by David Poyer
“Look out, Chunky, they’ve got an escort!”
At the same moment he shouted, Hayes wrenched them into a violent turn. Two One responded instantly, the horizon and sky and rigs all swinging up, the black derricks reaching for them like spears. She shuddered as the rotors lost their grip on hot air. He grabbed for the collective at the same moment he saw, out of the corner of his vision, a white-hot brightness climbing toward them from the crazy tilt of the sea, building a pillar of billowing white. It curved inward rapidly, then disappeared behind them.
Kane’s voice broke scared over the ICS. “Missile, rear sector! Missile!”
“Flares,” screamed Schweinberg just as Hayes’s finger hit the button. The dispenser fired twice.
There was a blow against the back of their seats and a sheet of flame shot forward between them. Hayes felt things tear through his seat back, flak jacket, lungs. Schweinberg felt his left eye shrivel and blacken. “Son of a bitch,” he shouted, and the air he drew back in was suddenly burning hot. “We’re hit—ATACO, Two One, we’re hit—got a—did you get what I said about the submarine—looks like he’s diving now—fuck it, we’re going down! Buck, Kane, prepare to ditch.”
Hayes didn’t answer. Chunky couldn’t see him real clearly, but his ATO seemed to have no chest, like in the scene in Alien where the thing comes out of the guy.
His mind scrambled over a cascade of sensations, terror, thought, while at the same time it tried to estimate damage. The rocket must have hit as they turned, exploding back by number-one engine exhaust. Two One was quivering like a wounded quail. Anyway, they were falling, and he couldn’t seem to get the collective down to autorotate. And there was no way out of the aircraft, no nice rocket seats like the jet jocks had.
The gray machine fell like a shot bird, dying but still with lateral control. Okay, Chunky boy, his voice said calmly in his brain. You’re the shit-hot pilot, let’s see you fly your way out of this. He still had 120 knots forward airspeed. Lot of kinetic energy there. He could choose where he’d hit, within say a five-hundred-foot circle. And that was it. They were going to ride it in.
“Death,” muttered Claude Schweinberg. “Good. But first—cheech, you terrorist raghead motherfuckers!”
“Roger that,” muttered Hayes’s suddenly airless lips. He stared straight forward. He couldn’t move his arms or anything. He couldn’t even breathe.
There wasn’t really time, there at the end, for them to think. But during those two or two and a half seconds, Claude Schweinberg found time to grin tightly between clenched teeth. He hadn’t flinched. And Buck Hayes found time to think: Joyce. Dustin. Jesse.
And blink forward through the bloody mist at upturned, suddenly frozen faces, a dark green motorboat emerging from a white smoke cloud. Directly in the path of ten tons of falling, burning Killer Angel, side number 421.
21
U.S.S. Mobile Bay
THE first thing Blair said that morning was “Damn.”
She threw back the rough gray blanket, unrolled herself from the sheets, and began hunting around, crossing bare goosefleshed arms over her breasts. A memory of winter mornings in Minnesota crossed her mind, her mother bundling her up, the world-changing wonder of the snow.
She grinned sleepily. And what would her mother think of her now, in her sheer undies, surrounded by three hundred sailors?
She finally found the source of the electronic beeping that had brought her awake. Now she remembered answering it twice during the night. Male voices, asking for the captain. When she’d said he wasn’t there, there was silence, then the rattle of a handset hastily hung up. She grinned again, picked it up, and said, tentatively, “Hello.”
“Ms. Titus? Jack Byrne. Thought you might appreciate a breakfast call. It’s oh-seven-hundred. They’ll only be serving for fifteen more minutes.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you all right? You sound—”
“I’m just cold. I’ll be right down.”
She dressed quickly, choosing her heaviest panty hose, a cotton sweater, and a pair of parachute slacks she’d brought for shipboard. Actually, it had been astonishingly restful. Her bed swayed gently and each time she’d drifted up, the murmur of machinery had comforted her, a distant, soothing rhythm, a robot’s lullaby.
For a moment she wished she belonged here. How simple to be told what to do. To know your place in an iron universe, free of decisions, personalities, politics. She stared at herself in the mirror over the sink as she brushed her hair, liking the man smell of leather and oil and the faint fragrance of shaving cream. For some reason, she was hungry as a horse. Wasn’t sea air supposed to do that to you?
When she opened her door, there was a sailor outside, leaning against a pipe. As he came to attention, she said, startled as he was, “Who are you? How long have you been there?”
I’m one of the masters-at-arms, ma’am. We stood watch all night out here. Can I escort you somewheres?”
“I’m going to breakfast. Where’s that?”
“I imagine the wardroom … follow me. Hold tight on this ladder, they’re kind of tricky. Specially in shoes like that.”
The officers sprang to their feet as she came in. She said coolly, “Please sit down, please.” Across the room she caught a flat, angry look: Miller’s. When she smiled at him, he dropped his eyes and shouted irritably for coffee.
She ordered from a mimeographed slip. Creamed chipped beef on toast, egg over easy, juice. The men around her seemed shy. Finally one asked her where she was from. She said Washington. The captain shot a glare at him like a laser. He didn’t ask any more questions, just fidgeted with his fork for a moment, dropped it, then excused himself.
They’d all finished and she was sitting alone when Byrne came in. He hung up his cap, drew coffee, and sat down across from her. “Sleep all right?”
“Wonderful. Where did everyone go?”
“Quarters, then off to work. We start early at sea.”
“When will Admiral Hart be here?”
“Flight plan says a little after eight.”
“This is to oversee the convoy transit—is that correct?”
“That’s right. Coronado’s his flagship, but he can get a better picture of the situation from an Aegis cruiser. He likes to be on the scene whenever there’s a possibility the Pasdaran will come out.”
“Commendable.”
“He’s a good man,” said Byrne. He swirled his coffee, squinting as if looking through it into the past. “Speaking as one who’s served with some who weren’t.”
“I know you find this hard to believe, Mr. Byrne—”
“Why not Jack?”
“I’ll think about that. As I was saying, I’m not out here to cast for the Crucifixion. I see nothing to indicate he’s not a good commander. I’m only trying to see that our overall policy is correct, and that within that context our resources are efficiently used.”
“There are those who feel you’re going about it in an unnecessarily abrasive manner.”
“I’m sorry if it strikes them that way. It’s how I have to operate sometimes. Otherwise, I’m ignored.”
“I can understand that, I guess. By the way, these came in for you last night.” He slid a SECRET-stamped manila across the table.
She set her cup down and unbent the clip on the envelope. They were press summaries, a short message from Shaw, in Riyadh, and a long one from Bankey. She laid the others aside and propped her head over the last.
Talmadge had talked to Tower, Nichols, and Kennedy. Together, they’d decided it was time to put War Powers to a vote. A committee resolution wouldn’t bind the administration, but it would place the question before the committee of the whole. He was happy with her reports from Riyadh and Dhubai, but unhappy with the information on the armed-services side.
Specifically, he needed to know whether there was any expiration date on the administration’s commitments. He knew this depended on the war, but still he needed some idea of whether U.S. for
ces were helping end it or acting to spread hostilities. He’d talked to Weinberger informally but hadn’t got anything useful. (Talmadge didn’t like Weinberger, but then he hadn’t liked Brown, Rumsfeld, or Schlesinger, either; she suspected he wanted to be Secretary of Defense himself someday.) He needed to know quickly, in twenty-four hours. He wanted her to call him back so they could discuss it in detail.
“The following is a test of the ship’s alarms. General. Chemical. Collision. Flight crash,” announced a grille above her head, piercingly loud. A succession of wheeps, whoops, and beeps followed. “Regard all further alarms.”
“Do we have a secure telephone here?” she asked Byrne.
“Eight or nine, different types. Why?”
“Could I talk to the States on one of them?”
“Satellite voice relay? No problem. We just need to get Miller’s chop on it, and set up a frequency.”
“Could you do that, please? Late this afternoon will be fine, after I’m done with Hart.”
The intel officer nodded. “Now flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands man your flight quarters stations,” said the grille. “That’ll be him,” Byrne said, getting up. “Want to get back there, grab him before Miller crawls in his ear?”
She glanced up, surprised. Byrne, she realized suddenly, was trying to help her. So there were people who didn’t think she was an intruder, who didn’t see her as a total imposition, or bad luck.
But it annoyed her, though, that her eyes went to his hand, to the wedding ring. “Sure,” she said, then smiled. “Sure … Jack.”
* * *
The admiral was businesslike and brisk. To Blair, he seemed tense. Perhaps it had something to do with the convoy. He greeted her courteously, though. She stayed beside him on the walk forward from the helicopter pad. Miller wouldn’t look at her. It was plain he was still smoldering.
In CDC, Hart swung himself up into the leather chair, grunting thanks as the master chief brought over a cup of black coffee so hot it smoked. There were two other seats on the command level. “Why don’t you all sit down,” he said, rubbing his short hair abstractedly. “Take a load off. We’ll probably be here all day. Jack, did you bring the Linebacker op order?”
“Yessir, stateroom safe, I’ll be right back.”
Miller ensconced himself next to Hart; Blair, on the far left. Ensigns and lieutenants sat below them at consoles, talking in low voices. The two men went silent, absorbed in the displays. She studied them, too.
It was the upper Gulf. The coast of Saudi Arabia hugged the left of the screen, slanting to the northwest. Several islands lay offshore. A track among them was outlined by glowing yellow lines. It was wide at the bottom of the screen but narrowed to a passage perhaps a mile wide. Northeast of it, marked by a steadily blinking symbol, was another island.
She knew this was Farsi, and that the narrows were the Channel, the choke point for supertankers in transit to and from Kuwait, Khārk, and Ābādān.
Hart leaned forward, peering around Miller. “Blair, let me explain what’s going on.
“We have our fourth reflagged convoy on that middle screen. It’s being escorted by three of our small-boy assets: Adams, Van Zandt, and Gallery. They provide surface and air protection. The Narrows are also in range of the Kuwaiti Air Force if the Iraqis or Iranians get to feeling lucky. The fighters are on five-minute runway alert.
“The convoy’s been escorted in from the Arabian Sea. So far, no incidents. This morning, they’re going to transit the Narrows. Since we just swept it, I don’t expect mines. What I expect is a sortie from Farsi Island. We have”—he glanced around, apparently looking for Byrne, but he wasn’t back yet—“we have intel reports they may try something. If the bugs come out from under the stove, I’m ready to stomp on them.”
“You mean, if they initiate hostilities?” said Blair.
“Uh-huh … Captain Miller, could you give me a close-up of the channel … thank you. There, you can see the convoy approaching from the south. The tankers will stick to the deepest part. Our escorts are on the flanks, with Gallery and Adams to the east, between them and the threat bearing, and Van Zandt to port. Lee, how far away are they from us?”
“Mobile Bay’s two hundred miles from the convoy centroid, Admiral.”
“Yet we can see every movement in the channel, and we can talk directly to the COs of each ship.” He picked up a red phone, glanced at a tote board, and said crisply, “Bounty Hunter, this is Trail Boss, over.”
The answer came instantly from a speaker. “Bounty Hunter, over.”
“Admiral Hart, for the Commodore.”
“This is Commodore Nauman, sir.”
“How’s it going, Snatch? What’s the situation?”
“Visibility’s lousy, Admiral. We’ve got half the Sahara out here with us. I’ve opened the interval to reduce risk of collision. We’ll go through slow, at ten knots.”
“Are all your units at general quarters?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Do you have any liaison aboard the tankers?”
“No, sir, not at present.”
“I’d like to have an officer aboard the lead merchie. For coordination, if we need it, and to reassure them.”
“Aye, sir, I’ll take care of that.”
“We’ve got you up on the big screen. A perfect picture. As soon as we see anything cooking from Farsi, we’ll give you a heads-up and pass targeting data.”
“Thanks, we’re not doing too well radar-wise in this stuff.”
“Keep me informed, Barry. Good luck. Trail Boss out.”
“Bounty Hunter, out.”
Hart hung up. Blair said, “No code, or anything? What if they’re listening to you?”
“It’s a covered net. It’s just a garble unless you’ve got the key list.”
She hoped he was right, though after the Walker revelations it seemed as if one shouldn’t assume things like that. But she didn’t say anything. Hart stretched. “Now comes the hard part.”
“What’s that?”
“Waiting,” said Miller. He shifted on his chair and finally said, “More coffee, sir? Ms. Titus?”
They declined. He fidgeted some more and then burst out, “Admiral, about civilians staying aboard—”
“What about it?”
“Well, I have no facilities for women. It’s awkward. And you know it’s against the law.”
Hart said, “She stayed here last night, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Captain Miller gave me a fine stateroom. His own, in fact. He’s been very accommodating.”
Hart yawned. “Maybe I’ll take a refill, at that. Black and bitter, please. My advice is, don’t bust a gut over it. You’re not staying aboard tonight, too, are you, Blair?”
“I hadn’t planned to. But if I do, I expect shuffleboard and daiquiris.” She smiled at the captain. He looked away, chewing gum like a pile driver.
“Mark, first tanker, entering the channel now,” said a loudspeaker. They fell silent, their attention absorbed again by the glowing, omniscient displays.
When Nauman reported the damage to Borinquen, Hart sat up, punching his fist into the leather. They watched the column bunch up, stop, and begin to drift toward the lane boundaries. Miller ordered Farsi Island brought up on another screen, large scale. They all stared at it. There were dots offshore, but none of them were moving. The admiral said through clenched teeth, “We just swept that channel! Those Goddamned reservists … God damn it!”
“They must have snuck in and mined it last night,” Miller said.
“I sure as hell don’t see how. I had two Saudi PGs and the Special Forces out there watching. Those bastards!”
He reached for the radio. Nauman answered, his voice irate and apologetic. “Yes sir, she’s taking water … the officer aboard tells me there’s no danger of sinking, though. They’ve sealed off the damaged compartments. I’m reorienting the screen.”
“What do you mean?”
>
“Uh, this was at the suggestion of Borinquen’s master … he thinks if there are more mines, the tankers can take hits better than we can. He recommended we reorient to Form One, line ahead, with the escorts bringing up the rear.”
Hart glanced sideways at Blair. His eyes were like little glinting steel balls. Into the phone he said, “And you concur?”
“I think it’s the prudent thing to do, sir. We have no minesweeping assets with us.” The distant voice paused.
“What about helo cover?”
“I’ll put one in the air as soon as this sand lets up. Get them looking out in front of the convoy.”
Hart, his lips rigid as iron, told him to do it. Blair relaxed. For a moment she’d feared he’d disapprove the suggestion, put the warships in front just to avoid embarrassing the Navy. She’d known senior officers, yes, and politicians, too, who thought just that way.
He signed off. He took out his pipe, started to pack it, then set it aside with an irritated gesture. “Has anybody got a cigarette?”
The master chief gave him half a pack of Merits. Hart lit one and sat puffing angrily as additional reports came in.
Early that afternoon a flash message came in direct from Van Zandt. It reported loss of contact with their helicopter. It also relayed that the pilot’s last message, though garbled, had said something about sighting a submarine.
She saw them forget about her, saw them lean forward. “Call them back,” Hart snapped. “Right now, Jack. Did the pilot send back any specifics before he went down? Description? Course and speed?”
Byrne busied himself on the red phone while Miller waved the master chief over. After a short discussion, they retrieved the last recorded radar position of side number 421. It had been shot down north of the convoy, not far from the Hasbah oil field.
Now the chief recalled the tactical data picture from the computer’s memory. The screen showed them the semicircular symbol of a friendly aircraft frozen near a surface contact. A scatter of small returns surrounded them: the derricks and buoys of an oil field.
