The Command (40 page)

DAN was shaving when the rapid bong of the general quarters alarm echoed through the ship. At the same moment the phone went off. He snatched it off the hook. “Captain.”

“Sir, Hotchkiss. We just got a call there might be trouble headed our way.”

“What? Another storm?”

The 1MC was saying over her voice, “Security alert, security alert. Away the security alert team and backup alert force.”

“Maybe worse. A boat full of dynamite. Meet me on the bridge.”

The bridge was maybe not the best place to be communications-wise. But at least from there they could see. That went through his mind as he was pounding up ladders, tearing along passageways filled with others who when they saw him coming flattened against the bulkheads and yelled, “Captain coming through.”

He burst into the pilothouse to find Hotchkiss issuing orders to heave around on the anchor, man up all deck weapons stations, and set Condition Zebra throughout the ship.

The first order of business was to verify the warning. He asked the
man who'd taken the call exactly what he'd heard. Someone identifying himself as Petty Officer Rossetti of NCIS had called direct to the ship on Channel 16, warning them a small craft with a bomb aboard might be on its way out to them. One minute later substantially the same word came over the Harbor Control net. Dan was digesting this and searching the harbor surface when in the gray predawn the bow of a small boat appeared at the exit from the inner harbor, at the gap between the stone jetties that stretched out from Muharraq Island and Juffair.

“Bridge, forward lookout: dhow coming out of the harbor.”

“Bridge, Mount 51: acquired visual on target.”

“Mount 51, hold fire, and keep that breech clear,” Dan said. The eastern suburbs were clearly visible beyond the emerging boat. He could not fire his main gun; any miss would ricochet over the inner harbor directly into those crowded houses. The missiles were useless, too. He was limited to the chain guns and .50s. He went for the 21MC. “TAO, Captain.”

“TAO Camill here.”

“Herb, I want weapons tight, all weapons tight for the moment. We're in very close quarters here. I want you working the net for more info on this threat.” He let up on the lever and went on talking, to Hotchkiss this time. “Where's our patrol?”

A pointing arm. “Two hundred yards out toward the entrance.”

“Pull him in here ASAP. M60s and small arms, flak jackets and helmets. Call away the Blue and Green Teams and get the other RHIB in the water as soon as possible.”

Binoculars up again, he saw the boat had separated from the causeway, was headed in their direction. Movement was visible behind it, sticks and hulls …

With a sudden sense of doom he realized it was the fishing fleet. They were getting under way. As they did every morning. The lofty-prowed, colorful, slow-chugging flotilla that fed the island. That before first sight of sun left the sheltered inner harbor, plowing southward, past where
Horn
lay anchored, then wheeling to thread out into the Gulf and their day's work. As they had every workday morning for no doubt many centuries from an island that had once been the main source of pearls for the world. But now one might not be what it seemed. Detonated close in, partially under water, it wouldn't take much explosive to blow in a ship's bottom.

It was diabolical, and for a moment he grudgingly admired the cunning
of the mind that had conceived it. Striking beneath the weapons and sensors of the superior technology. Using his own unwillingness to inflict collateral damage as a shield.

It was time to see how far that shield extended. “I need harbor control.”

“Select five, sir.”

Holding the handset, he forced himself to speak with deliberation. “Minas Salman Harbor control. This is
Horn
actual, over.”

“Harbor control, over.”

“I've received two warnings about an explosive-laden small craft bound for my location. We are at general quarters and am heaving around to short stay.”

“Roger, copy that.”

“Request permission to fire on any dhow that steers for this ship. Small arms and twenty-five-millimeter only.”

He figured it would take them a moment or two, but when there was no answer at all, he clicked transmit again. “Harbor Control,
Horn;
did you copy my last?”

“Horn,
this is Harbor Control.” Furious voices in the background; then
“Horn,
this is Harbor Control. We cannot give you permission to fire within the harbor.”

“This is
Horn.
Intend to fire only on craft clearly making a hostile approach.”

“This is Harbor Control. Sir, understand your situation, but we cannot clear you to fire within the harbor.”

He savagely switched the selector to what he hoped was a direct circuit to the squadron. “Flash, flash. COMDESRON Fifty, COMDESRON Fifty, this is USS
Horn
in Minas Salman Harbor. Over.”

“First dhow is making its approach.”

“RHIB's alongside, transferring weapons.”

“Who's talking to it?” Dan snapped. A talker stepped up, radio in hand, looking scared. Dan told him, “I want them between us and the dhow traffic. One hundred yards off the starboard side. Weapons loaded and
clearly visible.
Understand? Pass that at once.”

“Sir, COMDESRON Fifty SDO on the horn.”

A young voice, and he felt his heart sink. The SDO was the staff duty officer, not the commodore. Most likely some duty jaygee. Dan said rapidly, hoping to carry the guy with him before he had time to think, “This is CO
Horn.
NCIS and base ops warn me a small craft loaded with explosives is en route my posit. I suspect it may be one of the dhows in the fishing fleet. They are steaming in my direction now. If
one swerves out of line, I need permission to fire, and I won't have time to ask for it when it happens.”

A hesitation. “So what are you asking for, sir?”

“As per your rules of engagement, I'm requesting clearance to fire on any threatening contact.”

“If it's threatening, sir, you don't need my approval.”

“Yes, I do. It won't look any different from the other dhows. I'll have to take it out based on my best guess.” He wished he hadn't used that word, tried again, “I mean, on the basis of my professional estimate of its level of threat based on its maneuvers, its apparent intent.”

“Sir, I don't think I'm the one who can give you that.”

“Is the commodore available?”

“No, sir. He's not here.”

“Can you get him on the line? Or on a land line?”

“I'll try, sir.” Clearly relieved at having a course of action pointed out to him, the voice signed off.

“I'm going to full self-protection,” Dan told Hotchkiss. “How's that anchor coming?”

“It's up and down. But if we get under way, where are we going?”

He put his binoculars on the lead dhow again while he pondered that question. She was right, there was nowhere a ship the draft of a Spruance-class could go in these restricted, shallow roads except out to sea. And the path to seaward led through the same bottleneck channel the marching ant line was now bending toward. At least where they lay, an attacker would have to swing out of queue toward them. They'd have a few minutes to decide what to do as it crossed the three hundred some-odd yards of open water to where
Horn
swung to her shortened anchor. Not to ask permission. He'd given up on that. The rules of engagement would serve only to make sure his ass was the one to be fried if he decided wrong and shot up a boatload of confused, rudder-jammed, curious, or even just momentarily inattentive Bahraini fishermen.

“Where's the second boat?” he shouted. “I want
Fear
in the water. Right fucking
now!”

IN the hangar, Marchetti was suiting up as fast as he could yank gear on. The sling slipped off his shoulder, the Mossberg clattered to the deck. He grabbed it and reached for his life vest.

Ensign Cassidy came up from below, carrying the radio, and grabbed his .45 from the gunner's mate. Gold Team was suited and
armed, as fast as they'd ever mustered. The gunner's mate handed Marty a handful of cartridges. He dumped them into a cargo pocket and swept a look down the line. Crack Man, Sasquatch, Lizard, Snack Cake, Deuce. The Old Gold. Amarillo and Turd Chaser were dead, lost on the Iraqi tanker. He had a new guy, Showboat, lanky and gangly, still learning the ropes. And … goddamn it… the supernumerary. Wilson. Spider Woman. There she fucking was.

“We set, Senior?”

“Yessir.” All right, he didn't have the time to argue it. “Into the boat, you melonheads,” he yelled, and ran, boots pounding, out onto the deck.

Dawn light, light wind. The boatswain was beckoning from the quarter, the bright orange plastic steps of the jacob's ladder already rigged. He grabbed the top rail, swung over, went down fast but careful and dropped into the bow. The bowhook grabbed him and pushed him aft and he yelled, “Next man.”

The last guy dropped in, the engine gunned, and they moved out, rocking under the impulse of the prop.

Cassidy clambered over bodies back to where Marty clung by one arm, trying to keep the shotgun from sliding off with the other. “Here's the plan,” he yelled. “They want the sixty in the bow. Everybody locked and loaded. Three hundred yards off the ship. One of these dhows swerves out of line, we fire a burst across his bow. If he keeps coming, they'll designate him to the twenty-five-millimeters. So we better be ready to haul balls out of the line of fire.”

“Roger that,” he said. The coxswain nodded, mouth hard, and reached down to pull his flak jacket out from under the console. Marty wiggled forward and got Crack Man and Sasquatch set up with the gun. Then went aft again, looking back at the ship for the other RHIB. He saw it alongside, saw another M60 being handed down. Good, they wouldn't be the only ones out here.

The Johnsons slowed, dropping to a ringing note like a free-running table saw. The boat coasted, then took up a slow pitch and tilt. He clung to the console and looked around the harbor, then back at the ship again.

Horn
lay like a gray island, and behind her was the city, and to either side the city. Her anchor chain straight up and down. What he didn't relish was that both the chain guns and the five-inch were pointed at him. The fifties were manned, too, heavy machine guns mounted high on the ship, one on the bridge wing, near the searchlight
mount, the other on top of the helo hangar. Beside each gunner stood a phone talker with binoculars looking right at him.

He turned, to see the dhow approaching.

It came on unhurriedly, rusty dented prow parting the water into a modest ripple of foam. These were not high-speed boats. But with their swelling midships, their broad beams, they looked like good haulers. Of fish, or of less innocent cargo. Its hull was russet, as if painted with Rustoleum primer. A white prow extension, like the bow dragon on a Viking longboat, pointed in his direction. Under a stumpy mast amidships was a rack of very long, thick bamboo poles. Diesel exhaust blew downwind. Fucker was headed right for them. He went forward and knelt on the floorboards and dug his grip into Sasquatch's shoulder. “The first burst goes across his bow. Five seconds after that, he doesn't swing away, fire through the pilothouse windows, then sweep the rest of the deck.”

“Roger that, Senior Chief.”

“Riflemen, get ready to sweep the deck. Light up any melonhead who pops up. Okay, lock and load.”

The rattle and clack of bolts and cartridges slamming home, then they steadied their sights on the oncoming prow. Only two hundred yards away now. It did not seem to have the slightest intent of going anywhere else than right over them. If anything, it was increasing speed, the putt-putting of the engine coming clearly across the harbor to the tensely waiting team in the rocking inflatable.

AISHA clung to the dash as the Chevy went faster and faster, finally hitting a hundred on the expressway leading toward the harbor. Ahead sirens warbled, lights flashed, Mercedeses and Toyotas pulled over as the convoy bore down. The trucks of security troops were going even faster than they were.

“You're sure you got through to the ship?” Diehl said anxiously, twisting around in the front seat. For some reason she didn't get to drive when it was a question of getting there fast. Garfield had grabbed the wheel without a word, Diehl slid in shotgun, leaving her in the back. They were mad she'd found the map, not them. That the newest agent, a colored girl at that, had managed to pick up the one piece of paper that told exactly what was going on.

“I didn't try to get through to the ship. I called Rossetti.”

“Good call. Kinky knows what to do.”

“They're calling their navy people, too, or coast guard, whatever they have,” Garfield said, pulling around a cement truck, then stepping on the gas again. “One way or another, they'll get the word.”

“Unless it's already too late,” Diehl moaned. Aisha glanced at him. His cheeks were spotted pink and white. She hoped he wasn't going to have some kind of attack. He was staring through the windshield, a sheen of sweat where his hair must have been when he was young.

The trucks came to a straight stretch. The traffic police stood at the intersections, batons extended to block cross traffic. Buildings flashed by, avenues flashed by, startled faces on the sidewalks flashed by. The needle crept up again as Garfield floored it. Ninety-five. One hundred. One hundred and ten, the engine roaring, the wind tearing by. She leaned forward. “Tune the radio to four-forty”

“What's that?”

She couldn't believe he didn't know. “Their police frequency, Bob. If we want to know what's going on up ahead—”

“Yeah, but what's the use? We can't understand what they're—oh.” He made a face. “I guess you could, though. Yeah. Four-forty?”