The Gulf
Page 53
V
THE AFTERIMAGE
Manama Airport, Bahrain
BLAIR sat curled in the royal lounge, flipping through the summer issue of Global Affairs. The staid blue-bound pages, once so penetrating in their strategic and economic analysis, their subtle explications of the issues beneath the headlines, now seemed abstract, pretentious, even callous.
They hadn’t changed. She had. And she wasn’t sure, yet, what she was becoming.
She sighed, and set it aside. Glanced at her watch. Stretched, lifting clenched fists, and then unfolded herself.
The hostess came over, offering tea, coffee, Perrier with a twist. She declined.
Standing at the window, she looked out and down.
Below her was the flat expanse of tarmac, inked with the black cryptographs of each arriving flight. And beyond it, the Gulf, blue and smooth today as the ribbon a mother twists around a little girl’s braids. Silver aircraft trundled along feeder strips. A 747 bulged into view, Air India bound east for Delhi or Bombay. It gathered speed with ponderous slowness, then lifted its nose and drifted upward, folding its wheels delicately as it dwindled to a receding spark.
She was waiting for Bankey Talmadge’s charter. Four of the most powerful men in the country would be with him, coming to review the conduct of the Gulf-wide battle that had followed the strike at Abu Musa. Three-quarters of the remaining Iranian navy and air force had sortied from their ports and airstrips, attacked, and been wiped from the sea and sky by the missiles, guns, and aircraft of the Middle East Force, the Indian Ocean Battle Group, and the French and British task forces. Two U.S. ships had been damaged, and one Tomcat from Forrestal hit; the crew had ejected into the Gulf of Oman and been picked up by helicopter.
She stared out, her mind turning analytical. An exhausted and isolated dictatorship had lost its final gamble to prevail. Now peace had to be made. But not just any peace. She wanted no cease-fire, no temporary armistice, but a fair and durable settlement that would benefit the region and the West alike. It would not be a quick process, nor a simple one. The military had made it possible. Now diplomacy had to make it real.
And then, without warning, she was thinking of herself.
She was still standing there when she saw a drab-green military transport taxiing in. She leaned into the glass. Below her men in whites and khakis leaned or squatted in the building’s shade. Three of them stood apart. One was tall, brown-haired, very thin.
She turned suddenly. The attendant jumped to her feet, looking startled. She said, “I’ll be right back, please watch my things,” and her heels clicked briskly on marble.
* * *
Dan was standing a few feet from the chiefs and officers, sweating in the baking heat of buildings and asphalt, when the C-130 swung into view. McQueen was briefing him on the wounded; he’d just come back from the hospital. “They think they’ll all pull through,” the quartermaster concluded. “Rest, that’s all they need now. The docs said they’ll be ready to follow us in a few more days.”
“Good,” he said. He had to feign interest. Since they’d been picked up, he’d felt an immense apathy. He didn’t understand why. Maybe it was just fatigue.
The chief left. Jack Byrne, beside Dan, tilted his head back, peering at him. His eyes were invisible behind the sunglasses. “Well, friend,” he said. “I’d say you did all right. In spite of your unlucky choice of commanding officers.”
“How can you say that, Jack? He got your sub for you, didn’t he?”
“Could be we needed you both, then. A hundred and ten survivors, after two days in the water … there wouldn’t have been near that many without leadership. And some fast thinking, too, I understand.”
“The men did it themselves, mostly. But thanks.”
“Well, gotta go. People to meet. Flesh to press. Good luck back in the States. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.” The intel officer hesitated. “That is, if you’re planning on staying in, after this.”
“I guess I’ll ride it out, Jack. If they still want me.” He grinned faintly. “Luck’s got to change one of these days.”
Byrne smiled. He nudged Dan’s shoulder with his fist. Then turned quickly away.
He heaved a sigh and glanced around. “Al. Steve—”
Wise and Charaler stood up. The ops officer looked weak, but fit. The redheaded first lieutenant looked rumpled as ever, despite new uniform shoes in place of scuffed combat boots.
“Have the men fall in, please, and get them mustered. We’ll be boarding as soon as they refuel. Do it manifest-style. Names, rates, and socials.”
He was searching his mind for anything else he ought to do when he saw her. She was standing by the door to the terminal, shading her eyes against the sun.
“Keep an eye on things,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Yessir.” The officers glanced at each other and then turned for the tarmac. A moment later, Stanko was shouting, “Getcher meat on your feet, barf bags! Next stop, U.S. of A.! Get those duffels in the cart! Those who can, help those who can’t. Fall in for muster!”
Blair felt her legs begin to tremble as he came toward her, out of the heat and light and sound of engines. His face and arms were coated with white ointment. His left hand was bandaged. He walked cautiously, as if he’d just returned from a long time in space.
“Hello, Dan.”
“Blair.” He came to a stop a few feet away, then moved sideways to find the shade. He took off his cap and rubbed his hand over his forehead, smearing the paste. “You’re looking well.”
“Thanks. Is that your plane?”
He glanced back. The fat green body was fitting itself cautiously into the loading area, like a ship into a dry dock. “Yeah.”
“You’re going home?”
“Bethesda, for recuperation. Then there’ll be some kind of inquiry, I imagine. Depending on how that comes out … either civilian life, or else the next duty station.” He smiled faintly.
“I’m glad you came through,” she said.
“I lost a lot of men.”
“I know. Hart worried about you. But he just couldn’t divert anybody to search during the attack.” She paused. “The strike, and sinking that submarine … your captain was very brave.”
“He was a good man,” said Dan. He considered saying more, but he didn’t.
“And I think it was worth it.”
“Was it?”
“I think so. The remaining Boghammers have been withdrawn from Farsi Island. We have a report through Syria that Rafsanjani is going to ask for a cease-fire tomorrow in the UN.”
“Good,” he said. But the way he said it bothered her. He looked away from her, toward the men. They were forming straggling ranks, handicapped by canes and crutches. She listened for a moment to the gut-deep, ancient martial chant as the names snapped out, the “Present,” “Yo,” or “Here” as each individual answered for himself.
He turned back to her. “Are you going back with us?”
“No. I’m here to meet the senator. We’ve got to review our policy in the light of our—” She stopped herself; she’d almost said “victory.” “Of changed circumstances. It looks like now we’ll be able to reduce our commitment honorably. We’ll be here for a few days, I imagine, and then it’ll be back to the Hill.”
“Will I see you again?” he said, shading his eyes, and she caught her breath.
Suddenly his arms were around her. She held lightly, trying not to hurt him, trying not to cry.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can. I want you to. I’ve learned something here. In the Gulf.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not sure how to say it yet. Maybe just that people matter. More than anything else.”
He held her for a moment longer, his arms tightening till she could hardly breathe. There were howls and wolf whistles from the battered crew of Turner Van Zandt. He turned his head toward them, and the tumul
t died; they shuffled their feet and examined their shoelaces. But Blair saw his eyes crinkle beneath the frown, softening, changing to something that looked, if you saw it this close, not far from love.
“What happened to your hand?” she said into his ear.
“Your fingers swell, when you’re in the water too long,” he said. “Remember my Academy ring? They had to saw it off.”
And then the whistles started again, and kept on and on.
* * *
When she was gone, he turned suddenly and walked back toward the formation.
He stood by the ladder, watching his men board. So many faces he missed, faces he’d never see again. Ben Shaker. Terry Pensker. Doc Fitch. Rick Guerra. Chief Dorgan. And so many others. Enginemen, electronic repairmen, boatswains, mess specialists, yeomen, seamen, firemen. He nodded back at Phelan, whose dark face was burned swarthier than ever, his cheeks drawn. The hospitalman had refused medication. He was still facing charges. Now, though, Dan felt he had something to go to bat for him with.
Behind the Indian, a stocky dark man nodded to him. Dan searched his memory for a moment before he recognized him, the graying older fellow, and the mustached blond. Maudit, Terger, Burgee. The divers had joined them during the long night, fought off sharks and sun and snakes with them, until they had come through. He smiled back. They weren’t Van Zandt, but without them, they’d never have made it in.
He was proud of them all.
Along with Schweinberg and Hayes and Kane. With those who’d died in the water to get them into Abu Musa. With all those who had died for a people who were no longer sure, in their hearts, that their defense was necessary or even moral.
But it looked like—if what Blair said was true—this time they’d held the line.
Not that it was anything grand, any crusade or redemption. It had been just a little war in a far place and it would soon be forgotten. Except for those who’d been there, and the families of the dead.
In the land of their enemies, in their souks and places of council, they would shrug and say, It is the will of Allah.
But it wasn’t.
Suddenly his apathy gave way to a vast anger against those who sent men to make wars, whatever their names or cultures, whatever piece of cloth they wore. It was the final obscenity. To send others out to kill for you, and necessarily to die.
For over both sides, above all arched the same sky. Limitless, sweltering, crowded with the thunder of the silver birds.
“Commander! You comin’?” said McQueen, his bandaged head hanging out of the door. Behind him two flight attendants, uniformed Army women, stood waiting, half-smiles curving their lips.
He started climbing, but had to turn again for a last look back. This time, he saw a small jet beside the terminal, portly men in suits descending, the glitter of brass and gold from a reception committee. His eye picked out a short figure—Stansfield Hart, lifting his hand in salute.
And then as Dan watched, he pivoted, his eyes flicking across the heat-shimmer, but still holding the salute, facing them now, his face grim and warlike and his back straight. And the men with him turned, too, their faces going sober and noble.
Dan started to return it. Halfway up, his arm stopped. His fingers trembled.
He gave them another, quite different gesture. He held it for a long moment, looking across at the silent group of old men. Then turned away.
“Commander?”
“I’m coming,” he said. Settling his cap firmly, he hauled himself up the last steps toward home.
Novels by David Poyer
The Med
The Dead of Winter
The Return of Philo T. McGiffin
White Continent
By D. C. Poyer
Hatteras Blue
Stepfather Bank
The Shiloh Project
THE GULF. Copyright © 1990 by David Poyer. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Poyer, David.
The gulf / David Poyer.
p. cm.
ISBN 0–312–05096–8
I. Title.
PS3566.0978G85 1990
813'.54—dc20
90–36140
CIP
eISBN 9781466848214
First eBook edition: June 2013