The Gulf (70 page)

“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 tumult 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