by David Poyer
She turned to Guterman. “What do you think we ought to do about these latest incidents, Captain?”
“Make the Navy do their damn job, I think that would be good.”
Incidents. Dan was wondering dully why she was using the plural when she swung on him again. “How about you, Mr. Lenson?”
“I’d just like to get some sleep.”
The woman asked a few more questions, mainly about their convoy procedures and how effective he thought they were. He wasn’t sure his answers made much sense. Finally, they drifted back toward the helicopter. He got rid of the beer over the side, not without regret; he was thirsty, and the master had meant well. “Dan,” said Hart, turning back at the hatchway, “can we give you a lift back to Van Zandt?”
“Commodore Nauman’s assigned me here, sir.”
“He did so at my request. No reflection on you, but now that we’ve taken damage, I’m leaving Captain Byrne here as my representative.”
That sounded like an order. He shook Byrne’s hand, muttered to him to go easy on the Heineken, and climbed in.
From the air, he could see the entire convoy, eight ships strung out in a line ten miles long. It looked strange with the merchants in front. When they touched down on Van Zandt, the woman wanted to look around there, too, but Hart said they had to get back. She waved to Dan as it lifted, blowing sand off the flight deck, and disappeared to the west.
Dan stopped at the first scuttlebutt and drank greedily for some time.
He met Pensker in the midships passageway as he was going forward. The weapons officer didn’t look nervous anymore. He looked mad, and his hands were fists. “You just back, sir?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You hear about our helo?”
“Yeah, I just got off it.”
“No, I mean our helo. With our guys.”
He remembered then his unfinished business with the two pilots. And suddenly was enraged again. “No. What did those two idiots do now?”
Pensker looked shocked. “They got shot down. We think. Anyway, they don’t answer on the radio. You better get up to the bridge.”
“Oh, no,” said Dan. He began to run.
20
U.S.S. Turner Van Zandt
BUCKY Hayes came awake slowly that morning, drifting in and out of dream—a good one, for a change. Instead of a nightmare beast, his pursuer was a wanton Joyce. But gradually a recurrent grinding penetrated. It sounded like an empty cruise box being dragged over nonskid.
At last, he identified it as Schweinberg. He raised his arm and pressed the stud on his watch. When he blinked his eyes clear enough to see the little lighted window, he sat up suddenly. They’d overslept.
No, no one overslept aboard ship; if you weren’t where you were supposed to be, you found out about it quick. But it was still 0654, and no one had called them, buzzed them, or shaken them awake with a flashlight in their eyes.
That meant they weren’t launching at dawn. For a moment, he snuggled the skimpy GI pillow closer, then pushed it away and sat up. If they hadn’t been called, that meant something was wrong. After all, they were transiting the Narrows this morning.
The most likely explanation was that Two One was down, grounded for repairs. He lay back, then realized he had only a few minutes left if he wanted breakfast. He clicked on his bunk light, clambered down, and found yesterday’s khakis. He didn’t bother to be quiet. There was no way Schweinberg could hear him over the snoring he was putting out.
The ship was strangely silent as he relieved himself, braced against the urinal, and went on toward the wardroom. The enlisted men in the passageways nodded to him with blank faces, the minimum of military courtesy. Gradually, he became aware of a whisper, a distant susurration, as if an audience waited on the far side of the steel walls. On impulse, he swung the dogs clear on a weather-deck door. He looked out into the breaker, and beyond it at the sea.
It wasn’t there. Instead, the handle jerked out of his hands and something slashed his face. The abrading hiss came from all around him. The russet grit streamed over the painted surfaces of the ship, curled round the scuppers. It was only a little paler than dried blood. A thin scum of it tossed on the passing sea. Beyond that, he could see nothing, not only for the sand fog but because his lids kept jerking closed in protective reflex.
No wonder they weren’t flying. Christ, the plane, the turbine blades! Then he relaxed. Mattocks would have her buttoned up in the hangar, with even the joints in the sliding door sealed with duct tape.
He yanked against the wind and finally got the door dogged again. So there was nothing else to do but eat. And then maybe sleep some more. He needed it. Since Hormuz, air ops had been nearly continuous, identifying contacts, herding dhows, electronic surveillance, shuttling back and forth across the route watching for mines and boats.
He wasn’t happy about not flying. He knew having them aloft was important to the safety of Van Zandt and the merchants she was escorting.
But just between you and me, Virgil, he thought, I’m ready for a break.
In the wardroom, several of the ship’s officers were eating in a sort of hasty apathy. The XO wasn’t there. He didn’t mind that at all. Terry Pensker gave him a quick smile. Hayes pulled out a chair beside him. They talked briefly about the storm. And then his plate came, carried by a sleepy, pimpled enlisted man, and he set to work.
* * *
Schweinberg slept heavily through dawn and through breakfast. He snorted and turned over when Hayes came back in and climbed over him to the upper, but he was still three-quarters asleep. And a moment later, the black depths closed again.
It was a Super Bowl. His side had gold helmets and a white and yellow uniform. He wondered what team it was. But it seemed dumb to ask in the middle of a game. In the huddle, he got a look at the QB. He was Phil Simms, but somehow, too, an older face, one you saw on television selling beer or motor oil.
But when the rush came the strangeness dropped away and he was hungry to take somebody down. He had the speed and lightness he’d had in high school, at 180, and at the same time the bulk and power of 230 and all muscle. Through a flashing gap in the line, he saw a man with a ball.
He knew suddenly this was the final quarter, final seconds, and this down would decide the game. The roar from the stands was like the roar of engines. He wanted this sack. He wove through a falling knot and was in the open, and the opposing quarterback was just ahead, falling back, cocking his arm and craning for an opening.
Suddenly there was a wall in front of him. The left guard had to be over three hundred, seven feet tall. Schweinberg had just time to notice that both he and the quarterback were not just black but in black. All black, with little silver crosses on their helmets.
They slammed into each other face on. He took the impact with his mask. It knocked him out for a moment. When he shook his head, mumbling, coming back, the guard was still there, down in a three-point, his cleats dug deep, snarling down at him, ready to do it again.
Okay, fuckhead! Claude the Bod is gonna make you eat them little red eyes! And again he surged forward, yelling “’Noles!” high and keen till the earthshaking slam and clatter of armored bodies made it an explosive grunt. But the guard didn’t move. There was no give at all. He fell back, bruised and panting, and heard suddenly from behind him the coach’s hoarse scream: “Get in there, Schweinberg! You pansy ass again and you’re off my goddamn team, boy!”
Desperate, Chunky lunged in again. This time, he fed Death an elbow over the mouth guard. But it was his own teeth that came loose. He put his taped fingers to his jaw and took them out, one after the other, bit deep into the tough jelly plastic of the mouth guard.
* * *
“Buck. Hey, Buck!”
“What’s doing?”
“Might as well get up. I’m about slept out.”
Hayes rolled over and looked down. Schweinberg was standing moodily in front of the mirror in green boxers and a Marine Corps–issue T-shirt.
He turned sideways to the mirror, then back; tensed his shoulders; sneered; picked his nose. Hayes watched, entranced and entertained. Now that he’d decided to leave the Navy behind, he felt almost nostalgic for his red-neck roommate.
“What are you doing, Chunky?”
“Nothing.”
“Think they’ve got lunch up yet?”
“I doubt it. They’re all still at GQ. They’re so tight-assed about this convoy, it’s pathetic.”
They found a plate of corned-beef sandwiches undefended in the wardroom. Schweinberg went into the pantry. He came out with mustard, sweet rolls, carrot sticks, radishes, sweet gherkins, and a glass of iced milk. He sat down and said, surveying it, “There’s Rocky Road in the freezer. Be good with walnuts and Hershey’s.”
“Chunky, you’re gonna be flying alone in two or three years. SH-60’s not going to have enough lift for you and crew, too.”
“I’ll have you know I weigh within ten pounds of what I carried in the Seminole line.” He bit off half the sandwich. Through the beef and homemade bread came “Hey, wanna see a flick? What we got we ain’t watched yet?”
“We’ve seen them all two or three times.”
“Well, take a look. I’m in the mood.”
Hayes rooted through the cabinet. Most of the tapes and books had been offloaded during strip ship, but the wardroom’s private stock had crept out again. Schweinberg wanted to see Librarians in Heat and Hayes gave in.
They were sitting watching it, spooning up nuts and chocolate syrup, when Lenson came in. They looked up at him innocently. He was wearing a life jacket and carrying a radio; his uniform was rumpled and his eyes bleary. He was headed for the coffee, but when he saw them, his look went suddenly hostile. And Schweinberg muttered, “Uh oh. Here it comes.”
* * *
“Mr. Hayes, I’m going over to Borinquen. I think, when I get back, you and I need to have a talk.”
When the door closed behind a man whose face had gone white with suppressed fury, neither of the pilots said anything for a moment. Finally, Hayes said, “Jesus, he’s in bad shape.”
Schweinberg found his voice. “Christ, what’s with you? Fucking with the exec—that’ll get us all in hot water.”
“What’s he going to do to me, Chunky? Send me to sea?”
“He can submit a concurrent fitness report.”
“I don’t think he’s that much of a prick. But if he wants to, fine.”
“What’s going on, Bucky? I don’t get it. You was always a regulation type back at squadron. But out here, the last couple weeks, you’re turning into a real give-a-shit.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“What?”
Hayes thought about it one last time. Then he took a breath, and told him.
* * *
They followed the porn film with a Rambo—just to celebrate his decision, as Schweinberg said. Midway through it, a distant vibration merged with the explosions on the screen, but neither got up to investigate.
When it was over, they drifted back to the hangar. It was dead silent and filled with snoozing crewmen. They were considering going back to sleep themselves when Hayes became conscious that something in the air had changed. He cracked a hatch and peered out. “Hey, storm’s over,” he said.
At the same moment, the 1MC came on. “Flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands man your flight quarters stations.”
Fortunately they had spare suits in the hangar. As they pulled them on, the doors rumbled up behind them. Crewmen swarmed over Two One, removing intake plugs, spreading the blades and tail pylon.
The launch went fast and normal. Still, Schweinberg kept shouting irritably to hurry; he wanted to get aloft before the sand closed in again.
When they were strapped in, Hayes punched the ship’s coordinates into the navigation computer. The engines whined, and the rotors began turning. Slowly at first, like the hands of a clock, then faster and faster till they seemed to disappear. Through them came the power that wrenched Two One suddenly off the deck and instantly, violently, into the sky.
* * *
The convoy and its escorts marched away below them till they disappeared into the heavy hazy air. The storms suspended dust as high as ten thousand feet. Today it was still murky at angels two. From there, though, they could see the departing storm, a tan mist as of disintegration, returning the sea and sky and the land that their radar said lay to the south to a vague chaos that might be anything or nothing.
Schweinberg gave his copilot the controls. He stretched and lifted a cheek, then followed the fart with a sigh. The heavy lunch sat uneasily in his gut.
He loosened his harness, then twisted to look back into the cabin. This was a one-crewman flight. He’d decided he didn’t need Christer. If they had to detonate a mine, or fire a warning burst, as they had at the dhow, Kane could do it.
A moment later, he looked back at the ships. Narrowed his eyes. Then clicked onto the data link. “ATACO, Killer Two One.”
“Go, Two One.”
“Hey, what’s with the convoy? Why’ve we got a merchie up front?”
The voice was silent for a moment; then it told them about the mine strike and the reorientation. “You mean you didn’t know that? I thought everybody aboard knew that. Where were you, asleep?”
“Don’t get smart,” Schweinberg growled. “Nobody bothered to tell us, that’s all. A mine, huh. Well, what do you know.”
“Wouldn’t have happened with us out here,” said Kane, from aft.
“I hope not. But, jeez … let’s lose some altitude here and get to work.”
They skimmed ahead of the lead ship, keeping their eyes overboard. Shit, Chunky was thinking. He wished he’d been up here earlier, wished he’d seen the mine first. But then, what if somebody hit one in an area they’d checked out? As it was, the air arm was in the clear. He decided to be happy with things as they were and not try to improve them in his head.
They patrolled back and forth in front of the convoy for some time. Once, Hayes caught a dark object in the water; they dropped still lower as they approached it, Kane swinging out the M60. It was a sheep. Schweinberg wanted to give it a burst anyway, but the ship nixed that without comment. He lapsed into a sulk.
Hayes sat slumped, moving the stick slightly from time to time. He was getting bored again. Bored and hot. His mind drifted. They’d have to move. Joyce didn’t like new houses and she didn’t like suburbs. She liked older homes in settled neighborhoods. Four bedrooms should do it. Maybe they could find something for eighty, ninety thousand.…
“Want to play a tape, sir?”
“Yeah, go ahead, something country,” muttered Schweinberg.
There was a pop and then a hiss on the ICS circuit. Then the jury-rigged Walkman cut in. “Oh, shit, not that goddamn disco tape again,” he howled. “Kane, you little prick, I’m gonna tear your arms off when we get back.”
A transmission from the ship overrode the enlisted man’s comeback. “ATO, ATACO: vector zero-eight-five to investigate small contact.”
“Oh, wilco … I mean, roger.” Hayes clicked off and banked, not bothering to ask Schweinberg’s permission. They came around and headed east, picking up speed till the needle nudged 150. The wind rose to a steady whistle. “Turn that thing down, Kane. ATACO, how far away is he?”
“Twelve miles, in and out of the big oil field.”
“Roger.” Hayes had the derricks now. Their tops pricked the sky fine as needles. Schweinberg said nothing. Behind them, he could hear Kane whistling, breaking up as the voice-actuated mike cut on and off. The rigs marched over the curve of the sea like the flat video-game reality of a flight simulator. Two One droned and rumbled like an old pickup on a gravel road. The waves flashed by. From sheer habit, both men scanned the gauges, then lifted their eyes again.
“Got him yet?”
“Nope.”
“He’s probably oil-rig service, in and out of the structures.”
“ATACO, ATO: gimme a re-ve
ctor, we got nada here.”
“Hold him … wait … hold him zero-nine-five from you, between two platforms. Wait. There’s more than one.”
“More than one, aye. Coming right.”
“Let’s drop some, Buck; if they’re small, we need to get down to two-three hundred.”
“Got to watch these towers.”
“Well, no shit. Let’s just do what Uncle Claude says, shed some fucking altitude, okay? And do it now. These could be the guys laid that mine.”
The water came up close, its corrugated surface flashing past. They were so low they could see sea snakes, plastic trash, a sheen of slick trailing from one rig. This low, the water was a grim tan-green, flat, as if the storm had sanded off the tops of the waves.
“Should be headed right for him.”
“What size are these guys, ATACO?”
“We don’t hold them anymore, Two One. Lost in the clutter. Don’t you have visual yet?”
“Negat … negat. Hey, Chunky, is that something over there? See there, by the smoke? It’s moving, got a wave system behind it—”
Two One, still descending, came right. The dot ahead, trailing rippled Vs on the sea, grew rapidly larger. Hayes bored in straight and level. He wanted to get it identified and get back to the convoy. Schweinberg focused the binoculars. He caught a vibration-blurred glimpse, and frowned. Not a boat. Smaller than a boat, but kicking up a plume. Something narrow and vertical. Not masts, but …
Then, just for an instant, the field steadied and he saw it. A vertical line, swelling at its tip to a black bulb. The sea flung apart in white cascades as it rolled. Behind that, a stouter, shorter pipe, with a faired black protrusion, trailing a brown haze of exhaust. A third vertical, thin and bent: an antenna.
And beneath, a shadow slipping through the tan-green Gulf.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
“ATACO, Two One: We got a fucking sub out here! I mean, mark, datum! Headed zero-five-zero, looks like ten knots, scope and snorkel out of the water, black in color—”
“Two One, ATACO, say again your last—”
Bucky Hayes, jerking his head around as they rocketed over it, saw it, too. And lifting his eyes, he saw something else. Something beyond it, sliding out from between two oil rigs. A boat. Two big outboard motors; four men, seated well forward; a dark green tube …
