The Med (54 page)

At 0550 the first helo lifted off with a roar that rattled through the flight deck down to them. He and the others glanced up, paused; then returned, wordless, to their preparations.

Now it was 0610, and the Navy was doing business at last. Deep in the flagship the hiss of air conditioners merged seamlessly with the crackle of far-off speech, the squeal of transmitters, the clatter of Teletypes. The room hummed with light. It gleamed from desktops and radio equipment, from stacks of forms, sharpened pencils. It glowed over the rows of intent men, over publications stamped with warnings and classifications. A new chart of Northern Lebanon and Western Syria, brilliantly illuminated, towered above the tiered desks. The atmosphere was tense as a broker's office during what could be a rally—or a disastrous plunge.

“Green Line, this is Overkill, over.”

“Coordinates, Red Three Fow-er Seven Three, White Two Niner Zee-ro Eight.”

“Negative, negative, flight leader. Maintain ordered altitude. I say again, do not descend below angels eight on this radial or you will infringe helo return lane.”

“Understand range is fouled. Can you close the beach? Attempt a close and report sight checks.”

“Roger. Shifting to secondary freq at this time. Overkill out.”

In the center of the bright room, the intent men, Lenson wrote rapidly on green paper, glancing up frequently at the mass of land, silent, waiting, that dominated it. McQueen stood in front of it, grease-penciling rapidly on the road leading northeast between El Aabde and Qoubaiyat. The j.g.'s face was drawn. His eyes met the light with the glittering intensity of fatigue, over blue stains that made him look old. His hand shook as he tore off the carbon and tapped the back of the man in front of him.

Despite his appearance he felt wonderful. The hour's nap, that or the immense overdose of caffeine, had restored his flagging energy. He felt a hectic, nervous high. He wanted to laugh or sing or sprint. After so much boredom, so much Crazy Ike, he was in action at last. Grinning suddenly, he glanced around the room.

The long tables were filled with officers and phone talkers, Marine Corps and Navy. The air crackled with radios, the terse speech of men setting into motion the plans he had written only hours before, alone in his room.

At the thought he bent forward, flipping the pages of the operations order, and began to review his assets once more. If things started in earnest he would have no time to read. He would have to know what to do.

First: naval guns. Another escort had joined the reconstituted Task Force 61 as it steamed for the beach during the last hours before dawn.
Virginia,
one of
America
's escorts. A nuclear-powered missile cruiser, it had one five-inch mount operational forward, but he was leery of putting it close to the beach. He'd assigned her a patrol area to seaward, where she could monitor the air picture and provide cover against air attack. But even with her, Dan was worried. Along with
Bowen
's single mount, that still made only two five-inch guns.

I need
Ault,
he thought. Need those six tubes bad. The last word he'd had from her was that she was finishing repairs and would shortly attempt flank speed. If she made it that would give him a total of eight guns. With luck, he thought, I should be able to manage with that.

And finally—he glanced at another handset, ready to his left hand, callsigns penciled above it—he had aircraft. The night before, reversing his previous statements (the air attack, he reflected, might have had something to do with that), Admiral Roberts had sent
America
and the rest of TF 60 hurtling toward the Levant at over thirty knots. She stood now two hundred miles to the west, far enough to lessen the provocation, but bringing her fighters within range. Roberts had promised two attack jets on station throughout the morning. Jack Byrne, seated just below Dan, was on the line to them now, controlling and vectoring them at Lenson's direction. His use of them was limited, Dan knew, both by range and by what bombing a Soviet treaty partner would mean; but they were there.

I'm ready, he thought. The Navy's ready. Now it's up to the Corps.

“Well, we're on our way,” he said to Flasher, who sat down at that moment in the chair to his right.

“Aye.”

“Think we'll have to use any of this stuff? Do any shooting?”

“Jesus, I hope not,” said Flasher. “Whoever we hit, there'll be a hell of a stink. Syrians, Russians, the Girl Scouts, you name it. I just hope they back us up back in Washington.”

When the first wave hit, seven minutes after scheduled H, a muttered cheer rose around him. The first troops took the dune line and dug in quickly, ready to repel attack, but none came. The beach seemed empty. Dan stayed alert; it could have been cleared for artillery fire. The second wave beached, disgorging men who ran full-tilt for cover. The amtracs moved inland, broadening the toehold, alert for opposition or mines.

The marines were ashore. He sent McQueen up to plot the forward edge of the battle area. A few minutes later the first reports came in from the helo landing zone on Hill 1214, three miles inland. The advance party was in, dug in, and the road was clear as far as they could observe.

“Fuel state twenty,” said Byrne, interrupting his thoughts.

He glanced at one of the three clocks on the bulkhead, above the map. “The jets? They're that low already?”

“These birds can't stay around long.”

“No, they sure can't. We'll break them off soon, send them home. Should be two more on their way. Tell 'em to stay away from the beach—we can't let 'em even over land unless Sundstrom sends them in.”

“Understood. How's the rest of it going?”

“Good progress, Jack.”

“They moving inland now?”

“Let me check. Mac—get me first-wave leader.”

“Click to seven, Lieutenant.”

“Right. Green Bench, this is Overkill. Interrogative situation.”

The confident words came back instantly, close and loud through the invisible link of radio. From that voice alone Lenson could see instantly and completely the beach; amtracs growling up the dunes toward the inland road, the radioman riding atop them, or perhaps huddled in a hole in the sand, cautious about exposing himself despite his confident, too-loud tone.
“Overkill, Green Bench here. First wave beached on time, without casualties. Forward Edge Battle Area now inland twelve hundred meters. Point units forming up on beach road, coordinates zero-four-one-eight, six-seven-two-zero, preparing to head east. Over.”

“Green Bench, Overkill: What's your estimate of surf height?”

“Green Bench; five to six feet. Rough, but manageable. Over.”

“Overkill: That's great. We were worried about that. Do you see any need for preparatory or harassment fire at this time? Over.”

“Green Bench; no opposing forces noted. Natives seem to have cleared out. But sure would like to have it available. If we need it we'll need it fast. Over.”

“Roger. Understand,” said Lenson, wishing again he had
Ault
standing by. “Please report at ten-minute intervals as per oporder to ensure comms stay up. Overkill out.”

“Roger your last. Green Bench out.”

So they were ashore, the assault waves, at least. Not a shot at them during the beach approach, the most vulnerable time for a landing. And Flasher, bless him, had been right about the surf. Dan leaned back for a moment, looking at the chart, the phone warm in his hand. So far things looked good. His job now was to monitor the raid's progress, and be ready for the unforeseen.

At least, he thought with bitter gratitude,
he
never comes down to SACC.

Just now, he ought to be checking his support units. He snapped the switch, snapping his mind back into place and function again in the same motion, and leaned forward again. “Thoroughbred, this is Overkill. Over,” he said crisply into the transmit light.

No response. He stared at the map.

“Thoroughbred, Overkill … Thoroughbred, Thoroughbred, over.” Where the hell was
Bowen?

The frigate came up at last.
“Thoroughbred. Over.”

“Request your position. Over.”

“Uh, this is Thoroughbred … stand by … position, two thousand yards west of Point X-ray, ready for call for fire.”

“Two thousand! Interrogative failure to maintain assigned position.”

“Uh … captain wanted to move closer inshore.”

“Negative! Return to assigned position.” Lenson considered, then added the justification. “There's no resistance on the beach itself. Any calls for fire will come from further inland. We need you backed off to be able to shoot over these hills, damn it!”

“Thoroughbred, roger. Will pass that word.”

“Report when back on station. Overkill out.”

He tried calling
Ault,
on the off chance, but there was no response; she was still out of range. He shook his head.

Well, air support next. Two Intruders, with four thousand pounds of rockets and bombs each, had been describing wide circles over the sea west of the task force since five-thirty. As Byrne had warned him, they'd be running low on fuel soon despite external tanks. He clicked the dial to the Tactical Air net. “Hot Dog, this is Overkill.”

“Hot Dog,”
said the bored voice of the A-6 pilot.
“Go ahead.”

“Understand your fuel state is low. Confirm? Over.”

“Another fifteen minutes. Then we got to beat it for the barn.”

“Relief enroute?”

“Say again your last?”

“Are other aircraft on their way?”

“That's affirm, affirm. Two more enroute. Callsign is Blazing Saddles.”

“Copy callsign. We have no requirement for your services at present. Might as well head back.”

“We'll hang on for a few more minutes,”
came the pilot's voice; Lenson could hear the whine of jet engines in the background.
“Just in case. Haven't you got any place we can deliver these groceries?”

“Negat, flight leader, negat! We have firm word no combat aircraft over land without clearance from Sixth-fleet. Take it back and save it, it costs money. Overkill, out.”

“Hot Dog, out.”

No commodore, no supervision, no drill … just the real thing, at last, what he had trained for so long. Through the whole deployment SACC had been a place where the staff went during GQ to nap and go through meaningless exercises, reading to each other from slips of paper. Now it was different. Here in this bright room he controlled all that the Fleet had to give the Corps; here the dusty, already tired men ashore could find support against the heavier weapons an entrenched enemy could muster. Naval guns, aircraft, and later this morning batteries of Marine Corps artillery; these were the power backing the thin shells of the amtracs and assault helos, the unprotected, step-by-step progress of the infantry, the grunts. An amphibious operation, a thrust ashore from the sea, was an unnatural thing for a modern army. It stripped it of its most potent weapons. And so the ships had to protect them, guide them, and supply them, until they could build up enough power ashore, man by man and weapon by weapon, to meet an enemy on something like equal terms.

And given even approximately equal terms, Lenson thought, I'll bet on the Marine Corps every time.

He leaned back and stretched, conscious of a sure, steady pulse of power and excitement. He had trained for this moment since the day he entered the Academy. The falsity and strain, the endless worrying over appearances, had dropped away. This was what was important, and this, by God, he would do right. If only he felt more alert. Only a little more sleep …

So far, though, it had been easy. Almost, except for the knowledge that it was real, like practice landings at Fort Lauderdale or Gythion or Sardinia. No one had yet fired on the men who rolled or waded so vulnerably ashore; who ran from the squatting hulls of helicopters; who were forming themselves now, at 0623, to thrust inland toward the hills of Syria.

He hoped fervently that it would stay that way. He had guns and aircraft, but too few to hold a determined enemy. If the marines ran up against the Syrian Army, trained, careless of losses, and backed by Soviet power, there would be a lot of casualties.

And those two thousand men were all there were. It was all riding on one column, one lightning thrust inland with the whole force. Haynes had not left a single trooper aboard the ships that waited now, empty and anxious, off the low beach, flat and blazing in the morning sun.

No, goddammit, he thought fiercely. This has to work.

“Coffee, Lieutenant?”

“I guess another half a cup.” He stared at the mug as the petty officer tilted steaming fluid over the dregs of the last six. He knew now, forever, he hated the taste of the stuff. “Thanks, Mac.”

“You look like shit, sir.”

“Thanks for the beauty tip, too.” The staff quartermaster, he saw, did not look much better. The hours of close navigation during the beach approach had taken their toll on him.

The intercom blared suddenly at his elbow; he winced and turned it down. “Mr. Lenson? Commander Hogan here. The commodore wants to know if you can come up to the bridge.”

“We're pretty busy here, sir.”

“I think you better come up, Dan.”

Oh, Christ, he thought, what now? He hit the key savagely, petulantly, wanting to punch something. “Yes sir, I'll be right up.”

*   *   *

The flag bridge was filled with light. He had thought SACC was bright, but he blinked back tears and shielded his face with his hand as he mounted the last few steps of the outside ladder. The overcast that had shielded their movement was gone at last. The morning sun, two hands above the land, was burning straight through the windows, turning the closed bridge into an oven. The watch team was in full battle dress, helmets and life preservers, buttoned up tight. He felt sweat break on his forehead as he came up to the commodore's chair from behind. Sundstrom was relaxing, his feet up on the intercom. His helmet and life vest lay on the deck by the chair. A covered tray with the remains of breakfast sat on the chart table near him, and a half-full cup of coffee was balanced precariously on his knee. He stood there for a moment, studying the familiar folds in the back of the task force commander's neck. He had to breathe deeply several times, tamping down rage, before he could speak.