The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel (19 page)

“That puts us very close to Syrian waters,” Staurulakis finished.

Wenck nodded. “Yes ma’am. The closer inshore we get, the bigger the hoop on that basket we’re trying to hit. But you’re right.”

The operations officer murmured, “The Syrians are trying to figure out which way to jump in this war anyway. We probably don’t want to be their excuse to jump the wrong way.”

“Hey, if they do, we’ll just lick their shit too,” Wenck put in.

Dan winced—it was an unfortunate choice of words—and glanced at him. “Donnie, that’s good. Clarifies the problem. Anything else? Any way we can make things easier for our tracking team? Give them some kind of advantage?” He made sure not to look at Terranova as he said this.

Wenck blinked and pushed his cowlick back. “Hey, everybody seems to think there’s a bunch of dummies on that console. It’s not Beth’s fault. This is a new system. New software. But the training package is all old shit; all she got was the beta development notes. Wanna know why? Some dickhead in the missile-development agency cut their funds off. They need billions for some supersmart kinetic-energy warhead, so they cut all the funding for training. The Terror here, she had to make half of it up herself.”

Noblos started to object, spluttering; Dan held up a palm. “Okay, okay! Maybe a little less finger-pointing and more listening here? We have a lot of constraints and not much wiggle room. Two things worry me, and they’re related. What Cheryl pointed out—Syria considers the area where we’d most like to be, to successfully intercept, as its territorial waters. Allied to that is ship self-defense. Petty Officer Terranova told me, but it didn’t really hit home until today, how vulnerable we are in BMD mode.”

Mills said, “We’re really almost blind against other threats.”

Dan nodded. “Right; such as antiship missiles fired from Syria. Or by Hamas or Hezbollah, from Lebanon. Intel says they might have some Iranian C-802s.”

Staurulakis murmured, “C-band search radar. Seventy-five-mile range. Sea skimmer; possible midcourse correction via data link; radar terminal homing.”

Dan said, “Mount one of those on a truck, and that could be a real headache, if we’re not looking right at southeast Beirut when they launch. We need to be ready to either jam it, decoy it, or shoot it down.”

Wenck looked up with that dreamy stare he got sometimes. “What?” Dan asked him.

“If it’s got a data link, maybe we could convince it it’s off course. Send it someplace we aren’t.”

“Spoof it? Good, look into that. And we haven’t even mentioned the problem with the Patriot battery at Ben Gurion.”

“Plus there’s Israel’s own ABM system,” Noblos said.

“Right … Arrow. If both Aegis and Patriot lock onto an incoming missile, and Arrow, too, we could all jam each other up good.” Dan told the table at large, “I’ve kicked that one up to the commodore, but we still don’t have any coordination with the Israel Defense Forces.”

A sharp double rap; they all looked toward the door. “Come in,” Dan called. It opened on the chief radioman, carrying a clipboard. He grinned uncomfortably. “Just a sec,” Dan said. “I want to finish my train of thought here.”

“Captain, this is the message you wanted.”

Dan frowned; what message had he “wanted”? Unless it was a personal from Blair. But he’d cut off e-mail to the crew; he could hardly stay in contact himself. Unless something had happened at home. “Just a sec,” he muttered. Then went on, turning back to their expectant expressions. “So, serious challenges. I want us to concentrate on those two things. One, how do we defend ourselves while Aegis is focused on looking inland—Matt, Cheryl, see what the two of you can work out. Two, how do we minimize interference with the Israelis, both Patriot and Arrow. Donnie, you and Bill work that issue.”

“Freq-hop at the lower end of their spectrum, maybe,” the chief said.

“Look into it. I need a recommendation. Petty Officer Terranova, brief me on your watch setup and any way we can destress your watchstanders. We could be out here awhile. I want them to be able to sleep. They’ve got to be fresh when they’re in front of that screen. The rest of the ship’s here to support them, so I don’t want them pulled off for any other duties.” He started to slap the table, but caught himself.

Noblos rose first and made for the door. The comm chief brushed past him and came toward Dan, holding out the clipboard. “The message you were looking for, sir,” he said again, not meeting Dan’s eye. “Sent late yesterday. Marked routine. So it didn’t actually come in until just now.”

Dan ran his eye down the headers, to the text.

PARA 2 (C): WH STAFFER ADAM ALONSO AMMERMANN ENRTE USS SAVO ISLAND. PURPOSE: SHIP VISIT AND LIAISON WITH CTG 161 IRO CURRENT OPERATIONS. NO HONORS. SAVO ISLAND PROVIDE BERTHING/MESSING 0-7 EQUIVALENT.

He lifted the Hydra to his mouth. “Chief Toan, CO here. —Hey, Matt, can you stand by a second?”

“Sure, sir.” Mills halted by the door.

“CMA here, sir. Over.”

“Mr. Ammermann. In the in-port commander’s stateroom?”

“Yes sir. With one of my boys on the door. Just like you said.”

“Okay, good. Tell him—tell Mr. Ammermann his clearance message came through. Take the guard off, and tell him he’s welcome in the wardroom for evening meal. But we’re going to have to talk about access, and so on.”

He remembered more now about Public Liaison. They’d been mainly young campaign workers, or sons or daughters of major donors and political confidants. After a short orientation, the White House chief of staff, or at least someone in that office, sent them out to embed in various federal agencies. They weren’t actually appointees, since they weren’t subject to the confirmation process. He wasn’t even sure they were paid. You could see them as sort of political commissars, but that might be taking them more seriously than they warranted.

*   *   *

Minutes later he was in the unit commander’s suite pouring coffee for Ammermann, who’d taken off his tie and was half-reclining on the settee reading the message. When he looked up Dan said, “Apparently somebody made an error, sent it routine. and it got delayed en route. That happens sometimes, when there’s a lot of traffic. I apologize.”

“A lot of message traffic? Why’s that?”

Dan started to explain, then hesitated. Could he really not know? And if he didn’t … “Look, that says you’re on your way, but it doesn’t give me a clearance level. And we’re … pretty busy right now, meeting our operational commitments. What exactly is it I can do for you, Jars?”

The staffer’s expression went earnest again, the way it had been on the flight deck. He threw the clipboard aside. “Apology accepted, Captain. I’m not the kind of guy who stands on ceremony. But it’s not what you can do for me. I’m here to help
you
. Direct liaison between you and the White House.”

“Um, correct me if I’m wrong, but my chain of command goes up through the CNO. Then the Joint Chiefs, since Goldwater-Nichols, anyway. Then to the SecDef.”

Ammermann nodded eagerly, as if Dan had just made his main point for him. “And that takes how long? Ages, right? And this is an important mission, as I understand it.”

Dan said carefully, “What exactly do you understand about our mission, Adam?”

“You’re here as our first ballistic missile defense deployment. To protect Israel when the war goes hot.”

Dan noted the
when
, not
if
. “No chance of a settlement? I was reading about some kind of ultimatum.”

The staffer shrugged. “We’re giving him forty-eight hours to leave, but he’s not going to. We’re going to liberate the Iraqi people, and destroy Ba’athism forever. It won’t take long. Their generals are already reaching out to us.” He took out a pack of Salems and a black Zippo. Offered them. “You smoke?”

Dan shook his head. “Outside the skin of the ship, please. Most of our smokers go up in the breakers. That’s forward, port and starboard on the main deck.”

Ammermann looked at the pack, clicked the cover on and off the lighter a couple of times, but at last set them aside. “I have some news you might find useful, Captain. About this war we have to fight. Iraq has an uprated missile. Two days ago, DIA told seventy-five senators in closed session that Iraq can attack the Eastern Seaboard of the U.S. with biological or chemical weapons.”

As Dan poured himself the last dregs of warm coffee a darkness like an advancing thunderhead shaded his mood. Remembering the bioweapons his team had found during the Signal Mirror mission. Most of that team hadn’t come home. Of those who had, some had died from the virulent strain of smallpox Dr. Fayzah al-Syori had weaponized. If the Iraqis had regenerated stocks of that virus, and built even one missile with intercontinental range … He didn’t want to imagine the consequences. Still … “Just having a supposedly uprated missile doesn’t mean a weapon’s operational.”

“We don’t want to take that chance. I know you’re married to a member of the former administration, Captain. And you served in the White House under Bob De Bari. Your sympathies may not be with this political team. But you have to believe we’ve got the best interests of the country in mind.”

Dan rubbed the old scar on his ear. A souvenir of Saddam’s Mukhbarat. He couldn’t argue with that; if any regime could be trusted with such a weapon, Iraq’s brutal and reckless dictatorship wasn’t it. But he wasn’t convinced he needed “help”—which usually translated to questions, objections, guidance, and second-guessing—from the political side. “If that’s true, what’re we doing here? We should be on station off Atlantic City.”

“Because that’s not your mission, Captain. We have that taken care of.” Ammermann leaned back, put the cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t light it. He smiled.

A brief silence, interrupted by a beep from Dan’s Hydra. The bridge reported a crossing contact. Electronic intelligence identified it as a merchant. Dan told the OOD to maintain course, but to slow and let the other ship pass ahead. He signed off and met Ammermann’s gaze again. “So you’re my liaison. With the president, you say.”

“Exactly right, Captain. Whatever you need, I’m here to help.”

“Well, I’ll have one of my people get with you about some spare parts. At the moment, though, that’s the only thing I can think of you can help with. Also, Adam, we just don’t have a lot of room, or excess personnel to escort you around. Or, to be frank, the command attention—from me personally—that I’m certain you deserve. I’m going to berth you in here. This is where the commodore stays when he’s aboard … or she. It’s the best accommodation I have. But I’m going to ask permission to offload you back to the task force, or to a safe location ashore, at the first opportunity.”

Ammermann cocked his head, still smiling. “You’re the captain. The way it was explained to me—well, the president himself, if he was aboard, you’d still give the orders.”

“Okay then. Let me know if you need anything else.” Dan got up. Ammermann jumped to his feet too, held out a hand. Dan had to shake it. Only as he was closing the door did he catch the soft rasp of the cigarette lighter behind him. And the soft breath of a relaxed exhalation.

10

THE
bonging went on and on, echoing the length of the ship. The boatswain leaned to the 1MC.
“Now general quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations. General quarters traffic route, up and forward to starboard; aft and down to port. Set material condition Zebra throughout the ship. Now general quarters!”

The pilothouse burst into a frenzied bustle. Watchstanders grabbed for GQ gear, bowing to tuck and tape the cuffs of coveralls into socks. They pulled heavy padded flash gear, hoods and gloves—standard issue since USS
Horn
’s nuclear destruction not far from these waters—on over the coveralls, leaving only eyes peering out. They strapped gas masks rigged for quick donning on their thighs. Petty officers broke out sound-powered phones, in case comms went down. They passed out the same heavy steel helmets the Navy had issued in World War II, and banged open lockers of flotation devices and emergency breathing gear.

Dan was out on the wing, polishing his binoculars with lens paper, when the officer of the deck brought him out his helmet. The letters
CO
were stenciled in red on the front. He settled its weight on the crown of his skull. The wind gusted cold. Dawn was just breaking, a dull illumination that barely limned a charcoaled horizon, hardly distinguished sea from clouded sky. The stern light of a cargo ship glowed like a distant comet.
Savo Island
rolled slightly, charging through wind-ruffled onyx swells at twelve knots. Not all that fast, but he had to balance a desire not to present a stationary target with the need to conserve fuel.

Yeah, fuel. He frowned. Need to get with Bart Danenhower about that. He had no idea how long they’d be out here, and the Navy might not want to risk a tanker close inshore during a hot war.

Which might start any day. Any hour.

“Time: plus one minute,”
the 1MC announced.

So he’d decided on an old-fashioned general quarters drill. From the expressions around him, especially on the faces of the younger troops, they hadn’t heard that pulse-pounding gong often since the last week of boot camp. But if
Savo
was as vulnerable as he feared, every man and woman aboard had to be ready to survive blast, flooding, fragments, and fire. As he glanced in at them through the window, for just a fraction of a second memory intruded.

He’d been looking away when it had happened. Fortunately. But even looking away, everything around him—sea, steel, cloth—had turned the brightness of the noon sun. The starboard lookout had screamed, dropping his binoculars, clutching his eyes. But the dreadful, burning light had gone on and on, as if someone had opened the scuttle to Hell.

Dan hadn’t actually thought about what was happening. Drill alone had driven him across the bridge, slamming into the chart table, to shove the quartermaster aside and shout into the mike, “Nuclear detonation, brace for shock!”