by Tom Kratman
"Roger," Morales agreed, then headed for the bottom. Antoniewicz followed.
It took three more dives and as many different search patterns before Eeyore's monocular caught the faint glow emanating from the viewport of the Namu. He swam over to investigate. Namu was lying upright. He could see by the dim glow that the lights inside were still on. Through the viewport he saw Simmons slumped against one side of the tower. He thought, but couldn't be sure, that the sub driver was still breathing.
A series on knocks on the viewport failed to rouse the man. Antoniewicz thought, Well, he's in for a sudden, unexpected shower.
Eeyore swam upward a bit, then put his legs to either side of the tower to brace himself. For a few moments he hyperventilated to ensure he'd have enough oxygen when his put his mouthpiece into Simmons's mouth. Satisfied with that, he put his hands in different positions on the smaller, exterior wheel for the sub's hatch, being careful to take positions that wouldn't break his wrists when the hatch shot open, as he expected it to. He twisted, or tried to. Nothing. Again, he sucked air, then put everything he had into twisting the wheel.
Come on, you son of a bitch.
He was rewarded with the sudden springing open of the hatch, followed by a massive air bubble that shot to the surface. He waited a couple of seconds for the bubble to clear, then lunged to a point above the now open hatch. Simmons' head was there, clear of the hatch. He wasn't moving.
Eeyore reached down and grabbed his teammate by the nearest things he could get a grip on, the ears. Again he pulled, this time putting his back into it. Simmons' torso cleared the hatch. Now Antoniewicz could reposition to get a one-armed grip under the arms. With that grip secured, he used his other hand to remove his own mouthpiece and force it into Simmons' mouth. He squeezed once, and then again, to get Simmons' lungs to pump air. Then, legs kicking for all he was worth, Eeyore shot the two of them upward. It wasn't really deep enough to have to worry about the bends.
Simmons was still out of it once they reached the surface. Antoniewicz took some comfort that he was still breathing. He held the unconscious man's head above water while waiting for Morales to show up to spell him.
"Thank God," were Morales's first words once his head broke the surface. "Now what?"
"Remember those few fishing boats that were floating away from the dock in the outer harbor?" Eeyore asked.
"Yeah. So?"
"Well, we're going to take him there. Then we're going to steal a boat."
"You mean a rowboat? I don't think that will work."
"No," Eeyore shook his head. "We're going to rest a bit then steal a power boat."
"But they're all mined, bubba," Morales objected.
"Nope," Antoniewicz countered. "One of them isn't."
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Myself, I don't take any chances.
I talk to Mohammad, to Buddha, to Mr. Jesus H.Christ,
or any other religious honchos I can come up with.
-R. Lee Ermey speaking, The Siege of Firebase Gloria
D-Day, MV Merciful, forty miles
north of Bandar Cisman, Ophir
Phillie showered mechanically, on autopilot, washing away the speckled gore from her assistance in the operating room. She didn't want to think about the emergency surgery, the spraying arterial blood, the desperate and frantic work of the surgeons as they tried, desperately but vainly, to save the life of the injured pilot. She just wanted to be clean, to eliminate any traces of the death, and then go to her cot and cry herself to sleep.
Stauer was waiting for her as she robotted her towel-wrapped way from the showers. His arms were folded and he was leaning against a bulkhead.
"Sorry it took so long to find you," Stauer said. "I had to go over some hymns with the chaplain. That ran overtime. Then after someone from medical found me and told me, I stopped by the girls' medical barracks container. It was hard to get a word in edgewise, what with all the Romanian weeping. Eventually one of your girls told me I'd find you here."
She stopped in surprise as soon as she saw and heard him. He seemed so calm and, frankly, unconcerned that she felt a momentary flash of anger. "It doesn't bother you that one of your people was killed?" she snapped.
Stauer shook his head. "Not especially. It's part of the business. If you're going to be in this business, and have any business being in this business, then you have to accept that death is the cost of doing business." He smiled, slightly, adding, "You also have to accept that sometimes people will say really fucking redundant things like that, too."
"I don't know that I have any business in this business," she retorted.
Stauer shrugged, but asked, "Didn't you ever lose anybody in ER?"
"Sure," Phillie answered. "All the time. But I never had any connection to any of them. They weren't coworkers, friends . . . well, neither was the dead pilot; I didn't really know him. But he was . . . "
She stopped for a moment, confused.
Again, Stauer smiled. "If someone becomes important to you merely because he's a member of the organization you're a part of, Phillie, then you do have a place in this business. About the dead . . . well, you try to minimize the risk and the numbers. But you have to accept that it's going to happen.
"Frankly, I'm a lot more concerned about not having contact with our team of trained pinnipeds."
She gave him a very confused look. "Pinnipeds?"
"SEALs. The people on the minisub. They should have been done and contacted us by now. Not a word."
"Come on," he said, with a twist of his head. "I'll buy you a drink before the memorial service."
"Memorial service?"
"Sure," he replied. "Just because we accept death as part of the cost of doing business doesn't mean we like it, or that we don't owe something to the dead."
The ship had an open area, roughly thirty meters by forty-five, so far down into the ship it was almost out of the ship. The deck was PSP, held up by the containers underneath it. Sternward and forward, it was framed by containers with single width gaps leading to the superstructure, to the rear, and other containers of various function toward the bow. Several of these containers served as galleys for the unit. Still others were part of the command apparatus. The area itself served in turn as mess and briefing-cum-planning room.
This far down, the natural roll of the ship was so muted as to be almost imperceptible to anyone who had spent any time higher up. Indeed, the sailors who had been aboard for three months or more with nary a break swayed themselves in time with what motion there was, but their swaying seemed exaggerated, as if some internal mechanism had adjusted itself to a greater motion, and couldn't adjust back in time.
Chaplain Wilson had set up a temporary chapel in the area, the maps and sand tables, as well as the dining tables, all being carried off to the sides. He stood now toward the bow, in battle dress adorned with a clerical collar.
Stauer was the first in, followed by Phillie and the staff. Along the starboard side flowed in the mechanized company, behind their leader, Reilly. The Marines, Cazz leading, filed in on the port. Behind Phillie more men, the naval, aviation, and headquarters companies filtered in, staying as much together as possible. Ahead of them, on a sheet hanging down, were projected the words of an old and famous hymn.
Wilson glanced at his organist, seated before the small field organ the chaplain had brought with him to Brazil. The organist-Phillie thought he was from the Marine company-nodded and began to play. She recognized the tune. Even if she hadn't, the words sung by-yes, she looked around and checked-every man and woman present that she could see, ringing off of hull and bulkhead and shipping container would have told her the title:
"Praise to the Lord, the Almighty,
the King of Creation!
Oh, my soul praise Him for he is
thy health and salvation!"
Phillie thought she detected at least one voice singing in Spanish and looked behind her. Sure enough, there were several of the Mexicans, covered in g
rease and looking inexpressibly tired. Yet from their lips she could make out the words:
"O, despertad arpa y salterio! Entonad
"Himnos de honor y victoria!"
On a hunch, Phillie continued searching out the people behind her. There, not far from the Mexicans, surrounded by his engineer section, Matthias Nagy, the German, sang:
"Lobe den Herren, der alles so herrlich regieret,
Der dich auf flügeln des Adelers sicher geühret!"
On the chance, she glanced to Reilly, who was singing in English. Sure as crap, next to him was his Israeli girl. Phillie couldn't tell at all what words the Jew was singing, but assumed it was the same song (in fact, it wasn't, though the armored car commander was singing the psalm that had inspired the hymn).
This is too weird. At least the half dozen Moslems . . . hmmm? She looked. No, they weren't singing. On the other hand, each of them had his eyes closed, arms folded across chests, and was rocking head and body side to side in time with the music.
Phillie looked front and finally stumbled through the singing. She was of a younger generation and her church was more likely to indulge in modern things, or older ones set to modern music, than in the more traditional hymns. After a couple more verses she saw that the chaplain had raised his arms heavenward.
"Let the ‘Amen,' sound from his people again!"
Still singing, Phillie looked as Stauer and saw something she'd never have imagined as possible. Tears were coursing down her lover's face.
"Gladly forever adore Him!"
Chaplain Wilson dropped his hands. The organ gave its subtle signal and the singing stopped.
"Brothers and Sisters in the Lord . . . "
McCaverty had asked to do the eulogy himself. Since it seemed important, Stauer had let him go ahead. When he was finished, Stauer took his place and began to speak.
"Boys," he said, while thinking, It's really bizarre to be calling a collection of mostly forty and fifty-year olds "boys." "Boys, so far, with one significant exception, so good. The team to take out what passes for an Ophiri Air Force is in position. Welch's team is in position. The Russians are in position. Just after nightfall, we'll be in position to begin launching.
"The exception, though, is Biggus Dickus' crew, under Antoniewicz, we sent by Namu, the killer minisub, to mine the boats at Bandar Qassim. They may be fine, and their radio down. They may have completed their mission and just not be able to tell us. Unfortunately, we can't take the risk that they might have sunk before they ever got on station. Or been compromised. Or had engine trouble. Or any of a hundred other possibilities.
"How does this change things? Good question; glad you asked. We've got to ensure that the boats at Bandar Qassim don't come after us. So we're going to take one light airplane off the strike we planned for Bandar Cisman, and one from the medevac duty, arm the ex-medevac and send those two north to shoot up the boats at Bandar Qassim."
Stauer gave a truly wicked smile. "Yes, as a matter of fact that does mean you should try fifty percent harder not to get your ass shot, since it'll be fifty percent harder to get you back here."
"And now, gentlemen . . . " Stauer glanced at the organist.
"Mine eyes have seen the
glory of the coming of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage . . . "
"What was that about, Wes?" Phillie asked as the conclave filed back to their duties.
"What was what about?"
"That whole thing with the hymn. There were foreigners singing: Jews, Huns . . . there were even neopagans, two of them to my certain knowledge, singing an old Christian hymn. And you? I've never seen you cry over anything. But you cried over that."
Stauer tried to brush off her question by saying, "It was just the beauty of the moment." She wasn't buying it. He continued, "Well, it was . . . but it was more than that, too. Those couple of neopagans weren't singing to God, New Testament or Old; they were singing to the rest of us. And the rest of us . . . this is the last time all of us are going to be together in this life."
Phillie shook her head. Stauer couldn't tell if that was lack of understanding or full understanding overborne by denial. He guessed the latter.
His shoulder heaved with a weary sigh. "In a few hours, hon, we begin landing. By this time two days from now, not everyone who's here with us will be on Earth at all. This was our last time in this life for us all to be together. That's what made the moment so beautiful and sad. That's why Jew and Pagan sang Christian hymn, why Russian and German sang together. We were singing, each of us, to each other, saying, ‘Comrades, we're together.'"
As if to punctuate, one of the former Marines began singing a new song:
"Michael row the boat ashore."
To which even the mechanized infantry replied, en masse. In that small space, low ceilinged and surrounded by metal, their voices caused the containers, the flooring, and even the hull to vibrate: "HALLELUJAH!"
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
They that go down to the sea in ships,
that do business in great waters.
-107th Psalm, King James Version
D Day, MV Merciful, North of Bandar Cisman, Ophir
A hot wind, carrying its share of dust, blew from the stern to the bow. On the port side, four of the six Elands the LCM's could carry were loaded, while Mrs. Liu gently lowered a fifth down. Infantry and crew either crawled down nets or, in the case of the middle LCM, used the same loading ramp they'd come aboard on. Starboard, the former Marines, much as their grandfathers and great-grandfathers had before them, climbed down stout netting to boats rising and falling with the waters. They had it both better and worse than their progenitors, however. It was better in that there was precisely no reason to expect a hostile reception right at the shore. It was worse in that the boats that were to carry them to land were simple inflated rubber craft, with small, quiet engines. It was also somewhat better in that Chin's people had built from scratch a number of floating platforms that bumped and ground against the hull but that also provided something of a safety backup should a man lose his grip on the netting and fall. The floats had the additional advantage of allowing an easier boarding of small boats that were not normally terribly easy to board.
Chin's patrol boat, The Drunken Bastard, sat with its engines more or less quietly idling between the ship and the shore.
While some of the amphibians loaded the boats, and others climbed down the netting, the remainder stood in lines topside for their turn to debark. A few of them coughed, from time to time, whether from diesel fumes, or from the dust, or from a combination of those.
Behind those, near to the ship's superstructure, waited the light STOL aircraft. There were six of these, as the Mexicans had managed to patch one together from the scraps of two. Those same Mexicans now saw to arming four of those with a mix of unguided rockets and machine guns. The other two would fly almost unarmed, and solely to retrieve any wounded from the impending action. These weren't marked for medevac, but at least they weren't plainly armed to the teeth. (Though they did carry a side mounted machine gun, just in case.) The medevac birds had floats that were also wheeled, to allow landing on water or on the flight deck.
Behind the aircraft, though forward of where the helicopters waited, Stauer watched the proceedings from the glassed-in bridge. Being there, remaining on the ship, was a tough call. Yet it was the critical node, the locus of the most critical events, and the site with the greatest probability of cascading failure.
So here I'm stuck, he fumed. Doing my job . . . worrying.
Down in the Tactical Operations Center, just off the central meeting, planning, and dining area, Biggus Dickus, worried sick about his missing team, would have sympathized. Under the circumstances, however, he didn't have a lot of sympathy for someone as stuck on the ship and away from the action as he was . . . especially when he had three men missing.
And still worse, Biggus Dickus Thornton fumed, I'm totally unnecessary here. Hmmm . . . I wonder.
D-Day, Bandar Qassim, Ophir
While he hadn't seemed to suffer any permanent damage as a result of oxygen deprivation, Simmons was certainly the worse for wear, weak and still disoriented. He tended to fade in and out quite a lot, too. This hadn't been helped any by spending a long day in a small boat in a harbor altogether too close to the equator . . . without potable water.
He lay in the boat now, conscious if not a lot more than that, while Antoniewicz and Morales paddled the little craft toward the outer jetty where the pirate vessel of the night before had docked. They didn't know why it had docked where it had-perhaps the captain had simply taken the first available berth for fear of engine failure if he'd gone another yard. Or maybe it was the boat's normal docking station. Insects swarmed a light that hung well above the boat, illuminating it, a portion of the jetty and the surrounding water.
"Or maybe they were lazy," said Eeyore to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "Or wanted to get out to sea again quickly. Or it's just dumb luck."
"What's that?" Morales asked. He shook his head a little to clear it, wondering if the long unprotected day in the sun had affected his mind.
"I was wondering if it was just dumb luck that the boat we want is where we can get at it without having to risk the inner harbor."
"Dunno," Morales said. "You bitching about it?"
"Not really. We deserve some luck, after all."
"Maybe the harbor was just too full," Morales offered. "It's not like there was a lot of space between hulls when we were mining them."
