal phase. And their new Arrow system, for midcourse intercept.” He swirled his glass of alcohol-free pineapple-and-Sprite punch.
“So you might deploy elsewhere?”
The commodore sidestepped the question. Dan understood why; Blomqvist should’ve known better than to ask. Stationing of the Navy’s sole antiballistic missile asset was decided at the National Command level, Pentagon or West Wing. As his wife had pointed out that morning, it wasn’t just a military question anymore.
When he glanced around, Blair, on the settee, had crossed those long legs she was famous for. The Greek couldn’t look away. “And this lovely lady, she is spoken
for?… Oh, the captain’s wife. How unfortunate. I mean, for me.” He bent to kiss her hand. Blair shot Dan a mischievous smile over Stergiou’s bent back. He took a seat next to her, but spoke to Dan. “I understand you have a Greek exec.”
“That’s her over there, speaking to Dr. Noblos. Tall guy with white hair. Actually Staurulakis is her married name. She’s not Greek by birth.”
They were starting on the salad when someone tapped at the door. A face showed at the circular view port. Longley hesitated, glancing at Dan, who nodded.
It was the duty radioman—the rate was IT now, information technician, but everybody still called them radiomen—cradling a clipboard. Routine messages came over e-mail via the ship’s network. Important or time-sensitive ones got walked directly to the CO. Dan rose. “Excuse me, please.”
“Sir? There’s also a message for the commodore.”
“Both of us?” Roald got up too, smooth forehead furrowing.
In the passageway, door closed, the radioman handed each of them a clipboard. The same message, apparently, addressed to Roald as squadron commander, Dan as commanding officer.
After a moment Roald murmured, “Dan … I’m sorry.”
He sighed, finishing the terse sentences. Captain Daniel V. Lenson, United States Navy, was to turn over command of USS Savo Island and report as soon as possible to the CNO’s office in Washington. A flight would be scheduled from Akrotiri in a separate message.
The door cracked, eased open, and a shining blond head emerged. “Something important?”
“Blair. I’ve been, uh, ordered back to Washington.”
“Oh, no, Dan. No.”
Roald put her hand on his forearm, but didn’t say anything. He took a deep breath, fighting for control. “Guess I thought … but it’s not something I didn’t expect. Just figured it would happen faster. And when it didn’t … well, never mind.”
“I’ll get your … placeholder aboard tomorrow morning. We can helo him in,” Roald said. “But this doesn’t sound like a relief for cause, Dan.”
“It’s hard to tell,” Blair put in. She took Dan’s clipboard and squinted at it. “It doesn’t say, temporary or permanent?”
Roald shook her head. Dan took the clipboard back and read it again. The words didn’t change. Bitterness seeped in, but he quelled it, lifting his chin. “Anyway, it’s been a good command. A good ship.”
“You’re leaving her better than you found her,” Roald murmured. “And as far as I can see, you fought her beautifully. Maybe they just want to pick your brain about tactics.”
“They’d send somebody out to interview the Aegis team, or recall Bill Noblos, for that. I’m afraid … Oh well.” He jotted jerky initials and handed the clipboard back.
“Want me to help you pack?” Blair said.
“Not that much to get ready, actually.” Her dress threw green smears of light in the darkened passageway. He drew her close, then remembered where he was and let her go.
“I’ll get back to our guests,” Roald said. She handed her clipboard to the messenger, and opened the stateroom door. Murmured over one shoulder, “Let me know if you need anything. Just for the record … whatever happens in DC, your detachment fitness report from me will be two-blocked, Dan.”
“Thanks, Commodore.”
“Jenn. Make it Jenn.”
He nodded, something in his throat hinting he’d better not trust his voice. It was the first time he’d ever heard her say anything not strictly objective. Blair was still clinging to his arm. He cleared his throat. “Well … we can fly home together, I guess.”
“Actually, I think I’ll stay with my original reservation. Keep the room tonight, and fly back commercial Tuesday. It’s always a hassle, trying to deal with the military flights as a dependent.”
No, probably not that appealing, after being the equivalent of a three-star in the Department of Defense leadership. “Yeah,” he said unwillingly. “Okay. Whatever.”
“Do you want a moment?”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
Alone in the passageway, he braced his arms against the bulkhead, feeling through his bones the faint hum of a live ship. He’d barely gotten to know her. Her foibles, her capabilities, the little things that made her different from all the rest. Now someone else would sit on her bridge. It didn’t seem fair. As far as he could see, he’d made the only decision possible.
“Good-bye,” he told her, lips barely moving. Knowing it was sentimental, silly, talking to a mindless thing of metal and fuel and electronics as if it were alive.
Ridiculous, really.
But to a Navyman, it felt right.
I
THE DOCTRINE
2
Arlington, Virginia
HE took the Metro in. It was all right at first, but he had a bad moment coming off the subway up into the Mall. He’d expected security barriers, and there were more, but the gift shop and florist and candy store were still there, though the bookstore was gone. The bright lights were the same, and the wide, brightly lit, thronged corridors, filled with uniforms, nearly all hurrying, except for the civilian employees. Three men and a woman stood holding signs by the Taco Bell: the janitorial staff was on strike. Behind them trash was piled high, and shattered glass lay scattered across scuffed tiles.…
He started to shake, and felt like throwing up. Had to turn aside and stare into a storefront, pretending to be examining purses, while he got himself under control.
He’d left the Navy Command Center only seconds before Flight 77 had plowed into it. Had been standing in the first deck corridor, west, when a tremendous explosion had quaked the floor and blown all the overhead lights down in a spray of glass, plunging him into instantaneous darkness.
And after that fire, debris, screams, charred bodies under tottering walls. The howls and weeping of wandering, burned, blinded survivors. The stinks of jet fuel and burning insulation. And the smoke and toxics that even now threatened to close up his scarred trachea—
“Sir, you all right?”
A security guard was eyeing him. Dan coughed into his fist and swallowed. Took a long, slow breath. Another … He shook himself, nodded, and fished out his ID. Held up his arms as he was wanded. His briefcase was opened and inspected. Then he paced on in, past the nail salon, the flower shop, into the shining wide corridors once again.
* * *
HE had eggs and toast and weak coffee in the noisy cafeteria, but kept checking his watch. At 0730 he got up, leaving his copy of the Post for the next customer. His orders were to report to the CNO, but a phone call the night before had modified that to the director, Navy staff, a couple of rungs down the chop chain. He found the office easily. A receptionist seated him, but he didn’t actually get called in until 0820.
“Captain Lenson? Admiral Rongstad’s respects, and will you come in?”
The conference room was lined with blue-bound books that didn’t look as if they got used much. Two men in dress blues waited at the far end. Dan squared off and came to attention. “Captain Lenson, reporting as ordered.”
To his surprise, they both rose too. Then he remembered: the sky-blue ribbon with white stars that topped his decorations. “Take it easy, Dan. Grab a chair. Coffee?” The senior, a very tall, balding rear admiral with gaunt cheeks and a reasonable rack of ribbons himself, motioned to a carafe, a covered tray. “Had breakfast?”
Dan noted surface line wings, an Academy ring. “Yes sir, taken care of. Could use a cup of joe, though.”
“Help yourself. Admiral Niles was called out of town. Asked me to take care of you. Thanks for returning on such short notice.”
“Um—yes sir. It wasn’t exactly voluntary.”
“I understand. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We’ll try to answer your questions, if we can. I’m Malon Rongstad. I guess you don’t remember me, but we fought together once.”
“Is that right, sir?” Dan asked, shaking hands with him.
“Abu Musa? The night attack. Operati
on Nimble Dancer. You were Ben Shaker’s exec on Van Zandt, right?”
Dan nodded. A classic night surface raid with guns and torpedoes on a Pasdaran base. The frigate had hit a mine and gone down, and her crew had spent the night and the next day and the next night sliding up and down the Gulf with the tide, as the battle that had wiped out three-quarters of the Iranian navy and air force had roared over them. Every breath had been like drawing in superheated steam. The island had floated shimmering in the western sky. The captain had died, leaving him in charge of 115 men, helpless in the water … then the sharks had arrived. He shook that memory off, drew a breath. “You were aboard Adams?”
“Her exec. Hey, is it really true that you gave Stansfield Hart the finger that day you mustered your crew to go back?”
“Uh … it was juvenile. Uncalled-for. But you have to remember, we were all pretty wrung out. And we thought he’d forgotten us.”
The second officer, a hatchet-faced four-striper wearing the gold oak-leaf-and-grinding-wheel judge advocate general insignia on his dress blues, said, “There are quite a few Dan Lenson stories told in the fleet. Did you actually hang a murderer, in the China Sea? And get away with it?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever ‘gotten away’ with anything, Captain,” Dan told him. “If the full story ever gets told.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the captain took his hand. “Schulman.”
“Good to meet you, Captain Schulman.”
“And I remember something about you and Ben Shaker,” Rongstad said. “An unsettling story, actually. About that nuclear Asroc we used to carry. I always wondered about that—”
“Sea stories get embroidered.” Dan drank off the coffee. “That isn’t why I was recalled from command, is it? To catch up on sea stories?”
Rongstad seemed to stall out for a moment, then grimaced. “Okay, they said you were … blunt. One further question. Your exec. On Savo. He shot himself, right? Are there any loose ends from that?”
