The Aden Effect (36 page)

“Fifth Fleet has already considered that. When the ship arrives, they'll select sixty sailors to disembark. The chartered plane flying into Aden today
with the humanitarian workers will pick up the sailors and take them to Bahrain until the operation is finished.”

Stark was even more concerned by this news. “That's a lot of crew to lose.”

“I'm sure it will be fine, Connor. Really, I thought you'd be happy at the news.”

“There is a security issue I'd like to discuss, ma'am,” said Golzari. “Commander Stark and I went over some communications intercepts. There's no doubt that the terrorists targeted you and him specifically in the two attacks. If they
do
plan another attack, we may want to consider giving them fewer opportunities to get at you. Staying apart from one another might help.”

“So once the ship arrives at anchorage, we should separate?” she asked.

“I suggest that, yes. Perhaps Commander Stark could remain with the ship. It's my duty to remain with you.”

“Commander?” she asked her attaché.

“What Agent Golzari says is sound advice.”

“Very well, gentlemen; that's the way we'll do it.”

“H
ow's our fuel, CHENG?” the captain asked in his high-pitched voice.

Stark ignored the dinner conversation among the senior staff in the wardroom, initiating conversations instead with OPS and Air Boss, who were seated near him at the end of the table. The young ensign who had been present at his last meal in the wardroom was seated to his immediate right. Stark was trying to keep his mind off the disappearance of Ali and focus on the job at hand. Air Boss was picking at his cake while OPS used a spoon to play with his quivering Shivering Liz. Tonight's Jell-O flavor was lime.

After swallowing a scoop of his own Shivering Liz, the ensign turned to Stark. “Excuse me, Commander, I was wondering if you'd answer some questions about the humanitarian mission we're going on.”

“Sure, Ensign . . . Fisk,” Stark said, looking down at the gold-lettered name on the stocky young officer's blue coveralls.

“I took a course on this at the Academy, and we talked about the type of platforms that would be needed. I was wondering if you thought—”

“Ensign,” the captain interrupted, “The commander has a great deal of work to do to prepare for tomorrow's operations. Don't you have some qualifications to work on before your next bridge watch?”

“Aye, sir.” Bobby Fisk stood behind his chair and asked to be excused.

“Commander, join us for a cigar?” the OPS officer asked Stark quietly as the captain returned to his customary “twenty questions” dinner conversation. When Stark nodded, he said, “Meet us near the LSO shack in ten minutes.”

They excused themselves as Stark doubled back to the galley and asked the generous culinary specialist for unsalted crackers and pickled ginger root. The specialist smiled in sympathy as she put a plate in his hands.

“How's the ambassador, Damien?”

“Still sick as a dog.”

The two men stood in the narrow passageway outside the quarters assigned to DESRON—the squadron commander—and VIP guests.

“Should we check on her?” Stark showed him the plate of crackers and ginger. “The crackers will put something in her stomach, and the ginger will help with the nausea.”

After knocking and hearing a loud moan, they entered the dayroom and then the stateroom itself. C. J. was curled in a fetal position on the bed, her head next to a conveniently located wastebasket.

“Your manservants have arrived, Madam Ambassador,” Connor said, receiving only a groan in reply.

“I'll leave this here for you, C. J. It'll settle your stomach. Eat it all. You need to be up and running tomorrow morning, okay?”

Her response of a dry heave could only be interpreted as a “maybe.” They left her to her own discomfort.

“Are you going to stay outside her stateroom all night?” Stark asked. “You need to get some sleep, too. Tomorrow is going to be a long and busy day.”

“Don't worry, the sheriff of this ship is going to relieve me in a couple of hours. We'll go two on, two off tonight. I'll be fine.”

“Do you need me to take a shift?”

“Would I pay your commander salary or your merc salary?”

“This one's free.”

“Thanks, but it might be too tough on your constitution, old man.”

“Not as tough as my fist on your nose, Damien,” Stark warned.

The two lieutenant commanders were already puffing on their cigars when Stark joined them near the LSO shack. The only light came from the green bioluminescent trail in their wake. The weapons officer showed up soon afterward,
and the
Bennington
's officers vied with one another to tell the most outrageous stories about their CO.

“I'm surprised there hasn't been a mutiny,” Stark said after hearing a few. “Should I be worried about this operation?”

“That's a loaded question, sir,” answered OPS. “He'll follow the letter of the law, but he won't go one bit further than he has to. As for the rest of the crew, some will do whatever's necessary to make this mission a success; others won't.”

As the discussion wound down, WEPS broached the subject none of them had dared mention before. “Commander, you ought to know something about that night you first joined us.”

“What's that?”

“Best you see it for yourself, sir,” WEPS said, stubbing out his cigar. “Go to the bridge after twenty-three hundred. The CO does his final quick walkthrough on the bridge at twenty-two hundred and then hits the rack.”

“What should I look for on the bridge?”

“Check the deck log from that night. Check it really closely.”

The cryptic suggestion piqued Stark's curiosity, and twenty-three hundred found him in the company of six other crew members on the bridge—the OOD, Ensign Fisk as the conning officer, two men working at the chart table, a short female helmsman, and an OS2 at the radar repeater on the starboard side of the bridge.

“What's your first name, Ensign?”

“Bobby, sir.”

“Play any sports at the Academy, Bobby?”

“Started out playing baseball but wound up on the pistol team. I never shot before I got there. I spent a lot of extra time at the shooting range to catch up to the other mids on the team.” Bobby chose not to mention getting cut from the baseball team and putting all of his time and effort into becoming a marksman.

“Thanks for your question about humanitarian ops,” Stark said. “Let's get through this cycle, and then we'll find a place to talk about force structure options—give you some things to think about for when you're a captain or Chief of Naval Operations.”

“Neither of those, sir. Not at this rate. I thought for sure I'd do at least twenty, but I'll be out in five.”

“This deployment can't be that bad.”

Bobby just shook his head.

“You know, Bobby, you have a good wardroom. They're good officers and good role models.”

“I know, sir. They're great. They're not the problem.”

“Don't give up, Bobby. Tough times call for good people to rise to the occasion. We'll do some good for these people on Socotra, people who've never heard of us and won't ever see us again. But we'll be helping them. It's a good feeling. That's one of the many positive things we get to do in the Navy. You'll learn from this experience—what to do and what not to do. And as you rise in the ranks, you'll look after those behind you.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“My pleasure, Ensign. It's been awhile since I've been on a Navy bridge. Can you show me around?”

Fisk showed Stark each of the bridge stations in turn, interrupting their conversation now and then to issue course changes and speed commands to the helm.

“We didn't have one of these when I was in,” Stark said, pointing to a hightech screen.

“That's the VMS navigational display, sir. We can preset coordinates based on the navigator's recommendations and then see how closely our actual course has aligned with the original track.”

Stark narrowed his eyes as he tried to read the display. Something stood out. “We're operating in a box at this point?”

“Yes, sir. Since earlier this evening, when all the ships arrived just north of Socotra after an eighteen-hour transit, each of the ships has been assigned a box that they're required to maneuver within until we re-form tomorrow at zero eight hundred for the final leg to the anchorage point outside Hadiboh.”

“Can this display zoom in and out?”

“Of course, sir,” said Fisk, reaching down to adjust the screen.

“While we're in this operational box, you're deciding on the track we follow, right?” Stark asked.

“Uh, yes, sir.”

Stark brought up the reason for his visit. “May I borrow your flashlight to look at the deck log?”

“Of course, sir. Looking for anything specific?”

“Just curious, Bobby, about the night last week when the ship picked up me and the other
Kirkwall
survivors.”

“I was the conning officer that night. The captain had me pulling double duty.”

Stark read through the times and course and speed corrections, especially at the beginning, then went to the chart table. “QM1, do you still have the marked-up charts from the night I was picked up? Here's the exact time.”

The quartermaster returned a few minutes later and handed him the requested chart. Stark, though out of practice, made some calculations and then straightened.

“QM1, all of these times and data points are correct?”

“Of course, sir. We double-check everything.”

“I thought so. Thanks.” Stark rejoined Fisk near the window and spoke softly. “Bobby, can you tell me why the captain didn't order flank speed immediately after you received our general hail for emergency assistance?”

“We recommended flank speed, sir, but the CO ordered us to proceed at trail shaft. Eventually, the other officers argued the case to him and he changed the order.”

“Why would he have ordered trail shaft in the first place?”

“You'd probably get a better answer from OPS or CHENG, sir.”

“I'm asking you. What the hell was the captain thinking?”

“He's very concerned about fuel efficiency, sir.”

Stark shuddered as he considered what would have happened if the captain's original order had been carried out. Then he looked back at the VMS screen. “Is there another VMS screen?”

“Yes, sir,” Bobby said hesitantly. “In the captain's quarters above his rack.”

Stark manipulated the trackball and zoomed out from the intended ship's track to display a track that followed two three-quarter circles separated by a long shaft of two parallel tracks.

“Interesting track. What do you call it?”