by David Poyer
“I’m going down to talk to him. Let me know if anything comes over the net, or if these guys get too far out of formation.”
“Aye, sir.”
Lenson moved out on the port wing again. He leaned against the coaming, enjoying the clean bite of sun and wind on his face. Off their starboard beam, the tankers rolled along like elephants in a circus parade, spaced half a mile from stern to bow. Beyond them—square root of the sums of the legs, that’d be seven thousand yards—he could make out Gallery, a bone of foam in her teeth, sliding into station to the north.
Standing there, the wind brushing his wet hair, he thought for just a moment of what lay ahead.
The convoy, limited to the speed of the slowest ship and to deep-draft channels, would take four days to move up the gut of the Gulf. There would be danger the whole way, but it would peak at three points en route.
The first, of course, was Hormuz. Hiding in its incredible congestion, Iranian gunboats had operated on and off throughout the war from the base at Bandar Abbās. The United States had fought several small-scale actions with them. In each case, the Navy had come off the victor, destroying the smaller vessels or chasing them back under air and missile cover.
The second danger point was eighty miles on, where the shipping lanes passed Abu Musa. The barren little island was smack in the middle of the Gulf. Intelligence said the Pasdaran had fortified it. Occasionally, their small boats would ambush unescorted tankers or freighters with machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades. So far, none of their victims had sunk, but several had turned back, or limped into port with holes in their tanks or superstructures. And of course there were casualties and deaths.
A sudden clamor drew his eye back to the forecastle. Pensker and the missile techs were backing away. The warning bell rang steadily for ten seconds.
Suddenly the missile came to life. The launcher, quivering like a tensed muscle, whipped it to point left and right, up and down. Its speed and agility were frightening. Then it aimed straight up. The missile poised on its tail, gleaming in the sun, for perhaps two seconds before the blast-resistant hatch in the deck popped open. In less time than it took to blink, the twenty-foot weapon disappeared, whisked back within the hull like a conjurer’s trick. A blink later, hidden motors whined and another leapt up out of the magazine.
The bell died. The launcher quivered once more, suddenly lost its uncanny imitation of life, and returned to being metal and hydraulics. The techs picked up their buckets, scrub brushes, and test kits, and moved in again, like wary ministrants to a powerful and only partially tamed beast.
The wind brought him the smells of lubricants and electricity. Dan rested his elbows on the coaming as his mind returned to the transit.
The middle Gulf should be relatively safe. There were no islands, no Pasdaran bases, and it was too wide for cruise-missile targeting. The few destroyers and frigates left in the Iranian Navy seldom ventured out of port. The threat there would be mines, laid at night from coasters and commandeered fishing boats.
As they neared the end, though, the last hundred miles into Kuwait, they’d come into range of small boats and missiles from Farsi Island, another IRG base, and cruise missiles and aircraft from Bushehr. This last leg was the most dangerous of the voyage. Tankers carrying Iraqi crude from the offshore terminals at Khor el Amaya and Mina al Bakr were fair game for the Iranians, and Iraqi Mirages made frequent strikes at Cyrus terminal and Khārk Island.
Unfortunately, neither side could identify their targets very well. Iraqi aircraft had attacked Iraqi tankers, Iranians Iranian, and both sides had sunk and damaged neutral shipping. And that, of course, was why Kuwait had asked to participate in the American escorting program.
So far, Van Zandt had been lucky. Her previous convoys had gone through unscathed. Though there had been scares: unidentified boats at night, aircraft approaching them, objects in the water. He remembered a camel floating on its side, swollen like a full wineskin in the sun.
Thinking of that, he realized they hadn’t set the mine watch yet. He considered it, then decided they were still too far out. There’d be little enough rest for the men in the days ahead. Tonight would be soon enough, when they hit Hormuz.
Dan rubbed his eyes—there hadn’t been much sleep for him either since Manama—and looked forward again. The check was complete, apparently, and the foredeck was deserted. Then he saw it wasn’t. Up in the eyes of the ship, by the ground tackle, two khakied figures stood close together: Shaker and Pensker.
The JOOD’s binoculars were wedged beside him. He picked them up idly.
He was looking out at the lead tanker when he caught the two men at the corner of the field. He shifted focus to them for a moment. The black lieutenant was looking at his feet, his face attentive. The captain was looking steadily at him. His right hand gestured; turned over, palm up; then made a fist and tapped the other palm lightly.
It looked like the captain was reassuring him, trying to build up his confidence. Great, Dan thought, setting the glasses back in their holders. He was glad he could stop worrying about that. If Shaker had really been prejudiced … something like that could tear a ship, a crew, apart. He’d seen it happen before.
His mind moved on to the reams of paper building on his desk. Personnel matters, correspondence, required reports. He ought to put in some hours this afternoon. It was time to rough out their postdeployment operating schedule. He had to balance the operating funds. Two men had reported their allotments weren’t coming through. The squadron staff wanted hearing-conservation surveys, retention-program updates, and heat-stress reports. Third-class evals were due. Their 3-M report rejection rate was up to 20 percent and COMNAVSURFLANT wanted a letter explaining why.…
He sighed. He checked their course one last time, then left the sun and wind behind. Swinging down the ladder, he resigned himself once more to the gray steel honeycomb.
* * *
He jerked awake, a gong insistent in his ears. He’d been dreaming he was back at the Academy, late for noon formation. For a moment, he wasn’t sure which was real. Was he a lieutenant commander, fourteen years of active duty behind him, dreaming himself a raw youth? Or seventeen, dreaming himself thirty-five?
But this wasn’t his room in Fifth Batt. He was in his stateroom, he’d zonked out over the laundry report, and Van Zandt was going to general quarters.
But Shaker had said there’d be no more drills after convoy joinup.
The tally of jumpers and khakis dry-cleaned last month hit the deck as he leapt for the passageway. The words “General quarters, General quarters, no drill, air attack!” accelerated him into a sprint.
Combat was fully manned, though OSs were still passing around life jackets and knocking their masks into consoles. He blinked in the near dark and tried to hoist himself into his usual chair.
Blue light gleamed off silver oak leaves. “Get off my lap, XO,” Shaker snarled. “Lieutenant Wise! What’s he squawking?”
“No squawk, Captain.”
The gabble faded quickly as Dan shouted, “Keep it down, damn it! Make your reports and then maintain silence!” He swung around, stared at the air scope. They were just outside the Strait. The air picture showed confusion, scores of aircraft. Nothing showed over Iran, though.
Then he saw it.
A single pip had detached itself from the northward air route, heading for the center of the scope. Heading for Van Zandt. “No squawk” meant he was showing no electronic identification, neither civilian nor military, neither friend nor foe.
“What’s going on, Al?” he muttered.
The ops officer spoke in an undertone, his eyes still soldered to the scope. “Incoming plane. It left the Dhubai–Bandar Abbās commercial air route five minutes ago. It’ll be overhead in five. AWACs has no I.D. on it.”
“Does Gallery have it?”
“Wait one, I’ll ask him … what number track?”
“Thirteen forty,” said Chief Custer.
“No, t
hey just hold him incoming, unidentified.”
“Range,” said Shaker, his voice unhurried and even a little detached.
“Thirty-three miles, sir.”
“Warn him.”
Beside the captain, the radarman chief picked up the radio handset. He spoke slowly and distinctly. “Unidentified aircraft on course zero-two-zero, speed four hundred knots, altitude twelve thousand, you are approaching a U.S. Navy warship operating in international waters. Bearing zero-one-zero, range thirty miles from you. Request you identify yourself and state your intentions. Over.”
They waited, the room silent except for the soft rush of blowers and the distant whale song of the sonar. The speaker gave them back only a whining clatter of interference, distant bleedover voices in Arabic and Farsi.
“No answer, Captain.”
“Okay, cover TN thirteen forty,” said Shaker.
“Weps control,” shouted Wise. “Air target, bearing one-nine-zero. Load one Standard, range twenty-eight, fire on command, next round same. ECM, see if you can get a radar emission off him.”
A confused clamor as three men shouted at once.
“Trying, sir, nothing yet.”
“Mobile Bay calling us. They want to know if we hold the incoming.”
“Yes! Ask them to identify it.”
“They can’t. They’re alerting us to it.”
“He’s coming in silent,” said Shaker. Dan looked at him; he was bent over the air picture, his hands out to either side of the screen. In the green flicker his face was strangely peaceful, almost content. “Al, have we got a lock-on with STIR yet?”
“Yessir, locked on with Mark 92.”
The captain turned his head slightly, but his eyes stayed on the screen. “Dan, what do you think?”
Lenson took a deep breath. The pip was distinct now, emerging from the mountain clutter, still headed for them. The symbology showed it “Air Unknown.”
“It might be a passenger plane, sir. With its electronics down. That way, it wouldn’t radiate identification, wouldn’t have its radar going, wouldn’t respond to a radio call—”
“Or it could be a fighter pulling a fast one. He could tuck himself into the commercial stream over Bandar Abbās, cross the Gulf in the corridor, orbit over Dhubai, and come out of there headed for us. Completely silent so we and the Omani airspace authorities’d think just what you said. If he’s one of their F-14s, he may have a Maverick. Or iron bombs.”
Dan couldn’t say anything to that except “Yes, sir, he could.”
“He’s only at twelve thousand. Isn’t that low for an airliner?”
“He could be trying to find out where he is. If his radar’s out, he won’t know.”
Beside them, Custer was speaking again into the radio. “Unidentified aircraft on course zero-two-zero, speed four hundred knots, altitude twelve thousand, you are approaching a U.S. Navy warship bearing zero-one-one, range twenty miles from you. Your intentions are unclear. You are standing into danger and may be subject to United States defensive measures. Request—”
“What is all this legalistic bullshit?” shouted Shaker suddenly. “God damn it, I don’t care about the proper format. Tell him to alter course right now or I’ll shoot him down!”
“Unidentified aircraft: alter your course now to zero-nine-zero or I will shoot you down.”
Dan felt sweat break under his shirt. “If he’s a hostile, how would he know we were here?”
“They’ve got coastal radar. They know what our convoys look like.”
Dan picked up the spare handset and dialed the JL circuit. “Lookouts, Combat,” he said rapidly, “we’ve got an incoming aircraft slightly forward of the port beam. We need a visual I.D., right now.”
The lookouts saw nothing; one said it was too dark. Dan glanced at the bulkhead clock. It was almost eleven.
“Nineteen miles, still closing,” said the radar operator. “Time on top two minutes, forty-five seconds. He’s losing altitude! Down to ten thousand feet!”
“All ahead flank, come hard left,” shouted Shaker. “ESM! God damn it, get me a signature!”
“There’s no radar signature, sir!” The boy’s voice went high and broke.
“Okay, calm down, son. Mr. Pensker: Phalanx to automatic.”
“CIWS in AA auto, release hold-fire,” confirmed the weapons officer. Dan stepped forward to check the setup, and for a split second saw the dark face, lit by the cold radiance of the WCC display, turn toward the weapons-control petty officer beside him. He looked intent now, cool, even eager. Whatever the captain had told him, Dan thought fleetingly, there was no longer any trace of strain or nerves. The button clicked as it depressed. The ON light glowed through Pensker’s palm, tinted with the color of his blood.
“Twelve miles!”
The deck was slanting now, shaking as the turbines came up to flank. Shaker glanced at Dan; across the glowing circle of the scope, their eyes met. Lenson suddenly remembered another moment like this, in the Mediterranean. Unidentified aircraft closing, the formation socked in by fog and rain, and in charge then a man who couldn’t make up his mind. He heard again Isaac Sundstrom’s whine, begging for justification, support, sympathy, advice.…
Pensker said, “Sir, minimum range—”
“I know. Steady on course one-six-zero. Stand by to fire,” said the captain.
Wise spoke rapidly into his headset. Pensker’s hand moved up, flipped up the red cover over the FIRE button, rested over it. Dan saw Shaker take a deep breath. “All right—”
“Combat, Bridge: Lookouts report air contact, showing red and green lights and a white strobe, off port bow.”
“Silence,” shouted Shaker.
Everyone froze. Hands came up off switches and keyboards. They lifted their heads, eyes remote, mouths open a little. Waiting.
The green blip on the radar jumped ahead, and merged with the blot of light that was Van Zandt.
“Combat, Bridge: A plane just went over us. Headed northeast.”
“What kind?”
“Can’t tell, all we could see were the lights. A big one.”
“Phalanx to hold fire,” ordered Shaker. A switch snapped in the silence and the READY light blinked to orange. On the scope, the pip emerged from the blur at the center, still headed north. As they watched, it changed suddenly into a semicircle.
“AWACs identifies: commercial airliner,” said Custer. His voice shook a little.
“Holy shit,” said Wise. They looked at each other. Dan felt his knees begin to tremble.
They’d almost shot it down. If they hadn’t still been at sea, where the lookouts could see more clearly than in the dust-shrouded Gulf, they would have. He could smell his own sweat. He looked at the captain. He, too, seemed frozen, looking into the green shimmer after the departing aircraft.
He never asked me, Dan thought through the aftershock of fear. Shaker had held off till there was not an extra second. He’d done everything possible to establish the bogey’s identity. Then he’d made his decision. As a commanding officer had to.
So that was right. He was decisive. But had the decision he made been right?
What, Dan asked himself soberly, would I have done?
As soon as he asked it, he knew the answer. Given that choice—between taking a possible hit and shooting down a civilian airliner with who knew how many innocent souls aboard—he knew what his decision would have been.
He wouldn’t have fired. Not with the volume of civilian traffic here. With chaff, electronics, and the Phalanx, they’d have a decent chance even if a fighter launched its weapons first. Only then, when he was sure, would he shoot to kill.
But Shaker hadn’t seen it that way. He’d decided to fire first.
Which of them was right? Was it Shaker—with Strong’s agony still vivid in his memory, and probably his nightmares—or Dan himself, perhaps more detached, better able to deal with the situation rationally?
He remembered the old Navy saying: “I’d rather
be judged by twelve than carried by six.” The captain’s first duty was to preserve his ship and the lives of his men. By that standard, Benjamin Shaker had acted properly. No senior commander, no board of inquiry could fault his response. A situation like this was beyond written rules. It had to be left to the commanding officer’s judgment. No matter what that incoming contact had turned out to be, by Hart’s rules of engagement Shaker would have been justified in firing on it.
He hadn’t. But only by a fluke. When the lookouts had reported lights, he’d called “silence,” the old powder-magazine command that meant don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t do anything.
And the airliner had gone right over their heads.
So it had all turned out all right.
This time.
But what did his choice say about Benjamin Shaker? What would he do the next time he had to make an instantaneous decision on the basis of inadequate data? Would he always choose to fire when the situation was doubtful?
Had the loss of Strong, the resolve never to let himself be taken by surprise again, affected his judgment?
“Message from Mobile Bay to Charles Adams, sir, info to us.”
“What’s it say?”
“Relaying an SOS. A Greek tanker, north of us. Attacked by small boats, on fire. COMIDEASTFOR wants to know if one of us can render assistance.”
“Range, location, damn it!”
Custer gave him the range and bearing and Wise marked it on the scope. Shaker lit a cigarette as he studied it. Dan saw that his hands were rock-steady. After a moment, he said, “I can get there in two hours. Al, ask the commodore if he wants me to try.”
Wise spoke briefly into his headset. Then clicked off. “He says he’d rather send Gallery, she’s north of us, but he wants us to scramble our chopper for a possible rescue. Apparently the fire’s pretty bad.”
“Okay, flight quarters,” said Shaker loudly. “Let’s get ’em in the air like now. No weapon load, we’ll cover them. Minimum brief, vector ’em after launch. Go! Go! Go!”
Dan pushed his thoughts from his mind. It was his privilege to second-guess. But his actions, his speech, they were not his own.
