The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel (21 page)

Waiting.

Which was all he, too, could do now.

*   *   *

AT
a little after 0900 Sonar came up on the 21MC. It was Rit Carpenter.
“Hey, Dan, you there?”
Staurulakis frowned. Dan had to remind himself the old submariner was a civilian now. He thumbed the worn Transmit lever. “Here, Rit. Whatcha got?”

“Voice call from
Pittsburgh.
Reporting in. She holds us one-zero-zero at about six thousand yards. Want me to answer up?”

“Got her on sonar?”

“Yeah, now. But we didn’t, coming in. Our fucking tail is on the rag down here, and we’re getting more self-noise since we slowed down.”

Not good, that a nuke boat could get that close without being detected. But maybe it also meant its submariners were sharp enough to protect
Savo
from any undersea enemy. At the moment, though, he was more worried about air and missile attack. Which even the most modern sub was impotent against, save for its own invulnerability beneath the waves. “Yeah, Rit, roger her back. Ask if there’s a chance the CO can crossdeck for a gam.”

Carpenter clicked off. Staurulakis murmured, “You want him to come aboard? Is that really necessary?”

“Sometimes it’s good to make personal contact.”

“There’s always a risk involved in boat ops. Especially in winter.”

Dan regarded her. Quiet, short blond hair, always kempt, always competent. Her great-great-grandfather had served aboard a monitor during the Civil War. He’d never asked a question she hadn’t had the answer to, usually to a depth well beyond what she needed to know as a department head. “Cheryl, I imagine you’ll be a CO someday. So you have to learn you can’t run a ship by this ‘accept no unnecessary risk’ doctrine. That mind-set comes out of DoD. Mainly, I guess, to cover their ass in case we screw up. I agree with part of it—think ahead, assess the hazards, plan to meet them, commit the resources, communicate. No-brainers, every good skipper does that. But just going to sea puts us at risk, and we’re out here to fight. You can’t be guided by fear.”

She cocked her head. “I guess it’s a balancing process.”

“Balancing what you gain against what you put on the table. Sure. And in this case, doing boat ops—that’s something I expect my crew to take in stride.” He waited, but she didn’t seem to have anything to add.

“CO, Sonar.”
The 21MC again.

“Go, Rit.”

“Got
Pittsburgh
actual on the line. He says okay to a boat transfer, but he wants to stay at least a mile away. Oh, and he says he’s picking up a set of high-speed screws out to the east of us we might want to keep an eye on.”

Dan shook his head, recalling from the SATYRE exercises he’d conducted how terrified nuke skippers were of getting anywhere near what they called “skimmers.” As if everyone on a gray ship’s bridge was incompetent. “Tell him that’s too far to send a boat in these conditions. I’ll put my RHIB in the water and head west. He can move in from the east as we clear the area, and the boat will essentially stay in the middle. Clear that with him.”

Carpenter rogered, and Dan called the bridge to get them ready.

*   *   *

PITTSBURGH
surfaced well over a mile distant. Through his binoculars, he watched the black sail cut the slate sea like a hammerhead’s fin, throwing white water to both sides. She was making about fifteen knots, ballasted down to minimize rolling in the five-foot swells. From atop the black blunt tower tiny figures studied him back.

It had rained during the night and the wing was still filmed with a sheen of dampness, and bright water slid back and forth beneath the gratings. Clanking and shouting from below; he swiveled in his chair to monitor the RHIB crew swinging out their gray burden. He could wish for calmer seas, but he’d told Cheryl the truth. Any destroyer crew worth its salt had to be ready to do small-boat ops, in case of a man overboard, a helo crash, or own-force protection in port.

The silvery swollen bulk of the rigid inflatable swayed as the ship rolled. Red-helmeted seamen staggered at the ends of steadying lines like handlers trying to manage an unruly elephant. A surge broke along the side and spray blasted up the hull-sheer and drenched them like rain. The rest of the crew mustered aft, at a Jacob’s ladder. Dan set his glasses on each man, making sure his life preserver was properly fastened and secured to his safety line.

Amid hollering and gesticulating, the engines snarled and the boat dipped, yawed to a wild wave, slammed its stern into
Savo
’s steel, and sheered aft. Another shout, and the crew scrambled down. It curved away, gaining speed and jumping crests awkwardly like a baby dolphin as the crew crouched. Only the coxswain stood erect, boots rooted wide, leather gloves steady on the chromed wheel. The OOD put on hard left rudder and the cruiser’s massive bow came around deliberately, pushed by the single screw on the line now, and accelerated away from the glow of the hidden sun.

Dan’s Hydra beeped. “CO,” he muttered.

Staurulakis.
“TAO here, sir. Got an E-band air search radar active on zero nine five. Out where you told us the sub reported high-speed screws. Okay to notify?”

Dan rubbed a bristly chin. That was a military radar. So anything carrying it was
prima facie
a threat. Notify, query, and warn were the ascending levels of communication with an unknown. After that came defensive action, if the contact continued to close or demonstrated hostile intent. “Range?”

“He’s out of the beam for the Aegis. I can get you a range, but we might have to put the gun radar on him.”

“What’s wrong with the surface search?”

“Offline for maintenance.”

“I should’ve been told.”

“Sorry, Captain. Was about to.”

“Don’t use the gun radar. Notify on Channel 16.”

“On it, Captain. TAO out.”

The RHIB shrank behind them. Dan watched it bob and reappear between corroded-looking waves. The black tower in the sea had altered course toward it. Gulls skimmed the wavetops, vanishing between the swells, then reappearing. Like sea-skimming missiles … What was Ammermann doing? He really ought to stop by and see the staffer. At least tell him there wasn’t any answer yet to the offload request. It didn’t cost anything to extend due courtesy.

Minutes later the OOD came out, clutching his cap against the cold gusts. “Skipper, contact at zero nine five, twenty thousand and closing . Designated Skunk Kilo. Looks like a constant bearing.”

“EW has him too. He’s still on a closing course?”

“According to the surface search, Captain.”

“It’s back up again?”

“Yes sir.”

He hit the Hydra again. “Cheryl, CO. Did your E-band answer up to the notification?”

“Stand by … Sir, our surface search is back up. Also, yes, they replied. INS Lahav requests permission to close.”

He dropped his bootsoles to the wet gratings with a thud.
Lahav
 … memory supplied a Sa’ar-class corvette. U.S.-built, but Israeli flagged. Smaller than
Savo
but heavily armed, with guns and Harpoon. Actually, he remembered seeing them being built down in Pascagoula, their superstructures slab-angled to reduce radar signature. That might explain why she’d not popped up earlier; at twenty thousand yards she was already inside missile range. They’d actually detected her, or at least the sub had, farther away by sonar than by radar.

Which raised another question. Any ship with an electronic-warfare stack could detect the side-lobes of the invisible yet massive beam of microwave radiation those big octagonal panels above him were projecting over the horizon. Why had the other skipper approached on a bearing he had to know, or at least suspect, he wouldn’t be readily detected on? Was that some sort of message? Or even, threat? Aloud Dan asked, “Permission to close us? Why?”

“No reason given.”

“Says he’s Israeli?”

“Consistent with the EW. Checks out against GCCS.”

Dan rubbed his chin. The Israelis were normally happy to see a U.S. ship. They only shadowed what they weren’t sure of. Something wasn’t kosher. So to speak. “We should have known about this dude as soon as he cleared port.”

“Yessir. Backchecking on that. Do we want to hold him outside five miles?”

He paused in the pilothouse, catching the Troll’s eye again as he keyed the Hydra to answer. “Tell him … no,
request
him to halt at five miles. Make sure he’s clear on who we are. Again: don’t illuminate him. I’m on my way down.” He didn’t want to give offense, and so close to Israeli territorial waters, no wonder they were being checked out. But he didn’t want to take any chances.
Unnecessary
chances, he reminded himself ironically.

The officer of the deck. “Captain, RHIB’s picked up
Pittsburgh
’s CO. Sub is retiring; permission to reverse course.”

“Affirmative. Go in and get ’em.” He looked past the helmsman at the choppy sea, reflecting on how their course reversal would affect the five-mile radius he’d asked the corvette to stay outside. And what if he didn’t respect the request? “Make it fast. I want that boat back aboard, and us to be ready to maneuver.”

*   *   *

THE
submarine commander more than filled the chair in Dan’s in-port cabin. He looked Hispanic, or perhaps Indian; his name was Youngblood, not noticeably non-Anglo, but not giving any clues to his ancestry. Dan checked the other man’s left hand. No Academy ring. The large bruise beginning to darken the side of his face didn’t seem to dampen Youngblood’s spirits; he was practically bouncing in the chair. “That? Got it during the boat transfer. Slipped on the curve of the hull.”

“Been there, done that,” Dan said, remembering boarding another sub in the Korea Strait. The only time, actually, he’d sailed under a flag of truce. “Glad you weren’t badly hurt, Jack. We could get some ice for that—”

Youngblood grinned and waved the offer away. “Picked up a hard roll, that’s all. Hey, I think we got a friend in common. Andy Mangum? Had
San Francisco
, out in Westpac, couple years back?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know Andy. What’s he doing now?”

“He had DevRon Five, after
San Fran;
now he’s the chief of staff at ComSubPac. Ran into him at a technology conference in Bangor. He told me some … sea stories. About you and the North Koreans.” Youngblood winked broadly, then chuckled, as if he knew Dan couldn’t comment. “Course, I didn’t believe a word. Anyway, this is my formal inchop, right? Or do I need a message, too?”

“No message necessary. I’ll just include that you checked in, in my daily report.”

A tap at the door. “Come in,” Dan called.

Ammermann was in khaki slacks, running shoes, and a dark green silk polo. He blinked and gave Dan a tentative half-salute. Dan cleared his throat. “Jack, this is Adam Ammermann. We’re not really sure how long he’ll be staying, but he’s a sort of public affairs staffer out of the West Wing. Adam, Jack Youngblood, USS
Pittsburgh
. Uh, a nuclear submarine. She’ll be in company with us over the next few days. I thought we’d have lunch, the three of us, and get acquainted.”

The big submariner and Ammermann shook hands, and they moved to the large table, which Longley had set for three. Not with the formal silver service, which was reserved for VIP or diplomatic guests, but regular wardroom china. It was Chinese day, with pork lo mein, somewhat crooked spring rolls, and steamed rice. Dan glanced again at the other CO’s profile, hoping he wouldn’t take the menu as some kind of insult … no, shit, he was getting paranoid again. “So … looks like we’re going to have a war on our hands in the next couple of days.”

“Never good.” Youngblood shook his head. “I think we’re ready. But let’s hope they can find some other way.”

“The president gave them forty-eight hours to leave,” Ammermann said. “Him and his sons.”

Youngblood frowned. “And why exactly are we doing this now?”

Ammermann smiled, laying a finger on the submariner’s arm; Youngblood stiffened. “We have absolute proof they have chemical and biological weapons, maybe even a nuclear device. You don’t wait around to be attacked. That was our mistake on 9/11. They’ve lied and threatened us long enough. We can bring democracy to Iraq, same as we brought it to Germany and Italy and Japan and Russia.”

Dan applied himself to the lo mein while it was still hot and let them argue, but he couldn’t help remembering what Freya Stark had written about Rome wanting only weak states on her periphery. The Romans had followed a policy of crushing any bordering state that seemed likely to become powerful. But when she’d destroyed these prospective buffers, far more dangerous barbarians, pushing through the chaos and debris, had eventually brought down the empire.

When Ammermann ran out of steam Dan put in, “Not to change the subject, but—Jack; that Israeli corvette, to the east. He’s parked five miles out, where we asked him to respect our safety zone. Any idea what’s on his mind?”

Youngblood chewed for a moment. The broad head cocked. “Maybe he’s wondering the same about us.”

“Adam, what do you think? The Israelis must know what we’re doing here. Wouldn’t somebody from the West Wing, or State, have notified them? Officially, or…?”

“I can make a call and find out. If you’ll give me a secure hookup.”

“That’d be awkward. I’ve put my entire crew, and myself, on personal comm restrictions.” That wasn’t why he didn’t want this guy on the horn, but he wasn’t about to say, “I don’t want you reporting back on me.”

“He actually might be here to protect you,” said the submariner.

“Yeah, I wondered about that.”
Lahav
might be his missing “shotgun” … his escort when
Savo Island
was so focused on her mission she couldn’t defend herself. It might make sense. The administration was wooing Arab states to join the Coalition of the Willing. Few had, but at least they weren’t joining the other side. In that case, keeping any U.S.-Israeli military cooperation covert would be smart. “But I can’t even talk to their ABM side, to deconflict. That doesn’t sound like cooperation.”