The Weapon (58 page)

“They're being taken care of. Not one, but two doctors aboard. One's even a surgeon. Your lad with the busted wing's x-rayed, set, and splinted.” He lowered his voice. “Vaught's body is being handled with due respect. We'll get you all off the flight deck sometime this afternoon. He li copter to Dubai and a special Air Guard C-130 home from there. That set your mind at ease?”

“I'd still like to see them, Jack. As soon as we're done with the admiral here, whatever he wants. And maybe, call my wife.”

“Blair, sure, we can set that up covered voice, right to the Building.”

Byrne broke off. He, de Cary, and, belatedly, Dan came to attention as the inner door opened.

The vice-admiral was shorter than any other man in the room, but he had the same absolute self-assurance Dan was used to in senior U.S. flag officers. His hand felt small and soft. “Monsieur Lenson—Commander—it is a great pleasure. Commandante de Cary has given me the briefing entirely
upon you. Your great courage. Your many decorations. You are to be congratulated on this latest success.”

“Uh, thank you, sir. Very much. And thank you for coming to our assistance last night. I wouldn't exactly call it a success—”

“You did not attain what you hoped?” The dark eyes drilled in. “But the Commandante assures me you have. He was speaking with your men, while you were recovering. Apparently you have photos, software, the
principe d'operation
of the weapon is now entirely known—”

Dan glanced at Byrne. De Cary had been interrogating his men without him present? But the intel officer shook his head slightly.

The vice-admiral turned to a side table and picked up a small blue case. “Attention, please, Commander.” Not sure what was going on, Dan snapped to. A faintness took him as he did so; he swayed; de Cary grabbed one arm, Byrne the other.

“Are you well, Commander?”

“Not much sleep, bad air—a lot of stress.”

“I should imagine so.
Tres bien
.” The admiral cleared his throat, opened the case, took out a card, and read something so rapidly from it in French Dan caught only the odd word here and there. Before he realized what was happening, the little man was pushing something into the front of his flight suit. He pulled Dan's head down, yanked him close, and kissed him on both cheeks in a dry, businesslike way. Stepped back and clicked his heels. When Dan looked down a five-pointed white and green star lay over his heart.

“In the name of the President of the Republic and in virtue of the powers conferred on me by him, I name you chevalier of the Legion of Honor,” the admiral said. “Congratulations, Commander Lenson.” He pumped his hand up and down twice, then let it drop. “Thank you for helping resolve this threatening situation, assuring the security of both our country's forces.”

Dan was so taken aback he didn't have words for a moment.
He muttered from the side of his mouth, “Uh, Jack—am I allowed to accept this?”

“Don't sweat it, you're not actually in the Legion,” Byrne muttered back. “Foreigners can't officially belong. It's like an honorary thing. But it'll still look good in your record.”

 

In the passageway Dan waited till none of the sailors in their striped pullovers was in hearing range, then grabbed Byrne's arm. He coughed, then said, “Lemme ask you something, Jack. Here and now. Between us.”

“Go ahead.”

“De Cary said this task force could have helped us out long ago. But we wouldn't clear them to?”

“Actions had to be coordinated. Approval sought. Unfortunately, it had to go through the joint staff. Long memories there, when your name comes up.” Byrne smiled sardonically behind the shades. “Under the circumstances, we hustled it through pretty damn fast, I think.”

Dan couldn't seem to stop coughing, but he wheezed out, “If it'd happened faster, Vaught'd still be alive.”

“I'm sorry. Anything else?”

“Yeah. As long as we're down and dirty.”

“Shoot.”

“I appreciate your being here, but Naval Intelligence didn't score this one. Or DIA, or CIA, either. Your operation cratered. TAG did. Team Charlie, that's not funded worth a shit, has to beg for support, that's apparently not even supposed to exist. So why do I get the feeling you're going to be claiming most of the credit?”

Byrne smiled, but Dan couldn't see his eyes. He flicked the enameled cross with his thumbnail. “Pretty medal. 'Course, it's the lowest of the five grades of the Legion.”

“Answer me.”

“Danny boy, Danny. Let me turn the bathroom light on for you. First of all, CIA
was
involved. Who told us
K-79
was in Bandar Abbas, with what we wanted aboard? Who passed us the lead in the first place, about the improved
guidance? But there's a problem. And the French, in par ticu lar de Cary, could be the solution.”

“What problem? What solution? You lost me.”

Byrne sighed. He looked up the passageway. Paced a few steps, Dan following, then stopped again.

“Dan, you won't even get part of the credit. For your own good. None of this took place under Congressional oversight. So—you never laid eyes on a Shkval.”

“Bullshit, Jack. My CO cleared it all the way to the top. And my guys shed blood for this. One died. I'm supposed to take a Crackerjack prize and go away whistling? I don't think so.”

“I think you will. There are quids, and there are pro quos. The French think they're buying access: saving your can, cleaning up your mess, giving you a medal. Well, okay. A few more quids, and we'll give them the pro quo. Only they're not going to be the recipient. They're going to be the source.”

“What? That's crazy. What possible reason—”

Byrne muttered, “The administration your wife serves specifically told the intel community, hands off Iran. They've got their hands full with Iraq, they want this side of the Gulf quiet. Well, the Chief of Naval Operations needed what he needed, to protect the carriers. But the source can't be American, because then it would be illegal, and we certainly don't want it to be the Navy. So it's going to be French.”

Dan stared. What kind of twisted logic was this?

Byrne added, “In fact, another angle just occurred to me: they can identify us as their source, and we'll identify them as ours. No one will ever have enough clearances to check the one against the other.”

“And us? My men? Where do we fit in your fucking game?”

“You did your job,” Byrne told him, not smiling now, leaning in, keeping his voice low, and Dan's arm pulled in tight so they were mouth to ear and he smelled the captain's lime cologne. “A couple false starts, and you lost a man, but in the end, you pulled it off. The Navy won't forget that. For you, or your guys.

“Now your job's to write the fucking after action report, turn over all the data, the photos, those manuals I saw Henrickson with on the helo—then forget everything. We'll determine who has access. Because the byline you'll most likely see on it, when it finally comes out of the intel pipeline, will be de Cary's. Who doesn't work for the Defense Council, by the way.”

He patted Dan's arm. “Now, my advice, go get some sleep, all right? You're dog tired. See your guys, if that's what you've gotta do. Then get your head down. Tomorrow is another day.”

 

When he let himself into sick bay he found Oberg sitting on the deck in stained BDUs, coughing as if his lungs were coming up. Dan could smell him from across the compartment. It did look as if he'd shaved, but apparently no one had dared to insist on getting him stripped. Henrickson perched across from him on a chair, arms folded, eyes closed.

Oberg grinned unpleasantly. “Commander. Nice flight suit. Wondered where you were.”

Dan was suddenly glad he'd stuck the medal in his pocket. “Taking care of things. How's Sumo?”

“They've got him on oxygen, but he's conscious. He got a heavier concentration of that chlorine than I did.”

“Monty, you okay? Where's Donnie? Where's Rit?”

Henrickson started awake, catching the chair just before it went over backward. “Huh? Oh. Inside there. I think. What's the deal? We going to Bahrain?”

“No. They're flying us off to the Air Force base in Dubai. Back to the States from there. Sometime this afternoon, so make sure everybody's ready.” He lowered his voice. “The manuals? The camera?”

“Under Rit's bunk. He's keeping an eye on them. I figured that was the safest place.”

“Yeah, maybe so.” Dan glanced at the other door. “Let me look in on them. I'm glad you guys are all right.”

“Glad you made it, too, Commander,” Oberg said dryly.

The lights were on low in the bunking area. Kaulukukui was sawing wood, a bag crackling with his respiration, transparent mask over his face. A French medic was reading a paperback by his bunk.

In the next bay Carpenter lay on his back, fingers twitching, sleeping as well. Wenck sat cross-legged across from him, eyes wide, shoulders jerking with body English as he played some kind of thumb-operated game. He put it aside when he noticed Dan. “Commander!”

“Donnie, you okay? What are you doing in here?”

“They gave me a shot. I was kind of wired, I guess. Get that way after I stay up a long time writing code. One time I stayed up five days, I was so—”

“Uh-huh. They feed you? Did Rit eat anything?”

“Oh yeah, oh yeah, they fed us all a real good breakfast. Even chocolate. For breakfast! Boy, that Teddy can eat. Look what one of the sailors loaned me. This thing's cool. I feel great now, but they don't want me to leave.”

“Not a problem.” Dan patted his shoulder, hoping Donnie didn't hit too hard when he finally crashed. “That programming you downloaded from the—from you know where?”

He nodded to where Carpenter snored. Dan ducked his head and saw the black duffel under the bunk. “Keep an eye on it. We're flying off this afternoon. Can you stay awake till then? Or get Teddy to?”

“Sure. Oh, sure, I can do that.” Wenck smiled uneasily, tucking his lips inside his mouth. “Uh, Commander, d'I do okay? The other guys got it more together. I know that. But I  tried real hard. And I got everything in that guidance module. It's all there.”

“You did great, Donnie,” Dan told him. “I can't think of anyone else I'd have rather had along. Okay, I'm going topside, look at the sun. Get yourself cleaned up, and try to relax. If you can.”

Wenck grinned, ducking his head. He didn't restart his game. Just sat there, blushing, as Dan waved and headed out.

He stood at the rail, on the wide gallery that ran the width of the carrier's apartment block of a stern, looking into the turbulent Gulf as it roiled away, folding over on itself to reveal different layers, different colors, different depths. Gulls canted and shrieked as they inspected what the invisible screws throbbing far below brought up into the sunlight.

After a time he felt in the pockets of the flight suit, and came up with the tart, his third, wrapped in the linen napkin, that he'd managed to tuck away from the admiral's hospitality.

Halfway through it a gray and white shape parted from the whirl of its fellows and hovered, beak cocked, one bright black eye fixed on him. He tossed it a bit of pastry. It blinked and banked, and caught the morsel neatly in midair.

The bird soared on an air current coming off the flight deck, and he thought it was gone. But it came back. He tossed it a few more bits, until the tart was gone.

It soared, but then returned once more, hovering and balancing in the bright hot wind a few feet off, graceful, alive, intent, alert, its black bright eye ever fixed on him. He had nothing more for it. Perhaps it could see that. But for so long as he stood there, it did not depart.

 

 

 

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