The Gulf (59 page)

“You sure? Will more men help?”

“No, sir, I can't put any more weight on these fucking camels or they'll roll over. I've got a man for every paint tool aboard now. Tell you what, though, if you give me twenty fresh bodies at one
A.M
., I'll knock first division off, let them get a little sleep.”

“Okay, I'll take care of it.”

*   *   *

They got under way from Sitra at 0420 and headed east at flank speed. Off Qatar,
Charles Adams
joined up. In the growing light of that last day, the two ships altered course together, heading out into the empty heart of the Gulf.

Dan stood on the forecastle, blinking in the yellow-white glare of a just-launched sun. He'd come up to check the muster on the forward life rafts, but stopped when he saw the other ship.

He looked now across the rushing water to the old destroyer that paralleled their course a thousand yards off. She, too, was black, but a grin warped his mouth as he saw that part of her sheer had been left gray. Gray, in the low rakish silhouette of a Boghammer. Typical Jakkel, he thought. Shaker had been so proud of his own idea about black paint. He'd have a fit when he saw that, and realized he'd been done one better.

The bow wave came up with a steady, sullen crash, green at its root, then shattering into foam the color of a sea gull's breast. Despite their speed, the racing ships seemed unmoving, enchanted, sealed magically into an immense waiting stillness. The
shamal
was coming from astern, blowing at the same speed they moved.

“This is the Captain speaking,” came the hollow stentorian clamor of the 1MC. A glitter of color caught Dan's eye, and he leaned forward, only half-listening, forgetting for a moment what he'd come up there for, where he was, and where he was going.

“This is Captain Shaker. We are now on our way to Abu Musa Island to carry out a night attack on the Iranian base there. We will go to general quarters shortly to zero the guns and test communications.”

They were moving in the midst of a miracle. Spray leapt from the cutwater, tossed high by the impact of four thousand tons of ship propelled by fifty thousand horsepower; and out of it, traveling with them as if welded to the bullnose, the rising sun cut a brilliant rainbow.

“I've had only a short time to sharpen your battle skills. But I'm satisfied that you're prepared to take on the enemy tonight and win.”

He'd seen it before, not on
Van Zandt,
but on other ships, in other seas. But not often. And never before so brilliant, so clear, and so perfect.

“I'll be briefing the chiefs and officers at eleven hundred. They'll brief you this afternoon on the plan. We will be fighting at close quarters, with no margin for error, and every man aboard will have to do his best if he expects to come out of Abu Musa in one piece.”

A blessing? A warning? An omen? Or just the random interplay of light and matter, water and air? He looked beyond and through it to the ship to starboard.
Adams
had moved slightly ahead, and now around her as she rose to a sea the same unearthly halo glowed: red, orange, yellow, down past indigo into regions where no man saw. Beneath his feet, the deck trembled with speed. The water roared and the sonar whistled its shrill, lonely cry. Rising from the sea before them, flying fish streaked away in graceful wandering terror.

“We have a powerful and battle-ready ship under us. We've taken shit off these ragheads for too long. But at last we've got our orders. Close with the enemy, and put the bastards out of business for good.”

He could hear the cheer even through the roar of the cutwater, even through the steel behind him. The whole crew must be shouting. Cheering Shaker. Cheering the chance at last to fight those they had feared and watched against so long. Above it, the brazen voice lifted, grim, inspiring, pealing the kind of call to arms that he had sometimes feared, sometimes hoped, belonged only and forever to the past.

“We will hit them and hit them hard. I want every weapon ready. I want every man to know that we will kill Iranians tonight until there are no more of them left in range.”

Into battle, Dan thought. He'd been there before. And survived. But there was no guarantee he would this time. All men are mortal; Socrates is a man; therefore Socrates is mortal. The most basic syllogism of all. How well would their own logic work? The logic of their plans, and the expensive and complex electronic logic built into their ship and their weapons? How many aboard the two black destroyers would make it through the coming night? Would he?

“That is all. Bo's'n, sound general quarters.”

As he turned, already running, he knew that the answer to that question no longer made any difference. He wore the uniform. Not of compulsion. Of his own free will. And with the coin of Caesar came the obligation to die, if he had to, facing the enemy.

Whether he was alive a day from now no longer mattered. The real question was, Would he do his duty.

He had the feeling that he would. And he heard, with terror and at the same time an ancient joy, his own voice lifting to join the paean.

33

U.S.S.
Charles F. Adams,
DDG-2

PHELAN moaned and struggled, hauling the five-gallon bucket, lead-heavy with paint, down the too-steep ladder that led into the sea. Below him the boatswain, the same man who'd taken pity on him on the pier at Mina' Salman, smirked up at his awkward progress, obviously enjoying the sight.

Shit,
he was thinking. Screwed again. Screwed bad this time. He shifted the bucket, slopping its contents over his good shoes, and whimpered aloud. In its inky darkness, for one moment a perfect mirror, he knew his tortured and sweating face.

He'd been working now for hours. How many he couldn't tell—there were no watches on the float—but it was almost dark. So that was at least six hours straight down here in the heat, on the pitching balks of wood.

He'd stepped aboard
Adams
from the whaleboat jaunty, composed, his story polished bright as tourist-trap silver. How he'd forgotten the envelope with his orders on the seat of the plane, and how when he went back, they were gone. But he didn't think now
Adams
's exec had really been listening. “That's too bad,” he'd said at last, breaking into Phelan's explanation. “But we're full up with corpsmen. And with no I.D. and no orders, I don't want you working there, anyway. You can stay till we find your ship, but you're going to first division. That's where we need hands now. Get into your dungarees and report to the chief boats.”

So now here he was. One of the peons, one of the apes. And not liking it one damn bit.

He got to the bottom at last and grunted the can down on splintered wood that looked like a giant had used it as a palette. He was instantly surrounded by dirty, tattooed, cursing sailors. They elbowed him aside without looking at him, fighting around the dark reservoir like bears around a honey pot. He backed away, almost fell into the water as his foot skidded over the edge of the float. He scrambled back up and lifted his eyes.

Charles Adams
rode motionless in the falling darkness in the lee of a small cape. Alongside her were lashed several narrow balks of wood. From them, and from two dented jonboats, thirty men were rapidly slapping rollers and brushes along the looming sides. All but amidships, where they'd left an irregular patch of sea-faded gray. The paint had been a perfect mirror in his bucket. He noticed now that it was drying to dead black.

“Hey, Geronimo! This ain't no time for rubbernecking! Get us some more rollers, the big ones. Chop chop!
Pedal ass,
fuck-face!”

“He's thinking,” said one of the stained men, his teeth yellow in a black face. “Thinkin' about tonight. Little bastard's scared shitless. Look at him.”

“Don't think, asshole, work.”

Phelan didn't answer. He didn't belong with these people. And he was feeling bad. The uneasy jostling of the float, the turpentine stink made him want to barf. He wanted another Dilaudid. But they were history now.
Jesu,
he was in bad shape. Could he report sick? It'd be easy to slip going up that ladder. He could sprain an ankle. That was painful and they might give him—

He yelped as a hard and sticky hand slammed him into the hull. “I said move your ass, you little prick,” growled a voice in his ear. “The fucking khaki can't see us down here. You want to lose teeth, just keep doping off on us, hear me?”

He found himself loping up the ladder like a scared rabbit.

Topside was covered with men, all of them painting. He did a double take as he saw chiefs, too, with brushes in their hands. He strolled forward, then ducked into an open hatch.

Sick bay. The caduceus on the door, the comforting smells of disinfectant, wax, and medicines. He gazed in yearningly through the open half of the dutch door. “What's the trouble, Jack?” said the second-class on duty.

“I don't feel good.”

“Name?”

“Phelan. Bernard.”

“Division?”

“Uh, none, I'm here TAD.”

“Rate?”

“Hospitalman.”

“Oh,
wait
a minute, I heard about you,” said the corpsman. “
Phelan.
Yeah. You as fucked up as they say?”

Bernard stared at him, trembling and sweating. “What do you mean by that, fatass?”

“Nothin', only the chief said he heard about you. He knows some guys off the
Long Beach.
What's the complaint today, Phelan?”

“I don't know. I got cramps and all my muscles are sore. I think I got the flu. Or gastroenteritis. It hurts real bad.” He moved closer and lowered his voice. “I need something special. You got to help me, man. I'd help you out if you needed it.”

“I bet it does,” said the corpsman, grinning. “Here you go, Phelan, don't say I never give you nothing.”

He stared down at two aspirin in his dirty palm.

Before he could think, he cursed the man and threw the tablets in his face. He was sorry an instant later. He had to make friends, not enemies. But the door had already slammed shut. And a warrant officer, coming down the passageway with his arms full of canvas, was shouting “What are you doing down here, sailor? We got an all-hands working party going. Get your ass up on the weather decks!”

Topside again, his teeth chattering with a sudden chill, he joined a line in front of the paint locker. It moved fast. He said to the man behind him, “Jesus, what's the big hurry?”

“Didn't you listen to the captain? We're going to sink some ragheads tonight, buddy. Going to put some hurts on those little brown fuckers.”

“Tonight? What, what are we doing?”

“Going to do some shooting,” said the seaman in the paint locker, handing him five rollers. “Going to go in and take some people out. Get moving, pal, we got to finish up tonight.”

He couldn't help groaning as he reapproached the ladder. His stomach was cramping so badly it was hard to walk. He didn't want to go down there again. But there didn't seem to be much alternative. He was afraid of the boatswain with the hard fists.

And what was this they were saying, about going in and … he didn't like the sound of that at all.

“Hey, you!”

He flinched. This time it was a man he didn't recognize, smeared black like all the rest on this floating Earl Scheib's, but in shorts and T-shirt instead of uniform. Phelan stared at him. “I'm the master-at-arms,” he said rapidly, glancing back to where other chiefs were hastily wire-brushing out a paint sprayer. “Wanted to let you know, when we go to general quarters for the attack tonight, you'll be in Repair Two. That's up forward, main deck. You can ask somebody how to get there. You had damage-control training on your ship, right?”

“No, not much, I'm a corpsman. I'm supposed to be assigned to sick bay. Can't you get me put in sick bay, I'm—”

“Repair Two. Don't forget. Be there; I put you on their muster list.” The chief ran forward.

Phelan became aware at that moment of threatening voices raised below him. He started, almost tripped over the coaming, but caught himself on the lifeline at the last moment. He hurt. He was scared. But he was more scared of what would happen down there if he didn't turn to.

Praying in Zuni behind his closed teeth, he hurried down the ladder, taking care not to slip.

34

2100 Hours: Off Abu Musa Island, Southern Gulf

THERE was one short but endless moment in his fall when Gordon lost himself. His ears were crammed with the pulse of rotors, but his eyes, dark-adapted, still met nothing but blackness. Then, still falling, he glimpsed a wheeling myriad of stars. They seethed like bubbles around him as he tumbled out of the sky. He couldn't see the water at all. Only sparkling below him, too, the distant golden suns—

He hit so hard his breath drove into the mouthpiece with an explosive grunt. A hundred and thirty pounds of dive gear, tools, and weights instantly dragged him under. Into void, oblivion, now tangible as well as visible.

For a moment, he fought fear. Then drill took charge. His left hand slapped the inflation valve. Gas hissed, and a few seconds later he felt the sea slipping past him, yielding him up reluctantly and only for a time.

His mask broke the surface. At first, he didn't realize it. Then he shook his head, spat out the mouthpiece, and screamed as loudly as he could into the departing engines.

“Over here!” came Terger's voice, hoarse with stress. Gordon shouted again, wondering whether his voice was giving him away, too. Then he began swimming, toward the shape that suddenly appeared a few yards away, taking on form as he closed it.

“Tony!” he shouted.

“Là.”
Maudit, on the far side of the raft.